by CJ Lyons
It all made sense now. Like that moment of clarity when a painting came together. It wasn't the killing that drove this actor, the killing was only a means to protect himself.
It explained why the victims had nothing in common–different ages, different sexes. The actor had merely chosen the most easily controlled person closest to his victim.
His prey. Drake was looking for a sexual predator, not a signature killer.
He looked up at Cassie and raised her hand to his lips. "Thank you," he said. "I think you may have just saved Katie Jean's life." He pulled her close for one too-brief moment, burying his face in her hair, inhaling enough of her scent to strengthen him until he was able to return to her.
"I guess you have work to do," she said when they parted.
"Thanks to you I know where to start," he told her, grabbing his phone. It was late, he'd have to call the shrink at home. He searched through his coat pockets for the card White had given him and dialed the number of the answering service.
"This is Detective Drake," he told the woman who answered. "I need to speak to Dr. White immediately. Yes, I'll hold."
A surge of energy filled him, the weight of his fatigue and worry dropping away. Hart blew him a kiss and started to leave. He looked up and put a hand over the phone. "Look after my mom, will you?"
"Of course."
"I love you," he called, as she disappeared down the steps, his voice echoing through the high-ceilinged room and down the staircase, following her. He felt a little light-headed as he realized that not only were the words the truth, but also that it was the first time he'd said them aloud.
<><><>
Drake met Jimmy at the doctor's office. White opened a conference room for their use, and they spread the murder books and photos over the table. Drake quickly walked them through Hart's theory of the crimes. As he spoke, everything seemed to fall into focus. Before he had finished, the doctor was nodding in agreement and Jimmy was diving into the murder books, dredging up the original family interviews.
"We've been asking the wrong questions all along," Jimmy said. "No wonder we never got anywhere."
"It's incredible that anyone ever linked the deaths in the first place," White replied.
"That was my dad's doing," Drake told him.
"But it's your persistence that will lead to the killer. I would focus on a man, probably white, who is in a position of authority over the boys."
"A teacher? Priest? Coach?"
The shrink pursed his lips. "Priest, maybe. The degree of coercion fits."
"They weren't all Catholic. And the boys lived in different parts of the city, how would he have access to all of them?" Jimmy argued. "The same with a teacher. They all went to different schools."
"The Cleary boy killed himself," Drake said, "and Frantz died in a car accident."
"I would guess that you'd find that was a single car accident," the shrink put in. "Probably suicide as well."
"Mitchell Eades is in jail, refuses to talk to us or anyone. He tried to kill himself as well."
"What were the charges?"
"Gross sexual imposition, sexual assault on a minor," Jimmy supplied.
"Typical for a kid with a history of abuse who doesn't learn how to deal with his own feelings of rage and humiliation," White said.
"Not to mention the guilt at getting your mother killed," Drake added. The image of Muriel sprawled on the sidewalk shot through his mind. He was so lucky she was going to be all right. How would an eight-year-old kid deal with the knowledge that his mother was murdered because of him? No wonder Eades had turned into a head case.
"That leaves Kent, and we haven't been able to track him down. Parents are divorced, the father has custody. I'll give the sister a call, see if she has a current number." Jimmy reached for the phone.
Drake turned back to the psychiatrist. "Our next victim is Nate Trevasian–and he isn't talking. To anyone."
"Elective mutism. Very difficult defense mechanism to overcome. But when it is, the subject tends to not hold back. If you can get him to talk, he'll tell you everything."
Drake frowned at that. "Do you think our actor knows that? Otherwise why escalate the reign of terror by killing the dog in such a brutal fashion? Nate had already clammed up after the dog went missing."
He thought about it. If what the doctor said was true, maybe the killer wouldn't stick with his old methods of intimidation. Maybe he'd go after Nate, silence him for good.
"Our guy must have some kind of psychological training to know about elective mutism," Drake said. "A guidance counselor, maybe?"
"Different schools," the shrink pointed out. "Were any of the boys in private counseling–maybe they shared the same therapist?"
