Dead Ringer

by Annelise Ryan

  Maggie leans forward, cocking her head at me. “What?”

  “There was another case, one where I testified against someone who I knew was guilty. Except he wasn’t. And my testimony played a key role in his conviction.”

  “Why were you so convinced of his guilt?” Maggie probes.

  I explain the situation that occurred with Tomas Wyzinski, of finding the decapitated head of a murder victim in his refrigerator, a murder victim who happened to be his ex-girlfriend. Like everyone else I’ve talked to about the case, Maggie assures me that my conclusions were logical and sensible.

  “But they were also wrong,” I say.

  “Has the man you testified against been exonerated, or is he still in prison?”

  “He’s been freed,” I say. “He’s in the Witness Protection Program now, hopefully starting a new life.”

  “But you still feel you owe him something, don’t you?” Maggie says, zipping an arrow into the heart of my zombie.

  Of course this won’t kill the zombie. It’s already dead. It might slow it down some, however, and help me preserve some of my brain.

  “I do,” I admit.

  “And do you see how that might correlate to this current case?”

  “Of course,” I say with a sigh. It seems crystal clear to me now. “Putting in the time on this Ulrich case is my way of doing penance for my mistakes in the other one.”

  Maggie smiles, and I feel a wash of relief and affection for her, not all that different from what a child probably feels when she achieves a new milestone and a parent bathes her with praise and approval. Or what I imagine that must feel like.

  My mother wasn’t one for praise or approval. The woman is better at finding faults than a seismologist. She still hasn’t forgiven me for divorcing David, “a doctor, for cripes’ sake.” You might think her ire was over concern for my emotions, or my financial future and security. But it’s really about the fact that my mother had reached the pinnacle of her hypochondriacal existence by getting a doctor into the family, and then I went and screwed the whole thing up.

  “Should I just get over it and quit trying to appease my guilt at my son’s expense?” I ask Maggie.

  “Do you honestly believe Matthew is suffering as a result of the extra hours you’re putting in?”

  I open my mouth to answer, but she stops me.

  “Don’t give me your first impulse answer. Think about it seriously. Do you believe that picking up these extra hours will somehow damage Matthew?”

  I let out a sigh of exasperation, but do what she says. And I must admit, deep down, I don’t believe that. Maybe if my childcare arrangements were different, or maybe if Matthew was demonstrating issues with socialization, or doing things other than typical “terrible two” behavior, I might believe that. But I know that Desi and Dom provide my son with the same love and attention I would, maybe even more. And I believe that his exposure to other people and experiences will make him more rounded in the long run. Plus, the lingering dregs of the guilt that I have force me to make the most of the time I do spend with Matthew. I try to make it all quality time—this morning being a notable exception—to compensate for the lack of quantity.

  “No, I don’t believe that,” I tell Maggie.

  “Do you think you would enjoy giving up your job and being at home with Matthew all day?”

  “No,” I say without hesitation. “I love my job. And I think I’d go a little stir-crazy if I was at home with Matthew all day, every day.”

  “And would Matthew benefit from having you around all the time if you were going, as you put it, ‘stir-crazy’?”

  “No,” I admit.

  “Are you comfortable with the childcare arrangements you have for him?”

  This makes me smile. I’ve counted myself lucky so many times because of Desi and Dom. “I am. Very much so. Desi and Dom are both natural-born caregivers. They’re the human equivalent of polar bears and elephants, animals with strong maternal instincts and abilities. Whereas I’m more of a seahorse or an emperor penguin, animals where the father of the species shoulders the bulk of the care.”

  I shoot a glance at Maggie, checking out her expression, curious as to whether she is judging me on this confession. But her face is its usual placid, unrevealing self. “It’s not that I don’t love my son. I do,” I go on. “As you so aptly pointed out, I love him more than life itself. But that doesn’t mean I always enjoy spending time with him. Frankly, the idea of being stuck at home with him and an infant all day terrifies me. And that makes me feel guilty.”

