Wednesday, July 7
District Police Department
Washington, D.C.

Gwen Patterson waited in the metal folding chair Racine had offered her beside the detective’s cluttered desk. Racine had disappeared for what felt like hours, but was in fact only a few minutes. She wasn’t sure why Racine insisted she come down to the police station. Maybe she did intend to arrest her. Whatever the purpose, Gwen was quite certain Racine enjoyed making her sit and wait here in the middle of the noise and chaos of her world instead of what Racine would probably consider the cushy soft comfort of Gwen’s office, what she believed was Gwen’s world.

“He has a list of assault charges,” Racine suddenly said, coming from behind Gwen, startling her so much that she jumped. Racine didn’t seem to notice. She slapped a file folder on her desk, or rather one of the piles on her desk, then sat on the only corner clear of clutter. “No convictions. The good news is that we have his fingerprints on file, so we didn’t need to use your water glass, especially since it was obtained without his consent or knowledge. The bad news is they aren’t matching up to any prints on the stuff you handed over to us. Is that what he’s seeing you for? His little habit of beating the shit out of women in the guise of having sex?”

Gwen tried not to look surprised. Was she surprised? It came with the territory for someone like Rubin Nash. Men who were abusers had often been abused as children. Nor should it surprise her that he wouldn’t tell her. So he didn’t want her to know that his conquests were brutal. When did they turn fatal? Should she have seen those signs?

“I didn’t know he had charges filed against him,” she said and evidently sounded more guarded than she meant to, because Racine was frowning at her, disappointed or angry again. It was hard to tell which. With Racine both seemed to automatically go together.

“Is this part of that patient/doctor confidentiality crap?”

“There’s a fine line.” Gwen took yet another stab at trying to explain it to the detective. “Yes, why he’s seeing me is confidential. He’s not even a suspect yet. But our professional code of ethics also makes allowances for the need to warn.”

Racine rolled her eyes at her and let out a deep sigh.

“I can’t tell you why he’s seeing me,” Gwen offered calmly, slowly. “However, if you were to ask my professional opinion as to whether I believe he had perhaps a resentment toward women I could tell you, yes, I believe he does.”

This time Racine looked at her, tilting her head as if studying Gwen. She could almost see the sarcastic wiseass fade into the background while the puzzle-solver came to the surface.

“Okay, so in your opinion,” Racine said carefully, like someone testing the rules of a new game, “this type of…resentment, would it become such a problem that it might extend to others?”

“Others? You mean like people he knows—friends or family members?” Gwen was growing impatient even with her own game. “Dena wasn’t someone he had randomly chosen. I don’t mean to be rude, Detective Racine, but why am I here? These are things we’ve already gone over and your questions certainly could have been answered on the phone.” If Racine was going to file charges against her, Gwen would rather she just do it and not beat around the bush.

“I invited you here because I’ve been waiting on some new information.” Racine glanced over her shoulder then above Gwen’s head, looking for someone.

“New information? Oh, Jesus! Has there been another one?”

“Not sure. This one might not be connected, although there are similarities. It was in the Boston area and it was—oh, here it comes,” she interrupted herself, standing to meet the uniformed officer who came from behind Gwen to give Racine a set of papers. “Here it is, or at least what details they have so far.”

Racine shuffled the pages. Without looking up, she said, “O’Dell told me you’ve done consultation with the FBI to help them come up with criminal profiles.”

“That’s right, although it’s been a few years since I’ve worked a case.”

“We have a killer,” Racine continued, glancing at Gwen then back to the papers, flipping and scanning, “who seems to kill and dismember in an uncontrollable rage. But he has the intelligence and wherewithal to compose himself after the murder enough not only to clean up, but to dispose of the body and strategically place the victim’s head.”

“I know the basics of this case, Detective Racine.” What was it Racine wanted from her? Did she expect her to pick up where Maggie left off in coming up with a profile? She had a profile. She had, quite possibly, the name of the killer. What more did she want?

“He’s chosen women randomly with the exception of Dena Wayne. Libby Hopper was a college student. One of the other victims was young, too, or so we think. She had a tattoo that seems to be connected to a computer game. The computer game is really popular with kids. So as far as we know, all of them were young women. Rubin Nash has a history of brutally assaulting young women.”

“Is there a question for me, Detective?” Gwen’s patience started to unravel. The emotional roller coaster of the last few days threatened to push her over the edge. “What do you want to know?”

“I need to know if Rubin Nash might move on to someone other than young women he’s picked up in nightclubs. Is Rubin Nash capable of this?”

And she tossed a color copy onto the desk in front of Gwen. It was a crime scene photo, a dark macabre set that looked like something from a horror movie, a decapitated head in the middle of a church altar with candles lit on both sides.

“That’s all that’s left of Father Paul Conley.”