Drake held up his hand, thinking as he rustled through the notebooks strewn about the table. Jimmy hung up the phone and shook his head. "No answer." He looked at his partner. "What'cha got, kid?"
"Nate's father said he'd been placed on medication for hyperactivity a few months ago. Don't you need to see a doctor for that?"
"A medical doctor and usually a school psychologist," White supplied.
"Check the family doctors, pediatricians–any of them in common?"
Jimmy began turning pages in the thick binders. "I got one South Hills Peds, one goes to Forbes."
"Frantz used a family practice doc and Kent the clinic at Children's. Damn, thought I was on to something."
"How many school psychologists are there?" Jimmy asked. "Maybe they can help us."
"Actually," Dr. White put in, "I think the elementary school psychologist travels throughout the district. In fact, I remember meeting the man at one of the local APA dinners."
The two detectives looked up at that. "He travels–even to the private schools?" Drake asked.
"Oh yes, there's no way the school district could afford to base one at every school." The shrink was leafing through a membership directory labeled: American Psychological Association, Allegheny County Chapter. "Here he is," he turned the book so that they could see.
"Darin Mendelsohn," Jimmy read. "PhD from SUNY Rochester, specialty elementary school psychology, currently employed by Pittsburgh school district."
"Damn, that's him," Drake said, the pieces falling into place. "He's been treating Nate since he stopped talking. The sonofabitch actually called and talked with Nate's mom this morning. Told her to tell Nate he hoped he was feeling better–and that's when the kid froze up."
He stared at the black and white photo of a killer. Mendelsohn's features blurred into the background, he was so goddamned average that you had to look twice to notice him at all. Brown hair, brown eyes, weak chin, smooth, unlined face–no hint at all of the monster that lay beneath.
"Hold up," Jimmy cautioned. "Let me call Miller and the DA, make sure there's no problems with us bringing this guy in."
"We have to do it tonight," Drake insisted. "If we have to subpoena school records or any garbage like that, we'll spook him for sure."
"It'd help if we could get the Trevasian kid to open up." Jimmy raised an eyebrow at White.
"Bring him tomorrow," the doctor replied. "I'll arrange to have a colleague who specializes in children here."
"Thanks, doc." Jimmy returned to the phone. Drake paced the length of the conference table, anxious to get to work and nail Mendelsohn.
"Detective Drake," White said. "Could we speak in private for a moment?"
Drake looked up at that. He cut his eyes to Jimmy who was laying out the case for Miller, then shrugged, following White down the hall to his office.
"You can't arrest Mendelsohn if you're still on inactive duty, can you?" White said, settling himself in his chair.
Drake stiffened, he hadn't thought that far ahead. "That's all right, Jimmy can take the collar." But damn, he wanted to be the one to take Mendelsohn down. Not for himself. For his father, for Nate Trevasian and his family.
"Let me be blunt," White continued in his pedantic fashion. "You haven't been
very forth coming during our sessions–"
"Hey, doc, that's not fair," Drake protested.
"Want to tell me about the panic attacks?"
Drake was silent. No, he did not.
"Or the nightmares?" White persisted. "Any sexual dysfunction? Blind rages you can't explain?" Drake raked his hands through his hair, looking down at the floor. "Any of this ringing a bell, Detective?" White's voice had taken on an edge, unlike his usual genial, soft-spoken manner.
Drake jerked his head up. "All of it. Happy now?"
White nodded. "Tell me about it."
And Drake did. About the flash backs, the red haze, the panic attacks, even the other night when he'd jumped Hart, then couldn't go up the steps to her house to apologize. He spilled his guts like a perp rolling on a friend to get his own charges kicked.
And jeezit, it felt good. Once he started, he couldn't stop, it was like a dam had burst.
"How well do you know Hart?"
"What's to know?" Drake replied, surprised by the abrupt change of subject. "She's smart, beautiful, a good doctor–"
"I mean about her life. What has she told you?"
