Straw Men

by Martin J. Smith

  Still, he couldn’t. “I can recommend someone,” he said.

  She shook her head. “I came to you for a reason. These things I’m remembering, they feel real to me. And maybe they are. But I don’t need a shrink.”

  “Ms. Harnett—”

  “Teresa.”

  “Teresa, what is it you want me to do?”

  “I need somebody who can help me sift what’s real from what’s not. Otherwise, it’s all just smoke. And if what I’m remembering is real, I need somebody who can help me corroborate it. You know the details of this case as well as anybody. You know the players. You have access to everybody. We’ve got three weeks before this hearing. Dagnolo’s already told me he’s putting me back on the witness stand to tell my story again. I want to be sure this time, one way or the other.”

  She offered a weak smile. “Kind of an impossible situation, isn’t it?”

  “Absolutely. Teresa, what you’re talking about goes way beyond traditional therapy. I’m bound by laws and ethical standards. Whatever you told me would have to stay between us. I breach the doctor-patient relationship—”

  “I won’t sue you, damn it. This is my idea.”

  “But it’s more than that, Teresa. The conflicts of interest here … I mean, where to start? I know how much nerve it took for you to come this far, to tell your doubts to me of all people. But if you’re willing to go through with what you’re talking about, you need to start with Dagnolo. Tell him. Then I could put you in touch with someone who—”

  “You think Dagnolo wants to hear this? My testimony … that’s all he has left now. Last thing he wants to hear is that I’m not sure.”

  She popped the top on her Coke and took a long drink, then stared into the middle distance between the desk and the window. “I know I’m letting people down. The D.A. The investigators. David. People who believed me from the beginning, who busted hump to find the guy I was sure did it. And I’m not saying DellaVecchio wasn’t involved, understand? There’s the other evidence. And I can still see him, smell him. But what I hear…”

  “You’re not sure anymore.”

  She nodded. “I either let everybody down, or I pretend nothing’s changed. Rough choice, know what I mean?”

  That she’d even acknowledged that choice was remarkable enough. Her willingness to confront it was astounding.

  “I’m not doing this for DellaVecchio,” she said. “Don’t misunderstand that.”

  “Why then?”

  Teresa took her time framing the answer. “People on the outside think cops are all the same. That all we’re about is putting people away. A lot are like that. Face it, DellaVecchio’s a time bomb. Is it so bad he’s been off the streets for eight years?”

  No way he was answering that.

  “We’re not all the same, Dr. Christensen.”

  “Jim.”

  She nodded. “I was a cop for four years, Jim, but I’ll be a human being a lot longer than that. I’ve got to live with myself, and the right thing to do is tell them I’m not sure. That’s my piece to this puzzle. If that piece doesn’t fit like it used to, I won’t force it. I can’t.”

  Christensen wanted to touch her, to somehow acknowledge her courage. Still, he struggled against his impulse to help, knowing the situation was impossible. “Teresa, what you’re asking me to do, to take these emerging memories, if that’s what they are, and try to fit them into existing evidence from the investigation, I’d need help from police, prosecutors, practically everyone involved. I’m not sure that’s something—”

  “Isn’t there some sort of waiver I could sign?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I’ll sign it.” She moved to the edge of her seat. “You can help me.”

  Christensen studied her face, struck by the intensity in her eyes. After a long moment, he sighed. “I can’t.”

  Another tear crawled from the corner of her eye, and she made no attempt to stop it. It scored the heavy makeup she used to hide the surgical scars, turning milky by the time it reached her chin.

  “You could, but you won’t,” she said. “It’s a choice.”

  “I can’t argue that, Teresa. It is a choice. A rough one. But I’m making it for the right reasons, just like you.”

  She finally wiped the tear from her chin.

  Christensen turned to his address book, looking for Chaytor Perriman’s phone number. “I’ll give you the name of a guy. I’ve worked with him since—”

  Teresa shoved herself away from his desk, chair legs screeching. She scorched him with a sarcastic smile. “Don’t off-load me to somebody who won’t get his hands dirty. And don’t you dare talk to me about what’s right.”

