Chapter Two
“Survivor’s guilt,” Kieran Finnegan said softly.
Kieran was a good friend. While the hectic pace of her life—she worked as a psychologist for a pair of psychiatrists who worked frequently with the police, FBI and other law enforcement agencies, and helped out at the family pub—often kept her in a whirlwind where she didn’t see much of her friends, she was the kind of person who was always there when she was needed.
Sarah had called her that morning.
It was Sunday noon. Hannah’s body had been discovered the morning before; last night, Tyler had come to Aunt Renee’s house.
And while Finnegan’s on Broadway was doing a sound weekend business—they had a traditional roast entrée every Sunday that was very popular—Kieran was sitting down with Sarah. Of course, Finnegan’s was in good shape that day as far as staff went, and since Sarah had once worked there, she could probably hop back in to help at any time herself, just as Kieran would do if the need arose.
Kieran had assured Sarah she would be there to spend some time with her, talk to her. As a very good friend would do.
That made Sarah feel all the worse about the lousy friend she had been herself.
“Survivor’s guilt?” she repeated, shaking her head. “Honestly, I don’t think so. I mean, what happened years ago...all of us survived. We survived because of Davey, though, honestly...some of the guff he had to take afterward! People wanted to know what kind of a medium or seer he was. ‘Down Syndrome Boy Sees Evil.’” She was quiet for a minute. “Well, I have to admit, I was young and easily irritated, and Hannah...” She bit her lip and shrugged. “I was annoyed. She liked to have Davey around for the publicity, but then wanted me to leave him home if we were going out for the night or clubbing. She would use him when it seemed he was drawing a lot of attention, and then be irritated if we were spending any real time with him. But now...”
“From what I’ve gleaned through the media, her murder was brutal,” Kieran murmured. “And far too similar to the method of the massacre at the theme park. Here’s the thing. You’re experiencing terrible guilt because Hannah is dead, and she was your friend—even it was a while ago. You both survived something horribly traumatic. But now she is dead. And you are alive. And all that happened before is rushing back. But, Sarah, you’re not guilty of anything. Hannah survived that night—along with your other friends—because of Davey. You felt protective of Davey. That was only right. So quit feeling guilty. Hannah did choose to live a dangerous lifestyle. That doesn’t mean what was done to her isn’t every bit as horrid and criminal. But she may have put herself in danger. You have done nothing wrong. Of course, you could learn to be a bit more open to the possibility there are good people out there, and good things just might happen—and most of your friends truly love Davey.”
Sarah leaned back and picked up her coffee cup, grinning. “Do I have a really big chip on my shoulder? I’m not sure whether I should enter therapy or say ten Hail Marys!”
“Do both!” Kieran suggested with a shrug. She let out a sigh. “Sarah, if you weren’t really upset, you wouldn’t be human, and I’d have to worry about you. Or rather, you would be a sociopath and I would have to worry about you.” She shook her head. “Craig was saying that it was uncanny—the remarkable resemblance to what happened before.” She hesitated. “In the actual killing, that is. Archibald Lemming found himself an amazing venue in which to carry out his bloodlust—what better than a haunted house? But it isn’t him.”
“It could be someone who studied him or knew him.”
“Possibly.”
“And someone like that doesn’t stop, right?” Sarah asked.
“No,” Kieran admitted unhappily. “When such a killer isn’t caught and the killing stops, it’s usually because he’s moved on, been incarcerated for another crime or he died. This kind of thing...”
“It’s not just someone who wanted Hannah dead?”
“I doubt it. What was done was overkill. Now, overkill can mean just the opposite. You see it with victims who are stabbed or bludgeoned over and over again—their killer was furious with them. Or sometimes, with someone else—and the victim they choose is the substitute for the one they want to kill. But again, remember I’m going from what was in the news. The way that this was done...”
“You think there will be more victims.”
Kieran was thoughtful. “Yes—if we’re talking a copycat killer who had a fan obsession with Archibald Lemming. I am afraid there will be more victims. Then again, people are clever. Maybe someone had it out for Hannah and wanted her dead specifically. Make it appear there is a psychopath or sociopath on the loose. There have been cases where several people were murdered in order to throw off suspicion when just one was the real target.”
“Archibald Lemming was a psychopath, right?”
