‘The pictures we all received,’ Darby said. ‘Is there any way they can be traced back to their original source?’

‘I gave my phone to the Nerd Herd, who are examining them right now – that’s all I know.’

‘Where do we stand on the court order to access the medical records?’ Darby wanted to know if anyone in the Downes family had been taking the antibiotic neomycin.

‘Hayes is working on it,’ Coop said. ‘Any other questions?’

There weren’t any.

‘Okay, a couple of things before I go,’ Coop said. ‘First is the MoFo. The satellite part is going to be delivered no later than one. After that, it’ll take a couple of hours to install. Moment it’s done we’ll be on our way. If, for whatever reason, there’s a delay, we’re going to hit the road no later than four or so. They’re saying a major storm’s working its way towards Colorado tonight, dumping anywhere from three to five feet before it’s finished.’

Robinson nodded from across the desk.

‘Second thing is the duct tape,’ Coop said. ‘Based upon what I’ve seen, I’m pretty sure it all came from the same roll. There’s nothing more I can do with it here, so I FedExed it out this morning. They’ll get to our lab no later than 9 a.m. tomorrow. Since your cells aren’t that reliable up there, if I need anything or have anything to report, I’ll liaise with Chief Robinson. That work for you?’

Robinson nodded. Then he remembered he was on speakerphone. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Absolutely. Anything you need.’

Coop clicked off. Darby flipped her notebook shut. It was too warm in here, and cobwebs had formed in her mind. She wanted to get moving. Get busy. She stood and picked up her jacket.

‘Where you off to now?’ Robinson asked.

‘I’m going back to the hotel to investigate how the Red Hill Ripper discovered my room number.’ She checked her watch: plenty of time before the autopsies. ‘If you see Williams, tell him to meet me there.’

‘So you’re on board with the idea that the man who called you last night is, in fact, our killer,’ Robinson said.

‘We’ll see.’ Darby placed the car keys on the desk, in front of Hoder. ‘In case you need to go back to the hotel.’

‘How are you going to get there?’

‘Walk. It’s only a couple miles. The fresh air will do me good, help me clear my head.’

Hoder gripped the cane with both hands and groaned as he struggled to his feet. ‘I’ll see you out.’

25

‘Let me guess,’ Darby said after Hoder shut the police chief’s door. ‘You want to chaperone me to the hotel.’

‘If I walked with you, we wouldn’t arrive until sometime after lunch. Besides, after that tongue lashing you gave Robinson, I wouldn’t dream of suggesting such a thing.’ Hoder smiled warily. ‘How about we step outside for a moment and get us some fresh air?’

Darby slipped on her sunglasses and zipped up her jacket on her way out of the station. It was cold in the shade but the parking lot was bathed in sunlight. The air embraced her like a long-lost friend and kicked away the exhaustion and the station’s stale, antiseptic odour from her nostrils.

Hoder shuffled to a nearby patrol car, which was covered in a film of rock salt. He leaned the small of his back against the truck and seemed unable to catch his breath. Were his lungs having problems adjusting to the higher altitude, or was he sick? His face had a deathly pallor, and she saw his hands tremble.

‘There was this sexual sadist, guy by the name of Carlos Santos, who killed twenty-three people in and around southern New Mexico. Brought each one to a homemade torture chamber he’d constructed himself. Called it the “toy box”. I don’t need to spell out what happened there.’

‘Was he caught?’

‘Eventually.’ Hoder’s attention had drifted to the main road, where a solitary truck with mud tyres made its way towards Red Hill’s barren downtown district, a place that resembled the kind of ghost town seen in a Clint Eastwood Western.

Darby shifted on her feet, impatient, wanting Hoder to get to the point behind this impromptu powwow so she could start moving. In deference to his status and obviously frail health, she decided to keep her mouth shut. She stuffed her hands into her jacket pockets and waited.

‘I wasn’t actively involved in the investigation; I was there just as a consultant,’ Hoder said. ‘I spent three or four days with people from the local police and sheriff’s office. The phone calls to my home started a week later.’

‘From Santos?’

‘Maybe. Probably. Santos killed himself before anyone could speak to him. Later we found out the phone calls had been made within one or two hours after Santos had abducted his victims. My home number has a longstanding trap-and-trace, but it didn’t matter, since all the calls originated from payphones.’

Hoder wiped spittle from his lips with the back of his hand. ‘I tried to engage him in conversation but he never spoke. A couple of times, though, he cried. I was sure he was reaching out to me because he was trying to stop. You know what ricin is?’

‘A poison derived from castor-oil seeds.’

Hoder nodded. ‘When castor oil is made, ricin is what they call the “waste mash”. It’s a very stable poison. Doesn’t break down easily in extreme indoor or outdoor temperatures. It can be used as a powder or a mist, or as a pellet that dissolves in water. You don’t need to use a lot – a pin-sized amount is enough to kill an adult. The ER doctor who treated me managed to keep my organs from shutting down, but there was no way to repair the damage. Now you know why I look like I’m standing at death’s door.’ He smiled grimly, as if the act defused the memory. ‘I still don’t know how Santos did it.’

‘But you’re sure it was him.’

‘Yes. Absolutely. Santos was a chemist. The police found ricin in his torture chamber. Later, they found out he had booked a round-trip ticket to Virginia. We still don’t know how he found out where I lived, my home number or how he poisoned me.’

‘He refused to tell you?’

‘He killed himself. The police showed up at his house: Santos went upstairs to his bedroom and ate his gun.’

A sudden blast of wind kicked a nearby Styrofoam cup and candy-bar wrapper across the pavement.

‘The Bureau checked every square inch of my home – food and clothing, garbage, even my mail. My gut – what’s left of it – tells me he did it at the restaurant, where I met a friend for drinks. It was the only time I went out that week. Three days later, I was sick.’

Darby glanced discreetly at her watch. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

Hoder refocused his attention on her, squinting in the sunlight. ‘Because I don’t think you entirely understand or appreciate the predatory psychology of a sexual sadist.’

There was no admonishment or lecture-type quality to his tone. He spoke simply and frankly, one professional to another.

‘A great white shark doesn’t feel guilt when it attacks a seal or a surfer,’ Hoder said. ‘It doesn’t feel empathy or remorse or anything else, because it doesn’t have a conscience. When it’s finished, it simply swims off in search of other prey. A sexual sadist functions in exactly the same manner but with one major distinction: when it sights its prey, it waits and plans the perfect moment to strike. The victim never sees it coming.’

Darby said nothing. She didn’t disagree with Hoder’s assessment; that had been her experience as well. She didn’t say anything because her thoughts had drifted away from the conversation again. Something nagged at her and she couldn’t put a finger on it. Not yet.

Hoder wasn’t finished. ‘The Red Hill Ripper is the worst kind of sadist – an anger-excitation rapist who is not only highly intelligent but also has a high level of control over his surroundings. Just look at how meticulously he moved in and out of the Downes home.’

‘He didn’t rape any of his victims. The phone call, the photos of me – he’s trying to scare me off.’