  “I’m sorry, Teresa. Maybe if you talked to Dagnolo—”

  “Who thinks regression therapy is horseshit, by the way,” she said.

  Christensen conceded the point with a nod. “There’s a right way, and a wrong way.”

  Teresa turned toward the door, and Christensen noticed for the first time the awkwardness of her stride. In the mechanical operation of her feet, he could tell she struggled with motor control. When he looked up, she was facing him from the door frame.

  “This conversation never happened,” she said. “Not a goddamned word. To anybody. I want your promise.”

  He nodded.

  She stared until her lower lip began to quiver, then slowly closed the door through which she’d come.

  Chapter 4

  Chain link dipped near the porta-shitter, almost to the ground. Two quick steps and he was over. Good thing, too. Streetlight as bright as it was, couldn’t be dicking around down here looking for a way onto the roof of some vacant Shadyside apartment. Get in, get an answer, get out. That’s all he was here for.

  He stepped on a Burger King cup, goddamn!, then crunched through ice in what looked like the track of a backhoe’s tire. Ducked behind a construction Dumpster, waited till he was sure nobody’d heard. Took a long look up and down Howe Street. This cold, not an open window anywhere. Some band in one of the Walnut Street bars making more noise than him, so no worries. Around a pile of shattered plywood and Sheetrock, up six concrete steps, into the building. Piece of cake. Got to do something about that streetlight, though.

  He’d seen her house before, earlier in the day, and noticed this building across the street, gutted for renovation. Three stories high, twenty yards away from what he figured was her bedroom window. Suddenly, he had a plan, at least the start of one. The devil’s in the details, and tonight he was doing detail work. Distance. Sight line. Trajectory. Looked fine from street level, but he couldn’t know for sure unless he made the climb.

  Up the stairs. Scrap wood and nails all over, but he was careful. Nose burning—somebody’d been pissing here. Contractors probably, the lazy fucks; maybe just bums. Each step up, the song in his head a little louder. The Boss’s voice, always, a cross between a Jersey punk and a heavy-equipment breakdown, Bruce from his dude period. Got to learn to live with what you can’t rise above…

  One more flight. Hand running along the rough wall, feeling the way, moving by touch, ears, instinct. Then stopped dead. He’d figured on a door, planned on it. Even a locked one. Go figure these contractors. Too lazy to piss where they’re supposed to, but they lock the roof door of a gutted building? Life’s just too weird.

  He wedged his pry bar into the crack and gave it the old snap-crackle-pop for the easy walk-through.

  Roof gravel now, crunching underfoot like crusted snow. But no worries. He dropped from his toes, walking regular toward the redbrick wall that rimmed the roof. Plenty high, maybe five feet. Nothing behind him but the tops of trees; no nosy neighbors would see. He checked up and down the row of perfect Victorians, so goddamned quai
nt. He was standing on the block’s highest building, invisible to anybody below, to the right or left. Free to operate. Even better than he expected.

  He moved across the roof toward the front of the building, the side nearest her house. Crouching low, just to be sure. At the wall, he checked his watch—10:24, later than he thought—then stood up halfway, peeked over. A low lamp on somewhere in the room, maybe even a candle the way the shadows danced on the walls. Let his eyes adjust and squinted through the wide-open miniblind.

  Whoa.

  She was kneeling on top, riding Christensen at a slow canter. Couldn’t see his face, just his hands on her bare back, but who else would it be? They moved together, the carved oak headboard pulsing as they rocked, her head down except for one wild toss of red hair that got him hard. Guy’s hands moving back and forth across her skin, easy, no hurry, tracing little circles at the base of her spine while she ran the show.

  Mr. Sensitive.

  She’d hate that. Women like her always do. Get all the civilized stuff they can stand during the day, with their power meetings and conferences and lunches. In bed they want it dangerous, from a guy who knows fuck from fruit cocktail. Want somebody medieval on their ass, real primitive, jungle stuff. She definitely had it in her. He could tell.

