True Evil

“Calm down, Dr. Shepard. You may not believe it at this moment, but I’m here to help you. I realize we’re talking about personal matters. Intimate matters, even. But you’re forced to do the same thing in your job, aren’t you? When human life is at stake, privacy goes by the board.”

She was right, of course. Many of the questions on his medical-history form were intrusive. How many sexual partners have you had in the last five years? Are you satisfied with your sexual life? Chris looked away from her and tried to pace the room, a circuit of exactly two and a half steps. “What are you telling me, Agent Morse? No more games. Spell it out.”

“Your life may be in danger.”

Chris stopped. “From my wife? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Jesus Christ! You’re out of your mind. I’m going to call Thora right now and get to the bottom of this.” He reached for the phone on the wall.

Agent Morse got to her feet. “Please don’t do that, Dr. Shepard.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because you may be the only person in a position to stop whoever is behind these murders.”

Chris let his hand fall. “How’s that?”

She took a deep breath, then spoke in a voice of eminent reasonableness. “If you are a target—that is, if you’ve become one in the last week—your wife and this attorney have no idea that you’re aware of their activities.”

“So?”

“That puts you in a unique position to help us trap them.”

Awareness dawned quickly. “You want me to try to trap my wife? To get her jailed for attempted murder?”

Morse turned up her palms. “Would you rather pretend none of this happened and die at thirty-six?”

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to restrain his temper. “You’re missing the forest for the trees here. Your whole thesis is illogical.”

“Why?”

“Those men you think murdered their wives … they did it to keep from splitting their assets and paying out a ton of alimony, right?”

“In most cases, yes. But not all the victims were women.”

Chris momentarily lost his train of thought.

“In at least one case,” said Morse, “and probably two, the murder was about custody of the children, not money.”

“Again, you’re miles off base. Thora and I have no children.”

“Your wife has a child. A nine-year-old son.”

He smiled. “Sure, but she had Ben even before she married Red Simmons. Thora would automatically get custody.”

“You’ve legally adopted Ben. But that brings up another important point, Dr. Shepard.”

“What?”

“How your wife got her money.”

Chris sat back down and looked at Agent Morse. How much did she know about his wife? Did she know that Thora was the daughter of a renowned Vanderbilt surgeon who’d left his family when his daughter was eight years old? Did she know that Thora’s mother was an alcoholic? That Thora had fought like a wildcat just to get through adolescence, and that making it through nursing school was a pretty amazing achievement given her background?

Probably not.

Morse probably knew only the local legend: how Thora Rayner had been working in St. Catherine’s Hospital when Red Simmons, a local oilman nineteen years her senior, had been carried into the ER with a myocardial infarction; how she’d become close to Red during his hospital stay, then married him six months later. Chris knew this story well because he’d treated Red Simmons during the last three years of his life. Chris had known Thora as a nurse, of course, but he came to know her much better during Red’s years in heart failure. And what he learned was that Red truly loved “his little Viking”—a reference to Thora’s Danish ancestry—and that Thora had been a brave and loyal wife, a woman worthy of deep respect. When Red died two and a half years ago, he left Thora an estate valued at $6.5 million. That was big money in Natchez, but it meant little to Chris. He had some money of his own, and he was young enough to earn plenty more.

“Agent Morse,” he said in a neutral tone, “I’m not going to discuss my wife with you. But I will tell you this. Thora doesn’t stand to gain or lose anything if we get divorced.”

“Why not? She’s very wealthy.”

“She has money, yes. But so do I. I started saving the day I began moonlighting in emergency rooms, and I’ve made some lucky investments. But the real issue here is legal. We both signed a prenuptial agreement before we married. If we were to get divorced, each person would leave the marriage with exactly what he or she brought into it.”

Agent Morse studied Chris in silence. “I didn’t know that.”

He smiled. “Sorry to punch a hole in your theory.”

Morse seemed suddenly lost in thought, and Chris sensed that for her, in that moment, he was not even there. Her face was more angular than he’d thought at first; it had its own odd shadows.

“Tell me this,” she said suddenly. “What happens if either of you dies?”

As Chris thought about this, he felt a hollowness high in his stomach. “Well … I believe our wills kick in at that point. And those override the prenup. At least I think they do.”

“What does your will say? Who gets those lucky investments you made?”

Chris looked at the floor, his face growing hot. “My parents get a nice chunk.”

“That’s good. And the rest?”

He looked up at her. “Thora gets it all.”

Morse’s eyes flashed with triumph.

“But …,” Chris protested.

“I’m listening.”

“Thora is worth millions of dollars. What would be the point? Kill me to get an extra two million?”

Morse rubbed her chin for a few moments, then looked up at the narrow window set in the top of the wall. “People have been killed for less, Dr. Shepard. A lot less.”

“By millionaires?”

“I wouldn’t doubt it. And people are murdered every day for reasons other than money. How well do you know your wife? Psychologically, I mean?”

“Pretty damn well.”