Girl, Sought (Ella Dark #24)

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

‘Mr. Thorne, I’ve got some good news.’

Gabriel Thorne’s head lolled back, as though Ella’s intrusion was an unwelcome violation of the nap he’d been taking until she walked in.

‘I should hope you do. I’ve been here all day.’

The table between them was littered with foam cups and sandwich wrappers. At least the boys had been taking care of him while she was gone.

‘The collector you pointed us to? Joseph Carpenter? We just found him dead, and the time of death was around midday today according to preliminary tests.’

Thorne rubbed the grit from his eyes and snapped awake. ‘Father Joe? Dead?’

‘Yes. You knew him?’

‘Sort of. I knew of him. Everyone did.’

‘Were you the one who appraised his collection?’

Thorne shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Who did?’

‘A collection like that? Vanessa pulled rank and did it herself.’

‘So how did you know his collection was in his basement?’

‘Word gets around. It’s kind of a joke in our game. Worth more than Carpenter’s basement. You know? Vanessa said that he had some of Jesus’s bones in there.’

Ella studied the purple masterpiece Luca's fist had painted across Thorne's face. The swelling had gone down, but the colors had deepened, like a sunset in human tissue.

‘Alright, well given that Joseph Carpenter was killed around the time I was chasing you through the U-Stor, it seems unlikely that you’re responsible for these murders.’

Thorne blinked away the surprise. ‘Wow. Well, this is certainly very bittersweet. I promise you, I’m no killer.’

‘I know, Gabriel. I've spent enough time with killers to know one when I see one. You might be a tax cheat, petty thief, maybe the world’s worst escape artist. But you’re not a killer.’

Hope flickered behind his eyes. ‘I’m… oddly appreciative of that. So I can go?’

Ella shrugged in defeat. ‘Looks that way.’

‘What about the… other charges?’

‘I’ve told Detective Reeves about your exploits, and if he wants to take things further then that’s his decision. But I’ve got no need to keep you here.’

Thorne nodded in relief, but to her surprise, he remained seated. ‘Thanks, but look, is there anything else I can help you with? You might not realize, but I don’t like the idea of someone killing off collectors.’

‘Because you might be a potential target?’

Thorne shoulder’s squared, like the idea of him being a collector offended him. ‘Please, I’m not one of them. I have no interest in that world. I just help them pay less tax.’

'Understood. You don't happen to know anyone in your world who drives a blue sedan, do you? Or picks the skin on their fingers?'

Confusion wrinkled his brow. ‘No. I mean, Sarah drives a Prius, but it's red. And Vanessa's got some fancy German thing. Black, I think. Nobody with a blue car that I can think of.’

‘Right.’ Ella nodded, filing away another dead end in the ever-growing cabinet of things that didn't add up. ‘Guess that's -’

But then something clicked. A detail that had been rattling around her skull finally found purchase. Like that moment when you remember where you left your keys, except these keys might unlock a killer's psychology.

‘Wait a second. Earlier, you said something about collectors. That they infuriated you.’

‘Yeah, they do.’ Thorne's voice carried an undercurrent of bitterness that seemed to surprise even him. ‘More than you'd probably understand.’

‘Try me.’

Thorne's face twisted like he'd bitten into something rancid. ‘They're these smug assholes who collect beautiful, incredible things and then what? Lock them away like they're guarding some sacred treasure. They wrap their arms around this stuff like it's the last fertile horse in the barn, and for what? So they can feel special?’

‘And you hate that.’

‘You have no idea. These people, they think owning things makes them better than everyone else. Like having the money to buy something rare somehow elevates them above the rest of us.’

‘So that's why you steal their trinkets? Wealth redistribution?’

‘Yeah. No.’ Thorne's face contorted with something that looked like shame. ‘I mean, maybe at first. But it's more complicated than that.’

‘Explain it to me.’ Ella kept her voice neutral, but her mind was already assembling pieces of a psychological puzzle. ‘Because here's what I don't get – you hate collectors for hoarding things, but then you keep what you steal. That drawer in your office is practically a collection itself.’

Thorne’s shoulders slumped as though the weight of his own contradictions was finally too heavy to bear.

‘I might be a money-hungry son of a bitch, but the stealing... it's not about profit. It's like an itch I can't scratch. I see something small that these people probably won't even miss, and my fingers start tingling. Next thing I know, it's in my pocket.’

‘But you don't sell the items.’

'No. Hell, half the time, I forget what I've even taken until I open that drawer again. I barely look at the stuff. Just shove it away and try not to think about it until the next time I'm around these people and their precious things.'

Ella watched his hands twist together on the table. ‘So the thrill is in the taking, not the having.’

‘Yeah.’ The admission seemed to deflate him further. ‘It's like... for just a moment, I get to reach out and grab a piece of their world. Prove that all their security systems and careful cataloging don't mean a thing. That anyone can just... take what they want.’

‘But you feel guilty afterward.’

'Yeah, but then I remember that every single one of these guys is using me to get a six-figure tax break, and I suddenly don't feel so bad.'

‘Did you ever steal from Alfred Finch?’

‘No, because Finch was a different breed.’

‘How so?’

‘Finch wasn’t a rich man, nor was a pompous asshole. He genuinely loved those bugs. He collected because it filled a void in him. You can tell who the real collectors are and who’s just in the game to screw the system.’

Ella applied this psychology to the unsub and found it didn’t fit one bit. Her killer didn’t steal out of impulse or spite like Thorne did. No, he needed to possess beauty so completely that he’d reshape human flesh to get it. Her killer didn't steal his trophies for the fleeting thrill of the lift. He didn't shove them in some dark corner to molder, forgotten, once the adrenaline rush faded.

No. He cherished them.

The doll, the spider, whatever he took from Carpenter’s basement – these things were just tokens to remind him of his hard work.

The collectors themselves were the real collectibles, and he craved something they represented – but what?

‘Get out of here, Gabriel,’ she said.

Thorne was up and out of his chair a second later. He nodded his thanks, and then the precinct corridor swallowed him up.

Ella let the door snick shut, closed her eyes and let the cool wood press against her forehead.

Thorne was a dead end, but he'd given her something far more valuable than a lead. He'd given her a foothold in the shitstorm of contradictions that was their unsub's psychological profile.

This killer wasn’t targeting collectors. He was targeting a specific kind of collector.

And if Ella could find out exactly which collectors inhabited this little niche of a niche, maybe she pinpoint her killer’s next target and catch him in the act.

It might be nearing midnight, but the night was just getting started.