"Monster" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kellerman Jonathan)

Chapter 10

Milo's jaw was too smooth: forced relaxation. "I've heard of Peake."

So had I.

A long time ago. I'd been in grad school-at least fifteen years before.

Heidi Ott's calm was real. She'd been a grade-school kid. Her parents would have shielded her from the details.

I remembered the facts the papers had printed.

A farm town named Treadway, an hour north of L.A. Walnuts and peaches, strawberries and bell peppers. A pretty place, where people still left their doors unlocked. The papers had made a big deal out of that.

Ardis Peake's mother had worked as a maid and cook for one of the town's prominent ranch families. A young couple. Inherited wealth, good looks, a big old frame house, a two-story house-what was their name? Peake's name was immediately familiar. What did that say?

I recalled snippets of biography. Peake, born up north in Oregon, a logging camp, father unknown. His mother had cooked for the tree men.

As far as anyone could tell, she and the boy had drifted up and down the coast for most of Ardis's childhood. No school registrations were ever found, and when Peake and his mother Greyhounded into Treadway, he was nineteen and illiterate, preternaturally shy, obviously different.

Noreen Peake scrubbed tavern floors until landing the job at the ranch. She lived in the main house, in a maid's room off the kitchen, but Ardis was put in a one-room shack behind a peach orchard.

He was gawky, mentally dull, so quiet many townspeople thought him mute. Unemployed, with too much time on his hands, he was ripe for mischief. But his sole offenses were some paint-sniffing incidents out behind the Sinclair store, broad-daylight acts so reckless they confirmed his reputation as retarded. The ranch owners finally gave him a job of sorts: rat catcher, gopher killer, snake butcher. The farm's human terrier.

His territory was the five acres immediately surrounding the house. His task could never be completed, but he took to it eagerly, often working late into the night with pointed stick and poison, sometimes crawling in the dirt-keeping his nose to the ground, literally.

A dog's job assigned to a man, but by all accounts Peake had found his niche.

It all ended on a cool, sweet Sunday morning, two hours before dawn.

His mother was found first, a heavy, wide woman sitting in a faded housedress at the kitchen table, a big plate of Granny Smith apples in front of her, some of them cored and peeled. A sugar bowl, white flour, and a stick of butter on a nearby counter said it would have been a pie-baking day. A pot roast was in the oven and two heads of cabbage had been chopped for coleslaw. Noreen Peake was an insomniac, and all-night cooking sprees weren't uncommon.

This one ended prematurely. She'd been decapitated. Not a neat incision. The head lay on the floor, several feet from her chair. Nearby was a butcher knife still flecked with cabbage. Another knife from the same cutlery set-heavier, larger- had been removed from the rack.

Bloody sneaker prints led to a service staircase. On the third floor of the house, the young rancher and his wife lay in bed, covers tossed aside, embracing. Their heads had been left on, though severed jugulars and tracheas said it wasn't for lack of effort. The big knife had seared through flesh but failed at bone. Facial crush wounds compounded the horror.

A gore-encrusted baseball bat lay on the floor in front of the footboard. The husband's bat; he'd been a high school slugger, a champ.

The papers made a big deal about how good-looking the couple had been in life-what was their name… Ardullo. Mr. and Mrs. Ardullo. Golden couple, everything to live for. Their faces had been obliterated.

Down the hall, the children's bedrooms. The older one, a five-year-old girl, was found in her closet. The coroner guessed she'd heard something and hid. The big knife, badly bent but intact, had been used on her. The papers spared its readers further details.

A playroom separated her room from the baby's. Toys were strewn everywhere.

The baby was an eight-month-old boy. His crib was empty.

Fading sneaker prints led back down to the laundry room and out a rear door, where the trail lightened to specks along a winding stone path and disappeared in the dirt bordering the kitchen garden.

Ardis Peake was found in his shack-a wood-slat and tar-paper thing rancid with the stink of a thousand dogs. But no animals lived there, just Peake, naked, unconscious on a cot, surrounded by empty paint cans and glue tubes, flasks bearing the label of a cheap Mexican vodka, an empty filled with urine. A plastic packet frosted with white crystal residue was found under the cot. Methamphetamine.

Blood smeared the rat catcher's mouth. His arms were red-drenched to the elbows, his hair and bedding burgundy. Gray-white specks in his hair were found to be human cerebral tissue. At first he was thought to be another victim.

