by Neal Baer
“Why burn her eyes this time?” Lieutenant Wilkes asked.
“Plastic bottle of acid’s easier to conceal than a roll of duct tape,” Nick answered.
“It’s also more dangerous. For the perp,” Wilkes replied.
Nick pointed toward a burn mark that seemed to go straight across the victim’s forehead. “He probably had it in a plastic squeeze bottle with a nozzle so he could spray it. I’m thinking he misses with the first shot . . .”
“And hits with the second,” finished Wilkes. “Okay, so he blinds her. Because he doesn’t want her to see him?”
“I think he blinded her so she wouldn’t see she was about to die,” Nick replied.
“Serial killer with a conscience is a contradiction in terms,” Wilkes retorted.
But Nick didn’t hear Wilkes’s remark. Something was bothering him. Still kneeling, he studied the knotted rope around the victim’s neck.
“Check out the knot. I’ve never seen one tied like this.”
“You mean it’s different from the one used on the girl last year?”
“That was a simple square knot,” Nick replied. “This one’s more complex.”
“Perp’s getting all fancy and throwing it in our face,” Wilkes sighed. “Why I pulled you back in.”
Those last words stood foremost in Nick’s mind as he went through the routine questions at the crime scene. “Any witnesses?” he asked.
Wilkes turned to a uniformed lieutenant from the Sixty-Fourth Precinct named Garber for the answer. “So far, nobody even saw the victim on the boardwalk,” Garber said. “No one’s called in a missing person in the area, and no ID on her. We’re still looking,” he added.
Nick recalled that last year’s victim had been found with her purse lying a couple of feet from her corpse, the wallet missing as if she’d been robbed. “Lotta people on the boardwalk tonight?” he asked.
“Crowd was light, according to my cops,” Garber replied. “Because of the earlier thunderstorm.”
“Victim’s probably a local out for a walk.”
“If she lived alone, could be a while before we ID her,” Wilkes said.
But Nick had already moved on, turning to the young crime scene detective who was putting his camera away.
“You done here?” Nick asked.
“All yours, Detective.”
It had been a while since anyone had called him that, Nick mused. The kid was obviously new, formally dressed in a white shirt and blue tie on a weekend night. His blond hair was buzz cut, which made him look like a marine. Nick wondered if the kid had heard the stories about him.
“Lawler. Nick Lawler. And you’re a detective now too. Call me Nick. What’s your name?”
“Terry Aitken.”
Nick pulled a small, rectangular video camera from his pocket and switched it on.
“Mind killing the lights for me, Terry?”
“Sure thing,” Aitken replied. “Hey, Henry, cut the lights!” he shouted to his partner. A second later, the klieg lights illuminating the crime scene went dark.
But not for Nick. He peered through the viewfinder of the camera, its night-vision function illuminating the scene in an eerie white fluorescence as he panned from the body under the boardwalk to the sand on the beach. Detective Aitken watched him, wondering what he was doing.
“I took, like, six dozen photos, sir,” he said tentatively to Nick.
Nick peeked at the young detective and grinned at his deference. “I’m not second-guessing you,” he assured Aitken. “Video camera gives me the perp’s-eye view.”
But he wasn’t seeing what he hoped he would. “Any of your photos show drag marks or footprints from where he grabbed her off the boardwalk?”
“No, because the perp covered his tracks. Smeared the sand somehow.”
“Show me from where,” Nick commanded.
Aitken walked him several yards east and pointed to a spot in the sand. “They started right about here,” said Aitken, “and stopped where we found the body.” He held up his digital camera. “I got it all on here.”
Good thing, thought Nick as he looked down at a mass of shoeprints, no doubt left by cops after Aitken had finished. “He was barefoot, don’t you think? So he wouldn’t leave shoe impressions.”
“Explains why the smears are smooth. Shoes would’ve left a harder edge,” Aitken agreed.
Nick turned his attention back to the video camera. He panned slowly alongside the boardwalk where Aitken had indicated the smears began. Saw what he was almost certain would be there.
