Those shots in particular had touched Vincent. Reminded him of a part of his childhood when the adults around him had decided that they knew more about what was going on inside his head than he did.
The last person Vincent would ever dream of killing was the woman who had created those photographs. She was an artist. And there were already too few of them in the world.
Yet Tolan, who had no interest whatsoever in artistic integrity, had simply wanted the woman dead.
Tolan had used Vincent. Had used his work in a most hateful way. Had snuffed out the life of a beautiful, talented woman, sliced off her ear, then had somehow found out about his little fuck-you—all in a pathetic attempt to cover for his crime.
The police investigators’ failure to see the vast artistic differences between so-called victim number eight and the seven works of genius that preceded her was not surprising to Vincent. Police are pedestrian animals, lacking the sophisticated nature one needs to appreciate fine art.
He had considered sending a letter to the newspaper, pointing out the obvious forgery and expressing his condolences for the unnecessary loss of life. But that would only make him sound like a whiny crybaby.
And Vincent was not a crybaby.
Instead, he got away from Ocean City for a while. Traveled north to see his mother.
But while he was there, he had started drinking again, and one night, found himself in the middle of a bar fight. Someone was stabbed — a minor injury, it turned out — but the blade had been Vincent’s, and the police who arrested him and the judge who heard the case did not take kindly to the use of weapons. Vincent was sentenced to alcohol rehabilitation and several months on an honor farm.
Those months, however, had turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Had given him perspective.
He knew now what it was he needed to do. Had thought of a way to turn this travesty of justice around. It would be a private victory, but a victory nonetheless. One that would allow him to reclaim his artistic integrity.
A month after he was released, he headed back to Ocean City — anxious to begin hunting his prey.
For that’s exactly what Dr. Michael Tolan was to him now.
Prey.
22
“This is huge,” Carmody said, after Tolan finished telling his story. Clearly excited, she leafed through the website pages for what must have been the fourth or fifth time since Blackburn had handed them to her. “We need to let Rossbach know about this.”
A moment later she had her cell phone in hand and was punching speed dial.
Blackburn looked annoyed. “You wanna take that somewhere else? Me and the doc need to chat.”
Carmody shot him a look, but didn’t argue. Rising quickly from the table, she went inside.
When she was gone, Blackburn sighed. “And to think I almost had her baby.”
Tolan didn’t know if he was expected to laugh, but he was in no mood for Blackburn’s jokes.
Blackburn didn’t seem to notice. “Pardon me for being a little slow on the uptake, but let me get this straight. What this all boils down to is a guy on the phone accusing you of being some kind of third-rate copycat.”
“Pretty much.”
“You have any idea why he’d think that?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Not to me, no.”
“You know as well as I do that when a wife is murdered, the husband is usually the prime suspect.”
Blackburn shook his head. “Not when there are clear signs of a serial perp.”
“But what if they were faked? What if this van Meegeren analogy is true?”
Blackburn frowned. “Are you trying to tell me something?”
“I’m just looking at the possibilities. Vincent was pretty adamant. Said the police and the papers got it wrong.”
“And maybe he was just fucking with you.”
“Maybe. But if Vincent didn’t kill my wife, then the question remains—”
“Hold on, now,” Blackburn said, raising a hand for emphasis. “Let’s not forget we’re talking about a nut job. No offense, but that’s what he is. And calling you up and accusing you of murder is probably just the kind of thing he gets off on.”
What Blackburn said made sense, of course, but then he hadn’t been the one to talk to Vincent, to feel his outrage.
“I deal with this stuff every day, Detective. I think I know when someone is telling the truth.”
“And I respect that, Doc, but the fact remains that your wife wasn’t killed by a copycat.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Copycats always get something wrong. Some tiny detail. And your wife’s murder was textbook Vincent. If it hadn’t been, you would’ve had the department so far up your ass you’d be farting donuts.”
Tolan said nothing.
“So unless you want to confess,” Blackburn continued, “we gotta assume the guy’s playing you. He’s already victimized you once. Now he’s getting a charge out of doing it again.” He paused. “Providing, of course, it actually was Vincent who called you.”
This surprised Tolan. “What are you saying?”
“You yourself said it might’ve been one of your patients. A whispery voice making threats on a telephone line doesn’t prove much of anything.”
“You’re forgetting the website,” Tolan said. “The photos.”
Blackburn shrugged. “You can download all kinds of shit off the Internet these days. No telling where they came from. For all I know, it’s just some guy getting creative with Photoshop.”
Tolan stared at him. “Why the resistance, Detective? You don’t believe me?”
“On the contrary, Doc. I’m pretty sure it was Vincent who called you — mostly because I don’t believe in coincidences. But unlike my so-called partner in there, who likes to jump straight to Defcon One, I tend to want to digest things a bit before I go off half-cocked.”
Something he’d said caught Tolan’s attention. “What coincidence?”
“Huh?”
“You said you don’t believe in coincidences. What coincidence?”
Blackburn looked at him. “Remember that little wrinkle I mentioned earlier?”
Tolan nodded.
“The body we found this morning. The one who’s got your new patient all in a tizzy? We have every reason to believe he’s Vincent’s latest victim.”
Tolan felt a chill rush through him. Was this another one of Blackburn’s jokes? “I thought you said that was just a stabbing.”
“It pretty much was.”
“I don’t understand, then. Was he sliced up like the others?”
Blackburn shook his head. “The perp was interrupted before he could get that far.”
“Then how do you know it was Vincent?”
“The details,” Blackburn said. “It’s all in the details.”
Blackburn spent the next several minutes explaining those details, telling Tolan about the medical examiner’s findings, the reassembly of the task force, and the belief that Jane Doe Number 314 could well be the key to finally catching Vincent Van Gogh.
As Blackburn spoke, Tolan began to feel light-headed. This was all coming at him too fast.
“Keep in mind, Doc, that what I’m telling you is strictly confidential. But I figure the more you know, the better you’ll be able to get her to open up. Unfortunately, we may have a problem in that area.”
“I’ve been saying that all along.”
“Not with the witness. With you. Not everybody on the task force is as enthusiastic about your involvement as me and Carmody.”
Tolan wasn’t surprised. “They’re worried about my objectivity.”