“They didn’t want to kill them,” she said finally.
“Mr. Gray would disagree, I think,” Kelly interjected.
“I mean, yes, they killed both of them, and Lee might very well have been shot like Gray if his heart had not been compromised. But if the object of the exercise was cruelty and pain, why shoot Gray? Considering the injuries, they could have gone on torturing him for hours. They chose not to. The reason for the assaults was not necessarily to kill the victims.”
“I agree,” Spencer said.
“Maybe they got what they wanted out of them, and that was enough.” Kelly undid the collar button of his shirt under a patterned green tie.
“And they wanted the police and everybody else to know very quickly who the first victim was,” Madison continued.
“I’m liking this more every minute,” Dunne said.
“Is Sorensen in charge of this at the lab?” Fynn asked.
“Yes, she is,” Spencer replied.
“Good, because after three days all we have right now is paint flakes, and the clock’s ticking. Also, I don’t want to tell the press about the connection between the murders. Let the killers think we don’t know. We don’t have motive, and we don’t have suspects,” Fynn said, straightening up. “We really don’t have to work very hard to look like we’re treading water.”
Nobody said it, but they all knew that the media would seize on the story of a serial killer and lead readers to spew out the same superstition: Everything comes in threes.
Madison was making notes of Ronald Gray’s early employment records—sparse and unsatisfactory—when the call came in.
“Homicide, Madison.”
“Hello, may I speak with the detective investigating the Ronald Gray case?”
“That would be me. How can I help you?”
Madison had the handset in the crook of her shoulder while she kept typing.
“I’m calling about his brother.”
Madison stilled for a moment, then palmed the phone and spoke into it. This had better not be a joke. “Mr. Gray had no siblings on record, sir. Whom am I speaking to?”
“Dr. Eli Peterson, at the Walters Institute.”
Madison’s mental Rolodex flipped to the appropriate page: residents at the Walters Institute had psychiatric problems ranging from the moderate to the very serious, and most of them lived there long-term and did not expect to leave. Most of them, reflected Madison, might not be entirely sure of their surroundings in the first place.
“Please go on, sir. Our records show that Ronald Gray had no next of kin.”
“The relationship between them was not one of blood, Detective. They were foster brothers; they grew up together. And his brother is a resident of the Walters Institute.”
“I’m sorry for his loss,” Madison said. “Has he been told?”
“I think it would be best if we spoke about it in person. Do you think you could come over sometime today?”
“Did you know Ronald Gray, Doctor?”
“For years.”
“We’ll be right over.”
The Walters Institute, a red-brick building from the early 1900s, sat at the center of its private grounds, lined by tall firs and by a perimeter fence almost as tall. The iron railings were painted black and well maintained, and even though they were a world away from the concrete and barbed wire of the King County Justice Complex, Madison observed that they were certainly not making it easy for someone to leave the grounds without authorization.
She gave her name and Kelly’s at the intercom by the main gate and waited; two cameras had their car in view.
Chapter 21
Alice Madison, fifteen, sits in the school counselor’s office and looks around. Some of the posters on the wall have changed since the last time she was here, three months ago. She is about to miss PE and would rather they got on with it, but the woman is poring over a file with her grades, occasionally looking up with a smile and then back at the file.
Having run out of leaflets and posters to examine, Alice focuses on the woman sitting on the other side of the desk, and, before she realizes what she’s doing, she reads her the way her father taught her. The woman is in her mid-thirties, unmarried—no ring—and her clothes are more expensive than a part-time school counselor could afford. Although they are not brand-new: Alice notices that the maroon cashmere twin set is beginning to pile a little, and the pumps are beautifully kept, though the leather is slightly scuffed by wear.
Miss Harley genuinely likes working with teenagers—many of Alice’s classmates have confided in her and let her help with their troubles, but not Alice. For some reason Miss Harley has always been a tad uncomfortable with her and, thus, has tried ten times harder to get the girl to like her and open up.