  “It shouldn’t,” Maggie says. “No one person can be everything to any other person. That’s true in adult relationships, as well as parent-child relationships. And everyone is different when it comes to what makes them happy. There is no need to feel guilty because you enjoy your work or time outside the home. It means you’ll be happier, more balanced—both emotionally and mentally—when you do spend time with your kids.”

  “How is that dynamic going to change when we throw another child into the mix?”

  “How do you think it’s going to change?”

  I shoot Maggie an annoyed look to let her know I’m aware that she’s using the classic answer-a-question-with-a-question tactic on me. “It will probably double my guilt,” I say with a sly smile to let her know I’m joking . . . at least mostly.

  “Are you sorry you agreed to have another child?”

  “No, not really. I do want another child with Hurley, but I wish there was a way to do it without the pregnancy crap, and the whole sleepless-nights routine when they’re little and then these ‘terrible twos’ Matthew is embracing.”

  “There are ways to avoid those things,” Maggie says in a cautionary tone. “You could hire a nanny.”

  “God, no,” I say. “I don’t want some strange woman in my house. I’m sure I’d end up with some cute young thing with a foreign accent, who’d flirt mercilessly with Hurley until he caved and ran off with her, probably after murdering me because Hurley knows how to do that and get away with it, you know, or some elderly iron maiden, with thick legs, no waist, and orthopedic shoes, who oozes withering judgment and condescension on an hourly basis.” I pause to take a breath, while Maggie bites back a smile. “I want to be a mother to my kids,” I say. I pause and make a face. “Just not full-time.”

  “And that’s okay,” Maggie says. “What little I’ve seen of Matthew during your earlier counseling sessions and later visits, like this morning’s, he seems to be a normal, healthy kid.”

  “Even wearing his sister’s underwear?” I challenge.

  She smiles. “I must admit it was an entertaining getup. Are you worried that he might be gay?”

  “No,” I say without hesitation. “I’d be fine with that.”

  “Then I wouldn’t worry. Matthew’s use of the underwear is an innocent thing. It demonstrates his ability to visualize things in his world in ways that are outside of the expected norms. That tends to be the case in people with strong artistic leanings.”

  I think about this, wondering how Matthew could have inherited any artistic talent. Neither Hurley nor I have any. I can barely color inside the lines.

  My silence triggers a new question from Maggie. “You didn’t have any issues with Matthew’s pregnancy, so there isn’t any reason to think you will this time, is there?”

  “Depends on your definition of ‘issues,’ ” I say. “Pregnancy and I didn’t get along all that well. There’s the vomiting, the peeing, the weight gain, the painful boobs, the swollen ankles, and the nights where no position is comfortable. And, of course, labor.” I sigh wearily. “And I’m pushing forty. The risk of birth defects is higher, and the odds of my body bouncing back from all that stretching is a lot lower.” I look at Maggie, then at my hands in my lap. “I’m afraid Hurley won’t find me attractive anymore.” My voice is lower, timid when I say this.

  “Aha,” Maggie says. “Now we’re getting to the crux of the matter. This isn’t real
ly about having another child, or your worries about your parenting skills, is it? You’re worried about your relationship with Hurley.”

  I open my mouth to say “maybe,” but she doesn’t give me a chance.

  “So, what’s going on between you two that’s caused all this doubt? You’ve always struck me as a solid couple. What’s changed?”

  “Everything. We both adore Matthew, but, Lord, that child has changed the dynamic between us.”

  “How so?”

  “The division of work regarding Matthew’s care. The division of work that needs doing around the house. The amount of time we spend together alone. Our sex life, or the lack thereof. It seems like I’m tired all the time, and I find myself resenting Hurley sometimes because his work keeps him from being home to help with the housework and the kids. It’s gotten a little easier, now that Emily can drive, but there’s still so much to do with maintaining the household and keeping the kids fed and clothed. Sometimes I wish we hadn’t built the new house. There’s so much of it. It takes forever just to vacuum. By the end of any given day, when Hurley and I go to bed, assuming we manage to be there at the same time, which with our jobs is never a given, I’m always exhausted. I feel like we’re growing apart. And adding another child to the mix isn’t going to help the situation.”

