‘Okay,’ Sam said.
‘What does that mean?’ Grace asked him later, after he’d told her the news. ‘I mean, what can we really do with this non-information?’
‘Not much, yet,’ Sam answered. ‘Except I think we can at least allow ourselves to believe that Hayman may not have been what he claimed to be – which maybe means we’re not quite as guilty as we’ve been afraid we were.’
‘It isn’t very much, is it?’ Grace said.
‘Better than nothing,’ Sam said.
Grace was back at work. She’d had a long telephone conversation with Dr Magda Shrike, the woman who had been her mentor at the University of Miami, but who had relocated to San Francisco a few years back. Grace was beginning to sense that she was on the brink of some kind of crisis of confidence, and what she needed was someone she trusted and respected to reassure her that it was reasonable and safe for her to go on looking after patients while struggling to come to terms with her own problems.
‘Do you think it’s safe?’ Magda had asked.
Grace had known, of course, that was how it would go. She’d toss her the ball, and Magda would toss it straight back, which was, no doubt about it, the right thing to do since it was Grace’s damned ball.
‘I think it is,’ she had answered. ‘Or maybe I just hope it is.’
‘Isn’t that all we ever do?’ Magda had reminded her. ‘We’re not cardiac surgeons, Grace – our errors aren’t as swift to rebound on us – or as lethal, thank God. Do we ever really know for sure how effectively we’re doing our jobs?’
Grace had smiled into the phone. ‘Is that your way of telling me it’s all right for me to go back to work, Magda?’
‘It’s as close to that as you’re going to get from me.’
Dora Rabinovitch had begun scheduling appointments again, and Grace had promised herself that if she developed any post-traumatic symptoms that might affect her judgment in the line of duty, she would think again, maybe even seek some counselling.
Dora was being supportive, and Claudia was calling daily to check that Grace was getting by. She and Sam were having quiet meals together regularly, but somehow neither of them seemed to feel it was right to continue where they’d left off that night after the S-BOP rehearsal, when his pager had snatched him away from her side.
Harry was Grace’s most constant companion.
He didn’t seem to care that it was still possible she might have caused the death of an innocent man.
Chapter Sixty
MONDAY, JUNE 1, 1998
Things got worse before they got better.
On Monday afternoon, Al Martinez told Sam that there’d been another scalpel attack in a doctor’s surgery up in Dania, and the familiar MO had got people thinking that maybe Dr Becket’s attack needed a little fresh scrutiny. However, no one investigating the Dania attack or the Valdez killing in Miami had anywhere close to enough new evidence to lead to the charges against Cathy being dropped in the Becket stabbing. And even if that evidence were forthcoming, Martinez said, since the growing consensus of opinion was that all the surgery attacks were probably unconnected to the other scalpel killings, it wouldn’t really help Cathy at all.
On Tuesday afternoon, they buried Frances Dean close to her sister and brother-in-law’s recently filled graves in the Our Lady of Mercy cemetery in SW Miami. When Cathy had stood at the graveside on that other wet, humid afternoon, a newly charged juvenile, she had been in handcuffs. This time, she was in shackles. At her parents’ funeral, there had, at least, been one friend present. This time, there was no sign of Jill or any other young friend of Cathy’s.
Grace was there for her, standing some distance away from Sam and Martinez, and her heart warmed just a scrap to see both David and Judy Becket in the small gathering. Grace wanted to get close to the grieving, haunted looking teenager, but was not permitted, and the only one allowed in touching distance was Jerry Wagner who, Grace noted gratefully, was gripping his client’s arm in support and murmuring to her every now and again, presumably to help her get through.
Try as they all might, Grace and Sam and even Martinez agreed later over a Jack Daniel’s or three – Martinez being off-duty – it had been impossible to give proper attention to the service, or the memory of Frances Dean, or even to Cathy’s feelings.
The only real point of focus for all of them, from start to finish, had been those bands of iron chaining her ankles together.
On Thursday afternoon, Cathy told a guard in the laundry room that she had bad menstrual pains and needed to go lie down. She was asked if she needed to go to the infirmary, but she said that all she thought she needed was fifteen to twenty minutes’ rest. They let her go.
