by Neal Baer
The snapping of camera shutters nearly drowned out Farrell as he said a few short words about retiring from the police department he so loved. Claire knew it was bullshit. Farrell was putting in his papers to avoid the scandal that would surely come if anyone ever found out what he’d told Victor Palmer. As his parting gift to the mayor, Farrell announced Palmer’s arrest for the two 1977 murders and the murder of Jane Doe in East New York. That took about five minutes, during which Claire had to stand there, forcing the grim look she’d seen on the faces of participants at similar press conferences for years. This, too, was part of the script.
“Before I take questions, I’d like to bring up Inspector Brian Wilkes, commander of the Major Case Squad, whose detectives investigated and broke this case.”
As Wilkes stepped to the podium, Claire couldn’t help but wonder if he could get through a sentence without dropping an F-bomb. But she hadn’t seen the professional, polished police-department-politician Wilkes in action.
“Not to be the one to correct my bosses,” Wilkes began, “but the arrest of Victor Palmer wouldn’t have been possible without the invaluable assistance of Doctor Claire Waters of Manhattan State University Hospital. This is the second time Doctor Waters has worked with us, and this police department and city owe her a debt of gratitude. Doctor Waters will continue in her role as a special consultant in two other cases I’ll tell you about now.”
The cameras clicked and whirred—but now all of them were pointed at Claire, who continued to stand focused, staring straight ahead, nodding in acknowledgment of Wilkes’s high praise, her face solemn as the inspector briefly went off the script Claire had written.
“The arrest of Mr. Palmer came as a result of the investigation of a homicide that occurred more than two weeks ago. In the press packets you’ll all find handouts and photos of what I’m about to say. The victim of this brutal attack was Rosa Sanchez, twenty-four, of the Bronx. Her bones were found in a trash can three blocks from Yankee Stadium a day after she disappeared. At first, we suspected Mr. Palmer for the murder of Ms. Sanchez, as the modus operandi seemed to match the other cases for which Mr. Palmer was arrested. But new evidence has come to light convincing us Mr. Palmer cannot be responsible for Ms. Sanchez’s murder. Thus, her homicide remains an open case, and bringing her killer to justice is the department’s top priority. We’re asking anyone who may have information about Ms. Sanchez to call us at the number on your screen. I’ll take your questions now.”
Claire unlocked her knees, trying not to show her tension. The most important moments of the press conference were yet to come.
“Do you have any leads or suspects?” asked a veteran TV reporter.
“C’mon, Louie, you know we can’t give away the store here.” This brought a wave of laughter from the press corps. It was classic Wilkes letting his hair down for the cameras. “But we believe Ms. Sanchez was chosen at random by a copycat killer.”
“You mean someone copying the murders committed by Victor Palmer?” came another shouted question.
“And others,” Wilkes answered. “There’s another case we’re working on that I can’t tell you about right now, which may be linked to this one. Though I can tell you the MO is completely different from the Sanchez case, but similar in explicit detail to a murder from almost a century ago.”
Another reporter, from the Times, cut in. “Can you tell us what exactly led you to believe Mr. Palmer did not kill Ms. Sanchez?”
“Not nearly as exactly as you’d want, Marissa,” said Wilkes. “But I can tell you this—compared to Mr. Palmer’s work, whoever tried to copy him did a terrible job.”
“What do you mean terrible?” asked another reporter.
“Well, let’s just say Palmer’s copycat is sloppy, in that way you are when you don’t do your research and prepare. For Palmer, murder was an art form. Compared to him, the work of this imposter is preschool finger painting. He’s a rank amateur.”
Claire tuned out the questions that continued to fly at Wilkes. Though the look on her face remained solemn, she felt more secure, satisfied she’d done her job. What Wilkes had just said was the most important part of the script she’d written. If Rosa’s killer was all about chaos and words, words could also be his downfall.