But he stirred when prodded. Later, everything washed off.

Fast asleep.

A scorching smell compounded the reek.

No stove in the shack, just a hot plate powered by an old car battery. A tin wastebasket serving as a saucepan had been left on the heat. The metal was too thin; the bottom was starting to burn through, and the stench of charring tin lent a bitter overlay to the reek of offal, putrid food, unwashed clothes.

Something else. Heady. A stew. The baby's pajamas on the floor, covered by flies. Ardis Peake had never been one for cooking. His mother had always taken care of that. This morning, he'd tried.

Heidi Ott said, "I never heard of him till I came to Starkweather. Way before my time."

"So you know what he did," said Milo.

"Killed a family. It's in his chart. Claire told me about it before she asked me to work with him, said he'd been non-violent since commitment but I should know what I was dealing with. I said fine. What he did was horrible, but you don't end up at Starkweather for shoplifting. I took the job in the first place because I was interested in the endpoint."

"The endpoint?"

"The extreme-how low people can go."

She turned to me, as if seeking approval.

I said, "Extremes interest you?"

"I think extremes can teach us a lot. What I'm trying to say is, I wanted to see if I was really cut out for mental-health work, figured if I could handle Starkweather, I could cope with anything."

Milo said, "But the job ended up being repetitious."

"There's a lot of routine. I guess I was naive, thinking I was going to see fascinating things. Between their medication and their disabilities, most of the guys are pretty knocked out-passive. That's what I meant by baby-sitting. We make sure they get fed and stay reasonably clean, keep them out of trouble, give them time out when they pull tantrums, the same as you'd do with a little kid. Same thing over and over, shift after shift."

"Dr. Argent was new to the job," I said. "Any idea if she liked it?"

"She seemed to."

"Did she talk about why she'd transferred from County General?"

"No. She didn't talk much. Only work-related stuff, nothing personal."

"Was she assigned to Ardis Peake, or did she choose to work with him?"

"I think she chose to-the doctors have a lot of freedom. We techs are pretty much bound by routine."

"Did she say why she wanted to work with Peake?"

She stroked her ponytail, arched her back. "All I remember her saying about him was that he was a challenge. Because of how low-functioning he was. If we could increase his behavioral repertoire, we could do it for anyone. That appealed to me."

"Learning from the extreme."

"Exactly."

"What about the Skills for Daily Living group?" I said. "What was her goal there?"

"She wanted to see if the men could learn to take better care of themselves-grooming, basic manners, paying attention when someone else spoke. Even with their psychosis."

"How were men picked for the group?"

"Claire picked them. I was just there to assist."

"See any progress?"

"Slow," she said. "We only had seven sessions. Tomorrow would've been eight." She swiped at her eyes.

"Any particular disciplinary problems in the group?"

"Nothing unusual. They have their moods; you have to be firm and consistent. If you're asking if any of them resented her, not at all. They liked her. Everyone did."

Tug. She chewed her cheek, arched her back again. "It really stinks. She was a good teacher, very patient. I can't believe anyone would want to hurt her."

"Even though she didn't get personal," said Milo, "did she tell you anything about her life outside work?"

"No. I'm sorry-I mean, you just didn't sit down for coffee with her."

Yet she referred to Claire by her first name. The instant familiarity of Gen X.

She said, "I really wish I could tell you more. The thing about Peake-it's nothing, right?"

"Probably nothing," said Milo. "But I will want to talk to him."

She shook her head. "You don't talk to him. Not in any normal way. Most of the time he's totally spaced. It took Claire and me months just to get him to pay attention."

"Well," said Milo, "we'll see what happens."

She reached back, pulled a leaf from the tree, and ground it between her fingers. "I guess I expected that. Better brace myself for a lecture from Swig. I probably should've gone through him first."

"Want me to run interference for you?"

"No, I can handle it. At least I know I did the right thing- time to move on, anyway. Maybe do some work with children."

"How much more school do you have?" I said.

"One more year for a bachelor's, then graduate work. I'm paying for it all, so it'll take time. One thing about Starkweather, the pay's good. But I'll find something."

Milo said, "So you're definitely leaving?"

"Can't see any reason not to."

"Too bad. You might be able to help some more."

