Method of Madness Read online

  FOUR

  Wen­ton nod­ded ac­ross his desk at Nor­ma Mac­Do­nald. She'd just sat down for the­ir re­gu­lar me­eting. Wit­ho­ut a word his at­ten­ti­on shif­ted back to his lap­top com­pu­ter. He was wor­king on a pa­per desc­ri­bing a clas­si­fi­ca­ti­on sche­me for vi­olent of­fen­ders. He wan­ted her to wa­it. It hel­ped es­tab­lish his aut­ho­rity over Nor­ma.

  She wa­ited whi­le he typed a lit­tle whi­le lon­ger. Fi­nal­ly he stop­ped and lo­oked up. "So what are we do­ing to­day?" He al­ways as­ked her why they we­re me­eting even if he al­re­ady knew.

  She smi­led. "I still ne­ed a re­se­arch to­pic. I think I've nar­ro­wed it down."

  "Oh that's right," he re­mar­ked. "You still ha­ven't co­me up with one. Why don't I just pick so­met­hing for you?"

  She frow­ned slightly. His cons­tant, but subt­le, sug­ges­ti­ons that she lac­ked com­pe­ten­ce wo­re on her. Dr. Wen­ton was bril­li­ant but dif­fi­cult. She al­ways re­min­ded her­self that she was lucky to work with him.

  "Oh no. I ha­ve a few ide­as. I'm very fa­mi­li­ar with most of yo­ur re­se­arch and the­ori­es on cri­mi­na­lity and of­fen­ders, and I gu­ess I'm re­al­ly in­te­res­ted in men­tal il­lness and of­fen­ding, es­pe­ci­al­ly sin­ce that Ed­ward Car­ter stuff."

  This ca­ught his at­ten­ti­on. "We're not go­ing to talk abo­ut that." I don't ne­ed to he­ar that fuc­kin' na­me.

  She lo­oked di­sap­po­in­ted. He didn't ca­re.

  "Lis­ten," he con­ti­nu­ed, "I know yo­ur marks in sta­tis­tics are not that gre­at so we sho­uld pro­bably stick to a simp­le to­pic-so­met­hing that do­esn't in­vol­ve a lot of analy­sis. May­be so­met­hing mo­re the­ory dri­ven." He didn't ca­re abo­ut sta­tis­tics. He just wan­ted to shut her up.

  "Oh, I don't know. I'm not so bad at stats." She pa­used for a res­pon­se but con­ti­nu­ed when he was si­lent. "I had a few ide­as abo­ut the ca­se, li­ke-"

  She stop­ped when Wen­ton sto­od and wal­ked aro­und the desk. He le­aned aga­inst the back of it so he co­uld fa­ce Nor­ma.

  "So, let's he­ar tho­se gre­at ide­as." I re­al­ly want to he­ar how smart you are. You think Ed­ward Car­ter is so gre­at, let's he­ar tho­se ide­as.

  "Well, I…"

  "Yes?"

  She re­ac­hed up to her neck. She felt warm, al­most light-he­aded.

  "Go on," Wen­ton ur­ged. "Let me he­ar the ide­as." He le­aned for­ward and put a hand on one of her legs. He co­uld fe­el to­ned musc­les be­ne­ath his fin- gers.

  Nor­ma blin­ked qu­ickly. "I don't fe­el so go­od." She wis­hed he'd mo­ve back. He was too clo­se. She at­temp­ted to glan­ce back at the do­or but she co­uldn't bring her­self to turn away fully.

  Wen­ton enj­oyed se­e­ing Nor­ma rat­tled. He mo­ved his hand part­way up her leg, let­ting his hand co­ver as much of it as he co­uld.

  His hand was hot. She wan­ted to stop him, mo­ve his hand away, but she co­uldn't. It felt wrong, but it felt go­od.

  Wit­ho­ut war­ning he le­aned over and brus­hed his che­ek aga­inst hers whis­pe­ring in­to her ear. "May­be we'll talk abo­ut this la­ter."

  She snap­ped to at­ten­ti­on and lo­oked back at him as he drew away. "What?"

  He re­tur­ned be­hind his desk. "Drop by to­mor­row when you ha­ve a bet­ter idea abo­ut what you want to do. You're ob­vi­o­usly unp­re­pa­red for this me­eting." He shif­ted his at­ten­ti­on back to his lap­top, dis­mis­sing her.

