“Cadence is a coward.”
“So you say,” Nessman said drily. Calculated to make me defend my opinion. That stopped working when I was nine. “Luckily she has you to race to the rescue.”
“Ride.”
“What?”
“The cliché you are looking for is ‘ride to the rescue.’ ” I eyed his shorthand. Subject is showing her usual unwillingness to take part in the therapy process. Seems easily distracted.
Therapy process.
Therapy process.
Process: a procedure; a course; a development.
All words that imply progression.
Subject is showing her usual unwillingness to take part in the therapy process.
Subject thinks you are a douche.
Sure. I have been in the therapy process since I was three. As far as I could tell, it had not followed any course or developed at all. It just sucked up my Wednesdays.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Nessman said in what he thought was his soothing voice. It was really his “please hit me in the teeth” voice.
“There are not enough words in English or Japanese to put across how strongly I doubt that.”
“We’ve been talking about this for a while, Shiro.”
“Talking about what?”
“Your mother. Your father. What happened when you were three. What happened right in front of you when you were three.”
I glanced to the left, eyeing the door. “I have work to do.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Don’t you think you’ve hidden from the truth long enough?”
“I. Never. Hide.”
“Oh, Shiro. We both know that isn’t true.”
I folded my arms across my chest and stared out the window. The minutes spun by, each one seeming to take at least a week.
“I have mentioned this to you many times,” he said quietly. “You—all of you—have plateaued. And you’re sitting in that chair thinking this is just a waste of your time.”
Damn it. Okay, maybe enough words in English. I seriously considered lapsing into Japanese—Nessman wouldn’t know arigato from arrivederci. But that was a childish refuge, and if nothing else, I prided myself on being more adult and professional than the other two put together. So I decided to stick with English—for the time being.
“We don’t have to do anything right this second. If you would just consider integration,” Nessman was droning, “open your mind to the possibility, I think your therapy would take a giant step for—”
“No.”
“We could just discuss it, Shiro. We don’t have to—”
“I said no!”
“And so you see,” he said after a long, careful pause, “why therapy can go only so far with you and the others. Integration—”
“Is murder.”
It was tough work to shock a shrink—or at least to get one to show it—but I managed nicely with Nessman. He even managed to sound hurt. “Shiro. I would never advocate a course of action that would hurt you, or Cadence, or . . .”
“You are a single; you cannot understand. I acknowledge that you understand our symptoms intellectually, that they can be rolled into a nice easy pack if you do not feel them. You do not know. You will never know.”
“So explain it to me.”
“I have a murder to solve,” I replied brusquely, standing. “Really quite a nasty one.” Nessman’s office wavered around me.
“Sit down, please, Shiro. We haven’t finished our session.” To his credit, Nessman’s voice was firm and didn’t cover up edginess. “And of course you do. You’re a federal agent. You’ll always have a murder, a kidnapping, an Internet scam. You can’t hide behind your workload this time.”
“I. Do not. Hide.”
“Please have a seat, Shiro.”
I reluctantly sat, if only to show the man respect: he knew what was inside me.
Who lived inside me.
“You were going to explain that being a single, I can’t understand your fear of integration.”
“No, that is what you were hoping I would do. I was leaving to get back to work.”
“But you can’t work unless you do this,” he reminded me. “It’s a condition of your employment. You know that.”
Damn it. Rule #1 of BOFFO: weekly psychiatric sessions at a minimum. I could not be sure if this was for our health, since it was not truly in BOFFO’s interest for us to get better. Perhaps the legislative committee that quietly authorized our funding needed political cover. In any case, some of us saw a shrink every day. Fortunately, my life had not plunged that far down the toilet.
BOFFO employed sociopaths, like George. Multiples, like my sisters and me. Kleptomaniacs. Pyromaniacs. Agoraphobes. Hysterics. Bipolars. Delusional psychotics. Paranoid psychotics. Schizophrenics. We were surprisingly effective—at least, no one ever complained when budget time rolled around. But of course a large problem was—
“Shiro?”
“What?”
“You were going to explain.”
I stared at him as I would at a particularly hairy bug that would not stay squashed. Perhaps that assessment was not fair; Dr. Nessman was rather handsome. Black hair, closely trimmed black beard, sparkling black eyes. Skin the exact color of a good coffee with a splash of cream. And a voice like cabernet—if he hadn’t gone into psychiatry he could have been a fine radio personality—smooth and English, just beginning to lose the accent after living and working in Minnesota for over a decade.
“I will not let you kill us.”
“Perhaps the others—”
“Feel the same.”
I stood and paced a bit; Nessman was used to it and even stretched in his chair a little. It was a nice office: large, with lots of windows. I had a fine view of the U.S. Bank Building, which was an improvement over the garbage-strewn alley below. He could not keep any sculpture in his office, for obvious reasons, but he made up for it in paintings. And Post-its. And doodle pads. And desk blotters. And posters. All featuring ponies. Ponies standing. Ponies running. Ponies playing cards with dogs.
Sometimes I wanted to ask; I never did. He might tell me. More insanity in my life I did not need.
