Chapter Text
Innocent. Veronica's head spun, and she held onto her apartment door, trying to keep herself on her feet as she struggled to make sense of any of this. JD was standing there, a few feet away, alive, and telling her he was innocent.
Innocent was something she didn't know that JD could ever have claimed to be, though she thought sometimes she wanted to believe he could have been. She wanted to believe it was Heather Chandler's death that convinced him that he could kill anyone he disagreed with, that he could get away with it. She wanted to believe that he wasn't always crazy, that there had been something good in him, something that disappeared as she knew him and the bodies started adding up.
Three bodies. Four if she counted him.
Heather and Martha had only tried to kill themselves. They hadn't done it.
Three deaths. Not four, not if he was alive.
Sometimes she tried to think it was small enough, that somehow three lives wasn't too much, not enough to take away her own.
“You're not innocent.”
“Neither are you, sweetheart.”
She shook her head. She wasn't doing this. It wouldn't be the first dream or hallucination, the first accusation. She carried them with her, her ghosts, and they were so heavy she wanted to give up, but she would not let this JD show up and make her do it. She would never kill herself. That was what he wanted, and she wouldn't give it to him.
“You like to edit the facts to suit your own perspective. It's all a carefully censored entry in your diary, leaving out the stuff that you don't want anyone else to know and keeping the truth from being seen. You do it to yourself, too. You want to pretend you never saw it coming, never saw anything wrong in any of it, but you did. You can't make me the villain to erase everything you did. It doesn't work that way.”
“I didn't mean to kill any of them.”
“Maybe not,” JD said, surprising her by acknowledging that when before he always argued that it was what she wanted. “That doesn't mean you had no part in it. And who the hell said I was just talking about them dying?”
“You. I should have known there was something off with you from day one and the cafeteria.”
“Well, in your defense, everyone should have. Funny how that goes, isn't it? Kid brings a gun to the school, shoots a couple of blanks—incidentally, it's a fallacy that blanks don't hurt anyone—and somehow all that happens is a suspension. No real discussion with parents, no what the hell are you doing with the gun, no nothing. I sometimes wonder what would have happened if someone actually tried to get my father to discuss any of that.” JD stopped, shaking his head as he corrected himself. “No, I know what would have happened to me. Still not sure if he would have shown what he was or if it would have made a damned bit of difference. It certainly didn't when my mother died.”
“You can't blame her death for what you did.”
He shook his head. “You accuse me of not listening, but you're the one that's not listening. I never said I blamed her death for any of what I did in Sherwood. That's not what it was about.”
“Right. It was about love. Our love was God, so you killed anyone you disagreed with.”
“You know, for someone who is as smart as you claim to be, you're being an idiot about this whole thing. Think about it, Veronica. How the hell could I have possibly survived that bombing? And how could I be standing here on my feet? Well?”
She closed her eyes, cursing herself. Though she'd changed a lot of the details, given him years as she'd passed herself, he was dead. She knew that. She'd been arguing with a ghost again, one that was never here and never real.
“Think about it.”
She opened her eyes, ready to yell at him again, not caring if he was real or not because the yelling tended to make them fade or at least prompt an irritated neighbor to pound on the wall and bring her back to reality.
He was gone.
“Richards, we have to talk,” Veronica said. She knew she probably didn't look sane, though she'd done her best to appear professional today. She had to convince him not to do this press conference. She shut the door behind her. “You have to call off the press conference.”
“We've had this talk before,” Richards said with a frown. “We're not calling it off.”
“Yes, we are,” Veronica insisted. “You can't go out there and tell them that there's a serial killer. You can't do it.”
“Did the killer make contact with you? Did he threaten you?”
“Yes,” Veronica said. “And no. Richards, the only person sick enough to be imitating Heather Chandler's death is already dead. And while I may have dreamed about him last night, he wasn't there. He wasn't in my apartment. He didn't come to tell me he was innocent. He's dead. He blew himself up right in front of me. I saw him die.”
Richards frowned. “You never said you had a suspect before.”