  She sta­red at him for a mo­ment. Her fa­ce bur­ned. She fi­nal­ly sto­od and he­aded to the do­or. She felt a te­ar for­ming in the cor­ner of her eye, but wo­uldn't al­low him to see that. She wan­ted to get out of that of­fi­ce.

  Nor­ma pul­led the do­or open and step­ped in­to the hall, al­most bum­ping in­to so­me­one.

  "Dr. Dri­er!" she sa­id in surp­ri­se.

  Dr. Dri­er was a mid­dle-aged pro­fes­sor in the So­ci­al Psycho­logy sec­ti­on of the de­part­ment. His twenty ye­ars of ex­pe­ri­en­ce ma­de him fe­el a deg­ree of ow­ners­hip over everyt­hing that went on in the de­part­ment. He li­ked to know what ever­yo­ne was do­ing. He tho­ught he was pro­tec­ting the in­teg­rity of the de­part­ment when he pri­ed in­to pe­op­le's per­so­nal bu­si­ness. For the most part, he was to­le­ra­ted. He me­ant well. But the­re we­re ex­cep­ti­ons to the staff s to­le­ran­ce.

  "For­gi­ve me for start­ling you, Ms. Mac­Do­nald," he be­gan in his dry, to­ne­less vo­ice. "Are you okay?"

  She lo­oked away from him, brin­ging her hands to her fa­ce to hi­de her em­bar­ras­sment. "I'm fi­ne."

  "See you la­ter," Wen­ton bar­ked at Nor­ma, en­co­ura­ging her to shut the do­or and be on her way.

  Nor­ma tur­ned and mo­ved qu­ickly down the hall. Dr. Dri­er re­ma­ined stan­ding, his mo­uth partly open as if he was abo­ut to ask so­met­hing.

  He watc­hed her for anot­her mo­ment and then tur­ned to lo­ok in­to Wen­ton's of­fi­ce. "Dr. Wen­ton? Is the­re so­met­hing I sho­uld know?"

  "Ke­ep mo­ving Earl," Wen­ton ans­we­red wit­ho­ut lo­oking up. He didn't li­ke to be med­dled with.

  Dr. Dri­er ha­ted to be ad­dres­sed in such an in­for­mal man­ner. No one but Wen­ton re­fer­red to him by his first na­me. He step­ped in­to Wen­ton's do­or­way. His fa­ce twis­ted and he in­ha­led as if smel­ling so­met­hing no­xi­o­us.

  Wen­ton's at­ten­ti­on was not dist­rac­ted from his com­pu­ter, which ir­ri­ta­ted Dri­er to no end. He wan­ted Wen­ton to watch his per­for­man­ce. He wan­ted Wen­ton to know he was dis­gus­ted be­fo­re he be­gan to spe­ak.

  "She lo­oked a lit­tle up­set," Dr. Dri­er be­gan thro­ugh grit­ted te­eth. "I ho­pe the­re wasn't anyt­hing inap­prop­ri­ate go­ing on in he­re."

  Wen­ton's at­ten­ti­on didn't shift from the lap­top.

  "You ne­ed to cle­an up yo­ur act, Dr. Wen­ton," Dr. Dri­er con­ti­nu­ed with co­ura­ge bols­te­red by an­ger. "Just be­ca­use you're a hots­hot fo­ren­sic ex­pert do­esn't me­an you can dis­re­gard every ru­le of con­duct that ma­kes this uni- ver­sity, this de­part­ment, gre­at. I know why you to­ok Nor­ma on as a stu­dent. I know how men lo­ok at her."

  Wen­ton fi­nal­ly lo­oked up. He held Dr. Dri­er in his ga­ze as he clo­sed the lap­top in one de­li­be­ra­te, ste­ady mo­ti­on.

  Dri­er shif­ted un­com­for­tably. He wan­ted to le­ave but didn't want to lo­ok we­ak and pat­he­tic. He held his gro­und.

  Wen­ton sto­od slowly, let­ting the full length of his lar­ge fra­me un­curl from the over­si­zed of­fi­ce cha­ir. He wan­ted Dr. Dri­er to see who he was chal- len­ging.

  Wen­ton step­ped aro­und his desk and slowly mo­ved in front of the ol­der pro­fes­sor. He in­ten­ti­onal­ly sto­od in Dr. Dri­er's per­so­nal spa­ce and the clo­se­ness ma­de eye con­tact awk­ward. Wen­ton lo­oked down at him with dis- gust and wa­ited to be ack­now­led­ged.

