Hello Again Read online

  “What about her?” Evelyn asked.

  “She sobbed throughout the trial. She seemed to care about him. Maybe there’s some way to get in touch with her. Maybe he’d do it for her.”

  Evelyn couldn’t believe that would work. First, Beth would have to agree to try to get the information out of him, and it was possible she felt too much loyalty. Despite what he’d done to other women, he’d taken care of her when she had no one else. Second, unlike the intelligent Lyman, she’d had developmental issues growing up. By all indications, her IQ was well below average, so she might not understand much more than the sudden loss of her brother. Third, she would have to come to Alaska in order for an appeal to have the kind of effectiveness they were hoping to achieve. A letter or a phone call wouldn’t be the same. Evelyn wasn’t even sure Beth was capable of traveling on her own.

  For all of those reasons, enlisting Beth wouldn’t be easy. But Evelyn was willing to talk to her, to determine if there wasn’t something that could be done. “I’ll make a few calls, see what I can find out.”

  “Okay.” Clasping her tissue in one hand and her purse in the other, Jennifer stood. “Thank you. I’ll be at the motel in town—The Shady Lady. You’ll have to call there to talk to me, since there’s no cell service in this godforsaken place.”

  Ironically, since she’d once thought of Hilltop in the same way, Evelyn couldn’t help being offended. She knew how much Amarok loved this place, had become converted to its incredible beauty, freedom and fresh, if cold, air. But she didn’t react. She was more concerned about the fact that Jennifer still sounded as though she expected quick results. “Okay, but please be aware that my efforts might not culminate in the information you want, especially before you leave.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” she said. “Not until that bastard reveals where he put Jan’s body.”

  Evelyn heard the steel in her voice. “What about the baby?”

  “There are doctors here, aren’t there?”

  “In Anchorage, I’m sure. But—”

  “Hopefully, we’ll be able to find out where he put Jan’s body in the next few days or weeks, so I can go home.”

  Evelyn didn’t welcome the pressure of having a pregnant Jennifer Hall in town. She’d barely met Lyman, had no idea what to expect from him. He could easily refuse to speak on the subject.

  But she had a sister of her own, knew she’d feel the same if she were in Jennifer’s shoes. “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Thanks,” she said, and Evelyn walked over to hold the door while she left.

  Evelyn had returned to her desk and opened Lyman’s file again, was just flipping to the beginning, looking for the name of the Minneapolis detective who’d handled his case, when Jim Ricardo, the neurologist she’d hired to replace Dr. Fitzpatrick, who’d quit before he could be fired last year, poked his head into her office.

  “You got a minute?”

  She almost said she didn’t. She had a busy day ahead and her mind was on other things. But she figured she might as well hear him out, address whatever he needed and get it over with. It was a relief that she no longer had to tiptoe around Dr. Fitzpatrick, who’d made her life so unpleasant. At forty-one, Dr. Ricardo didn’t have the experience of Fitzpatrick, who’d been older, but he also wasn’t trying to wrest control of the institution away from her. If she had to pick one over the other, she’d take Dr. Ricardo all day, every day. “Sure. What’s up?”

  “I was hoping to use our new inmate in a study.”

  “Lyman Bishop?”

  “Yes.”

  “The empathy study?”

  “We could use him for that, too. But I was thinking of another I’d like to start, one designed to determine if those diagnosed with anti-social personality disorder can more readily suppress the autonomic nervous system’s response to deception.”

  “And thus pass a lie detector test.”

  “Yes.”

  Early studies, studies by David Raskin and Robert Hare back in the late seventies, suggested psychopaths could not beat a polygraph any more easily than regular people, but those findings had since come under dispute. Some claimed that psychopaths’ lack of fear of punishment or reprisal should make them less susceptible to the stress registered by others. She could see why Ricardo would be eager to answer the question one way or another—or at least provide further insight. But she wasn’t ready to let anyone else interact with Lyman. “Sounds interesting, but I’d rather you not use Bishop.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s so new. Give me a chance to work with him for a few weeks, to determine how cooperative he’s willing to be and where he might be able to offer the most to our efforts.”

  Ricardo peered more closely at her. “You’ve never barred me from using someone before. Why is he different?”

  “As you know, most people with anti-social personality disorder don’t have good impulse control, which means they lack the self-discipline to get through extensive schooling—”

  “Unless you believe that some of the world’s greatest business leaders are psychopaths,” he broke in. “The case has been made for that, remember.”

  He had a point. Psychopaths were more attracted to business than any other profession. Many were also policeman, lawyers and surgeons. But she wasn’t talking about law-abiding psychopaths, and Ricardo knew it. “They might be psychopaths, but they don’t kill people. Of the subjects we get, few are as educated as Dr. Lyman. He was a biomedical researcher at the University of Minnesota—a fruit fly geneticist, to be exact—who has contributed a great deal to cancer research.”

  “Are you sure?”

  His sarcasm took her off guard. “I don’t follow you.”

  “Maybe, like that researcher from the University of Iowa who altered some of his samples to boost HIV vaccine test results in order to achieve more grant money, he cheated somehow.”