“Three. Why three? And why here, now? Why come to Minneapolis? Always two men and one woman. What is he showing us?”
“He may not know he’s showing you anything,” Nessman said reasonably. “He may not even know he’s doing these things.”
I grunted, freshly annoyed. The good doctor did not have to remind me. The ThreeFer Killer was going to be a bitch to hunt (was already a bitch to hunt). Most murder victims are killed by someone they know—often, someone they are related to. Most murders are custodial in nature. Serial killers are tough, if for no other reason than that the victims seem to be random.
They are not random. Something about a certain type of victim sings to serial killers. Gacy liked teenage boys; Bundy liked pretty young women with long dark hair. Our ThreeFer might not know he is being triggered; as Dr. Nessman just said, he might not even know he is running around killing three people per crime scene and dumping them where they will quickly be found. It was this sort of difficulty that caused the FBI to develop ViCAP, the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, and although I am not the religious type (Cadence is, of all the ridiculous things, Lutheran), I knew it was vital to our work.
“There is just nothing right now,” I mused, still prowling the other side of Nessman’s desk. “We have reams of paperwork, rooms of files, a thousand pictures per crime scene. We have talked to families, friends, employers, significant others, even parking garage attendants. We have visited homes and their places of employment and their favorite watering holes and bookstores. There is nothing. Not one thing.”
“Nice try,” Nessman said kindly, “but we aren’t here to discuss your latest case, Shiro.”
“Why not? It is infinitely more interesting.”
“There’s only so far I—anyone—can go with you—the three of you—without integ
ration. You were once a whole person, Shiro. You—”
(goose)
“—could be again. Don’t you
(Mama look at the goose)
even think about it? You see it
(no Daddy no look out)
as a diminishing, a loss. But
(not the goose you got the goose you)
you’re really coming back
(screaming and the blood all the blood and the screaming who’s screaming)
to what you once were, what you
(blood on the feathers and I I I we are screaming we are screaming oh won’t somebody STOP THE SCREAMING)
were meant to be: a whole person.” Dr. Nessman clicked his pen as I turned to face him. “Shiro? What’s wrong with your—”
Chapter Ten
Face is stupid, hit it now,
Hit it now, hit it now, while
The wheels on the bus go round and round,
He can shout all he likes, but I don’t care,
I don’t care,
Round and round,
The goose won’t shut up but I’ll make it stop,
Make it stop,
SMACK
Make it stop.
They come in the room and tackle me,
Tackle me, tackle me,
And the goose won’t shut up and they tackle me,
Alllllll daaaaay looooong.
“Sedate her!”
Fuck you
Don’t you dare
Come on, sedate her!”
Nuh-uh!?Ha!
You’ll need more than five
I push off the floor and crush one’s nose,
Break another’s knee,
Twist another’s wrist,
More come in the room and tackle me,
But they won’t get me!
They come in the room and tackle me
Alllllllll
Alllllll daaaaay . . .
Hey, I guess one got a syringe in after all . . . damn . . .
Chapter Eleven
“What in the world?”
I sat up on a couch I knew well. It was the couch in the waiting area outside Michaela’s office, which was completely wrong because I had last been at the ThreeFer crime scene. I had been minutes away from tracking down the family members of our newest victims and starting the long tedious process of twenty questions, times a zillion.
And even if it was time for me to be in the building (I peeked at my watch), I should be in my session with Dr. Nessman, not waking up on—
“Oh! Hey! You’re awake.”
Pam Weinberg, my boss’s administrative assistant, was looking at me. Okay, I didn’t know that for sure, since she had paperwork, case files, folders, photos, memos, and the like stacked so high that I could see only the improbably orange curls piled on top of her head. There were two phones on her desk, and one of them (often both) rang every two or three minutes.
In a building filled with mysterious government operatives, eyes only/classified documents, and doctor/patient privilege, the biggest puzzle was how seventeen-year-old Pam Weinberg could identify BOFFO members by the sound of our steps.
Uh-huh, really! People lost bets over it. She had ears like a lynx. George once joked that she probably shrieked like a bat so she could navigate office space via sonar.
Although Pam had no line of sight, due to the impossibly tall yet stable stacks of files on her desk, she always knew who was walking in, who was waking up, who was having a nightmare (most of the BOFFO team had ended up on Michaela’s couch at one time or another), who was foaming at the mouth, who was late, who was early, who had moved into the waiting room and secretly brushed his or her teeth in Michaela’s private bathroom.
Don’t look at me like that. I had to live there for only a few days. So I forgot to renew my lease—it’s not a crime. Technically, it’s a breach of contract.
Well, okay, there was a crime, too. I can feel you judging me. Well, don’t. In point of fact, now that I think about it—I did not forget to renew, so there. Shiro wrote the check, and then Adrienne jammed it (along with a Spider-Man graphic novel) down the throat of a serial rapist. Oooh, yuck, I can’t even think about those crime-scene photos without reaching for an air-sickness bag. The poor guy took almost a year to learn to swallow—and walk—again.
My point is, I had to live in Michaela’s office for only six days. So it really wasn’t that big a deal.