  Altho­ugh he didn't want to, Dr. Dri­er for­ced him­self to lo­ok up. He saw hat­red in Wen­ton's eyes and shud­de­red.

  "How do men lo­ok at Nor­ma?"

  "I just me­an-" Dr. Dri­er be­gan.

  "Is that how you lo­ok at her?" Wen­ton as­ked, in­ter­rup­ting him.

  "What?"

  "Do you want her, Dr. Dri­er?"

  The words hit him li­ke a punch, and Dr. Dri­er step­ped back, a bit off ba­lan­ce. An ima­ge flas­hed thro­ugh his mind, an ima­ge of Nor­ma stan­ding na­ked in the ro­om. He sta­red at her. She was gor­ge­o­us. His eyes scan­ned down to her bre­asts. He wan­ted so badly to to­uch her.

  Wen­ton's sharp vo­ice bro­ke thro­ugh his stu­por: "Get out of my of­fi­ce."

  "I..,what?" Dr. Dri­er stumb­led.

  Wen­ton le­aned down and spo­ke in­to Dri­er's fa­ce. "
Lis­ten to me you worth­less piss-sta­in. Ke­ep yo­ur no­se out of my bu­si­ness. I can see in­si­de you. You're a mar­ked man. Yo­ur lust will ste­al yo­ur so­ul."

  "What?" Dr. Dri­er was sud­denly unab­le to think.

  Wen­ton's eyes glo­wed. "Get out."

  Dr. Dri­er nod­ded. His mo­uth was partly open as tho­ugh he was go­ing to spe­ak but co­uldn't find the right words. The si­tu­ati­on had got­ten ugly. He no lon­ger wan­ted to chal­len­ge Wen­ton, not now any­way. He just wan­ted to get out of the of­fi­ce. '

  The ol­der pro­fes­sor stumb­led back­wards as Wen­ton pla­ced a ri­gid thumb aga­inst his chest and pus­hed. Dr. Dri­er tur­ned and stag­ge­red out the do­or. His he­ad po­un­ded.

  Wen­ton watc­hed him le­ave and was abo­ut to turn back to his desk when a vo­ice so­un­ded from so­mew­he­re.

  The ans­wer se­eks you from Qum­ran. The ans­wer is in you.

  He glan­ced aro­und. He was alo­ne.

  FIVE

  "It star­ted in the par­king lot of the Su­pers­to­re ne­ar Mic Mac Mall. You know, the fancy one with the smo­ke shop and all the spe­ci­alty items. I think they call it the Su­pers­to­re Mar­ket."

  Dr. Cla­ric nod­ded, ur­ging Cat­he­ri­ne to con­ti­nue.

  "I know that so­unds stu­pid but that's whe­re it star­ted. You piss off the wrong per­son at exactly the right ti­me and then you end up he­re." She pa­used to see if Dr. Cla­ric wo­uld re­act with skep­ti­cism but he re­ma­ined ne­ut­ral, simply lis­te­ning.

  "I was pic­king up a few gro­ce­ri­es be­fo­re go­ing to get the kids at scho­ol. I was a lit­tle be­hind sche­du­le, and I gu­ess I didn't check the re­ar­vi­ew very well be­ca­use as I bac­ked out, I bum­ped in­to so­met­hing. I tho­ught may­be I hit a conc­re­te di­vi­der or so­met­hing. When I lo­oked back over my sho­ul­der the­re was a big whi­te van with two men in it.

  "It was an old-style van, you know, li­ke a cu­be van. The ow­ners we­re easy to re­mem­ber be­ca­use they didn't re­al­ly fit in with yo­ur nor­mal gro­cerys­to­re par­king lot crowd, if you know what I me­an. They both had dark bu­si- ness su­its on and we­re pretty cle­an-cut.

  "Anyway, when they got out to check the van, they se­emed pretty in­ten­se. The­re wasn't any vi­sib­le da­ma­ge but they we­re ma­king a big de­al abo­ut it.

  "When I ap­pro­ac­hed them, one of the guys sort of snap­ped at me. He sa­id in a very ru­de way, 'Did you just get yo­ur li­cen­se?' or so­met­hing li­ke that. I ins­tantly star­ted apo­lo­gi­zing all over the pla­ce and ig­no­red the com- ment. The ot­her guy put a hand on his fri­end's sho­ul­der and whis­pe­red so­met­hing. I as­su­med he was tel­ling him to calm down and go back in the van or so­met­hing, but lo­oking back, I think I he­ard him whis­per so­met­hing li­ke, 'We'll get this dumb bitch la­ter.'

