by Neal Baer
Except for a blank piece of paper lying on the floor, as if someone had dropped it there.
Or slipped it through the crack under the closed door it lay in front of.
Nick now moved in that direction, the odor he smelled getting stronger. He knew whatever had happened was behind that door.
Nick turned the knob, then pushed the door, letting it swing open.
And stepped back in horror.
It was Ian, lying faceup on the bed, naked. His eyes were burned out, Quimby’s signature rope tied around his neck, his wrists lashed to the headboard. The white comforter under him was a sea of sticky dark red from where he’d been slashed in the genitals.
He was murdered before Maggie, Nick realized. Quimby wanted Claire for himself. And Ian was the only thing stopping him.
“Oh, God,” came a small voice from behind Nick.
He wheeled around. “Don’t look,” he said, taking her arm protectively.
She pushed his hand off her and started into the room as if she hadn’t heard him.
“You can’t go in there,” Nick said, his voice returning. “That’s a crime scene—”
“It’s my home,” Claire uttered in the same small voice, some unknown force propelling her toward Ian, the tears flowing as she got closer to the foot of the bed.
I killed him. Just like I killed Amy.
She felt Nick take her arm. It was as if a wave of empathy were passing from him to her like an electric current that brought her walls crumbling down.
Slowly, Claire dropped to her knees and started to sob. Nick didn’t stop her as she buried her head in the part of the comforter that was unstained with Ian’s blood.
CHAPTER 18
Nick stood by as Crime Scene Detective Aitken exited Ian’s bedroom with a large paper evidence bag, out of which protruded the white comforter.
“How much more?” he asked Aitken.
“This is the last of it,” replied the young cop. “Anything else I can do?”
Nick checked to make sure he’d covered all the bases. Then he spotted Ian’s computer monitor across the room and remembered what Claire had told him the previous night about the suspicious circumstances surrounding Tammy’s medical records.
“Take the desktop. If he has a laptop or tablet, make sure you grab that too,” Nick told Aitken.
“Anything in particular you want Computer Crimes to look for?” asked Aitken.
“I want to see everything from the past week,” Nick replied in an urgent tone.
“You got it,” Aitken said, then added as he exited the apartment, “At least the bastard won’t be doing it to anyone else.”
Alone at last, Nick took a look around. It was as quiet as it had been four hours earlier when he and Claire made their gruesome discovery. Claire was in such shock that Nick called an ambulance and then had to convince her to let the paramedics take her to Manhattan City Hospital.
“I’m a doctor,” Claire argued. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“You’re not much of a doctor if you really believe that,” Nick said.
He realized how much he regretted making that statement, thinking he was too hard on Claire. And he wondered how she was doing.
Nick walked to the bedroom door and took one last look inside. The Crime Scene Unit had taken most of what was bloody, so it didn’t look half as bad as it did earlier.
Don’t do it, Jenny . . . I’m coming . . . Pop!
Nick shook his head, trying to dislodge the image.
Her eyes were wide open in instantaneous death. Blood poured from the exit wound in her back, spreading across the white sheets.
He blinked away the memory. He realized that Claire was going through the same horror—and guilt—he had experienced when his wife committed suicide. Then he remembered having to clean up the mess his wife left on their bed.
Nobody should have to go through that kind of pain. Ever.
He pulled his cell phone and dialed.
“Peege,” he said into the phone, “it’s Nicky. I need a favor. Today. And I’ll pay you whatever you need.”
Claire thought she was dreaming. The hushed sounds of the hospital, the exhaustion, the lousy mattress, all brought back memories of her internship when she’d sneak into an empty room in the wee hours and steal a fifteen-minute nap.
But as she opened her eyes and the blurriness dissipated, she realized that this time she was the patient.
“Hello, Claire.”
Groggy, she turned her head. Dr. Curtin, wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, sat in a chair against the wall. Claire tried to sit up, thinking she had to look presentable. Curtin stood and put his hand on her shoulder.
“No,” he said in the gentlest, un-Curtin-like voice she’d ever heard from him. “You need to rest.”
“What happened?” Claire managed through her stupor.
“You were in shock when they brought you in,” Curtain said, “so I admitted you.”
“To the Psych Unit?” Claire asked.
“Medicine,” Curtin replied. “Neither of us wants a psych admission on your record.”
Claire nodded. “How long have I been out?”
“About six hours,” Curtin said. “I gave you Ativan and a sleeper.”
“Ian . . .”
Curtin nodded and took her hand. “I called his parents. We’re taking care of the funeral arrangements.”
For some reason, her mentor looked different. Gaunt. Drained. Clearly Ian’s death was taking its toll on him too.
“Are you okay, Doctor?”
“I will be. But right now I’m much more concerned about you.”
Curtin squeezed her hand tenderly.
He can be compassionate when he wants to be, she thought.
“Claire, I want you to listen to me. In all the years I’ve been doing this, I’ve never had a fellow go to the lengths you have not only to help a patient, but also to save others from him. I consider myself a pretty good judge of people, especially of my own students, but I couldn’t have been more completely wrong about you.”
