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  “Any from Adam Thorburn?” Annie asked.

  Callaway shook his head. “Forensics lifted Adam’s prints from his mother’s house, so we have something to compare them to, but no match.”

  “Any word yet if they found his prints anywhere else? Like on doorknobs or on the murder weapon?”

  “Forensics is still processing the scene, and we don’t have anything back from that end of things. Shouldn’t be much longer. I guess Hank’ll be the first to know.” He cocked his head toward the front door. “Speak of the devil.”

  Annie followed Callaway’s gaze. Hank was stopped at the front desk, talking to Jake. They looked her way and Hank gave a quick wave.

  “Thanks, Callaway. I’ll talk to you later,” Annie said. She went to Hank’s desk and sat in a guest chair. Jake and Hank came over and took seats.

  “I left King at the scene,” Hank said. “He’s talking to some of the staff, but I don’t expect much from them.” He pulled his chair in and reached into his drawer for a pad of blank police reports. “Let’s get to it, shall we? It’s just for the record. You’ve done it before and I’m sure you’ll do it again.”

  They spent the next few minutes filling out an official report outlining the details of how they came to visit the school that morning and the events surrounding their discovery of Raymond Ronson’s body.

  When Annie finished, she signed the report and handed it to Hank. “Tell me about Raymond Ronson’s wife,” she said, sitting back.

  Hank sighed, tucked the paper into a folder, and leaned back. “Eunice Ronson. She seems like a sweet old woman. Madly in love with her husband and completely torn up about it. Understandable, of course.”

  “And she’s alone now?”

  “Says she has a sister close by.”

  Annie was relieved to hear the woman had family, but decided she would visit Eunice anyway.

  Jake spoke up. “Hank, was there anything at the scene that might lead you to believe the killer was anyone other than Adam Thorburn?”

  “I don’t have much back yet, but from what I saw, it all points to Thorburn. There were footprints in the blood, tracked into the school. Probably on his way to the computer. Size eleven shoes. Same as Thorburn’s.”

  “And the rose in the victim’s mouth,” Jake said. “That sets a pattern.”

  Hank nodded. “That’s the most telling fact. It’s like a signature. Serial killers often leave a message of some kind.” He shook his head and frowned. “I hope that’s not what we’re dealing with here.”

  “It’s starting to fit the pattern,” Annie said.

  “I hope you’re wrong.”

  “So do I.” Annie leaned forward. “Callaway said Adam’s prints weren’t on the computer the email was sent from.”

  “Probably wore gloves,” Jake put in.

  Annie looked at Jake. “If he did, he probably would have had to take them with him when he ran. I’m not sure that would be on his mind at the time, and it’s doubtful he would’ve picked them up later.”

  “He might’ve pulled his sleeve over his hand,” Hank said. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “It strikes me as unusual both murders took place at a school,” Jake said. “And both were schools Adam attended.”

  “And he would’ve known of Raymond Ronson,” Hank added. “Ronson has been the janitor there for the last thirty years.”

  “But what’s the significance of the schools?”

  “We know he had a hard time at school,” Hank said. “He was bullied and misunderstood. And he dropped out after two years of high school.”

  “If he was bullied, why not go after the bullies?” Annie asked. “Why the guidance counselor and the janitor?”

  “I don’t know,” Hank said, shaking his head. “After all these years, I still don’t understand a killer’s mind. I only know enough to expect the unexpected.”

  “Wherever he is,” Jake said, “he came out of hiding long enough to kill and then hid again.”

  “And that’s why I would love to be able to forecast his next move, but he’s unpredictable. We have officers watching both schools round the clock in case he shows again. And cops are on the lookout city wide.”

  “Don’t forget he has a high IQ, so he’s intelligent,” Jake said. “He’ll have a good idea where you’re watching for him.”

  “True, but serial killers are often impulsive and in need of instant gratification. That can make them careless.”

  Annie’s cell phone rang and she looked at the caller ID. “It’s Teddy White,” she said, looking at Hank. “Do we have anything new I can tell him?”

  Hank shrugged.

  Jake shook his head.

  Annie took a breath and answered the phone.

  “Mrs. Lincoln,” the caller’s voice came from the phone. “It’s Teddy White. Have you found Adam Thorburn yet?”

  Annie thought quickly. “We’ve been following a few leads,” she said. “Unfortunately, we haven’t tracked him down yet, but we’re giving it our full attention.”

  There was a sigh on the other end of the line, then, “The police have nothing for me either.”

  “I’ll be sure to let you know if we have anything positive to report,” Annie said.

  “Thank you. I’ll be waiting.”

  Annie hung up and made a wry face. “I guess if he’s paying us to investigate, he deserves to know what we’re up to, but it’s hard to continually tell him we have nothing for him.”

  Hank chuckled. “Better you than me.”

  Jake spoke up. “Hank, I have plans to visit Dr. Zalora a little later. He said he could squeeze a few minutes off his lunch break. Anything I should know?”

  “You won’t get much more than an expression of concern from him. He’s pretty tight-lipped. Doctor-patient confidentially and all that.”

