Confession by Carey Baldwin Page A

names of any of the Saint’s victims.” Turning toward the camera, she enunciated clearly. “Not that I recall. But I’ve only been treating him a ­couple of weeks.”
    â€œIs there anything you might’ve omitted from your notes that could help us?”
    â€œAnything that seemed important to me at the time, I put in the notes. Of course, I wasn’t looking for clues to catch a serial killer.”
    â€œBut looking back, is there anything at all that would’ve suggested Jericho might be the Saint.”
    â€œHe never said anything to me that would specifically connect him to these crimes.”
    â€œOther than his confession.”
    Ah. The condescending Johnson she knew and loved.
    â€œRight.”
    â€œIf you think of something, you’ll let me know.” He handed her his card. Twisting his mouth like he was spitting out a bite of sour apple, he said, “Sorry if I shocked you with the photo.”
    She nodded. A not-­so-­random thought came to her mind. “Detective, I’ve been wondering. Were any of the victims sexually assaulted?”
    His brows shot up in surprise. “I can’t disclose that information.”
    â€œThey weren’t. I can see by the look on your face. Seems unusual. So many serial murders are sexually motivated. And based on what I’ve read in the papers, I don’t see a common thread among the victims. Finding that thread and pulling it would be the key to unraveling the mystery—­wouldn’t it?”
    He opened the door to the interrogation room, seeming suddenly anxious to see her out. “Make you a deal, Doc. You stick to head shrinking, and I’ll stick to crime solving.”
    B efore leaving the police station, Faith ducked into a bathroom to splash cold water on her face, then hightailed it out of the building, racing down the front steps two at a time, occasionally reaching for the handrail to keep from falling. Her car was parked in a lot to the left. She turned right. She needed fresh air. Needed to walk it off. Being forced to look at a picture of Nancy Aberdeen’s mangled corpse had scalded her skin like acid injected beneath the epidermis. Only someone who’d lost all connection to his fellow man could’ve committed such a crime.
    Outside, the sun shone as brightly as before, going about its business oblivious to the evil in the world. She halted and closed her eyes, wishing she could be that strong. The street was quiet at this hour. With most ­people manning their desks on a weekday morning, there was very little foot traffic, giving her room both to open up her stride and to stop and breathe whenever she liked. As the clean air filled her lungs, she felt the toxins washing out of her system.
    She scoured the area, searching for a good thing—­any good thing. A waft of sweetness drifted by when a flower vendor carrying armfuls of Castilian roses passed. Faith spotted a street performer and crossed the street to listen to him wail on a tenor saxophone. Three tunes later, she tossed a twenty into his instrument case.
    â€œGod bless you, ma’am.”
    â€œGod bless you, sir.” She smiled, then turned around, headed back to her car. With every step, her shoulders felt lighter. A pang of hunger reminded her that she hadn’t had breakfast, and she quickened her pace, imagining a nice plate of waffles at Denny’s.
    Pulling up short to avoid a toddler barreling down the street in front of his mother, her hand came up to shade her eyes against the sun’s blinding light. When the child’s laughter faded away, she took off again, but this time, she heard footfalls padding close behind her.
    She slowed.
    The padding slowed.
    She sped up.
    The footfalls sped up.
    As the fine hairs on the back of her neck made their presence known, her mind began to race. What had she learned in class?
    Do not wait to be attacked.
    That’s what her Krav Maga