“Yes, the term applies to someone who is incapable of feeling empathy for another human being. They can be exceptionally charming and fool everyone around them—Ted Bundy, for instance. There are, however, psychopaths who turn their inclinations in a different direction—they become highly successful CEOs or hard-core business executives. They will never feel guilt. A sociopath, on the other hand, reaches his or her state of being through social factors—neglectful parents, bullying, abuse. Some function. They can be very violent, can show extreme bitterness or hatred along with that violence, but they’re also capable of feeling guilt and even forming deep attachments to others.”
Sarah nodded, listening to Kieran. It was good, she figured, to have a concept of what they might be dealing with.
But dead was dead. Hannah was gone. And it didn’t matter if she’d been viciously murdered by one kind of killer or another. It had been brutal.
Kieran smiled at her grimly. “I know what you’re thinking. But when hunting a killer, it’s helpful to have a concept of what you’re looking for in his or her behavior.”
“Of course! And thank you!” Sarah said quickly.
“So...Tyler Grant has come back to help?” Kieran asked. “And you were listed as Hannah’s next of kin. That’s good. It will allow him a lot of leeway.”
“The FBI hasn’t been asked in yet, right?”
“No, but Craig has a lot of friends with the police.”
Kieran was referring to Special Agent Craig Frasier, FBI. They were living together—sometimes at Craig’s and sometimes at Kieran’s. He had the better space in NYC, so Kieran would eventually give up her apartment, most probably, and move in with him. They were a definite duo; Sarah was sure marriage was somewhere in the future for them, especially since Kieran’s brothers—Declan, Kevin and Danny—seemed to accept him already as part of the family.
“Do you think...” Sarah began.
“Yes, I think!” Kieran said, smiling. She inclined her head toward the door. Tyler must have arrived. Sarah found herself inhaling sharply, her muscles tightening and her heart beating erratically.
Why? She wanted him here; she wanted...a solution. Hannah’s killer caught and put away for life. She wanted...forgiveness.
Maybe it just seemed that their lives—so easy a decade ago—had come to an abrupt break. It had become a breach, and she wasn’t sure things could ever be really right for her if she didn’t come to terms with that.
Once upon a time, she had been so in love with him. High school! They’d been so wide-eyed and innocent, and the world had stretched before them, a field of gold.
Kieran stood, waving to him.
“You’ve met Tyler?” Sarah was surprised. She hadn’t known Kieran in high school.
“No,” her friend said, shaking her head. “He called about meeting up with Craig. I looked him up after—found some pictures online. Rock solid, so it seems.”
Rock solid.
Yes, that had always been Tyler.
“But how...?”
Kieran laughed. “How do you think?”
“Davey!” Sarah said. She wasn’t sure whether to be exasperated or proud of her cousin. Devious! No, being devious wasn’t really in his nature. Pretty darned clever, though!
Tyler reached the table. Sarah stood, as Kieran had. It was still awkward to see him. He’d grown into a truly striking man with his quarterback’s shoulders and lean, hard-muscled physique. There were fleeting seconds when they were near one another that she felt they were complete strangers. Then there were moments when she remembered laughing with him, lying with him, dreaming with him, and she longed to just reach out and touch him, as if she could touch all that had been lost.
He was obviously feeling awkward, too. “Sarah,” he said huskily, taking a second to lightly grip her elbow and bend to kiss her cheek—as any friend might do.
That touch...so faraway and yet so familiar!
“Hey, I hear Davey has been at it again,” Sarah said. “This is Kieran, of course.”
“Of course,” Tyler said, shaking her hand.
“Craig should be here any minute. He had to drop by the office,” Kieran told him.
“Thanks,” Tyler said.
“Coffee? Tea? Something to eat?” Kieran asked. “We are a pub. Our roast is under way.”
“I’m sure it’s wonderful,” Tyler told her, smiling. “I’ve heard great things about this place—you’re listed in all kinds of guidebooks.”
“Nice to know.”
“I would love coffee.”
“I’ll see to it. Black?”
“Yep. It’s the easiest,” he told her.
Kieran smiled pleasantly and went to get a cup of coffee for him.
Tyler looked at Sarah.
“Craig is great. You’re going to like him a lot,” Sarah said. “I can’t believe Davey is making all these connections.”
“The kind we should have made ourselves.”
