by Diana Kirk
"You're just jealous, cause he wasn't interested in you."
Was Suzanne right? Had she wanted that policeman to notice her? "No. Maybe a little envious of your outgoing nature, but not jealous."
"Please be happy for me." Suzanne put her arm around Andrea.
Guilt flooded her. Maybe Suzanne was truly in love this time. It wasn't fair to judge her so harshly. "Suzanne, I love you like my own sister. I worry about you, that's all."
"I'm certainly safe enough with a cop."
What was the use? She prayed Suzanne wouldn't get AIDS. They'd been friends too long. Andrea smiled. "Let's hope so."
"There. You smiled. I knew it. You are happy for me. I just stopped by to let you know I won't be home tonight."
"At all?"
"Not at all. Now I've got to go to psychology and have Jamison stare at my boobs for two hours."
"What?"
"Oh, you know. That priest I told you about. He acts real nervous when I'm around. The other day, he stared at my chest during class. The whole time. Gave me the creeps. Then he began talking about self control. Here I was thinking about getting laid while he was talking about self control and drooling over me the whole time. Made my skin crawl."
A nervous shiver snaked through Andrea. There was a maniac in town and until he was caught, no one was safe. "Shouldn't you talk to someone? Report him?"
"Oh, don't get your feminism in a dander. He just stares, that's all. What would I charge him with, felony lust?"
Andrea shuddered. "But he's a priest."
"They're men too, you know. Although it's hard to imagine a priest with a fantastic, blue-veiner hard-on."
Andrea sucked in her breath and laughed. The vision Suzanne had painted was too unbelievable.
"Suzanne, you're hopeless."
"Yes'm, I hope so. Listen, got to run. Remember, don't wait up. Love you."
Before Andrea could say a word, Suzanne was out the door. What a tease. Her roommate's description of Jamison surprised her. He was a psychologist and a priest, but he was also Dorlynd's chaplain and ministered to her terminal patients. He had never once leered at her or conducted himself any way other than totally professional. Either Suzanne was fantasizing, or Andrea was anything but sexy.
Proving her point.
She was a sexless, jealous bitch. She'd even wished a priest would leer at her instead of Suzanne.
No!
She was irrational. Too much had happened. Milton's murder had traumatized her worse than she'd thought. She'd regressed back to the whiny fool she'd been before Sarah's death. She couldn't let that happen. She'd never survive.
Chapter VII
. . . AND THAT BY PRECEPT, ORAL TEACHING AND EVERY OTHER MODE OF INSTRUCTION I WILL IMPART KNOWLEDGE OF THE ART TO MY OWN SONS AND TO THOSE OF MY TEACHERS, AND TO DISCIPLES BOUND BY A STIPULATION
AND OATH. . . .
Andrea glanced at her watch. Six forty-five. Fifteen minutes until that cop showed up. She gazed around her room. Where had she placed her jewelry box? Of course, beneath her bed. She pulled out a pearl necklace and fumbled with the clasp. Her fingers slipped, dropping the piece to the floor. Had it really been so long since she'd been on a date?
What date? Krastowitcz had no interest in her. He saw her as a suspect and only business. He'd wanted to ask her more questions. She had to keep her perspective, it was only business. Of course, only business.
Wasn't it?
Then why had she spent more time than usual on her makeup and clothes? Why did she reach in the back of her closet, behind her stuffy suits, until she found a peach silk dress? Simple. It was perfect for the heat. She slipped the dress over her head and it slid down her body like a second skin. Why hadn't she worn it more often? Probably too preoccupied with work. Her fingers hesitated over the button against her neck. If she buttoned it, she'd look silly, like she'd tried to hide something. If she didn't. . . she looked at herself in the mirror, soft and feminine, the way Suzanne was.
What would it be like to have strong arms around her? A man's powerful arms. Arms like Sergeant Krastowitcz'.
The buzzer interrupted her thoughts and she jerked. Looking one last time in the mirror, she hurried toward the door. Through the peep hole, Krastowitcz stood directly in her sight shifting from one foot to another. Small beads of sweat framed his broad face and he looked tired.