Claire looked at him quizzically.
“You proved me wrong. And that doesn’t happen often, as I’m sure you know.”
A weak smile broke out on Claire’s face. “At least that you admit to.”
It was the first time she’d attempted any kind of humor with Curtin, and it made him grin.
“You need to take some time off. Maybe even the rest of the year.”
“But . . . but I’ll fall behind,” Claire stammered.
“Don’t worry about that,” Curtin assured her. “You can come back next year, or the year after that, or whenever. As long as I’m running this program, there’s a place for you here. And I couldn’t be prouder to have you as a student and colleague.”
Claire didn’t know what to say. Curtin sensed it and got up to leave.
“I’m going to write up your discharge papers. If there’s anything you need, you call me.”
“Doctor?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you,” Claire replied. “For everything.”
Curtin nodded in a way that made Claire feel better.
“I’m so, so sorry about all this, Claire. In ways you can’t even imagine.” He looked down, then back at her. “Let me know if you need anything.”
He turned and walked out.
“Doctor Curtin?” Claire called after him.
Curtin spun around. “Yes?”
“There is one thing.”
Claire opened the door to her apartment, the fear gripping her as she stepped inside.
“The mess is in the bedroom,” Claire said.
“Why don’t you let me go in first and have a look, dear?” Dr. Lois Fairborn said gently.
Claire nodded. She was glad Fairborn was there. Coming home alone and having to clean up the slaughterhouse that was her bedroom was the last thing she could possibly bear. She’d asked Curtin if he could arrange for Fairborn to accompany her to the apartmen
t. Curtin not only said he would, but also promised he’d go if Fairborn balked.
Which, of course, Fairborn hadn’t. The Vampire had become quite fond of Claire as a result of their therapy sessions, seeing her as a work in progress—not to mention that Fairborn genuinely cared about her.
“Claire? Do you want me to go in first?”
Claire stood motionless in the entry hall, feeling as if she were hanging on to the edge of a cliff.
“Yes. Please.”
“We’ll get through this together, okay?” Fairborn said in a reassuring voice.
Claire appreciated Fairborn’s encouragement but still felt scared out of her wits and didn’t want to go any further.
She could hear Fairborn opening the bedroom door. But there was no gasp of shock, and it took only a moment before Fairborn returned.
“Come with me,” she said.
“You want to help me face my fear?”
“I want to help you overcome it.”
She held out her hand. Tentatively, Claire took it. She let Fairborn lead her to the bedroom.
“Take a look,” she said.
Claire glanced at her shrink, then took a few steps forward toward the threshold. What she saw stunned her. The tableau she’d seen earlier that morning was completely gone, as though some higher power had simply erased it.
The bedroom was spotless. Her bed—their bed—was made neatly, covered with the same white comforter that, hours before, had been soaked in Ian’s blood. But not a drop of blood, nor a trace of what had happened, remained in the room.
Then the door to the bathroom opened. A little girl, about ten years old, walked out. Claire gasped.
“Amy? Is that you?”
“Hi, Claire. Wanna play hopscotch?”
“What are you doing here?”
And then everything slowed down. Another little girl walked out of the bathroom. Claire gasped as the girl grabbed Amy’s hand.
Claire was looking at her eight-year-old self.
She moved toward them. And they saw her.
“Hi,” said Amy. “Are you okay?”
“What’s wrong?” asked Little Claire.
Claire looked in the mirror. She saw tears rolling down her face.
“Are you lost?” asked Little Claire.
“Are you looking for someone?” Amy asked.
“I’m looking for you,” Claire said, kneeling in front of Amy. “Where are you?”
“I went away,” Amy said. “A man took me. He was bad.”
“What did he do to you?” Claire asked Amy.
“I can’t tell you,” Amy said innocently. “He said I couldn’t tell anyone.”
Claire began to sob. “I saw him take you away. I was there. Where did he take you? Please, tell me where.”
“Don’t cry,” Amy said in a comforting voice. “He hurt me but now I’m okay. I’m resting.”
Amy turned to Little Claire. “C’mon, Claire. Let’s go outside.”
The two smiled at her and headed back toward the bathroom. They disappeared through the door.
“No! Don’t go, please! Not yet! I have to know what happened.”
She yanked open the bathroom door. Nobody was there. She pulled the curtain to the bathtub aside, as if they were playing hide-and-seek. But the bathtub was empty.
And then Claire saw it. Another door. At the far end of the bathtub. She stepped in. She opened the door and walked through without hesitation.
She was in front of her old house. The home where she grew up, watching herself as an eight-year-old jumping rope with Amy in front of the driveway.
“Claire! Amy!” she called to them.
But they just kept jumping rope. As if they didn’t hear her. As if she wasn’t there.
Or maybe they’re the ones who aren’t there. How could they be there?
An unseen hand pulled her back through the door into the bathroom.
She heard this noise, like a pump.
She looked down. A woman sat on the porcelain inside the bathtub. Pulsating, like she was about to explode. Like a million memories were about to burst out and drown her.
