“Hypothetically, a patient with a history of OCD and schizophrenia, off his medication, might become violent.”
Ellie nodded. “This is in strict confidence, and off the record,” she told the woman. “The killer exhibits ritualistic behavior. He dresses his victims in Sunday clothes as if preparing them for a viewing, poses their hands in prayer, and lies them on a bed of wildflowers.”
Despite her calm demeanor, a shocked sound escaped the therapist.
“He also smears lipstick and rouge on them. Would those actions fit with Mr. Holcomb’s behavior?”
“Again, I can only speak in hypotheticals, but it’s possible.”
“Is there anything you could tell me about these rituals? What they might mean?”
Wiggins tapped her fingers on her temple. “It’s possible the women represent someone else in the killer’s life who wronged him or hurt him. He’s obviously obsessed with death. Have you considered the fact that he might work in the medical field, maybe as an ME? Or that his job has something to do with preparing bodies for burial, like a mortician? He could even be a body mover.”
Cord McClain immediately came to mind. But she trusted him. Didn’t she?
“You should also talk to the police officer who handled his arrest,” Dr. Wiggins added.
Ellie nodded, frustrated that the therapist had danced around her questions, but respecting her reasons for doing so. “Do you keep recordings of your sessions with the patients?”
Wiggins twisted her hands together. “I do.”
“Could I listen to them?”
“You know I can’t release them without a warrant.”
Leaning across the desk, Ellie gave her an imploring look. “Listen to me—this man has murdered three women so far and we’re expecting to find another victim today. Every minute you drag your feet could cost that woman her life.”
Suddenly, the therapist turned to her keyboard.
“I keep digital and physical copies of the recordings. I’ll ensure a physical copy is included with the files you’ve requested. But some sessions are likely to be of more interest than others.”
Ellie thought the therapist was going to dismiss her, but instead Wiggins asked for her email address. A moment later, Ellie’s phone vibrated. An email with an audio file attached.
She looked back up at the doctor. Their gazes locked, then Ellie hurried from the office, anxious to hear what was on the tape.
Seventy-Two
Ellie and Derrick convened in the car outside the hospital, and Ellie started the recording of one of Vinny Holcomb’s therapy session. The therapist started with an introduction.
“Vinny, would you like to talk about the reason you’re here today?”
“Talk? I only talk to my friend. I have a friend now, Hiram. You know Hiram. He’s brave and smart and so am I now.” The man’s voice sounded almost childish, obsessive. “They used to call me Skinny Minnie Whiny Vinny. But I’m not skinny or minnie or whiny.” A clicking sound echoed, and Ellie realized he was snapping his fingers. “See, I’ve got muscles now. And friends. Hiram likes me and so does my other friend.”
“What friend are you referring to?” Dr. Wiggins asked.
“My other friend, you know, he says Mama shouldn’t have thrown me away in here. Mamas are supposed to be loving and kind, but she was bad, real bad, and she has to be punished.”
“Your mother put you here because you attacked her,” Wiggins pointed out.
“She was bad, just like the other ones. Like Hiram’s mama and sister. Look what they did to him!” His voice rose with rage. “They can’t get away with what they did to us. They have to pay.”
“Vinny,” Wiggins said in a calm but authoritative voice. “Please sit down. I need you to stay calm so we can talk.”
“You sound like my mama!” Vinny bellowed, then she heard Wiggins shout for him to stop, and suddenly footsteps as someone rushed in.
“We’ve got him!” a man shouted.
“Sedating him now,” the other one said.
Vinny screeched like an animal, the sound of struggling ensued, followed by more noise as he was clearly dragged from the room.
“They have to pay!” Vinny yelled. “All of them have to pay!”
As the door closed and the recording ended, Ellie released a breath she didn’t even realize she’d been holding. “He’s definitely violent and hates women.”
Derrick looked worried. “He fits the profile.”
And he had drawn an X on her in red, the same red the victims’ lips were painted. Which meant he was targeting Ellie.
“He mentioned another friend,” Derrick said. “When I looked at those security tapes, there was a man who came into his room the night he escaped. He stayed in the shadows, as if he knew where the cameras were and was avoiding him. The head of security couldn’t be sure who he was.”
“You think this man helped him escape?” Ellie asked.
Derrick nodded. “Which means we could be looking for a team who planned these murders together.”
Seventy-Three
Ellijay, Georgia
The police station in Ellijay was only fifteen minutes away.
A deputy showed them to Sheriff Miller’s desk, and Ellie introduced herself and Derrick, explaining they’d just come from the secure hospital.
The man was middle-aged, tall and bald, and judging from the tattoo on his forearm, ex-military. His gold wedding band looked too small, digging into his fleshy fingers, and a picture of a woman with brown curly hair sat on his desk along with a photo of a French bulldog.
Derrick had phoned ahead, and the man had agreed to pull Holcomb’s file so they could discuss it. Derrick had also called Vinny’s mother, but she hadn’t answered so he’d left a message asking her to contact them.
Opening the file, Miller clicked his teeth. “That was some crazy dude,” he said. “When I showed up at his mother’s house, he had her cornered with a butcher knife to her throat.”
“Go on,” Ellie said.
“Twice before we’d been called out there. Once when he’d beaten the hell out of a girlfriend. Put her in the hospital with a broken arm and broken nose. She also needed dozens of stitches on her arms where he’d cut her.”
She and Derrick watched as he laid the photos of the girlfriend on the table. The woman appeared to be undernourished and her hair looked like straw, as if Vinny had kept her locked up and hadn’t fed her.
“Next time, it was his mama, but she decided not to press charges. Said he was sick and off his meds, and she was going to try to get him into treatment.”
“So he has a pattern of violence,” Derrick said.
Miller nodded. “We looked back and found two other domestic calls, but the police backed off because the women chose not to follow through. Abusers seem to have some kind of hold on women. Or maybe the women think they can save them.”
That never worked out, Ellie thought.
“What happened the last time?” Derrick asked.
“He went too far with his mother,” the officer said. “Beat her to a bloody pulp. She managed to get to the phone and called 911. Upon arrival, from the yard we heard him ranting about how she was white trash and he knew she’d cheated on his daddy, how God wanted women to obey their husbands and sons. He’d locked her in so we had to break down the door. He had her by the hair with that butcher knife to her throat. Had already nicked her twice and was screaming that he was going to kill her.”