Larry nodded. “I think I do.”
“I knew then, at that moment, that despite my best efforts, something bad could happen to him. I wouldn’t always be there to take the blow. I thought about it constantly. We all do, I guess. But when it happened, when—” He stopped and finally faced Larry Gandle. “I still try to bring him back,” he said. “I try to bargain with God, offering him anything and everything if he’ll somehow make Brandon alive. That won’t happen, of course. I understand that. But now you come here and tell me that while my son, my whole world, rots in the ground … she lives.” He started shaking his head. “I can’t have that, Larry. Do you understand?”
“I do,” he said.
“I failed to protect him once. I won’t fail again.”
Griffin Scope turned back to his garden. He took another sip of his drink. Larry Gandle understood. He rose and walked back into the night.
At ten o’clock, Carlson approached the front door of 28 Goodhart Road. He didn’t worry much about the late hour. He had seen downstairs lights on and the flicker of a television, but even without that, Carlson had more important worries than someone’s beauty sleep.
He was about to reach for the bell when the door opened. Hoyt Parker was there. For a moment they both stood, two boxers meeting at center ring, staring each other down as the referee reiterated meaningless instructions about low blows and not punching on the break.
Carlson didn’t wait for the bell. “Did your daughter take drugs?”
Hoyt Parker took it with little more than a twitch. “Why do you want to know?”
“May I come in?”
“My wife is sleeping,” Hoyt said, slipping outside and closing the door behind him. “You mind if we talk out here?”
“Suit yourself.”
Hoyt crossed his arms and bounced on his toes a bit. He was a burly guy in blue jeans and a T-shirt that fit less snugly ten pounds ago. Carlson knew that Hoyt Parker was a veteran cop. Cute traps and subtlety would not work here.
“Are you going to answer my question?” Carlson asked.
“Are you going to tell me why you want to know?” Hoyt replied.
Carlson decided to change tactics. “Why did you take the autopsy pictures from your daughter’s file?”
“What makes you think I took them?” There was no outrage, no loud, phony denials.
“I looked at the autopsy report today,” Carlson said.
“Why?”
“Pardon me?”
“My daughter has been dead for eight years. Her killer is in jail. Yet you decide to look at her autopsy report today. I’d like to know why.”
This was going nowhere and going there fast. Carlson decided to give a little, put down his guard, let him wade in, see what happened. “Your son-in-law visited the county M.E. yesterday. He demanded to see his wife’s file. I was hoping to find out why.”
“Did he see the autopsy report?”
“No,” Carlson said. “Do you know why he’d be so eager to see it?”
“No idea.”
“But you seemed concerned.”
“Like you, I find the behavior suspicious.”
“More than that,” Carlson said. “You wanted to know if he’d actually gotten his hands on it. Why?”
Hoyt shrugged.
“Are you going to tell me what you did with the autopsy pictures?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied in a flat voice.
“You were the only person to sign out this report.”
“And that proves what?”
“Were the photographs there when you viewed the file?”
Hoyt’s eyes flickered, but there was little delay. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, they were.”
Carlson couldn’t help but smile. “Good answer.” It had been a trap, and Hoyt had avoided it. “Because if you answered no, I’d have to wonder why you didn’t report it then and there, wouldn’t I?”
“You have a suspicious mind, Agent Carlson.”
“Uh-huh. Any thoughts on where those photos might be?”
“Probably misfiled.”
“Right, sure. You don’t seem very upset over it.”
“My daughter’s dead. Her case is closed. What’s to get upset about?”
This was a waste of time. Or maybe it wasn’t. Carlson wasn’t getting much information, but Hoyt’s demeanor spoke volumes.
“So you still think KillRoy murdered your daughter?”
“Without question.”
Carlson held up the autopsy report. “Even after reading this?”
“Yes.”
“The fact that so many of the wounds were postmortem doesn’t trouble you?”
“It gives me comfort,” he said. “It means my daughter suffered less.”
“That’s not what I mean. I’m talking in terms of the evidence against Kellerton.”
“I don’t see anything in that file that contradicts that conclusion.”
“It’s not consistent with the other murders.”
“I disagree,” Hoyt said. “What was not consistent was the strength of my daughter.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“I know that Kellerton enjoyed torturing his victims,” Hoyt said. “And I know that he usually branded them while they were still alive. But we theorized that Elizabeth had tried to escape or, at the very least, fought back. The way we saw it, she forced his hand. He had to subdue her and in doing so, he ended up killing her. That explains the knife wounds on her hands. That explains why the branding was postmortem.”
“I see.” A surprise left hook. Carlson tried to keep on his feet. It was a good answer—a hell of a good answer. It made sense. Even the smallest victims can make plenty of trouble. His explanation made all the apparent inconsistencies wonderfully consistent. But there were still problems. “So how do you explain the tox report?”
“Irrelevant,” Hoyt said. “It’s like asking a rape victim about her sexual history. It doesn’t matter if my daughter was a teetotaler or a crack fiend.”
“Which was she?”
“Irrelevant,” he repeated.
“Nothing’s irrelevant in a murder investigation. You know that.”
Hoyt took a step closer. “Be careful,” he said.
“You threatening me?”
“Not at all. I’m just warning you that you shouldn’t be so quick to victimize my daughter a second time.”