Kieran was already heading back with coffee. And she was indicating the old glass-inset, wood-paneled doors to the pub.
Craig had arrived.
He hurried to the high-top table where they’d been sitting. “Hey, kid,” he said to Sarah, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. He looked at Tyler. “Tyler, right? Grant?”
“Tyler Grant. And thank you, Special Agent Frasier.”
“Just Craig, please. And sorry,” he added, watching Kieran arrive with coffee, “you’re going to have to slurp that down. We need to get going. The man on this particular case is a Detective Bob Green. He’s a twelve-year homicide vet—he worked the Archibald Lemming case years ago. You might know him when you see him, though he wasn’t the one doing the interviews back then, his partner was. He’s senior man on his team now. Good guy. We can join him for the autopsy.”
“That’s great! Thank you,” Tyler told him. “I know you have other cases.”
“This caught up with me in the midst of a pile of paperwork,” Craig told him. “My partner is handling it for me, and my director knows where I am, so it’s all good.”
“What about the site where Hannah was left?”
“I can take you there.” Craig turned to Kieran, slipping an arm around her. “Save us supper, huh?”
“You bet.”
The affection between them wasn’t anything overt or in-your-face. It was just that even the way they looked at one another seemed to be intimate.
“Okay, we’re on it,” Craig said. He turned and headed toward the door. Tyler looked back and nodded a thanks to Kieran. He glanced at Sarah and gave her something of an encouraging smile.
She remembered his words from last night. He would stay on this.
He loved her still.
Friends...
Yes, sometimes friends loved each other forever. Even if they couldn’t be together.
* * *
AUTOPSY ROOMS COULD be strange places. It was where doctors and scientists studied the dead and did their best to learn from them. The NYC morgue downtown was huge; the body count was almost always high. It wasn’t that so many people were murdered; New York had had less than a hundred homicides in the past year—a large number, yes, but considering that it was home to eight million-plus people, and double that number came through almost on a daily basis, it wasn’t such a massive amount.
But the homeless who died so sadly in the street came to the morgue, as did anyone who died at home or in hotel rooms, or anywhere else about the city other than with a doctor or in a hospital or directly under a doctor’s care and with a known mortal disease.
Autopsy was no small neat room with refrigerated cubicles. Those existed, but for the most part, the place was a zoo comprised of the living and the dead—doctors, techs, photographers, cops, receptionists, computer crews and so on.
The living went about living—joking, taking lunch breaks, grabbing time to make appointments for themselves, call the cable company or check on the kids.
Detective Bob Green was a man in his late forties or early fifties with a thatch of neatly cut blond hair that was beginning to veer toward white, a slender face and dark almond eyes that contrasted with his pale skin and light hair. “Special Agent Frasier!” he said, greeting Craig.
Then he turned to Tyler.
He had a grave smile and a sturdy handshake. “I remember you,” he told him. “I remember you all from the night at the horror park. Do you remember me?”
“Yes, I do. You were with an older detective, Mark Holiday. And a police photographer—I think his name was...Morrison. You were great with us back then, so thank you. It was hard. At first, I remembered little from that night except for the carnage and worrying about my friends,” Tyler told him.
“Alex Morrison... He’s still with us. So—you headed into the military and became a PI,” Green said.
“I did.”
“Thought you might become a cop. You were good that night. Composed. You’re good in a crisis.”
“Glad to hear it,” Tyler told him. “Thank you.”
“To be honest with you two, the autopsy already took place. But Lance—sorry, Dr. Layton—is waiting with the corpse.” He paused, eyeing Tyler again. “You were there when Archibald Lemming killed all those people. We didn’t know if...well, this does beat all. Of course, at this time we just have one dead woman—your friend,” he added softly. “And it would be great to keep it that way. But...I was there, you were there... See what you think.”
He led them into a room where a number of bodies lay on gurneys, covered properly with sheets.
A tall, thin man who reminded Tyler of Doc from Back to the Future stood by one of the gurneys. The ME, Dr. Lance Layton.
The man was waiting patiently for them. He greeted Craig with a smile and a polite nod. And Tyler realized he was curious about him, watching to see how he was handling being in a room with corpses. The doctor didn’t extend a hand; he wore gloves, Tyler saw.
“You’ve seen your share of the dead, I take it?” Layton said.
