The Good Lie by A.R. Torre

CHAPTER 22

While my office looked like the inside of a psych ward, Robert’s was perfectly in order. I set my purse down on his private conference table and surveyed the room. Very masculine. Dark wood accents, powerful and rich colors in the art. All it was missing was a stuffed animal head on the wall. I fought not to psychoanalyze it, but the decor was a dog pissing on the walls, marking the territory and asserting Robert’s dominance.

He was on the phone, his voice low, his chair swiveled toward the window, and I took the opportunity to wander around the space. It was huge, a clear status play, big enough for the conference table, a seating cluster, and his massive desk. There was a bookshelf, and I paused beside it, surprised to find novels instead of legal journals. On the second shelf was a small fishbowl with a bubbler. A goldfish stared at me blankly as a treasure chest slowly opened behind him.

A goldfish. That was interesting.

“Dr. Moore.”

I turned. Robert had ended the call and was facing me.

“How is the good doctor today?”

“I’m okay.” I looked back at the aquarium. “You have a fish.”

“That I do. A beautiful woman told me that I should have a pet, so . . . there you go.”

He was smooth, I’d give him that. How many women had he delivered similar lines to? Dozens? Hundreds?

I turned back to him. “You always do what ‘beautiful’ women tell you to?”

“Depends on the woman.” The words were light, but I could see the fatigue in his features. He stood and came around the desk. “Take a seat. Those heels have to be killing you.” He settled into one of the big leather club chairs, and I followed suit. “How’s your profile going so far?”

“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I did a quick sweep of the kills and am now going through each in detail, chronologically. I’m about halfway through. I’m on the third victim now.”

“Noah.”

“Yes.” I watched his features, reading the rigid tension in them. He didn’t need a psychological profile. He needed a grief counselor. That and a vacation a million miles away from blood and gore and photos of dead teenage boys. “Have you been through all the files?”

“Yes.”

“You know, you can’t desensitize yourself to it. Looking at photos of the other boys doesn’t make Gabe’s death any easier.”

“It helps me.” He sighed. “I wasn’t the only parent who failed.”

“None of you failed. You know that.”

“Yeah, well. So many small decisions might have changed it. If he had never seen Gabe, he wouldn’t have taken him.”

I shook my head. “You can’t go down that rabbit hole. For every action and decision that you beat yourself up over, look at your intentions. You did and continue to—even now—do the best you can to protect him.”

He forced a smile. “I don’t need a counselor, Gwen. I need to know what you’ve learned.”

He didn’t know what he needed, but it wasn’t my place to force treatment on him. I switched to business mode. “Well, I’ve reviewed the files enough to give a rough sketch of the killer, but it’s likely to change as I finish reviewing things.”

He relaxed slightly at the change in topic. “Go ahead.”

“Are you familiar with grounded theory methodology?”

“No.”

“It’s the discovery of emerging patterns in data and the generation of theories from that data. With each victim, I create a list of factors. Factors about the victim, the circumstances, the kill, and the treatment of the victim from the moment of capture to the moment of death. Also, the disposal of the body.” I watched him carefully, wondering if I needed to be more sensitive with my language.

He nodded, his brows pinching together in interest, and I continued on.

“Once I have exhaustive lists on each crime, I can find the commonalities among them and establish patterns. Both in the killer’s consistencies, but also his inconsistencies. Is he changing his MO of victims? Growing older or younger in age, more innocent or less in experience . . .” I shrugged. “So far, these victims are eerily similar. That’s the pattern, and it points strongly to the killer personifying either himself at a younger age or someone in his past.”

“Which is more likely?”

“Someone in his past,” I said immediately. “Most likely someone who hurt him in a very traumatic way. Given the length of the victims’ captivity, the abuse was probably extended. It could have lasted for years.”

“Okay. What else?” he asked.

“The crime scenes are staged and extremely clean. No fingerprints, DNA, tire tracks, or evidence. They’re clearly planned and executed in careful fashion. Between that, and the preparation of the body, we’re dealing with a very detailed and organized individual. Someone who is patient and who enjoys mental mind games. The killers who display their victims are seeking attention from the onset and probably planned the series of murders from the beginning. They are very proud of their kills, proud of their intellect, and confident in their ability to evade the police.”

I paused. “Even without finishing the research, I’m confident in those aspects of the killer.”

He gave a dismissive nod, unimpressed. “Okay, so? A cocky, organized individual who likes mental mind games. You just described half of this floor, including me. Tell me there’s more.”

The next part required me to go into the murder details. It would be a light dip, but I was very aware of the fact that I was dealing with a grieving father. “I’m considering the possibility that the killer is bisexual or gay but is living life as a straight man, and he feels deep shame and self-loathing over his orientation.”

“You’re basing that on the sexual activity with the victims?” Robert didn’t flinch at the question, but he also couched it as sexual activity versus rape, which was an emotional tell in itself.

“Yes.” I hesitated. “What was Gabe’s sexual orientation?”

His brow furrowed. “Straight.”

“Are you sure?”

He shifted in his chair, his annoyance flaring, and I could see the moment he intentionally calmed himself. It was impressive, a complete shuttering of emotion. If I could package the action and teach it to my clients, I’d be hailed as a genius. Then again, such emotional control wasn’t particularly healthy. A quick burst of steam kept a kettle from boiling over. He folded one hand over the other. “Why are you asking?”

“If all the victims were gay or had homosexual potential, it would tell us a lot about BH and why he selected those boys in particular.” I paused. “And, also, I’m trying to figure out why Gabe’s death was different from the others.”

He rubbed his index fingers over his mouth, then straightened in his seat. “You’re talking about the dry drowning.”

