“Which is more likely?”
“Someone in his past,” I said immediately. “Most likely someone who hurt him in a very traumatic way. Given the length of the victims’ captivity, the abuse was probably extended. It could have lasted for years.”
“Okay. What else?” he asked.
“The crime scenes are staged and extremely clean. No fingerprints, DNA, tire tracks, or evidence. They’re clearly planned and executed in careful fashion. Between that, and the preparation of the body, we’re dealing with a very detailed and organized individual. Someone who is patient and who enjoys mental mind games. The killers who display their victims are seeking attention from the onset and probably planned the series of murders from the beginning. They are very proud of their kills, proud of their intellect, and confident in their ability to evade the police.”
I paused. “Even without finishing the research, I’m confident in those aspects of the killer.”
He gave a dismissive nod, unimpressed. “Okay, so? A cocky, organized individual who likes mental mind games. You just described half of this floor, including me. Tell me there’s more.”
The next part required me to go into the murder details. It would be a light dip, but I was very aware of the fact that I was dealing with a grieving father. “I’m considering the possibility that the killer is bisexual or gay but is living life as a straight man, and he feels deep shame and self-loathing over his orientation.”
“You’re basing that on the sexual activity with the victims?” Robert didn’t flinch at the question, but he also couched it as sexual activity versus rape, which was an emotional tell in itself.
“Yes.” I hesitated. “What was Gabe’s sexual orientation?”
His brow furrowed. “Straight.”
“Are you sure?”
He shifted in his chair, his annoyance flaring, and I could see the moment he intentionally calmed himself. It was impressive, a complete shuttering of emotion. If I could package the action and teach it to my clients, I’d be hailed as a genius. Then again, such emotional control wasn’t particularly healthy. A quick burst of steam kept a kettle from boiling over. He folded one hand over the other. “Why are you asking?”
“If all the victims were gay or had homosexual potential, it would tell us a lot about BH and why he selected those boys in particular.” I paused. “And, also, I’m trying to figure out why Gabe’s death was different from the others.”
He rubbed his index fingers over his mouth, then straightened in his seat. “You’re talking about the dry drowning.”
“Yes.” I wanted to apologize, hated the path of the conversation, but he started this journey. If he was going to represent Thompson, there were going to be a lot more of these discussions in his future. “It’s a significant ramp-up in aggression. Much more violent and painful. More emotion fueled. It indicates a loss of control. The question is, why? Why Gabe?”
“Well, it wasn’t because Gabe was gay,” Robert said wryly. “I couldn’t keep him away from girls. We had a pregnancy scare with his girlfriend just two weeks before he was taken. Now . . .” He sighed. “I keep thinking about if she had been pregnant. We’d have a baby right now. One with his eyes, his smile—” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat.
I quickly moved on. “Did Gabe drink? Use drugs?”
“He drank. Not a lot. High school parties, that sort of thing. Drugs . . .” He grimaced. “I’m sure he smoked weed at some point in his life. Anything harder than that—I kept a close eye on him. He didn’t have a habit.”
“Okay, that helps.” I thought of the piles of handwritten notes in my office, many with giant question marks beside them, and considered how much more to share. “There’s . . . something off. I’m not sure what it is yet.”
His attention piqued, and I shouldn’t have said anything until I knew more. “What’s off?”
“Like I said, I don’t know yet. It’s just a feeling. I don’t know if it’s a manipulation of evidence or if it’s a missing piece, but there’s something, and I can’t put my finger on it.” I shrugged. “It could be nothing. I could be wrong.”
“Or you could be right.”
Yes. I could be right. Hell, I was right. Something was wrong. Every time I tried to draw a line between two ideas, it was slightly off. I was missing something, and it had better emerge soon, or I wasn’t going to have any hair left on my head.
A half hour later, I sucked Diet Coke through a paper straw and glanced across the conference room table at Robert. “How do you want me to use Scott Harden’s case in my profile?”
“Disregard it completely,” he said, wiping at his mouth with a napkin, an Italian sub from the lobby deli in hand. “He’s lying.”
“Lying about what?” I countered. “You don’t think he was kidnapped?”
“No, I think he was kidnapped. But he’s lying about Randall Thompson.”
“Why?”
“Why wouldn’t he?” he countered. “California’s most vicious serial killer in recent history is out there. Who knows what he’s threatened this kid with? And everyone’s assuming the kid escaped. But what if he didn’t? What if the killer let him go?”
“Let him go?” I made a face. “Why would he let him go?”
“You’re the shrink.” He set down his sandwich and picked up his soda. “Let’s say you knew he let him go. Why would he? What would be your psychological reasoning behind that motivation?”
I sighed, taking a bite of my sandwich and thinking over the idea. I chewed slowly, then washed it down with a long sip of soda. “He wouldn’t. He grew more violent with the sixth death, and then he releases the seventh? It doesn’t—” I paused as a possibility, though remote, came to mind. “Wait. If he released him . . . ,” I allowed, “and that’s a big if, then it was planned. There was a purpose for it and—if I had to guess—it was part of an exit strategy. He needed Scott Harden to be free so that . . .” I closed my eyes and tried to figure out why the BH Killer would intentionally create a loose thread. Part of the game with authorities?
“So that Scott could point to someone else.” The resolution in Robert’s voice made me open my eyes. The attorney was nodding, warming to the idea. “A scapegoat.”
“Whoa.” I held up my palm. “That’s a stretch. Let’s not forget about the trophies in Randall Thompson’s house.”
“Could have been planted there. Plus, they haven’t found the fingers yet.”
I frowned. “The pinkies from the victims?”
“Yeah. Went through Randall’s house with a fine-toothed comb, and there isn’t a fleck of DNA evidence from any victim, and no pinkies. Now, you said the BH Killer is organized. Planned every part of his crimes. So he planned this—to release Scott Harden and have him ID someone else.” He pulled open a bag of chips and raised his brows at me, challenging me to contest the thought.
As much as I hated to admit it, it wasn’t a horrible theory. I hesitated. “Eyewitnesses are convincing,” I allowed.