Madison finished her coffee and stood up as the flat silver of the bay was becoming visible through the French doors: it was even possible that it was Vincent Foley who had murdered David Quinn. If that was the case, what measure of justice could be exacted from that wreck of a human being?
The men who had slain Warren Lee and Ronald Gray were not interested in justice or how it was measured. They had tortured their victims to extract what they knew about the kidnapping and whether they’d told anyone about it—Madison was sure of it. She was fighting for all the dead, for all those whose voices had been silenced—the boy and the men who had killed him—and that knowledge rested heavily on her heart, because she had knelt by the pit in the forest and had seen with her own eyes the hole Vincent Foley had dug.
They arrived at the Walters Institute with their unmarked cars and their badges, and Dr. Peterson showed them to a comfortable observation room. Spencer and Dunne, Madison and Kelly, together with the department consulting psychiatrist Dr. Jennifer Takemoto, crowded into the airy space with a view of the gardens. Eli Peterson looked as if he’d hardly slept, and Madison could imagine the long line of bleak thoughts that might have kept him awake.
Dr. Takemoto was in her forties and dressed like a smart senior manager; Madison had met her a couple of times and was very glad they could count on her skills today. She had seen the psychiatrist help a traumatized hostage recollect a four-day ordeal and send the perpetrator to jail for life. If there was anything left of Vincent’s memories of his time before the Walters Institute, she’d be the one to find them.
“This is where we’ll bring Vincent to sit and talk,” Eli Peterson said. “I was told he had a good night, or as good as his nights ever are. I’ll also be present during your interview. It will be a comfort for him to have someone he knows in the room, and I will stop the interview at any time should he become distressed.”
Dr. Takemoto nodded.
“He’s always distressed, isn’t he?” Kelly interjected. “I mean, how will you know when he is unusually distressed?”
It was a good point.
“You’ll have to trust my judgment. I’ve been his doctor for many years, and I’ll be able to tell when he’s had enough.”
“Doctor,” Madison said, “the likelihood is that he will be very upset, and enough might come pretty soon, but we need to find out what he knows, because—aside from everything else—that’s how we can best protect him.”
“I understand.”
Madison wondered if he did and—if it came to that—whether he would come between them and Foley. In the last twelve hours the doctor had had to adjust an assessment that had taken years to develop, and yet, in the swift tide of changes, the one immutable factor was Vincent. Their perception of the man might change with every piece of information they gathered; however, the man himself had not altered his behavior or the way he related to the world since he had set foot in the Institute. Whether they liked it or not, he was their constant, the beginning and the end of the nightmare, forever stuck in that awful day while time had flowed on around him.
The detectives went into a side room with a two-way mirror while Peterson briefed Takemoto about the patient. A video camera had been set up to film the session from behind the glass. There was much to say, and Madison had had a chance to talk to Takemoto herself about what they needed from Vincent and the circumstances of the case.
Then, flanked by the nurse they had met before, Vincent Foley shuffled into the room, and Madison’s every other thought faded away.
The day was overcast, and although the light coming through the windows was barely more than timid, Foley was immediately drawn to it. He lifted a hand and touched the glass—the people in the room with him might very well not have existed at all.
He wore scrubs that hung on his slight body as if he were a boy wearing a man’s shirt.
“Hello, Vincent,” Dr. Peterson said.
Foley turned, and his piercing blue gaze slid over the doctor and Jennifer Takemoto without apparent interest or recognition and went back to the view from the window. Every cell of his body seemed to shiver as his fingers traced the glass. His nails had been cut as short as they could be.
“How old is he?” Dunne whispered. Their room was soundproofed, but that was just about as much voice as Dunne could muster. Spencer said nothing at all.
“Forty-eight,” Madison replied quietly.
They had all read the file and knew exactly how old he was; however, to see Vincent in person was something entirely different. Kelly had been utterly silent, and yet Madison saw in the way he held himself that he was pleased Spencer and Dunne were as spooked by Foley as he had been.