photographed, cataloged, and laid out for inspection. Under the weapons was a fat manila folder that was crammed with all things Erin. Magazine covers, feature stories, videotapes, CDs, and hundreds of pictures, some clipped from fan books, but many of them candid shots, most likely taken while he stalked her.
The biggest surprise was the diaries—handwritten journals dating back fifteen years. I picked one up and opened it to a random page.
October 12, 2014
Erin and I drove up to the Berkshires for the weekend partly just to look at the fall foliage but mostly to find a house for us. Not that we’re going to live up in Massachusetts. She’d rather be where it’s warm all year round. It doesn’t matter anyway because none of the places we looked at were right for us. It’s Sunday and she’s got a rerun on tonight. We’ll watch it but I keep telling her that the damn network should be making new shows instead of just repeating the old ones over and over. I sent them fourteen e-mails about it but so far they haven’t written back. What do you expect from a bunch of idiots.
I flipped to another page, then another. It was all the same. Bobby Dodd was in love with someone who wasn’t there, and he had journaled their life together as if they actually had one.
Kylie had a second volume, and I watched her face as she flipped through it, waiting for her expression to turn from cold to compassionate as she read a few of the entries. But it never did.
“Well, this sucks,” she said, finally putting the diary down.
“Granted, it’s not Shakespeare,” I said.
“I’m not talking about the writing. I’m talking about the fact that it’s all fiction. Our job is to read everything Bobby wrote and find out how he planned all the crimes he committed. Was he a loner, or did he have accomplices? What if we read for a week, and we finally get to the part where he says he was in cahoots with Mrs. Speranza? Or the Brockways? Or the Rockettes? How do we know what’s real and what’s crazy? How do we know what to believe, what to follow up on?”
They were smart questions, but I had no answers.
“Zach, you and I have great bullshit detectors when we’re sitting across the table from a suspect, studying his word choices, watching his body language. But it’s hard to find the truth when you’re wading through a thousand pages written by a delusional man.”
And then the answer came to me. “You’re right,” I said. “We’re going to need professional help, and I just happen to know someone who’s extremely adept at deciphering the thoughts of a delusional man.”
Kylie tapped herself on the forehead, that classic gesture you make when someone else comes up with the obvious answer before you do.
“I know Dr. Robinson too,” she said. “In fact, I know her so well, I think she might actually enjoy reading this crap.”
CHAPTER 65
AS SOON AS I got back to the station I went directly to Cheryl’s office. “Please tell me you’re free tonight,” I said.
“I could be,” she said, giving me one of those seductive smiles that made me wish I had more than police work to offer her. “What did you have in mind?”
“A foursome—you, me, Kylie, and the insane ramblings of a psycho stalker-rapist-kidnapper-murderer-badass. Bobby Dodd left behind his diaries. Kylie and I have to make sense out of them. We thought it might be more productive if we brought along a trained psychologist. For the record, you were our first choice.”
“I’m flattered.”
“But wait, there’s more,” I said. “If you act now, we’ll throw in an all-expenses-paid dinner from the Chinese takeout joint of your choice.”
“It’s hard to say no to an evening of insane ramblings and General Tso’s chicken. Sign me up.”
Twenty minutes later, Kylie, Cheryl, and I were sitting in a conference room with the diaries.
“Logic might dictate that each of us start from the beginning,” Cheryl said. “But we’re not going to be able to read it all in one night, and it’s better to get at least one pair of eyes on every page. So let’s break it up into thirds. I’ll take the first third, Kylie the next, and Zach the last.”
The time flew as I got sucked into the strange world of Robert Allen Dodd. Kylie had been wrong. It wasn’t all fiction. It was filled with fantasies about Erin, but there was also page after