Nice to see you, too, Blackburn thought.
Then she was gone.
Tolan watched after her, looking a lot like a naughty kindergartner who had just been scolded by his teacher. Maybe there was a spanking in his future.
“If you want to hang on to that one,” Blackburn said, “you’d better start communicating with her. And soon.”
“With all due respect, Detective, you’re probably the last person in the world I’d ask for relationship advice.”
“Good point,” Blackburn said.
26
Vincent almost had to laugh.
He had been sitting here for quite some time now, watching the activity around the hospital, the arrival of the unmarked police van, the scurry of technicians.
All because of him, of course.
All because of his genius.
How funny that they didn’t even know just how close he was. Close enough to touch.
It was a scene he’d witnessed dozens of times in his life. Almost routine at this point, but he still enjoyed the spectacle as much as he had after that first kill, so many years ago.
Little ice cream girl.
Oddly enough, one of the detectives reminded him of her. The one with the pale yellow hair.
Unlike the little ice cream girl, however, this one kept it pulled back into a tight ponytail. And there was a sense of intelligence about her. No-nonsense. Always in control.
He liked that. Liked it a lot.
But he had always liked watching the police. The concern laced with excitement. The sense of purpose. As if they might catch him this time.
Oh, they’d catch him, all right.
Sooner than they expected.
And before long, Vincent Van Gogh would be retired to the local history books, the newspaper archives, the memories of the family members who had been touched by his artistry. Blessed by his genius.
Then somewhere, in another town, another state — possibly even another country — Vincent would be reborn. Wiser for the mistakes he’d made. Stronger.
A greater talent than he had ever hoped to be.
Who knows what they’d call him then.
“Your girlfriend says our gal here reminds her of someone. Any idea who that might be?”
Tolan ignored the question. Seemed lost in his own thoughts as he stood at the computer, keying through the notations on-screen.
Blackburn tried another one. “So when do I get the bad news, Doc? Are we wasting our time?”
Tolan looked up. “Hard to say. The tox screen came back negative for drugs or alcohol, so we can rule out any organic disorders.”
Blackburn again thought about those missing smack tracks and decided that, along with the lobotomy, he might order up some LASIK surgery.
“If she’s suffering from BRP,” Tolan continued, “the prognosis is good, but we may simply have to wait it out.”
“You can’t give her a shot or something?”
“Neuroleptics are a wonderful tool, but unlike most of my colleagues, I usually hold off awhile before I go there.”
“This isn’t your usual situation.”
“True,” Tolan said. “But I’m supposed to be hands off, remember? Let’s see how Clayton feels about it. He just called, by the way. He was sound asleep when I—”
“Spare me the play-by-play. What’s his ETA?”
“He said he needed about three gallons of coffee and a shower first.”
“Which means he’ll get here when he gets here, right?”
“Right,” Tolan said.
Blackburn sighed again. More waiting. This Simm guy decides to take a leisurely shower and in the meantime, only God knew what Vincent was up to.
“Hopefully, by the time he arrives,” Blackburn said, “I’ll have some fresh ammunition for you.”
“What kind of ammunition?”
He nodded to Psycho Bitch. “Her identity.”
He told Tolan about the magazine ad. De Mello had already contacted the design company who’d handled the layout. Turned out they’d used customized clip art for the bikini model and Photoshopped the bottle in her hand. The company who sold them the clip was busy trying to locate the photographer who had taken it. De Mello was pretty sure he’d have a name before lunch was over.
“Excellent,” Tolan said. “Might help us track down her medical hist—”
A sound from the intercom cut him off. A guttural moan that came from the room beyond the glass.
Psycho Bitch was stirring now. She began muttering something incomprehensible, then surprised them both by starting to hum.
“That’s something new,” Blackburn said.
“Cassie told me she was singing earlier. Some kind of nursery rhyme.”
They listened a moment, and Blackburn noticed that the doc was frowning now, as if trying to recognize the tune. He started to say something, but Tolan held up a hand, silencing him.
Then, in a timid, childlike voice, Psycho Bitch began to sing:
Blackburn saw Tolan visibly stiffen, eyes widening almost imperceptibly.
“Jesus Christ,” Tolan said.
“What?”
Psycho Bitch kept singing, repeating the words, and Tolan suddenly had that same stunned look on his face that he’d had earlier this morning, right after she attacked him.
“What, Doc? What’s going on?”
It seemed to take Tolan a full thirty seconds to respond, Psycho Bitch continuing to serenade them.
“That song,” he said, his voice cracking.
“What about it?”
“My wife…” He turned, looking straight at Blackburn. “This is impossible…”
“What, Doc? What?”
“That’s Abby’s song.”
27
She used to sing it to him in bed.
She’d trace her fingers along his abdomen, along his “happy trail,” as she called it. Walk them upward toward his stomach and on up to his chest, singing:
Then she’d bring her hand back down, grabbing hold of him, gently tugging at him, letting him grow against her palm. When he was ready, she’d climb on top and guide him into her.
He’d stare up into that beautiful face, all of her concentration centered on her task, her hips moving to find just the right spot, the one that made her eyes close and her jaw go slack, a small moan escaping between her lips.
The first time she sang it to him, he’d asked her where it came from.
“Me,” she’d said with a small laugh. “My first stab at creativity. Write about what you know. Isn’t that what they tell you?”
He wasn’t sure what she meant by that.
“It’s a hopscotch song. My friend Tandi and I used to play in the alley behind our apartment house, while our mothers were working.”