Chapter Twelve #2
“Dr. Jones, you have an urgent phone call in the office,” the monotone voice rings from the tannoy. I put my hand on Katie’s shoulder and wait for her to give me the okay to leave. She nods, ever the professional, and the guard opens the door for me.
I expect to take the call in the guardroom, but there’s no phone there, only a radio, so I’m escorted back to the main entrance, where we signed in. The guard is in no hurry, despite the call being noted as urgent, and my shoulders start to creep up to my ears the slower his footsteps are.
By the time we reach the reception area, a bored woman behind the desk holds out the corded telephone to me in a loose grip. I fight the urge to wipe down the mouthpiece.
“Jones.”
“Jones, it’s Tilly. Are you interviewing Maddox?”
I glance at the woman who is paying absolutely no attention to me. “Yes, sir. Dr. Murphy is in there with him now.”
“She’s alone?” he asks cautiously.
“Yes, it’s standard procedure. There is a guard outside the room watching them.
” I say for his benefit as much as mine.
Nothing is going to happen to Katie here.
She’s safe; she’s being watched. I glance at the bored woman again, inspecting her nails and paying little attention to what’s going on around her.
“Good . . . good.”
“Sir? Was there something urgent?” I pry, eager to get back to Katie.
“Well, yes. The police were tipped off to search his property, Jones. The backyard, specifically. They’ve found multiple bodies.”
My heart thudded against my rib cage. “He’s a serial killer?”
There’s no way. Not the scared guy in that interview room. Not the same guy who can’t stop crying every time someone mentions his girlfriend.
“It appears so. I won’t lie to you, Jones, the colonel is not happy.
Your most recent report suggested that you didn’t believe he had killed one person.
One person, Jones. Turns out the police are digging up at least three in his yard.
” He provides further details, and I hear a few of them: cadaver dogs, burial sites, unprecedented.
All ringing along with the blood rushing through my ears as I try to figure out how we didn’t see this coming.
Connor Maddox might just be the best liar on the goddamn planet. I need time to think.
“Sir, I can assure you, our investigation wasn’t complete, and we were considering the evidence the police had shown us, but I couldn’t have imagined that Connor Maddox had done this.”
The woman behind the desk perks up a little at this. Her eyes sparkling with curiosity as she pushes back her mousy brown hair behind her ear to get a better listen.
“You better believe it. Get yourself back to base ASAP for a meeting with myself and the colonel. Dress smart, Jones,” he warns. “Oh, and I’d keep the female doctor away from Maddox if I were you. Clearly, he’s not as safe as you first thought.”
Shit.
I need to get to Katie.
“Yes, sir.”
I hang up, letting Traynor know I’m ready to go back.
He dawdles again, and it takes all the strength I have not to grab him by the collar and drag him along myself.
When we reach the room and I’m buzzed in, Connor and Katie are talking calmly.
They both look at me, and I take a deep breath.
I don’t want to incite a panic, but I want—no, need to get Katie away from him as soon as possible.
“Dr. Murphy. Something has come up. Our presence has been requested at the station,” I say calmly.
I watch Connor look down at his hands before drawing his thumb up to his mouth so he can bite the nail. His left leg is bouncing up and down as if he’s in withdrawal. Perhaps he is in a way. Don’t they say that killing is a need for serial killers? A compulsion? An addiction?
“One final question for you, Connor,” Katie says calmly, closing her notepad and pulling the elastic slip over the front of it. “Have you had any visitors since you were arrested?”
“Just my girlfriend, Hannah,” he replies, biting his lip and avoiding her eyes.
“No one else? I thought maybe one of your friends might have come to visit you,” she adds, knowing full well that Traynor has already confirmed one other person has come to visit.
“Just Hannah,” he mutters and stands to leave, holding his hands out for Traynor, who shackles him and leads him toward the door.
“Okay, thank you for your time today,” she calls out. “We’ll organize your next session soon. Your lawyer will let you know.”
Before he’s led out of the room, Connor turns and faces me, looking me dead in the eye before dropping his gaze down to his own hands. When I follow his eye line, he uses his hands to sign.
Help me. I didn’t do it.
It’s like he knows about the call I just got.
Or maybe he’s referring to the one murder he’s already been arrested for.
I had no idea he could even speak sign language; it wasn’t in his file.
And I’m curious to know how he knows I speak it.
I hadn’t mentioned it to him; not many people know, after all.
As we make our way down the corridor, I feel Katie eyeing me. I turn and give her a small shake of my head and say nothing until we’re in my car.
“You’re scaring me,” she mutters, turning her body to face me, her purse between her feet in the footwell of the car. An envelope pokes out of the top.
“What’s that?” I ask, having not noticed it before, it seems odd for her to have it nearly falling out now.
She looks down, frowning, and pulls the letter out. She reads the slanted script and quickly folds the envelope in half, hiding the words. Her breath pulls in quickly, and she turns to face forward, watching the walls of the prison.
“Katie? Now you’re scaring me. What is it?”
She pauses for a moment, wetting her lips. “Nothing, it’s nothing.” She shoves the envelope back into her purse, taking a deep breath and turning back to me. “What was so urgent?”
I paraphrase the information Tilly gave me over the phone less than thirty minutes ago.
“Right. Well, the police were searching Maddox’s property.
They brought the cadaver dogs, and their little tails started wagging like it was the Fourth of fucking July.
Three bodies, of varying degrees of decomposition, but apparently no older than two years, the coroner estimates. ”
“His property . . . hadn’t they searched before?”
“I thought so, too. They must have gone back for a second look.”
“And they just happen to bring cadaver dogs with them? The first murder didn’t appear to be a repeat crime. It was spur-of-the-moment, unplanned . . . burying bodies in your backyard suggests a level of preparedness. Something isn’t right.”
I fight the urge to agree with her. The evidence is all pointing toward Connor Maddox.
The CCTV, the clothing belonging to him, and the fact that he has conveniently no memory of the murder or anything past 9 p.m. And now three bodies have been discovered on his property.
It doesn’t take a genius to work out that Connor Maddox is guilty as hell, even if his tears are convincing enough to look past everything we knew before I took that phone call.
The fact that he’s lied about how many visitors he’s had shows he has a track record of lying.
Katie’s head is in her hands, her fingers white as they stretch through the strands of her hair.
“Katie, when was the last time you slept?” I ask softly, knowing full well she’s going to hate me for that question.
“I’m fine, Jonesy. Asking questions is part of my job. Something isn’t adding up, and I want to work out what it is.”
“Okay, say that’s true. Answer my question, when did you last get a full eight hours?
” I cup her face, running my thumb over the dark circles that frame her forest green eyes.
She doesn’t need to answer. The fact that she rests her cheek against my palm tells me she’s too exhausted to fight me on this.
A fully rested Katie would never have allowed it.
She sighs, her eyes filling with tears of exhaustion.
“We need to check into the station to get a briefing. The detective will have left you a message, no doubt. After that, I’m taking you home, and I’m staying with you,” I say, after she doesn’t respond.
“Why?” she asks, her brows furrowing together.
“Because you need to be on your A game, and that means getting a good night's sleep.”
“I don’t need you to be there.”
She’s a liar. A beautiful, stubborn, will only accept help if it’s forced upon her, liar. And it’s my job, my duty, to ensure she gets through this case so she can start to heal.
“Not to blow my own trumpet, princess, but apparently you do.”