"Help how?"

"By trying to draw Peake out again."

Her laugh was skittish. "No thanks, Detective Sturgis. I don't want to get any more involved. And he doesn't really talk to me, either."

"He did the day before Claire was killed."

"That was-I don't know what that was all about," she said.

Milo smiled. "I can't convince you, huh?"

She smiled back. "I don't think so."

"Think of it as learning more about extremes-a challenge."

"If I want a challenge now, I rock-climb."

"A climber," said Milo. "I'm afraid of heights."

"You get used to it. That's the point. I like all sorts of challenges-physical things-climbing, parasaih'ng, skydiving.

Getting physical's especially important when you work in a place like Starkweather. Having to watch yourself all the time, but no exercise, no movement. Anyway…" She looked at her watch. "I'd really like to go now, okay?"

"Okay."

She shook our hands, walked away with an easy athletic stride.

Milo said, "So what the hell is this thing with Peake all about?"

"Probably nothing," I said. "He muttered something; normally Heidi wouldn't have noticed. After Claire was murdered, she got scared."

"Little Ms. Daredevil?"

"Jumping out of planes is one thing. Murder's another."

" 'Dr. A bad eyes in a box,' " he said. "What if it's not pure gibberish? What if Peake had a buddy who got out? Someone who told him he was gonna do something bad to Claire?"

"It doesn't sound as if Peake has buddies. Heidi said he rooms alone, no one wants to associate with him. But maybe. Let's have a closer look at him."

"Ardis Peake," he said. "Long time since he did his thing. Sixteen years ago. I know exactly, because I'd just started Homicide, first thing they hand me is a screwed-up whodunit, I'm sweating over it, not getting anywhere, wondering if I went into the wrong line of work. A few days later Peake does his thing over in Whateverville, some local yokel sheriff solves it the same day. I remember thinking some people have all the luck: asshole just hands himself over on a platter with garnish. Few years later, when I took that VICAP course at Quantico, the Fibbies used Peake as a teaching case, said he was typical of the disorganized spree killer, just about defined the profile: raving lunatic with poor hygiene, mind coming apart at the seams, no serious effort to hide the crime. 'Bad eyes in a box'-so now he's gone from psycho to prophet?"

"Or he overheard another patient say something and repeated it. I just can't see him involved in Claire's murder. Because he is disorganized. Borderline intelligence. And whoever murdered Claire-and Richard-planned meticulously."

"That's assuming Peake really is that messed up."

"You think he's been faking all his life?"

"You tell me-is it possible?"

"Anything's possible, but I'd say it's highly unlikely. You're saying he's part of some murderous duo? Then why would he brag about it? On the other hand, a guy like that, withdrawn, never talks, someone might figure he's not tuned in, let down their guard around him, say something interesting. If that's what happened, maybe Peake can focus enough to tell you who it was."

"Back to Bedlam," he said. "Peachy."

We headed out of the park, toward our cars.

I said, "One thing's consistent with what we were just saying about Claire. Picking Peake as a project because she wanted serious pathology. But what if something else happened along the way? In her attempt to open Peake up, she opened herself up-had the poor judgment to talk about herself. In therapist jargon, it's called self-disclosure, and we're taught to be careful about it. But people mess up all the time-focusing on themselves instead of the patient. Claire's specialty was neuropsych. As a psychotherapist, she was a novice."

"She never got personal, but with Peake she related?"

"Precisely because Peake couldn't relate back."

"So," he said, "she tells him something about a box, bad eyes… whatever the hell that means, and he spits it back."

"Maybe a box refers to some kind of bondage game."

"Back to dominance… You really see her that way?"

"I'm just throwing out suggestions," I said. "Maybe Claire selected Peake out of some great sense of compassion. Robin disagrees with my impression of Claire's house. She says it just sounds like Claire wanted privacy."

"Something else," he said. "Something that made my little heart go plink-a-plink when Heidi mentioned Peake's name. At Quantico, his case summary was passed around. I remember relatively seasoned guys looking at the photos and groaning; a couple had to leave the room. It was beyond butchery, Alex. I wasn't a hardened bastard yet. All I could do was skim."

He stopped so suddenly that I walked past him several steps.

"What?" I said.

"One of the photos," he said. "One of the kids. The older one. Peake took the eyes."