Silent Victim

by C. E. Lawrence

  She looked around, gulped down some more coffee, and leaned in toward him.

  “I’ve recently recovered memories of—being sexually abused.”

  A dozen questions darted through his mind, but all he said was, “Really?”

  “At first I wasn’t sure. It was just this one dream that kept repeating itself, you know, so I found a specialist in buried memories, and I’ve been working with him for about a year—and then one day I woke up sure of it.”

  Lee wasn’t sure how to respond. He didn’t entirely trust so-called recovered memories. Though repressed memory was a real, documented response to trauma, there was a subset of “specialists” in this field who, through a combination of subtle suggestion and hypnosis, could convince patients that they were the victims of anything from ritual satanic abuse to alien abduction.

  In Ana’s case, of course, it would explain a lot: her belligerent girlishness, her passive-aggressive attitude toward men, her childlike affect. But there were other things that would explain these traits as well—and the subject of abuse had never come up in their sessions together. “When was this?” Lee said.

  “I don’t have all the details yet. I think it happened when I was a child, and that it was someone I knew.” “But you’re not sure?”

  She shook her head. “I haven’t been able to make out his face. But Dr. Perkins—he’s my therapist—says it’s only a matter of time.”

  “Why did you come to me? It sounds like Dr. Perkins knows what he’s doing.” What exactly he was doing was another matter, but Lee wasn’t going to dive headlong into that particular tar baby. Professional etiquette aside, he had no wish to challenge a colleague’s competence or motives based upon so little information.

  Ana tightened her fingers around the handle of her mug.

  “I—I’m afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of everything. I just have this feeling that something’s going to happen.”

  “Is there any particular reason you should feel this way? Could it be a response to"—he hesitated—"the memory of your abuse?”

  She frowned at her mug, as though it contained vinegar instead of coffee.

  “That’s what Dr. Perkins thinks.” “And what do you think?”

  She got up and began pacing the room, restlessness running through her like an electrical current.

  “I don’t know what to think. I’m jumpy, I can’t sleep. I see potential attackers around every corner. And not only that, but I think—well, I think someone is stalking me.”

  “You’re sure you’re not just—”

  “No, see, that’s the thing—I really think I’m being watched.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  She sat down again on the armchair and wrapped her long arms around her thin torso, swaying back and forth, her lips clenched. Lee really did feel sorry for her. She looked like a lost girl right now, and he felt the urge to make everything all right. But immediately the warning sounded in his head: Steady on, Campbell. She’s a first-class manipulator, and you know better.

  He leaned back and forced himself to take another sip of coffee.

  She looked up at him, her pale eyes tragic. “There have been some things happening, you know? Scary things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the phone ringing, but when I answer they hang up. And one time I know I left my car locked, but when I got out of the store it was unlocked.”

  “Was anything taken?”

  “No, but I had the feeling someone had been in there.”

  “What about the phone calls—do you have caller ID?”

  “Yes, but it always reads ‘Unavailable.’ ”

  “Do you still live in Jersey?”

  “When my dad died last year I moved into his house.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry for your loss.” The words sounded like what they were—a stock phrase—but he hoped there was comfort in them anyway.

  “Thanks.” She looked down at her hand, the corners of her mouth twitching.

  “He lived in Flemington, right?”

  Flemington was in Hunterdon County, about ten miles away from Stockton, the town Lee grew up in and where his mother still lived. When Ana was his patient, they were both New Jersey residents, but that felt like another lifetime now.

  “Yeah,” she answered. “When he—uh, got sick, I tried to be there for him, you know…. “ She trailed off forlornly.

  “So he left you the house?”

  “Yeah. It’s kind of big for me, but I don’t think he wanted me to sell it.”

  “Is that what he said?”

  She shook her head. “No, it’s just that he loved that old house, and I feel like if I sold it he’d be sad.”

  Hunterdon County was full of charming old stone houses, some of them dating back to the eighteenth century. Lee imagined her father’s house, tucked away among the green rolling hills of the southwestern Jersey landscape, with its fertile farmland, the rich black soil perfect for growing the famous Jersey tomatoes, and the sweet, sweet Silver Queen corn he loved so much as a child.

  He looked back at Ana, who was chewing absently on the cuticle of her index finger.

  “Is there anything else?”

  “Yeah,” she said, fishing around in the pocket of her green corduroy skirt. She had an unusual way of dressing that was all her own, Lee remembered—on her, even green corduroy looked stylish. Under the skirt she wore knee-high leather boots with sharp, pointy high heels.

  “Here it is,” she said, producing a crumpled piece of paper.

  He took it and opened it up. It was a clumsy version of the kind of ransom note you might see on a cheaply produced television crime drama. The letters had all been cut from different parts of various magazines and pasted onto a plain sheet of white paper. RetrIbuTion is coMinG, it read. Prepare TO meEt Your FAte.” His first thought was that she might have created it herself, a ploy for the attention she had been seeking all her life to fill the cavernous hole in her soul. But a look at the terror in her eyes banished that thought from his head. She was genuinely frightened.

  “Have you gone to the police?” he asked.

