Phantom Instinct (9780698157132) by Meg Gardiner Page B

was a day he stopped by, just wanted to see people, show his face.”
    On the video, Sorenstam leaned against her desk, chatting with Aiden. The detective at the next desk stood to shake Aiden’s hand. Bracing himself as though he were on the deck of a pitching boat, Aiden let go of the chair, smiling.
“Good to be here. Great to see you, too, you bastard.”
    As they shook hands, Aiden glanced at the guy on the phone.
    Harper wasn’t prepared for what happened next.
    Aiden turned sharply to Sorenstam. Said something, and nodded at the guy on the phone, jerking his chin. Sorenstam said, clearly,
“What?”
    Aiden pointed at the guy on the phone and called to him.
“Hey.”
    The detective whose hand he’d been shaking took a step back, looking uncertain. Sorenstam raised her hands—a calming gesture.
“Whoa.”
    Again, Aiden called:
“Hey.”
    The detective on the phone glanced up from his call. Aiden launched himself past Sorenstam, straight at him, and attacked.
    Harper touched her fingertips to her forehead. “Oh no.”
    Aiden shoved the guy’s chair back from the desk, on its rollers. The man pinwheeled for balance, but Aiden had height and momentum. He tackled the guy to the floor. He was yelling. Yelling directly in the guy’s face. He was completely, corrosively, unequivocally losing his shit.
    The detective and Aiden wrestled on the floor. Sorenstam waded in. Her face was lit with confusion and embarrassed horror. She grabbed Aiden’s collar. The third detective pried Aiden loose. The guy from the phone sat confused on the carpet, saying,
“What the hell?”
    Aiden had doubled in pain, but he pointed at the guy he’d dumped on the floor.
    â€œHim
,
”
he yelled.
    Now Sorenstam stopped the video. “He thought Detective Perez was the third shooter. He kept shouting, ‘It’s him. It’s the guy.’”
    â€œOh, God,” Harper said.
    â€œHe was completely convinced. Nothing we said, nothing we did, could dissuade him.”
    â€œWhat made him think . . .”
    â€œIt was a hallucination. Fregoli is part of a constellation of disorders called delusional misidentification syndromes. You just saw what that means. His brain throws a gear, and he loses control,” she said. “He thought the shooter had wormed his way in here to destroy evidence and ruin our investigation.”
    Sorenstam stared at the frozen image on the computer screen. “Did he tell you?”
    â€œHe tried to explain.” Shock and fear and empathy pinballed through her. “That was . . .” Awful. Goddamn horrible to see. “Painful.”
    She tried to shove everything back behind the wall. “But it doesn’t negate what I’ve been telling you about the shooter who escaped. Aiden and I both know it was Eddie Azerov.”
    â€œYou don’t understand, do you?” Sorenstam said. “Detective Garrison didn’t simply mistake another detective for the third shooter. That’s not his only delusion. His delusion is
that the third shooter exists.
”
    A weight seemed to press on Harper’s shoulders.
    Sorenstam said, “There is no third shooter. Gunman Zero is an illusion.”
    Harper wanted to say more, but Sorenstam crossed her arms and planted her feet wide. She became a wall built of conviction and anger. And Harper knew that nothing good came of arguing with cops who were fueled by rage and certainty.
    Still, she straightened her shoulders and stood as calmly as she could.
    Finally, Sorenstam said, “I am truly sorry that you have been swept up in all of this. This year must have been difficult for you.”
    â€œKind of you.”
    Sorenstam heard the chill tone that slipped between Harper’s teeth.
    â€œAnd I will make sure your report of an unidentified man at the memorial is noted in the investigative file. But you need to ease down. Getting