room, excitement in his voice and a tape cassette in his hand.
“Dr Prowse’s arrival was caught on security cameras at LaGuardia. I found two sections when she’s on camera. The first is by the baggage carousel, the second is going out the door. She seems normal, picking up her bag, heading out to grab a cab. She talks to a man beside her for a second. Probably small talk with another passenger.”
“Folger and her crew in?” Waltz asked.
“Due back shortly, but I don’t know exactly when.”
“Let’s get a preview.”
Cargyle wheeled a playback system into a conference room. He had a bag of tools and tape and electronic doohickeys slung over his skinny shoulder. His wristwatch had more buttons than my truck’s dashboard. He had not one but two skinny telephones. If Cargyle was like our Tech Services crew in Mobile, he read schematics instead of books.
“You just now find the footage?” I asked him.
“I’ve been at LaGuardia all night. Found one image at three, the other a half hour ago.”
“There all night, here all day? You ever sleep, buddy?”
Waltz said, “Cargyle’s assigned to the precinct, his training phase. I’m making sure he gets the full learning experience.”
“Full and more,” Cargyle grinned. The tape stuttered into action. The quality was better than your standard convenience-store cameras and I figured Homeland Security had a bigger budget than the Gas‘n’Gulp.
“Here’s the first segment,” Cargyle announced. “By the baggage carousel.”
I held my breath as Vangie stepped into the frame, flight bag over her shoulder. She ran to the carousel and snatched her suitcase. She paused, then spoke to a white-shirted man beside her, slender, facing away. The scene lasted all of five seconds.
“That’s snippet number one,” Cargyle said. “The second is a couple of seconds longer, but not much.”
The edited video jumped to the next scene. The camera was positioned above the door, the crowd herding tight for the exit like cattle down a chute.
“Here she comes,” Waltz whispered, picking Vangie from the on-rushing mob while she was still a blur. I leaned close to the screen. It took a second to discern the familiar features, the large eyes, dark and compact hair, rosebud lips. The eyes looked wary and tight with tension as Vangie exited the terminal with the slender man by her side, his head again canted away. At the last moment, he snapped his face toward the camera. His grin was ecstatic, his joy dominating the screen.
My spine turned to ice. I couldn’t choke back a gasp.
“What?” Waltz said. “You know him?”
“I’ve seen him before,” I whispered. “He’s a patient at the Institute. Brilliant and murderous and unpredictable.”
I didn’t add that he was my brother.
“The crazy’s name is what?” Folger asked.
“Jeremy Ridgecliff,” Waltz said. “He killed his father when he was sixteen, then brutally murdered five women. Ridgecliff has been in the Alabama Institute for Aberrational Behavior for over a dozen years.”
Folger turned to me. “Didn’t you say they never got out of that place?”
I barely heard her and made no response. I sat in the corner, stunned. Somehow, Jeremy had escaped and forced Vangie to New York. Vangie was dead, mercilessly and bizarrely mutilated by my brother.
Tell them, my mind said. Tell them he’s your brother. You’ve got to tell them now.
I opened my mouth to speak as Waltz waved everyone silent, holding up pages fresh from the fax machine. “Our first look at Ridgecliff. He likes knives, mutilation and symbolism. And he’s had years of incarceration to dream up new stuff. That’s the good news.”
A detective in the back of the room, Perlstein, looked up from his note-taking. “If that’s good, Shelly, what’s bad?”
“He has a higher IQ than anyone in this room, I’d wager. I’m talking maybe thirty points higher.”
Low whistles, groans. A killer with creative intelligence could be as elusive as a black shark in a midnight ocean.
Stand up and tell them, my mind repeated. They’re cops. You’re a cop.
Folger’s heels ticked on the floor as she paced. “Ridgecliff somehow coerced the Prowse woman into bringing him here, then killed her, no longer needed. What he did to her got him so juiced he had to do it again. Like Waltz said, this monster’s had years to let his fantasies cook. His feet barely hit pavement and we’ve got two women torn to bits.”
What would happen when I told them? I’d become their information machine, held distant from the investigation, used but not completely trusted. It was the smart thing to do. It’s what I would do in the same situation.
Waltz’s voice broke into my thoughts. “It was Detective Ryder who ID’d Ridgecliff, saving hundreds of man-hours. We all owe him a debt of gratitude.”
My face burned as the other faces in the room turned to me. Cop faces, my brethren, nodding thanks at me. I heard scattered handclaps. Folger walked over.
Tell her.
“Job well done, Detective. Waltz is right. We all owe you one.”
“Listen, Lieutenant, uh, I’d like to tell you about Ridgecliff. He’s –”
Folger’s hand, firm and cool, found its way into mine. “Sorry we got off on the wrong foot. You know how protective departments are about turf, right? You can head home and we’ll have Ridgecliff nailed in a day or two. Drop him back in the box. Or even better, lay him in the ground.”
“Bang,” Bullard said. “Problem solved.”
“Uh, listen, Lieutenant …”
But what if …What would change if …I said nothing. What was affected as long as I stayed near the investigation? Vangie could have mentioned Jeremy was my brother. Why didn’t she?
“Yes?” Folger said, a dark eyebrow raised.
“About Jeremy Ridgecliff …I’m part of a special unit that handles the edgy stuff, psychotics, sociopaths. I can help you more than you think.”
“We have homicidal crazies in New York, Ryder. I think the NYPD can handle –”
Waltz interrupted. “You recognized Ridgecliff right off the bat, Detective Ryder. Am I to assume you studied the suspect?”
I kept my face neutral and my voice even. “I have had conversations with Mr Ridgecliff. Quite a few, actually.”
Waltz turned to Folger. “Not only does Detective Ryder know a bit about Ridgecliff, it might speed up communication with Southern law enforcement if we had a liaison. And a local professional to interview the staff at the Institute.” Waltz looked to me. “You can handle the Southern pipeline on both counts, Detective Ryder?”
Though my heart was pounding like a hammer, I kept my voice nonchalant. “I have excellent contacts in the Alabama State Police and can have my partner handle interviews at the Institute. He’s experienced in psychological crimes.”
Folger said, “I don’t think we need –”
Waltz clapped his hands once, not applause, but finality. “That should settle things and sit well with the brass. Detective Ryder will be with us a few days longer. A consultant, if you will.”
Don’t