CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Dr. Hartwell’s office was located in a medical center in the West Side.
While the West Side in general was the poorest of Chicago’s three “sides,” the medical center was located in a gentrified enclave of West Town, a community on the banks of the Chicago River that featured densely packed but well-maintained apartment buildings and boutique shops along with convenient access to Bloomingdale Trail Park, a three-mile-long walkway lined with trees, flowers, and grass to fool people into thinking they weren’t in one of the largest cities in the United States.
The medical center was in a large gabled stucco building that looked like it was supposed to be a replica of a dwarven castle from a fairy tale.
It was painted a shade of tan that Kate thought of as Every Building Beige and had a parking lot that sported a collection of not-quite-new middle-class cars: Toyotas, Hyundais, and Kias with the occasional Buick parked in a reserved spot to indicate that it belonged to one of these sort-of-privileged doctors.
The receptionist at Hartwell’s office was a bright pixie of a girl, maybe nineteen or twenty, with short brown hair, an eager smile, and the palest skin Kate had ever seen on a human being, nearly whiter than the paper in the copier behind her.
“Good morning!” she announced. “Welcome! Did you have an appointment?”
“No,” Kate said. “We’re with the FBI. We need to speak to Dr. Hartwell about a couple of cases.”
The receptionist blinked. “Oh, gotcha. The Wilkerson case?”
Kate almost asked what the Wilkerson case was, but Marcus interrupted and saved them what was probably an unnecessary conversation. “I’m afraid we can’t talk about it.” He smiled apologetically. “It’s an ongoing case, so we’re not allowed to share information.”
“Right.” The girl winked at him, wiggled her shoulders, then got up and said, “I’ll go tell her you’re here.” Apparently, the office didn’t have an intercom.
“What was that?” Marcus asked.
“What was what?”
“The shoulder thing and the wink.”
“Oh. She’s clearly smitten with you. She’s hoping you’ll take the hint and run away with her.”
Marcus rolled her eyes. “Ha ha.”
Kate chuckled. “She probably thinks we’re here for that Wilkerson case, whatever it is. Probably something in the news.”
“Let’s hope it’s not another murder.”
“Fingers crossed.”
While they waited, Kate looked around the practice.
It sported the usual collection of vinyl waiting room chairs and ancient issues of magazines no one read.
The walls were decorated with pictures of Hartwell in various places: in court, speaking at a conference, accepting an award, featuring on the cover of a psychology journal that even fewer people read.
“Humble girl, Dr. Hartwell,” Marcus quipped.
The receptionist returned, bouncing like her feet were made of springs instead of flesh and bone. God, Kate missed being young.
Behind her came an older woman, beautiful, with long dark hair, full lips decorated with scarlet lipstick, big dark eyes, and high cheekbones.
She wore a black sport coat and blouse and a pair of stiletto heels that emphasized the tone of her calves.
Her skirt ended about halfway between her knees and hips and revealed equally toned thighs.
She gave them a pleasant smile. “Good morning. May I ask what this is about?”
“Could we talk in your office?” Kate asked.
The older woman—Hartwell, obviously—hesitated for the briefest of seconds, then said, “Sure. All right.”
She led them through the half door that separated the waiting room from the patient area, unusual for a psychology practice, but maybe this had been something else before she rented it.
The receptionist gave Marcus another wink and shoulder-wiggle, and Kate amended her earlier opinion that the girl was just winking about the Wilkerson case.
Hartwell’s office was small but gave the illusion of greater space thanks to the small desk tucked in one corner and the single bookcase occupying the opposite corner.
This allowed the leather easy chair placed near the room’s single window and the clawfoot leather futon in front of it the lion’s share of the available square footage.
Hartwell sat behind her desk and said, “Okay. I understand you guys need to ask me about a case? Normally you call first. This isn’t about the Wilkerson rape case, is it?”
So not murder but not much better. Sometimes Kate really didn’t like humanity. “No. This is about the murders of Derek Hammond and Michelle Santos. You knew her as Maricela Santana.”
Hartwell’s demeanor changed instantly. Her polite if somewhat distracted smile froze. Three full beats passed before she swallowed and said, “I see. This is because they were both recently killed, correct?”
“Within the past two days, as a matter of fact,” Marcus said. “We were hoping you could provide us some insight.”
Hartwell folded her hands on the desk in front of her. She didn’t make eye contact. “I’m not sure what insight I can offer. They were both found innocent.”
“Not entirely true,” Kate pointed out. “Derek Hammond’s trial was dismissed due to evidence tampering, and the DA elected not to pursue another trial after Santana’s first trial ended in a hung jury.”
“Right,” Hartwell said. “In any case, the court will have my testimony. I’m still not sure how I can help you.”
Marcus got to his feet and headed to the bookcase. Hartwell’s eyes flicked toward him, and her shoulders tensed. Interesting. He reached for a book, and she flinched, but stopped herself when he pulled it free. “Huh. I have this one.”
Hartwell blinked. “It’s a good book. Helpful for people suffering from post-traumatic stress.”
Kate’s brow furrowed. She looked at the title.
Good Dreams by Dr. Janice Broughman. She wondered what Marcus had found in that book and what trauma he was trying to overcome.
He never talked about his time with the SEALs.
Kate hadn’t pressed him, but now she was curious.
He seemed so in control of himself in every aspect of his life save for his marriage to Cheryl. Was that just a facade?
“How do you deal with it?” Marcus asked.
Hartwell blinked again. “I’m sorry?”
“The stress. You campaigned pretty hard to convict these two, and they got away scot free.”
She frowned. “I gave my testimony. It’s not my place to convict anyone, nor to offer an opinion on their guilt or innocence.”
