"Damn shame. Thanks for the spot, Dallas. I'll be in touch."

"Do that." Eve watched her stroll out, had no doubt Nadine was making tracks to Booking. And that Selina Cross was going to have her name broadcast by the end of the noon report.

All in all, she decided, not a bad morning.

Wincing, she dragged through her drawers hoping for a first aid kit.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"I won't make it home." Eve juggled the call to Roarke while her computer searched for all data on David Baines Conroy. "Can you swing by here about six? We can drive upstate for the witch party."

Roarke lifted an elegant brow. "As long as it's not in your vehicle." He frowned, gestured. "Come a little closer to the screen. What now?" he asked.

"What do you mean, 'What now'? I'm busy."

"No, your neck."

"Oh, that." She touched her fingers to the still-raw scratches. She'd never found that first aid kit. "A difference of opinion. I won."

"Naturally. Put something on it, Lieutenant. I should be able to make it there by six thirty. We can eat on the way."

"Fine." Eat on the way? "Wait a minute. Don't bring the limo."

He only smiled. "Six thirty."

"I mean it, Roarke, don't – " She hissed when the screen blanked. "Damn." With a sigh, she swiveled back to the computer.

The IRCCA was a fount of data on this one, she thought, she skimmed through, pausing over pertinent facts on David Baines Conroy.

Divorced, one child, male, Charles, born January 22, 2025, custody awarded to mother, Ellen Forte.

Big surprise, Eve thought. Mass murderers weren't generally given custody of minor children. "Let's get down to it," she murmured. "Charges and convictions."

Charged and convicted, Murder in the first, torture killing, posthumous rape, and dismemberment of Doreen Harden, mixed race female, age 23. Sentenced to life, maximum facility, no parole option.

Charged and convicted, Murder in the first, rape, torture killing, and dismemberment of Emma Tangent, black female, age 25. Sentenced to life, maximum facility, no parole option.

Charged and convicted, Murder in the first, sodomy, rape, torture killing, and dismemberment of Lowell McBride, white male, age 18. Sentenced to life, maximum facility, no parole option.

Charged and convicted, Murder in the first, rape, torture killing, and dismemberment of Darla Fitz, mixed race female, age 23. Sentenced to life, maximum facility, no parole options.

Charged and convicted, Murder in the first, sodomy, posthumous rape, torture killing, and dismemberment of Martin Savoy, mixed race male, age 20. Sentenced to life, maximum facility, no parole options.

Currently serving term on Penal Station Omega.

Suspected of twelve additional murders, cases open. Insufficient evidence to charge. Primary investigators available on request.

"List primaries," Eve ordered and watched as names and data scrolled. "Moved around, did you, Conroy?'' she muttered, noting that the detectives in charge were scattered all over the country.

She'd still been a teenager when Conroy had dominated the news. She remembered snatches, weeping family members begging Conroy to tell them where to find the remains of loved ones, grim-faced cops giving statements, and Conroy himself, a quiet face slashed with vicious, dark eyes.

They'd called him evil, she remembered. The Antichrist. That was the term used over and over again to describe him, to try, perhaps, to separate him from the human.

But he'd been human enough to conceive a child. A son. And that son was on her current list of suspects. Maybe, just maybe, she'd been focused too relentlessly on Selina Cross.

The son was drawn to power, she mused. Witchcraft was about power, wasn't it? He'd known at least one of the victims. And two had been killed with a knife. Conroy had been very handy with a knife.

He'd also claimed to have been the instrument of a god, she recalled, scanning data. Yes, there, there in one of his rambling statements. She highlighted. "Give me audio on this."

Working…

"I am a force beyond you," Conroy's voice crooned out, beautiful diction, almost musical. The son's voice, Eve thought, was equally charismatic. "I am the instrument of the god of vengeance and pain. What I do in his name is grand. Tremble before me for I will never be vanquished. I am legion."

"You are garbage," Eve corrected. Legion. Cross had used the same term. Interesting… Had Conroy dabbled in Satanism, she wondered, in witchcraft? And had the son been attracted to the same areas?

Just how much, she wondered, did Charles Forte know about his father's work? And how did he feel about it?

"Computer, run Charles Forte of this city, formerly Charles Conroy, son of David Baines Conroy, all data.

Working…

As the information beeped on, she tapped her fingers on the desk and considered. The mother had taken her son to New York, which meant, Eve mused, that the boy had traveled back to attend the trial. He'd made the effort, likely over his mother's objections. Dropped out of college, second term. Studied pharmaceuticals. Very interesting. Licensed as a chemical drone, worked on drug cloning and manufacture. Moved around quite a bit, she noted. Like his dear old dad. Then settled back in New York, co-owner of Spirit Quest.

She leaned back, unconsciously rubbing her wounded throat. No marriages, no children, no arrests. She played a hunch.

"Medical data."

Charles Forte, age six, broken hand. Age six, minor concussion, abdominal bruising. Age seven, second-degree bums, forearms. Age seven, concussion and fractured tibia.

The list went on through childhood in a pattern that made Eve's stomach clench. "Hold. Probability of child abuse?"

Probability ninety-eight percent.

"Why the hell wasn't it picked up?"

Medical records indicate treatment was issued at varying hospitals in varying cities over course of ten years. No record of requested search through National Child Abuse Prevention Agency.

"Idiots. Idiots." She rubbed her hands over her face, pressing hard on the headache now brewing in the center of her forehead. It was too close to home.

"List any psychiatric treatment or available psychological profiles."

Subject entered Miller Clinic voluntarily as outpatient. Doctor of record, Ernest Renfrew from February 2045 to September 2047. Files sealed. No other data.

"Okay, that's enough to chew on. Save data, file Forte, Charles, case number 34299-H. Cross-reference, Conroy. Disengage when complete."

She glanced up as Feeney stuck his head in her doorway. "Cross just got sprung."

"Well, it was too good to last."

"You have anybody look at those cat scratches?"

"I will. Got a minute?"

"Sure."

"David Baines Conroy."

Feeney whistled, made himself comfortable on the corner of her desk. "That's going back. Sick bastard. Cut his victims up when he was done with them. Kept the parts in a portable cold box. Had a trailer, traveled around. Preaching."

"Preaching?"

"Well, that's not exactly the term. Set himself up as a sort of Antichrist. Lots of shit about anarchy, freedom to pursue carnal pleasures, opening the gates of Hell. That sort of thing. Figures he plucked most of his victims off the road. Itinerant LCs. At least three they pinned him on were licensed companions. Hookers have always been easy marks for psychos."

"He was found competent to stand trial."

"Passed the tests. Legally, he was sane. In reality, a real whacko."

"He had a family."

"Yeah, yeah, that's right." Feeney closed his eyes to try to bring it back. "I was still working Homicide then, and there wasn't a cop on planet who wasn't personally caught up by the case. Never did any of his work here, that we know of, but I remember he had a wife. Pale, jumpy little woman. Left him – before he got snagged seems to me. And there was a kid, a boy. Spooky."