  “I’ll give him a shot anyway,” Jake said. “You never know. I’m willing to try anything even remotely helpful if it leads to finding Thorburn.”

  “I’m anxious to see the forensics report,” Hank said. “But I assume if they found anything earth-shattering they would’ve let me know.” He opened a folder on his desk and glanced at a sheet of paper. “I was able to get a list of Adam’s classmates from the school. It might be a long shot, but I’m hoping one of them might have an idea where Adam’s hiding out.” He looked at his watch. “As soon as King gets here I want to get right on it. I don’t have time to sit around.”

  “And we have things to do as well,” Annie said, looking at Jake.

  Jake stood. “We’ll let you know if we find any interesting tidbits, Hank.”

  Hank gave a quick wave. “See you later, guys.”

  Annie stood and followed Jake from the precinct and out to the Firebird. They got in and she turned to Jake. “If Adam Thorburn keeps to his schedule, he’s going to kill someone again this evening.”

  “Then we need to get on his tail,” Jake said, starting the vehicle. “If he knows we’re coming, he might be afraid to make a move.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Annie said.

  Chapter 23

  Wednesday, 12:16 p.m.

  ADAM THORBURN loved the swamp and the solitude it brought, but he missed the house he grew up in. He longed for his regular routine and peace of mind. But mostly, he missed his one true source of quiet and tranquility—the roses that grew along the back of the house—his roses, still surviving without his loving care.

  He’d had a frightening experience the evening before. He had returned home, being careful no one saw him, and crept into the house through the basement window. There he’d raided the fridge, then grabbed a blanket and some clean clothes, leaving the ones he’d been wearing in the laundry basket. His mother would be sure to see them and realize he’d been there. Knowing he was alive would give her a small measure of peace.

  On his way from the house, he had dug up one of his prize rosebushes to bring to his new home. He was careful to take enough soil to protect the roots, nestling it
carefully in a plastic bag to protect it on the journey. He wanted to plant it near his hut, and even if the rest of them perished, he would faithfully nourish this one in the rich soil of the swamp.

  Growing roses was perhaps the thing he enjoyed most in this world. They needed proper nutrition, and he nurtured them until they bloomed, careful to give them the perfect amount of water and nourishment. They responded to his painstaking attention by growing strong and healthy, and they never expected more from him than he was able to give. Those roses were what he missed most about home.

  He remembered taking the rosebush back to the swamp and carefully planting it. He had taken his medication as usual, and then wandered out to explore the surrounding area.

  Perhaps an hour or two later, he found himself outside the steel mill, away from his new home, with no idea how he’d gotten there. The last he knew, the sun had told him there were still a couple hours of daylight left, but suddenly it was dark.

  He had blacked out and it frightened him. He could’ve been seen. Perhaps he was. There was no indication where he had been or what might’ve taken place during his lost period of time.

  After that, he made his way carefully back to the swamp and huddled in the corner while a panic attack overtook his senses. When his anxiety subsided, he lay down for the night, waking often from horrifying nightmares with only the sounds of his beloved swamp to calm his tortured mind.

  And now, as he huddled in the corner of his shack, he feared it could happen again, and this time he might get caught. Part of him wished to be finally found out and given the punishment he knew he truly deserved, but the fear of the further torment that would bring overcame his feeble desire to surrender.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wrinkled business card. The name on the card was Lincoln Investigations. He’d found it on the kitchen table and assumed they’d come to talk to his mother, looking for him. He knew the police were after him, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, now a private firm was on his trail as well.

  He wondered who had hired them. Was it his mother, trying to help him in some way? That didn’t seem likely. She had barely enough money to pay for his medication and put food on the table, and anyway, there wasn’t much anyone could do for him now.

  Perhaps they were working with the police. That was a frightening thought. Or maybe they’d been hired by the family of the woman he’d killed. In which case, they probably wouldn’t stop coming for him until they tracked him down. The private investigators he knew from movies and TV usually operated outside the law, doing whatever it took to find their prey.

  The thought filled him with terror and he felt another panic attack overtaking him. He shook his head and went outside the hut. He stepped down the slope, halfway to the swampy waters, and crouched down beside the rosebush. He caressed the petals, careful not to injure them, and a peace came over him once again, soothing his soul and easing his mind.

  He wondered what it was about the roses that calmed him. Perhaps because the perfect beauty of the red flowers were such a sharp contrast to the pathetic ugliness inside of him. They reminded him of how he longed to be—healthy and loved. They gave him a dream for a better day, even when he knew he was beyond all hope, beyond any chance of redemption.

  Adam sat on the grass beside the bush and pulled up his knees. He gazed into the tepid waters of the swamp, wondering about the person he had killed. His mother had told him it was a woman and that’s all he knew. Even though he didn’t know her name or anything about her, he mourned for her.

  Did she have family? She most probably did and they would he heartbroken. He mourned for them as well, wishing he could make it better, take back what he’d done and start fresh. But that was impossible.

  The only thing he could do was make sure it never happened again. That meant he would either have to surrender, a dreadful thought, or end his own life. He wasn’t sure if he had the strength to do that, but it was the best solution. It wasn’t a way out for him; it was for the protection of others.

