The table was empty. It had recently been occupied, the smell of cigarettes lingering in the air, a plastic ashtray overflowing with butts. He’d smoked when he’d first started in the FBI, along with practically everyone else. He’d quit the week his daughter had been born, but the cravings were still there.
He leaned against a tree, and waited for Kessler to call back.
He thought about the significance of the table in the aerial photographs. Tables were communal places where people got together to eat and talk and share stories. They did not generally fit into the killing patterns of madmen, but he supposed there were exceptions to every rule, and this was such an exception. In each city where he’d lived, Crutch had propped his victims’ bodies around a table before he’d discarded them. Why?
A few minutes later his cell phone rang. It was Bob.
“Hope I’m not getting you at a bad time,” Linderman said.
“There are no bad times when you’re retired,” Kessler replied. “You still working on the Jason Crutchfield case?”
“Yes.”
“How’s it going?”
He gave Kessler a rundown of the events which had happened since their phone conversation the day before. His ex-boss let out a deep breath when he was done.
“This isn’t good, Ken,” Kessler said.
“We’re doing the best we can,” Linderman replied.
“I’m not talking about the investigation, which I’m sure you’re handling properly. What bothers me is that you’re letting Crutch get close to you. The guy’s pure evil. He brings out the worst in people.”
Linderman thought back to strange and horrible things which had happened to him since he’d talked with Crutch in the chaplain’s study that morning.
“Are you speaking from experience?” Linderman asked.
“Yes, I am,” Kessler said. “I got close enough to him, and his crimes, for it to affect me. It wasn’t good.”
“Would you mind telling me what happened?”
“Sure. I couldn’t sleep, and I lost my appetite. Ended up losing about fifteen pounds. I argued with my wife a lot, and also with strangers who upset me. I got so fatigued, I started to hallucinate.”
“Were your hallucinations violent?”
“Yes. I wrote them all down. I thought I was having a mental breakdown, and wanted to chronicle what was happening to me in case I had to be institutionalized. I figured it would give the doctors a head start on figuring out how to treat me.”
He could see Kessler doing this, his degree of organization far above anyone else he’d ever worked with. He said, “Did you end up going into the hospital?”
“You mean did I go nuts? No, thank God. I eventually got back to normal. Just woke up one morning, and the sky was sunny again.”
“Did you ever imagine yourself killing someone?” Linderman asked.
There was a silence on the line.
“Several times,” Kessler said.
“How?”
“With my hands. Is that happening to you, Ken?”
“Yes. I imagined killing Crutch at the prison.”
“That’s not surprising, considering what he said about your daughter.”
“It was real. I was doing it. Then I snapped back to reality.”
“That’s not good. How many times has this happened?”
If he lied to Kessler, their friendship would suffer because of it. But if he told Kessler the truth, Bob would pick up the phone, and alert someone within the bureau that he was having mental issues.
“Just once,” Linderman lied. “What would you suggest if it happens again?”
“Go see a doctor. You don’t want these fantasies invading your thoughts. They’re extremely dangerous.”
Yes, they are, Linderman thought.
“Thanks for the warning,” Linderman said. “Now, let me tell you why I called. You mentioned yesterday there was evidence that Crutch had murdered his family. Can you give me some specifics?”
“Sure,” Kessler said. “When Crutch was arrested in Melbourne for kidnaping Lucy Moore, he let the police interview him. During the interview, Crutch mentioned his family back in Pittsburgh, and how they hadn’t gotten along when he was growing up. It peaked my curiosity, so I did some digging. I found a distant cousin in Massachusetts who was very helpful.
“The cousin’s name was Horace Perret, if I remember correctly. Ex-military guy. Perret told me that Crutch appeared on his doorstep with a suitcase one day, and asked if he could stay for a while. Crutch claimed that his family had moved to Canada, which was where the mother was originally from. Crutch said that his mother had been angry with him, and left him behind to fend for himself.”
“How old was Crutch?” Linderman asked.
“Crutch was about to enter his junior year in highschool, so that would have made him either sixteen or seventeen. Perret said that Crutch appeared to be handling the separation pretty well, and said several times that it was probably for the better. Perret said that Crutch lived with him for six months, and then went to stay with another relative in Boston, and lived with that relative until he graduated highschool. Crutch was extremely bright, and got accepted to MIT on a full academic scholarship. Perret said he lost touch with Crutch after that, as did other members of the family.”
“What led you to think Crutch murdered his family, and that his story wasn’t true?”
“I did a public records search in Canada for Crutch’s mother. I also contacted the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and got them to do a search. The woman didn’t exist, and neither did her children.”
“Do you know how many children there were?”
Kessler paused, thinking. “Three besides Crutch.”
“Were they all female?”
“Yes… how did you know?”
“Crutch has been killing his mother and three sisters over and over in the cities where he’s lived. It’s his ritual.”
Kessler said something that sounded like a curse. A rarity for him.
“Why didn’t I see that?” Kessler said, angry with himself.
“You kept him in prison, Bob. That’s more than enough.”
Kessler continued to grumble. This would eat at him for a long time.
“I need to get back to work,” Linderman said. “One last question. Do you have the address for Crutch’s family home in Pittsburgh?”
“It should be in my files. Hold on.”
Kessler was gone for several minutes. Linderman continued to watch the heron catch fish from the pond. Kessler came back on the line.
“Found it. They lived on 712 Morningside Drive in Oakmont, which is an old suburb about twenty minutes from downtown.”
Linderman took a pen from his pocket and wrote the address on the back of a business card. He thanked his old boss for his help.
“Keep me in the loop,” Kessler said. “I want to hear how this plays out.”
Linderman said goodbye and folded his phone. Crutch was a smart killer, and had left no evidence linking him to his heinous crimes. But what about the first time, when he’d killed his mother and sisters? Had he had the presence of mind to clean up after himself then? More than likely, he hadn’t. He needed to catch a flight to Pittsburgh, and pay a visit to the Crutchfield family home. If his hunch was right, there would be enough evidence there to link Crutch to his family’s murders, and make him talk.
He headed back to the building. A shadow passed directly overhead, momentarily eclipsing the sun. It was the heron, its wings flapping furiously.
He glanced over his shoulder in alarm. Four women now occupied the picnic table. He had no idea where they’d come from. Their physical similarities were striking, right down to having identical facial features and the same hair color. Their mouths moved up and down as they chatted happily away.
A teenage boy dressed in blue jeans and a white tee-shirt emerged from behind a tree. It was Crutch. His hair was much fuller, his body lighter. Clutched in his hands was an axe handle which he waved menacingly in the air. He stood at the head of the table, and screamed silently at the women.