Page 42

CHAPTER 42

HOLMES HAD DELIBERATELY left Oliver Paul hanging, without committing to help with the so-called Mother Murders. “Not sure I can take it on,” Holmes had said, “in light of my other obligations.” But that was pure misdirection. In his mind, he was already working the case. Maybe, he thought, this was an investigation he felt he could own and control. Alone.

He’d mulled over the facts, choosing to believe for the moment that Paul was relating them accurately. The consistent victim profile suggested a serial killer, except that the time span was too broad and the geography too scattered. Wandering murderers like Ted Bundy were rare. Holmes knew that most serial killers picked a hunting ground and stuck to it, like Jack the Ripper’s preference for Whitechapel or Dahmer’s attachment to Milwaukee. And few had the patience or incentive to make a killing look like an accident. In fact, many psychopaths enjoyed taking credit for their work.

Before leaving the shop, he’d also managed to inveigle Paul into giving him a steep discount on an antique pocket watch—a 1911 Audemars Piguet. The exquisite timepiece was resting in his jacket right now, along with a trusty notebook, pencil, penknife, and small set of folding opera glasses.

Now, on the third floor of the main branch of the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue, Holmes was digging into the facts of twenty-three seemingly unrelated, seemingly accidental deaths.

The century-old Rose Reading Room was filled with massive tables running in parallel rows. Brass lights illuminated the polished wood, and bookshelves lined the walls. It was as close to heaven as a bibliophile could get, even if most pages were now being read on computer screens. Holmes was busy at a terminal himself, accessing the library’s database of eleven thousand newspapers.

His search centered on accident reports from editions across the country, filtered by date. The work was tedious and time-consuming. File after file. Page after page. He assumed that some of the same details might be crammed into Oliver Paul’s file box, but no matter. Holmes took pride in doing his own research. And he didn’t want it tainted by an amateur’s methodology.

Most of the stories Holmes located took up no more than an inch or two of column space, sometimes complemented by a separate follow-up obit. The victims were not famous or wealthy or otherwise notable. They were just dead—in a pattern of banal, but tragic, mishaps. An electrocution in Whitefish, Montana. A fall in Sedona, Arizona. An asphyxiation in Doylestown, Pennsylvania. A propane explosion in Round Top, Texas. And so on…

Hour by hour, one by one, the incidents fell into place on his list. Fatal one-woman accidents in homes, businesses, or campsites, all in towns with small police departments. There was very little to link the accidents except the September 30th date and the fact that each of the victims was a married mother.

The only exception to the pattern was one of geography. The first article was from the New York Post, almost exactly twenty-three years earlier. An accidental bathtub drowning in a Harlem town house on September 30th. Victim: Abigail Agnes Paul. Age thirty-eight. Pronounced dead at the scene.

As he mined for details, Holmes realized he was getting the familiar tingle. His detective instincts were fully aroused. The thought flickered in his mind that maybe this was the case that could save him—the one that would let him strike out on his own again, where he could do things his way, without interference from anybody.

But in the next second, doubts started flooding his mind, the computer screen swimming in front of his eyes. His pulse was racing. He felt his lips go numb. It wasn’t a panic attack. He’d felt those before and survived them. This was different. And worse.

As he looked around the reading room, he started to perspire. He felt like everybody in the room was looking at him, judging him, threatening him. It was as if all the same worries and insecurities that had sent him to rehab were buzzing and scratching again in his brain. He felt helpless. Hopeless. He felt like screaming. The urge was too overwhelming. Couldn’t be stopped.

And so he let it out. At the top of his lungs.

Right in the middle of the library.