Anne Boyd was the best criminal profiler that Henry knew. She’d been the third one the FBI had sent to work on the Beauty Killer Task Force, and had spent months at a time in Portland, away from her husband and two boys. Henry called her from a table outside Taco Del Mar on Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard. The taco stand was in an old gas station. Everything in Portland was in an old something. The task force offices were in an old bank. You could get a burger and see a movie inside an old elementary school. Even the old Henry Weinhard’s brewery downtown had been turned into green certified condos. Everything was repurposed. Portlanders loved to recycle.
It was 11
A.M. PST.Two o’clock in Virginia.
Henry punched in Anne’s number.
She picked up right away.
“Henry,” she said. “Did they catch her?”
“No,” Henry said. “No.”
He could hear the bustle of food preparation and teenaged boys
in the background. “Well,” she said, “you’re not calling to ask for fashion tips.”
“What do you remember about Jeremy Reynolds?” Henry asked.
“Hold on,” Anne said. Henry heard a door close and it got quiet. “Want to let me in on what’s going on?” she said.
“Archie checked himself out of the hospital,” Henry said.
“He can do that, Henry,” Anne said. “He was there voluntarily.”
A woman came out of the taco place with a burrito, looked around at the outdoor seating options, and took the spot farthest from Henry. “There’s this group of, I don’t know . . .” He rested his forehead on his hand. It was hot and he wasn’t wearing a jacket and he could feel sweat forming under his shoulder holster. “It’s sort of a Gretchen Lowell fan club.” Fuck, the world was getting weird. “They got ahold of this poor fuck who’d been fantasizing about getting his spleen removed.”
“Body integrity identity disorder,” Anne said with a whistle. “I’ve never heard of an organ focus before.”
Henry waved his hand. “Whatever. They found each other over the Internet. They took out his spleen for him. Only he died. Because, you know, they’re not fucking doctors.” The woman with the burrito was pretending to read an issue of the Portland Mercury, but she kept stealing looks at him. “Susan Ward found the body, courtesy of an anonymous tip. Archie found out who the kid was, courtesy of an anonymous tip.”
“That’s an interesting confluence of anonymous tips,” Anne said softly.
“I was going to say that,” Henry said, “but not so fancy.”
“Go on,” Anne said.
“Turns out the dead kid was a friend of Jeremy Reynolds’s.”
“The brother of Isabel Reynolds.”
Henry nodded even though Anne couldn’t see him. “Apparently he’s part of the fan club. Yesterday Archie checks himself out of the hospital, goes out to see Papa Jack and tells him to find Jeremy, and also gets a gun. And then last night he and Susan Ward go to a club meeting, or whatever the fuck.”
“They were expecting them,” Anne said.
“Of course they were expecting them.” Henry slammed his hand on the table. “They’d anonymous-tipped them right there. Susan got herself pierced in the face.”
“Pierced in the face?” Anne said.
“Like with a piercing needle,” Henry said. The woman with the burrito had put down the Mercury and now sat staring at him openly. “The group’s leader, who is wearing—get this—a nylon footy over his head, wants Archie to cut him. At least two of these assholes have carved up their own torsos, Gretchen style. Archie agrees, if they let Susan go. Susan runs. She thinks she hears Archie cry out, but it could have been anyone. She calls me. But when we get there, everyone’s cleared out, Archie’s gone. Gun’s on the floor.”
“And you think Archie went off with them, of his own accord?”
“I don’t know,” Henry said. “I thought he was recovering. But it’s a Gretchen Lowell fan club. He’s like an honorary lifetime member. And if he wants to get Jeremy Reynolds out of this, he’d do whatever it takes. You know him.”
“He always seemed very protective of Jeremy,” Anne said.
“The kid saw his sister murdered. I would imagine he’s a little scarred.” The woman with the burrito picked it up and went inside. Henry shot at her with his finger when she went by. “So now we’ve got reason to believe these people are involved in the recent killings out here. That they’re copycat murders.”
Anne paused. “I’m going to tell you something completely unprofessional,” she said.
“I’m on the edge of my seat,” said Henry.
“Jeremy Reynolds is dangerous,” Anne said.
“No shit,” Henry said.
Anne sighed deeply. “He suffered a dissociative fugue. He survived a life-altering event. He was sure to be traumatized, which is why I never drew darker conclusions in any of my reports.”