He’d been here before, of course. He had visited Gabriel Kane multiple times over the past few years. Those visits had been professional, necessary, part of the investigation. This one was different. This one was about closure.
The observation room was small, barely more than a cupboard with a window. Through the one-way glass, Brodie could see the secure interview room beyond – white walls, minimal furniture, everything designed to prevent harm or suicide.
And in the centre of the room, sitting in a chair that had beenbolted to the floor, was the man who had once been Dr Ronald Holmes, who had reinvented himself as The Embalmer and played God with other people’s lives for only he knew how long.
He was dressed in the hospital’s standard-issue clothing – white track bottoms, a white sweatshirt, white Crocs. The outfit stripped away any sense of identity or status, reducing him to just another patient in a secure psychiatric facility. His hair, which had been carefully styled when Brodie had last seen him properly, now hung limp and unwashed. His face, was blank, expressionless.
He just sat there, staring into space, hands resting on his knees. Waiting for something or someone that would never come.
‘He sits like that for hours,’ a voice said behind Brodie.
Brodie turned to find Dr Iris Murray, the psychiatrist who was overseeing Sherlock’s evaluation. She was in her fifties, with grey-streaked black hair pulled back in a severe bun and the kind of calm, assessing eyes that came from years of dealing with the criminally insane.
‘Has he said anything?’ Brodie asked.
‘Very little. He answered questions during the initial assessment – confirmed his identity, discussed his childhood, acknowledged what he had done. But there was no affect, no emotion. It was like listening to someone read from a script.’ Dr Murray moved to stand beside Brodie, looking through the glass at her patient. ‘He’s pleading insanity, as I’m sure you’re aware.’
‘Will it work?’
‘Almost certainly. His psychiatric history, combined with the nature of his crimes and his current presentation, suggests severe dissociative disorder with psychotic features. He genuinely seems to have believed he was creating art, that his murders had aesthetic and philosophical significance.’ Dr Murray’s tone wasclinical, but Brodie heard the disgust beneath it. ‘He won’t stand trial. He’ll remain here, in secure psychiatric care, for the rest of his life.’
‘That’s too good for him,’ Brodie said quietly.
‘Perhaps. But it’s what the law allows.’ Dr Murray checked her watch. ‘You’re here to see Dr Kane, yes? He’s been expecting you.’
‘Has he?’
‘Oh yes. He’s been telling everyone who’ll listen that you’d come to see him one last time before the case was officially closed. He seems quite pleased about it, actually.’
They walked together down the corridor to another secure wing, another set of locked doors that required Dr Murray’s authorisation to open. Gabriel Kane’s room was larger than Sherlock’s, a concession to his status as a long-term resident and model patient. It had a proper bed, a desk with books, even a small window that looked out onto the hospital grounds – though the glass was reinforced and the window didn’t open.
Kane was sitting at his desk when they entered, flanked by two orderlies who stood against the wall with the watchful stillness of men trained to respond to violence in milliseconds. He looked up as Brodie entered, his face breaking into a genuine smile.
‘DCI Brodie! Or should I say, the conquering hero returns?’ Kane stood, gesturing to the chair across from his desk. ‘Please, sit. Dr Murray, thank you for facilitating this visit.’
‘I’ll be right outside,’ Dr Murray said, her tone making it clear this was both information and warning. ‘Twenty minutes, gentlemen. That’s all the authorisation allows.’
She left, the door closing and locking behind her with a definitive click.
Kane settled back into his chair, his pale eyes studyingBrodie. ‘You look tired, Liam. But satisfied. The weight of the case is gone, isn’t it? You’ve finally caught your Embalmer.’
‘He’s pleading insanity,’ Brodie said, not bothering with pleasantries.
‘Of course he is.’ Kane’s smile widened. ‘And he’ll succeed. I’ve spoken with him, you know. Dr Murray arranged it – she thought it might be therapeutic for him to talk with someone who understood his particular psychology. It was fascinating, really. He genuinely believes he created something meaningful, something that will outlast all of us.’
‘He killed people. That’s all he did.’
‘But he killed them beautifully, Liam. With precision and care and artistry. That’s what makes him different from the common murderer. He elevated death to something transcendent.’ Kane leaned forward slightly, his expression earnest. ‘I’m not defending what he did, you understand. But I am acknowledging the skill involved, the planning, the sheer audacity of operating for so long without detection.’
Brodie met Kane’s eyes steadily. ‘You were right, doctor. Me returning to Fife set the game rolling again. When Holmes saw me, when we worked together on that case in Kirkcaldy, it awakened something in him. He wanted to play the game again, wanted to see if I could catch him this time.’
‘And you almost didn’t,’ Kane observed. ‘If it hadn’t been for that sand on the car mat, if you hadn’t made that intuitive leap… He would have killed DI Warren and disappeared again. Perhaps for another seven years, perhaps forever. You came very close to losing, Liam.’
‘But I didn’t lose.’
‘No. You won. Barely, but a win is a win.’ Kane sat back, steepling his fingers. ‘Tell me about the friend. David Duffy. What’s become of him?’
‘He had nothing to do with it,’ Brodie said. ‘We’ve interviewed him extensively, checked his movements, his communications, everything. He genuinely didn’t know what Holmes was doing.’
