“What did you think of that excerpt Mr. Maxfield read?” Terri asked.
“Talk about unmitigated crap. Garbage like that is destroying literature. Publishers don’t want to read anything with depth and characterization anymore. They’re all looking at the bottom line. Dismember a naked woman and they’ll give you a million dollars, but write about the soul of man, what makes us human…forget it. You should see some of the rejection letters I’ve gotten from those morons in New York. Do you think Camus, Sartre, or Stendhal would get a book contract today?”
Terri forced a laugh. “I guess you didn’t write that bloodbath, then?”
Dorrigan looked appalled. “I wouldn’t use those pages to wipe my ass.”
Terri caught up with Lori Ryan and Mindy Krauss in the parking lot. “What did you think of the first class?” Terri asked.
“It was great,” Mindy answered. “I took so many notes my hand cramped.”
“He’s such a terrific teacher,” Lori gushed.
“That wasn’t your mystery he read, was it?” Terri asked.
The women laughed. “Ours is set in a bridge group,” Mindy told her.
“Someone is murdering the members and leaving a card pinned to the bodies,” Lori said.
“The clue is so clever,” Mindy said. “If you make a hand out of…”
“Don’t tell the ending,” Lori jumped in. “It will spoil it for her.”
“You’re right,” Mindy sighed, frustrated at not being able to reveal the clever solution to their mystery.
Terri said good-bye to the women and got in her car. She started it just as Joshua Maxfield left the building. He was carrying a briefcase and strolling toward his cottage as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Terri felt sick. She was fairly certain that none of the members of the class had written the excerpt. Maxfield had told her that he critiqued manuscripts for a fee. The chapter could have been from a manuscript that he was editing. But Maxfield had also said that he was working on a new book. And he lived on the Academy grounds. Terri looked toward Ashley’s dormitory. She wanted to run to her daughter and take her away from the Academy and Joshua Maxfield, but Ashley was doing so well. If she took Ashley home she would have to explain why, and that could undo all of the healing that had occurred. No, Terri decided, she would not act until she had investigated more thoroughly. She was a reporter. She knew how to develop a lead into a story; she knew how to nail down facts.
Chapter Six
The Detective Division of the Portland Police Bureau took up one side of the thirteenth floor of the Justice Center, a modern, sixteen-story building located across the park from the Multnomah County Courthouse. Each detective had a workspace separated from the other detectives by a chest-high divider. When the receptionist told Larry Birch that Terri Spencer was in the waiting room, he came out to the front counter and escorted her to his cubicle.
“Sit down,” Birch said, gesturing toward a chair that sat next to a gunmetal-gray desk piled high with reports, correspondence, and depart-mental memos. A picture of Birch with a woman and two small children stood on one corner.
“How are you, Mrs. Spencer?” he asked when Terri was seated.
“I’m okay,” she answered, but Birch didn’t think so. He thought that she looked drawn, pale, and very nervous.
“How’s Ashley doing?”
“Fine. She’s going to a new school, the Oregon Academy. I thought the change-you know, starting over in a new place-would help her.”
“It sounds like a good idea. And it’s working out?”
“She doesn’t start classes until the fall, but she’s a counselor at a soccer clinic out there, teaching young children. She seems to enjoy it.”
“She’s a top player, right?”
“All-State. Several colleges are looking at her.”
“Well, that’s great.”
All the time she’d been talking Terri had been shifting nervously in her seat. Birch waited patiently for her to tell him why she wanted to see him.
“I was wondering if there was any progress. If you have any idea who…”
Terri’s voice trailed off. Thinking about what had happened to her husband was too hard on her.
“I’ll be honest with you, Mrs. Spencer, we have made some progress but we’re nowhere near an arrest.”
“What does that mean?”
“We asked the FBI in on this and they came up with something.”
“What?”
Birch hesitated for a moment. Then he looked Terri in the eye. “You’re a reporter, right?”
“Not where my husband’s murder is concerned.”
Birch nodded. “Okay. But I need to know that you will absolutely not tell anyone else what I tell you.”
“Of course.”
“The FBI thinks that the person who murdered your husband and Tanya Jones has committed other crimes in several states over the past few years.”
“A serial killer?”
“That’s what they think. But they have no clue to the killer’s identity.”
“Why do they think it’s a serial killer? What are the common threads?”
“Duct tape was used to bind the victims instead of rope. The FBI has established that the same company manufactured the duct tape used in all of the crimes and they’ve made a physical match between the duct tape used in a case in Michigan and another in Arizona. For obvious reasons, this is something we’re not telling the public.”
“Are there any other clues you’re keeping from the public?” Terri asked, fighting to keep her tone neutral.
“Why do you want to know that?”
“I don’t want to leak anything unintentionally.”
“You know the killer ate a piece of chocolate cake at your house?”
Terri nodded.
“He ate a piece of pie during a murder in Connecticut.”
Terri felt the blood drain from her face. She averted her eyes. “So only the investigators know about the snack at our house? You haven’t released the information to the public?”
“That’s right.”
“Are they keeping the snack a secret in Connecticut too?”
Birch nodded.
“Where were the other murders?”
“They started in New England about five years ago. Then there were a few in other parts of the country.” Birch listed the cities.
“What…what does he do?”
“They’re like your house, Mrs. Spencer. There’s always a teenage daughter. He murders the adults and rapes the daughter before killing her. Ashley is a very lucky young woman. She’s the only person who has survived his attacks.”
Ashley stayed after the clinic session ended to help a seventh-grade girl with her passing skills. The kid was good, and she would get better because she cared about technique. The girl’s mother had waited patiently while Ashley and her student put in an extra twenty minutes. When they were through, she thanked Ashley for taking the extra time to help her daughter. The praise felt good. On the way out of the gym Ashley was wondering if she wanted to teach or coach as a career when a man’s voice interrupted her reverie.
“It’s Ashley, right?”
Ashley looked up. Joshua Maxfield was standing in front of her. He was dressed in a T-shirt and athletic shorts and looked like he’d just finished a workout.
“I hope I didn’t interrupt any great thoughts,” the teacher said. “You looked like you were in a trance.”
Ashley blushed. “It’s okay,” she mumbled.
“I’m Joshua Maxfield. I teach creative writing. We met when Dean Van Meter was showing you and your mother around the school.”
“I remember.”
Maxfield gave her a warm smile. “Your mother’s in my critique group. She says you’ve decided to come to the Academy in the fall.”