He watched the news camera zoom in on Claire’s face while the guy in charge of the investigation—he couldn’t remember his name but it wasn’t important—kept talking. It had started out with a beautiful gift, the news that after all these years, his work succeeded in smoking out Victor Palmer. That filled him with nothing less than sheer joy.
And then they shoved the knife in his gut. Describing Palmer as van Gogh, and him as an imposter whose work was no better than a nursery-schooler’s finger painting? A hack? An amateur?
Who did these moronic cops think they were? Who did they think they were dealing with? Well, they were about to find out!
He picked up the antique porcelain lamp beside his bed and flung it across the room, shattering it into pieces. Then, he grabbed his alarm clock, the one his mother had bought him when he was seven, with the roman numerals, gold-plated casing, and twin bells on top. He threw it, with everything he had in him, all the anger, resentment, and jealousy that was overwhelming him. At the television.
At Claire Waters’s face.
The screen shattered where her head was, the guts of the machine sparking as it grew dark until it was as dead as Rosa Sanchez.
Claire’s presence there told him everything he needed to know. That idiot at the podium was just the vessel. He knew the words that left his mouth were put there by Claire. His beloved Claire. The object of both his undying love and his endless hatred.
Because she nailed it. She knew. Somehow, she’d figured it out. And that meant he was a failure. She was smarter than he was....
Which meant he had to be smarter.
We’ll see how smart she is, he thought. She’s wrong about me. Just like the medical schools that wouldn’t let me in were wrong too.
He could still show her. He’d show all of them.
He approached the large grid on his wall. Grabbed his marker, the sword he would use to slay the dragon lady, Claire. Furiously, he wrote words into the grid, above, below, and around the words already entered:
ROSA SANCHEZ
ROBERT NEWMAN
He saved a special space for the next words, in the center, hoping he wouldn’t have to use them. But now, after all that had happened, after she’d threatened to ruin everything, he had no choice. With a red marker, he wrote:
KILL AGAIN
He stared at the blood red letters. Then a smile bloomed on his face. He wrote:
ALKALI GIN under KILL AGAIN. Another perfect anagram made from the chaos of the world, he thought.
He stepped back and admired his work. He’d left out the most important words of all, which he went back and wrote slowly and deliberately in the crossword grid:
CLAIRE WATERS
She would live to regret the day she dared to better him.
Because now, surpassing her wouldn’t be enough.
CHAPTER 20
The booming of a spring thunderstorm penetrated the brick walls of One Police Plaza, nearly drowning out Wilkes’s words as he strode with Claire and Nick into the Major Case Squad’s bustling office. Every desk was occupied, every detective on the phone. “If you wanted to piss Mr. Anagramist off, Doc, that should’ve done it,” he said. “Great job. You even looked like one of us standing up there.”
It was just before eight in the evening, and though Claire was exhausted, she could see Nick walking hunched over, ready to collapse from lack of sleep and still suffering the effects of his concussion. She wasn’t the only one who saw it.
“You, on the other hand, look like dog crap,” Wilkes said to him.
“I’m okay,” Nick replied, trying to put on a good face.
“The hell you are,” Wilkes said, in a friendlier tone. “You’re going home.”
Nick w
anted to press on. “We’ve got work to do.”
And then he nearly tripped over the leg of a chair. Claire grabbed his arm.
“I’m fine,” he said, shaking her hand off him.
But Wilkes wasn’t having it. “That’s a direct order, Detective,” he said, turning to Claire for backup.
“You need to rest,” Claire said. “Or your brain won’t heal properly.”
Nick knew they were right but didn’t want to admit it. “I’m not going anywhere until this is over,” he said.
“It’s over for you, for now,” stated Wilkes. “You’re not the only cop in this place. There’s not much we can do anyway since we don’t know who the hell Mr. Anagramist is. So we’ll regroup in the morning.”
“You sure?” Nick asked, knowing he was pushing it.