So much for romantic thoughts.
"Good evening, Gary." She opened her door. "Come in, please."
"Thanks, ah, Doctor." His eyes traveled over her slow and easy.
She wanted to hide.
"Please, call me Andrea." She didn't know if she liked being stared at like a woman. As a doctor, no one paid any attention to her sexuality, she was judged solely on her intellect and performance. Right here, right now, she stood naked. Her imperfections exposed for this man to see.
"Sure, Andrea."
A permanent crease ran along his forehead and he mopped at the sweat-covered brow. His gaze finally found hers and his eyes were clear and bright.
"Can I get you a drink or something?"
"No." He glanced at his watch. "I made reservations at Tony's for seven-thirty, but if you like, we can leave now. We can have a drink there."
"Sure, do you want to walk? It's practically across the street."
"Eight blocks downtown isn't exactly across the street, especially in this heat. It's brutal out there. The sun is still high--"
She smiled at his nervous rambling. "Do you want to drive?"
He smiled back. "If you don't mind. Car's air-conditioned. It's this tweed jacket. I forgot to wear the light one. It was cooler this morning and I haven't had time to go home and change. I hope you don't mind."
"No. Of course not. Let me get my purse." She felt like a teenager on her first date. She half expected him to produce a corsage. He was as uneasy with women as she was with men. A fine pair of misfits, indeed.
Her apartment was two blocks from the Omaha Old Market area, an historical warehouse district turned into a downtown tourist attraction. Over the years, it had attracted fine restaurants, shops, and art galleries and now was a popular gathering place. Especially in the summer.
Omaha summers were all alike.
Hot and humid.
Today had been hot but this evening's humidity was bear-able. Andrea prayed her asthma wouldn't act up. She had her inhaler, took it everywhere. She never knew when she might need it.
It took them a while to find a parking place along the narrow bricked roadway, making them almost late for their reservation.
Nestled in the basement of an old warehouse, Tony's was one of her favorite restaurants. The decor was a mixture of art deco and garden. Four levels of shops and restaurants surrounded an atrium filled with lush tropical plants, reminding Andrea of New Orleans. This might not be a real date, but it was nice, anyway. The host seated them in a corner along the restaurant's opening onto the central courtyard. A perfect spot. She loved to watch the people coming and going.
"Is this all right, Sergeant?" the host asked.
"I wanted someplace a little quieter," he whispered to her. "Is this okay with you?"
She nodded absently. Why did he ask? Was he pretending this was a date, or was he totally unskilled in the social graces?
"Just fine. Thanks," she said.
A plate of swordfish, three glasses of Piesporter later, and Krastowitcz sat back in his chair and studied Andrea. His gaze was far away as if he was struggling with something? Her guilt?
"How was your fish?"
"Delicious. You should've tried it."
"Yeah, I guess I'll try it next time."
Next time, she thought. Will there be a next time?
"You know, Gary, after you left I sat at his desk for the longest time and just looked at the room."
"Whose desk?"
"Milton Grafton's. I'm still a little confused as to what's going on. It took me forever to realize something was missing from his office, but I'm not sure of
its importance."
"Let me decide that. What was it?"
"Milton had a brass wall hanging. A caduceus. Given to him last June by my class of graduating residents."
"A caduceus?"
Andrea fiddled with her glass and took a sip. "The medical insignia. A long, thin staff with snakes intertwined. Like a sword. In Greek mythology, it was the staff of Aesculapius."
"Oh, yeah? Tell me about it." Krastowitcz motioned to the waiter to bring another bottle of wine.
"It's the official insignia of the American Medical Association. Unfortunately it's been confused with the Armed Services insignia. . . Navy, I think. I guess, since no one can pronounce Aesculapius, they call it a caduceus. It's very common," she continued. The wine calmed her and talking about her profession relieved her anxiety. "About the same as your badge, I'd suppose. Everyone in the police department knows what all the symbols and numbers on your badge mean, but the average citizen doesn't."
