The Death File: A gripping serial killer thriller with a shocking twist. J. Kerley A.

looking for my LAME file. It’s in here somewhere.”

      The file had been named years ago, in Mobile, when Harry discovered I was keeping a folder noting my various appearances. He’d laughingly dubbed it my LAME file, for Look At Me Everyone. I pulled material from the folder and spread it out on my desk, mostly programs for various law enforcement seminars and symposia.

      Harry leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “What are you looking for?”

      I pressed my fingers against my eyelids. “I see it in my head … a darkened hall, me at the podium. A hundred or so people in the audience. I’m showing a video of Randall Jay Caudill howling about his rights from inside his cell. The vid ends and a hand goes up in the audience and a woman asks a question.”

      I squeezed my eyes tighter and replayed the memory. A woman’s voice, pleasant, engaged, says something like, “Did I not hear that the case against Caudill was made with information garnered inadvertently while he was under anesthesia?”

      I nod. “Caudill was at his dentist’s office undergoing root canal. While sedated, he said things that led the dentist to connect Caudill’s ramblings to a case widely publicized in the Tampa-St Petersburg area. The dentist called the authorities.”

      The woman: “I assume Mr Caudill’s lawyer invoked doctor–patient privilege, did he not?”

      “Yes, ma’am,” I say. “About every thirty-three seconds.”

      Laughter from the mostly cop audience.

      “It didn’t hold sway?” she asks.

      I say something like, “A dentist has a duty to respect a patient’s right to confidentiality and self-determination, especially in regards to medical records. But in this case the court ruled that the dentist was not bound to remain silent about what seemed solid indicators of a patient’s involvement in four murders.”

      “Thank you, Detective Ryder.”

      “My pleasure, ma’am. Do you happen to be a dentist with someone to turn in?”

      Laughter.

      “I’m a psychologist,” she says. “If you ever find my hand in your mouth, Detective, I’m probably searching for your ID.”

      Howls. Applause. I’m laughing louder than anyone.

      The memory left and Harry watched me scrabble through programs and brochures with titles like Southwestern Law Enforcement Convention; the Police Chiefs Association of Florida; the National Sheriff’s Convention; the Criminal Justice Review Board … I’d even given a couple of speeches at ACLU gatherings, and since the audience expected a goose-stepping J. Edgar Hoover imitation, I was better regarded after I finished than before I started.

      I came to a program guide for the Southwestern Convocation of Judicial Issues, billed as “Top Minds in Criminal Justice Discussing Pressing Issues in Law Enforcement.” I unfolded the page and saw my photo, small enough to fit on my thumbnail. My topic had been, “Determining Insanity: Who Holds the Gavel?”

      I was reading from the brochure and punching numbers into my phone.

      “Who you calling, Cars?” Harry asked.

      “The University of Florida, Criminal Justice Department.”

      I punched the phone on speaker so Harry could hear, and it was answered in two rings.

      “Alexandro Salazar.”

      “Mr Salazar, I’m Detective Carson Ryder with the—”

      “FCLE … of course. You spoke at the event the department sponsored last spring. Great talk, scary in places. I’d love to have you back for next year’s meeting. All of us would.”

      “I’ll weld the date to my calendar today if you can do me a favor, Mr Salazar. Do you still have the list of attendees?”

      “Of course. We use it for our mailings.”

      “Could you see if there’s a Dr Angela Bowers on the list, a psychologist.”

      “Lemme pull the file. I remember there were several psychologists in attendance.” I heard the ticking of a keyboard. “OK, here’s the file … scrolling. Yep, there it is, Dr Angela Bowers. Do you need her address?”

      “Not necessary,” I said, shooting Harry a glance. “I believe I have it.”

      It was past three and Novarro was on her twenty-third pawnshop, a grubby joint on the edge of Mesa that – true to Castle’s description – smelled like an elderly person’s attic. She’d shown the proprietor the jewelry photos and received a sad head-shake in return.