like he walked out of nowhere onto the pitcher’s mound at Yankee Stadium and threw a no-hitter. And he’s thrown nothing but no-hitters ever since.”
“What does that tell you?”
“Either he’s killed before, or …”
“Or he knows a lot about murder,” I finish.
Sean nods. “Yeah.”
“Who would know that?”
“A cop.”
“Who else?”
“Crime-scene tech. Forensic tech. Pathologist. True-crime reader.”
“Psychiatrist,” I say softly.
Sean looks unimpressed. “Maybe. What’s your point?”
“My point is that every killer makes mistakes the first time out. Maybe not a technical mistake. Maybe it’s just his choice of victim. Why was Colonel Moreland killed first? Was he random? I don’t think so. There’s got to be a reason.”
“Kaiser’s all over that kind of thing, Cat. The task force is taking apart every victim’s family.”
“Just bear with me. Any likely suspects in Moreland’s family? He’s not from here, right? Just retired here.”
“Yeah, but he’s got a daughter living here and a son in Biloxi. Daughter is Stacey Lorio, a registered nurse.” Sean shuffles through the pile of paper on the table and comes up with a five-by-seven photo. It shows a blonde woman in her midthirties with a hard-looking face. “Thirty-six years old, divorced. Works two jobs. A private clinic and nights at Touro Infirmary.”
“Alibis for the murders?”
“Rock solid.”
“The son?”
Sean comes up with another photo, this one a wallet-size shot of a good-looking man in a blue uniform. “Frank Moreland Junior. A major in the air force. Stationed at Keesler Air Force Base. Big family man. Medals out the yinyang. His alibis are bulletproof.”
“Neither one has any connection to Malik?”
“Not that we can find.”
“Shit.” I shift in my chair and take a sip of coffee. “Okay, forget that for now. Let’s talk about Malik’s patients. Do you know yet if James Calhoun has any family members who’ve been treated by Malik?”
The hint of a smile plays across Sean’s lips. “You’re gonna love this.”
“What?”
“Malik’s still refusing to hand over that information.”
“He hasn’t given you the names of his patients yet?”
“Nope. He’s arguing doctor-patient privilege.”
“That won’t hold up in a case like this, will it?”
Sean shakes his head. “No. We can show a judge a strong likelihood that the killer is choosing his victims from Malik’s patient base. That creates a situation of imminent danger, which is a public safety issue. That should override the privilege.”
Sean knows what he’s talking about. Three years ago, he earned a law degree by going to night school. He didn’t really want to, but after being wounded in the line of duty, he let his wife persuade him that a career change was in order. Hoping to improve his marital situation—not to mention his financial one—Sean attended night school while working full-time as a detective. He graduated seventh in his class, retired from the force, and went to work for a criminal defense firm. In less than six months he was going crazy. His wife pleaded with him to try working for the district attorney, but Sean despised the man. He told her he was going back to police work, and that she would have to deal with it. She did not deal with it well.
“Our UNSUB isn’t actually killing Dr. Malik’s patients,” I point out, using the FBI’s jargon for “unknown subject.” “He’s killed relatives of two patients. That’s all you can prove. Maybe Malik is relying on that to shield his records from the police.”
“Won’t hold up,” Sean says with certainty. “A judge will consider the privacy issue, but with our UNSUB killing so frequently, we’ll get the names of Malik’s patients, at the very least.”
“But not the records?”
“We should get those, too. Everything but private notes Malik takes during sessions.”
“Couldn’t those be important?”
“Obviously. But we won’t get them. Lots of precedent for that.”
I stand and begin to pace my kitchen. “The real question is, why is Malik holding this stuff back?”
“He claims his patients’ lives could be destroyed if things they’ve told him in confidence become public. He says some of them are at risk if it even becomes known they’re in therapy.”
Yesterday I suggested this rationale to Sean myself, but today—given the new victim—it seems a stretch. “At risk from whom?”
“He wouldn’t say. I’m assuming from family members, since the two women we know about kept the fact that they were seeing Malik secret from their families. Maybe from boyfriends?”
“What if Malik’s not the killer, but he’s shielding the killer?” I suggest.
“Then he’s an accessory to murder. If he has prior knowledge of a crime, he’s bound by law to try to prevent it. That means telling the police.”
I stop pacing. “What if he’s only told about the crime after the fact? Is he like a priest hearing it in confession?”
“Same principle.” Sean looks at the table, his lips pursed tightly. “Yes, I think that would fall under the privilege.”
I sense that I’m onto something. “What if a patient comes in four weeks in a row, and says, ‘I killed somebody a couple of days ago’?”
“Past conduct is protected under the privilege. If it weren’t, nobody would ever disclose anything to their shrink. Or to their priest, or their lawyer. Exceptions to the privilege are based on the risk of imminent harm.”
I take a banana from a bowl on the counter, start to peel it, then put it back. “Okay, so Malik could be shielding the killer. Legally. Why would he do that?”
“Because he’s an arrogant asshole. An academic who can’t even begin to imagine the reality of these murders.”
“A combat medic probably has a pretty good idea about the reality of murder.” As Sean concedes this with a sigh, I feel a sudden rush of excitement. “What if he’s shielding the killer because he believes the murders are justified?”
“Like a twisted moral stand?”
“Maybe
