Mitigating Circumstances

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  John came into the bedroom. “So tell me,” he said, “do you think this is the guy? That animal…I should blow his head off.”

  Lily was sitting on the corner of the bed, near the nightstand and phone, the bedside lamp shooting rays of light through her bright red hair. She turned to John and her eyes narrowed and blazed an almost catlike green. “I already did that,” she said.

  “Did what?”

  “You heard me.”

  “No, I didn’t hear you. What did you do?”

  “I killed him.”

  “You killed him?”

  “No, I didn’t kill him.”

  John reached into his pocket and took out a cigarette. He rolled it around in his fingers with a baffled look on his face. “Shana said you got sick at the police station. Said they almost had to call an ambulance. Now you’re talking like a nut case. What in the hell are you trying to say?”

  Lilys body was still facing the wall, her head turned to John. “I meant to say I wish I could kill him.”

  “Yeah, well, I wish I could kill him too. But why did you tell Shana that he wasn’t the right man?”

  “Because he isn’t the right man. Leave me alone, John.” Lily was still staring, her voice a low monotone.

  John started to walk toward the bedroom chair, his eyes still on Lily, a look of concern on his face.

  “Don’t sit down, John. I said to leave me alone and I meant it.”

  Her eyes stopped him; the words were hardly needed. He stood in the center of the room, his hands by his side, afraid to move.

  “You know what’s wrong with this world, John? People don’t listen. That’s what’s wrong. People just don’t listen.”

  He turned and left. Lily walked to the bathroom, looked in the mirror, and poured out the last Valium. Then she found the sleeping pills the doctor had prescribed for Shana and removed one of those as well. She put her face under the tap and let the water run into her open mouth. She stared at her face until the awareness that it was her own reflection began to fade and she searched the image. She could see her eyelashes fluttering, her nostrils slowly opening and closing, tiny beads of tap water on her open mouth. She wanted to move her flesh-and-blood body behind that image, allow the cold glass of the mirror to separate her from the outside world, where she could still see and be seen but where there was protection.

  That night she didn’t even bother to take off her clothes. All she could think about was the face shed seen that day, the man so uncannily like Hernandez that he could be his brother. Then she recalled the men in the photo lineup, every one wearing a red shirt and a crucifix around their neck. “No,” she kept saying, trying to force her racing thoughts to stop, waiting for the pills to hit her bloodstream. It was nothing more than a coincidence, a fluke. It had to be. Finally she entered a drugged, dreamless void in the green blouse now stained from her perspiration, still wearing her skirt and panty hose, her bra tight around her chest.

  CHAPTER 25

  Lily showered and dressed for work, grabbing the first thing she saw in her closet, feeling listless from the drugs. She then saw her reflection in the bedroom mirror and realized that she had worn the same suit only two days before. She stripped and suddenly found herself holding both the top and bottom of her favorite black-and-white outfit with the buttons up the side. The top had been cleaned and returned to her closet. All of her laundry had also been washed and folded and was stacked neatly in plastic bins in the closet.

  Buttoning up the side buttons of the skirt and adjusting the top, she felt the loose fabric and stepped on the bathroom scales. She’d lost eight pounds since she had last weighed herself. With her hair pulled back, her cheeks looked sunken and her face drawn. She removed the clip from her hair and brushed it out, deciding to get it cut the following day. Something neat and soft around her face maybe—something more stylish. What she really wanted was to look in the mirror and see someone else.

  When she got to the kitchen, Shana was dressed and eating a bowl of cereal at the breakfast table. Di was eating her breakfast too, right at Shana’s feet. She jumped up and poured her mother a cup of coffee, handing it to her.

  “You did all my laundry, didn’t you?” Lily asked quietly. “That was really nice, Shana. I appreciate it a lot.”

  Shana was placing her cereal bowl in the dishwasher and picked up the sponge and washed off the sink. “It was nothing, Mom.” She turned and faced Lily. “You work hard and you’ve been so tired lately. I’m worried about you.”

