The Sleeping Doll

times. Bloodbath. But Pell had an alibi—a girlfriend swore he was with her at the time of the killing. And there was no physical evidence. The local police held him for a week on vagrancy, but finally gave him a pass. The case was never solved.
    “Then he gets the Family together in Seaside. A few more years of theft, shoplifting. Some assaults. An arson or two. Pell was suspected in the beating of a biker who lived nearby, but the man wouldn’t press charges. A month or so after that came the Croyton murders. From then on—well, until yesterday—he was in prison.”
    Dance asked, “What does the girl have to say?”
    “Girl?”
    “The Sleeping Doll. Theresa Croyton.”
    “What could she tell you? She was asleep at the time of the murders. That was established.”
    “Was it?” Kellogg asked. “By who?”
    “The investigators at the time, I assume.” Nagle’s voice was uncertain. He’d apparently never thought about it.
    “She’d be, let’s see, seventeen now,” Dance calculated. “I’d like to talk to her. She might know some things that’d be helpful. She’s living with her aunt and uncle, right?”
    “Yes, they adopted her.”
    “Could I have their number?”
    Nagle hesitated. His eyes swept the desktop; they’d lost their sparkle.
    “Is there a problem?”
    “Well, I promised the aunt I wouldn’t say anything to anybody about the girl. She’s very protective of her niece. Even I haven’t met her yet. At first the woman was dead set against my talking to her. I think she might agree eventually but if I gave you her number, I doubt very much she’d talk to you, and I suspect I’d never hear from her again.”
    “Just tell us where she lives. We’ll get the name from Directory Assistance. I won’t mention you.”
    He shook his head. “They changed their last name, moved out of the area. They were afraid somebody in the Family would come after them.”
    “You gave Kathryn the names of the women,” Kellogg pointed out.
    “They were in the phone book and in public records. You could’ve gotten them yourself. Theresa and her aunt and uncle are very unpublic.”
    “ You found them,” Dance said.
    “Through some confidential sources. Who, I guarantee, want to stay even more confidential now that Pell’s escaped. But I know this’s important. . . . I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll go see the aunt in person. Tell her you want to talk to Theresa about Pell. I’m not going to try to persuade them. If they say no, that’s it.”
    Kellogg nodded. “That’s all we’re asking. Thanks.”
    Looking over the bio, Dance said, “The more I learn about him, the less I know.”
    The writer laughed, the sparkle returning to his face. “Oh, you want to know the why of Daniel Pell?” He dug through his briefcase, found a stack of papers and flipped to a yellow tab. “Here’s a quote from one of his prison psych interviews. For once he was being candid.” Nagle read:
    “Pell: You want to analyze me, don’t you? You want to know what makes me tick? You surely know the answer to that one, Doctor. It’s the same for everybody: family, of course. Daddy whipped me, Daddy ignored me, Mommy didn’t breastfeed me, Uncle Joe did who knows what. Nature or nurture, you can lay everything at your family’s feet. But if you think too much about ’em, next thing you know, every single relative and ancestor you ever had is in the room with you and you’re paralyzed. No, no, the only way to survive is to let ’em all go and remember that you’re who you are and that’s never going to change .
    “Interviewer: Then who are you, Daniel?
    “Pell (laughing): Oh, me? I’m the one tugging the strings of your soul and making you do things you never thought you were capable of. I’m the one playing my flute and leading you to places you’re afraid to go. And let me tell you, Doctor, you’d be astonished at how many people want their puppeteers and their Pied Pipers. Absolutely astonished.”
    •    •    •
    “I have to get home,” Dance said, after Nagle had left. Her mother and the children would be anxiously awaiting her for her father’s party.
    Kellogg tossed the comma of hair off his forehead. It fell back. He tried again. She glanced at the gesture and noticed something she hadn’t seen before—a bandage protruding above the collar of his shirt.
    “You hurt?”
    A shrug. “Got winged. A takedown in Chicago the other day.”
    His body language told her he