Nothing had been revealed about the privately funded task force Silas Payne had put together, but I guessed that couldn’t remain a secret for long.
Diving deeper into the file of one of the two murders I’d been assigned, I detected Noah’s telltale footsteps jogging down the stairs. They were quick in cadence, light in sound.
He stuck his head inside of the dining room, his hair damp from the shower. “Still in here?”
I waved my highlighter at the clutter in front of me. “Haven’t moved.”
He checked the mug resting beside me. “Coffee?”
“The answer to that question is always yes,” I replied as he started for the kitchen.
He returned a moment later with the coffee pot in hand. “This is the last of it. Should I start a new one?”
I held out my mug as he poured the remnants into it. “I don’t think my nervous system could handle one more twelve-cup serving, but thanks.”
“You’ve been burning the wick at both ends.” He set the empty pot on the table, his gaze circling the paperwork encompassing me.
“I’m not the only one,” I said, pointing my highlighter at the duffel bag slung across his chest. “Where are you off to?”
“It’s Sunday night. Jiu Jitsu.” His tone implied we’d memorized each other’s schedules, but of course that was untrue. I could barely keep track of my ever-evolving one, let alone his.
“You put in six hours at the office this morning, spent the afternoon helping Andee with a science project, just got back from a run, hopped in the shower, and are off to another form of physical activity where hardy individuals fight other hardy individuals? I don’t need to be a psychiatrist to diagnose you as a serious overachiever.”
An amused sound echoed in his throat. “Jiu Jitsu is more about incapacitating than fighting, but yeah, that’s the plan for the night.”
After highlighting a section on the paper I was skimming, I turned my attention to him. His body hinted at youth, though his eyes and the permanent line etched between his brows told the story of a man his age.
“If you’re worried about acing your physical fitness test at your annual doctor appointment, I’m certain that fifteen-mile run you just finished will do the trick. It’s all diminishing returns following that.”
“I don’t do Jiu Jitsu to keep in shape. The running takes care of that.”
“Then why do you do it?” I took a sip of the coffee.
Noah tapped his temple. “Enter the psyche of a late bloomer who spent his formative years being picked on and pushed around.”
I tipped my mug at him. “You filled out by college.”
“I was the one person on campus grateful for the freshman fifteen.”
My back moved with a silent laugh as I recalled the pictures I’d seen of an adolescent Noah Wolff. All long limbs and bony protrusions, capped by a giant toothy smile.
Noah’s eyes swept across the paper and folders surrounding me. “This looks like more than an advisory status.”
“Well, you know me.” Relaxing into my chair for a moment, I gave my eyes a rest from the endless reading. “Why do what’s expected when you can do twice as much for none of the extra recognition?”
“Especially when it’s your father asking.”
My eyes cut to him. “What does that mean?”
Noah paused, considering before giving his answer. “Just that with some people, you could hand them the formula to immortality and it still wouldn’t be good enough. There’d still be something to criticize, because that’s the type of people they are. Perpetually dissatisfied.”
My shoulder lifted. He wasn’t wrong.
Sliding the duffel bag over his head, he set it on the floor before taking a seat in the chair beside me. He spun the file nearby toward him, forehead creasing as he scanned it.
“Gerald Volkner,” he read, scanning the brief summary page. “Most of his adult life spent in prison. Charged with numerous counts of sexual abuse on minors.” Licking his finger, he flipped to the next page, reading faster than even I did. “Each charge shows a notable escalation in deviant behavior. Died of asphyxiation. It says he was found inside his car in the garage, dead from carbon monoxide poisoning.” His attention diverted from the file to me. “That seems like an unusual, not to mention inconvenient, method for a serial killer to end a life.”
He waited for me to respond.
It had been a long time since I’d utilized Noah as a springboard for ideas and scenarios revolving around a case I was working. His acumen and perspective made him an ideal partner to brainstorm and play devil’s advocate with.
God knew this case needed all of the help it could get.
“A known pedophile was found dead in his garage from an apparent suicide,” I said. “How much of an investigation went beyond the bare minimum?”
“I’m assuming that’s a rhetorical question.” He took a drink of my coffee.
“I mean, maybe there were drugs in Volkner’s system that made it easy for the killer to set up the scene in the garage. Drugs that wouldn’t have shown up on a basic tox screen. Maybe he died of asphyxiation before he was drug into his car.” I leaned my head into my hand, eyes narrowing as I considered the possibilities. “Maybe a dozen different things could have happened.”
“So will you have to exhume the body to find out?” Noah asked, continuing to read Volkner’s file.
“That’s a last-case scenario in any investigation. We’re not there yet.” My head throbbed at the thought of the obstacle weaving and jumping involved in something like that. “What are your thoughts about this serial killer given your position?”
His light eyes drifted to me from beneath the ends of his wet hair. “My position as . . . an offender defender?”
My eyes lifted. “As a court-appointed psychiatrist who specializes in sexually deviant criminals.”
Noah leaned back in his chair, staring at the wall across from him. “I confront pedophilia from a brain angle. You come in from a legal one. This guy, his approach is a mortal one.”
I waited for a further explanation, but none came. “Could the absence of disapproval in your tone suggest . . .” I leaned toward him. “You’re possibly condoning our killer’s actions?”
His head moved. “Not condoning it, but the student of the mind I am is able to understand what this person is thinking—their rationale—for addressing the same societal problem you and I tackle in different, albeit more constructive, ways.”
“But is it more constructive? Are our approaches toward pedophiles really productive when you consider all the factors?” My highlighter rapped against the table. “Sometimes I have this feeling that we’re being asked to fix these massive problems with nothing but glue sticks and paperclips. We’re glorified desk jockeys who specialize in temporary solutions and quick fixes.”
“There’s a somber thought.” Noah cleared his throat. “But I’m going to keep lying to myself that in some way, some times, I make a difference.”
“I’m sorry, that’s not how I meant it. I know you do. I’m having a hard time spitting out what I’m thinking.” I chewed my cheek while strong-arming thoughts into manifestation. “We follow rules. The devil doesn’t. How do we win—how do we even battle—with that kind of a disadvantage?”