Thirty-five minutes later Cathy was declared missing. Ten minutes after that, two other guards found her in the shower block hanging by her twisted up and knotted uniform jumpsuit from a shower head. She was alive and semi-conscious. Aside from some localized bruising to her neck and throat, no significant damage appeared to have been done.
It was Eric Parés, the facility’s physician, who telephoned Grace on Thursday evening to notify her.
‘Cathy’s at Miami General, Dr Lucca. Physically she’s okay, but they’re keeping her in for a seventy-two-hour hold.’
‘Will they let me see her?’ Grace’s heart was pounding.
‘Do you know Dr Rajiv Khan, the psychiatrist?’ Parés asked.
‘Only slightly.’ Grace thought she remembered Khan, a short, slim man with warm, sad eyes and a kind smile. ‘Is he taking care of Cathy?’
‘I told him about your relationship with the girl. Dr Khan says he’ll be glad to speak to you with a view to your going to visit Cathy tomorrow – if you have the time.’
‘Have you seen her?’ Grace asked Parés.
‘Very briefly,’ he said. ‘She was quiet, depressed . . . much as I’d expected.’ He paused. ‘I didn’t feel she regretted too much having been saved.’
‘Thank you, doctor,’ Grace said.
‘I’ve done nothing,’ Parés said.
‘It was kind of you to tell me that.’
‘I think I know a little of how you must be feeling, Dr Lucca. I, too, feel I’ve let Cathy down badly.’
Grace met with Rajiv Khan outside Cathy’s locked ward on Friday afternoon. He was just the way she’d remembered him. His eyes were as sad as ever.
‘It doesn’t take a genius,’ he said, ‘to imagine why she wanted to die.’
‘Do you think she really meant to?’ Grace was feeling nauseous again, but on this occasion she knew it was down to the almost paralysing dread of the moment when she was going to have to face Cathy.
‘I’m afraid so,’ Dr Khan said. ‘Cathy told me that she decided on Tuesday evening, after her aunt’s funeral, that she couldn’t endure any more pain, and that no jury was ever going to believe she was innocent.’
‘Dr Parés thought she wasn’t too angry about having been saved.’
‘I think that’s a fair analysis,’ Khan agreed. ‘I had the impression that Cathy knew there was a chance it might not work out first time.’
Grace felt the proverbial goose creeping over her grave. ‘First time.’
‘Indeed,’ Khan said. ‘I have to say that on the surface at least, Cathy seems to be thinking quite clearly and logically. She said this morning that she thought maybe the fact that she hadn’t died, might mean it was worth holding on a while longer.’
‘Until the next time she decides she can’t bear it,’ Grace said, softly.
‘Indeed,’ Khan said again. ‘Eric Parés seems a caring man.’
‘Thank God he is,’ Grace paused. ‘Do you believe Cathy?’
‘With regard to not trying another suicide bid for the time being?’
‘Yes.’
‘She seemed sincere at the time.’ Khan knew better than to commit himself.
‘Any feelings about her general mental state?’ Grace asked.
He gave the kind, sweet smile she’d re
membered. ‘I’ve known her for less than twenty-four hours, Dr Lucca, but Cathy certainly strikes me as perfectly sane.’ He shook his head. ‘My greatest concern is that she waited this long before screaming for help.’
‘Cathy’s a remarkably strong person,’ Grace said.
‘No one’s strong enough to completely withstand what she’s been going through.’
‘You feel she’s innocent, too, don’t you, Dr Khan?’
Rajiv Khan’s smile turned as sad as his eyes. ‘I’m not on the jury, Dr Lucca,’ he reminded her.
The bruises on Cathy’s neck were vivid and shocking against the terrible whiteness of her skin, and her hair was greasy and fastened away from her face with kirby grips. Grace realized something else that was shocking as she walked towards the bed, steadying herself for the encounter. She didn’t feel like Cathy’s psychologist as she approached. She didn’t feel at all the way she was supposed to be feeling. She felt like someone who cared far more deeply than that about her. Too deeply. Like an intimate friend or relative. Maybe even like a mother.
