by Neal Baer
“I don’t have a problem,” Quimby shot back, avoiding her eyes.
Claire moved around the table so Quimby couldn’t help but see her.
“Bullshit.”
“What’s the matter with you?” Quimby said, starting to lose it.
“I’m the one who should be asking you that,” Claire stated.
Quimby was doing everything in his power not to look at her. “I don’t want to talk today.”
“Then I’ll have to admit you for observation,” she answered.
“Why did you do that?” he blurted out, unable to hold it in any longer.
“Do what?” she asked innocently.
But Claire knew what he meant and glanced into the one-way mirror at herself.
Her new self. In the hours before coming to the hospital, she had cut her hair short and dyed it blond. She wore a black form-fitting one-piece outfit, cut to show off her ample breasts and just the right amount of cleavage.
Claire Waters had become Catherine Mills and Sara Belz.
And Todd Quimby couldn’t stand it. Which was exactly what she wanted.
“Do what?” she asked again, more demanding.
“You know what I’m talking about.”
She spoke to his reflection in the mirror, where she could see herself. “Oh, you mean this?” she asked. “I saw my boyfriend looking at blondes. I thought maybe if I became one, he’d pay more attention to me.”
“Are you making fun of me?” Quimby asked, now angry.
But Claire wasn’t scared. “What makes you think I’m making fun of you?”
“Go to hell,” he said. “I’m leaving.”
“No, you’re not,” Claire warned sharply.
For some reason, Quimby obeyed her, staying in his chair as if he’d been restrained.
“What’s this about?” he asked, on the verge of tears.
“You wanted to talk about me. Now’s your chance,” Claire replied.
“I changed my mind.”
“Why? I thought clear waters run deep,” Claire chided, throwing his own words back at him. She walked toward him, stopping several feet away from where he was sitting.
“I want another doctor.”
“Sorry, but you’re stuck with me. ”
“You shouldn’t have done that!” Quimby exploded. “What am I gonna do now?”
“What do you want to do, Todd?” she said with her best attempt at lasciviousness. She stepped closer, leering down at him.
“I don’t know,” said Quimby, desperately trying to control himself.
“What did you do this morning?” asked Claire.
“I already told you.”
Claire turned on him. “You didn’t tell me everything, did you?” She was now standing right beside him.
“What are you talking about?
“You went back to find her, didn’t you?” Claire shouted.
“What if I did?”
“Were you mad at her because she laughed at you?” Claire faked a girlish giggle, which was so convincing that it infuriated Quimby.
“What are you giggling at?” he demanded.
“Nothing, just a joke someone told me before I came in here.”
“You think I can’t rise to the occasion?”
“I don’t know, can you?” she asked, giving him a wink.
“You come in here looking like . . . that. . . . What am I supposed to think?”
“What do you think?” she said, almost purring.
“I think you want me.”
“And if I did? What would you do then?”
Quimby rose slowly, never taking his eyes off her. Claire returned his stare, defiant. Daring him. She could feel his hot breath and it made her queasy.
“I’d start right here,” he said. His lips were wet with spittle.
Slowly, carefully, he slid his hand to the small of her back. And down. In a circular motion.
“I didn’t invite you to do that,” Claire said.
“Oh, yes, you did,” Quimby said, increasing the speed of his rotating hand. “Why else would you have gone to all this trouble, prettying yourself up for me?”
Claire wasn’t prepared for his brazenness. “You can’t just go up to women and do what you’re doing,” she said, backing away.
“But I can do it to you, can’t I?” he said. “You want me to do it to you, don’t you?” he asked, reaching out for her breast.
“This has to stop,” she said, crossing her arms and stepping back farther.
Like a predator, Quimby sensed her fear and it empowered him. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “This is what you wanted. Now you’re gonna get it.”
And he pounced on her.
“Let go of me!” Claire screamed.
He ripped her top, exposing her lacy bra and most of her breasts.
“Why stop now?” Quimby said, an evil smile on his face.
