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“Pathologist’s report.”
Her hands loosen. “I need a drink.”
“I’m sure you do, but don’t take one. Honor your son.”
Vera gives a shaky laugh. “Honor my son? Do you hear yourself?”
“Yes. I hear myself.”
“I need to call my sponsor. Will you stay with me until she comes?”
“Yes,” Jerome says. And he does.
August 4, 2021
Holly is at home watching a Netflix comedy without really seeing it, just marking time until she can take another pain pill (or she may double-dip), when her buzzer goes. It’s Isabelle Jaynes, and she has company: Herbert Beale and another FBI man named Curtis Rogan. Rogan, a profiler who specializes in serial killers, flew in with the FBI team.
Izzy asks Holly if she’s seen that day’s paper. Holly read the headline on her iPad—WERE THEY CANNIBALS?—and that’s enough for her. “I guess the DA will have to have that press conference now.”
“He and Chief Murphy are set for noon. The coverage won’t just be local, either. I have to believe Randall Murphy is thanking his lucky stars that he was still in Minneapolis when all of them except Bonnie Dahl were taken. The reason we’re here is because of what our forensics guys and the FBI team found in the Harris bedroom closet.”
“What?” Thinking, what now?
“Diaries,” Herbert Beale says. “Hers. She started keeping them in October of 2012, shortly before the murder of Jorge Luis Castro. Agent Rogan here has been studying them.”
“I’ve got a long way to go,” Rogan says. “There’s over a thousand pages.” He’s a soft-spoken man with short, thinning hair and rimless spectacles. “Fascinating stuff.”
“Terrifying stuff,” Izzy says. “I’ve read enough to say that while they were both crazy, she was the crazier of the two. By far.”
“I think further study will bear that out,” Rogan says. “I don’t believe Rodney Harris would have done much more than… what’s the word? Fume, perhaps? He wouldn’t have done much more than fume at how hidebound his colleagues were and how irrational the taboo was against eating human flesh.”
“She talked him into the first one, didn’t she?” Holly says. “She pitched him on using Castro as a way for her husband to go from the theoretical to the practical. Conception to execution. Because she disliked Castro.”
“Disliked?” Izzy says, and laughs. “Oh, Holly, you have no idea. She hated him. And not just him—she had plenty of hate to go around. Beneath that well-groomed and pleasantly authoritative surface, Emily Harris was a balls-to-the-wall psychotic. Let me show you an example of the Ms. Hyde that was underneath Professor Jekyll.”
She turns her iPad to Holly. On the screen is a photo of a diary page. Written over and over again, like a bad child who has to write I will not throw spitballs in class, is this: I HATE THAT SPIC I HATE THAT FUCKING SPIC I HATE THAT FAGGOT SPIC I HATE THAT BUTT-PUNCHING FAGGOT SPIC… and so on.
“Four more pages of just that,” Izzy says.
Rogan says, “In these diaries is an Emily Harris who never attended the English Department meetings. And I’m just getting started.”
“Here’s another one,” Izzy says. She swipes to a new photo. On this page of her diary, Emily has written the n-word over and over, in big, screaming capitals. There are other pejoratives, as well.
“We’re thinking she kept her hate-diaries even from her husband,” Herbert Beale says, “but we’ll never know for sure unless she says so in here.”
“This stuff is gold,” Rogan says.
“I’d use another word for it,” Holly says.
“I mean from a psychological standpoint. One thing seems clear. She participated in the… the ingestion of Mr. Castro to please her husband. He insisted on it. But she speaks of it as a miracle cure for her back and for her husband’s arthritis. There were other imagined benefits, as well, including increased brainpower. Some of this stuff is like high-cable infomercials in hell. Eventually, though, the effects began to wear off.”
“So they did it again,” Holly says flatly. “And again.”
“They should have been caught after Castro,” Izzy says. “And if not after him, after Dressler. The wheelchair ploy was clever enough, and they did some background work, but their attempts to clean up afterward were strictly slipshod.”
“They were old,” Holly says quietly. “No one expects old people to be serial killers. Let alone cannibals.”
Izzy says, “If not for you, Holly, they’d probably still be living in that house and eating their hellish meals. ‘Oh,’ people would say, ‘he’s a little dotty and she’s a little crotchety, but they’re basically all right.’?”