  She waved off his suggestion as though it were an annoying insect.

  “Jersey cops,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Let us know when someone tries to kill you, and then maybe we’ll be interested. Better yet—give us a call if you are actually murdered.”

  “They said that?”

  “More or less. They made it clear they didn’t want to be bothered.”

  “So you came to me.”

  “I didn’t know what else to do,” she moaned, the old petulance creeping into her voice. “Raymond—that’s my boyfriend—he’s really nice, but he’s just a restaurant manager. He didn’t know what to do either.”

  At the mention of her boyfriend, Lee breathed a bit more freely.

  “I mean, you work with the police, right?” she said, her blue eyes imploring.

  “Well, yes, but we don’t have jurisdiction in New Jersey.”

  “But can’t you—I mean, couldn’t you investigate this on your own or something, without telling them?”

  “Well, I’m not a detective—”

  “But you’re a criminal profiler, right?”

  “I’m a forensic psychologist.”

  “Right—but you profile criminals, don’t you?”

  “Among other things. What do you expect me to do?”

  “Find out who’s stalking me. Do a profile on him—or whatever it is you do.”

  “Do you have any idea who it might be?”

  She bit her lip and shook her head. “I’ve been trying to think of someone. My boyfriend before Raymond broke up with me, so I don’t think it’s him. And he was really sweet and everything, anyway.”

  “Does Raymond know you came to see me?”

  She looked at him and frowned. “Am I terrible to not tell him? It’s just that I didn’t want him to worry.”

  Or get jealou
s in case you decide to try to seduce me again, Lee thought, but he said, “You shouldn’t be keeping secrets from him right now—not when your life could be in danger.”

  “So—so you think it is?” she said, her voice wavering between fear and hope.

  “I think it’s possible, and it’s best not to take any chances. Anyone else it could be?”

  “Well, I’m working as a waitress at the Swan Hotel in Lambertville, and I see a lot of people every day, but mostly it’s wealthy, middle-aged people, and they’re usually pretty nice.” She fished around in her leather knapsack. “Look, money isn’t a problem. I’ll be glad to pay you whatever you—”

  He shook his head. “I wouldn’t even know what to charge you anyway.”

  “So can you—help me?” she said, her voice thick.

  Lee was touched, in spite of their history together—or maybe because of it. She seemed so vulnerable—perhaps fear had humbled her. Without her usual arrogance, she was actually rather appealing.

  “I don’t see what I can possibly do,” he said.

  He glanced at his watch. It was after seven, and he was already late for his dinner meeting.

  “I’m really sorry,” he said, rising from the couch, “but I arranged to meet someone for dinner, and I’m late.”

  She jumped up from the chair as though she were on springs. “Oh, sorry—I didn’t mean to take up so much of your time!”

  “Please don’t apologize. I’m just sorry I can’t help,” he said, fetching her coat from the rack and holding it open for her.

  She slipped her arms into the sleeves and hugged the coat around her body, shivering, even though the room was quite warm.

  “I—I wish you’d change your mind,” she said, looking up at him with an expression that was part lost child, part seductress. That was her specialty, the woman/child in distress, guaranteed to reel in a certain percentage of the male population. His friend Chuck Morton would be helpless to resist her, he thought—if he weren’t already tied up with his own personal Circe.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just—”

  “I’ve missed you, you know,” she said, holding his gaze longer than necessary. He was afraid she was going to try to kiss him. But she just took his hand and pressed it between her own. Her hands were cold and smooth and dry, her grip surprisingly strong.

  He disentangled his hands from hers and opened the door for her.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “I think you should take the note you showed me to the police in Flemington.”

  She gave a quick shrug and looked away.

  “Well, I tried. If something happens to me—”

  “Take the note to the police,” he repeated, more firmly this time.

  She gave a little laugh, like the tinkling of bells. “Yeah—right.”

  And then she slipped out the door, leaving behind a trail of lilac perfume. He looked down at his hand and realized she had pressed a piece of paper into it containing her cell phone number. Hearing her quick, light step as she hurried down the stairs, he remembered from their days together in therapy that she always seemed to be in a hurry. He had a sharp, unexpected impulse to call after her—not because he was attracted to her, but because he was suddenly reluctant to let her venture out so unprotected into a wild and dangerous world.

  Later, he would regret not heeding that impulse.

  CHAPTER TWO

  At first glance there seemed to be no connection between them.

  A man in his twenties found floating in the Bronx River, cause of death: drowning. He was assumed initially to be a suicide.

  Until the farewell note in his pocket was found to have been written by someone else.

  A man in his forties found dead in his bathtub—a careless accident, perhaps. His hair dryer had fallen into the water, electrocuting him.

  Except that he was bald.

  It didn’t add up, and whoever staged the bathtub “accident” had to know it didn’t add up. Therefore, the clumsiness of the crime had to be taken as purposeful, and the manner of it as a challenge—no, a taunt—to the police. As for the floater—well, he wasn’t necessarily linked to the baldy in the bathtub, but there was that suicide note scribbled on the mirror in lipstick—lipstick?—that made the whole thing as fishy as the corpse the boys had pulled out of the river only two days before they found Baldy.