“Four deployments in the Middle East, sir. Yes, I’ve seen my share.”
Layton nodded and pulled back the sheet.
And what he saw was Hannah. What remained. She’d been such a pretty girl, olive-complexioned and with a bit of a slant to her dark eyes. She’d grown up to be an attractive woman—or she would have been, in life. If she had been alive, her eyes might have narrowed and hardened; she might have looked at the world differently. She hadn’t always been the kindest or most sympathetic human being, but she’d never deliberately caused pain. She loved partying; she loved a good time. Beaches and margaritas. She’d gone toward the “dark” side—though she might have been nothing but light, had life not touched her so cruelly.
But not as cruelly as death had.
Her head sat apart from her torso and limbs. They were in different stages of decomposition.
“How was it done?” Tyler asked, and his voice was, to his own ears, thick.
“A knife. I believe she was lucky. Her killer hit the artery first. She would have bled out quickly while he continued—sawing at her.”
Beheading a human being—with a knife—wasn’t an easy thing to do. Strong executioners with a honed blade still had to use formidable strength; English axmen had been famous for botching the job. With a knife...
And this was Hannah.
Tyler remembered the last time he had seen her, not long after the night at the horror attraction. They hadn’t talked about it the way they might have. The pictures of the dead in the “dining room” had been all too fresh in their heads. She had been quiet and grim, as they all had been, with the police. Each had been asked to give an account of what had happened. They’d been kids, ushered in and out, with protective parents or stepparents with them. A silver lining, one of the detectives had said, was that Archibald Lemming was dead. There wouldn’t be a trial; they wouldn’t have to stand witness.
And God help them all—they didn’t need another Archibald Lemming on the streets.
Now, here, looking at the body of a young woman who had been an old friend, he found his memories were vivid and they were rushing back.
Archibald Lemming had decapitated four young people; the bodies had been seated around the table.
The heads had been upon it.
Tyler looked up at the ME and asked, “Drugs, alcohol? Anything on her, anything that would help explain how she was taken?”
Layton glanced at Detective Green. Tyler figured that Layton’s loyalty was to the cop first; he’d obviously worked with Craig Frasier before. Layton wasn’t telling him anything until he knew Green approved his sharing of details.
“Alcohol. And, yes, cocaine. At the rate she was imbibing...I’m not sure she’d have been long for this world as it was. She had been partying, I take it. She was last seen at a bar in Times Square,” the ME told him. He glanced at Green again, and Tyler realized he must have learned that through the detective.
“It doesn’t look like she put up much of a fight, but then again, the state of the body... Being in the water can wash away a host of evidence,” Layton continued. “Thankfully, she wasn’t in long. Her, uh, body pieces were found at several locations along the river, but we believe they were disposed of at the same site. The current washed her up...the parts...just a bit differently. Since they were separate locations, they were discovered by different people.”
“The body was cut up,” Tyler noted.
“Yes, but most of the cuts are postmortem. If there is any salvation in this, I think she bled out quickly. The torture inflicted on her after...I don’t think she felt. I wish I could say all this with certainty. That’s just my educated opinion.”
Once again, Tyler remembered the bodies around the table. They had been posed. This could be the same handiwork, as far as the beheadings went. But Hannah hadn’t been posed; she’d been thrown in the river.
“It might be a copycat, it might not be,” Craig murmured, obviously thinking along the same lines.
“We’ll release the body toward the end of the week,” Dr. Layton said. “We’re holding on just in case...”
Just in case another body or body parts wash up on the riverbank again.
Detective Green, Craig and Tyler thanked him and they left the morgue.
When they were out on the street, Green looked at Tyler curiously again. “Where are you going from here?”
“Site inspections,” Craig said.
“We’re going to the bar where she was last seen, called Time and Time Again,” Tyler said. “Then we’re going along the Hudson—where the parts washed up.”
“I don’t think the discovery sites will help you,” Green said. “Not even the killer could have known just where she’d pop up—or if she’d be taken in by a fisherman or a pleasure cruiser or what. Maybe you’ll get something I didn’t get at the bar. Good luck with that.”
“If we find anything, we’ll call immediately,” Craig assured him.
Green nodded. “I know you will. Good day, my friends.”
He headed off in one direction. Craig and Tyler turned in the other.
“Time and Time Again?” Craig asked.
