He shivered, pulling a chair away from the table and sitting down before them. He tried to look away, but couldn’t.
“At least we know what we’re dealing with,” Nash whispered in a gravelly voice. “It’s a serial killer, Teddy. Holmes or somebody else. Either way, he’s been working the city without detection for the past year.”
NINETEEN
Teddy entered visiting room three, resting his briefcase on the floor and taking a seat at the small table. His escort told him Holmes was on his way down, then closed the door and walked off.
He checked his watch. It was just after 9:00 a.m. He would have liked to use the free time to check in with the office, but his phone had been taken at the front desk when they searched his briefcase. The door opened, and he turned to watch Holmes enter from the hall in his orange jumpsuit and sneakers.
Holmes’s appearance seemed even worse than two nights ago. There was a certain edge to his face, as if the panic had taken root and wouldn’t let go. And he looked worn-out and ragged like he hadn’t been sleeping. Teddy slid a chair away from the table, but Holmes shook his head and grunted without looking at it. He seemed fixated on the larger meeting room on the other side of the second door where inmates were beginning to visit with their families.
“Not in here,” he said. “I wanna be out there with them.”
Holmes stepped through the doorway. Teddy grabbed his briefcase and followed his client into the meeting room. When Holmes passed an empty couch heading straight for the far wall, he knew Holmes wanted to look at the paintings. Teddy had wondered why fifty works of art were on display in the main meeting room at Curran-Fromhold Prison and asked the assistant warden about it on his way out the other night. They were part of the one percent rule maintained by the city. Teddy was already familiar with the requirement because of his interest in real estate, but hadn’t expected it to filter down to a prison. If you were planning to build within the city limits, then one percent of your construction budget had to be designated for public art no matter what the amount. The one percent rule had transformed the city. Apparently, there weren’t any exceptions.
Teddy kept his eyes on Holmes as the big man carefully examined the first canvas, then moved on to the next. Although the paintings were of varying quality, Holmes seemed to linger over them without distinction.
“How you holding up?” he asked.
“Nightmares,” Holmes said in a voice that wouldn’t carry. “Bad dreams. There’s a man in the cellblock who cries all night. I think he’s only a boy.”
“You want to talk about it?”
Holmes shook his head back and forth without saying anything, his eyes moving to the next painting.
“What about your sister? You talk to her yet?”
Holmes stirred a little and shook his head again. Teddy was surprised.
“You haven’t had any visitors?”
“No,” he said. “Just you.”
“What about your neighbors?”
Holmes paused a moment as if the question hurt. “Just you,” he repeated more quietly.
Teddy stepped back as Holmes moved down the row. He guessed it would take fifteen minutes before Holmes was through. He didn’t mind because it gave him a chance to review his first impression of the man. A lot had happened since the night Teddy met Holmes. His client had been a bona fide murderer then, fitting the part to a tee. He still looked menacing, his hands remained heavily bandaged from the knife wounds he’d received on the day of Darlene Lewis’s murder, and the fingerprints Teddy had seen with his own eyes on the girl’s body matched conclusively. As Teddy tried to imagine Holmes teaching the little girl who lived across the hall how to paint-picking her up from school and making her dinner the way a father would-he was struck by the same feeling he’d had last night. The idea that he was missing something and not seeing the whole. The possibility that even though the physical evidence added up to Holmes, somehow there might be another explanation.
Holmes finally reached the last canvas. When he turned away, they found a place to sit down where Holmes could keep an eye on the paintings. He was staring at them like he needed them, like he was trying to hang on to something meaningful from his former life.
“We need to talk about the other day,” Teddy said.
Holmes remained silent and appeared frightened by the prospect.
“Darlene Lewis,” Teddy continued steadily. “You said you couldn’t remember anything. You ran away and the next thing you knew you were home.”
“I’m having nightmares. I already told you that. I wake up screaming and then I hear that kid crying in his cell. It feels like the place is haunted.”
Teddy nodded, beckoning the man on.
“I can almost see her face, if that’s what you’re asking. I can almost see it even though I’d do anything not to see it. It’s like it’s coming at me just before I wake up. Only she’s not beautiful anymore. She’s not even a she. It’s chasing me like a ghost and laughing at me. It’s a real bad dream. I’m glad I wake up.”
Holmes shuddered, trying to shed himself of the vision.
“What about your hands? If you can’t remember how you got cut, then how do you think it happened?”
Holmes shook his head in frustration, unable to find the words.
“It’s important, Holmes.”
“Why?” he asked. “What if it’s more important that I don’t remember? That I never remember?”
Holmes was getting loud. A guard looked over. Teddy turned back to his client and saw fear welling up in his eyes. Deciding he’d let it pass for now, Teddy pulled a file out of his briefcase containing the newspaper article on Valerie Kram’s disappearance. Holmes took the sheet of paper, wincing as he gazed at the photo of the Darlene Lewis look-alike, Valerie Kram. Teddy watched him carefully, searching for any indication that he recognized the girl. But as Holmes began reading the article, the man’s face remained blank, even numb. When he was finished, his eyes rose to the date and stayed there.
“Is she dead, too?” Holmes asked.
Teddy nodded.
Holmes’s eyes rolled back to the picture of Kram. “Are they gonna say I did it?”
“I don’t know. It’s early. The evidence isn’t in yet.”
Holmes passed the article back, unable to settle in his chair. “They look the same, but they’re not,” he said.
“How so?”
“I don’t know. They’re just different. That piece of paper said this one wanted to be an artist.”
“What about the date? I went through your place last night and didn’t notice a calendar. Do you keep a date book?”
“No.”
“It was a Wednesday. October twenty-sixth.”
Holmes shrugged helplessly. “Then I must’ve been at work.”
“It happened after work. Where’s your checkbook? Maybe that would help you remember.”
“I keep it on the kitchen counter with my bills.”
Teddy didn’t recall seeing his checkbook in the kitchen. The police either moved it when they tore up the plumbing or took it for some reason. He made a mental note to call ADA Carolyn Powell when he got out of here. A check written to a dentist or doctor or even for groceries or art supplies would do more than jog the man’s memory.
“What about credit cards?” Teddy asked.
“I’ve only got one, but I’ve never used it. I got it just in case of emergencies.”
“What about the little girl who lives across the hall? She says you pick her up at school.”
“Not on Wednesdays. She takes music lessons. She plays the drums. Her mother picks her up on her own.”
Teddy stood up, glancing at the picture of Valerie Kram as he grabbed his briefcase. Expecting Holmes to remember what he was doing almost two months ago seemed hopeless. As an exercise, Teddy had returned home last night and tried to piece together his own day on October 26. He’d started at the firm in September and kept a weekly planner. Even so, all he came up with was that he’d spent the morning in the library researching past cases and had lunch with Barnett. The afternoon and evening remained blank. How could he expect anything more from Holmes?