She put a hand to her head. “I never said it because it's insane. He would have had to survive a bomb strapped to his chest, and he couldn't have. It doesn't make any sense.”
“And how do you know this bomber was behind the fake suicides?”
“I... I used to date him.”
Richards sighed, setting down his glasses. “Look, Veronica, even if you dated a guy who killed himself, if he confessed to faking that first suicide all those years ago, that doesn't change the facts, and the facts are that five girls are dead in the exact same way. They fit the same victim profile. The deaths are staged. This is the work of a serial killer. It may not be the work of the one you think it is, but it's still a serial killer. So I am going to hold this press conference.”
“Richards—”
“And I'm putting you on leave and scheduling you for mandatory sessions with Dr. Dobbs. Don't bother arguing with me. You do the therapy, or you leave the bureau. It's that simple.”
“I was starting to wonder if I should lock the doors for good,” Enid observed as he dragged himself inside the office. He almost hadn't come back, knowing that this little shit hole of a safe haven was as good as gone. He'd seen Veronica.
That was a mistake, but he'd known as soon as he heard about Grant's daughter that they'd think he did it. Veronica would. Her choice of career surprised him, since he had always figured she was too smart for the bureaucracy, but she had a gun, and that had always suited her more than she thought it would. She had a beautiful case of self-deception, and he'd actually liked that about her.
“You could.”
“Because you killed five girls and staged their suicides?”
He whirled to face Enid. “Is that what you think I did? If that's true, why the hell are you still here? You should have run and turned me into the cops. Or are you bait? You wait here, tell them I'm back, and then you let them take me away.”
“I know you didn't do it.”
He snorted. “You are very naïve, Niddie. It's not an attractive quality, trust me on that.”
“And I have no interest in jumping your bones,” she said, shaking her head. “It was never about that with us. You're like my brother. You irritate me in all the same ways. Even now.”
“Even when you're accusing me of murder. Very cute. Also not very smart.”
“I told you—I know you didn't do it. I work with you, remember? I answer the phones, schedule the appointments, give you enough to string them along during the initial interview, and then hack my way into more information so you can actually investigate any of the crimes people ask you about. I am a part of everything you do here. We were working together on the days four of those five girls were killed, and the fifth you were in the hospital.”
He frowned. “No. You're giving me an alibi I don't have or want from you.”
“First girl, Abby Marten. We were working on the death of Jack Jones. He'd gone missing, his wife asked you for an answer on whether he was alive or dead, and we found he was very dead. Second girl, Theresa Connors. A grieving family wanted you to prove that their father hadn't changed his will. And you did. Third girl, Jackie Harrison. We were looking for a missing person again. Turns out he stole from his company and disappeared to build a life with his twenty something mistress. Fourth girl, Betsy Grant. We were looking into that weirdo case where that woman was being 'gaslighted.' Fifth girl, Tracey James. You were in the hospital after locating a missing girl in a child prostitution ring. They really didn't like you for that. And you're still limping.”
He folded his arms over his chest. “Working with you doesn't mean I couldn't have found time to slip away and kill someone. It's not proof.”
She rolled her eyes. “You know what you're like on a case. You don't eat, you barely sleep, and you somehow function on convenience store slushies. You didn't leave for any extended amount of time, and even if I did sleep, you didn't. You never do.”
“Not helping your case.”
“I'm not making one for court, damn it. If I wanted to be a lawyer, I'd go back to school.”
“What do you want?”
Enid swallowed. “I want to help you find who killed them. Don't say you're not going to. I know you are. I just don't want you shutting me out when you do.”
He studied her, not sure what he thought about her. Enid was a strange mix of things. Part innocent, part fraud, and he'd never understood why she stuck with him. Her naïve idea of justice wasn't enough since he used fraud to do everything he did, and she could have worked with any number of legitimate investigators who actually could afford to pay her instead of a fake psychic who barely made any money.
He didn't count the interest on the funds he'd taken from Big Bud. That wasn't the same, and that was from another life. If he was a better person, he'd never touch it at all. That money was tainted. It always had been.