“You got a flashlight?” he asked Aitken.
“Sure,” Aitken replied, handing Nick his Maglite. “What’d you find?”
Nick turned the light on and shined it on the planks of the boardwalk just under the railing, illuminating several clean spots on the otherwise filthy wood.
“This is where he got her with the acid,” Nick said. “Some of it dripped off her when he squirted it, burned the wood clean.” He turned to Aitken. “Can you cut those pieces out?”
“Right away,” Aitken said, and headed off.
Now Nick panned from the boardwalk up to the Cyclone roller coaster and back down as Wilkes looked on.
“Night like this, even with a light crowd, there had to be dozens of people out here,” he said. “This guy squirts acid in a woman’s face, she’s going to start screaming.”
Nick panned the camera back up to the nearest precipice on the Cyclone, where, in the crosshairs, he could see a carful of revelers just heading down.
“If he waited for the coaster to pass by, she could’ve screamed bloody murder and nobody would’ve heard her,” Nick mused.
As if to prove his point, the coaster came speeding past them in a clattering of wheels and gears and passengers shouting in glee and terror.
CHAPTER 5
The phone was into its fifth ring when Claire’s hand reached out and switched on the small bedside reading lamp. A swath of light cut across the sparsely furnished bedroom, barely big enough for a king-sized bed and a scratched maple bureau Claire had picked out at a thrift shop. She grabbed the receiver from its cradle and hit herself in the forehead with it before groggily moving it to her ear.
“Hello?” she said sleepily as she glanced at the clock: 2:23 a.m.
“Clear waters run deep,” said the wide-awake male voice on the other end of the line.
Claire recognized the voice and sat up.
“The saying is ‘still waters run deep,’ Mr. Quimby, and how did you get this number?”
“You’d be surprised what you can find out about someone on the Internet,” Quimby replied, the tone of his voice chilling her.
“What do you want?” she asked, a hint of anger in her own voice. It had been only three days since Quimby’s release from Rikers Island, and in her middle-of-the-night fog, Claire thought he wasn’t due for an appointment until the following week.
“I have to see you,” Quimby said.
“Is something wrong?” asked Claire.
“I’m afraid again.”
“You don’t sound afraid to me,” Claire retorted, “and you shouldn’t be calling me at home.”
“I need your help. Now. Please,” he pleaded.
The urgency in his voice softened Claire, reminding her of how vulnerable he had been during their interview a week ago.
“Go to the emergency room at Manhattan City,” she said. “The psych resident on call will see you.”
“You can’t dump him on the resident,” came a groggy male voice from beside her.
The voice belonged to Ian Bigelow, Claire’s thirty-year-old boyfriend, who even with bed head was handsome enough to be a recruiting poster for Dr. Curtin’s psych fellowship or just about anything else. They’d had dinner that night at Tante Louise, their favorite French bistro, and shared a bottle of pinot grigio, which was still making Claire feel a bit light-headed. She covered the receiver with her hand. “Shhh, he’ll hear you,” she whispered. “I’ll h
andle it. He’s my patient.”
“That’s right—he’s your patient,” Ian said. “And if you let the resident handle it instead of seeing him yourself, Curtin’ll be all over you. Especially after what happened yesterday.”
Claire stared at the receiver, wishing she could just hang up and erase that first meeting with Quimby.
“Cat got your tongue, Dr. Waters?” Quimby taunted.
“Go to the ER,” Claire said into the receiver. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
She hung up the phone as Ian sat up and gave her a kiss. He held her in his arms and smiled. “You’re a terrific shrink. Don’t ever forget that.”
But Claire wasn’t convinced. She gave Ian a squeeze, then pulled away and untangled herself from the sheets. “I better get dressed,” she said.
