True Evil

  “Agent Morse?” he prompted.

  “I didn’t leave town right away,” she said, focusing on him again. “I stayed for the funeral. And over the course of those three days, I thought a lot about what Grace had told me. That’s my sister’s name, Grace. She told me she thought her husband was having an affair. He’s a wealthy man—far wealthier than I realized—and Grace believed he was involved with another woman. She believed he’d murdered her rather than pay what it would have cost him to divorce her. And to get custody of their son, of course.”

  Chris considered this. “I’m sure women have been killed for that reason before. Men, too, I imagine.”

  “Absolutely. Even completely normal people admit to having homicidal impulses when going through a divorce. Anyway…after Grace’s funeral, I told her husband I was going back to Charlotte.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “No.”

  “Was he having an affair?”

  “He was. And Grace’s death didn’t slow him down in the least. Quite the reverse, in fact.”

  “Go on.”

  “Let’s call Grace’s husband Bill. After I discovered the affair, I didn’t confront Bill. I engaged the resources of the Bureau to investigate him. His personal life, his business, everything. I now know almost everything there is to know about Bill—everything but the one thing I need to prove. I know far more than my sister knew, and I know a lot more than his mistress knows now. For example, when I was going through Bill’s business records, I found that he had some rather complex connections to a local lawyer.”

  “A Natchez lawyer?” Chris asked, trying to anticipate the connection to himself. Unlike most local physicians, he had several friends in Natchez who were attorneys.

  “No, this lawyer practices in Jackson.”

  “I see. Go on.”

  “Bill is a real estate developer. He’s building the new ice hockey stadium up there. Naturally, most of the lawyers he deals with specialize in real estate transactions. But this lawyer was different.”

  “How?”

  “Family law is his specialty.”

  “Divorce?” said Chris.

  “Exactly. Though he also does some estate planning. Trusts, wills, et cetera.”

  “Had ‘Bill’ consulted this lawyer about divorcing your sister?”

  Agent Morse shifted on her chair. Chris had the impression that she wanted to stand and pace, but there wasn’t enough room here to pace—he knew from experience. He also sensed that she was trying to conceal nervousness.

  “I can’t prove that,” she said. “Not yet. But I’m positive that he did. Still, there’s no evidence of any relationship whatever between Bill and this divorce attorney prior to one week after my sister’s death. That’s when they went into business together.”

  Chris wanted to ask several questions, but he suddenly remembered that he had patients waiting. “This story is very intriguing, Agent Morse, but I can’t see how it has anything to do with me.”

  “You will.”

  “You’d better make it fast, or we’ll have to postpone this. I have patients waiting.”

  She gave him a look that seemed to say, Don’t assume you’re in control here. “After I found the connection between Bill and this divorce lawyer,” she continued, “I broadened the investigation. What I found was a web of business relationships that boggled my mind. I know something about dummy corporations, Dr. Shepard. I started my FBI career in South Florida, and I worked a lot of money-laundering cases there.”

  Chris silently thanked his stars for being too afraid to say yes to the various friends who had offered to “put him into some investments” in the Cayman Islands.

  “This divorce attorney has interests in just about every business you can think of,” Morse went on. “Mostly partnerships with various wealthy individuals in Mississippi.”

  This didn’t surprise Chris. “Is it strange that a rich lawyer—I’m assuming he’s rich—would be into a lot of different businesses?”

  “Not in and of itself. But all this activity started about five years ago. And after looking closely at these deals, I couldn’t see any reason that the lawyer was put into them. They’re brother-in-law deals, you might say. Only the lawyer isn’t related to the parties in question. Not by blood or marriage. In some cases he acted as counsel, but in most, not.”

  Chris nodded and stole another glance at his watch. “I’m following you. But what does all this add up to?”

  Agent Morse looked intently at him, so intently that her gaze made him uncomfortable. “Nine of the individuals that this divorce lawyer is in business with share a common characteristic.”

  “What? Are they all patients of mine?”

  Morse shook her head. “Each of them had a spouse who died unexpectedly in the past five years. In several cases, a relatively young spouse.”

  As Chris digested this, he felt a strange thrill, an alloy of excitement and dread. He said nothing though, but rather tried to get his mind fully around what she was saying.

  “Also,” Agent Morse added, “they actually all died within two and a half years of each other.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “Let me finish. All these spouses were white, previously healthy, and all were married to wealthy people. I can show you actuarial tables, if you like. It’s way off the charts.”

  Chris was intrigued by Morse’s single-minded intensity. “So, what you’re saying…you think this divorce lawyer is helping potential clients to murder their spouses rather than pay them a financial settlement?”

  The FBI agent brought her hands together and nodded. “Or to gain sole custody of their children. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “Okay. But why are you saying it to me?”

  For the first time, Agent Morse looked uncomfortable. “Because,” she said deliberately, “one week ago, your wife drove to Jackson and spent two hours inside that lawyer’s office.”

  Chris’s mouth fell open. A wave of numbness moved slowly through his body, as though he’d been shot with a massive dose of lidocaine.