“I have files on all the girls, and Mrs. Grant told me she wanted you to examine the vibrations in her house.”
“You're kidding.”
“No. She's still very sure you're the real thing, and your refusal to take her money just proves that to her.”
“Idiots. The whole world is filled with mindless sheep.”
“Except you.”
He snorted. “No, I sold out years ago.”
“This stuff is ridiculously heavy,” Enid grumbled from beside him. “Remind me next time to hire my own assistant.”
He gave her a look, and she shuddered. She hated when he went around in the hood, unable to separate herself from the theatricality of the moment, not that he'd deny the look was creepy as hell. That was why he'd chosen it. Every part of his role as Judas Dane was calculated. He wanted them thinking he was something else, something mystical and dangerous. Anyone with sense wouldn't look that closely at him, since they'd see the act for what it was—an act.
The few desperate ones he'd run into like Mrs. Grant, they were different. They believed in spite of everything, and the act gave them something to tell their faith, a way to encourage their fear.
“You know we'd have to set up something in advance to fool this woman, so why am I dragging around the bag of tricks?”
“Why do you think?”
“Seriously? You made me do this just to piss me off?”
He didn't answer her, but she already had it. She was somewhat amusing when she was irritated. Enid swore under her breath, and he could see her considering dropping the equipment, but she didn't, knocking on the door instead.
After a few moments, Mrs. Grant opened the door. Her face went from a frown to a wide smile. “I knew you'd come. I just knew it.”
“The spirits are restless,” he informed her. “It may have nothing to do with your daughter.”
“Oh, but it does,” Grant insisted, twisting her hands together in excitement. “Come, you'll want to see her room. It's where it happened.”
“I want to see the rest of the house first,” he said, getting a frown from both of the women. He hadn't come here to see if spirits would talk to him, and while seeing a crime scene always helped, he wanted to know what the security was like, how easy it would have been for someone to get in.
“Did my daughter tell you to do this?”
“I don't speak to your daughter. That's not how this works,” he said, making sure to catch the robe on the step, giving him time to look closer at the carpeting as he tugged on it. “You make everyone take off their shoes entering the house.”
“Yes, why?”
“Does everyone obey this rule?”
“Well, I didn't make you take them off, but most people do, even guests.”
“Your daughter never disobeyed?”
“No. She actually hated those heels she wore, but she thought she needed them to be taller. She was always kicking them off first thing she got inside the door.”
“She never walked through mud?”
“Oh, no. Not if she could help it.”
He turned away from the stairs, wanting to see where they kept the chemicals in this house. He eyed the sink in the kitchen. “You have a leaky faucet.”
“I do not,” Mrs. Grant said, rushing over to open the cupboard, pulling out all the chemicals and peering into the darkness. She sat back with a frown. “How did you know? Oh, listen to me. Why am I asking that?”
“I'd like to know,” Enid muttered under her breath.
Lucky guess. The age of the house made it almost a given it would have a few bad pipes, and even if he had been wrong, he could have made a convincing lie for why the psychic thought there was one when there wasn't.
Still, that proved his point. Anyone could have had easy access to that drain cleaner as long as they were in the house. Pour the drink in the kitchen, just like that. A very familiar moment. He sometimes wondered what it would have been like if he'd actually called Veronica back. If he'd told her it was poison, just how different would things be now?
He refused to think about that now. He'd done enough thinking after the bomb.
“Do you want to see her room now?”
He did, but he figured on being stubborn and keeping it for last. “She did laundry that day.”
Mrs. Grant stared at him. “Yes, she did. Does that matter?”
It might. “Her bed was made.”
“She must have wanted to read on it or something. She wasn't the kind of person that made her bed every morning. That just wasn't her.”
That, or her killer had spent the night with her. It would explain plenty. The lack of forced entry, the dirt tracked up the stairs, the girl drinking poison—if she'd trusted her killer, she'd do what he said without question.
Veronica had trusted him once.
“Judas? Are the spirits too loud?”
He turned back to face Enid. “Show me the bedroom.”