Roberto were in limited private practice. The offices of the Forensic Evaluation Unit were within shouting distance of the Santa Fe judicial complex—just down the street from Sylvia's former office.
Albert Kove said, "If you schedule with the airlines now, you could be in Tobago within the week." He allowed a long therapeutic pause while he perched on the edge of the receptionist's desk. When he leaned back, Monday's unsorted mail slid everywhere.
Without success Sylvia tried to stop the landslide of letters, magazines, and journals. She gave up and balanced on the other side of the desk. Her fingersdrummed wood.
Kove continued. "I heard all about Randall—Erin Tulley's testimony, the motion to suppress." He paused, then said, "That must have upset Matt. Didn't he work with Tulley?" He saw the distress on Sylvia's face and touched her arm gently. "You're not responsible for anything that happened with Randall."
"Somebody thinks I am." Quickly she filled Kove in on the details of the last few days—including Dan Chaney's suspicions of a federal cover-up, and his insistence that Dupont White was alive and killing. She said, "At first, I was absolutely convinced Chaney's paranoid."
"I imagine he is." Kove took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes.
"I watched the videotape of one of Dupont White's kills—the m.o. is almost identical to Randall's murder. I talked to Dupont's ex-partner who's doing time at the pen; he wasn't happy when I suggested Dupont is alive." She swung one leg nervously. "I'm beginning to think Dan Chaney might not be completely crazy. What if the killer is Dupont? Is that possible, Albert?"
"There are other explanations. What about a copycat killer? The kind of experience you had, the assault in Matt's trailer, will influence your perceptions—"
"Albert, I'm not a hysterical female—there needs to be an investigation into Chaney's allegations, I know that. But I can't just call up the F.B.I. and say, Are you covering this up?'"
Kove readjusted his glasses and studied Sylvia's face. He thought he saw her brown irises darken. The ferocity of her gaze made him uneasy. He said, "What does Matt think?"
"He suggested that I stop evaluating perverts."
Kove snorted. "He's got something there." He stretched, one hand collided with metal, and Sylvia just managed to catch the high-intensity light as it fell.
Stooped beside the desk, she tugged at a large brown package. "What's this?"
Kove peered down. "My coconuts from Tobago." While Albert opened the package, Sylvia picked up a letter opener and began work on the envelopes. One by one they landed in appropriate piles—correspondence, bills, announcements.
He said, "It's going to take me a day to recover from jet lag." He cleaved plastic, reached inside the box, and produced a large brown fruit. "How about lunch tomorrow? We can review pending cases."
"Sure." She sliced the blade through creased paper. A neat white square fell from the envelope and landed on green plush carpet. "Oh, Jesus." She dropped the envelope.
Albert leaned instinctively toward the Polaroid, and Sylvia said, "Don't touch it."
He knelt next to the desk. "Damn. . ."
Sylvia hunched beside him.
In stark black-and-white, the Polaroid pictured an adult male, nude and trussed. His bound wrists were caught overhead on a large steel hook. His body was suspended, knees buckled, lower legs sagging against the floor. The upper half of his face was concealed by a dark hood.
Sylvia took a deep breath, puffed out her cheeks, and touched Albert's knee gently. "Hand me something—a postcard, anything—so I can get it up off the carpet."
She took the large postcard he offered and slipped it carefully under the Polaroid. She set postcard and photograph on the
Albert Kove said, "If you schedule with the airlines now, you could be in Tobago within the week." He allowed a long therapeutic pause while he perched on the edge of the receptionist's desk. When he leaned back, Monday's unsorted mail slid everywhere.
Without success Sylvia tried to stop the landslide of letters, magazines, and journals. She gave up and balanced on the other side of the desk. Her fingersdrummed wood.
Kove continued. "I heard all about Randall—Erin Tulley's testimony, the motion to suppress." He paused, then said, "That must have upset Matt. Didn't he work with Tulley?" He saw the distress on Sylvia's face and touched her arm gently. "You're not responsible for anything that happened with Randall."
"Somebody thinks I am." Quickly she filled Kove in on the details of the last few days—including Dan Chaney's suspicions of a federal cover-up, and his insistence that Dupont White was alive and killing. She said, "At first, I was absolutely convinced Chaney's paranoid."
"I imagine he is." Kove took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes.
"I watched the videotape of one of Dupont White's kills—the m.o. is almost identical to Randall's murder. I talked to Dupont's ex-partner who's doing time at the pen; he wasn't happy when I suggested Dupont is alive." She swung one leg nervously. "I'm beginning to think Dan Chaney might not be completely crazy. What if the killer is Dupont? Is that possible, Albert?"
"There are other explanations. What about a copycat killer? The kind of experience you had, the assault in Matt's trailer, will influence your perceptions—"
"Albert, I'm not a hysterical female—there needs to be an investigation into Chaney's allegations, I know that. But I can't just call up the F.B.I. and say, Are you covering this up?'"
Kove readjusted his glasses and studied Sylvia's face. He thought he saw her brown irises darken. The ferocity of her gaze made him uneasy. He said, "What does Matt think?"
"He suggested that I stop evaluating perverts."
Kove snorted. "He's got something there." He stretched, one hand collided with metal, and Sylvia just managed to catch the high-intensity light as it fell.
Stooped beside the desk, she tugged at a large brown package. "What's this?"
Kove peered down. "My coconuts from Tobago." While Albert opened the package, Sylvia picked up a letter opener and began work on the envelopes. One by one they landed in appropriate piles—correspondence, bills, announcements.
He said, "It's going to take me a day to recover from jet lag." He cleaved plastic, reached inside the box, and produced a large brown fruit. "How about lunch tomorrow? We can review pending cases."
"Sure." She sliced the blade through creased paper. A neat white square fell from the envelope and landed on green plush carpet. "Oh, Jesus." She dropped the envelope.
Albert leaned instinctively toward the Polaroid, and Sylvia said, "Don't touch it."
He knelt next to the desk. "Damn. . ."
Sylvia hunched beside him.
In stark black-and-white, the Polaroid pictured an adult male, nude and trussed. His bound wrists were caught overhead on a large steel hook. His body was suspended, knees buckled, lower legs sagging against the floor. The upper half of his face was concealed by a dark hood.
Sylvia took a deep breath, puffed out her cheeks, and touched Albert's knee gently. "Hand me something—a postcard, anything—so I can get it up off the carpet."
She took the large postcard he offered and slipped it carefully under the Polaroid. She set postcard and photograph on the
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