Out of Time, page 5
Mike thumped his eraser against his notepad.
“So how did this mistake get made in the first place?” he asked.
“Like I said, I haven’t figured that out. Nobody at the Dispatch could either. They'd gotten a request to run the obituary in a typical way. A funeral home—the Voigts Family Funeral Home, I think it was—emailed in a request to run the Brinton Schafer obit. And naturally, the Dispatch ran the one they had on file. The one I wrote.”
Dylan and Mike exchanged startled glances.
“I don’t get it,” Mike said.
“I don’t either,” Dylan said. “Why would a funeral home request an obituary for someone who wasn’t dead?”
Hutchinson shrugged again.
"That's just it. Nobody knows how it happened, not even at the funeral home and certainly not at the Dispatch. At first, it looked like someone must have used the Voigts email account. But the funeral home staff scoured through their emails and found no evidence that anything like that had ever been sent. The Dispatch finally gave up trying to figure it out. They just wrote the whole thing off as a practical joke. For that matter, so did Brinton. He thought it was pretty funny.”
“I don’t guess he thinks it’s funny now,” Mike growled, jotting down more notes.
“Something else was odd about the email request,” Hutchinson said. “Along with the cause of death, I leave a blank space where it will say where services are going to be held, or where to send donations and all that kind of thing. The request the Dispatch received said there wasn’t going to be a service, which isn’t all that unusual. But it also said that donations should be sent to the Hoyt Bangor Charitable Foundation.”
“Lemme guess,” Mike said with a cluck of his tongue. “There’s no such thing as the Hoyt Bangor Charitable Foundation.”
“None that I can find, and none that anybody at the Dispatch can find either. You can Google it yourself, but I’m sure you won’t find it. I guess whoever planted the obit must have made it up. But the name seems peculiar.”
Dylan silently agreed.
Does it mean something?
Or is it just random nonsense?
“This whole thing must have been the work of some hacker,” Hutchinson ventured.
Mike stared at his notes for a moment, then gave Aaron Hutchinson a hard, daunting look.
“Mr. Hutchinson, can you account for your own whereabouts when Brinton Schafer was killed?
“When was that?
“Early this morning, just around dawn.”
Hutchinson’s heavy eyebrows drew tightly together.
“Am I a suspect?” he said.
“It’s just a routine question.”
Dylan was surprised and a bit disturbed. Of course, she knew that it ought to be a routine question. But the way Mike had said it sounded more like a challenge. She’d thought she could read Hutchinson pretty well, and she didn’t suspect him of killing anyone.
Why does Mike feel differently?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Another silence fell in the room. As Dylan watched Aaron Hutchinson closely, she wondered if she had misread him entirely. But if he was faking his relaxed attitude, he was very good at it. He didn’t look particularly worried as they waited for him to answer.
Then she detected an odd change in the man’s expression, a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a slight crinkle of those dark eyes. She wondered if maybe he was just a bit pleased to be considered a suspect.
Hutchinson looked down at his pajamas and waved a hand at his surroundings.
“Where does it look like I would have been early this morning? Or any morning? I mean, from what I told you about how I work—”
“Just answer the question,” Mike interrupted.
Hutchinson leaned forward in his chair, his chin jutting even more than usual.
“Should I, uh, get a lawyer?”
Mike shrugged.
“Look, all you’ve got to do is tell me the truth,” he said with a wary smile. “It’s not exactly rocket science.”
Hutchinson tilted his head and eyed Mike closely.
“No, I don’t suppose it’s brain surgery, either,” he said with a chuckle. “OK, then. I was right here in my apartment. I don’t sleep a lot, so I was probably hard at work cranking out obituaries.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“Nope.”
The two held their gazes for a long, silent moment.
“We’ll be back in touch,” Mike finally said, still not breaking eye contact. “Meanwhile, don’t leave the area.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Hutchinson said. “I hardly ever even leave the house.”
Mike tersely thanked him for his time, then stood up to leave.
“You’ve cleared up a lot of questions for us,” Dylan said, and she also stood up and followed Mike to the door.
“Glad to help,” Hutchinson said congenially. “Come back any time you need my advice.”
Dylan and Mike stepped out of the apartment into the warm night air. The townhouse complex was quiet, with well-lit sidewalks winding alongside narrow streets.
“What are you thinking?” Dylan asked.
Mike put his hands in his pockets and didn’t reply for a few seconds.
“It’s a nice night out, and this is a pleasant neighborhood,” he said. “Let’s take a little walk.”
He’s processing an idea.
They walked in silence for a few moments among the tidy buildings, which were surrounded by tall trees. Then Mike took out his cell phone and started tapping something.
“What are you doing?” Dylan asked him.
“Sending a text to Detective Sweeney to tell him to have some of his guys keep an eye on Aaron Hutchinson.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think?”
Mike finished sending his text and then turned toward Dylan.