Drake squirmed in his seat. What did this have to do with him getting back on the streets? Or his panic attacks? "What's it matter what Hart tells me? She's entitled to her privacy."
The shrink nodded. "You said that she keeps her house," he leafed back through his notes, "like a museum to her family's memory. And she hid there for several weeks after the shooting, withdrew from the world?"
He felt a frisson of fear. "It's her way of coping when things become too much," he said, defending Hart and resenting that he even had to. "Look, where are you going with all this?"
"Just trying to get all the pieces. Where do you think Hart fits into everything?"
"She doesn't. This is about me getting shot."
"All right. Then let's talk about that night. What did you feel when the gunman confronted you?"
Drake was silent. He got up and began to move around the room.
"You'd just opened the door to Hart's house," the doctor prompted, "and he, what brandished a gun in your face? How exactly did he disarm you?"
Drake turned his back on the shrink and pretended to look out the window. The lights of PPG place blazed like a fairy tale castle in the distance.
"He was behind the door, I couldn't see him," he said, keeping his voice expressionless.
"And you felt?"
"Surprised, ashamed, angry, terrified–I don't know, it all happened so fast."
"Ashamed? Why ashamed?"
"Because I was helpless!" Drake flared, whirling to face the psychiatrist. "There I was, hands full of fucking candy and roses. What was I supposed to do? Bat him over the head with the flowers? Hart was down. I could see her body, I didn't know if she was dead or alive. All I could do was stand there while that bastard took my gun."
"You felt naked, vulnerable," the doctor suggested.
"Damned right. You try staring down the muzzle of a thirty-eight and tell me how you feel."
"Completely understandable. But let's go back in time. How did you feel when you first arrived at Hart's? As you climbed the steps, knocked at her door, anticipated her opening it?"
Drake stared at the shrink, opened his mouth, then closed it again. How the hell should he know what he was feeling a given instant almost two months ago? Why was it important anyway?
"I don't know." He slumped back into the chair. "I can't remember," he muttered, bouncing his fist idly against the chair arm.
"Try. Just take a deep breath and picture yourself. You're in your car, it's snowing, you pull up in front of Hart's house. What are you thinking?"
The quiet, rhythmic tones relaxed Drake somewhat. He pictured that night once more, for the first time in weeks his mind's eye seemed panoramic, filling in the nuances of light and shadow that escaped him every other time he dreamed of that night, relived it.
"The snow is really coming down," he replied, his voice low and steady. "I grab the flowers and candy and hope I don't slip on the steps up to her porch. I imagine myself falling, sprawled on the sidewalk like an idiot and Hart having to rescue me."
"Is that thought upsetting?"
Drake closed his eyes, caught up in his reverie. "No," he replied, his mouth stretching into a smile. "I think it's hilarious. Everything that night seems funny, exciting–I can't stop grinning like an idiot. The only thing worrying me is what to do if Hart won't forgive me. But even that isn't too disturbing. I'm confident she'll accept my apology. I imagine the look she'll give me when she answers the door and sees my arms filled with bright roses just for her. I can hear her laugh and it thrills me to know I've made her happy, that she has that smile of delight because of me."
His eyes popped open. "Then the door opened."
The shrink nodded. "Then the door opened."
The clock ticked softly as Drake thought about that. "I was so happy, then everything turned awful and I was powerless to stop it, to do anything." He looked up. "Is that why I haven't been able to touch Hart? I mean, not the way I really want to. It's because I've somehow tied up those feelings of pleasure with the terror and pain that followed."
"Is that what you think?"
He leaned forward, anxious to make himself clear. "It was because of her that I was there, that I was vulnerable. I've been blaming her, been swallowing my anger. But she didn't do anything–it was just my feelings and memories about that night all jumbled up."
The words came in a rush of a single breath. Drake straightened up and inhaled deeper than he'd been able to in weeks. He got to his feet and stretched his arms out, relishing the simple act of breathing.
