Blood Memory. Greg Iles

still haven’t decided. Like you said, they feel they have some time before he hits again. Nobody wants to screw this up.”

      “Okay. I’ll get back to you if I notice anything interesting.”

      “Hey?” Sean says.

      “Yeah?”

      “Get back to me anyway. I miss you.”

      I close my eyes as a wave of heat runs up my neck. “Okay.”

      I hang up, then sit at my grandfather’s desk and wait for the fax to come through. The room smells of fresh cigars, old leather, good bourbon, and lemon oil. Intrigued by Michael Wells’s story of a front company buying up downtown Natchez, I consider poking through my grandfather’s desk, but it’s locked.

      Tired of waiting for Sean’s fax, I pick up the phone, dial information, and get the number of Dr. Harold Shubb in New Orleans. Before second thoughts can stop me, I let the number automatically connect, then identify myself as a fellow dentist to Dr. Shubb’s receptionist.

      “Just one moment, Doctor,” says the woman.

      After a brief pause, a man who sounds excited to be taken away from his operatory chair comes on the line. “Cat Ferry! I always knew this call would come. I look forward to it and dread it at the same time. Has there been a plane crash?”

      Dr. Shubb has naturally assumed that I’m calling to activate the volunteer disaster identification unit. “No, Harold. I’m calling about something just as serious, though.”

      “What’s going on? What can I do for you?”

      “Have you been following the recent murders in town?”

      “Sure, yeah, of course.”

      “There’s a bite mark angle to the case.”

      “Really? I hadn’t heard that.”

      “The police are keeping it from the public. What I’m about to tell you, you can’t mention to a soul.”

      “Goes without saying, Cat.”

      “We—that is, the task force working the case—we have a suspect. He’s one of your patients, Harold.”

      Stunned silence on Dr. Shubb’s end of the line. “Holy God. Are you kidding me?”

      “No.” I hear his breathing, shallow and irregular.

      “May I ask who it is?”

      “Not yet. This is an informal call, Harold.”

      Another pause. “I’m not sure I understand.”

      “The FBI is probably going to contact you today—officially—to get a look at any X-rays you might have on this patient. The NOPD, however, wants you and me to have an informal conversation a little sooner than that.”

      Dr. Shubb processes this. “I’m listening.”

      “I’m worried that any specific discussion we have about X-rays or teeth could later wreck the chance of a conviction.”

      “You might be right. If you don’t have a court order, I mean. All this HIPAA privacy crap is driving me insane.”

      “I’m sure. Look, what I was thinking was that we could have a general conversation about this patient, but without getting into his mouth. Would you have a problem with that?”

      “Fire away. I won’t tell a soul.”

      I pray this is true. “The suspect’s name is Nathan Malik. He’s—”

      “A shrink,” Shubb finishes. “Holy shit. He’s a psychiatrist, not a psychologist, and he makes sure you know that in the first five seconds. I’ve seen Malik quite a bit. Done two root canals on him so far this year. MDs hardly ever take care of their teeth, you know that. I just …”

      Harold Shubb falls silent. Then he whistles long and low, as if only now realizing the implications of our conversation. I fight the urge to describe the bite marks on the victims. In less than a minute, we could probably confirm or eliminate Nathan Malik as the killer of the NOMURS victims. But in a case this sensitive, procedure must be followed to the letter.

      “What kind of guy is he, Harold?”

      “An odd duck. Smart as hell. A little intimidating, if you want to know the truth. Knows something about everything. Even teeth.”

      “Really?” It’s rare for MDs to know much about dentition.

      “I know you’re going to think your call influenced me to say this, but the guy makes me a little uncomfortable. Not much for small talk, though he has a smart-ass sense of humor. But what he really gives off is intensity. Total intensity. You know the type?”

      “I think so. Has Malik talked about his background?”

      “Not much. I think he’s from Mississippi originally. Like you.”

      “Really? Does fifty-three years old sound right?”

      “About right. He’s in good shape, except for his teeth. I could check my records—”

      “Don’t do that,” I say quickly.

      “Right … you’re right. Shit, I’m getting nervous just talking to you.”

      “We’re almost done, Harold. Do you know anything about Malik’s modes of therapy? What he specializes in? Anything?”

      “Repressed memories. Physical and sexual abuse of women. Men, too, I think. We’ve had several conversations about it. He’s an expert at helping people recover lost memories. Uses drugs, hypnosis, everything. It’s controversial stuff. Lots of litigation in that area.”

      “That’s what I thought.”

      “I’ll tell you this. If Nathan Malik is your guy, I hope you have some rock-solid evidence on him. He won’t be intimidated by the FBI or anyone else. When it comes to things like patient privacy, he’ll go to jail before he’ll tell you a damn thing. He’s a fanatic about it. Hates the government.”

      I jump as the fax machine beside me hums to life. “That rock-solid evidence may be sitting in your X-ray files right now, Harold.”

      He whistles again. “I hope so, Cat. I mean—”

      “I know what you mean. If it’s him.”

      “Exactly.”

      “Look, the FBI doesn’t need to know about this conversation.”

      “What conversation?”

      “Thanks, Harold. I’ll see you at my next seminar?”

      “Can’t wait.”

      I ring off and watch the paper spool out of the fax machine. Someone has typed a detailed summary of the available information on Dr. Nathan Malik. I have an almost overwhelming urge to go to my grandfather’s sideboard and pour a quick shot of vodka before reading it, but I manage to strangle the impulse. As the second sheet emerges from the fax machine, I glance down, then grip the table to stay on my feet.

      At the bottom of the page is a black-and-white photo of Nathan Malik, a bullet-headed, bald man with deep-set black eyes. On some men, baldness conveys an image of weakness or advancing age, but on Nathan Malik the bald pate seems more a challenge than a weakness, the way it did on Yul Brynner. Proud, piercing, and defiant, his eyes silently order you back a step. Malik’s nose was broken at some point in his life, and his lips curl in a wry smile that expresses only contempt for the camera. He has the arrogant disdain of an aristocrat, but that’s not what has taken my breath away. What did that was the eyes. I first saw them—and this face—nearly a decade ago, at the University Medical Center in Jackson, Mississippi.

      Grabbing the first page from the fax tray, I scan the psychiatrist’s CV. Born 1951. Two years in the army, a tour of duty as