“What were your impressions of that guy?” he asked.
The question struck Dylan as slightly quiz-like as if he might be testing her.
"At first, I felt pretty sure he wasn't the killer type."
“What changed your mind?”
She felt a little rattled now.
“Well, nothing changed my mind, exactly. He struck me as pretty much what he said he was—a guy who sits in his apartment all day writing obituaries and who doesn't even go outside much. An odd sort of character, but pretty much harmless."
Mike fell silent again.
“I take it you don’t agree,” Dylan commented.
“I’m not jumping to conclusions.”
“But you’ve got your suspicions.”
“You could say that.”
“Why?”
Mike stopped walking and looked at her.
“He didn’t blink,” Mike said.
“Huh?”
“When I asked him where he was at the time of the murder, I locked eyes with him.”
“Yeah, I noticed that.”
“And he didn’t break my gaze.”
“I noticed that too.”
“And he didn’t blink.”
Dylan couldn’t help scoffing slightly.
“Well, neither did you, at least not that I noticed.”
“I was testing him. In my experience, innocent people don’t lock gazes with you. And blinking is just something that happens automatically. But with him, it was sort of like a stare-down contest. It was like he was pushing back at me, testing my will. I’ve seen killers who act like that.”
Dylan chuckled a little.
“I imagine you’ve also seen non-killers who act like that,” she said.
“I know that eye contact can show interest, but a stare actually goes beyond that.”
“Yes, hard stares can signal hostility, but …”
“It’s aggressive behavior.”
“Sometimes, but anybody who feels challenged can respond that way.”
“I suppose so. But still …”
Mike’s voice faded, and they started to walk again. She thought back over their visit, replaying Aaron Hutchinson’s behavior in her mind, especially his facial expressions.
“Mike, I made a lot of eye contact with him myself the whole time we were there. He didn’t shy away from it. And I don’t remember him blinking much when he looked at me either.”
“What are you getting at?”
Dylan chuckled again.
“I’ve spent hundreds of hours with people in therapy, and I’ve observed lots of facial communication styles. Some people won’t look you in the eyes at all. Those are the ones I tend to worry about. But other people simply thrive on eye contact. They’re usually pretty emotionally healthy.”
“And you think he’s that kind of person?”
"Well, I wouldn't bet my life on it. I don't have your experience as a criminal profiler. I'm just getting started, and I could be wrong. But I also don't think we should jump to conclusions. And besides …"
“Besides what?”
“Aren’t we supposed to consider people innocent until they’re proven guilty?”
Mike chuckled darkly.
“Are they still teaching you that at the Academy?”
Dylan was truly shocked.
“Actually, that’s what they taught me way back in high school Social Studies, and even in grade school,” she said. “Don’t tell me you disagree with the Constitution. Didn’t you take an oath to defend it?”
Mike heaved a long, weary sigh.
“Yeah, I did, and I meant it. But Dylan, I still worry about you. We’ve talked about all this before. You trained to be a psychotherapist, and you turned out to be a good one, and you helped a lot of people. And to do that, you had to have a lot of faith in human nature. You had to believe that people have the ability to get better. But now you’ve got to relearn all that.”
Relearn?
Uneasiness made her stomach churn. It was true that at the Academy, she'd studied facets of human behavior that she'd never had to deal with as a therapist. And it was true that some of the investigative techniques she'd learned meant being more suspicious of people than her natural inclination. Dylan acknowledged those changes, but she also thought her previous training, experience, and successes were valuable. The idea of relearning everything she believed about people unsettled her.
“Look, it’s not a matter of disobeying the Constitution,” Mike continued. “We’ve got to respect people’s rights, not violate them. What I’m talking about has to do with our observations, with how we view people around us, even passersby on the street. We’ve got to assume that just about anybody is capable of doing awful things. It’s a matter of survival … for the next potential victim and for ourselves.”
Dylan didn’t say anything for a moment as they kept walking along. She’d observed that Mike had an even darker view of human nature than most other full-fledged FBI agents she’d met. She wondered if she’d ever know him well enough to understand why.
"I'm sorry, Mike, but I don't think I'll ever see things quite that way," she finally told him. "And I really don't think I have to go that negative. The way I see it, this is going to be pretty much like my old job in all the important ways. I'll still be helping people, but now, by protecting them from crime. And if I'm going to help people, I don't think it's such a bad idea to believe in most of them."
Mike sighed again.
“OK, have it your way. Maybe you shouldn’t even be listening to me. Maybe this job has made me too cynical.”
It might wind up making me cynical, too, Dylan silently admitted to herself. And that didn’t sound to her like a very healthy way to live one’s life.
“Anyway, we’ve got a different problem,” Mike said. “I might or might not be wrong to be suspicious of Aaron Hutchinson. Or of whoever else this leads to. But we really haven’t turned up any reason to think Dr. Charles Cameron had anything to do with Brinton Schafer’s murder.”
