Too Dark To Sleep

by Dianne Gallagher

  Marcus tried to laugh along. “Well, I try to be discreet.” He stabbed his fish. “We were talking about surgeons. Right, Maggie.”

  He needs to control the conversation, Maggie thought. That’s why he pulled it back to the previous topic.

  “Some do make mistakes,” Galen said. “Unfortunately.”

  “Not you though.”

  He looked at her and smiled. “No, not me.”

  “Marcus is the one who rides in on his white horse and saves the day,” Harley said, “when someone else chunks it.”

  “A real hero.” Maggie crunched down on a crouton.

  “I just do my job.”

  Another well-rehearsed line. Maggie imagined the doctor repeating it to himself as he looked in the mirror every morning. Marcus Galen was a hero in his own eyes. That much was obvious. Modesty was part of his costume. He slipped it on instead of a cape.

  “Usually, I’m able to correct any mistakes made by my team or my associates. Quite frankly, it’s much easier to just keep good people. Which is what I do. They can’t cut it, they’re out. I only work with the best staff in the best hospitals. I teach my residents to do the same.” Marcus Galen smiled. “There’s also a question of research, pushing to stay in the forefront. Research, publishing, the usual hoops academia asks you to jump through.”

  “So why hang out with the meat cutters? Your patients are generally warm… I hope.” This time Maggie smiled.

  “Well, you found me out again, Maggie,” Galen chuckled. “I’m a crime junkie. CSI. Forensic Files. Cold Case. I watch them all. I’ve even done some expert testimony for a few cases around town. I don’t know if you remember the Chelsea case. Anaheim, California.” He waited for Maggie to be impressed.

  “Never heard of it,” Maggie said nonchalantly.

  The surgeon wasn’t expecting that. It threw him. “Really? Well, if the Chicago Police ever need a professional opinion on anything involving the thorax, cardiopulmonary, anything between the neck and the abdomen, please give me a call.”

  Maggie sipped her water slowly.

  “I’ve actually considered taking some courses in forensic pathology,” Galen pressed. “Less pressure when your patient is already dead, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, but if a cop fucks up, more people die. You, on the other hand, just get one pop per customer.” Maggie watched Galen’s pupils dilate as he inhaled. She wondered if it was the swearing or the statement itself that irritated the doctor.

  “Well, I suppose you might have a point there.” Galen twirled a piece of fish on his fork before popping it into his mouth. “I’m wondering, Maggie, is it really true that most homicides are fairly simple to solve?”

  “It’s true that most killers are stupid, Marcus.”

  The doctor’s eyes narrowed just slightly. He didn’t like his first name being used. Maggie would have to do it more.

  “The chick standing over her husband with a bread knife in her hand,” Harley said.

  “Well, doesn’t that have more to do with a lack of planning than intelligence,” Galen countered. “Perhaps they go hand in hand. Don’t you think, Maggie?”

  “So if I premeditate, I’m clever?” Maggie didn’t wait for an answer. “No, Marcus. Sometimes smart people just do dumb things. And sometimes hammerheads come off looking like Einstein just because of sheer fucking luck.” A cringe. Yeah, he definitely didn’t like swearing. Not when Maggie did it, at least.

  “Brille,” Harley said, taking a long drink of Killians.

  “Samuel Brille?” Galen said.

  “Jesus, Marcus, you are a crime geek,” Harley snorted.

  “It was in the Tribune every day for weeks. I just followed it. Like a million other people. The FBI was brought in as well as behavioral specialists. It was a complex case. Clever criminal.”

  “He drew a lot of attention. That’s not the same as being smart,” Maggie answered.

  “I remember they did an extensive profile,” Galen began.

  “Which was wrong,” Maggie cut in. “He wasn’t black, not in his early twenties, no broken home, didn’t drive a late model, dark sedan.”

  “The vehicle of choice for serial killers,” Harley smiled. “Ford should use that in an ad campaign.”

  Maggie nodded. “I’d like to see that commercial.”

  “They could get spokesmen…”

  “So you think profiling is useless,” Marcus said, pulling the conversation back his way. “You know, I’ve talked to some psychologists. Even a behavioral specialist. They use quite an involved analysis.”

  “They use math,” Maggie said. “It’s all just a numbers game.”

  “Well, obviously it can be effective. It seems, I don’t know, somewhat naïve to ignore such a vital aspect of criminology. I’ve read a variety of books…”

  “And I’ve nailed a variety of killers. Which of us do you suppose knows more?”

  There was an uncomfortable silence.

  Harley didn’t mind Maggie skewering Galen. It was nice to see someone put him in his place finally. It was even better to see Maggie back to her old self again. “How ‘bout them Sox,” he said nonchalantly.

  “I didn’t mean any offense,” Galen said. “I just think you are oversimplifying what is a complex and obviously effective tool in solving serious crimes. I’m sure you have your own ways.”

  “Assuming a high portion of serial killers are disorganized - the numbers support that - they can’t hold down a job. No job, no money. No money, no car… or a really cheap car. A late model sedan. Black or blue because it looks cooler and if you’re a guy feeling inadequate, cool counts. No complex procedure. No in-depth analysis.”

  “So you don’t use profiling?” Marcus said.

  “I use good police work,” Maggie answered. “And that’s not just one thing. It’s not the profile. It’s not the evidence. It’s not the witnesses. It’s everything, the whole picture put together. That’s how you catch the bad guy.”

