Face of Murder

When the door was closed behind him, Shelley sat on one of the vacant chairs, much of the pasted-on pleasantness disappearing as she dropped. “Wow. I was just about to go to sleep, and you suddenly cracked the case.”

“Sorry,” Zoe said.

“I wasn’t complaining. So, written communication? You found something in the numbers?”

“I was reminded of something Wardenford said—that it was all out of order, jumbled up. The more I thought about that, the more sense it made. I do not think the killer knows that they are jumbled—or at least, if he does, he is not able to fix it. Neurological damage could also account for a sudden outburst of violence.”

“Dyslexia isn’t something I normally associate with violent outbursts,” Shelley said, quirking the corners of her lips.

“No, but it does not always appear… out of nowhere. That is the wrong term, but you can see what I mean: it does not always develop during the process of one’s early life. That is to say, brain injuries or tumors, or so on, can cause other neurological difficulties to appear.”

“And they can also cause changes in behavior, such as violent mood swings,” Shelley nodded. “Got it.”

“When we have his name, we should move immediately. We do not know if he is planning another attack. Granted, the existing victims appear to perfectly spell out Dr. Applewhite’s equation as a clue for us to chase after, but that may not be the final piece of his puzzle.”

“That’s another thing, we’ll need to verify that she knows him in some way. Or that he could access the equation somehow. I gather it wasn’t widely shared, so that will be another piece of evidence against him they can use in court.”

Zoe nodded. “After we have had that confirmed, we can let her go home.”

Shelley smiled at her, looking tired in that moment. Before they could say anything more, the door opened and Burke returned.

He was hesitant, pausing a few seconds and wetting his lips without saying anything.

“Well?” Zoe asked, impatient. Did he not realize how costly a delay could be? “What is his name?”

“That’s the thing,” Burke said, clasping his hands together. Hands that were conspicuously empty of any kind of printout or note. “There aren’t any patients on file that fit the criteria you mentioned.”

Zoe stared at him, her mouth open. How could this be? Had she made a huge mistake?

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Zoe stood in the almost empty reception area, looking at the patients sitting and waiting to see doctors without really seeing them. Even at this time of night, there were people around—referred from the ER, perhaps, or scheduled for late-night procedures because the operating suites were otherwise full.

“We just have to keep working on it. It was a good theory, but we’ll come up with another one,” Shelley said. “Who knows? Maybe you’re right, but this person hasn’t actually had a diagnosis yet.”

“But Dr. North,” Zoe said helplessly. “There had to be a reason why he was connected to all of this.”

“I know it made a lot of sense. We’ll have to come at it from another angle. Maybe he knew one of the other victims in a way we haven’t put together yet.” Shelley reached out to squeeze Zoe’s upper arm, then checked her watch and sighed. “In the morning, anyway. I’m going home to get a few hours of sleep. You should, too.”

Zoe nodded, though that wasn’t exactly an agreement. She wasn’t sure just yet that she wanted to lock herself into any decisions.

She watched Shelley leave, then pushed herself into action, trailing after her. It was not until Shelley had disappeared out through the wide automatic doors and into the night that Zoe remembered how she had arrived here—and that she therefore did not have a vehicle of her own in the parking lot.

She sighed to herself. She should have asked Shelley to drive her home. Now it was going to be a very expensive cab ride, all because she had been too busy trying to work out how she could possibly have been wrong.

But, really, how could she? It had all made the most perfect sense. Dr. North, targeted because he made the diagnosis. A new brain deficiency partnered with a new level of rage and violence, turning a misplaced anger into a murderous impulse. The equations, left as a message but somehow bungled by a man who could no longer make them work. A mathematician. Someone who would have known both of the other victims from Georgetown.

It all fit so perfectly! Zoe thought about going back and checking that Burke had considered other possibilities, like brain tumors, but she stopped herself. She had been clear—anything that could cause difficulties with written communication. The man worked in a hospital. He would know to check for anything fitting those signs.

Zoe stepped out into the cool night air, grateful for the way that it soothed her head and the aching tension she had barely noticed was building there. She was about to call for a taxi when her eyes drifted left, and she saw him.

John—sitting on a bench just over from the entrance, now lifting a silent hand in greeting.