Claire felt herself reach up and touch her head. It was open, as if someone had lifted the hood of a car.
She looked in the mirror. Her skull was gone. There was just the pulsating brain above her forehead, ready to pop.
“Are you okay, dear?” came a voice that sounded like her mother’s.
Claire turned. Dr. Fairborn was standing there, looking concerned.
“I saw them. I saw her,” she said.
“Who?” asked Fairborn.
“Amy,” Claire said, as if Fairborn should know. “The girl I killed when I was little.”
“Claire—”
“She was my best friend, and she was kidnapped right in front of me. I didn’t do anything to stop it and now she’s dead. I killed her. And now I’ve killed my boyfriend because Todd Quimby got jealous.”
“You didn’t kill anyone,” Fairborn reassured her.
“But I did!” Claire exclaimed, tears flowing again. “I made myself look like a whore—his whore—because I wanted you and Dr. Curtin to respect me.”
Claire felt herself spinning. She was weeping now. Fairborn led her into the living room and sat her down on the sofa.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Claire sobbed.
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Fairborn assured her.
“But I don’t do this. I don’t cry . . .”
“You’ve shut down your emotions for such a long time, and now they’re coming to the surface. The best thing you can do is let them out.”
“Please. Tell me why. Why Amy? Why Ian?”
“I wish I could tell you, Claire. But that’s a question for a higher power.”
Claire looked at her sharply. “Oh, come on. We’re doctors. We turn to science for the answers.”
Fairborn nodded gently. “Science can never tell us why your friend Amy was kidnapped or why Todd Quimby murdered—”
“But it can. Todd Quimby had schizoid personality disorder,” Claire said, as if reciting from a textbook. “He should have responded to the meds I prescribed.” Claire put her head down and sobbed harder.
“You’re looking for answers where there are none,” Fairborn said.
“What am I going to do?” Claire cried.
“Forgive yourself.”
“I don’t know how.”
Fairborn paused, considering how to respond. Then she faced Claire, taking her by both arms. “Remember when you interviewed Quimby for the first time? How you struggled and struggled, and finally you got him to spill his guts? He was your first patient at Rikers and you hit a home run.”
“And then I dropped the ball.”
“Because you’re human, Claire. We all are. We can’t predict how we’re going to act from minute to minute, let alone predict how others will act. We want to tell ourselves that we can explain behavior if we have enough information. But there’s a human factor—our patients don’t tell us everything. And God only knows what they don’t want to tell themselves. Or what we don’t want to tell ourselves.”
Claire looked at Fairborn, her face pleading for something to hang on to.
“I know you’re in pain. It’s not going to go away tomorrow, or the next day, or even next month. It will get better with time. But only if you stop blaming yourself for what happened to these women. And to Ian. And to your friend Amy.”
The tone in Fairborn’s voice made Claire believe it was possible.
“I’ll try,” Claire said. And she closed her eyes tight against the world and its cruelty.
Todd Quimby lay on the autopsy table, his chest precisely cut open in the Y incision, a victim of his own mother’s cruelty, who then set out to turn his rage on others. ME Ross looked down at Quimby’s body and examined the dead man’s heart. It looked normal, like any other man’s his age. Ross smiled to himself. There were no signs inside it of the evil Quimby bore. T
here never were in all the killers’ hearts Ross had examined.
And then Ross looked at Quimby’s lungs.
That’s odd, he thought. Why have the blood cells in his lungs burst?
Ross decided to take samples of the water from Quimby’s lungs and send them to the lab.
Maybe there’s a good explanation for this, he thought. Science will give me the answer. It always does.
PART II
CHAPTER 19
Nick sat at his desk staring at eight manila case folders, seven of them holding the story of a life Todd Quimby had viciously ended. The last and thickest file belonged to Quimby himself. Nick could almost feel them all staring back at him, asking the same question he was: Why?
He’d explain to the families of the seven young victims that Quimby’s killing spree was most likely born of some deep-seated mental illness. Then he asked himself, Is it my job to answer that question? Isn’t it enough that we seek justice for the dead? Whatever God does, he does for a reason. Good people get murdered; good people commit suicide.
Good people go blind.
And yet, buried in those files, Nick couldn’t help but think that there had to be an answer. It was human nature to want a reason, an explanation for why seven innocent people had been brutally murdered.
A week after Quimby’s grand finale of snuffing the life out of three people in one night, he remained a mystery. Nick knew he would remain that way forever. Because with Quimby dead, Nick would never have the chance to interrogate him, to extract a confession where he would admit what he did, maybe even proudly, as some of them were known to do, with a sick, twisted smile on his face. There would be no trial, where the victims’ families would see justice done as Quimby was convicted by a jury of his peers and sentenced to spend the rest of his miserable life in prison.
Nick felt cheated. Face it, life is never fair.
Nobody knew that better than he did.
He lifted his head, his failing eyes still able to take in the activity in the squad room, which was quiet tonight. Like the entire city, Nick mused, now that Quimby’s wretched soul was in hell.
