Finally Holly raised her head and looked at Gillian, her face wet with tears. "What will happen to him?"
"He'll go to prison."
"For how long?"
"He's already done time, so he'll get a severe sentence," Gillian said sadly. "Probably life." An hour ago, she'd hated Gavin. Now she felt like crying for him.
Couldn't you see I wanted to die?
"I'm still afraid," Holly confessed, sounding surprised. "I thought when he was caught, I wouldn't be afraid anymore. But I don't feel any different. I still have this knot right here." She pressed a hand to her stomach.
"I'm sorry." Gillian wished she could assure her that the fear would subside quickly, but she would be lying.
"What was he in for before?" "I don't think you need to know. Not right now." "It'll be in the papers and on TV. Tell me." "Killing a sixteen-year-old girl." For the first time, Gillian spoke the words without a shadow of doubt.
Chapter 22
Three hours after Gavin's confession, the Minneapolis Police Department, along with the FBI, held a press conference in which information about Hitchcock's confession was released to the media.
"The main purpose of this meeting is to inform the public that the killer terrorizing our young women has been apprehended," Detective Wakefield announced.
A cheer went up, and the relief in the room was palpable.
When questioned about the physical evidence, Detective Wakefield admitted that they didn't yet have much to back up the case. "But I'm confident more will surface." He knew a lack of physical evidence could severely undermine the prosecution, and Hitchcock's confession, especially taken as it was in the emergency room, could be withdrawn or considered inadmissible in court.
Immediately following the conference, Mary and Anthony headed to Gavin Hitchcock's home, where a crime lab team was combing the house and yard.
The living room was littered with bent yellow numbers used to mark areas of evidence. Fiber and hair samples had been collected from the couch, rugs, blankets, and bedding. Beyond the perimeter of the labeled area, technicians had methodically removed and examined the framed images that hung on the wall. They took the drawers from dressers, looking for secret hiding places.
"Find anything interesting?" Anthony asked a young technician in a navy-blue sweatshirt with the letters csi across the back.
"We came across a box of black-and-white photographs," the young man said, "but there wasn't anything that looked suspicious."
"I'd like to see them."
The technician pointed to a cardboard box on the kitchen counter. "Be my guest."
Anthony pulled two pairs of latex gloves from a container on the floor and handed a pair to Mary.
The cardboard box was about twelve inches deep and full of black-and-white photos. Mary pulled out a handful and began sifting through them. Most were eight-by-tens, taken of different locations in the Twin Cities. St. Paul Cathedral. The Warehouse District in Minneapolis. Stone Arch Bridge. The Witch's Hat. There were several close-ups of flowers, some in various stages of decay.
"I don't know anything about photography," she said, "but these look pretty good."
"Nice contrast." Anthony turned a photo over and examined the back. "He must have developed them himself."
"Here's one of an old woman." She handed it to Anthony.
"I'd guess this was done from a color negative. It has that look to it."
"It could be his grandmother," Mary said. "I don't remember exactly how the story goes, but when he was in grade school, he was living with her and came home one day to find her dead. Burglary was the motive, but the perpetrator was never found, and some people believe Hitchcock killed her himself."
"His first kill, maybe?"
"Possibly."
"That's how some of these people start. They get rid of an annoying family member-out of anger or simple curiosity-then they move on past their immediate comfort zone."
Mary turned to the crime scene technician. "Have you come across any darkroom or developing supplies?"
"Nope. Those photographs are the only thing we've found that has anything to do with photography. Except for a camera. We found that in the bedroom closet."
"Any film in it?" Anthony asked.
"A half-finished roll. It's already been sent to the lab." The man looked at his watch. "That was two hours ago. It should be developed by now."
Mary pulled out her cell phone, called the lab, introduced herself, and got the scoop on the developed photos. "All architecture," Mary said, hanging up and slipping the phone back into her jacket pocket. "Except for four of Cammie Curtis. Taken in bed when she was unconscious."
"The pieces are falling into place," Anthony said. "It fits his MO."
"The lab already sent copies to Homicide, the BCA, and the local FBI."
They left the house. The day had turned out sunny and relatively warm for the end of October. In the front yard, two men were methodically going over the ground with metal detectors and a device that could determine whether or not the soil had recently been disturbed. So far they'd found a couple of quarters, a gum wrapper, and a cat-food lid. Gavin's car, a 1984 Oldsmobile, had been taken to the BCA lab, where it had been vacuumed with high-powered equipment. Every piece of lint sucked from every crevice would be examined.
"I'm heading out tomorrow morning." Anthony shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his black, knee-length coat. "I've got a couple of cases I need to get back to, and things are getting close to being wrapped up here."
Mary experienced a pang, and realized she would miss him. "My mom's having a sort of celebratory dinner tonight because the case is solved, and she'd like you to come if you can make it," she told him as they walked to their individual cars.
"What about you?" Anthony stopped and squinted against the sunlight. "Are you part of this invitation?" he asked with a nonchalance that seemed forced.
"Of course I am. What's that supposed to mean?"
"Do you really want me to come, or are you just being polite?"
The bluntness of his question took her by surprise. "Insecurity doesn't become you," she told him. "Have you ever known me to be anything other than straightforward?''
He thought about that. "Never. And just for the record, it wasn't insecurity that made me question your involvement in the invitation. My therapist suggested I be more honest and open in my dealings with people."
"Therapist? I didn't know you were seeing a therapist. Because of your divorce?"
He looked at her with an unreadable expression, then said, "No. Not because of the divorce." He paused, as if reluctant to continue. "Because of the shooting."
His words left her momentarily breathless. "My shooting?" she finally asked, needing clarification even though she knew the answer.
"You almost died because of me." His voice tightened. "That's a hard thing for a guy to live with."
She hadn't known the shooting had bothered him so much. He'd seemed more annoyed than anything else, an annoyance she'd attributed to wounded male pride. "Why didn't you say anything before this?"
He glanced around, hands deep in the pockets of his trench coat. There were people everywhere. He finally looked at her in a way that was direct and almost intimate. "I thought you'd been through enough already."
Her throat burned; she suddenly felt close to tears. She wanted to touch him, to offer him some gesture of compassion, but such an action seemed so alien to her that she couldn't bring herself to make it. "You should have told me," she said softly. "I'm telling you now."
For years she'd felt so alone. Now, standing there with Anthony, she suddenly realized she hadn't been as alone as she'd thought.
"I have to go," he said, flashing her a smile that was lacking its usual touch of cynicism. "See you tonight." "Yeah," she said, distracted by his behavior. "Tonight."