  Agent Morse’s eyes had become slits. “You had no idea, did you?”

  He was too stunned to respond.

  “Have you been having problems in your marriage, Doctor?”

  “No,” he said finally, grateful to be certain of something at last. “Not that it’s any of your business. But look…if my wife went to see this lawyer, she must have had some reason other than divorce. We’re not having any kind of marital trouble.”

  Morse leaned back in her chair. “You don’t think Thora could be having an affair?”

  His face went red at the use of his wife’s first name. “Are you about to tell me that she is?”

  “What if I did?”

  Chris stood suddenly and flexed his shoulders. “I’d say you’re crazy. Nuts. And I’d throw you out of here. In fact, I want to know where you get off coming in here like this and saying these things.”

  “Calm down, Dr. Shepard. You may not believe it at this moment, but I’m here to help you. I realize we’re talking about personal matters. Intimate matters, even. But you’re forced to do the same thing in your job, aren’t you? When human life is at stake, privacy goes by the board.”

  She was right, of course. Many of the questions on his medical history form were intrusive. How many sexual partners have you had in the last five years? Are you satisfied with your sexual life? Chris looked away from her and tried to pace the room, a circuit of exactly two and a half steps. “What are you telling me, Agent Morse? No more games. Spell it out.”

  “Your life may be in danger.”

  Chris stopped. “From my wife? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Jesus Christ! You’re out of your mind. I’m going to call Thora right now and get to the bottom of this.” He reached for the phone on the wall.

  Agent Morse got to her feet. “Please don’t do that, Dr. Shepard.”


  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Because you may be the only person in a position to stop whoever is behind these murders.”

  Chris let his hand fall. “How’s that?”

  She took a deep breath, then spoke in a voice of eminent reasonableness. “If you are a target—that is, if you’ve become one in the last week—your wife and this attorney have no idea that you’re aware of their activities.”

  “So?”

  “That puts you in a unique position to help us trap them.”

  Awareness dawned quickly. “You want me to try to trap my wife? To get her jailed for attempted murder?”

  Morse turned up her palms. “Would you rather pretend none of this happened and die at thirty-six?”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to restrain his temper. “You’re missing the forest for the trees here. Your whole thesis is illogical.”

  “Why?”

  “Those men you think murdered their wives…they did it to keep from splitting their assets and paying out a ton of alimony, right?”

  “In most cases, yes. But not all the victims were women.”

  Chris momentarily lost his train of thought.

  “In at least one case,” said Morse, “and probably two, the murder was about custody of the children, not money.”

  “Again, you’re miles off base. Thora and I have no children.”

  “Your wife has a child. A nine-year-old son.”

  He smiled. “Sure, but she had Ben even before she married Red Simmons. Thora would automatically get custody.”

  “You’ve legally adopted Ben. But that brings up another important point, Dr. Shepard.”

  “What?”

  “How your wife got her money.”

  Chris sat back down and looked at Agent Morse. How much did she know about his wife? Did she know that Thora was the daughter of a renowned Vanderbilt surgeon who’d left his family when his daughter was eight years old? Did she know that Thora’s mother was an alcoholic? That Thora had fought like a wildcat just to get through adolescence, and that making it through nursing school was a pretty amazing achievement given her background?

  Probably not.

  Morse probably knew only the local legend: how Thora Rayner had been working in St. Catherine’s Hospital when Red Simmons, a local oilman nineteen years her senior, had been carried into the ER with a myocardial infarction; how she’d become close to Red during his hospital stay, then married him six months later. Chris knew this story well because he’d treated Red Simmons during the last three years of his life. Chris had known Thora as a nurse, of course, but he came to know her much better during Red’s years in heart failure. And what he learned was that Red truly loved “his little Viking”—a reference to Thora’s Danish ancestry—and that Thora had been a brave and loyal wife, a woman worthy of deep respect. When Red died two and a half years ago, he left Thora an estate valued at $6.5 million. That was big money in Natchez, but it meant little to Chris. He had some money of his own, and he was young enough to earn plenty more.

  “Agent Morse,” he said in a neutral tone, “I’m not going to discuss my wife with you. But I will tell you this. Thora doesn’t stand to gain or lose anything if we get divorced.”

  “Why not? She’s very wealthy.”

  “She has money, yes. But so do I. I started saving the day I began moonlighting in emergency rooms, and I’ve made some lucky investments. But the real issue here is legal. We both signed a prenuptial agreement before we married. If we were to get divorced, each person would leave the marriage with exactly what he or she brought into it.”

  Agent Morse studied Chris in silence. “I didn’t know that.”

  He smiled. “Sorry to punch a hole in your theory.”

  Morse seemed suddenly lost in thought, and Chris sensed that for her, in that moment, he was not even there. Her face was more angular than he’d thought at first; it had its own odd shadows.

  “Tell me this,” she said suddenly. “What happens if either of you dies?”

  As Chris thought about this, he felt a hollowness high in his stomach. “Well…I believe our wills kick in at that point. And those override the prenup. At least I think they do.”