  “Have you talked to Hurley about this?”

  “Not directly,” I admit. “I’ve gone off and snapped a few times with grumbles about how the housework is wearing me down. I mean, look at yesterday and today. I’m supposed to be off work and at home, tending to the household. Instead, though, I spent the time doing work-related stuff and letting the household stuff slide. But that only makes it worse. The laundry piles get bigger, the dust bunnies proliferate the way only bunnies can, and the groceries need buying.”

  “You and Hurley need to sit down and discuss this together,” Maggie says. “It would have been helpful if he’d been able to stay here with you this morning, so we could talk it out in a neutral setting. Now you’ll have to do it on your own or wait until I get back from my vacation. And I’m booked up solid for the first two weeks.”

  I run my hands through my hair, fighting back an urge to cry. “I’ve made a mess of things,” I say.

  “I can give you the name of another counselor, if you like, someone who might be able to see the two of you while I’m gone.”

  I shake my head. “No, but thanks. Hurley and I need to face this together, and you’re right that I need to talk to him about it.” I sigh and sit up straighter in my seat. “I’ll tackle it. I needed you to help me drill down to exactly what it was that was bothering me, but now that I know what it is, I can handle it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I give her a wounded look. “Are you saying you think I’ll screw it up? That it will all blow up in my face?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You implied it with your tone.”

  She considers this for a few seconds and then gives me a conciliatory shrug. “Perhaps I did. I want to caution you to approach this at a time when the two of you are relaxed and alone, without risk of interruption. And it sounds like that might be hard to arrange.”

  “No, I can do it. Between Desi and Dom, I can arrange for Hurley and me to have an evening to ourselves. Assuming I can get him to forget work for one night. Only—”

  Maggie narrows her eyes at me. “Only what?” she says.

  “This case, the Ulrich thing. It’s really eating at both of us. I can’t see either one of us relaxing enough to have this talk while the case is still pending.”

  Maggie winces. It’s fleeting—there and gone so fast, I wonder if I imagined it. But her next words tell me I didn’t. “Be careful, Mattie. The longer you let this go, the worse it’s going to get. I understand the appeal of your work, and the possibility of seeing justice brought to bear, and all that sexy stuff, but you need to choose your priorities carefully. Don’t put your marriage and your relationship with Hurley on a back burner for too long. If you do, the wound that’s there now might fester into something fatal.”

  “Medical metaphors,” I say with a smile. “I love it.”

  Maggie doesn’t smile in return, and eventually mine feels forced enough that I let it go.

  “I hear what you’re saying, Maggie. I do. Thank you.” I glance at my watch and stand. “I appreciate you carving out some time for me this morning. Just send me the bill, as usual. And have a great trip through Europe. I’m a little jealous.”

  Maggie smiles. “It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything nice for myself like this or taken time off from work, for that matter. I’m practicing what I’m preaching,” she adds pointedly.

  “I hear you.” No need to beat me over the head with it. As soon as the thought crosses my mind, I regret it. Maggie is only worried for me. “I promise I’ll deal with it sooner rather than later.”

  Maggie reaches over and places a hand on my arm, giving it a gentle squeeze.

  “Call me in a couple of weeks to at least let me know how it’s going,” she says. “Leave me a voice mail. And if you need me, maybe we can arrange a session over dinner some night, once I’m back. I’ll book an appointment for the two of you at my earliest opening, just to be safe. If you don’t need it, you can always cancel, okay?”

  I nod. I have several weeks. Plenty of time to sort things out and get my marriage and my life back on track. It’s also plenty of time to blow both to smithereens.

  As I climb in my hearse and drive back toward town, I find myself wondering just what the hell smithereens are.

  CHAPTER 17

  Since Dom has Matthew for the day (I can’t help but wonder whether Hurley delivered him there with his superhero costume in place, and what Dom’s thoughts on it will be, if he did), I decide to head for the office and do some work on the Ulrich case. I know myself well enough to realize that I’m too distracted by the case to be able to spend any real quality time with my son if I did pick him up and take him home. My mind would be on the case the whole time.

