The Good Lie by A.R. Torre

CHAPTER 30

I dropped the groceries off at the house and drove to the office. It was dark, Jacob’s computer powered off, the only illumination coming from an EMERGENCY EXIT sign above the stairwell. I flipped on the lights in my office and powered up my iMac. As it hummed to life, I cleared off my desk and withdrew the stack of case files.

I undid the thick rubber bands around each file and spaced them out around the large surface of my desk, putting Gabe Kavin’s in the middle.

My computer chimed, and I logged in, then pulled up the twenty-two-page psychological profile I had sent to Robert. I printed out two copies of the document and grabbed a red pen. Flipping on the desk lamp, I curved the neck so it shone down on the folders.

My first order of business was to determine if there was actually aftercare involved, or if the photo Jacob had sent me was an exception to the rule.

I opened the first file.

Trey Winkle was seventeen, a lacrosse player from Serra Retreat. He was found in a ditch along the entrance road to the Griffith Observatory. I flipped to the autopsy section and scanned the findings.

Some adhesive residue along a deep cut in his thigh. The wound was clean and looked cared for. A Band-Aid would be the likely explanation for the residue.

My killer wouldn’t use a Band-Aid.

I flipped to the next victim. Travis Patterson. Well fed. His hair was clean. Partially healed wounds.

I pulled out a pad of paper and took notes, moving through all five files before getting to Gabe Kavin’s.

I took a deep breath. A pattern was already established, but Gabe had been an anomaly from the start. His death was more brutal—maybe his care had been skipped.

But it hadn’t. Like the others, he was healthy at the time of his death. Also well fed and cared for, if you ignored the torture and rape every couple of days.

I set down the pen and rubbed my temple. If guilt and regret were responsible for the kindnesses, but the individual was still engaging in habitual violence, then we were talking about a disorder. This wasn’t bipolar disorder or borderline personality disorder. That would be characterized by manic swings or episodes, and there was no way that a manic individual would be able to execute this level of evidence-free and precise pattern kills.

I leaned back in my chair with a groan and looked up at the tray ceiling.

If the aftercare was an established pattern, which it was . . .

If the abductions, captivity, and kills had been well planned and executed with careful timing, which they were . . .

If signs pointed to a killer’s history of personal trauma, which they did . . .

Paranoid schizophrenia—PS—or dissociative identity disorder—DID—were the most likely culprits.

Paranoid schizophrenia was the most common mental disorder diagnosed among any criminal, but especially serial killers. David Berkowitz, Ed Gein, Richard Chase, Jared Lee Loughner . . . Randall Thompson could easily be joining their ranks. The disorder was characterized by delusions, and typically, in a case like this, voices or visions that dictated a person’s actions. An imaginary individual might be orchestrating and ordering the violent actions, and the killer’s true personality is the one caring for and comforting the patient in the aftermath. Or—and more likely—vice versa.

Dissociative identity disorder was commonly known as multiple personality disorder. If accurate, it would mean that the BH Killer was acting in separate personas. Maybe two, maybe more.

I’d had a client with DID before. It was one of psychology’s more complicated diagnoses, and every case was different. Often it was triggered by a severe emotional or physical trauma. Sometimes it could be “cured” by therapy; often it could not. In the more publicized cases, the secondary personalities could be quite violent.

As impossible as it probably was, I needed to talk to Scott Harden. His interactions with the killer would help me understand if it was a clear switch from one personality to another, or a mental communication with a delusion. There was a big difference, one that he should have been able to distinguish, especially after seven weeks as a prisoner.

While PS was practically a given, DID was a big criminological jump to take. If I was wrong, it’d be a huge blow to my credibility and reputation. And once the press caught word of it, the media coverage would flare like a California brush fire in September.

I tapped the pen against the page. Simply put, I didn’t have enough to go on and should keep all this to myself until I knew more.

My interview with Randall was set for Wednesday. In that first impression, I should get at least a general sense of the sort of individual I was dealing with. And Robert’s office had to have private investigators they could hire. DID-affected individuals left clues that an investigator could unearth. Missed appointments. Forgetfulness. Unexplained outbursts.

The elevator dinged, and I glanced through my open office door, my tension easing as a woman and a cleaning cart exited the car and rolled into the reception area.

Luke had been eerily quiet. The police had finally found him, questioned him, and gotten bubkes in answers. According to Luke, he hadn’t taken my wallet or keys. I reported all my cards stolen and wasted my entire Sunday afternoon ordering new IDs, club cards, and a replacement fob for my car. The police had nothing to charge Luke with, so he left. Since then, he hadn’t made any effort to contact me, which should have been reassuring, but it wasn’t. Instead, the silence felt like the pregnant pause in a horror movie, right before the chain saw–wielding villain springs out.

I closed the file and stood, leaning over and gathering each folder into place, then stacking them all in the middle of my desk. Moving my mouse, I disrupted the screen saver, then shut down my computer.

I needed to get home and, for the rest of the evening, try not to think about death.