soul.”
I pray this is true. “The suspect’s name is Nathan Malik. He’s—”
“A shrink,” Shubb finishes. “Holy shit. He’s a psychiatrist, not a psychologist, and he makes sure you know that in the first five seconds. I’ve seen Malik quite a bit. Done two root canals on him so far this year. MDs hardly ever take care of their teeth, you know that. I just…”
Harold Shubb falls silent. Then he whistles long and low, as if only now realizing the implications of our conversation. I fight the urge to describe the bite marks on the victims. In less than a minute, we could probably confirm or eliminate Nathan Malik as the killer of the NOMURS victims. But in a case this sensitive, procedure must be followed to the letter.
“What kind of guy is he, Harold?”
“An odd duck. Smart as hell. A little intimidating, if you want to know the truth. Knows something about everything. Even teeth.”
“Really?” It’s rare for MDs to know much about dentition.
“I know you’re going to think your call influenced me to say this, but the guy makes me a little uncomfortable. Not much for small talk, though he has a smart-ass sense of humor. But what he really gives off is intensity. Total intensity. You know the type?”
“I think so. Has Malik talked about his background?”
“Not much. I think he’s from Mississippi originally. Like you.”
“Really? Does fifty-three years old sound right?”
“About right. He’s in good shape, except for his teeth. I could check my records—”
“Don’t do that,” I say quickly.
“Right…you’re right. Shit, I’m getting nervous just talking to you.”
“We’re almost done, Harold. Do you know anything about Malik’s modes of therapy? What he specializes in? Anything?”
“Repressed memories. Physical and sexual abuse of women. Men, too, I think. We’ve had several conversations about it. He’s an expert at helping people recover lost memories. Uses drugs, hypnosis, everything. It’s controversial stuff. Lots of litigation in that area.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“I’ll tell you this. If Nathan Malik is your guy, I hope you have some rock-solid evidence on him. He won’t be intimidated by the FBI or anyone else. When it comes to things like patient privacy, he’ll go to jail before he’ll tell you a damn thing. He’s a fanatic about it. Hates the government.”
I jump as the fax machine beside me hums to life. “That rock-solid evidence may be sitting in your X-ray files right now, Harold.”
He whistles again. “I hope so, Cat. I mean—”
“I know what you mean. If it’s him.”
“Exactly.”
“Look, the FBI doesn’t need to know about this conversation.”
“What conversation?”
“Thanks, Harold. I’ll see you at my next seminar?”
“Can’t wait.”
I ring off and watch the paper spool out of the fax machine. Someone has typed a detailed summary of the available information on Dr. Nathan Malik. I have an almost overwhelming urge to go to my grandfather’s sideboard and pour a quick shot of vodka before reading it, but I manage to strangle the impulse. As the second sheet emerges from the fax machine, I glance down, then grip the table to stay on my feet.
At the bottom of the page is a black-and-white photo of Nathan Malik, a bullet-headed, bald man with deep-set black eyes. On some men, baldness conveys an image of weakness or advancing age, but on Nathan Malik the bald pate seems more a challenge than a weakness, the way it did on Yul Brynner. Proud, piercing, and defiant, his eyes silently order you back a step. Malik’s nose was broken at some point in his life, and his lips curl in a wry smile that expresses only contempt for the camera. He has the arrogant disdain of an aristocrat, but that’s not what has taken my breath away. What did that was the eyes. I first saw them—and this face—nearly a decade ago, at the University Medical Center in Jackson, Mississippi.
Grabbing the first page from the
I pray this is true. “The suspect’s name is Nathan Malik. He’s—”
“A shrink,” Shubb finishes. “Holy shit. He’s a psychiatrist, not a psychologist, and he makes sure you know that in the first five seconds. I’ve seen Malik quite a bit. Done two root canals on him so far this year. MDs hardly ever take care of their teeth, you know that. I just…”
Harold Shubb falls silent. Then he whistles long and low, as if only now realizing the implications of our conversation. I fight the urge to describe the bite marks on the victims. In less than a minute, we could probably confirm or eliminate Nathan Malik as the killer of the NOMURS victims. But in a case this sensitive, procedure must be followed to the letter.
“What kind of guy is he, Harold?”
“An odd duck. Smart as hell. A little intimidating, if you want to know the truth. Knows something about everything. Even teeth.”
“Really?” It’s rare for MDs to know much about dentition.
“I know you’re going to think your call influenced me to say this, but the guy makes me a little uncomfortable. Not much for small talk, though he has a smart-ass sense of humor. But what he really gives off is intensity. Total intensity. You know the type?”
“I think so. Has Malik talked about his background?”
“Not much. I think he’s from Mississippi originally. Like you.”
“Really? Does fifty-three years old sound right?”
“About right. He’s in good shape, except for his teeth. I could check my records—”
“Don’t do that,” I say quickly.
“Right…you’re right. Shit, I’m getting nervous just talking to you.”
“We’re almost done, Harold. Do you know anything about Malik’s modes of therapy? What he specializes in? Anything?”
“Repressed memories. Physical and sexual abuse of women. Men, too, I think. We’ve had several conversations about it. He’s an expert at helping people recover lost memories. Uses drugs, hypnosis, everything. It’s controversial stuff. Lots of litigation in that area.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“I’ll tell you this. If Nathan Malik is your guy, I hope you have some rock-solid evidence on him. He won’t be intimidated by the FBI or anyone else. When it comes to things like patient privacy, he’ll go to jail before he’ll tell you a damn thing. He’s a fanatic about it. Hates the government.”
I jump as the fax machine beside me hums to life. “That rock-solid evidence may be sitting in your X-ray files right now, Harold.”
He whistles again. “I hope so, Cat. I mean—”
“I know what you mean. If it’s him.”
“Exactly.”
“Look, the FBI doesn’t need to know about this conversation.”
“What conversation?”
“Thanks, Harold. I’ll see you at my next seminar?”
“Can’t wait.”
I ring off and watch the paper spool out of the fax machine. Someone has typed a detailed summary of the available information on Dr. Nathan Malik. I have an almost overwhelming urge to go to my grandfather’s sideboard and pour a quick shot of vodka before reading it, but I manage to strangle the impulse. As the second sheet emerges from the fax machine, I glance down, then grip the table to stay on my feet.
At the bottom of the page is a black-and-white photo of Nathan Malik, a bullet-headed, bald man with deep-set black eyes. On some men, baldness conveys an image of weakness or advancing age, but on Nathan Malik the bald pate seems more a challenge than a weakness, the way it did on Yul Brynner. Proud, piercing, and defiant, his eyes silently order you back a step. Malik’s nose was broken at some point in his life, and his lips curl in a wry smile that expresses only contempt for the camera. He has the arrogant disdain of an aristocrat, but that’s not what has taken my breath away. What did that was the eyes. I first saw them—and this face—nearly a decade ago, at the University Medical Center in Jackson, Mississippi.
Grabbing the first page from the
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