Charles Forte, age six, broken hand. Age six, minor concussion, abdominal bruising. Age seven, second-degree burns, forearms. Age seven, concussion and fractured tibia.
The list went on through childhood in a pattern that made Eve’s stomach clench. “Hold. Probability of child abuse?”
Probability ninety-eight percent.
“Why the hell wasn’t it picked up?”
Medical records indicate treatment was issued at varying hospitals in varying cities over course of ten years. No record of requested search through National Child Abuse Prevention Agency.
/> “Idiots. Idiots.” She rubbed her hands over her face, pressing hard on the headache now brewing in the center of her forehead. It was too close to home.
“List any psychiatric treatment or available psychological profiles.”
Subject entered Miller Clinic voluntarily as outpatient. Doctor of record, Ernest Renfrew from February 2045 to September 2047. Files sealed. No other data.
“Okay, that’s enough to chew on. Save data, file Forte, Charles, case number 34299-H. Cross-reference, Conroy. Disengage when complete.”
She glanced up as Feeney stuck his head in her doorway. “Cross just got sprung.”
“Well, it was too good to last.”
“You have anybody look at those cat scratches?”
“I will. Got a minute?”
“Sure.”
“David Baines Conroy.”
Feeney whistled, made himself comfortable on the corner of her desk. “That’s going back. Sick bastard. Cut his victims up when he was done with them. Kept the parts in a portable cold box. Had a trailer, traveled around. Preaching.”
“Preaching?”
“Well, that’s not exactly the term. Set himself up as a sort of Antichrist. Lots of shit about anarchy, freedom to pursue carnal pleasures, opening the gates of Hell. That sort of thing. Figures he plucked most of his victims off the road. Itinerant LCs. At least three they pinned him on were licensed companions. Hookers have always been easy marks for psychos.”
“He was found competent to stand trial.”
“Passed the tests. Legally, he was sane. In reality, a real whacko.”
“He had a family.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s right.” Feeney closed his eyes to try to bring it back. “I was still working Homicide then, and there wasn’t a cop on planet who wasn’t personally caught up by the case. Never did any of his work here, that we know of, but I remember he had a wife. Pale, jumpy little woman. Left him—before he got snagged seems to me. And there was a kid, a boy. Spooky.”
“Why?”
“He had his old man’s eyes. Except they were dead, you know? I remember thinking we might be tracking him one day. In his father’s footsteps. Then they ducked under the Privacy Act, and nobody ever heard of them again.”
“Until now.” Eve kept her eyes level. “I’m seeing Conroy’s son tonight. At a witch’s coven.”
Roarke brought the limo. She’d been certain he would, just to annoy her. She’d have stayed annoyed if he hadn’t seen that the AutoChef was stocked, Italian style.
Eve was wolfing down manicotti before they crossed the Jacqueline Onassis Bridge. But she shook her head at the burgundy he poured.
“I’m on duty,” she said with her mouth full.
“I’m not.” He sipped, studied her. “Why haven’t you taken care of that?” he asked, brushing gentle fingers over her throat.
“I got tied up.”