  She could see why someone might suspect that. Psychopaths weren’t often the sort of people who put in a lot of hard work. If it was possible to bend the rules or get around some prerequisite to what they wanted, they often did. “From all I’ve heard so far, his work seems to be unimpeachable. He did whole genome DNA sequencing with another geneticist, making it possible to determine what types of cell mutations are causing cancer.”

  “In flies.”

  “Human cells likely undergo the same process.”

  “Sounds noble, but I doubt he restricted his bad behavior to murder. You know how criminally versatile most psychopaths are.”

  That was true, too, but Evelyn got the impression Lyman Bishop had a code of ethics he lived by even if it wasn’t the same as a “normal” person’s. What he’d done for his sister was admirable. “Regardless, I don’t want him purposely throwing off our findings for his own amusement. Please, leave him to me.”

  Although he obviously wasn’t happy with her response, Ricardo nodded. “All right. Let me know when he’s cleared.”

  “You’re anxious to work with a smart psychopath?” she asked.

  “They’re all smart.”

  “Cunning, manipulative and deceptive, perhaps. But not as smart as Dr. Bishop.”

  “Now you’ve piqued my interest.”

  “I’ll turn you loose on him soon.”

  “Okay.” He picked up the calendar on her desk and flipped it to the current day, which she hadn’t yet bothered to do. “By the way, Annie’s planning a dinner for Friday after next. She’s lonely, living so far from family. She was hoping that you and Amarok would be interested in coming.”

  If Ricardo’s wife couldn’t take the isolation or the darkness and the cold, which were so prevalent this time of year, he’d eventually have to pack his bags and return to San Francisco, where he was from. Evelyn didn’t want to lose him. She’d just replaced the two members of the team she’d lost last year. She figured she needed to support this dinner and any other social event Annie devised, but she wasn’t always comfortable around the other woman. Annie was od
d and a tad overbearing. After working with difficult personalities all day, Evelyn preferred to socialize with less complicated people. “Of course. We’d be happy to join you. What would she like me to bring?”

  “I have no idea. She’s driving to Anchorage today to pick out the centerpiece and china and such. I’m not sure why what we’ve got won’t do. That woman has dishes coming out of her ears. But if shopping gives her a goal and keeps her happy, I’m all for it.”

  Like Evelyn, Ricardo had a true fascination for their work. While so much of deviant behavior appeared to be self-serving, it rarely produced the desired results—not in the long run. Psychopaths destroyed their own lives in the process of destroying others’. Why they couldn’t see that, or didn’t seem to care, was another mystery, one Evelyn hoped to explore in more detail with Dr. Bishop, who’d destroyed his ability to care for his sister, his ability to further his work and his freedom. “She can let me know. I’m sure we’ll have a wonderful time.”

  “Thanks.” He started for the door, then paused. “She’s also going to see an obstetrician while she’s there.”

  “She might be pregnant?” Evelyn hadn’t seen one pregnant woman since coming to Hilltop, not until this morning. Now she’d seen one and was hearing about another?

  “I’m hoping. I’m afraid she’ll insist we start fertility treatments if we don’t conceive soon, and…”

  He seemed to be searching for the right words.

  “And that would add more stress to an already-challenging transition,” Evelyn supplied.

  His lips curved into a ghost of the smile he’d given her the day she hired him, letting her know his situation at home was already far from ideal. “Yes,” he said, and walked out.

  Evelyn stared after him. Maybe if Annie could conceive, she’d be more fulfilled, more content, in Alaska—and Evelyn would be able to hang on to Jim.

  Returning to Bishop’s file on her desk, she finally located the detective’s name and picked up the phone to call him. She was still thinking about Annie and Jennifer, and whether a baby might be the right thing for her own life, when Penny knocked and poked her head into the room.

  “What is it?” Evelyn asked, phone in hand.

  “Lyman Bishop would like to speak to you.”

  “Again?” She hung up before the phone could ring. “Why?”

  “He won’t say.”

  She thought of Jennifer Hall. Maybe this was a good thing, the opportunity she needed. “Have two correctional officers bring him to any interview room that’s open.”

  2

  “You have beautiful eyes, but I’m sure you already know that.”

  Evelyn stared placidly through the plexiglass that separated her from Lyman Bishop. “Thank you.”

  “What color are they?”

  Determined to play along rather than have him perceive her as critical or sensitive, she allowed him to say what he wanted to see where it might go. “Hazel.”

  He squinted as he leaned forward. “I thought they were green. It’s difficult to tell from here.”

  For good reason … The separation accomplished by the plexiglass kept her safe. “They look lighter some days than others,” she told him.

  “With those thick eyelashes and long, dark hair … What a nice combination.”

  “Is that why you wanted to meet with me? To compliment me on my appearance?” she asked.

  He chuckled, then sobered so quickly she almost thought she’d imagined his levity, which didn’t fit the situation in the first place. “Does it surprise you that I can’t stop thinking about you?”