“Yes.” I wanted to apologize, hated the path of the conversation, but he started this journey. If he was going to represent Thompson, there were going to be a lot more of these discussions in his future. “It’s a significant ramp-up in aggression. Much more violent and painful. More emotion fueled. It indicates a loss of control. The question is, why? Why Gabe?”

“Well, it wasn’t because Gabe was gay,” Robert said wryly. “I couldn’t keep him away from girls. We had a pregnancy scare with his girlfriend just two weeks before he was taken. Now . . .” He sighed. “I keep thinking about if she had been pregnant. We’d have a baby right now. One with his eyes, his smile—” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat.

I quickly moved on. “Did Gabe drink? Use drugs?”

“He drank. Not a lot. High school parties, that sort of thing. Drugs . . .” He grimaced. “I’m sure he smoked weed at some point in his life. Anything harder than that—I kept a close eye on him. He didn’t have a habit.”

“Okay, that helps.” I thought of the piles of handwritten notes in my office, many with giant question marks beside them, and considered how much more to share. “There’s . . . something off. I’m not sure what it is yet.”

His attention piqued, and I shouldn’t have said anything until I knew more. “What’s off?”

“Like I said, I don’t know yet. It’s just a feeling. I don’t know if it’s a manipulation of evidence or if it’s a missing piece, but there’s something, and I can’t put my finger on it.” I shrugged. “It could be nothing. I could be wrong.”

“Or you could be right.”

Yes. I could be right. Hell, I was right. Something was wrong. Every time I tried to draw a line between two ideas, it was slightly off. I was missing something, and it had better emerge soon, or I wasn’t going to have any hair left on my head.

A half hour later, I sucked Diet Coke through a paper straw and glanced across the conference room table at Robert. “How do you want me to use Scott Harden’s case in my profile?”

“Disregard it completely,” he said, wiping at his mouth with a napkin, an Italian sub from the lobby deli in hand. “He’s lying.”

“Lying about what?” I countered. “You don’t think he was kidnapped?”

“No, I think he was kidnapped. But he’s lying about Randall Thompson.”

“Why?”

“Why wouldn’t he?” he countered. “California’s most vicious serial killer in recent history is out there. Who knows what he’s threatened this kid with? And everyone’s assuming the kid escaped. But what if he didn’t? What if the killer let him go?”

“Let him go?” I made a face. “Why would he let him go?”

“You’re the shrink.” He set down his sandwich and picked up his soda. “Let’s say you knew he let him go. Why would he? What would be your psychological reasoning behind that motivation?”

I sighed, taking a bite of my sandwich and thinking over the idea. I chewed slowly, then washed it down with a long sip of soda. “He wouldn’t. He grew more violent with the sixth death, and then he releases the seventh? It doesn’t—” I paused as a possibility, though remote, came to mind. “Wait. If he released him . . . ,” I allowed, “and that’s a big if, then it was planned. There was a purpose for it and—if I had to guess—it was part of an exit strategy. He needed Scott Harden to be free so that . . .” I closed my eyes and tried to figure out why the BH Killer would intentionally create a loose thread. Part of the game with authorities?

“So that Scott could point to someone else.” The resolution in Robert’s voice made me open my eyes. The attorney was nodding, warming to the idea. “A scapegoat.”

“Whoa.” I held up my palm. “That’s a stretch. Let’s not forget about the trophies in Randall Thompson’s house.”

“Could have been planted there. Plus, they haven’t found the fingers yet.”

I frowned. “The pinkies from the victims?”

“Yeah. Went through Randall’s house with a fine-toothed comb, and there isn’t a fleck of DNA evidence from any victim, and no pinkies. Now, you said the BH Killer is organized. Planned every part of his crimes. So he planned this—to release Scott Harden and have him ID someone else.” He pulled open a bag of chips and raised his brows at me, challenging me to contest the thought.

As much as I hated to admit it, it wasn’t a horrible theory. I hesitated. “Eyewitnesses are convincing,” I allowed.

“Convincing?” He shook his head. “Screw that. They’re gold. Trust me. I’m in front of juries every day. If Scott Harden points his finger across that courtroom and says Randall Thompson stripped off his clothes and tied him down to a bed, that trumps hair fibers at a dump site. At that point in time, the cops stop looking, and lack of evidence ceases to matter.”

“So that’s going to be your defense?” I gathered my trash and stuffed it into the bag, then reached across the corner of the table to get his. Our knees brushed. “Scott Harden is lying?”

“You ever open a pair of handcuffs with a fork?”

“No,” I replied. “Have you?”

“No one has. It’s impossible.” He held up his hand. “Okay, not impossible. But you aren’t doing it one-handed, and look at the autopsy photos. Rope burns, not handcuffs. These boys were spread out on the bed, not chained to radiators with their hands in close proximity.”

“It’s a stretch,” I argued. “You’re making a lot of stretches.”

“Gwen.” His use of my name caught my attention and held it. “What if I’m right?”

If he was right, then this killer was still out there. Laughing at us. Free, while Scott Harden ate up the press and Randall Thompson was locked away in solitary confinement. It was a sobering and terrifying thought, because he was correct about one thing—the cops weren’t out looking right now. They were sitting back and congratulating themselves on a case well solved.

“If you’re wrong, and you get Randall Thompson off—then what?”

“I’m not wrong.” He met my eyes, and for a moment, I saw his pain. Raw and unfiltered, the weight of his grief was right there, etched in the hunch of his shoulders and the tight knots in his neck.

Maybe he was wrong, but he was a father and he was hurting, and I couldn’t argue with that.