“I’m sure that if the doc here doesn’t take you home, I’m gonna send you back to the hospital,” Wilkes said, without raising his voice. “We just have to pray that this whacko doesn’t go hunting tonight. Not that we’d be able to stop him, anyway.” He turned to Savarese, who was on the phone. “We getting the word out, Tony?”
Savarese covered the receiver. “We’re notifying every command that any death tonight that looks the least bit hinky should be reported to us right away. Me, Billy, and Vernon’ll go to the mattresses to cover the phones,” he finished, using The Godfather slang to describe the portable cots they’d pull into the squad room to sleep on.
“You see?” Wilkes assured Nick. “It’s all taken care of. Doc, you have your stuff ready for tomorrow morning, capisce?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Claire. “The Anagramist’s profile will be ready.”
“Good,” said Wilkes, pointing Nick toward the door. “Now get this sorry sack of shit the hell home.”
Claire fumbled through Nick’s numerous keys until she found the one that unlocked the door to his apartment. “Surprised the perps can’t hear you coming from a mile away with all that jingling,” she said.
He’d handed her the ring of keys outside, after she’d parked his Jeep beside the hydrant in front of his building. The spot wasn’t their first choice, even with the police parking plate on the dash. Nick had tried to convince her he was more than capable of walking to his door, but Claire could see he was fading fast. She barely had the door open when Cisco trotted over, tail wagging. Nick ignored the dog and used what little stamina he had left to make it to the living room sofa. He pushed aside some fashion magazines his daughters had left there and collapsed.
“Maybe you shouldn’t come in tomorrow,” Claire suggested, sitting on the matching love seat, leaving him the entire couch to stretch out. Which he did as Cisco did the same on the floor in front of his master.
“Not a chance,” Cisco’s master said, slurring his speech. Claire hoped it was from the exhaustion and not the concussion. She turned on a lamp next to the sofa where Nick sprawled and leaned over him.
“Open your eyes,” she said.
Nick opened his eyes and Claire lowered her face so that it was inches from his. Then she shined the light from her phone into each of them.
“Ow,” he cried from the sudden glare. “You wanna blind me faster?”
“I wanna make sure your pupils aren’t blown,” she said, feeling less anxious.
“Well?” he retorted. “What’s the verdict?”
“In my business it’s called a diagnosis,” she answered. “You’ll live.”
“Daddy!” cried Jill, appearing in a nightshirt with the pop musician Adele’s face emblazoned on it, as she ran over to kiss her father. She stopped short when she spotted the day-old gauze bandage on the back of his head. “Dad, are you okay?” she asked him. She turned to Claire. ”What happened?”
“He got hit on the head arresting a killer,” Claire said. “Your father’s a hero again. But he doesn’t know when to stop.”
“That’s because he’s a stubborn mule,” Jill said, caressing her father’s hair.
“You’re the hero,” Nick muttered to Claire. “All I did was pass out. You had the gun on him.”
Jill sensed there was something more between them than she’d seen before. “Will someone please tell me if he’s gonna be okay?” she asked, breaking the short silence.
“I’m fine,” said Nick.
“He will be if he gets some rest,” Claire assured her.
“I’m right here. I can speak for myself,” Nick grumbled, trying to get up.
Jill pushed him back down. “Easy, Big Guy,” she said. “She’s a doctor. Just listen to her. Listen to someone for once.”
“I can stay if you want,” Claire offered Jill, which brought Nick’s head up.
“Thanks for asking.” Jill answered, “I really appreciate it. But you must be exhausted too. I can take care of him.”
“Where’s Katie?” asked Nick.
“Sleeping,” said Jill. “I told her you were on a big case. She didn’t ask any questions.”
Claire wanted to stay. She should have insisted he take it easy after being released from the hospital. But she knew he never would have listened to her. Just like he wouldn’t let her care for him now.
“I’ll go,” she said. “But I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”
“You don’t have to buzz yourself up,” Nick said. “There’s a set of house keys taped under the front seat of the car.”
