Walls took a perfunctory second glance, seemed to be looking past the photo. He frowned.
“What is it, Preston?”
Walls tweezed the photo between his thumb and forefinger, like it was something he didn’t feel safe touching. The picture dropped in my hands.
“Never seen him before. Gotta go, guys. Nice talking to you.”
He walked us to the lobby and retreated behind his door. I heard it lock.
We returned to the department. Harry started through the doorway, stopped abruptly, threw his arm in front of me, and nodded across the room at our cubicle. Pace Logan was sitting at Harry’s desk, leafing through papers. Harry moves fast and light when necessary, a second later was standing behind Logan.
“Help you, Logan?”
“Oh, shit. Nautilus. I was just-”
I jogged up. Logan had Taneesha Franklin’s murder book in front of him, opened to the photo section.
“Just what?”
Logan went into defensive mode. “What’s it look like? I’m checking the book. I was at the scene, remember? First, if I recall. I got some spare time, thought I’d see how things were developing. That all right with you?”
“You want to look at things, Logan, ask.”
Logan stood, showed teeth. He jammed the book into Harry’s chest.
“Fuck you, Nautilus. I didn’t know you owned the murder books. Guess I forgot to sign it out from King Dick.”
I stepped between them before Harry did or said something that was momentarily gratifying but improvident in the longer run. Logan stormed back to his desk, the smell of tobacco in his wake. Harry blew out a long breath and we sat. I had my usual pile of call slips from strung-out snitches trying to peddle fiction, but a name stood out. Ms. Rudolnick had called. The message was “Nothing important, just checking.”
I picked up my phone, called, kicking myself for not alerting her the moment we’d secured the files, good manners.
“How are you, ma’am?”
“I was just wondering, did the key work?”
“Thank you, yes. Your son’s files are safe. No one else will ever see them.”
“Are the files helpful?”
“We’re still reviewing them. It’s a big job.”
“Just find the person who caused my son’s death, sir.”
“We will, ma’am. Thanks for checking.”
“Certainly. Oh, by the way, sir?”
“Yes?”
“I had some wonderful moments yesterday. A delightful young friend of Bernie’s stopped by.”
“Who?”
“I don’t trust many people, and I know there are all manner of scams directed at people my age, so I asked questions. He knew everything about Bernie: how his left eye fluttered when he got nervous, how he liked puns. Bernie had a very individual way of walking, fast, spinning on his heel to turn around. The young man mimicked Bernie’s walk and we both had a good laugh. It was refreshing, the best I’d felt in a long time. My young visitor had such wonderful things to say about my son.”
“Who was this young man, Ms. Rudolnick?”
“Frank Cloos. He’d worked with Bernie two years back, at the psychiatric wing of Mobile Regional Hospital. Bernie consulted there two days a week. Mr. Cloos had been an MHT, mental health technician.”
“What did Mr. Cloos look like?”
“About your size, I guess. Dark hair with a touch of red. Piercing eyes. A very good-looking young man.”
“You said young?”
“Mid-twenties, I’d guess. A mature bearing.”
“What else did you talk about?”
A pause. I heard the grandfather clock bonging in the distance.
“That was a sad part. Mr. Cloos had been out of town for a while, business. He didn’t know about Bernie, couldn’t understand why his phone was disconnected. There aren’t any other Rudolnicks in the phone directory, so he came here.”
“He didn’t know Bernie was deceased?”
“It was the one moment I thought I’d made a mistake by letting him inside my house. When I told Mr. Cloos what happened, well, he seemed to disappear inside himself. He closed his eyes. His hands grabbed his pant legs, his knuckles turned white. It seemed like, like…”
I heard her struggling for words.
“What, Ms. Rudolnick?”
“It was like he was being torn apart inside, ready to cry or scream or throw things. I was scared, but didn’t say a word, and it passed. Then he took my hand and asked questions. He was so concerned, so nice. Then I went to fetch some drinks and sweets and that’s when we talked about Bernie, the good things, the happy things. We talked for a half hour. Then he had to go. He said he’d be back next month, we’d go to dinner, talk longer.”
“Did he tell you how to get in touch with him?” I held my breath.
“Only that he’d call. We’d go to dinner somewhere nice, somewhere Bernie would have liked.”
I resisted banging my head on the desk. When we hung up I called Mobile Regional and confirmed what I already knew: There was no record of a Frank Cloos ever having worked there. I called Ms. Rudolnick back, asked if I could send a fingerprint team to her house, pretty much knowing nothing would have been touched.
I started for home a few minutes later, stopped by Sally Hargreaves’s desk on the way out.
“How’s your progress with the rape and beating victim, the blind woman?”
Sally nodded and shot a thumbs-up. “I’m feeling better about her, Carson. She’s tough, a survivor. She has one minor surgery coming up tomorrow, hopefully heads home by mid-next week. She’s using her hand again, too. It’s improving daily.”
It stopped me. “What do you mean, using her hand?”
“She had two fingers broken in the attack, another severely dislocated. The doctors were afraid there might be nerve damage, but apparently-”
“You never mentioned the fingers.”
Sally gave me a so what look. “They were the least of her injuries.”
“Can I meet her, Sal? Talk to her?”
“She’s recovering from horror, Carson. I’m not sure she should relive those moments. Why?”
“I’ve got a dead girl who had broken fingers, torture, probably. Maybe it’s the same perp.”
“Can you wait a bit? Let my victim get home, return to familiar surroundings, familiar routine?”
“The perp’s a psycho. If he’s on the road I think he is, there’s another woman in his sights right now.”
Sal closed her eyes and shook her head.
“Carson…”
“We’ve got no leads, Sal. The guy’s a cipher.”
Sally frowned. Fumbled through her purse for her phone.
“Let me make a call.”
A half hour later we were sitting beside the bed of Karen Fairchild. She was petite and Caucasian, dark-haired, with a voice still husky from screaming and being choked. Her face was swathed in white bandages tinted pink at the edges with antibiotic cream. Despite her travails, she greeted me without apprehension, and I gathered Sally had both explained the reason for my visit and presented me in a kindly light.
One of Ms. Fairchild’s hands was contained in a soft brace, the fingers supported. On the other hand, several fingertips were bandaged from nails tearing off as she’d defended herself. No traces of the perp’s blood or skin had been found beneath Ms. Fairchild’s nails, or anywhere on her body, and Forensics had determined Ms. Fairchild had been thoroughly bathed before being dropped-literally-at the hospital.
Like the trip to the hospital, the bathing was anomalous, a moment of careful thought and organization in what the victim recalled as a night of psychotic mania in a barn.
“It wasn’t a horse or cow barn,” she said, answering one of several questions I’d asked. “It was probably an equipment barn.”
“You can tell?” I asked.
“It was part of my training at blind school, Detective Ryder. The teachers would bring us samples of dirt from an animal barn, and we’d have to differentiate it from a barn used for storing equipment.”
“What’s that supposed to teach you?” I asked, amazed.
The white ball of swaths and dressings laughed through the exposed mouth, jiggling the tubes tracking into her arm. I looked at Sal. She held a laugh tucked behind her hand.