Stray Fears - Gregory Ashe Page 0,60
of the medical complex where DuPage Behavioral had their offices. Each photograph showed people I knew either entering the building or leaving. Tamika, Kenny, Ray, Willie, Stephanie, Danielle, Leola. Almost the entire support group.
“That’s really, really weird,” I said. What was David doing?”
“He was hunting it. The hashok. He was doing what we’re doing.”
I thought about that, not sure if I agreed. “Where’s Mason?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s the whole support group except Mason. Where’s Mason?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know who his doctor was?” I asked.
“No. He was really private.”
“Who would know? His parents?”
“His parents aren’t going to talk to me. They think I killed him.”
“His girlfriend?” I asked.
“I don’t know. They broke up, but I don’t know how long ago. Mason was lying to me about that. And she and I never really got along.”
“Do you have her number?”
“Yes.”
“So call her.”
“It’s going to be the same thing,” Dag said, ducking his head. “She’s going to blame me for what happened to him; I don’t want to get into it.”
“Ok, give me the number.”
“She won’t talk to you. She doesn’t even know you.”
“Dag, I’m trying really hard not to be a bitch right now. Just give me the number.”
He read it off his phone, and I placed the call on speakerphone.
“Hello?”
“Is this Mary Ann Pounds?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“My name is Alex Jones. I’m with the Department of Health. I’m finishing up the coroner’s report on Mr. Mason Comeaux, and I just needed some information I’m hoping you can help me with.”
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t even really dating—”
“I know, ma’am, and I’m sorry to trouble you. It’s just part of the job.”
“Isn’t it late for this kind of thing?”
“Tell me about it,” I said. “A herd of cows walked into a helicopter, and we’ve been cleaning it up all day. I’m trying to finish this before I head out.”
“No, I mean—wait, into a helicopter?”
“I really just need your help with one question, Ms. Pounds.”
“But I thought this was all finished. We had Mason’s funeral and everything. I don’t understand.”
“This is an amended form 1199C, so it’s still working its way through the system.”
That was as far as I was willing to push; anything else would send her into automatic refusal, I guessed.
“Ok,” she said. “I mean, if I know the answer.”
“Did Mr. Comeaux have any unusual injuries? Anything that happened around the same time as the shooting or shortly thereafter?”
She was silent for a moment. “It was months ago.”
“Anything with his hands or feet?”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s a matter of possible bacterial infection. Similar to tetanus.”
“He cut his hand, yes. On the lawnmower blade. He told me he’d been trying to fix it. I don’t remember—I think it was after the shooting, but honestly, I’m not sure. He was in such bad shape, and it seems strange now. He was barely leaving the house. He definitely wasn’t doing yardwork.”
“Perfect,” I said. “We’ll check into that. We can’t get the insurance company to confirm that Mr. Comeaux was seeing a mental health professional. Do you happen to know if he was?”
“Yes. Sometimes twice a week. I don’t know at the end because we’d separated, but he was seeing a psychiatrist regularly.”
“Do you happen to know the name?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“You’re sure?”
She made an apologetic noise.
“All right,” I said. “Thank you for your time.”
“Oh, Mr. Jones, wait. It was York. Like the peppermint patty.”
I must have found a way of ending the call because I disconnected and stared at Dag.
“That’s Richard,” I finally managed to say.
“I remember when he cut his hand,” Dag said, his face dark. I was surprised to realize I was seeing Dag angry, really angry, for the first time. “He told me he’d grabbed the fishing line right before a catfish took off. That fucking monster did something to him. It messed with his head.”
I just nodded.
Grimacing, Dag pointed to the laptop’s screen. It was a picture of Zahra. A recent picture. David had zoomed in and taken a picture of her from a distance, her expression unreadable as she watched the group. More pictures of Zahra. More.
“He obviously thought she has something to do with it,” Dag said. “The pictures go on and on like this. He’d been doing research. He’d learned enough to suspect her, although I wonder how much he had figured out about the hashok.”
“She’s ranching her own fucking food,” I said. “She’s picking up clients from DuPage Behavioral. She made the support group into a feeding trough.”
“Let’s not jump to any conclusions.” Then Dag frowned. “But if she was doing