He was trying to pin her against the wall and get his pants down. He was much stronger than she was. With all the strength she had left, she pushed him away, falling back against the wall. Quimby eyed her with lust, ready to claim his prize.
“Give it to me, whore,” Quimby said, almost salivating as he approached.
Claire reached for her lab coat on the chair and grabbed the stethoscope from the pocket. She flung the metal bell in his face, hitting him squarely in the eye. He stumbled backward, clutching his face in pain.
“You bitch!” he yelled. “You think that’s gonna stop me?”
Claire wasn’t waiting to find out. Crying, she threw the door open and bolted from the meeting room.
She ran, weeping, down the hall, people staring at her. Rounding a corner, she ran smack into Ian, nearly knocking him over.
“What the hell happened?” he asked. Holding her at arms’ length, he took in her new look. “What have you done to yourself?”
“He tried to rape me!” Claire cried.
“Who? Where?”
“Quimby. Room four,” she managed to get out.
“Call security,” Ian yelled to anyone who could hear. He turned his attention back to Claire, guiding her toward an empty gurney in the hallway. “I’m gonna get him,” he said.
“No, he’s dangerous,” Claire said.
“I don’t want him hurting anyone else,” Ian called back as he ran.
In seconds, he was at room 4, flinging the door open. But it was empty. He hurried back to Claire.
“Did you find him?” she asked.
“No. He’s gone.”
Ian pulled out his cell phone, began tapping in the numbers.
“Who are you calling?” Claire asked.
But Ian spoke only into the phone. “Dr. Curtin? It’s Ian Bigelow. . . .”
Claire looked up at Ian sharply, tears in her eyes. “No, please don’t.”
“No, sir, but we have a situation here with Dr. Waters.. . . Yes, she’s here.”
Ian held out the phone to her. Claire shot him daggers, took it.
“Hello . . . Mr. Quimby. He tried to attack me. . . . Yes, sir, I’ll wait.”
“Is Curtin on his way?” asked Ian.
She nodded, then closed the phone. “Are you trying to get me kicked out of here?”
“Claire, you’re not thinking. I had to call him,” Ian said. Then he pointed to her hair. “Did you do that . . . for Quimby?”
Claire started to cry. “I screwed up, Ian. I really screwed up.”
Ian sat on the edge of the gurney, took her in his arms. “It’s okay, Claire. It’ll be okay.”
CHAPTER 6
Claire, still shaking, sat on a comfortable sofa in Curtin’s office as he poured vodka into a glass. Though alcohol was forbidden in the hospital, he kept a bottle locked away for incidents like this.
“Security says Mr. Quimby made it out of the hospital—they were unable to stop him,” he said.
But Claire was too traumatized to respond.
“I can prescribe some Ativan,” Curtin said gently as he handed
the drink to her.
“No, this is fine.” Claire downed it. “Thank you,” she said when she was done.
“You’re welcome, Doctor,” Curtin said. “Now can you please tell me what the hell you were doing?”
“What you told me to do,” Claire answered, not up to being interrogated. Or maybe it was the alcohol, which had gone straight to her head, that was talking.
“I didn’t tell you to color your hair and dress like a tramp,” Curtin replied.
“I was thinking outside the box. Playing a role.”
“Of a cheap hooker?”
Claire looked Curtin straight in the eye. “Yes, just like the woman Quimby murdered this morning.”
Curtin’s demeanor shifted immediately from consternation to alarm. Nothing threatened the success of his fellowship program more than releasing a patient who then went on to commit a violent crime.
“You don’t mean the one in Times Square, do you?” he asked. “The one I saw on the news?”
“Yes,” Claire answered. “Times Square.”
“And you’re sure Mr. Quimby is responsible?”
Claire recounted how Quimby had called her and described the hooker he picked up in the Theatre District. How she matched the description of Catherine Mills, the prostitute who was found dead that morning. How she, Claire, had decided to confront Quimby to get him to confess and thought changing her appearance would set him off. “You know the rest,” she finished.