  "So any­way, we go thro­ugh this big song and dan­ce of lo­oking at the van and lo­oking at my car. The guy says, all ni­ce and po­li­te, 'Why don't you gi­ve me yo­ur na­me and ad­dress any­way-just to be sa­fe.'" She stop­ped and ga­ve Dr. Cla­ric a lo­ok that sa­id she felt li­ke a fo­ol.

  "So what do I do?" She nod­ded. "I gi­ve him my na­me and ad­dress. I me­an I was the one who hit him. I gu­ess I wasn't thin­king." She pa­used, trying to cont­rol a sur­ge of emo­ti­on that thre­ate­ned to ta­ke her to te­ars aga­in.

  Dr. Cla­ric wa­ited pa­ti­ently for her to re­su­me.

  She lo­oked up at him shyly. "Sorry. The who­le thing is just too much for me, I gu­ess." She snif­fed and re­ac­hed out to the small end tab­le ne­ar her, ta­king a tis­sue to wi­pe her no­se. "So I ga­ve them my na­me and ad­dress. I didn't think anyt­hing of it be­ca­use I was still in a hurry to get the kids. I rus­hed back to my van and left. And that was it for a we­ek or so. I don't re­mem­ber the ti­me­li­ne exactly. I think that's part of the ef­fect of the we­apon. It re­al­ly mes­ses up yo­ur me­mory.

  "Anyway, abo­ut a we­ek la­ter I was on my way ho­me from my we­ekly brid­ge ga­me, pro­bably aro­und ten o'clock at night. I pul­led up in front of our ho­use in Port­land Es­ta­tes." She stop­ped aga­in and held the tis­sue to the cor­ner of one eye and then the ot­her. "Not­hing ever hap­pe­ned on our stre­et. The last ma­j­or cri­sis was when the Mar­tin boy bro­ke his arm by run­ning in­to a par­ked car next do­or to us. I knew everyt­hing that hap­pe­ned on the stre­et. I al­so knew every­body and ever­yo­ne's car. So, the whi­te van par­ked right ac­ross the stre­et from our ho­use sto­od out li­ke a so­re thumb. Not only was it out of pla­ce but it had so­me stran­ge elect­ro­nic equ­ip­ment on top of it too. It lo­oked li­ke a sa­tel­li­te dish or so­met­hing. I don't re­mem­ber if the dish was tur­ning aro­und, scan­ning the ne­igh­bo­ur­ho­od, but I think it was. You don't see that too of­ten'

  Dr. Cla­ric in­ter­rup­ted. "You've lost me, Cat­he­ri­ne. Is this the sa­me van from the par­king lot?"

  "Li­ke I sa­id, the par­king lot was just a blur. I don't re­al­ly re­mem­ber. It might ha­ve be­en the sa­me van. I'm just sa­ying that shortly af­ter I ran in­to that van at the gro­cery sto­re, I ca­me ho­me and the­re was this big van par­ked ac­ross the stre­et."

  "Did the van ha­ve any mar­kings? Was it may­be a van for the cab­le com- pany or a lo­cal news sta­ti­on?"

  She nod­ded in ag­re­ement. "I know. I tho­ught abo­ut that too. It didn't ha­ve any mar­kings tho­ugh. I think if it had, it wo­uldn't ha­ve struck me as odd. But it was a pla­in whi­te van with no mar­kings and the two lit­tle win- dows on the back do­ors we­re both black.

  "So I pul­led up on the stre­et and par­ked. I had to park on the stre­et be­ca­use on my brid­ge night, my hus­band, Ca­me­ron, al­ways par­ked in the ga­ra­ge. I co­uld've par­ked in the dri­ve­way but then he wo­uldn't ha­ve be­en ab­le to get his car out in the mor­ning to go to work. So, the easi­est thing was just to park on the stre­et for that one night of the we­ek."

  "Gotc­ha," Dr. Cla­ric in­to­ned, ref­le­xi­vely trying to help the story along be­fo­re she got bog­ged down in de­ta­ils.

  "Sorry." She grin­ned with em­bar­ras­sment and then con­ti­nu­ed. "I no­ti­ced the van but didn't ma­ke a big de­al out of it. I got out and he­aded in­si­de, but just as I step­ped out of the car, so­met­hing hit me. I tho­ught I was go­ing to be sick. My sto­mach was do­ing flips. I drop­ped down on­to my hands and kne­es. I was so dizzy. The last thing I re­mem­ber was se­e­ing a man we­aring a big over­co­at and a ba­se­ball cap, an odd sight on our stre­et at that ti­me of night."

