The River's Secret

by Peggy Dulle

  “Okay, Simon.”

  He waved, took the skull and his team back to his own town.

  I walked over to the crowd and blinked as the onslaught of camera lights blinded me. Bob took his official place next to me.

  “Let me have your attention, please,” Bob shouted.

  The crowd hushed.

  “We definitely found a human skull in the river,” I began.

  A reporter yelled out, “Did you find the rest?”

  I glared at him. “Interrupt again and I'm going home.”

  He lowered his head.

  “Okay, we found a skull, but that's it. No other remains were found. It's probably from a private grave site. As you know, several families have small graveyards on their farms for their relatives. The rain and the broken levees have disrupted a lot of land around here. As soon as we know where the skull came from, I'll let you know.”

  A young man raised his hand. I liked a kid with manners.

  “Yes?”

  “Where is the skull now?”

  “It's going to be under lock and key until a forensic anthropologist can look at it and tell us the age and whether it was male or female.”

  Cheryl raised her hand and I nodded toward her.

  “Since we don’t have any footage for our news reports and newspapers except long distance shots, can we get a photograph of the skulls?”

  I thought about it for a moment. What difference would it make? Nobody could recognize a loved one from a skull and it would go a long way with the reporters if I gave it to them. You never know when you need a favor from a reporter.

  I nodded. “I will send copies of the photographs that the crime scene unit took to each of you tomorrow.”

  A barrage of questions followed, but I ignored them because not one of the questioners raised their hands. It must be a leftover from living with my mom, a teacher. Besides, I really didn’t have anything else to say. Bob and I pushed through the crowd, got into my car and drove back to the station under a clear and starry sky. A welcome change from the rainstorm we endured the last two nights.

  We arrived after eight, so Bob went home. I took the pictures to Doc Sloter. He lived in a three story white Victorian house at the north end of town. His office was on the first floor and he lived on the other two. The skull could be anyone, but maybe he could venture a guess about its identity. I found him in his office, poring over a copy of the American Medical Journal. He never changed, smiling, happy, and always in search of a better way to do his job.

  He waved as I walked through the door. “Change your mind about those creams and lasers?” he asked.

  “Nope.” I shook my head. I took out the pictures and held them in the air.

  He stood. “Oh, the pictures of the skull?”

  “Yes.”

  He was as excited as Bob. That's life in a small town. Doc spread the pictures on his desk, got a magnifying glass out, and closely checked each picture.

  “I'd guess female.”

  “Why?”

  “The female skull is usually smaller and lighter than a male. Also the teeth are small. I guess it could be a small man.”

  I leaned over and looked at the pictures again. “Maybe it's smaller because the bottom jaw is missing.”

  “It could be, but I think it's still too small to be a man's skull.”

  “Can you guess how old?”

  “I'd say a young adolescent.” He pointed to the top row of teeth. “The wisdom teeth haven't come in yet.”

  “You're good, Doc.”

  He smiled. “Thanks.”

  I left Doc thumbing through his magazines. As I left he yelled, “Don't forget about that laser treatment. It would really reduce the scar on your chest.”

  “I'll think about it, Doc.”

  I put the pictures into my glove compartment.

  A dead teenager?

  Old grave or murder victim?

  Chapter 4

  By the time I left Doc, it was after nine. The moon, nearly obscured by gray clouds that had filled the sky since I had gone into Doc's office, offered only a chilling slice of illumination in the night. A slight breeze brushed across my face; hopefully, it would push the clouds north. Arroyo didn't need any more rain.

  It was late and I hadn't eaten since breakfast so I drove directly to the diner. I expected the place to be deserted due to the late hour, but it was packed with locals and tourists, several of whom I had seen at the river. A hush fell over the diner, as I came through the door. All eyes were on me. I nodded, smiled, and went directly to my booth. Several people came over to pump me for information about the skull. I gave them the same facts I furnished at the press conference.

  A few minutes later, Jay Prescott dropped into my booth. His sudden appearance startled me and immediately my heart hammered crazily as I tried to catch my breath. The locals quickly abandoned their interest in the skull and scampered away. Jay's eyes widened and he stood to leave.

  “No, sit down,” I gasped between breaths.

  Jay slid back into the booth. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” A few seconds passed and I gradually calmed down. “You need to stop sneaking up on me.”

  “It's just my way, Chief. I like surprising people.”

  “Well, one of these days I might shoot you by accident.”

  His eyebrows rose and his eyes glistened.

  “Maybe you just need to see me more.”

  Jay, a mystery writer, had come to town five years ago. He was a few years older than me, several inches shorter than six feet, with a stocky muscular build. Most women in town swooned over his baby blue eyes and extremely long lashes. Dressing in black from head to toe just intensified his mysteriousness. He liked it that way. He must be in his editing or research mode since he was here at the diner. When he was writing we wouldn’t see him for days, sometimes even weeks.

  “Maybe we could go out and see a movie sometime?” he asked.

  My pulse started to race again. I took a few deep breaths and smiled. “I don't think so, Jay. I might have a heart attack.”

  “I'd make it worth your while.” A slow grin spread across his face.

