All Kinds of Tied Down (Marshals 1)

“I don’t kill women!” he shouted, and the way he moved, quickly behind me, shivering hard like his skin was crawling with ants, I got the idea that he was seriously freaked out. He had not been expecting to find the lady there.

It took three days after that to clear Dunn, and during that time, they examined the body as well, discovering startling similarities to other crimes committed by a known assailant. The problem was twofold. First, crimes—as in plural, and that was never good. Second, the problem with adding the newest kill to the list of victims of Craig Hartley was that the man himself was locked up and had been for the past four years. The thought process was predictable; there were three possible scenarios: Hartley had a partner, there was a copycat, or he himself was communicating with someone on the outside.

It was not my job to do any of that detective work. But since I was the only one this particular serial killer would speak to, I was on loan to the FBI and met them out at the Elgin Mental Health Center.

I met Special Agents Eric Thompson and Debra Rohl there, along with the local team of agents I already knew headed up by a man I had been working really hard not to see—Cillian Wojno. It was what came of sleeping around. Every now and then, you found yourself in uncomfortable situations with people you used to bang.

We did our best to ignore each other; we didn’t shake hands, just managed the head tip of acknowledgement before he followed the others into the interrogation room and I waited on the other side of the two-way mirror. They wanted to see if Hartley would speak to the new team without me, as it would make their job far easier. I hoped he would, but I wasn’t optimistic. I was, after all, the one who’d saved his life even though he’d shoved a very expensive chef’s knife into my side. The only reason I’d lived was that the tip had slid off one of my ribs on the way in and slowed the entry. I had nearly bled out in his kitchen, but even then had the presence of mind to stay in front of him so my Chicago PD ex-partner Norris Cochran didn’t have a shot. I’d wanted Hartley to pay for what he did to all the women and their families, not die from a gunshot wound to the head.

It was a whole big procedure of manacles and leg shackles when Hartley was finally brought in. It would have been considered overkill, but between his genius IQ, superior strength, and the fact he had been one of the top cardiothoracic surgeons in the country five years prior, they weren’t taking any chances. As always, I watched as the people in the room reacted to him.

He didn’t look like a monster. In fact, at six two, with a golden tan that was his natural skin color, a carved physique, and bright green eyes, you first thought boy next door, not cold and calculating serial killer. That had been everyone’s mistake, and nineteen women had paid with their lives.

As he took a seat, he scanned the room, eyes flicking over everyone before they settled back on the face of Rohl.

“Good morning, Dr. Hartley.”

He quirked his right eyebrow but didn’t speak, and I saw him fold his hands together.

“Will you speak to us?”

Nothing but a slight scowl and a pursing of his lips evidenced his disappointment. He had been expecting to see me and I wasn’t there.

Rohl cleared her throat. “As I know you have access to a television and newspapers, you are no doubt aware that a body was found in Northbrook and that the attack mirrored one of yours in several ways.”

No reaction. Beyond the coldness in his gaze, it would have been hard for anyone to tell he was even listening.

“We were wondering if you had any thoughts on who might have perpetrated the crime.”

Silence.

“We’re prepared to offer you some concessions, privileges, if you could lend us your insight, Dr. Hartley,” Rohl said, smiling at him.

I had been a brand-new police detective when I’d encountered the man who now sat so composed on the opposite side of the table from the agents. It was strange to see him so frigid. At no time, even before I suspected him, had I been treated that way.

“Doctor?”

He smiled, but it didn’t hit his eyes, and he turned to look over his shoulder at the guard standing stoically behind him. “I’m ready to return to my cell.”

Thompson turned to Wojno, who in turn gave a nod to his partner standing beside the mirror. He tapped it, and I walked out of the viewing room to join the guard on this side of the door.