  “Come here,” Lily said, holding her arms out. Shana walked into them and hugged her around the waist. “What about you, baby? Are you okay?”

  Shana pulled away, mustering up a smile. “I’m fine. You know”—she looked at Lily as if she would know exactly what she meant—“some days are okay and some are terrible. Like if you let it get to you and think about it all the time. But I’m trying not to do that.” She took her little puppy to her room, covered the floor with papers, and shut the door.

  Lily drove her to school and watched her walk into a crowd of young people. Once she was a few feet away, her shoulders slumped and Lily had to look away. She’d never really understood her own daughter’s magical personality. Shana hadn’t just been born with it; she had worked to acquire and maintain it, just like a great athlete or concert pianist. But the rape had taken away the laughter and the optimism, and Lily wondered if she would ever be the same.

  Richard was in the hall leading to her office, waiting when she arrived, a tentative smile on his face, a steaming cup of hot coffee in his hand, and reeking in familiar lime. “And a good morning to you,” he said, his mouth dropping somewhat at her solemn expression. “You look good. Great dress, but do I sense a rotten mood this morning?”

  Lily had a pink slip in her hand, handed to her by one of the secretaries on the way in, stating that Detective Margie Thomas had called. Richard followed her into her office and took a seat. Lily looked at the stack of cases in her incoming bin, and an even deeper furrow developed in her brow. “Sorry,” she said, “guess it’s that time of the month or something. PMS.” Her smile barely lifted the corners of her mouth and then collapsed again.

  Richard moved his chair closer to her desk, reached across, and picked up the entire stack of files in the bin, placing them on the floor next to him. “Now, does that make you feel any better? I got here at six-thirty and have already cleared my desk. Tell me how it went yesterday with Shana.”

  “First of all, Richard, I don’t want you to make it a habit of covering for me and absorbing the entire work load of this unit.” Lily’s voice was a lot harsher than she had intended.

  “Don’t you think that you’re defeating the purpose of me sharing the responsibilities if I can’t cut you some slack when the going gets rough? You should have really taken some time off, you know. And Butler knows that too.”

  Her emotionalism the other night with him had diminished her in his eyes. She could see it clearly. Insisting that he put the cases back would be useless. “Thanks, Rich. The body they found in Moorpark was Patricia Barnes. Cunningham called me last night after her sister identified her.”

  “And…“he said.

  “She was strangled and not much evidence links it to Hernandez, but they’re working on it. Cunningham wants us to make some calls and see if we can get a surveillance team on his brother, Manny, hoping we can get something, anything, to determine if they were involved in the McDonald-Lopez slayings.”

  “What happened with the lineup?” he asked again, concern in his eyes.

  “There’s a suspect. She’s positive; I feel exactly the opposite. He looks like the guy but isn’t.” Lily saw her glasses on the desk where she left them every day and seized them, slipping them on. “Because I don’t wear my damn glasses, Shana thinks I couldn’t really see him, but I’m only a little farsighted, and I guarantee you that I saw the bastard.”

  “But maybe she’s right and you’re wrong. Ever think of that? What’s his stat
us? Are they picking him up?” Richard spoke between clenched teeth, sitting up straight in the chair.

  Lily bristled. “Don’t get involved in this, Richard.” She again regretted her harshness and hurried to close the door to her office, not wanting anyone to hear. She returned to her desk and bent over, speaking in a whisper. “I’m sorry I reacted like that…I know you care about me and it’s natural for you to want to know what’s going on, but if I let this—this…you know, you and I talking about it in the office every day…well, I just cant handle it.”

  “Say no more,” he said, touching her hand quickly and then removing it. “I understand. Tell me what you want me to know. I won’t mention it again. And let’s have dinner tonight.”

  Lily sighed deeply, started to say no, and then recalled that Shana had softball practice tonight and she would be alone in the empty house. If she could get her in to see the psychologist after practice and John could take her…? “I’ll let you know a little later. It’s possible,” she said. “I’m sorry about the other night.” Instead of looking at him, she focused on the glass partition, watched as one of the secretaries passed with an armful of papers.