  “What does your will say? Who gets those lucky investments you made?”

  Chris looked at the floor, his face growing hot. “My parents get a nice chunk.”

  “That’s good. And the rest?”

  He looked up at her. “Thora gets it all.”

  Morse’s eyes flashed with triumph.

  “But…,” Chris protested.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Thora is worth millions of dollars. What would be the point? Kill me to get an extra two million?”

  Morse rubbed her chin for a few moments, then looked up at the narrow window set in the top of the wall. “People have been killed for less, Dr. Shepard. A lot less.”

  “By millionaires?”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it. And people are murdered every day for reasons other than money. How well do you know your wife? Psychologically, I mean?”

  “Pretty damn well.”

  “Good. That’s good.”

  Chris was starting to dislike Agent Morse intensely. “You think my wife murdered her first husband, don’t you?”

  Morse shrugged. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You might as well have. But Red Simmons had a long history of heart disease.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  Morse’s inside knowledge of events was pissing him off.

  “But no autopsy was done,” she pointed out.

  “I’m aware of that. You’re not suggesting that one should be done now, are you?”

  Agent Morse dismissed this idea with a flick of her hand. “We wouldn’t find anything. Whoever’s behind these murders is too good for that.”

  Chris snorted. “Who’s that good, Agent Morse? A professional assassin? A forensic pathologist?”

  “There was a mob enforcer some years ago who prided himself on this kind of work. He was a very reserved man with a massive ego. He had no formal medical training, but he was an enthusiastic amateur. He’s nominally retired now. We’ve had some people following him, just to make sure.”

  Chris couldn’t sit any longer. He rose and said, “This is nuts. I mean, what the hell do you expect me to do now?”

  “Help us.”

  “Us? That’s only about the third time you’ve said us in this whole conversation.”

  Agent Morse smiled more fully this time. “I’m the lead agent. We’re spread pretty thin on these kinds of cases since 9/11. Everybody’s working counterterrorism.”

  Chris looked deep into her eyes. There was sincerity there, and passion. But he saw something else, too—something not so different from what he read in the eyes of those patients who tried to con him out of drugs every week.

  “Murder’s a state crime, isn’t it?” he said slowly. “Not a federal one.”

  “Yes. But when you kill someone, you also deprive him of his civil rights.”

  Chris knew this was true. Several decades-old race murders in Mississippi had been dragged back into the courtroom by trying previously acquitted Ku Klux Klan killers for violating their victims’ civil rights. But still…something seemed wrong about Alexandra Morse’s story.

  “The first victim you told me about—if these are murder victims—was your sister, right? Doesn’t that create some sort of conflict? I’m not supposed to treat family members for anything serious. Should you be investigating your own sister’s death?”

  “To be perfectly frank, no. But there’s no one else I trust to do it right.” Agent Morse looked at her watch for the first time. “We don’t have time to get deep into this, Dr. Shepard. I’ll speak to you again soon, but I don’t want you to deviate from your normal routine. Not in any way that your wife or anyone else would notice.”

  “Who else would notice?”

  “The person planning to kill you.”

  Chris wen
t still. “Are you saying someone might be following me?”

  “Yes. You and I cannot be seen together in public.”

  “Wait a minute. You can’t tell me something like this and just walk out of here. Are you giving me protection? Are there going to be FBI agents covering me when I walk out?”

  “It’s not like that. Nobody’s trying to assassinate you with a rifle. If the past is any guide—and it almost always is, since criminals tend to stick to patterns that have been successful in the past—then your death will have to look natural. You should be careful in traffic, and you shouldn’t walk or jog or bicycle anywhere that there’s traffic. No one can protect you from that kind of hit. But most important is the question of food and drink. You shouldn’t eat or drink at home for a while. Not even bottled water. Nothing bought or prepared by your wife.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I realize that might be difficult, but we’ll work it out. To tell you the truth, I think we have some working room, as far as time is concerned. Your wife just consulted this lawyer, and this kind of murder takes meticulous planning.”

  Chris heard a note of hysteria in his laughter. “That’s a huge comfort, Agent Morse. Seriously. I feel so much better now.”

  “Does your wife have plans to be out of town anytime soon?”

  He shook his head.

  “Good. That’s a good sign.” Morse picked up her handbag. “You’d better write me that prescription now.”

  “What?”

  “The Levaquin.”

  “Oh, right.” He took a pad from his pocket and scribbled a prescription for a dozen antibiotic pills. “You think of everything, don’t you?”

  “No one thinks of everything. And be glad for it. That’s the way we catch most criminals. Stupid mistakes. Even the best of us make them.”

  “You haven’t given me a card or anything,” Chris said. “No references I can check. All you did was show me an ID that I wouldn’t know was fake or not. I want a phone number. Something.”

  Agent Morse shook her head. “You can’t call anyone at the Bureau, Doctor. You can’t do anything that could possibly tip off your killer. Your phones may be tapped, and that includes your cell phone. That’s the easiest one to monitor.”