  Whether he surrendered to the police, or gave his useless life to the swamp, his mother would be heartbroken. She’d told him to run for his own protection. He wondered if that was a selfish move on her part and if he was being selfish as well. Was it wrong for him to cling to his own worthless life when there was a better way?

  He stood and looked toward the bright blue sky and howled in anguish. He clenched his fists, praying to a God he didn’t know. He’d made up his mind—this was for the best, and he was determined to go through with it no matter what. He only hoped God would understand and forgive him.

  He summoned all his inner strength and continued down the slope, stepping into the regenerating water. His feet sank into the oozing mud and soaked his ankles. He gritted his teeth and took another step, the water now deeper. A few more steps and the warm water lapped at his chest. He lifted his head, howled with emotional pain, took a deep breath, and dove into the black water.

  He sank to the muddy bottom, dying vegetation and slime caressing his body. Soon he would have to breathe and that’s when he would die. He thought of home, his mother, the bullies at school, and his father. He thought of the life he’d taken and he screamed inside. Finally, he took a breath, felt the warm water enter his lungs, and knew it would soon be over.

  Then as if he were controlled by some outside force, his feet pushed at the muddy bottom, propelling him upwards into the warm air. He took a breath, choked, tried to breathe again, and coughed up swampy water. He struggled to reach the bank, gasping for air. Finally, he pulled himself up and lay panting on the dark green grass at the edge of the swamp.

  He didn’t even have the strength or willpower to kill himself, and he cursed his own cowardliness as he huddled in a fetal position and cried.

  Chapter 24

  Wednesday, 12:54 p.m.

  JAKE PULLED his Firebird into the Central Plaza parking lot and slipped into a slot near the door leading to offices on the second floor.

  He swung from the vehicle and entered the small lobby, checking the directory. The office of Dr. Zalora was in Suite 201. He climbed the stairs two at a time, stopped in front of 201, and pushed the door open.

  The receptionist looked up as he entered, a well-practiced smile on her otherwise plain face. “May I help you?”

  Jake handed her his business card. “I have an appointment with Dr. Zalora.”

  She consulted a pad on her desk, picked up the intercom, and spoke into the receiver. She hung up and motioned toward a row of comfortable chairs. “Have a seat. Dr. Zalora will be with you shortly.”

  Jake sat and looked around the small waiting room. The usual supply of magazines was stacked on a coffee table, modern art prints on the white walls, cheap carpeting under his feet. He grabbed a magazine, flipped through it, and tossed it back down.

  The receptionist tapped keys on a keyboard as classical music played in the background. Then a door behind her popped open and a man stood in the doorway, his eyes on Jake. “Mr. Lincoln?” the man asked.

  Jake nodded and stood, extending his hand as he approached.

  “I’m Dr. Zalora,” the man said, shaking Jake’s hand. He stepped aside and motioned toward the office. “Come in, please.”

  Jake stepped into the large office and glanced around. Except for the massive mahogany desk against one wall, it looked more like a sitting room than an office. Designed to put patients at ease, the room was filled with comfortable chairs, couches, and antique-style end tables. Fine art prints decorated the light blue walls. The noon sun eased between the wooden slats of a large window on the outside wall, casting a warm glow across the hardwood floor.

  Dr. Zalora waved toward a padded guest chair on the near side of the desk. Jake sat as the doctor moved behind his desk, sat down, and leaned back comfortably, his elbows on the armrests, his fingers steepled under his chin.

  The doctor was of average height, possibly in his early forties. A well-tailored suit covered his thin build, a w
hite shirt and red tie completing the look. His dark hair had a wide strip of blond across the front, hanging down to his eyebrows. Jake thought it looked rather ridiculous in comparison to his otherwise professional look.

  “I only have a few minutes,” Dr. Zalora said. “I understand you’re interested in Adam Thorburn?”

  Jake dug out another business card, handed it to the doctor, and nodded. “I’m sure you’re aware of the murders that have taken place in the past two days and the suspicions of Adam’s involvement.”

  “I am,” the doctor said. “I discussed Adam’s condition briefly with a detective yesterday. I’m not sure how I can help you other than what I’ve already given the police. You must understand, other than my general diagnosis, patient confidentiality precludes me from discussing certain areas.”

  “I understand,” Jake said. “My concern is in finding Adam Thorburn and I’m only interested in his condition as far as it relates to his motives and possible future actions.”

  “Adam is a rather unusual case,” the doctor said, leaning forward. The blond streak fell across one eye and he brushed it back with a hand. “Are you aware he’s schizophrenic?”

  Jake nodded.

  The doctor narrowed his eyes in thought. “Schizophrenics rarely display aggressive or violent behavior, in fact, no more than the average person. There are exceptions, of course, but generally any display of aberrant behavior is often due to the subject’s background and other environmental factors.”

  “And in Adam’s case?”

  The doctor thought a moment longer. “In Adam’s case, in addition to schizophrenia and all that involves, he occasionally displays psychopathic and sociopathic tendencies.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, on occasion, he shows abnormal or violent social behavior combined with a lack of conscience.”

  “And that’s what led him to murder?” Jake asked.