by CJ Lyons
Leah’s head buzzed as she considered all the parameters—this was nothing like subduing a patient in the ER. “If he’s only wrecking his own apartment, why intervene at all?”
“He could harm himself and we have a duty of care to him and his neighbors. Plus, we need him out of the apartment and able to talk to us,” Luka answered even as McKinley made a noise of disdain. “As soon as possible.” His tone gave her the subtext she’d been missing—Luka was afraid the SWAT team might rush in and kill Walt if Leah couldn’t help quiet him down and get him to cooperate with Luka’s team.
“The victim could’ve been pushed or thrown,” McKinley said. “The husband’s a suspect in a potential homicide.”
“Or a witness,” Luka corrected. “Either way, we need to talk to him.”
“Let me at least evaluate the man before you take action.” Leah aimed this at McKinley. Situations like this were the whole reason they’d gotten the Department of Justice grant to bring her on board with the Crisis Intervention Center; she just hadn’t expected to be coming into such a complicated encounter on her first day in the field. No one had even had a chance yet to define her role other than acting as “an advocate” for victims, witnesses, and people taken into police custody. She’d expected she’d be interviewing distraught family members—but not one who had a sniper’s scope focused on him.
Leah had to take two deep breaths to quiet her nerves, glancing up past the steps that circled the atrium, her gaze climbing all the way to the top where a skylight was shadowed by rain clouds. Luka was here; he wouldn’t let anything happen to her. In the month since Ian’s death and the violent aftermath that followed, she’d grown to trust the detective. Since their homes were only a few miles apart, they helped each other out with childcare duties, and, although most of their discussions centered on Emily and Nate, Leah considered Luka a friend. After Ian’s death she’d been surprised to realize how few friends she really had. Before, her life had centered on work and family. “What floor?”
“The top.” Luka turned to the other detective. “Krichek, you stay here. Mr. Vogel, could you give Detective Krichek any footage from your security cameras?”
“Don’t have any. That camera’s been busted for over a year.”
“Okay, then. Please stay close in case we need more information from you.”
“I’d like to go up, see if Miss Risa is all right.”
Luka’s tone turned firm. “Please stay here. Krichek, you coordinate with McKinley.” Given the scowl he threw the younger detective, Leah translated this as: stop the SWAT team from rushing in and killing anyone. Then Luka turned back to Leah. “Let’s go.”
He led the way around the edge of the foyer to an elevator with embossed brass doors. The Falconer was a bit frayed around the edges, but Leah could imagine that once upon a time it’d been a gleaming masterpiece of pre-war architecture. She couldn’t help but think of Ian, who would have loved to explore it. But thinking of Ian always carried with it a constant echo of memories. Of her loss. Of his death. Of his blood…
“Now remember,” Luka said as Leah struggled to focus on his words. “Your job is to simply talk to him, try to assess his volatility and what next steps we need to take to get him safely out of the apartment. He might seem like an old man dealing with the shock of his wife’s death, but he’s a suspect too. I can’t guarantee he’s not a threat.” The elevator stopped at the top floor and the doors slid open. Leah swallowed, forcing away thoughts of Ian.
Luka paused on the landing, facing her. Two SWAT guys waited a few feet away—their escorts. “Leah. We’ll be watching the whole time—we won’t let anything happen to you.” He drew in a breath. “But if you’re uncomfortable, we can go another route. Pilot program and grant money be damned. You don’t have to do this.”
But she did. She couldn’t risk Walt Orly being harmed unnecessarily. She’d had the training, she handled volatile patients in the ER all the time. This was no different—except for the men with guns surrounding them. Leah glanced around the landing. Two shopping bags had been abandoned between the atrium’s railing and an open apartment door that was guarded by two more SWAT men. A set of keys hung from the outside lock, a bright pink smiley face dangling alongside them. You could never lose your keys with that keychain, she thought.
