He gave a bitter laugh. “Yeah. It surprised me, too. If only Gabe could have been so lucky.”
I turned the new information over in my mind. “Do you believe him?”
He tilted his head to one side. “That’s an interesting question. What are you getting at?”
“There are two things at play here. First, why would Scott Harden have lied initially, then told the truth? I have to work through that in my head. How does it affect the validity of his identification? What motivations prompted the first action, then the reversal of fact?”
“And the second thing?”
“Well, that’s about the killer. If Scott is telling the truth, why let him go? What made Scott different? What happened during those seven weeks?” I sighed. “If he really did let him go, then it lends credence to your theory that Scott is lying about Randall’s involvement. He could be protecting the real killer. He could have developed a loyalty or almost a love for the man.”
“Like Stockholm syndrome.”
“Yes.” The syndrome wasn’t an official diagnosis but a mental coping strategy, one exploited by Hollywood and novelists but still very real. I had dismissed Robert’s initial scenario as unrealistic, but now . . . with my opinion of Randall Thompson already shaky and Scott’s validity as a witness in question . . . it was starting to look like a valid possibility.
I tucked the end of my dark-purple maxi dress under my knees. “You didn’t answer my question.”
He looked at me, and the firelight flicked over his features. “Remind me of it.”
“Do you believe Scott’s new story?”
“I think he’s proven that he’s unreliable. Whether I believe him or not, he’s given me the ammunition I need to make sure that the jury doesn’t believe a word he says.”
He was right. Hell, I was waffling all over the place on Randall’s guilt. If you took away the box of souvenirs, I’d be certain of his innocence. He was a square peg that didn’t fit into my profile, and Scott Harden was officially untrustworthy. All Robert needed was one juror to have reasonable doubt. He’d get that, and Randall Thompson would be free.
I let out a breath and considered the sobering thought that the Bloody Heart Killer was still out there. Watching us. I glanced at the view, the dark drop-off before the scenery of faraway lights, and suddenly didn’t feel so cozy and protected.
“I’ve been rereading your BH profile.”
“And?” I brushed a lock of hair away from my mouth.
“It has holes.”
An accurate statement. One that a DID or PS diagnosis would help to fill. I took a sip of wine and didn’t respond.
“How certain are you that the BH Killer is gay?”
He was referring to the section of the profile where I dissected the anal rapes and penile amputation of the boys. The highly personal and sexual nature of the abuse, paired with the victim selection, lent itself to that likelihood.
“I’m not certain that he’s gay. I believe he has violently strong emotions about homosexuality and would repress those inclinations if he experienced them in his everyday life.”
“Well, Randall Thompson is not gay. One hundred thousand percent not gay.” He rose as if the discussion was final. I watched as he walked over to a bronze can and dropped the bottle inside.
“How do you know?” I challenged. “Have you spoken to his prior students?”
“No, but I emailed you his discovery file an hour ago. You can review it yourself. Every accusation made against him was made by a female student, not a male. Is Randall a little creepy?” He paused. “Yes. Would I trust him to babysit my fourteen-year-old niece? Hell no. But he’s not gay, and he’s in horrific shape, so he’s not moving bodies in and out of trunks unless he has an inhaler handy and some help.”
It was a valid point and underlined the fact that Randall was too old for my psychological profile. He was pushing retirement, and the BH Killer was much more likely to be in his early forties, physically fit, and not in an environment where he was surrounded by students every day.
“Look,” I yielded, “I didn’t come here to convince you that he matches the profile. But there’s something off with him.”
“Sure, he’s a sexual predator.” He shrugged as if the information was unimportant. “Three students have filed complaints about him in the last twenty years.”
“Wait, what?” I paused. “Why didn’t you mention that before? When I asked you, what . . . ?” I tried to think about how long it had been. “A week ago? I asked you if any students had complained about him.”
He pulled a fresh bottle from the ice bucket and twisted off the cap. “I didn’t want your initial impression of him to be tainted. You’re the one who preached the need for a clean mental slate when creating your profile.”
Fair point. Still . . . “If he’s a sexual predator, that only puts more validity—”
“They were all females. Thirteen- and fourteen-year-old girls. It’s a completely different MO.”
I fell silent and processed the information. He was right, it was a different MO. Was that the vibe I had gotten from Randall? Molester versus killer?
Maybe I had been wrong.
He studied me, then turned toward the house. “Enough talk about death. Let’s head inside. I want to show you something.”
“What do you think?”
I stared at the wall of items, letting my eyes drift over each of them. There were too many to absorb, and I drifted closer, then moved slowly down the line. Each was housed in a clear box and lit with a spotlight that protruded from the wall. “What is this?”
“It’s my collection of oddities. Each birthday and Christmas, I buy something unique to add to it.”
I appraised the collection. At least thirty items, ranging from figurines to photos. “How long have you been doing this?”
“My wife began the tradition. She always selected items of significance, ones that carried a personal story from our life. After she died, Gabe and I continued it on our own.”
The importance of what I was looking at sank in. Not just a wall of expensive knickknacks. This was an intimate look behind his veil. While the kitchen was devoid of life, this room was heavy with it. It could have felt dark and mournful, but there was a peace in the reverence. Robert seemed more relaxed in here, more at home. Stopping before a pair of short swords, I bent to read the gold plaque. “‘Splitting the eyebrows.’ What does that mean?”
“Those are samurai swords from the 1800s. They tested the sharpness of them by cutting a human skull in half. After they passed the test, the owner engraved the saying on the underside of them.”
He ran a finger over the glistening surface of the blade. “Gabe picked these out. The Last Samurai was his favorite movie. This summer, we had plans to spend two weeks in Japan and visit the Kakunodate district and Hagi castle town.” He swallowed, his eyes wet, and pulled his hand back.
The reality of his life hit me. Past the expensive suits, the confidence, the courtroom record, was a man living alone with ghosts. Everyone he loved had been taken from him. Was it any wonder he had shown up at my home with flowers and stayed long enough to put together a puzzle? Pushed for dinner, then almost begged me for this evening of drinks? Approached a stranger in a bar and gone home with her?