Ian turned over and instantly began snoring. Claire looked down at him, envious of how quickly he could fall asleep, putting the day’s troubles behind him. Maybe that’s why she loved him so much. He was a problem-solver, always ready to help. She could tell him her troubles and he would always help her find a way through them. She told him all the details of her interview with Quimby, and he had reassured her that she did nothing wrong, reminding her that the first meetings between the patient and doctor were a kind of journey to get to know each other before the real treatment could begin.
But even Ian’s support didn’t take away the anxiety Claire still felt about her first case in the fellowship program. Claire had left Quimby in the interview room, knowing she screwed up. She wasn’t surprised when Curtin took her aside and let her have it.
You may not be ready for this kind of responsibility.
Fairborn’s words reverberated in Claire’s head as she opened her small closet and stared at the sameness of her clothes: jeans, light blue cotton shirts, a few skirts and sweaters tossed in to break the monotony, along with the new olive green suit and an older dark gray one. She paused to consider what to wear, something she rarely did.
She was pausing a lot lately, unsure of herself and the decision she had made to do a fellowship under Paul Curtin. She pulled one of the pale blue blouses from the closet and put it on as she watched Ian sleep peacefully.
Yes, she thought. I did make the right decision coming here to do a fellowship with Ian.
She was ready. She would help Quimby face his demons even if it meant breaching her own wall of emotional security.
Quimby was already in the psych holding room in the ER when Claire entered. The room was empty except for two chairs and an exam table, to prevent psychotic or suicidal patients from harming themselves with any instruments or equipment. Quimby flashed her a big smile, which pissed her off. He certainly doesn’t look anxious or desperate.
“Let’s get something straight,” she lectured him. “I am the therapist. You are the patient. I ask the questions. And anything we discuss is about you, not me. Are we clear?”
“I really do need your help,” he said.
His grin was gone. Claire realized he’d smiled out of relief that she was there, not to mock her. She looked into Quimby’s fearful eyes, but she couldn’t shake her own thoughts. Did I come to help him? Or me?
Her tone softened. “Did something happen?” she asked Quimby.
“Yes.”
“Tell me.”
“It was bad.” He hesitated; then he said, “I picked up a hooker. Near Times Square.”
Claire gave him a sympathetic nod. Yes, this was a violation of probation that could send him back to jail. But she wasn’t his probation officer.
“We all have needs, Todd,” she said, trying to comfort him. “That doesn’t make you different from anyone else.”
But Quimby’s mind was elsewhere. He looked right at her.
“She was about your height. Thin. Short blond hair. Huge tits. Hot green two-piece outfit.”
“Just like your father’s mistress,” Claire said. “The one he was murdered with . . .” She couldn’t remember the woman’s name.
“Sara,” he said quickly, avoiding her eyes.
“Is that why you chose her? Because she looked like Sara?”
“What do you think?” he retorted, still looking away.
I’ll take that as a yes, Claire thought. “Todd,” she began, “listen to me. That’s nothing to be ashamed of—”
“It’s not about her,” he blurted. “It’s about me. I couldn’t . . . you know . . .” he stammered, then looked right at her. “I’m ashamed about what happened.”
“What happened?”
“She took me into a cheap hotel room, started telling me about how Mommy’s gonna make me feel good. And I couldn’t get it up. And she laughed at me, gave me my money back, and left me there. And now I can’t get the thoughts out of my head.”
“What kind of thoughts?”
“That if I’d killed that dirty whore Sara when I was a kid, my dad would still be alive. My mom wouldn’t have had to go away.”
Claire saw tears appear in his eyes. Running down his cheeks. He thinks it’s all his fault, Claire realized.
She heard herself crying. Her mother beside her, consoling her. “It wasn’t your fault,” her mother said. “You didn’t make that man take your friend away.”
Claire realized she and Todd Quimby had a lot in common.
“You didn’t make your father cheat on your mother,” she said to him. “And you didn’t put the gun in your mother’s hand or make her pull the trigger. You were just a boy. None of what happened was your fault.”
Quimby eyed her. “No, it was the whore’s fault. I don’t know why . . .”
“You don’t know why what?” she asked gently.
“Why I was attracted to that woman tonight.”
