“That’s good.” Will opened one folder and began laying photographs out on the scarred tabletop. He set each one down individually, as if it were a card in a high-stakes game. They were shots of Theresa Chambers, Jill Kelly, and Lisa Schultz—all as they looked when they were alive. In a steady, calming voice, Will said, “I just want you to tell me if you’ve ever seen any of these women before.”
He looked at each photo. “Pretty,” he said. The man probably had the mind of a twelve-year-old, if that, like Craig Factor.
“Ever seen them?”
“Nope.”
“Take your time. Take another look. We’re not in any hurry.”
Lennie bent over the pictures. Will tried to keep his mind from wandering. He had been in one of these rooms in October, talking to a prisoner who claimed the arresting officer had beaten him. It was a routine Internal Investigations case. Will had been standing that day, and he just fell over. One moment he was standing, and the next he had toppled to the left. The deputy probably thought he had been drinking. But it was the most dramatic sign of the tumor.
His feet were losing their ability to feel the floor and help balance him. He fell several more times, for no seeming reason. Looking back, the danger signs had started long before: a mysterious pain in his right side. Ultrasound gave him a clean bill and the pain went away. Or, it moved into his knees. That pain kept him up at night and the doc told him to lose weight. By the fall, he was having trouble walking easily, and still the doctor had no answer besides physical therapy. Two weeks after the fall in the jail, a neurologist had run a safety pin down his chest and belly, and he couldn’t feel the pricks below his abdomen. They had sent him for an MRI the next day.
And yet, with his Scots-Irish fatalism, Will had known something was after him for years. He couldn’t articulate it, and by the time it became a persistent foreboding he and Cindy had long since stopped talking about anything but the business of a marriage and the latest trouble of their son. What would it be: a heart attack, a bullet on a dark street? He knew time was against him and the knowledge had changed him.
Lennie spoke finally. “They’re pretty. They wouldn’t like me.”
“Ever hurt a woman, Lennie?” Will said it in the same calm tone of voice and watched the man carefully. His mouth quivered and his eyes widened.
“No! Lennie wouldn’t…” He held his hands up defensively and the deputy took a step, but Will waved him back.
Will slapped down an eight-and-a-half by eleven color photograph.
“Ahhhh!” Lennie gasped. Will could also hear Cheryl Beth take a sharp intake of breath. The photo showed Jill Kelly slashed to death in her kitchen.
“No, no…that’s awful.” Lennie shook his head and turned away. His shock seemed genuine. Will replaced the photos in a folder.
“Lennie, the bad picture’s gone.” The man still avoided looking at the tabletop. “Do you remember when you had the knife, when you were in the hospital?”
“The hospital’s a good place. They help Lennie. Cheryl Beth helps Lennie.”
She said, “But you had a knife, Lennie.”
“I was afraid.”
“Were you afraid of me?” Will asked. Lennie didn’t answer. “That day we fought, you said something about the devil. Do you remember that?”
“No.”
Now Will thought he was lying. Too many years of too many lies. He had perfect pitch for it. He leaned in close. A finger’s length separated them. From that distance, the man still stank.
“Lennie, you talked about seeing the devil.” Will lowered his voice. “It’s okay, he can’t hear us. These walls are too thick.”
“No, I don’t remember.” He fidgeted, pulling on one finger, then another.
“You do, Lennie.” He was whispering now. “Don’t you want to help those pretty women? I know you do.” He paused, made the distance half a finger’s length. “Did you see the devil at the hospital, Lennie?”
The man slowly nodded.
“Where did you see him?”
“In the basement. I’m not supposed to go down there. But it’s quiet and it’s warm…”
“And you know all the hiding places, right?” Will said it as one kid admiring another’s skill. Lennie nodded enthusiastically. He had specks of yellow in his eyes.
“You saw the devil in the basement?”
“Yes.” His voice was a soft, serious whisper.