“Eventually, it stopped being a game. I wanted it out of me. It felt dirty. Like this foreign thing that was stuck inside of me, like a tumor. I just got really sort of obsessed with it. Listen, I know how it sounds. I’ve had all kinds of therapy.”
The dead man lowered a hand to his rib cage and held it over his spleen, and Archie realized that he was in the same pose, his own hand finding the scar Gretchen had left on him. Archie put his hand between his thighs and held it there.
“I found a doctor in Tijuana who said he’d do the operation,” continued the dead man. “And after he bailed at the last minute, I got really depressed. Then a friend hooked me up with this Web site, and they said they could help me. I’m sorry, Mom, Dad, everyone. I know I could die.” He licked his lips. “But if I can just get it out of me, I’ll feel better.”
The video ended and the screen went blue.
Susan was still scribbling. Archie could see the pulse throbbing rapidly in her throat.
“It wasn’t Gretchen,” Archie said. “She didn’t kill him.”
“They’re fans,” Susan said, not looking up. “Wannabes.” She stopped writing, set the pen on her notebook and turned to Archie. Her face was pale. “They’re auditioning.”
Archie shook his head. “And you think I’m crazy.”
C H A P T E R 31
The tendons in Henry’s neck bulged and his ears were pencil-eraser pink. Susan tried not to cringe as he towered over her and Archie, still sitting on the couch. “Have you two lost your minds?” Henry said. Behind him, the dead guy sat frozen on the TV screen. They’d watched the video twice more since Henry had shown up. It didn’t get any less weird.
Henry turned his square head toward Archie, and held his hands palms up. “Breaking and entering?”
“I had a key,” Archie reminded him.
Henry had arrived with Claire and four patrol cops who were now poking around the apartment like boys who’d broken into a girls’ dorm. They’d already found the dead guy’s passport in his dresser drawer. His name was Fintan English.
“Where’s your warrant?” Susan muttered.
Henry whipped his head around at her. “I’m investigating a B and E,” he said. “There’s been a string of them in the last two days.” He put his hands on his hips and settled his exasperated gaze on Archie. “How do I explain this in court?”
Archie shrugged. “There’s no crime here, Henry,” he said.
Susan pointed a finger at the TV. “Dead guy?” she said. If her name had been Fintan English, she’d probably have snapped, too.
“He was mentally ill,” Archie said. “He wanted his spleen out. He found some people on the Internet to do it. You can find people on the Internet to do just about anything.” He twisted his mouth. “Haul yard debris. Cut out organs. You should be happy. This is one murder Gretchen didn’t do. Maybe everyone will relax a little.”
Henry gave a heavy sigh and scratched his throat. “So he Googled ‘People Who Think Gretchen Lowell Is Awesome,’ and ended up on your Gretchen Lowell fan site.”
“It’s not my fan site,” Susan said flatly.
“Posted his sad-as-shit story,” continued Henry. “And found some assholes psycho enough to be up for the job. He didn’t want his spleen. They wanted to play serial killer. Match made in nutjob heaven. They used the abandoned house as their OR. But they didn’t have the practice Gretchen did. And the kid died.”
“Maybe that’s what the goat spleen in the Gorge was,” Archie said. “Practice.”
“And the head?” Henry said. “The two bodies up at the Garden? Courtenay Taggart? You’re saying this is all the work of some deranged fan club? That Gretchen is in a yurt somewhere catching up on her reading?”
Susan glanced up at the TV screen again. The pause had caught Fintan English with his eyes closed. She’d seen him dead yesterday morning, and now here he was, soon to be another morbid YouTube sensation.
“I don’t know,” Archie said.
Susan looked over at him. There was one thing she was sure of: Archie Sheridan knew more than he was telling.
Henry said, “You going to let us look at your call log now?”
There was no reason not to tell him. “It’s a dead end,” Susan said. “I looked it up. It’s a pay phone on MLK, about a mile from where I found the body.” Good luck fingerprinting that, Susan thought.
Henry brought his fist to his mouth for a minute and pressed it against his upper lip. Then he lowered it. “Let us make a copy of your hard drive,” he said.