  "What do you think hap­pe­ned?"

  "I know what hap­pe­ned. So­me­one in the van was sho­oting so­met­hing at me. This is when it all star­ted, when they star­ted to dri­ve me in­sa­ne.

  Wha­te­ver they we­re using hit me li­ke a ton of bricks. It knoc­ked me right off my fe­et and to­ok the wind right out of me. I co­uld ba­rely even bre­at­he. I tho­ught I was de­af and blind. I tho­ught I was ha­ving a he­art at­tack. I didn't know what to think or do.

  "I don't know how long I was the­re, but next thing I knew, Cam was stan­ding be­si­de me as­king if I was okay. I didn't want him to worry so I just sa­id I slip­ped, and he hel­ped me in­to the ho­use. I as­su­red him I was fi­ne and didn't men­ti­on a word abo­ut the van."

  "Did yo­ur hus­band see the van?"

  "I don't know. I do­ubt it be­ca­use when Cam was hel­ping me in­to the ho­use, I glan­ced back and it was go­ne. Who­ever zap­ped me did it and then to­ok off whi­le I was down."

  "How can you be su­re so­me­one in the van 'zap­ped' you? Co­uldn't it jsut ha­ve be­en the flu?" Dr. Cla­ric as­ked ca­uti­o­usly, using her own ter­mi­no­logy to en­co­ura­ge fa­mi­li­arity.

  "That's what I tho­ught too. Af­ter Cam hel­ped me in­to the ho­use I just put
the whi­te van and everyt­hing out of my mind. Li­ke you sa­id, may­be it was just a flu go­ing thro­ugh me, but then everyt­hing star­ted co­ming apart."

  She stop­ped aga­in and re­ac­hed for anot­her tis­sue. This ti­me it to­ok a few mi­nu­tes be­fo­re she re­ga­ined her com­po­su­re. "I'm sorry but this is very dif- fi­cult. I ha­ven't be­en thro­ugh it in this much de­ta­il in a long ti­me. I think abo­ut this all the ti­me, but tel­ling so­me­one el­se is just-"

  "That's okay. It's not a ra­ce. Just ta­ke yo­ur ti­me."

  "I re­al­ly ap­pre­ci­ate you lis­te­ning to me." She tri­ed to smi­le.

  "Hey, I get pa­id to ca­re."

  She la­ug­hed at the joke, then con­ti­nu­ed. "So over the next we­ek I kept se­e­ing that damn van ac­ross the stre­et. I knew it was the sa­me van be­ca­use the­re co­uldn't be too many vans li­ke that with the elect­ro­nic equ­ip­ment on top and tin­ted win­dows. And if I ever went to see if so­me­one was the­re, it was empty. At le­ast it se­emed empty be­ca­use I co­uldn't see in­si­de the back."

  "So you ac­tu­al­ly went over to the van and lo­oked for so­me­one?"

  Cat­he­ri­ne lo­oked away from Dr. Cla­ric and nod­ded. "It was kind of an awk­ward thing and I didn't know what to say. I co­uldn't exactly ask, 'Did you sho­ot me with so­met­hing?' But the van was the le­ast of my prob­lems. A we­ek or two af­ter I was zap­ped I star­ted to no­ti­ce ot­her stuff. Things we­re get­ting mo­ved in the ho­use. I'd co­me in and put my keys so­mep­la­ce, and when I went to get them la­ter, they we­ren't the­re. I'd even­tu­al­ly find them so­mep­la­ce whe­re I wo­uld ne­ver put them." She lo­oked inc­re­du­lo­us but con­ti­nu­ed, "And the­re we­re ot­her things. So­me­one went thro­ugh my ap­po­int­ment bo­ok, po­ked thro­ugh the fi­les on my com­pu­ter. It was ob­vi­o­us that so­me­one was go­ing thro­ugh the ho­use. I star­ted to be­co­me very sus­pi­ci­o­us. I star­ted chec­king the do­ors a co­up­le of ti­mes every­day, ma­king su­re they we­re loc­ked. I left a lit­tle bit of pa­per in the back do­or on­ce so I co­uld tell if the do­or had be­en ope­ned, and su­re eno­ugh, the next ti­me I chec­ked, the pa­per was right the­re on the flo­or.