  I drive to my office and pull into the underground garage, using my key card to enter. I park my hearse close to the elevator and haul the file box out from the backseat, where I’d put it last night.

  My mind is so focused on the morning’s earlier events and that look I saw on Hurley’s face when he caught me back at Maggie’s that it takes me a moment to realize there is someone else in the garage with me. While driving into our garage requires a key card for access, the area is open to anyone who wants to walk into it, which is why getting into the building from our garage via the elevator also requires a key card. I’ve realized in the past that it’s not the most secure setup, given that anyone who wanted to get into our office could easily accost any one of us in the garage, and either steal our key cards or force us to use them and come along. However, it’s not like we’re a hotbed of interest for criminals looking to gain something, unless what they want to gain is a dead body or two. We don’t have any money, we don’t have any drugs, and to be perfectly honest, the place would creep out most people.

  I suppose if someone wanted to steal a body that might incriminate them, or destroy evidence of some type, that might be a reason for an attempt to break and enter, but it hasn’t happened yet. So when I realize someone else is in the garage, it doesn’t panic me much, even though the person is hidden in shadow, standing off to one side just inside the entrance. I stop and stare at the figure, trying to make out detail, but it’s too dark where they’re standing.

  That’s what finally raises the hackles on my spine, the fact that whoever is standing there won’t come forward. “Hello?” I say, and I give my best warm and welcoming smile. I get no response. “Who’s there?” Still, no response, and I debate whether I should turn my back and continue to the elevator, which is only a few feet away, but might take precious seconds to arrive, or be proactive and walk toward the shadowy figure.

  I do neither. I stay where I am, shift the weight
of the box to one arm and a hip, and with my other arm, I take my cell phone out of my purse. This is a ruse, because our underground garage is a dead zone for cell signals, as well as arriving bodies, but I’m hoping that the shadowy figure won’t know that. Holding the phone up so the shadow person can see it, I jab at the screen with my thumb and dial Hurley’s number, knowing the call will go nowhere.

  I put the phone up to my ear and that does the trick. The shadow suddenly shifts and moves toward the entrance gate. For a moment, the figure is silhouetted by the sunlight outside and I see that the person is wearing a hoodie and track pants. I get the sense that it’s a male, based on the general body shape, but there is no way to be sure. In a flash, he or she steps past the arm of the electric gate and onto the sidewalk outside, cutting a sharp left and disappearing alongside the building.

  I lower my phone, realizing that my heart is pounding. With several glances over my shoulder to make sure the shadow hasn’t returned, and others aren’t lurking elsewhere, I hurry to the elevator and call it. It seems to take forever to arrive, but once I’m inside and the door closes, I feel my nerves start to unwind. By the time I step out on the main floor, I’ve convinced myself that I overreacted to what was most likely some kid who got nosy and decided to explore the garage area. It’s happened before. In fact, we had someone tag our walls with some interesting graffiti a year or so ago. They painted a tombstone with RIP written on it, and beneath that, they wrote: FIVE OUT OF SIX SCIENTISTS SAY RUSSIAN ROULETTE IS SAFE.

  I make my way to the library, a large room with shelves on two walls and a big conference table in the middle. There are also two desks equipped with computers on either side of the room and these serve as office space for my job-share partner, Christopher Malone, and me.

  I know Christopher is in the office before I walk through the door. Christopher is a great employee, who knows the business and is good at it. He has a dark, twisted sense of humor—my favorite kind—and the two of us get along quite well. Both Izzy and his job-share partner, Dr. Otto Morton, like him, too. But he does have one major issue that can make it difficult to work with him at times. He has some sort of metabolic disorder that causes him to produce huge amounts of intestinal gas. It’s something he has little to no control over, and though he tries to control it with diet and medications, the man is a hothouse of foul-smelling emissions. We’ve made efforts to accommodate his condition by adding some fans, filters, and air fresheners, but these have only a minimal effect.