  “No, thanks.” I wasn't ready to start a new relationship. The last two hadn't worked out very well, had they?

  He leaned forward. “Tell me about the skull.”

  “It's just part of a skull. The TV reporter found it in the river. Chief Billing's CSI unit didn't find anything else. That's it.”

  “Can I see it?” His eyes glistened with anticipation.

  “Nope. I sent them with Simon to Parsonville. I’ve got pictures in my car but that’s all.”

  “Okay.” He sat back and frowned. “That's boring.”

  “Well, if we find any more parts, I'll let you know.”

  “Thanks, Chief.”

  “Are you going to include it in your next book?”

  “Maybe. I'll have to spice it up a bit.”

  “I can't wait to read it.” I smiled. Of course, I hadn’t actually read any of his books. Doc told me they were really good but graphic. He explained every crime scene in minute details. I saw enough of the real thing when I was with the bureau.

  “You and a million of my fans,” Jay replied proudly.

  The small bell attached to the diner's door rang; both Jay and I looked up. It was Katie Curtis. She was nineteen, tall, blonde, sexy, and desired by every single man in the town. Katie could take her pick. But she had her sights on nursing school and the first doctor who asked her to marry him. The men in Arroyo would be sorely disappointed and lonely when she left. Jay included, if you took into account the way he quickly abandoned me and slid into her booth before anyone else could take the seat next to her. I guessed he was as smitten with her as everyone else.

  As I watched Jay and Katie together, I wondered why Jay always got in the last word in any of our conversations. It was aggravating.

  My dinner arrived. Tonight's special was crab cakes, garlic fries, and coleslaw, a
nother recipe from one of Ron and Erma's vacations. The cakes melted in my mouth, delicious.

  When I got home it was close to eleven o’clock, I hung up my coat in the hall closet and saw the stack of games on the shelf. I had spent many afternoons playing Monopoly with my dad and Yahtzee with my grandma.

  And William. My heart fluttered remembering the days we spent together playing silly board games, like Clue and Battleship, to keep my mind engaged when the doctors wouldn't let me think about work. He made me laugh at the way he played games. He was most uncompetitive person I ever met. William didn’t care if he won or lost the board game, which was so different than the way he was about his profiling. Monopoly was my favorite because William would analyze each Chance and Community Chest card, going off on tangents that left me crying with laughter. Who would have thought that “You inherit $100.00” or “You’ve been elected Chairman of the Board – Pay each player $50” could be so funny? And later, when our affair started, he made his own set of cards called Take a Chance and each would contain a body part that he was going to exploit.

  It took six full weeks, but finally Dr. Kuntz declared my physical body on the road to healing. I checked into a psychiatric facility because I needed to learn how to control my anxiety without the drugs they fed me every day.

  The next few weeks were filled with therapy sessions - individual and groups. Actually, I only went to one group session. The group consisted of me and five other women, all whining about their abusive husbands, disrespectful kids, and addictions. When I suggested they kick their husbands to the curb, use some tough love on their kids, and give up their addictions cold turkey, the doctors decided I might benefit more from individual sessions.

  Albert Cohan was the lucky doctor assigned to my case. Chances are - he lost the coin toss. He was in his early sixties, five foot-six, a hundred and fifty pounds, fair haired and frail looking. A stale piece of toast had more personality and a larger vocabulary. His only included six words: “How does that make you feel?” And he had more nervous habits than anyone I ever met.

  Our first session took place in his office. I knocked on the door and walked right in.

  Dr. Cohan glanced at me over the square wire reading glasses propped on his small straight nose. His oak desk was covered in files. He stood and pointed to the pair of leather chairs that sat on the opposite wall from his desk. “Have a seat, Agent Davenport.”

  Before he could come around his desk, I took one of the high backed oak chairs and sat in front of it. He glanced at the seating area, obviously reserved for sessions, shook his head and sat back down.

  During the first few private sessions, he urged me to talk about my ordeal. That was a problem, since I couldn't remember anything from the time I was tasered in the parking lot to waking up in the hole where the Jackal had buried me.

  “You're suppressing the memory,” Dr. Cohan insisted in his monotone voice as he strummed the top of his desk with his fingers.

  I leaned forward. “Listen Doc, I can't block out something that I was unconscious during.”

  “You weren't unconscious the whole time, Agent Davenport.” He shook his head and switched to tapping the top of his pencil against his desk. “You are choosing to deliberately forget what happened to you. If you don't remember it, you can't move on.”

  I took several slow, deep breaths and suppressed the desire to find my gun and shoot the man. He didn't listen. Wasn’t that what therapists were supposed to do? And his nervous tapping grated on my last raw nerve.

  His eyes widened, the way they always did when one of my panic attacks started.

  I put up my hand. “I'm fine. Let me try to explain. None of the Jackal's victims had defensive wounds. The Jackal tasers the woman, then drugs, rapes, slices them open, and buries them alive.”

  Dr. Cohan's face went from pasty white to a lovely shade of green.

  I kept going. “The Jackal wants power over his victims, but he's a coward, so he has to keep the women sedated.”

  The doctor’s hand stopped tapping.