  The psychopaths she dealt with often tried to be evocative—by pledging their love or admiration or, more often, by making sexual innuendos. They wanted to matter, and nothing made them feel more like they mattered than eliciting a strong response. Apparently, Bishop, a soft, middle-aged white man with glasses, nondescript brown eyes and pattern baldness, was no different in that regard, despite his intelligence. But if he was angry at being sent to Hilltop, so far from his sister in Minnesota, he didn’t show it. Like all Hanover House inmates, he wore an orange jumpsuit. He also wore handcuffs and a belly chain, since he was out of his cell, although he could just as easily be sitting there in a lab coat for the calmness with which he moved and spoke.

  Evelyn considered his manner to be a welcome change from the more aggressive behavior of some of the other men. Many acted out, especially when they first arrived. Anthony Garza, who’d given her so much trouble just after Hanover House opened, was a glaring example. And yet, although she was relieved in a way, she found Bishop more discomfiting. Deception, after all, was the tool that had worked so well for Jasper all those years ago. He’d blindsided her—at sixteen, before she could fully grasp how terrible some people could be.

  “Not at all.” She tried to imagine why Lyman Bishop had called this meeting. What was he trying to accomplish or put in play? She got the feeling he was methodical to a fault, did nothing without a reason. “Since we met only a few hours ago, and I explained that I’ll be visiting with you regularly from now on, I suppose it’s only natural for you to be curious about me.”

  He sat on a stool, which was bolted to the floor—the only furniture afforded to him—and folded his hands in his lap. “I doubt it has anything to do with curiosity, but … yes, I’m going to enjoy our sessions. We should have a lot to talk about.”

  “I can see where I might think so,” she responded. “I’m intrigued by the way psychopaths view the world. But what could you find so interesting about me?”

  She half-expected him to go back to admiring her features, was glad when he proved he could be deeper than that, more in keeping with her expectations of his intelligence and education.

  “You’re a survivor,” he said. “You’re fighting back. That’s something I can admire.”

  Once he’d learned where he’d be incarcerated, he’d probably read everything he could get hold of on her and her work. He could’ve heard about Hanover House even before he was apprehended. She’d conceived of creating an institution dedicated to such work in graduate school and had started lobbying vociferously for it as soon as she completed her residency. Her crusade for a place where she and others could develop the tools necessary to combat the psychopathy problem had played out in the media, which was partially how Jasper had been able to find her—although he’d disappeared again—just before she moved to Alaska. “So you know about Jasper.”

  “Yes. What he did must’ve come as a terrible shock.”

  One Lyman probably vicariously enjoyed. “Yes. But it’s not a subject I’m willing to talk about.” So many of the inmates tried to probe her anguish, she’d made it her policy not to speak of her past. She was here to learn about them, not the other way around.

  “We all have our … sensitive issues.”

  “Are you referring to what your mother did?” Since he’d been callous enough to bring up Jasper, when they were barely acquainted, she felt it important to let him know she could play the same game.

  There was a slight tightening to his jaw, but his expression didn’t change otherwise. “Yes. I’ll never forget that day.” He bit off each word as if it tasted bitter in his mouth but a moment later smoothed out his hands, which he’d balled into fists. “It also came as a terrible shock, of course.”

  “You can’t feel good toward her.”

  “I hated my mother. Although my experience wasn’t nearly as violent as yours, it was still … painful.”

  In ways, it might’ve been more painful. So did he eventually track her down and kill her?

  Someone had. When Lyman would’ve been thirty, she’d been shot at point-blank range as she got out of her car late one night and left where she fell on the drive. But no one had ever been charged for her murder. There’d been no witnesses and, other than the bullet that’d stopped her heart, the police could find no forensic evidence at the scene. Lyman was the primary suspect. He didn’t have an alibi. But the MO had been so d
ifferent from his later killings there wasn’t anything to tie him to her death—other than motive.

  “I’m sorry for what you went through,” she said, and meant it. No child should ever have to endure such heart-wrenching abandonment. Who could say how different Lyman might’ve turned out if he’d had a better mother? Not all psychopaths had terrible childhoods. Surprisingly, some had good parents and very little early trauma. But the most violent ones had almost always been abused or neglected in some way.

  “Thank you. I think we’ll get along nicely, even if I don’t believe you know what you’re doing.”

  She blinked at the unexpected barb. “That’s blunt, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I’ve often been accused of being too blunt. But I admit, I don’t see the purpose of pretense. If I’m a skeptic, I believe it only fair that I make my position clear up front.”

  She could see why he’d never been able to maintain a steady relationship. He might be intellectually smart, but he wasn’t nearly as adept at mimicking normal social interactions as most psychopaths. “I’m not sure I understand. Are you skeptical of me or my profession?”

  “The jury is out on you—a bad pun under the circumstances.” He chuckled but stopped when he realized she wasn’t laughing with him. “But your profession? That’s a different story. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you,” he added.

  “Are you really?” she asked.

  He seemed confused. “What?”

  “Sorry for offending me?”

  After thinking for a moment, he shook his head. “No, I guess I’m not. I find it illogical and even ridiculous that I must apologize for the truth when there is no ill will intended.”