  He unzipped, knowing he should go. Already answered the only question he had—couldn’t be a better spot than this when the time came. But he wanted her to feel what he had in his hand. Do her right. She’d scream and squirm and shudder and beg for more and finally understand what it means to taste God’s great glory. He spit into his palm and ran it along the soft underside, felt his cock jump in his hand. He squeezed it hard once, then fell into their rhythm. When that got old, he closed his eyes and pushed her down on it, felt her soft hair on his thighs. If you want to ride on down in through this tunnel of love…

  When she started to gag, he grabbed her hair and held her down until he couldn’t stand it anymore. He opened his eyes and she was still over there, bent to him and ready. He shoved it all the way across the street, through those miniblinds, put it right up there where she needed it most. And right then, swear to God, she bucked and grabbed that mannequin underneath her and kissed him deep. He swore he heard a scream.

  And laughing. Somewhere down below.

  The fuck was that? He checked his breath, tucked in, crouched, and leaned into the bricks, right next to where he was still dribbling down. He kicked some gravel over the tiny dark pool at the base of the wall, then looked over and listened.

  Jesus H … Some drunk hanging from the chain link, jacket snagged at the back, just hanging there laughing maybe a foot off the ground, some other guy laughing too, trying to unhitch him. Dumb queer tried to climb over the high part, right around the corner from where the fence was down. Probably trying to get to the toilet. Probably both trying to get in there. Fags can’t think when they’re hard.

  The one hoisted the other down and followed him over the fence, singing, Let’s go up to the roof … Big hug. Other one answering, … where we can see heaven much better. Laughing again like chicks.

  Now what?

  The pry bar inside his leather jacket tingled against his ribs. Maybe whack them both? Doable, long as the one he took last didn’t have time to squeal. But he’d lose the perfect spot if he did. Be too hot to use when the time came.

  He scanned the dark roof for the fire escape’s metal railing, found it in the back corner just behind the air conditioner. Looked down again, saw the giggle boys disappear into the ruined front entrance three stories down. How long for them to climb six flights of stairs? Up on his toes, he stepped like a cat across the roof gravel and pulled himself up and over. Quiet as he could, he started down the metal grate. The alley below was deserted, so he stopped below roof level to zip up. Up top, the shattered roof door creaked open. Come looking for heaven, they did. Them boys’d never know how close they got to hell.

  Chapter 5

  Allegheny County District Attorney J. D. Dagnolo glanced up at the two men who’d just stepped onto the thick Persian rug fringing his walnut desk. “Sit,” he said.

  He’d summoned them both; he trusted one. Capt. Brian Milsevic was a pro. Early fifties. Smart. Level-headed. The man to watch in a police department gaining national attention as a model of law-enforcement professionalism. Kiger had confided during a recent lunch that he was recommending Milsevic to succeed him when he retired as chief next year. Dagnolo liked that idea. Milsevic’s department record was rock-solid, and Dagnolo especially liked the way he’d led the DellaVecchio case. A real pro.

  David Harnett was another story. Good cop, no question, and one of Milsevic’s best friends. But Dagnolo couldn’t trust Harnett’s judgment on anything having to do with DellaVecchio. He was just too close to it. Hot-headed. It was his wife who got savaged, for Chrissakes. But Dagnolo needed him here. Nobody was closer to Teresa Harnett, and right now Teresa was his trump card.

  “First things first,” the D.A. said. “Where’s our boy now?”

  “Lawrenceville,” Milsevic said. “Least he was as of twenty minutes ago.”

  “Sleeping in?”

  “Probably.”

  Milsevic smiled. His teeth were the color of refined sugar, no doubt bleached, and his hair was just messy enough to look styled. Except for his thick wad of chewing gum, he could have stepped out of a Calvin Klein ad. “Looks like the Scarecrow stayed out late his first night back home, J. D.”

  Dagnolo raised his eyebrows. “Late enough?”