One thing I sure liked about the waiting room: it was cool, shady, and quiet. The room was about fifteen by twenty, with soft chairs, the aforementioned couch, Pam’s desk, and a small fridge in the far corner (always kept padlocked . . . Pam guarded her ginger ale with the zeal of a customs border agent). The carpet was a nice dark blue; the walls were painted the color of a spring sky. The closet had lots of hangers and, on the floor, Pam’s sleeping bag, pillow, and neatly folded sushi pajamas.
Oh—sorry. I forgot to tell you. Pam’s agoraphobic. I guess she had a pretty crummy childhood, but I don’t know any details and I don’t want to know. Shiro the snoop does. The only secrets she respects are her own.
So, yes, Pam almost never left the office. She also typed 140 words a minute, never had to be told something twice, kept Michaela’s staggering schedule updated, knew who’d been naughty—shoot, she was the perfect palace guard. The fact that she wasn’t yet a legal adult was the least important thing about her.
“Are you all right?” Pam asked, fussing with her keyboard. “You’ve had a busy day.”
“Aggh, don’t remind me.” I looked down. Same clothes as this morning: good. No new stains or dirt: good. A little blood on my knuckles: hmmmm. Almost three hours gone: problematic.
Pam, never one for chitchat, said without looking up from her screen, “You shifted to one sister at the crime scene, and then the other during your session with Dr. Nessman.”
“I did what?” Appalled, I leaped to my feet. Well, staggered—the trank they must have shot
(her)
me up with was fast acting and, even better, wore off fast. But I’d be wobbly for an hour. “Which sister showed up where?”
“Shiro at the crime scene. You do the math. Speaking of math, you haven’t turned in your time sheet for the week.”
“Oh my God. Oh my God!”
“It’s all right. Just get it to me by noon tomorrow.”
“Not that. Is Dr. Nessman all right? Is he still here? He’s still here, right?” I could feel my face getting hot. Adrienne had never not embarrassed me. You couldn’t take that girl anywhere. “Did she hurt him? Is he at the ER?”
“I’m sure I don’t have to remind you,” Pam said drily, and then proceeded to do just so, “but this isn’t exactly the first time Nessman’s been sucker punched by a patient. Not even that patient. He’s fine. He’s writing up clinic notes as we speak.”
“Oh, I’ve got to apologize. The poor guy! What happened?” Pam opened her mouth but I rushed ahead. “Don’t answer that! Never mind, I don’t need to know. I can’t believe she—I’ll go see him right now. Yes! Right now!”
“You won’t, actually.” Pam was squinting at a printout of sorts; just another day at the office for her. And me, frankly. “Michaela’s waiting for you.”
Mental groan. Followed by a verbal groan. Private time with the boss lady. The perfect end to a really poopie day.
“Is she in her office or—”
“The kitchen,” Pam answered, already deeply involved with whatever.
The kitchen! She must be having one of those days.
I knew the feeling.
Chapter Twelve
I rapped on the door to the department kitchen and at her absent “Yes, yes” stepped in. Michaela was exactly where I expected her to be—at the counter, chopping celery and cucumbers.
As usual, Michaela presented different sides to different observers. And often, different sides to the same observer. Although she was a late middle-ager, her hair was trendy. Yes, it was silver, but it was cut into a pageboy, the chin-
length style you might see on a fifth grader. Her pure green eyes seemed to almost snap with life, but they were bracketed by crow’s feet. Her suit was classic Ann Taylor—which she wore with running shoes. Interestingly, none of us had ever seen her run. I’d never seen her so much as walk fast.
And she was in the kitchen. Not her fancy boss lady office with dark wood and mysteriously locked files. The kitchen!
“Hi.” I knew I sounded tentative, but couldn’t help it. I hated getting in trouble for something the other two did. Usually people who didn’t like their siblings could, oh, what was the phrase? Oh yeah. Distance themselves from them. “Uh, hi? How’s it going?”
Michaela didn’t answer, which was no surprise. She despised small talk almost as much as Shiro did. Judging from the number of bowls she’d set out, it was going to be a Level Four salad. God help us now.
She was scraping chopped celery into a plastic bowl. As always, her food prep was brisk, efficient, and speedy.
Michaela finished, wiped the blade, then stepped to the fridge and rummaged around in the crisper drawer (and woe betide the office intern who put her prized plum tomatoes in the fridge—apparently that ruins their taste). She took out two English cucumbers and began to chop them with one of the several dozen cooking knives she kept in a special set of drawers next to the butcher block—always under lock and key when she wasn’t using them.
Not because she was worried one of her clinically insane subordinates would snap and go for a cleaver—we were all authorized to carry firearms, after all. But Michaela was fiercely protective of her brought-from-home Wustof knives.
“What scared you?” Michaela asked, not looking up from her salad prep.
That was chatting with Michaela—by the time she got around to speaking, you forgot why you were supposed to be in there.
I tried to remember. “Well, we were on scene . . . and I saw—I mean, I noticed that the killer might be trying to, uh, send a message.”
Michaela arched a silvery eyebrow. “Of course he (or she) is.”
“I mean, um. To me. Us, I think. Personally.”
Me, Myself and Why? Page 5