  “The other night was my fault, Lily. I’m the one who was insensitive. After you left, I felt like a jackass.”

  She tried to bring forth memories of their first night together and the next day in the interrogation room. Had that person really been her? It seemed like another lifetime. “I’ll call you later,” she said softly.

  As he bent down and picked up the stack of cases, she pushed Butler’s extension on the phone and started her pitch for a surveillance team on Manny Hernandez. Richard reached over and touched the back of her neck before leaving, causing a shiver to race up and down her spine.

  After getting Butler to agree to call Oxnard P.D. and put the necessary pressure on, she tried to reach Margie Thomas. They informed her that the detective was in the field. The psychologist, however, was in and agreed to see Shana at eight o’clock. Shana and her father could pick up a bite to eat after the softball practice, leaving her free to have dinner with Richard.

  “And are you going to come in?” the psychologist asked Lily.

  “I came in with Shana last week,” she said.

  “I mean for a session. I really feel you need to work through this ordeal as well as your daughter.”

  Lily knew she could never sit down and spill her guts to this woman. There was far too much she could never discuss with anyone. Thinking of the woman’s loafers and white socks, she felt like she would be telling her life story, with all its dark secrets, to one of Shana’s school friends. “I’m really more concerned here with my daughter, and I don’t have the time.” The psychologist cleared her throat, sort of a humph, as if she heard this line every day. Lily continued: “I want you to talk to her about why she has suddenly decided that she wants to transfer out of the school system and move in with me. It would solve a lot of problems for me.” Lily realized that sounded self-centered and corrected herself. “What I mean is that my husband and I are planning to divorce, and you’re aware that I moved back in because of the rape. So, I want to be near Shana and I want to move out. But I don’t want to encourage her to do something that will be harmful to her.”

  “It’s a two-sided coin,” the woman said. “Remaining in a home with two people who are obviously living together for her benefit, and specifically because of the assault, coupled with the tension that has to be present among all three of you, is not healthy. On the other hand, a radical change of environment such as changing schools and leaving all her friends behind is not advisable right now.”

  “Well,” Lily said, expecting this type of comment—didn’t all shrinks talk out of both sides of their mouth?—“could you at least find out why she wants to change schools? And try to explore if she really wants to live with me.”

  “Certainly,” the woman said. She then replied firmly, “Mrs. Forrester, I realize you’re a district attorney and used to having any information you desire, but the conversations between your daughter and me are confidential. I appreciate you informing me of any problem areas, but I can’t repeat what your daughter says.”

  Lily felt the muscles in her face twitch and knew her composure was dissolving. This is my daughter we’re talking about and this is a serious matter. Either you’re going to help me or we’ll seek another therapist.”

  Just then her secretary, Jan, walked in and Lily flicked her hand with annoyance, causing the poor girl to retreat hastily. Lily turned her chair toward the wall.

  “There’s no reason for you to become excited,” Dr. Lindstrom said in her placating tone. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t discuss it with her. I will. I just can’t funnel information to you.” She paused. “All you have to do is discuss it with her. She seems very close to you right now. In fact, she’s exceedingly concerned about you. The greatest gift you could give her is to seek therapy for yourself. It might be premature, but I feel she’s going to handle this all very well in time.”

  “Another reason I called is that Shana picked a man from the photo lineup that she believes is the rapist. I don’t. I think when she sees him in the flesh, she’ll know he isn’t the right man, but I think you should discuss this possibility with her.”

  “Certainly,” she replied and then added, “Before you go, I’d like to give you a phone number for that group I told you about—the incest survivors’ group. Here it is.”

  Lily was doodling circles inside triangles, her head close to her desk, and without thinking, she copied down the phone number and printed the word incest beside it in script so small it was almost illegible.

  “Maybe I’ll see you there. We meet every Thursday evening.”

