When I arrived at the house, Mrs. Evans was on the front porch, waiting to be picked up by a friend for brunch.
We chatted before she left. She knew who I was, obviously, but she gave no indication that my parents’ purported actions reflected on me. The tragedy of her son was past.
She told me to go on inside. Her husband was in his office, and he had a tendency to ignore the doorbell, presuming someone else would answer it.
When I walked in, Evans was deep in a client file, scribbling notes. I waited until he was finished writing before clearing my throat.
“Olivia,” he said, smiling as he stood. He checked the clock. “It is that time, isn’t it? My apologies.”
He waved me to the client seat and poured coffee. He didn’t ask what I took, but made it with cream, the way I’d had it the last time.
“I think Gabriel Walsh may have taken a couple of pages from the file,” I began—to explain how Gabriel would know about the file, if he did an end run around me to get to Evans. “I had to stop by his office after our interview. I kept the file in my sights, so I don’t know how he could have gotten it.”
“Oh, I have a good idea,” Evans said as he dropped sugar cubes into his coffee. “Gabriel Walsh’s mother made her living with her light fingers, and I don’t mean she was a pianist.”
“A pickpocket.”
He nodded. “There’s much that’s said about Mr. Walsh, most of it unsubstantiated. That is not. His mother had a record of arrests. None of it stuck. She was very good at her vocation. Her son apparently learned the trade. His juvenile records were sealed, but I have it on good authority that he was charged with pickpocketing himself. Just the once. Which likely only means that he was even more skilled than his mother.”
I remembered the scone the first time we met. Apparently, he still had the touch.
“Well, I am sorry,” I said. “I don’t know what he saw, but I’m going to presume he knows what is in the file. He won’t be able to do anything with it, though. He doesn’t have an excuse to investigate now.”
“You’ve fired him?”
I nodded. “Your warnings already had me concerned. Taking those pages was the last straw.” I sipped my coffee and looked thoughtful, maybe even a little despondent. “I know it was the right move, but I’m not sure how I’ll proceed without him. I don’t think anyone connected to the crimes is going to speak to the Larsens’ daughter.”
He smiled. “I think I can persuade the other families that helping you is the right thing to do.”
“Oh? I’d really appreciate that.”
“And I’m sure you have questions about that file,” Evans said. “Why don’t we start by discussing that.”
There wasn’t much more Evans could tell me. He explained a few things about brother–sister incest. More than I cared to know on the subject.
Evans warned me not to get hung up on the incest angle. I needed to see it as any obsessive relationship. Killing the object of your desire might seem crazy, but it was, sadly, not that unusual with truly obsessed stalkers.
As the meeting seemed to be winding down, I said, “You said I could ask you questions. About the Larsens. About serial killers. Do you have time for that now?”
“Of course.” He leaned back. “From the phrasing of that question, I presume that you haven’t ruled out the possibility your parents did commit murder.”
“I can’t. If Christian—or someone else—killed Jan and Peter, that still means the Larsens could have killed the others. I have to prepare myself in case I really am the daughter of sociopaths. Or psychopaths. Or whatever you’d call them.”
“First, Olivia, I wouldn’t get too tangled in terminology. Even within the field, we can’t agree on it. When we zero in on so-called sociopaths or psychopaths, we’re generally referring to people who seem unable to tell right from wrong.”
“Can’t tell right from wrong? Or don’t care? Because from what I know, people like that are very good at fitting in, playing a role, which suggests they know the difference, and they can pretend to abide by the rules when it suits them.”
“That would be the mark of a high-functioning individual with antisocial personality disorder. They know the difference, but they see no reason to follow the rules if it doesn’t suit their needs. Sound familiar?”
Did he mean me? I tried not to react.
“Your former lawyer?” he prompted when I didn’t answer.
“Gabriel?”
Did I think Gabriel was a sociopath? No. As furious as I was with him, I didn’t think that.
“I don’t know him that well,” I said. “But I understand what you’re saying.”
“Good, then you’ll see why he concerns me. Now back to the topic. If your parents did kill these couples, it is highly likely they have some form of antisocial personality disorder. What does that mean for you? First, bear it in mind when you speak to your mother. She may appear to be a loving and kind parent … for a reason.”
“Because it’s what I want to see. Because it will get me on her side, helping her appeal.”
He nodded. “Or she might truly be innocent. You see the conundrum? Just be aware and be wary. More important, though, I think you’re wondering what it means for you. If both your parents did have some form of disorder. Is it hereditary?” He leaned forward. “I wish I could answer that, Olivia. But psychiatry is such an imprecise science. We aren’t diagnosing cancer. Personality is a combination of genetics and learned behavior, and we have no idea how much of each explains why people do what they do.”
“Nature versus nurture.”
“The great debate. I can tell you this, though. There is no evidence of a genetic basis for serial killing.” He eased back. “Now, you wanted to know more about serial killers in general. I think it might help to talk a bit about couples who kill. It’s rare, but your parents’ case is even rarer.”
“Because there were no sexual aspects.”
He smiled. “You’ve done your homework. Yes, in every case I’ve studied—and I’m happy to share my notes on them—couple killings included sexual violation of the victims. These did not.”
“Because they were ritualistic. That was the purpose.”
“Perhaps. But I would argue that the killings did not deviate entirely from the established pattern for serial killing couples. Just because the Larsens didn’t violate the victims doesn’t mean there wasn’t a sexual motivation. It was just less overt. Less direct.”
I thought about that, then said, “You think they used the violence as a stimulant. Sadistic foreplay.”
“Yes, and I think that explains the ritual aspect. They were acting out a fantasy.” He paused. “Of course, that only applies if the Larsens were actually the killers.”
I nodded.