Bad news, Lucca.
Grace resisted the impulse to kiss Cathy, or even smooth her hair.
‘Hello, Cathy.’
The blue eyes filled with tears.
‘I’m sorry, Grace.’ Her voice was husky.
‘Me, too.’
Grace sat down on the hard plastic chair beside the bed and watched Cathy’s mouth work for a moment or two as she fought to bring herself under control. Grace wanted to tell her to let it go, but instead, for now, she let her do it her way.
‘I know I let you down,’ Cathy said when she was ready.
‘Me, too,’ Grace said for the second time.
‘I really am sorry, Grace.’
There was a glucose drip into Cathy’s left arm, so Grace guessed she hadn’t eaten, perhaps because of her bruised throat – or maybe she just didn’t want to eat. She wanted to hold Cathy’s right hand, but for an instant or two she wavered, as if contemplating an impropriety, and then Grace realized she had, of course, held the hands of countless children and young people during sessions.
She reached for Cathy’s hand now. It felt very cold.
‘I’m just glad you’re alive,’ she told her. Her voice sounded shaky, but there was nothing she could do about that.
‘Why are you glad?’ Cathy asked.
‘Why would you ask me that?’ That’s more like it, Lucca – get back into your role, hide behind the shrink’s mask.
‘Because I’ve been nothing but trouble for you.’
‘You’ve been no trouble, Cathy.’ Grace still held those cold fingers.
‘Yes, I have,’ she said, and now tears were rolling down her cheeks and she was making no effort to wipe them away. ‘I’ve been difficult, and I’ve blamed you for things that weren’t your fault.’ Her nose was running. ‘And now I’ve even screwed up dying, so here you are – you’ve had to come see me again, and if I’d done it better you could’ve just maybe come to my funeral – just one more funeral – and then at least you’d never have had to see me again.’
‘And that’s supposed to have been better?’
Cathy shrugged, still weeping. ‘It would have been better for me.’
Grace said nothing for a moment or two, just went on holding her hand. She was working hard now under the surface, knowing how crucial it was for her to say the right words from now on, or else keep silent.
Her next question was fundamental.
‘Why have you given up, Cathy?’
‘Haven’t you?’
‘No,’ Grace said. ‘Not at all.’
‘Why not?’ Cathy asked.
‘Same reasons as before. I believe in you. And I’m still not the only one who does – in fact, that list is growing, slowly but surely.’
‘How’s Detective Becket doing?’ Cathy asked suddenly.
‘He’s doing fine.’ Grace didn’t know if the prison grapevine had yielded any information about what had gone on down in the Keys, but if Cathy didn’t know about that fiasco, she was happy for it to stay that way.
‘His dad came to see me, you know.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘He told me to stay strong. He told me that truth would prevail.’
‘He’s right.’
Cathy drew her hand away. ‘I wanted to believe him.’
‘I know it’s hard, Cathy.’
‘I asked Dr Becket about that woman who got stabbed with a scalpel in the doctor’s office a couple of weeks ago. He didn’t want to talk about it at first, but I bugged him until he did.’
Cathy’s voice was getting hoarser the more she talked, but Grace didn’t want to stop her – her need to talk was more important than a sore throat.
‘Dr Becket said it proved he was right about me not having stabbed him – and if the cops and the State Attorney accepted that was true, then they’d have to stop thinking I’d killed anyone.’ Her mouth was working again, and her nose was leaking. ‘But Mr Wagner told me that it wouldn’t necessarily make any difference to the other charges, because the scalpels that Dr Becket and Anna Valdez got stabbed with were stolen from the doctors’ offices, which made it a different MO.’ Cathy swallowed hard, closed her eyes for a second, then opened them again. ‘Mr Wagner was nice – he’s okay, I guess, now I know him better – he just says he doesn’t like raising my hopes falsely.’
She stopped. Grace remained silent, waiting.
‘I guess maybe that’s why I gave up on what Dr Becket said – about the truth prevailing.’
