Chapter 60
M ONDAY, THREE O’CLOCK. I shouldn’t be here, but here I am anyway.
From what I could tell so far, the firm of Smith, Curtis and Brennan’s legal specialty was old money. The expensive-looking wood-paneled reception area, with its issues of Golf Digest, Town & Country, and Forbes on the side tables, seemed to speak for itself: The clients of this firm sure didn’t come from my neighborhood.
Mena Sunderland was a junior partner and also our third known rape victim, chronologically. She seemed to blend in to the office, with a gray designer business suit and the kind of gracious reserve that sometimes comes from Southern breeding. She led us back to a small conference room and closed the vertical blinds on the glass wall before letting the conversation begin.
“I’m afraid this is a waste of your time,” she told us. “I don’t have anything new to say. I told that to the other detective. Several times.”
Sampson slid a piece of paper over to her. “We were wondering if this might help.”
“What is it?”
“A draft press statement. If any information goes public, this will be it.”
She scanned the statement while he explained. “It puts this investigation on an aggressive path and says that none of the known victims have been willing to identify the attacker or testify against him.”
“Is that actually true?” she asked, looking up from the paper.
Sampson started to respond, but a sudden gut reaction flashed through me, and I cut him off. I started to cough. It was kind of a sloppy move, but it worked fine.
“Could I trouble you for a glass of water?” I asked Mena Sunderland. “I’m sorry.”
When she left the room, I turned to Sampson. “I don’t think she should know it’s all down to her.”
“Okay. I guess I agree.” Sampson nodded and said, “But if she asks ?”
“Let me take this,” I said. “I’ve got a feeling about her.” My famous “feelings” were part of my reputation, but that didn’t mean Sampson had to go along. If there had been more time for discussion, I would have worried about it, but Mena Sunderland came back a second later. She had two bottles of Fiji water and two glasses. She even braved a smile.
As I drank the water she gave me, I noticed Sampson sit back in his chair. That was my cue to take over.
“Mena,” I said, “we’d like to try to find some kind of common ground with you. Between what you’re comfortable talking about and what we need to know.”
“Meaning what?” she asked.
“Meaning, we don’t necessarily need a description of this man to catch him.”
I took her silence as a green flag, however tentative.
“I’d like to ask you some questions. They’re all yes or no. You can answer with one word or even just shake your head if you like. And if any question is too uncomfortable for you, it’s fine to pass.”
A smile threatened the corners of her mouth. My technique was facile, and she knew it. But I wanted to keep this as non-threatening as possible.
She tucked a long strand of blond hair behind her ear. “Go ahead. For the moment.”
“On the night of the attack, did this man make specific threats to keep you from talking after he was gone?”
She nodded first, then verbalized her answer. “Yes.”
Suddenly, I was hopeful. “Did he make threats against other people you know? Family, friends, that sort of thing?”
“Yes.”
“Has he contacted you since that night? Or made his presence known in any other way?”
“No. I thought I saw him again on my street one time. It probably wasn’t him.”
“Were his threats more than verbal? Was there anything else he did to make sure you wouldn’t talk?”
“Yes.”
I’d hit on something, I could tell. Mena Sunderland looked down at her lap for a few seconds and then back up at me again. The tension on her face had given way to something more like resolve.
“Please, Mena. This is important.”
“He took my BlackBerry,” she said. She paused for a few seconds, then went on. “It had all my personal information. Addresses, everything. My friends, my family back home in Westchester.”
“I see.”
And I did. It fit right in with my preliminary profile of this monster.
I started a silent ten count in my head. When I got to eight, Mena spoke again.
“There were pictures,” she said.
“I’m sorry? Pictures?”
“Photographs. Of people he killed. Or at least, said he killed. And” ? she took a moment to muster the next part ? “mutilated. He talked about using butcher saws, surgical scalpels.”
“Mena, can you tell me anything else about those photos he showed you?”
“He made me look at several, but I only really remember the first one. It was the worst thing I’ve ever seen in my life.” The sudden memory of it came into her eyes, and I saw it take hold. Pure horror. Her focus went soft.
After several seconds, she collected herself and spoke again. “Her hands,” she said, then stopped herself.
“What about her hands, Mena?”
“He’d cut off both her hands. And in the picture ? she was still alive. She was obviously screaming.” Her voice closed down to barely a whisper. We were at the danger line; I felt it right away. “He called her Beverly. Like they were old friends.”
“Okay,” I said gently. “We can stop here if you want.”
“I want to stop,” she said. “But.”
“Go ahead, Mena.”
“That night
he had a scalpel. There was already somebody’s blood on it.”