“But you did offer an opinion, didn’t you?”
Her frown deepened. “What exactly is this? Am I being interrogated?”
Kate chose to be honest. “We’re considering you as a possible suspect in their murders, yes.”
Hartwell recoiled. “What? You can’t be serious.”
“As my partner said, you were very passionate in your insistence that these two were guilty.”
“And that means I killed them?”
“At the moment, we’re not prepared to say that,” Kate backpedaled, “but maybe you can help us understand the killer’s motives.
What would it feel like to be convinced, to know that two people were guilty of murder only for them to escape justice not because it was proven that they weren’t guilty or even decided by a jury that they’re not guilty but instead because of a technicality, a glitch in the system, if you will?
Hartwell’s lips thinned. She took a deep breath and said, “It’s hard.
I’ll admit that. I felt as though I had wronged the victims somehow by not advocating for them enough.
I had to seek some therapy to overcome those emotions.
But as you’ve hinted, the fault lies not with me but with the justice system.
These loopholes exist, and sometimes, guilty people get away with murder. ”
“It’s not right, is it?” Kate said. “It almost makes you wish that someone would turn the tables on them.”
Hartwell chuckled and got to her feet. “Okay. I think it’s time for this conversation to end. If you two wish to ask for my assistance, I’m happy to provide it. If you intend to charge me with the commission of a crime, then you need to talk with my lawyer.”
She gestured for the door, and Marcus frowned. “Hey, quick question, doctor. Why do you have a picture of Michelle Santos’s house on your desk?”
Hartwell jumped and looked in horror at the photograph sitting next to her keyboard.
From where Kate was, she couldn’t see it, but when she joined Marcus by the bookcase, she spotted the photograph.
It was indeed an image of Michelle Santos’s house in Buffalo Grove, taken in winter and blanketed by snow but clearly the same house.
Hartwell’s eyes were huge. She flicked her eyes between the agents, trying to determine if she should answer or not. Finally, she said, “I wasn’t aware it was Michelle Santos’s house. I was taking pictures for a photography project of mine.”
“Yeah? Cool! I love photography. Do you have anything I can see?”
“No,” she said curtly.
“Hmm. Got it. Only here’s the thing. I can also see your computer. Your screen saver is Derek Hammond’s house.”
Kate raised an eyebrow. Dr. Hartwell seemed to have shrunk into herself. Her full lips were bloodless, no mean feat considering her lipstick. Her shoulders were rigid, her hands clenched into fists. Kate looked above the desk and whistled. “Nice knife.”
Marcus looked that way and added his own whistle. “Pugio, right?”
Hartwell swallowed. “Lawyer.”
“You might need one,” Kate said honestly. “In the meantime, we’re going to confiscate the knife and photograph and take a picture of your screensaver under plain view doctrine. We’ll be seeking a search warrant for this office as well.”
Hartwell’s eyes snapped up. Marcus grabbed the knife and photograph and pulled his phone out to snap the screensaver. She looked between the two of them and said, “I didn’t kill them. I would never use violence. It never solves anything.”
“What about removing a violent person? You don’t think that’s worthwhile?”
She licked her lips. “I didn’t kill them.”
“The screensaver is the part I don’t get,” Kate said. “Why put Derek Hammond’s house as your screensaver? Unless, of course, you were fixated on him for some reason.”
“I’m not…” She clammed up again. “Get out. Get your warrant and come back, but in the meantime, get out.”
“We will,” Kate said. “But we’ll be back very soon. I strongly recommend you don’t do anything rash.”
“Just get out.”
Kate and Marcus left the room with their evidence in hand.
The receptionist nearly bumped into them.
She squeaked and gripped Marcus’s arms to steady herself.
A flush instantly reddened her pale cheeks, and Marcus cleared his throat and extricated himself.
Kate would have been amused by this if they weren’t on the cusp of a possible break in the case.
The receptionist passed them, opened the office door, and said, “Dr. Hartwell, Mr. Ratner is here for his… What are you doing?”
Kate turned around to see Hartwell kneeling on the floor in front of a shredder. She had a sheaf of papers in her hand and a deer in the headlights look on her face.
Kate’s eyes narrowed. “Marcus, get us an e-warrant ASAP. Call Whitaker as well. Tell him we’re arresting Dr. Rachel Hartwell on suspicion of obstruction and destruction of evidence.”
The receptionist surprised Kate by managing to pale even more than her natural skin tone. She excused herself with an unintelligible mutter and practically ran to the front of the office.
Hartwell turned back to the shredder, still clutching the papers in her hand. Kate stepped back into the office and pulled the plug. Hartwell didn’t move.
Kate tried a final time to break through. “Look, I get it. It sucks to think that murderers are allowed to get away with killing innocent people. Someone has to do something about that, right?”
Hartwell swallowed and repeated, “Lawyer,” in a reedy voice.
“You’ll get one,” Kate promised. “One last question. How does the Lawgiver talk to you? He’s supposed to be in solitary.”
Hartwell’s brow furrowed. “What? What are you talking about?”
“Never mind. We’ll follow up on that later.”
She hid her frustration by turning around and making eye contact with Marcus, who was on the phone arranging a pickup for Hartwell and a search warrant for them.
Hartwell’s confusion about the Lawgiver seemed genuine, but Kate was certain the connection was there.
It had all the signs. Cox had to be a part of this.
But how did the sixth commandment fit? All the other killings had been connected somehow to her past. These ones didn’t seem to apply at all.
Or maybe, just maybe, her worst fears were coming true. This had nothing to do with Cox at all. The killer had simply adopted his MO, inspired by him without being proselytized. The Antichrist had been cast into prison, but Hell had already followed and now ran rampant across his Earth.