‘Oh, Cathy,’ Grace said. ‘I am so sorry for what you’re going through.’
‘I know you are.’ She paused again. ‘I don’t blame Harry, you know, for digging up that horrible thing.’
‘I’ll tell him.’ Grace smiled. ‘He’ll be relieved to hear it.’
‘Tell him I still think he’s a cool dog.’
‘I hope you’ll be able to tell him yourself one of these days.’
‘They don’t allow dogs in jail, Grace.’
‘You know I’m not talking about jail.’
‘I know you’re not,’ she said, very softly, almost on a sigh.
Grace sat forward, her eyes intent. ‘Do I have to be scared for you all the time from now on, Cathy?’
It was hard for Cathy, but she met the gaze squarely. ‘You’re asking me if I’m going to try and kill myself again.’
‘That’s what I’m asking you.’
Cathy caught at her upper lip with her teeth for a moment and chewed at it, as if making up her mind how to answer. Whatever she was going to say, Grace hoped to heaven it would be honest, so that she could try dealing with it.
‘I won’t do it again, Grace,’ she said, finally. ‘At least, not until after the trial.’ She looked away again. ‘I can’t tell you what I’ll do after that.’
Chapter Sixty-one
MONDAY, JUNE 8, 1998
Sam was home, cleaning the small kitchen in his Art Deco South Beach bargain apartment – at least the place was getting some long overdue attention these days – when Captain Hernandez called at eleven a.m. Since the cap had personally bawled Sam out four times since the disaster in the Keys, calling him a fucking idiot and a disgrace to the department and worse, Sam was learning not to enjoy the sound of his master’s voice.
‘Thought you’d want to know that the Monroe County Sheriff has applied for a warrant to search Hayman’s house.’ Sam’s brain did a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree spin-around. Hernandez had come through for him.
‘How come, captain?’
‘We had a coupla conversations. Things being as they still are, with no body and no family, seemed like the only thing to do.’
Yo, cap.
‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance . . .?’
‘Not a Chinaman’s, Becket.’
Sam called Grace, caught her between patients.
‘Tell them about the locked room,’ she said.
‘What locked room?�
� he asked.
‘Didn’t I tell you about that?’
‘Not that I recall.’
‘I can’t believe I forgot about that.’
‘What locked room, Grace?’
‘It’s probably nothing at all,’ she said.
‘Grace, just tell me.’
Tuesday afternoon, Sam was hosing down his roof when Sergeant Kovac phoned.
They want you down in the Keys.’
Say what?
‘They got the warrant already?’
‘I don’t have details, Becket.’ Though fair as he had to be, Kovac had never been warmly disposed to Sam, and since the suspension, Martinez had given Sam the impression that their sergeant seemed to consider him someplace lower than Benedict Arnold.
‘Does it have something to do with Hayman’s locked room?’
‘I already told you,’ Kovac said, ‘I don’t have details. They want your ass down at the house is all I know.’
It was the room, all right.
Grace’s instincts had been right on the money about that. Of course, if she’d only listened to herself the night she’d first come upon that goddamned locked door, and gotten the hell out of Hayman’s house, that whole particular drama, at least, would never have come about.
The Monroe County Sheriff had said as much, as had Hector Hernandez, but no one knew better than Sam that Grace Lucca would be harder on herself than any of them.
All that aside . . .
For one thing, it was a borderline temple to Münchhausen’s Syndrome by proxy. Perhaps as many books, they all surmised, as had been written on the subject – and no one believed that Hayman had been using them purely as research material for his own books.
They might have believed that if it hadn’t been for the photographs.
Dozens of them, on the walls and in drawers. Of child victims. With handwritten accounts of their sufferings at the hands of their parent torturers. More ways to create awful physical symptoms in little boys and girls than any of the police officers at the scene cared to know about.
That was for sure.
And then there was the wall of photographs that had driven the local police and Hernandez to summon Sam Becket in spite of themselves. Photographs of Grace Lucca, and of Cathy Robbins, and of Arnold and Marie, and Frances Dean.
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