"So who was this A--Aclepus character?"
"Aesculapius," she corrected. "The god of medicine and healing. In Greek mythology, he was the son of Apollo and learned all the secrets of healing, using herbs, potions, and snakes. That's why there are snakes on the staff. But why are you so interested?"
"Remember when I told you we had found the murder weapon?"
"Yes." Her stomach tightened. Missing from the wall. Was she pointing the finger of guilt directly at herself?
"That caduceus impaled Dr. Grafton."
The swordfish flopped in her stomach. "What?" Her last encounter with Milton had been in his office bathroom. She'd recognized what was in his mouth, but impaling. The thought was too horrible. What kind of monster would torture his victims?
"Someone took that thing from the wall and used it to inflict some major type pain."
"Oh, my God." Andrea's shaking hands spilled a few drops of wine on her peach dress. "Who could do such a thing? And why?"
"That's what I intend to find out. I've been given a list of people who knew or had contact with Grafton and I'm checking them out."
"Am I on that list?"
"Yes," he said.
Andrea clenched her jaw. "And did you check me out?"
Krastowitcz picked up the bottle to pour her some more wine, but she put her hand over the glass.
"Yep. You had some pretty serious problems about nine years ago." He took her left hand in his and turned it over, exposing her scarred wrist. "Care to tell me about it?"
"Not really." She glared at Krastowitcz but was unable to focus on him. Tears rose in her eyes, blurring her vision. It was like a valve had been opened inside her head and she sniffled. She kept her voice steady. "However, since you already have the report, you must know. It was a long time ago."
Her mouth went dry. She stopped and took a long drink from her wine glass.
"Look, Andrea, I'm only doing my job. All suspects are checked out. I care about what happened. Please try to under-stand."
"I do." Her voice went flat. "I knew this evening started out too good to be true."
"What?"
"I killed my daughter."
The spoon Krastowitcz had been fumbling with slipped out of his hand and clattered on the table.
"That wasn't in the report," he said.
"No. I'm sure it wasn't. I didn't kill her in the conventional sense, but it doesn't matter. She's still dead."
"Tell me about it." He put his hand over her quivering one and clasped it tightly. A sense of his strength and power filled her.
"I was one of four daughters. My parents are from Sweden and only had daughters to help on the farm. We were taught everything from animal husbandry and fence mending to canning and gardening. Three of my sisters still live on farms, but not me. I wanted to heal the sick."
"A noble cause." His grip remained firm, but Andrea noticed a slight twinkle in his eyes. This man was deeper than she'd originally thought.
"I was the first girl, ever, to win the Bonne Homme County Biology Award."
"Where's that?"
"Tyndall, South Dakota. After graduation, I decided to be-come a nurse. So, my parents put me on a bus for Sioux City, Iowa and I spent the next three years there in nurses training."
"What made you decide to become a doctor?"
Old memories tightened her throat.
"My ex-husband."
Silent tears welled in her eyes and escaped unbidden down her cheeks.
"Another glass of wine?" Krastowitcz let go of her hand and motioned to the waiter. "Something stronger?"
"Sure, why not." She sniffed. "Do you have a hand-kerchief?"
Searching his pockets, he retrieved a small, crumpled pack of Kleenex and handed it to her. "Here, this is all I have."
"My ex-husband is a surgeon. Joshua Lanfield Bernstein. Not just a surgeon but a neurosurgeon. The most egocentric of all physicians."
"You don't go by that name."
"No. I use my maiden name."
"You sound bitter."
"I am. After graduation from nurses training, I went to Chicago and worked at the VA there. I began as third operating room assistant and slowly, as Joshua threw out nurse after nurse, I distinguished myself as being the only woman who could work with him."
"Sounds almost like a cop." Krastowitcz smiled. His smile gave him a whole new look. She knew he wasn't as hard-boiled as he seemed. It was all an act, like hers.
