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Detective Hilary lifted his glass and said, “To a life saved.”
“To a life saved,” Faith and Michael repeated.
They tilted their glasses back. The beer wasn’t Faith’s favorite—too sweet—but it was alcohol, and she figured if she drank enough of it, it would dull the aches and pains in her body and help her sleep on the plane ride home.
The four of them—Turk included—sat in a small conference room at the precinct. Their flight didn’t depart until the evening, so they joined Hilary in celebrating the successful closure of their case.
Turk barked and lifted his head. Faith chuckled at him and reached down to ruffle his fur.
“Did you guys ID the murderer yet?” Michael asked.
Hilary nodded. “Edgar Finch. Forty-five years old. He was a chemist for Dillon Laboratories in Calumet. Quit his job a month ago. Apparently, he was dying of congestive heart failure. Hewas on the transplant list, but I guess he wanted to find another way.”
“So was he always crazy or did he fall off the rails when he learned he was dying?” Michael asked.
Hilary shrugged. “Who knows? I used to wonder about the criminals I hunted. If they were always criminally inclined or if something happened to push them over the edge. Nature versus nurture, I guess. I don’t wonder anymore. I guess I’m getting cynical in my old age, but the way I see it is that people are made up of choices. Some people might have a harder time making certain choices than other people, but if you’re sane enough to hold down a job and pay your bills, then you’re sane enough not to murder people.”
“I get what you’re saying,” Michael said, “but he didn’t just kill people. He followed a ritual. And he did it for a purpose too. He wasn’t just enjoying the chance to kill people, he was trying hard to save his own life. Faith, you said he was begging for help at the end, right?”
The image of Edgar’s hand extended toward her flashed across her mind. She sipped some more of her beer and nodded. “Yes.”
“It seemed like he really believed this ritual would save him,” Michael finished.
“Maybe,” Hilary allowed. “But why was his life worth more than Lana Argyle’s? Why was it worth more than Cassidy Holt or Samantha Reynard or Lorraine Hayes?” He shook his head. “No, he made the choice to kill them and put his life ahead of theirs. And I can’t sympathize with that.”
Michael nodded. “Yeah. You’re right. I’m not arguing that anyone should sympathize with him. Hell, it’s not like he’s the only wacko I’ve ever seen either. Sometimes I just wonder how their heads work. The wackos, I mean. I just wish I knew which screws were loose in their heads so maybe we could figure outhow to screw them back on before they turn into killers.” He sipped his beer. “I guess we all feel that way every now and then.”
Hilary nodded. “The worst part is that his transplant would have come in this week.”
Faith lifted an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Really. I talked to his doctor earlier this morning. His transplant was scheduled to arrive in three days, and the surgery would have happened that evening. His doctor was adamant that if he had taken it easy and avoided stress, they would have been able to remove the defective heart, clean out all the excess fat and give him the transplant. Might not have given him an extra forty years, but the doctor was pretty sure he could make it fifteen. That’s a lot better than what he got.”
“Staring death in the face is hard,” Faith said. “You think you have what it takes to meet your end with dignity, but when it’s there, when it’sreal… it’s hard.”
She thought of Trammell’s wicked smile.Let’s see how you bleed, little girl.
She promised herself she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of screaming, but she had. She had screamed. She hadn’t begged, but she had pleaded silently for the pain to end.
“Still not an excuse,” Hilary said tersely.
"No," Faith agreed. "No, it isn't."
“What about Nina Verbeck?” Michael asked. “How did she manage to know exactly what to paint? Did she know Edgar?"
Hilary chuckled at that. “No, but she knew one of the crime scene photographers.”
“Ah.”
"Yeah. Kid took a few classes with her, and when she found out where he worked, she decided it would be fun to convince him to give her some crime scene photos. When we searchedher house, we found a whole box of them. Murders, overdoses, accidental deaths… bunch of macabre stuff."
“How did she convince him to do that?” Faith asked.
“How do you think.”
Michael made a face. Faith sighed. “See, that’s what I can’t understand. How do otherwise normal people glorify killers? How do sensible people look at someone like Edgar Finch or Franklin West or Jethro Trammell and admire them? I can understand pitying them to a point, but to admire them? To take joy in what they do?”
“Maybe it’s just a milder form of the same mental illness,” Michael suggested. “Nina glorifies violence. Not enough to kill people, maybe, but enough to seek it out. What’s weird to me is that she didn’t tell us that one of the CSIs took the photo.”