Curtin thought back to the other day when he had publicly berated Claire. Maybe I misjudged her, he realized.
“You should have come to me,” he said, knowing that was the last thing Claire would have done.
“I wanted to show you I was more than just a lab rat.”
“You passed with flying colors,” Curtin replied with a new warmth. “This work can be extremely rewarding. But it can also be extremely dangerous.” He paused. “I should have made clear that I’m here for all of you to consult me in situations like this.”
The backhanded apology seemed genuine, so Claire decided to let him off the hook. “No, you were right,” she told Curtin. “I finally got Quimby to crack because I listened to you.”
Claire looked down, not wanting to take the discussion any further. The silence between them seemed interminable. “Claire,” Curtin said uncomfortably. “Listen to me. I wouldn’t risk my life for any of these patients. So the last thing I would expect is for any student of mine to risk theirs.”
Claire looked at him. He actually meant it. But that didn’t change what had happened. “Quimby is out there somewhere. And he’s dangerous. What should we do?”
“You need to tell the police,” Curtin replied immediately. “If this man is going around killing people, it’s our obligation to warn them he may strike again.”
“What if I’m wrong? What if this is just some terrible coincidence?” Claire asked. “I can’t break confidentiality unless I’m absolutely sure.”
“Confidentiality doesn’t protect a patient who assaulted his therapist,” Curtin said. “Quimby attacked you. He committed a crime. That’s more than enough reason to go to the police.”
Claire was unfamiliar with the New York Police Department. “Do I just go to our local station?” she asked.
“No,” Curtin said. “Manhattan South Homicide will be handling the murder in Times Square. I’ll call Lieutenant Brian Wilkes and tell him you’re coming over. He runs the unit and we’re old friends.”
It was well into Sunday afternoon by the time Wilkes returned with Nick to the ratty precinct that housed Manhattan South Homicide. Having been up all night running from the Coney Island murder to the dead body near Times Square, Wilkes was ready to drop from lack of sleep. For Nick, the entire experience had been a massive adrenaline rush. Though he kept it to himself, Nick was happy for the first time in more than a year. He was out avenging murder victims, which he believed was doing God’s work. He was back in the game.
But the rush faded the moment he entered the precinct. He always felt clammy there—summer or winter. The gray-blue paint was peeling off the water-stained walls, and the old maple chairs and desks felt sticky. As he walked past the front desk, he saw the suspicious looks, the enmity from cops who just a year ago would’ve slapped him on the back or traded jabs and jokes with him. Now they steered clear, but Nick could still feel their burning glares. As he and Wilkes headed up the stairs, Nick realized that in their minds he was still guilty.
“Give ’em time, Nicky. They’ll come around,” Wilkes said to him.
Nick could muster only a nod, though he wasn’t sure he believed they would ever come around.
They were on the second floor of the building now, approaching the squad room. All Nick could think about was how his colleagues would receive him. He’d cut off contact with them nearly a year ago, sacrificing his friendships so the stench from his troubles wouldn’t waft onto them.
Wilkes stopped at the door to the squad room, then exhaustedly gestured to Nick to open it. “Beauty before age,” he quipped.
Nick dreaded going in. The desks were inches apart, and the overhead fluorescent lights were too bright. There was no place to get away from the judgmental stares of the other detectives.
Nick breathed in as he opened the door . . . and was blinded by a brilliant flash of light. He could only hear hearty voices shout, “Surprise!”
He must have made a face, because somebody said, “Hey, don’t be so glad to see us.”
“I can’t see a goddamned thing,” Nick said.
But as the words came out, his vision returned. His colleagues, huge smiles on their faces, stood in front of him. Detective Tony Savarese, bald and wiry, wearing his usual blue blazer and red-and-blue-striped tie, held the digital Nikon the detectives used to photograph homicide scenes. A badly handwritten banner with the words WELCOME BACK, NICKY hung by paper clips and crime scene tape from the ceiling behind them. A spread of bagels, cream cheeses, and a cake amateurishly decorated with frosting handcuffs awaited on a nearby desk.
