Sigma Curse - 04 by Tim Stevens Read Free Book Online Page B

there because of her status as a Supreme Court judge.
    She asked, “The mark on his forehead.”
    Yes,” said Teller.
    “What does it mean?”
    Teller said, “We don’t know, yet. It may be gang related. We suspect not, but further than that, it’s impossible to say.” He eyed the judge. “Do you have any idea of its significance, Judge Fincher? Might it have any personal connotation for your son?”
    She shook her head.
    Her manner had, if anything, become more resolute, more detached, during the conversation. Venn had thought she’d break down, slowly, and show the normal human reaction of a mother who’s son has just been butchered. Eventually, when it became clear to her that the two cops had no further questions, she straightened in her armchair, put her hands together.
    “If that’s all, gentlemen, then may I excuse myself? As you might imagine, I have a lot to arrange.”
    They stood, shook hands once more. Judge Fincher gazed at each of them in turn.
    “Agent Teller. Lieutenant Venn. I know I’ve come across to you as cold and aloof. And I know the picture I’ve given you of my relationship with my son suggests a dysfunctional, distant relationship. No, we weren’t close. No, I wasn’t a perfect mother. Not even a very good one. But I did love my son. More than I could ever express to you. More, God help me, than I was ever able to express to him. And now it’s too late.”
    She held on to Venn’s hand longer than necessary, and although she looked from one man to the other, Venn got the impression she was mainly addressing him.
    “Promise me you’ll find whoever did this,” she murmured, her voice low and intense. “Promise me you’ll do whatever you need to to get them. And don’t let them get away. Follow procedure to the letter, so they don’t walk on a technicality. But if that’s too difficult... just make sure you get them, however you can.”
    “We will, Judge Fincher,” said Teller.
    *
    O n the way back, neither of them spoke for a while, as they processed the encounter. Not just what Judge Fincher had said, but what she didn’t say.
    Teller broke the silence. “A Supreme Court Justice just encouraged us to use illegal methods if necessary to catch a criminal.”
    “Fair enough.” Teller drove for a while longer, musing. Then: “So what was it you noticed earlier? You said before we got there that there was something you’d been considering, but you preferred to talk to the Judge first. What was it?”
    Venn said, “Did you notice anything else about the body? Other than the obvious, of course.”
    “Such as?”
    “Any other injuries?”
    Teller seemed to be conjuring up the image of the man on the slab. At last he said, “No. You got me.”
    “There were old, healed scars on the inside of the left wrist, and higher up the forearm. Only on the left. They were stitched up pretty expertly, so there were only faint lines. But they were there, all right. Several of them. Parallel, transverse scars.”
    “Huh.” Teller frowned.
    “My guess is Dale Fincher was a self-harmer,” said Venn. “He was right-handed, so he did it to his left wrist. Maybe with a razor blade. Those are the cuts you see on somebody who isn’t trying to kill themselves, but is cutting for one or more of a variety of reasons. To punish himself. To inflict pain in order to feel more alive, rather than numb.”
    He’d seen the phenomenon among young people when he’d been a cop in Chicago, and had never been able to understand it. Later he’d discussed it with Beth, who said it was a generational thing, and had started to be seen more and more in hospital practice since around the 1980s. Often the person doing it was a troubled, alienated teenager, usually a girl, and sometimes with a history of sexual abuse. Other times, the patient’s problems were more pervasive. They might have a so-called borderline personality disorder.
    “Could’ve happened lots of ways,” said Teller. “He was a