In the open doorway stood Naomi Harper, another member of Luka’s team, along with a woman in her early thirties, barefoot and dressed in leggings and a baggy Hard Rock Café sweatshirt, leaning heavily on a wheeled walker angled so she could speak to whoever was inside the apartment. Risa, the neighbor Luka had mentioned. Leah was surprised to see someone so young using a walker. She didn’t see any signs of an injury. Then she noticed the trembling in Risa’s hands. Maybe a neurologic condition? Beyond Risa, inside the apartment, a man’s form moved in and out of sight.
Risa spoke to Walt in a soft, soothing voice, keeping it low. It was a good approach, but as soon as Walt paused in his rampage to listen, he’d quickly shake his head, dismissing her words, more agitated than before.
Leah craned her head over the landing railing, looked down to where Maggie’s bright blue hair marked the bottom. Trudy’s body had been covered with a sterile shroud and Maggie and her team were gently bundling her into a body bag for transport.
Leah closed her eyes for a moment. She could hear Walt sobbing; the primal noises echoed deep inside her, reminding her of how she felt when she’d found Ian’s lifeless body and crawled through his blood, desperate to reach Emily. She remembered thinking this wasn’t real, this wasn’t her life, this wasn’t happening.
“Where’s Trudy? What have you done with my Trudy?” Walt Orly raged. He was tall with a barrel-chest and wide shoulders, shoving furniture out of his way as he stalked through the living room—the only part of the apartment Leah could see past the narrow hallway that formed the foyer. He wore a baggy sweater that hung on him and striped pajamas.
As Walt continued his rampage, Risa turned and Luka beckoned her over to join them. “Risa Saliba? I’m Detective Sergeant Luka Jericho and this is Dr. Leah Wright.”
“A doctor?” Risa scrutinized Leah.
“What can you tell me about Walt?” Leah asked. She was certain she’d never met Risa before, but something about her was familiar. Maybe she’d seen her in the ER?
“He has Huntington’s.” Risa leaned heavily on her walker. “Do you even know what that is?” she asked, her tone sharp. “Because the other cops didn’t, made things worse.”
“I know about Huntington’s.” Leah eyed Walt’s body movements as he came into sight once again. “His voice is still strong, but the choreiform movements, agitation—he’s already passing the early stages, isn’t he?”
“Doctors told Trudy he was moving into the next stage. Trouble swallowing, periods of catatonia.”
“What’s Huntington’s?” Luka asked. Leah liked that he didn’t pretend to know what they were talking about just to salve his pride.
“It’s a genetic disease,” Leah answered. “It causes severe dementia, muscle weakness, memory loss, among other things. Including emotional lability and violent outbursts. Which explains his extreme reaction and inability to calm down.”
“Walt would never hurt Trudy,” Risa added. “The other cops, they kept asking if he threw her over the railing. But he’d never…”
Leah made up her mind. She didn’t know how Trudy ended up five flights down at the bottom of the atrium but it didn’t matter. Walt was her patient now and it was her job to protect him—which meant doing whatever it took to get him safely out of the apartment and into proper medical care. She had a plan, but she doubted the police would agree to it.
She stepped past the SWAT guys at the apartment’s front door, moving so fast that she was inside the apartment before they could question her actions. Luka would be angry, but she didn’t have time to explain her every decision—after all, wasn’t that why they wanted her here? To use her medical expertise and judgment.
> “Trudy?” she called out in a worried tone, matching Walt’s. “Trudy, where are you?”
Walt whirled to her, the crystal vase in his hand, held high, ready to strike.
Five
If there was one thing Leah’s chaotic childhood had trained her to do, it was how to pretend. In school, Nellie, the great-aunt she lived with, convinced her to try out for the school play, and Leah had found a home on the stage. She knew why she did it: as a little girl she’d thought that if she changed, if she acted different, her mother might return for her.
Even today, most of her time in the ER was spent playing the role of whoever the patient before her needed her to be: a confidante, a stern maternal figure, a team leader. Whatever helped her to learn their every secret, unravel every lie, every truth behind an injury. For Leah, it was the most satisfying part of working in the ER, more so than the adrenaline rush of a trauma. Being able to offer help without breaking down whatever lie that person had carefully constructed to keep them safe. The lies of an alcoholic vowing never again; the cries of a victim of domestic violence unwilling to forsake their abusive relationship; the blind denial of patients suffering chronic diseases they refused to acknowledge.