“I do think you need to pursue Christian, Olivia. There’s a chance he killed Peter and Jan. There might even be a chance he committed all the murders. But if you want to consider motivations for the Larsens, I’d strongly suggest you take a look at that one. I’ll give you my notes. You can draw your own conclusions.”
What did I think of Evans’s theory? I had no idea. Figuring out why my parents might have killed eight people wasn’t my priority right now. I needed to focus on the last two and whether Christian Gunderson could be responsible.
Chapter Forty-seven
I had the day shift on Friday and took a five-minute break to call Tim Marlotte. He had little interest in seeing me again … until I told him I’d learned a few things about Jan and Christian’s relationship, and he decided he could find time for me after all. We set up a meeting at his condo.
Our interview was not pretty. I lied, I bullied, and I charmed with an eerie deftness, and in the end he actually thanked me for persuading him to unburden himself.
I don’t believe Marlotte had known that Christian had the hots for his sister, but he did suspect their relationship was a little too close. As the years went by, I think he’d understood more, looked back, and wondered if, subconsciously, he’d known exactly what was going on and had joined Christian in manipulating Jan because it benefited him. Now he knew that deception may have played a role in her death and the death of Peter Evans. Heavy stuff.
To redeem himself, Marlotte was willing to share every vaguely sinister detail he knew about his former best friend’s life. I didn’t even need to prompt him with the “potential serial killer” checklist Evans had provided. The guy already knew the early signs from a college psychology project. Coincidence? Maybe not.
From sleepovers, Marlotte knew that Christian had been a bed-wetter until he seemed to overcome the issue around twelve. He’d never been known to kill small animals, but Marlotte did have a cat go missing once, and he seemed to recall that it happened shortly after the animal scratched Christian’s eye, a minor but extremely painful injury. While he couldn’t recall Christian committing arson, he’d been very keen on camping bonfires and always insisted on tending them. Though he’d only attended community college, he had an above-normal IQ—he just couldn’t seem to achieve the grades to match. As for his family, there were none of the obvious markers—no absent father, no domineering mother, no alcoholic parent, no unstable family life, much less time spent in institutions. His father obviously had a few loose wires, though.
All this meant Christian hit some markers on the checklist. Or grazed them. I suspect many people would. As for occult connections, Marlotte remembered that Christian enjoyed Halloween. He’d liked horror novels as a teen. He’d owned a necklace with a pentacle, bought at a rock concert and never worn because it might upset his mother. In other words, he’d been about as interested in the occult as the average person.
When I left, I hadn’t achieved any amazing breakthroughs, but I hadn’t learned anything that discounted the Christian-killed-his-sister-in-a-jealous-rage theory, either. A decent start.
I got home in time to make a choice. I could have dinner and read Evans’s case files. Or I could go try a karate class. I wasn’t hungry, I wasn’t ready to read those files, and my body screamed for exercise. So I opted for number two.
As I walked into the community center, I was mentally running through the Marlotte interview as if some new lead would magically leap out. I dimly heard the slam of car doors as children spilled out and shrieked past me.
In my half daze, I walked into the gym and saw a dozen figures dressed in white robes. Small figures.
They were all children.
Before I could retreat, a voice called “Liv?” and there was Gordon Webster, the hardware store owner, in a white robe with a black belt. He walked over, grinning.
“Hey,” he said. “Are you joining us?”
I looked around. “I was going to, but I think I’m a little old.”
“No, no. It’s all ages. We do have one adult— And here she is now.”
I turned to see Rose striding down the hall, kids zooming out of her path. Spotting me, she nodded and smiled.
“Olivia,” she said. “I didn’t know you were taking karate.”
“Actually, I was just leaving.”
She took off her jacket, showing her uniform underneath, complete with a brown belt. “Stay. I would love an opponent over four feet tall.”
Gordon pressed, too, and there wasn’t a graceful way to refuse. So I got my lesson. More than my money’s worth, given the time Gordon devoted to me, which had a few of the watching parents grumbling.
Afterward, Rose caught up and walked beside me.
“I’m glad to see you taking my advice on self-defense,” she said. “Particularly now that you’re working alone.”
“I know what it might look like, me showing up at your karate lesson, but I’m not trying to get you to play go-between with Gabriel.”
“I know.”
“You knew what he’d done,” I said as we began our walk to Rowan Street. “That’s why you told me to make him cookies. You thought it might make him feel guilty.”
“It was worth a try. My nephew is a manipulative, scheming, unscrupulous son of a bitch. And those are his good qualities.”
I snorted.
“Oh, I’m quite serious,” she said. “What Gabriel has accomplished in his life is phenomenal, given the circumstances. The problem is that he knows it. Arrogance is blinding, particularly in the young. When he does make a mistake, he’s slow to see it. But he made one with you. He knows that now.”
“Good. Maybe he’ll think twice before setting up paid interviews with other clients.”
Her laugh was so sharp it made me jump.
“Oh, no,” she said. “He won’t. He shouldn’t. He accepts payment for ensuring his clients get a fair shake from the media. There’s nothing wrong with that. His mistake was that you are not a normal client. The balance of power in your relationship skews in your favor. You didn’t want the interview. He should have retreated or, at the very least, apologized.”
“Maybe, but if you expect me to change my mind—”
“I don’t. I’m just offering some friendly advice. If you do decide you want to work with him, don’t wait until you need him.”
“Or he’ll know I’m desperate and the power shifts.”
“Exactly. He wants this case. Badly. He’ll try again and when he does, consider whether you truly mean for this rift to be permanent.” She waved for me to cross Main Street. “Now the subject of Gabriel ends. Come over for tea.”
“I’d rather not—”
“Did you know that my Internet provider recommends changing my wireless access password every month?”
I glowered at her.
“You’ll have tea,” she said.