His hands weren't clenched in a death grip, he could feel the blood rushing to every part of his body as if his heart was finally free. He spun around, noting the luminescent dust motes that caught the light and danced it about the room. The doctor sat, impassive except for a slight twinkle in his eyes as he removed his glasses and polished them.
"There was nothing anyone could have done differently," Drake said. "And if I had done it differently, we'd both be dead. It was only because it was Hart and I together that we were able to survive."
He paused, looked down at the shrink with a grin. "Together, we're a force to be reckoned with–separate, we're each vulnerable. God, I've been such a fool, pushing her away like that!" He grabbed his jacket and started for the door. "Thanks a lot, doc," he said, then called back over his shoulder. "When can I hit the streets again?"
"Tomorrow. I'll fax my report over to Commander Miller tonight," the psychiatrist replied, but Drake was gone before he finished.
<><><>
Cassie stroked her fingers along Muriel's arm as the older woman roused herself into consciousness. A phone call from Drake had convinced Nellie and Jacob to go back to their hotel for a few hours. She wasn't exactly certain what he'd told them, they'd been gone when she arrived. Denise Dolan had been waiting at Muriel's bedside instead, had told Cassie that Muriel had been awake and talking before Nellie left.
"How do you feel?" Cassie asked Muriel as her eyelids fluttered open.
"Like someone's been using my head for a drum. Where's Remy?" Muriel's voice was a scratchy whisper. Cassie held a glass of water with a straw to her lips.
"He had to go out for a while. He'll be back soon." Cassie didn't want to worry her with the details, but Muriel saw through her evasion.
"On a case? He's with Jimmy, yes?"
"Yes. Don't worry, he said all he'd be doing is preparing a warrant."
Muriel tilted her head, regarded Cassie with skepticism. "And you believed him?"
Cassie smiled, remembering how exuberant Drake had sounded when he called her a short while ago. "Of course not–but I let him think I did."
Muriel patted her hand. "Good girl."
"Drake's closing one of his father's cases, one that he was working on when he died."
Muriel sank back onto the pillow. "I would
n't know. Mickey never talked about his cases with me–it was the only part of his life I never shared. But," she sighed, "he always had to be in control of everything: his emotions, his work," she chuckled, "the kitchen."
"I think your son inherited that."
"Maybe, but he didn't get much else from his father–including the approval Remy always craved. Now you, on the other hand, I think you're a lot like my Mickey."
"Me?" Cassie thought a moment. "I am kind of a control freak," she admitted. "But I'm afraid I don't keep my emotions well controlled. I can't even tell a simple lie without it showing all over my face."
Muriel smiled. "Probably more healthy that way. And Remy needs someone to take the reins, so to speak. He's always been searching for a," she searched for the right word, "counterpart, someone to bring balance to his life. He needs someone who he can share his life–all of it–with. Someone who won't hold back from him like his father did. Don't get me wrong, those two loved each other a great deal, but they could never express it. I think Remy is still trying to make his father proud."
It was Cassie's turn to smile. She knew all about clinging to the expectations of family members long gone. The weight of responsibility that never eased, that motivated every action.
"I'm afraid all I've brought to my relationship with your son is pain and hardship. And to you," she added. "I'm so sorry this happened."
"Nonsense, dear. I saw what you did. You had plenty of room to jump clear of that van but instead you turned to get me out of the way. You probably saved my life." Cassie looked away, silent. "Do you know why it happened? Was there something wrong with the driver or the car?"
"It happened because I was trying to save a little boy's life," Cassie said. "And someone didn't want me to."
"Tried? Is he dead, then?" Muriel seemed more concerned about Charlie's safety than her own injuries. Cassie looked at her in admiration.
"No. He's all right for now."
"Then you can't give up. Not because of this." She gestured to her IV and the medical equipment surrounding her. "Tell me all about it. I'm certain we can think of something."
Cassie told her Charlie's story and her suspicions, leaving nothing, including the ambiguous medical facts and Sterling's and Adeena's doubts about her own mental health, out. Muriel was an excellent listener and despite her weakened state, she grasped the intricacies of the situation immediately.