In the ER, everyone lied. And Leah did not judge them. That wasn’t her job. Her job was to help them live, with or without their lies. The truth was a luxury some people couldn’t afford.
When Walt cried out for his dead wife, refusing to believe she was gone, Leah knew it was more than his dementia driving his fury. It was heart-shattering grief.
“Walt, have you seen Trudy?” Leah drew on her own experience of loss to fill her voice with empathy that she hoped Walt would respond to. If Walt was going to make it out of here unharmed, he needed to believe her, trust her.
“Trudy?” His wife’s name was a plaintive wail. The vase slipped free of his grasp, hitting the wood floor, crashing into pieces. He was barefoot, she saw. He ignored the shattered vase, his gaze fixed on Leah, pleading. “Where’s my Trudy?”
She felt his denial. It echoed her own grief, a gut-twist of despair. So, she gave Walt what he needed right now, in this moment. Later, medication might help him accept the truth, but right now, her job was to give him peace—or the illusion of it. At least long enough so that they could get him help, keep him safe and allow the police to do their job without anyone else getting hurt.
Leah reached a hand toward him. “Let’s go, Walt. Let’s go find Trudy together.”
He stared, his lips moving but no sound emerged. She tried to keep his focus on her and away from the men with guns standing behind her in the doorway. She took a step forward, sweeping her feet to clear a safe path through the broken glass. “Will you help me find Trudy?”
He nodded but didn’t move. His expression was a kaleidoscope of emotion: fear, anger, sorrow, confusion, relief, and finally, hope. He grasped her hand, his grip trembling. “I’ll help you.”
“Good. Let’s go find Trudy.” For the benefit of the officers at the doorway, she added, “I’ll bet she’s outside. She went shopping, right?”
“We need eggs. And my medicine. Spilled it last night.” He jerked a finger up to point to a stain on his pajama top.
Together they shuffled forward, another step toward the door. It was slow progress, but Leah was in no rush. The whole point of this was to help Walt to calm down so they could safely remove him from the apartment.
Walt stopped, glanced back at the destruction he’d left during his rampage, but it didn’t seem to register. Instead he called out, “It’s time for my medicine. Trudy?” His voice quavered. “Trudy, where’s my medicine?”
“She went to get more, remember, Walt? And she sent me to help you—I’m a doctor.”
“Doctor? No. Trudy takes me to the doctor. They don’t come here.”
“I’m a special kind of doctor. And we’re going to meet Trudy. She’s waiting for you, Walt.”
“But how?” He stuttered to a stop. They were only halfway to the door. “We sold our car. Trudy said it cost too much.”
More likely Walt didn’t want to give up driving, Leah thought. Dementia patients lived in a world of denial and immediate gratification; if they wanted something, they wanted it now, and refused to accept the limitations of their condition. “I brought an ambulance.” Leah patted his arm. “Just for you. To take you to Trudy.” She hoped he wouldn’t remember her lies, but it was the best way to protect him. “Are you ready?”
Two more steps and he stopped again, this time frowning down at his feet. Leah had navigated him past the broken glass—danger he seemed oblivious to—but now there was a new problem. He tugged against her arm, reluctant to move forward. Somewhere deep inside the confusion that roiled his brain, he knew he shouldn’t go outside in bare feet. “Walt, do you know where your slippers are?”
He glanced around, then spotted Risa at the door. Somehow, he didn’t seem to notice Harper or the men with guns. “Risa, what have you done with my shoes?” he snapped. Then he told Leah, “Risa is our cleaning lady. She likes to play games. Hides everything.”
Leah knew this was what he believed even if it obviously wasn’t true. The police kept Risa from moving closer, so she called out from the door, “Sorry, Walt! Try the closet by the door, I think there’s a pair of slip-ons.”
“Perfect,” Leah said as she continued to coax Walt down the short hallway leading to the door. Harper pulled Risa back onto the landing, to make room for the paramedics, who wheeled a stretcher within sight. The closet door and the outside door both had childproof latches to guard against Walt’s wandering, Leah noticed. She opened the closet door—just a few inches, far enough to reach in and pull out a pair of loafers, but not enough to block the police officers’ view of Walt. She knelt, helped Walt into the shoes. Beneath his pajamas she could see the evidence of wasting and muscle loss that came with his disease. Now that his anger and agitation had passed, he really did pose no threat.
