Archie wondered what Molly Palmer thought of that.
He had pulled four cardboard file boxes full of missing persons reports out of the closet, and was unpacking the contents of one onto his desk. There were 108 files, all people who had gone missing in the Pacific Northwest between 1994 and 2005, the period when Gretchen was killing. Some were probably runaways, custody disputes, deadbeats. But some had been tortured and murdered, and only Gretchen knew which ones. Archie knew every photograph, every story. He had met with many of the families of the missing, looking for some clue, some indication that this person might have attracted Gretchen’s deadly attention. Something in the way they dressed, or held themselves; a place they frequented. But that was the thing with Gretchen—there was no victim profile. She’d kill anyone.
There was something satisfying about looking at the files again. No one knew them better than Archie did. He couldn’t identify a dead girl in a park, but this was something he could do. He had spent his career working the Beauty Killer case, one way or another. It felt good to be back.
He smiled to himself. He would meet with Gretchen on Sunday and she would give him the location of a body and another family would have answers. Another file would be closed. He and Gretchen could settle back into their routine. The thought made Archie feel … happy.
He put two Vicodin in his mouth and got up to get some water in the bathroom across the hall to wash them down. When he opened the door to leave his office, empty glass in hand, he was surprised to see Henry standing next to Debbie, as if they were preparing to enter.
Archie stopped cold. “I didn’t know you were here,” he said to Henry. Archie glanced at Debbie for some sort of explanation. But she evaded his eye contact.
“I wanted to talk to Debbie,” Henry said.
Archie turned the empty glass in his hand. “What’s going on?” he asked slowly.
Henry leaned forward, glancing back toward the living room. The kids were there. Archie could hear a video playing.
“Can we talk in your office?” Henry asked.
Archie looked down at the glass, smooth under his hands. He could feel the pills—a hard knot in his throat—start to burn. “I was just getting some water,” he said.
“I’ll get it,” Debbie said. She stepped forward and took the glass.
“Are you guys getting married?” Archie asked.
Henry didn’t crack a smile. He glanced back toward the living room, toward the kids, and then back at Archie. “Let’s go in your office,” he said again.
“Okay,” Archie said. He walked back into his office and went to his desk and sat down. The TV was showing color footage of Castle as a young man, when he was first elected into office. The missing persons files were stacked on his desk next to the empty box. He already had some ideas about how to approach Gretchen this time about her crimes, but he had a feeling that this wasn’t the time to bring that up.
Henry didn’t sit. He walked halfway into the room and stood. He ran a hand over his bald head. “I had Gretchen transferred,” he said.
The pills in Archie’s throat felt like a fist. “What?”
Henry looked Archie in the eye. “I put in a transfer order to have Gretchen moved to Lawford.”
Archie searched Henry’s face for some explanation. “But that’s in eastern Oregon.”
Henry didn’t move. “You’re not going to be able to see her anymore,” he said simply. “You’re off her visitor list. No contact. No letters in or out. No phone calls. No visits. Period.”
Archie felt the room start to slip around him. He swallowed hard, willing the pills to go down, feeling the burn of his stomach acid. But the pills held. He shook his head. “You can’t do that.”
“It’s done,” Henry said softly.
“I’ll call the mayor,” Archie said. He coughed and lifted his hand to his sternum.
“Are you okay?” Henry asked.
“I just need some water,” Archie said, his eyes tearing.
“Debbie,” Henry called. “The water?” He turned back to Archie, his big shoulders slumping. Archie had never seen him look sorrier. Or firmer. “I’ve talked to Buddy,” he said. “We’re on the same page on this.”
Mayor Buddy Anderson had been the head of the Beauty Killer Task Force before Archie. He’d kept it funded when he was chief of police, and as mayor he’d made sure that Archie always had everything he needed. It wasn’t altruism. Buddy knew the value of good publicity.
“What about the victim identification project?” Archie asked. They needed him. Buddy needed him. No one knew the Beauty Killer victim files like Archie.
“She can talk to someone else,” Henry said. “Or not. It’s not worth this.”