Tyler nodded.
Time and Time Again. How tragically apropos.
* * *
KIERAN DIDN’T WANT Sarah going home. “You shouldn’t be alone right now,” she told her. “I mean, not with what has happened.”
Her words surprised Sarah. She hadn’t thought about being in danger herself. “I’m not being judgmental—trust me, not in any way!—but I’ve never led a lifestyle like Hannah was living. I mean...she was trolling for tricks. She was stripping—and not in a fine gentlemen’s club. Not that a fine gentleman can’t be a psychopath, right?”
“Charming, well-dressed and handsome to boot,” Kieran assured her. “But the murder was so horrible...people are scared. And not just hookers. And if you’re not scared, I think you should be. Anyway, wait until the guys get back, at the least. I’ve talked to Chef. He’s saving us all a nice dinner. Until then...”
“I need to be doing something,” Sarah said. “I can’t just—sit here.”
“What do you want to do?”
Sarah hesitated. “Look up what I can find on the past. Find out more about Archibald Lemming. Find out about the prison break. About him and his friend.”
“The pub office here is all yours. We have a very nice and well-behaved computer on the desk. No one is making any entries on a Sunday. We’ll be busy. Make yourself comfortable.”
“Kieran, that’s Declan’s computer,” she said uncomfortably. She knew the Finnegans, and she knew the pub. She had been grateful for such a great place to work when she had been in school.
Declan was the oldest of the Finnegan clan. He had taken on the responsibility of the pub. The others all pitched in, but Kieran’s brother Danny was a tour guide and her other brother, Kevin, was an actor. The workload fell to Declan.
Kieran grabbed her hand. Declan, a handsome hunk of a man with broad shoulders, a quick smile and dark red hair, assured her that she was more than welcome to the computer, to his office and the run of the pub if need be.
Sarah found herself led down the hall to the office; Kieran signed on to the computer there.
“Knock yourself out,” she told her cheerfully once Sarah was set. “I’ll be wherever for the moment. When Craig and Tyler get back, you can tie up, we’ll have roast and we’ll see you locked in for the night.”
Sarah frowned; she didn’t want to be afraid. She was a New Yorker! She had never feared the subway, though she did carry pepper spray. If she’d been afraid of every perceived threat, she’d never have made it in the city.
But Kieran was gone. And Sarah didn’t know where to begin—other than to key in the name “Archibald Lemming.”
His crimes—even his initial crimes—had been horrendous. He’d received the death sentence, but under pressure by right-to-life groups after his sentencing, the death penalty had been altered to “life and ninety-five years.” To make sure that he never got out.
But of course, he had gotten out.
Lemming’s first known victim had been a kindergarten teacher. She’d been found in her home, her head almost severed from her body. He’d managed to get his second victim’s head off. It had been left on a buffet table in the dining room while she’d been seated in her favorite chair. He hadn’t discriminated by sex—his third victim had been a man, a plumber, who’d been found with his fingers wrapped around a beer, his torso in a recliner in the living room, his head atop the TV.
Lemming had been interviewed by the police, since he had hired the plumber to do some work in his home. It was also discovered that he’d had a flirtation going with the first victim, who had lived in his building. He’d been let go—there had been no evidence against him. Then the body and head of his landlord had been found—set up much the same as the others. And despite his “charming” protests, he’d been connected to the crimes via DNA—he’d cut himself during the last murder, and his own blood had given him away. He’d been incarcerated, where, according to prison officials, he’d been a model prisoner. Until, with Perry Knowlton—another murderer who used a knife—he’d escaped via the infirmary.
And gone on to kill and kill again in a frenzy in the “haunted” house.
Sarah sat back and breathed for a minute.
This was crazy.
She had seen the man die. He had no children—none known, at any rate. And if he’d had any offspring, it was unlikely that they knew he was their father. He’d been a loner: no wife, no girlfriend. He’d gone to work every day on Wall Street—and he’d killed by night.
She scanned the information on the page again. He was, by pure definition, the perfect psychopath. No emotion whatsoever. No regret. He was cold and brutal. He’d even murdered the man with whom he’d escaped.
Sarah frowned and started reading again.
Yes, she’d seen Archibald Lemming die.
But...
She sat back, still staring at the screen. And to her own amazement, she thought she had a theory.