She had begun working with Joshua at night too. As cold and hard as he was in the surgical suite, he was warm and hard in the bedroom. But she wasn't about to tell Krastowitcz. That was the part of her memory she'd keep to herself.
"As time progressed, I fell hopelessly in love with him and we married. Then, over the next few months, his behavior changed."
"How?"
"It began so slowly that at first I didn't even notice. Finally, he became abusive and threatening. I became depressed."
Krastowitcz glanced at her wrists again, "Is that when your child died?"
"No. We'd been separated for about two months when I learned I was pregnant and hoped things would work out. But it was futile--"
Her only joy had been carrying his child. Feeling the life inside her grow and develop. She stopped talking and looked up into his eyes.
Krastowitcz put her hand back in his. Warm. Firm. Strong.
"What else?" he asked gently.
Pain flooded her. Memories fueled the nightmares caused by guilt. She knew all the psychobabble. Knowing what was wrong didn't change anything.
"When Sarah was born, Joshua fell in love with her and came back, but it was only for Sarah. His attitude toward me bordered on pathologic. He publicly expressed his distaste for me during his surgeries and flaunted his affairs. Stupidly, I tried to work things out, going to counselors and therapists, but he re-fused to go."
"When did you make up your mind to leave?"
"One day, right out of the blue, I faced reality and filed the divorce papers."
"What about Sarah?"
"The custody battle lasted for over a year. Threats and counter threats. I hated him. We couldn't be in the same room together without arguing."
She stopped. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
"My hatred festered and grew until it was out of proportion. I realized that the day Sarah died."
Krastowitcz squirmed in his seat and gazed down at the tablecloth. Still, he squeezed her hand tighter.
"Joshua came to pick her up one afternoon. He was allowed weekly visits. It was so stupid. The argument started over her dress. I asked him to make sure he returned Sarah in the same condition as she was then: clean. He countered with something about what a rotten mother I was. He always knew my weak points. Knew what buttons to push. We were so busy with our hatred, we didn't see her. She toddled closer and closer toward the retaining wall in front of my brownstone."
Andrea stopped. Her breathing quickened. The tears flowed again. She swiped at them and gazed around the room to see if anyone noticed. No one did
. They were all too busy living their own lives, eating, drinking.
"You already know the rest. I'm sure you read the report."
Krastowitcz nodded.
"It was ten feet to the sidewalk below."
Like it was only yesterday, Andrea saw Sarah laying motionless like a broken, pink doll. Her life slowly seeping out onto the cold, gray concrete.
"She lasted fourteen days." Andrea choked on her tears. "It's a crime to attempt suicide in Illinois and fail, you know."
"Please understand," Krastowitcz said. "I have to ask this. The cuts on your wrists were deep, but not life-threatening."
"I don't know why I did it. Maybe it was a subliminal at-tempt to assuage my guilt and call for help. It didn't bring her back."
"I'm sorry."
"So am I."
"So, how did you become a doctor?"
"That came later. I took Sarah back to Tyndall and laid her to rest beside my grandparents in a little cemetery outside of town. In that quiet, I made peace with myself.
"Somehow, during those reflective days, my wounds healed. On Friday nights we used to go downtown because the stores stayed open late. I would meet old classmates at the bowling alley, would walk slowly down main street looking at the new merchandise displayed in the windows, and watch the young people glide their autos down main street toward the end of town to the turn-around and back again. We'd repeat it until late into the night. Finally, after months of it, I regained my strength and decided to go to medical school.
"I hocked everything, put myself in debt for the next hundred years, and now can handle medical problems on my own. No man will ever order me about like a slave again. Ever."
Krastowitcz stared into his drink. "You really hate men all that much?"
"No. I'm just being reactionary, but, I get tired of fighting men all the time."
"Fighting for what?"
"For equality. Respect. Courtesy. Camaraderie. Things men take for granted. What you subconsciously give each other. Do you trust the women police officers in your Division with your life? Are they your sisters?"
"Women? Let me think. Maybe thirteen or fourteen in the whole Police Division. Only one in the investigations unit. Thank God!"