They’d turned a corner and were walking back toward their cars now. Despite a renewed spell of silence, Dylan knew what Mike was driving at. The only reason he’d brought her onto this case was because of her personal knowledge of that serial killer who was at large again.
“We don’t know for sure Dr. Cameron wasn’t the killer,” she said. “They did have that failed lawyer/client connection.”
“Yeah, but what does your gut tell you?”
She stifled a groan of frustration.
Right now, my gut doesn't tell me anything at all, one way or the other.
She knew that Mike was mulling over whether he should keep her on the case, and whatever he decided was going to be final.
But am I actually of any use here if Dr. Cameron isn’t involved?
Then, several odd words clattered through Dylan’s mind. She realized those words had been bothering her since Aaron Hutchinson had spoken them. She thought they must have some meaning beyond the fake name of a nonexistent organization, but she couldn’t quite get hold of what it might be.
The Hoyt Bangor Charitable Foundation.
She stopped walking and turned to Mike.
“There’s one thing …”
Her words were interrupted by the sound of a ringing phone.
Looking surprised, Mike took out his cell phone.
“It’s Creighton Junes, the tech guy at Quantico. I guess he’s got some information for us.”
Dylan felt a wave of relief at that single word …
“Us.”
For now, at least, Mike was still thinking of them as a team.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was an excellent place to stay out of sight, crouched here in the alcove behind a defunct ice-making machine.
It’s a lot like a dumpster, the killer told himself.
And in spite of his initial qualms, this morning’s deadly endeavor had worked out extremely well. Brinton Schafer had strolled by that dumpster right on schedule. It hadn’t even been much of a struggle.
That had been his very first murder, and he vividly recalled how it had felt to tighten the rope around a living person’s neck.
He could hardly wait to do it again.
He’d been surprised by the exhilarating sensation, the surge of energy that had passed through the rope into his hands and seemingly through his entire body. It had been as if the vitality that was leaving Schafer was being transferred to his own flesh and bones, making him feel more alive than he’d ever imagined being.
Now clutching the very same length of rope in his hands, the killer was waiting for his next intended victim to follow his usual evening schedule. On several separate nights, he’d monitored this man from a fair distance away from this decrepit apartment building, which used to be a two-level motel. On every one of those nights at about this hour, the target had staggered out of his apartment door, nearly blind drunk. Then he’d leaned against the balcony railing, looking blankly across the parking lot.
The killer hadn’t been able to see man’s eyes from where he’d watched, but he didn’t have to see them to know they were filled with guilt and horror—and even a longing for death.
The killer was happy to oblige him.
The miserable man’s apartment door was only a few feet away, just around the corner. As soon as he heard it open, the killer would slip on his ski mask and lunge out of the alcove, throw the rope over the man’s head and around his throat, then pull him back into hiding. He was sure he was strong enough for that to work.
Then he’d finish the job of strangling the man.
The risk of being seen was slight. This row of apartments faced the parking lot in the back of the motel. Almost nobody was ever out there at this time of night.
But he did have one concern.
He’d found that actually looping that rope around a living throat, tightening it fast enough and pulling on it hard enough to extinguish a life, required incredible mental resolve as well as physical strength.
Did he really have what it would take to repeat the act of murder twice on the same day?
He felt his courage rally as he gave the rope another tug. It reminded him of how good it was going to feel after he carried out the deed, to bask in the euphoria that would follow.
He quickly reprimanded himself.
Remember—the thrill’s not why I’m doing this.
He was only carrying out what he knew his desperate victims wanted somebody to do—something they couldn’t bring themselves to take care of for themselves.
It must be done.
And I can do it.
I just need to keep my nerve.
The only other thing that worried the killer was that his target might not come out at all tonight. As drunk as he knew this man to get, maybe he’d lapse into an inebriated state of unconsciousness. Maybe he’d just pass out inside his apartment and sleep until morning.
And the killer couldn't very well wait here all night, let alone try to carry out his plan after sunrise when other tenants began stirring around.
Just be patient, he told himself again.
But he felt his patience waning. Just how long could he afford to wait before …
Before what?
Before I give up and leave?
That’s not an option.
Everything had been set into motion. He had to see this through, and he had to do it tonight. His future plans depended on it.
He looked at his watch.
I’ll give him another half hour.
And then?
If the target didn’t appear, the killer would have to act with unplanned-for boldness.
He'd put on his ski mask, walk right out onto the balcony, and knock on the door—quietly at first, then furiously if need be, whatever it took to bring the man into his clutches.
He shuddered a little at the thought of taking that risk.
But then, maybe it wasn’t as much of a risk as it seemed. Fortunately, the overhead light for that part of the walkway was out, leaving a shadowy area. And the ratty building was sparsely populated, with no immediate neighbors.