  With a voice as small as the letters, Lily responded, “So, you run the group?”

  “No, Lily, I don’t. I’m part of the group. I’m also an incest survivor. I guess I should have told you this the other day in the office. You’re not alone.”

  Once she had disconnected, Margie Thomas called back and informed her that the lineup was scheduled for the next day at five-thirty. When Lily started quizzing her about the possible suspect, she refused to divulge any information. Lily suddenly felt she was on the outside looking in—she felt like a victim. In her mind she saw herself walking in a long line of women, all connected by a heavy steel chain, like prisoners of war, all of them shuffling their feet in the soft dirt, their backs bent under the weight of the past.

  The phone rang and Lily jumped, crossing both hands over her chest, still deep in the cobwebs of her mind. She started wildly pushing buttons but didn’t pick up the receiver, and soon the ringing stopped.

  The case files sat untouched while Lily bent once again close to the surface of her desk and doodled with her pen. She crossed out the word incest and scribbled the word murderer over and over until the page was full. Then she crushed the paper tightly in her fist and tossed it into the trash can. A few minutes later, she reached in, pulled it out, and tore it into tiny pieces.

  CHAPTER 26

  Cunningham had been running on adrenaline and sugar all day. The night before, he had fallen into bed with his sleeping wife after midnight, passing on the leftover supper waiting on a dish in the microwave. Today he had consumed three chocolate donuts for breakfast, a Snickers for lunch, and was now munching on a bag of Doritos, washing it down with a Diet Coke, as he asked to speak to the medical examiner, Charlie Daniels.

  “It’s not three yet, Cunningham. Didn’t I tell you to call at three?”

  “Yeah, yeah, but I’m in a hurry.” He laughed. “And it’s two. That’s pretty close.”

  “You’re in a hurry,” Daniels said. “My, my, where have I heard that before?” He then yelled at the top of his lungs into the phone: “Like no one else in the fucking world’s in a hurry. Everyone’s in a fucking race to infinity, you asshole.”

  Cunningham tossed a few Doritos into his mouth and held the receiver away from his ear. Charlie always yelled l
ike this for about five minutes and then coughed up the goods. He liked people to beg.

  “Now, Charlie, please,” Cunningham said sensuously, “I’ll do anything for ya, baby.”

  He heard the click and knew he was on hold. That was a good sign.

  Papers were rustling as Charlie came back on the line. “Death by strangulation…looks like about two weeks…no semen or signs of forced penetration. I’ll tell you, though, there’s been a lot of traffic in that little tunnel, so I wouldn’t expect anything there anyway like rips or tears.”

  “Come on, Charlie,” Cunningham pleaded, “cut to the good stuff.”

  “We’ve got tissue under her fingernails and some hair particles, not hers. That’s about it for now. I was opening up her chest cavity when you called.”

  Cunningham took his feet off the desk and sat up, knocking the bag of Doritos onto the floor, and the guys at the two desks next to him started shouting, “You’re a pig, Cunningham.”

  He ignored them and asked Daniels, “On the Bobby Hernandez case, do we have hair and tissue to match against what you’ve found? He’s the suspect.”

  Daniels started yelling again: “You’re in a hurry and the suspect’s a fucking corpse.”

  “Charlie, listen to me. It may be an even bigger case. Do we have samples?”

  “We have tissue, I’m sure, but hair…I don’t know. Was he cremated?”

  “Buried,” Cunningham replied.

  “Well, what we don’t have, we can get. I’ll get back to you later.”

  He crossed his fingers that they did have the sample, or he’d have to get a court order to have the body exhumed and that meant time.

  The radio room called and relayed information from the helicopter he had arranged to fly over the surrounding area in Moorpark, with an officer riding copilot, searching the ground with binoculars. They’d seen something and had dispatched a patrol unit from the sheriffs department. The officer was en route to the station with Patricia Barnes’s plastic purse in a bag. It contained her identification and, in the officer’s opinion, was a perfect surface for prints.