  Chuck Morton had already come to these conclusions by the time he reached his office in the Bronx Major Case Unit on a warm morning in late August. He walked through the newly renovated lobby, across the polished marble floor to his cramped office in the back of the first floor. He plugged in his new automatic coffeemaker and added water and precisely six tablespoons of coffee, listening to the hum of the heating coil as it began to whir into life.

  Charles Chesterfield Morton was a precise man. He liked his rituals at a certain time: black Kenyan coffee from Fairway first thing in the morning, with exactly one teaspoon of sugar and a dollop of cream.

  His phone rang and he grabbed it.

  “Morton here.”

  “Ah, yes, Chuck … how are you?”

  Morton scowled. He recognized the voice at once—it was Deputy Chief Police Commissioner Steven Connelly, a man he despised. A call from him first thing on a Monday morning couldn’t be anything good. And when Connelly called him by his first name, it was an especially bad sign.

  Morton sank down in his chair.

  “Fine, sir,” he said, “and you?”

  “Great, just great.”

  Morton ran a hand through his short blond hair. Get to the point, for Christ’s sake. He knew from experience that the more Connelly stalled, the worse the news he could expect.

  “And your lovely wife—how is she?”

  Morton suppressed a groan.

  “She’s very well, sir—thank you for asking.”

  The deputy chief cleared his throat.

  “Have you picked your team yet for this drowning business on Arthur Avenue?”

  “Well, sir, I—”

  “I’m sending someone your way, Chuck, and I want you to take her under your wing, so to speak.”

  “Yes, sir. Who is it?’

  But before he asked the question, he already knew the answer.

  “Elena Krieger. She just finished working undercover on the Strickley Affair, so I’m assigning her to you. She’s a specialist in linguistic forensics—one of the best in the department. You need someone who can decipher those fake suicide notes, right?”

  Chuck had never met Elena Krieger, but had heard enough to convince him they weren’t going to get along.

  But all he said was, “Yes, sir.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line, as if the deputy chief was waiting for him to raise an objection.

  “Okay, then,” Connelly said finally, sounding surprised that Morton wasn’t arguing with him. Chuck knew from experience that it wouldn’t do any good. Connelly cleared his throat again. “Who’s the primary on this one?”

  “Detective Leonard Butts,” Chuck said.

  “Oh, yeah, that funny little guy who chews on cigars?”

  “Right.”

  “Okay, Chuck, give me a full report as soon as you have anything, will you?”

  “Yes, sir,” he replied, and hung up.

  Elena Krieger had risen quickly through the ranks to become sergeant, then lieutenant, and now detective. Oh, she was brilliant—and comely enough, so everyone said—tall and red haired and curvy and all the rest of it, but that didn’t cheer him up one bit. Connelly’s solicitous manner made Chuck suspect that he had slept with her. He pictured the deputy chief’s skinny legs poking out from striped boxer briefs as he was straddled by a red-headed Amazon in a push-up bra. The image made him shudder.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” Morton barked, gazing with dismay at the mounting pile of paperwork on his desk.

  Sergeant Ruggles poked his pink, bullet-shaped head through the door.

 
“Yes, Sergeant?”

  “Message for you, sir—came in just as you arrived.”

  Ruggles had recently joined the NYPD after a stint as a beat cop in London. His accent was pure North Country, with the wide vowels and truncated consonants of that part of England. Chuck still hadn’t gotten used to how polite he was.

  “What is it?” he said.

  “Detective Krieger called to say she’s on her way and will be here in half an hour, sir.” Morton frowned.

  “The Valkyrie rides again,” he muttered. “Damn.”

  Ruggles’s pink forehead crinkled. “Excuse me, sir?”

  “That’s what they called her at Brooklyn South.”

  “On account of her being German, sir?”

  “That—and other things.”

  Ruggles coughed delicately.

  “I’ve heard she’s very … good looking, sir.”

  “Yeah, sure—a goddamn Teutonic goddess.”

  He looked up at Sergeant Ruggles, who was still lingering uncomfortably at the door, his thick fingers wrapped around the door handle.

  “That’s all, Sergeant,” he said stiffly, and Ruggles withdrew, stumbling over his own feet as he backed out of the room.

  Chuck frowned and opened the case file in front of him.

  A lot of what he did as captain of the major cases squad was calculated to intimidate, impress, and control those under him. He kept the real Chuck Morton deeply hidden. Squad commander was a role, and the script had been written long ago by people other than him. He knew that his success depended upon following it carefully: he must be strong, decisive, and, when necessary, intimidating.

  For example, he liked Sergeant Ruggles, and had they met in a bar, might have asked him about his weekend, but as his superior officer he maintained a cool distance between them.

  The coffeemaker on the windowsill, a recent gift from his wife, began to spit and pop, and the smell of freshly brewing coffee infiltrated the room. Krieger. How appropriate. He remembered enough from his college German to know it meant “warrior” in that language.

  The phone on his desk rang. He picked it up and growled into the receiver.

  “Morton here.”