  “All of the autopsies showed evidence of violence against the body, especially the interior tearing associated with rape. And of course, there's the lovely knife wound, which runs from here,” I pointed to my neck and sliced down my chest, stopping at my crotch, “and ends just above the pubic area.”

  His hue changed from lime to emerald green.

  Could I get the shade to go deeper? “And then there's all the interior damage that's done when the dirt goes into the wound and mixes with the body's organs. It's amazing what that muck does to the heart, lungs, and intestines.”

  He gagged and ran from the room.

  On my next session, he was more amicable.

  “Agent Davenport, what do you want to get from these sessions?” he asked, while tapping the pointed end of a letter opener on his desk.

  “Please call me Connie,” I told him. “And all I want is to control the anxiety attacks without any medication.”

  “No problem.”

  First he taught me some different ways to calm down: counting, thinking about something else, doing something else, telling myself to calm down, taking several deep breaths, and talking to someone. As I learned the strategies, he promised to slowly wean me from the medication.

  We tested out each method. He would shut the door to his office, the panic attack would start, and I would try to stop it. The first ten times, I passed out and woke up back in my room.

  “This isn't working, Connie.” Dr. Cohan said after I awoke from my tenth attack.

  “Let's give it another few times, Dr. Cohan. I can't be an FBI agent if I'm full of drugs.”

  “But each time your vitals spike enough to cause you to lose consciousness it's like being shocked by electricity. It's taking a toll on your body every time we do it and it's taking longer and longer for you to regain consciousness.”

  “Okay, but let's give it another few tries. If I can't control the attacks, I'll go back to your lovely little pills and find a new career.”

  Finally a combination of counting, deep breathing, and visualizing a flowing river began to work.

  During my hospital stay, William came every few days. Dr. Cohan wouldn't let him bring any FBI case files into the psychiatric ward - too much stress. Instead, William brought in board games - Life, Monopoly, Checkers, Chess, and Clue. We laughed and talked about our lives, goals and ambitions. I beat him at the games every time. His green eyes would cloud over in confusion and disbelief, but then he would smile, shrug, and choose a different game.

  His worst game was Clue. He could never figure out who had done it, where, or with what. It was hysterical since he was such a hotshot profiler.

  “Ms. White, in the library, and with the candlestick,” I told him.

  He frowned. “How could it be her?”

  “William, I've eliminated everyone else.”

  “I don't think Ms. White is capable of murder. She doesn't seem like the type.”

  I sighed. “It's a game, William. She's not a real person.”

  He opened the envelope with the cards and held up Ms. White's card. “She's too pretty to be a murderer.”

  I laughed. William joined me.

  I took the card from his hand. “It's the pretty ones you've got to watch out for. They use their beauty to be cunning and seductive.”

  His sparkling green eyes met mine. “I'll make a note of that for my next case.”

  Soon, I looked forward to seeing William. He was the only constant in my life other than Dr. Cohan. During the third week, we talked about his profiling cases while we played games. I gave him suggestions on different angles to pursue on the victims and some ideas about what the killer might be thinking. He liked my suggestions, and said so.

  After I spent an entire month in the psychiatric facility, I finally could control the panic attacks with breathing and calming techniques. I felt ready to be discharged. Men could come and go into my room and I could manage the attacks. I could
n't stop them but at least I could concentrate and control them.

  Over a game of Battleship, I told William I wanted to leave the hospital.

  “That's great, Constance.” He smiled.

  I sank all of his ships, twice, and gave him advice on three of his profiling cases. The next day I broached the subject with Dr. Cohan.

  “I think you're ready, too.” he nodded, drumming his fingers on his desk. “But I'd like you to stay close so I can monitor how you respond to being back in public and not isolated in a hospital.

  “But I don't live here,” I told him.

  The doctor smiled, “I spoke to your friend, Mr. Carlotti. He has an apartment not far from here. You can stay with him. I'll want to see you every day until we're sure you're okay.”

  William was my friend? When did that happen? At first, he just provided a distraction but then, over the last several weeks, I came to really enjoy and look forward to seeing him. He always made me laugh, which made me feel better about my ordeal and slow recovery. Still, I didn't feel right imposing on him. I told William how I felt when he offered his apartment to me.

  “It's not an imposition, Constance,” he said. “Dr. Cohan wants you to stay close for at least a week.”

  “But I'd really like to go home. I've been gone almost four months. D.C. has doctors, too.”

  “Yes, but Dr. Cohan knows your case. Just give it a week. If you don't have any attacks, then you can go home.”

  I put my hand on his arm. “I really appreciate all the time you've spent with me, but I don't need someone to watch over me.”

  “I'm not watching over you and I expect you to pull your weight around the place.”

  A few days later I was discharged. I strolled out of my hospital room, through the halls, and out the door without a hint of an attack, without William by my side, and without any drugs in my body. It felt good to be free of them all. It gave me back a sense of control of my life.

  The sun shone bright and the day was warm and not too humid when I walked out of the hospital. William drove up in a glistening red Nissan 350Z convertible.

  “This is your car?” I asked.

  “I don't look like the sports car type?”