  Milsevic shook his head. “But late. Definitely pushed his curfew. Bracelet showed him back at his old man’s house at 10:58.”

  “Figures. Partying?”

  Milsevic shrugged.

  “Let’s get somebody on the house,” Harnett said. “Nail the little retard some night at 11:01, then ask the judge to haul his puny ass back inside. Least keep him off the streets till the hearing.”

  Dagnolo turned back to Milsevic. “Can you spare someone, Brian?”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  “I want him back inside,” Dagnolo said. “We know he’ll fuck up sooner or later. Be a shame to miss it.”

  Milsevic made a note. “Will do. He litters, you get a report.”

  “Exactly.”

  They both smiled, but not Harnett. The guy was simmering rage coming to a boil, a scary thing in somebody that big.

  Dagnolo smiled at him. “How’s Teresa handling all this, David?”

  Harnett shrugged. “Up all night. When she does sleep, she’s having nightmares again, like she was right after the attack. She was pretty much over all that till Kennedy and company … Those fuckers. They should be there when she starts jumping at shadows, see what this is doing to her. Or take her down to rehab some day and see the hell she goes through just so she can live halfway normal. Get a little taste of reality for a change.”

  Dagnolo picked up his Waterman pen and jotted himself a note. The caregiver angle might play on the judge’s sympathies, and he’d need whatever breaks he could get. But could he trust a hothead like David Harnett on the stand?

  “Hold that thought,” Dagnolo said. “What’s important now is how Teresa will do if we call her again. Testifying was brutal for her last time, I know. You think she’s up to this?”

  “She’ll be fine,” Harnett said.

  No hesitation. Dagnolo felt better. “Then let’s talk strategy, gentlemen,” he said. “Do we go after the DNA results or not? We can raise the usual stink about lab reliability, chain of custody, all that. Even if the results are accurate, they only suggest that someone other than DellaVecchio licked the stamp and the envelope. It proves nothing at all about who attacked Teresa.”

  “Absolutely,” Harnett said.

  Milsevic w
as less sure. “Reinhardt made it pretty clear how he feels about the DNA results yesterday. I think we should concede it. They’re vulnerable in other areas.”

  “The memory stuff,” Harnett said. “That’s way out there.”

  Dagnolo studied the pair over his steepled fingers. “Christensen’s good. Credible. That’s the problem. He’s—”

  “But it’s bullshit,” Harnett said. “That crap about us tweaking Teresa’s memories so we could railroad the little creep … What planet are these people from?”

  Milsevic put a hand on Harnett’s beefy forearm. “Smoke screen, Dave, pure and simple. You know anybody in prison who thinks the cops did a fair and thorough job of investigating their case? DellaVecchio’s no different, but that’s not what this hearing’s about. This is strictly a hard-evidence situation.”

  Dagnolo nodded. “The memory thing … maybe cast that as the sad fantasy of Brenna Kennedy’s biggest fan?” He sat forward. “There’s nothing there, right?”

  “The investigation was clean,” Milsevic said. “But if you have concerns, J. D., put ’em on the table now. Better here than in court. We don’t want to get suckered into playing their game.”

  “No concerns, Brian. None at all,” Dagnolo said.

  Milsevic nodded his appreciation, then leaned forward. “The DNA is all Kennedy’s got, remember. I think what you have to do is keep that in perspective. Make it seem irrelevant.”

  “Like she’s trying to blame a Steelers’ loss on warm Gatorade,” Dagnolo said, and the two cops smiled. He savored his analogy before pressing on.

  “Maybe you’re right, Captain. She’s arguing this whole thing comes down to the question of who sealed and posted that letter, that if DellaVecchio didn’t lick it then he must be innocent. But they know goddamn well my prosecution wasn’t based solely on that letter. We can’t let the judge forget it was written on a typewriter to which her client had access, or about DellaVecchio’s shoe print at the scene. And we’re sure as hell not going to let Reinhardt forget about Teresa. We’ll put her right in his face, front and center. Let her tell her story again, let her ID DellaVecchio just like last time.”