“I don’t know, either. But that’s what we’re going to find out. You and me, together. You’ll get through this. I’m going to help you.”
He nodded.
“I’ll prescribe something to calm you down,” Claire continued. “Go straight home, get some sleep, and meet me upstairs in my office at two this afternoon.”
“But it’s Sunday,” Quimby said tentatively.
“That doesn’t matter. I’m here whenever you need me. Okay?”
Quimby nodded again, grateful for her reassurance.
Claire blew into the apartment and checked the nearest clock. It was just after six a.m. She had exactly fifteen minutes to change into a skirt and get back to the hospital for this morning’s Last Supper. No way she’d ever be on time. She knew Ian would already be gone, making her wonder why she smelled fresh coffee. Until she spotted two pieces of wheat toast protruding from the toaster next to a plate covered with tinfoil, atop which was a note.
“‘Breakfast is served,’ ” Claire read. “ ‘I’ll round on your patients.’ ” Punctuated by a poorly drawn but sincere heart.
Claire smiled as she uncovered the plate, revealing two perfectly cooked eggs over easy. She wished she had an ounce of Ian’s nurturing instinct. She grabbed the toast, which by now was cold (the way she liked it so the butter wouldn’t melt), and placed it neatly beside the eggs. Relaxed, she turned on the TV news, then grabbed a mug from the cabinet and poured a steaming cup of coffee. She was about to sip it when the television caught her attention.
“. . . murder in Times Square,” Claire heard the newscaster say. “A woman found dead this morning in a hotel room . . .”
She grabbed the remote and turned up the sound as she headed to where she could see the screen, which was filled with the photo of an attractive young woman with short blond hair. “Police say the victim, twenty-two-year-old Catherine Mills, had a long record of arrests for prostitution. . . .”
Claire realized that her hand was burning from holding the scalding coffee. She set the cup down, ran for her briefcase, grabbed it, and rummaged until she found what she was looking for—the photo of Sara Belz, Quimby’s father’s mistress, from long ago.
She reached the TV just as the photo of Catherine Mills reappear
ed on-screen, next to which Claire held Sara’s photo.
They could have been twins.
Quimby had confessed to her only an hour ago about his encounter with a prostitute in Times Square who resembled Sara Belz. Chills ran through her as his words rang in her head: If I’d killed that dirty whore Sara when I was a kid, my dad would still be alive. My mom wouldn’t have had to go away.
Had Quimby made his wish come true? Had he returned to Times Square, found Catherine Mills, and murdered her? Or had he already committed the murder when he came to see her, wanting to confess but stopping just short of admitting his ultimate sin?
Either way, Claire knew she had to face the unavoidable truth. She, Dr. Claire Waters, had missed the warning signs in her last interview with her very first criminal patient, Todd Quimby. And because of her, a woman was dead. Because she allowed a killer back into society.
If he is the killer, Claire thought. Unless she was a hundred percent sure, she couldn’t violate patient confidentiality and call the police.
She looked at the clock. In a little more than eight hours, she’d have to face Todd Quimby again. She’d have to confront him with the question of whether he’d murdered Catherine Mills. She’d have to get the truth from him. And she knew Quimby had no good reason to tell her the truth.
And then an idea popped into her head. It was extreme, for sure. But she needed to do something dramatic to redeem herself after freezing up at her first interview with Quimby.
She hurried over to the mirror. Stared at herself in the reflection, thinking about Curtin and Fairborn questioning her ability. She’d show them how committed she was.
Quimby didn’t even look up when Claire entered the dimly lit meeting room, which was used by all the fellows to see their patients.
“I didn’t get any sleep,” he uttered from his position, head buried in crossed arms on the table.
“Sit up. Now,” Claire ordered.
Her strident tone brought Quimby’s head up. He looked at her, startled. Then, just as suddenly, he turned away from her, biting his lip.
“What’s your problem?” Claire demanded as she took off her white lab coat and tossed it over the empty chair across the table from Quimby.