“We’re going to pick up Trudy,” he declared as they finally emerged from the apartment. Luka and Harper watched from a spot near the elevators, out of the way of the medics and SWAT guys who still held their guns at attention, aiming at Walt.
Leah ignored them, focusing on Walt. “That’s right, Walt. These nice men are going to take you in the ambulance. That way you won’t be tired when you see Trudy.”
He sank onto the stretcher, his shoulders sagging as the medics raised his feet and helped him lie back. “I’m so tired.” His eyes fluttered shut, but he still held Leah’s hand in a surprisingly strong grip. The medics made quick work strapping him to the gurney, including wrist restraints. Then Walt opened his eyes and stared at Leah with a gaze clouded with sorrow. “Trudy. She’s gone. Put me to sleep, please. I don’t want to… I can’t—she can’t…” Tears choked him, and his entire body shook. His gaze landed on Risa, who leaned on her walker behind Leah. “Risa. Please. It’s over. It all needs to end. Please.”
Leah leaned against the gurney. She stroked his arm, squeezed his hand in hers. “It’ll be okay, Walt. Just lie back, close your eyes. It’ll all be okay.” She hated how convincing her lies were. Walt closed his eyes once more and dropped her hand.
She stepped back, suddenly feeling drained herself. “You guys might need Haldol,” she told the medic in a low voice.
“Got it, doc,” he said. “Med control said his doctor is waiting at Good Sam, has a room on neuro-psych ready for him.”
“Good. Thanks.” She sagged against the railing—not far from the spot where Trudy had gone over, she realized when she glimpsed yellow police tape from the corner of her eye. But she didn’t care, she was so tired, more exhausted than after a trauma in the ER. She watched the medics, accompanied by Harper and the SWAT guys, leave in the elevator.
“Good job,” Luka said as the doors closed behind them. “When can I talk to him?”
Leah shook her head. “Probably not for a while—later today, maybe not until tomorrow if he requires sedation. He’s g
oing to get agitated again, may never be able to tell you much.”
He considered that. “But you’ll help, right? Get him talking to us?”
“As soon as his physician allows, we can do a forensic interview at Good Sam.”
Risa Saliba approached, her weight sagging against her walker. She seemed wary of Luka but caught Leah’s eye. “Can we talk? When you’re done?”
The elevator doors opened and Krichek appeared along with the building manager, Cliff. “Got the warrant to secure the premises, boss.”
Cliff turned to Risa. “Can I help you home?” he asked, one hand on her elbow.
She shook it off and straightened, pushing her walker toward the corner apartment. “I’m fine.”
“Mr. Vogel,” Luka said before the manager could follow Risa. “We’ll need a list of residents along with contact information, plus any information you can share about suspicious activity, and details about building maintenance and security.”
Cliff stared after Risa like a lost puppy. Then he jerked and refocused on Luka. “Yeah, sure, whatever you need.”
“You called 911,” Luka continued as Krichek took notes. “Can you tell me what you saw?”
“Already told him and the first cops.” Cliff nodded to Krichek.
“I’d rather hear it straight from you if that’s okay.”
“Yeah, okay. I was a little late today, usually I’m here by eight, but my car wouldn’t start at first, so I got here around eight-ten, eight-fifteen.”
“You came in through the front door?”
“Me? No, that’s for residents and guests. I come in the back. Maintenance entrance. There’s a hall, comes out beside the mail room behind the desk. So I’m coming down the hall and even before I open the door behind the desk, I hear screaming. Like something out of a horror movie. I ran the rest of the way and came through and—” He stopped, swallowed, his Adam’s apple jerking. “And then I saw. It was Miss Trudy. Lying there. Blood everywhere. And up top was Mr. Walt, crying and wailing like a baby. Miss Risa must’ve heard him, too, because she came and got him to go back to his apartment. And I—I called the cops and they came and that was it.”