“The great detective has a mental block when it comes to finding his keys,” Jill said to Claire.
“Call me if you need me,” Claire told Jill. “You have my number.”
Nick mustered what energy remained in him and sat up. “I’m walking you out,” he said.
“Not outside, Dad,” Jill ordered. “It’s pouring.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Nick said with a mock salute. “Just to the hallway.”
He managed to lift himself off the sofa and walk beside Claire toward the door. She resisted the urge to help him, steady him.
As Nick opened the door for her and hung onto it for support, she was all the more attracted to him, even in his weakened state. She had tried to convince herself she’d felt it for the first time when he kissed her in the car the other day. But she could no longer deny those feelings started longer ago than she cared to admit, and what bothered her was why she couldn’t accept her emotions, embrace them. Was she drawn to him because he saved her life last year? Was it out of debt or gratitude? Was she attracted not just to him, but also to the thought of taking care of him and his daughters, of being part of a family?
“Thanks for bringing me home,” said Nick, brushing her hair behind her ear and waking her up from her thoughts.
“You need to get into bed,” said Claire. “And stay there.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that if you feel like crap you can’t push yourself or you could end up with permanent brain damage—”
More gently than before, Nick bent down to kiss her. This time, she didn’t hesitate, closing her eyes, losing herself in it, allowing herself to feel this kind of closeness for the first time since her fiancé’s death. Their lips were locked for nearly a minute when Nick pulled away.
“Whoa,” was all he said.
“I’m sorry,” Claire stammered.
“Don’t be. I’m the one who started it.”
Claire picked up her purse, which she had dropped on the floor when Nick kissed her. “I’ll see you in the morning,” she said, and hurried toward the stairs.
The buzz stayed with her as she got in the Jeep and drove back to her East Side neighborhood, finding a rare open spot just around the corner from her building. Getting out, she realized that she didn’t remember driving there.
She looked at herself in the reflection of the Jeep’s passenger window, lit by a streetlamp. Her hair was a mess. She tried to think: was her father in the apartment tonight? She didn’t want him to see her like this, nor did she want to answer the questions she knew he’d ask.
The ride up in the elevator
gave her time to pull herself together and calm down to the point she looked forward to her father’s visit, to speaking with him and hearing his calm, soothing voice. But once she opened the door to her apartment, it was clear he wasn’t there. He always left the light on in the bathroom, and the flat was completely dark. She headed straight for her bedroom and lay down, fully clothed, giving in to the exhaustion building over the last two days. She’d barely kicked off her shoes when her eyes closed and she descended into a dreamless sleep that was interrupted by the ring of the phone on her nightstand.
She opened her eyes to blinding daylight and realized she’d fallen asleep fully clothed with the curtains open. She reached for the receiver, not bothering to check the caller ID. “Hello,” she answered.
“Claire, honey,” her mother said in a voice so tense it woke Claire up and made her glance at the number from which the call came. What she saw sent her into panic mode. “Mom, why are you at Rochester General?” she asked, afraid of the answer.
“Don’t be scared, and don’t jump on a plane.”
“Mom!” she interrupted, darting out of bed, running to her closet as she spoke. “Just tell me. Is it Dad?”
“Yes, but they think he’s going to be okay.”
“What happened?” Claire demanded, fearing he’d suffered a heart attack or stroke.
She heard her mother take a deep breath on the other end of the line. “He was in a car accident this morning,” she said.
Claire remembered her urge to speak to her father last night and wished she had called him. Then she shifted into clinical mode.
“Tell me exactly what the doctors are saying,” she instructed her mother.
“It’s Deb Hunter,” came the answer, and Claire felt reassured. Deb was a family friend who also happened to be the hospital’s chief of emergency medicine. “She ordered every scan under the sun, and she says your father’s fine, that he’s the luckiest man on the planet, given what happened.”