“Bagels? I’m gone seven months and that’s what I get?”
Savarese gestured to Wilkes. “The Lou told us only an hour ago. I had to put the cuffs on the cake myself. What the hell you expect on short notice, caviar?”
“A little nova would’ve been nice, you cheapskate,” Nick shot back, to which Savarese responded by throwing his arms around Nick in a bear hug.
“About time those rat bastards downtown cleared you, Nicky,” he said into Nick’s ear. Savarese was the senior detective among the group and had always believed in Nick’s innocence.
“Now maybe we’ll get some work done around here,” said Detective Kieran O’Brien, next in the reception line, welcoming Nick with a vise-grip handshake.
Sidney Potts, a veteran black detective, embraced him next. “Hear you and the kids moved in with Moms,” he said. “How’s that working out?”
“Like I died and went to hell,” replied Nick.
“Hell is bringing some babe back to your place and having to ask Mommy for permission,” O’Brien said, giving Nick a pat on the back.
This one stung Nick, but he showed none of it. As he shook hands with the others, his eyes landed on a well-dressed detective who’d returned to his desk soon after the surprise was sprung. He wore a dark-blue shirt, matching tie. A three-quarter-length leather coat hung over the back of his chair. There was a sharpness to his handsome features. His dark blond hair was combed too neatly, and his tanned face looked as if the skin was stretched too tight.
“Who’s the fresh meat?” Nick asked Wilkes.
Wilkes guided Nick over to the serious young man. “Our replacement for your ex-partner Frankie. Came over from Special Victims when Frankie got transferred. Nick Lawler, meet Tommy Wessel. He’s gonna be working with you.”
“Good to meet you finally,” Wessel said with a thick Brooklyn accent as he and Nick shook hands. “I know I got big shoes to fill.”
“You already fille
d Frankie’s shoes, kid. You showed up,” Savarese quipped.
But Nick’s attention was on Wessel’s desk and the file atop it.
“You pulled the St. Jude murder,” Nick said to Wessel, referring to the case Nick investigated last year that resembled the Coney Island and Times Square murders.
“Looked at the scene, read all the reports,” Wessel replied. “I’m up to speed.”
Nick glanced back over to Wessel’s desk, which faced his own. The crime scene photos from St. Jude’s indeed sat there. He gave Wessel a nod to show he was impressed. Maybe the kid’ll actually contribute something, he thought.
“C’mon, Nicky,” Potts shouted, spreading cream cheese on a bagel. “Have some chow.”
“In a minute,” Nick called back.
As the other detectives helped themselves to the food, Nick picked up the crime scene photos from Wessel’s desk and studied the first one. The eighteen-year-old blonde was found in a Dumpster behind one of the carnival trucks. A length of dollar-store electrical cord wrapped tightly around her neck and tied in a simple square knot was the cause of death. The duct tape Nick remembered was also in place over her eyelids.
Her name was Elizabeth Masterson. Nobody at the carnival in the St. Jude’s churchyard could recall seeing the strikingly beautiful Lizzie on any rides or at any concessions. The few people who remembered seeing her said she was there alone. Because she lived two blocks away on Riverside Drive, the theory was she had cut through the churchyard on her way home that night, and the perp chose her at random.
At the time of her death, Lizzie had just graduated with honors from an exclusive private high school and was to attend Dartmouth that fall. Instead, she now rested in a private cemetery outside the city. Until her untimely death, Elizabeth never had been in any trouble. The worst thing she did that anyone could remember was smoke pot. Once.
In the mind of a homicide cop, this made Lizzie Masterson the purest, least deserving, most innocent species of murder victim—and the most interesting to the carnivorous New York City media beast that had slathered their pages for weeks with her graduation photo along with lurid, leaked shots of the crime scene.