  “But the FBI caught Brille,” Galen said.

  “Bullshit,” Maggie laughed. “Brille had more to do with his arrest than the Feds did.”

  Harley could already see this was going to get ugly. Maggie still was a little ticked about the Brille case. “The guy lifted a car over in Roseland. No one looks at him twice. Except…” Harley points to Maggie.

  “And why was that? Simple police work?” Marcus Galen smiled.

  “A hunch,” she replied honestly.

  “I would expect someone like you to be far too logical to rely on hunches.” Galen fought to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

  “Part of the package,” Maggie said. “Good cops have good hunches.”

  Harley tossed a rib down. “So it’s like a joke. This white collar worker lifting a piece of shit car over in the Deuce. No sane person would step into that area for a junker,” Harley said. “You’d have to be fucking nuts.”

  No cringe with Harley, Maggie noted. In Galen’s world, women weren’t allowed to swear.

  “Maybe he did it for the thrill?” Galen offered.

  “A fucking thrill is popping a ‘66 Jag E. Series 3,” Maggie smiled, sure to hit the second word with extra savor. “Not an ’89 Pontiac. Why go all the way across town to lift a heap when you could just as easily get a better car in a better neighborhood? With fewer cops around. And this guy has no one in Roseland, no family, friends. Nothing.”

  “You checked?”

  “Part of the job,” Maggie said.

  “A stack of cases and you’re off checking out a lifted junker in another Area. Weinstein thought you snapped your cap,” Harley said. “How much did you end up winning off of him? Fifty?”

  “Hundred and fifty.” Maggie remembered it well. She took everyone out to Dugan’s… on Ar
t.

  “So here’s Maggie telling Art that Brille’s little brother used to have a nanny. A black woman,” Harley said.

  “Brille was hitting puberty just when his brother was getting potty trained. His mom hires this woman in her early twenties,” Maggie added.

  “The lady was hot. Brille made moves on her,” the ME chuckled.

  “You talked to the nanny?” Galen asked, keeping his eyes on Maggie.

  “She talked to the nanny,” Harley grinned.

  That’s how the bet got up to a hundred. Art was sure Maggie was reaching a little too far.

  “Now, Brille was what? Forty.”

  “Forty-two,” she said quietly.

  “Anyway, here’s Maggie hauling Weinstein out to talk to this nanny of the brother of this middle-aged guy who stole a piece of shit car from another Area. It was right after Vinnie bit it,” Harley remembered. “One of the first cases you worked with Art.”

  “Yeah,” Maggie nodded. And Art Weinstein made it known he hoped it would be the last. Which is how the bet made it to a hundred and fifty.

  “Anyway, the chick confirms that Brille got too friendly with not only her, but her sister who filled in when she was sick.”

  “And there was enough to indicate some of the friendliness was reciprocated,” Maggie said.

  “She admitted…” Harley began.

  “Implied,” Maggie corrected.

  “So that makes the man a rapist and killer?” Galen asked.

  “No, it makes him a guy on the north side with parents who would rather see him gay than within fifty feet of a black girl.” Maggie popped a piece of gum.

  “Parents found out, shit hit the fan. Chick gets fired. Who knows what they did to the kid.” Harley chomped on a rib.

  “For some people, it means nothing,” Maggie said. “Others…”

  “Fucks them up.” Harley finished her sentence. “Anyway, Maggie gets a judge to let her pull DNA from the guy and bingo. He’s a match. He’s the man. Forty something, white. Good job. Drives a brand new two door, red Lexus. Blew the Feds out of the water.” Harley tossed the bone down.

  “The red Lexus should’ve given it away,” Maggie teased.

  “Art never gave you shit again.”

  “He kept an open mind.”

  Galen leaned in, making himself part of the group. “That wasn’t what was reported.”

  “The mayor’s brother headed the Fed team,” Harley answered. “Thought he’d do a little PR for the family. Mayor brought him in for the slam dunk and the guy bit the big one instead, so they do a little cosmetic surgery. The press feeds everyone the story.”

  “Amazing,” Galen said. “So why did he steal the car?”

  “It was a late model, dark blue sedan,” Maggie said.

  Marcus Galen feigned thought. “He would use the car for his next attack and frame someone else.”

  “Great in theory, but fairly dumb in the real world.” Maggie snapped her gum. “The guy bought his own coffin. There were DNA samples from every victim. We just needed the right match,” Maggie said. “If he wouldn’t have lifted the car, it might’ve taken us another month or two.”

  “Or perhaps he would’ve gotten away,” Galen added.

  “No, we would’ve caught him. It was just a matter of time.” Maggie suddenly felt sweat on the back of her neck. What time was it? She looked out the window in the front of the bar. The sun was setting. Shit.

  “I’ve gotta go.” Her voice was suddenly edgy. “Cake in the oven.”

  “Come on, Maggie, stay. Have a couple with the guys,” Harley pleaded. “Wally would love to see you.”

  “It’s been fun, but I have to get home.” She turned away and reached for her cell phone. It was off. She must’ve hit the button when she jammed it in her bag. As the phone powered on, five messages waited for her. Rayney. Maggie turned away from the men and dialed.

  “Why don’t you persuade your friend to stay?” Galen asked.

  “That’s funny, Marcus,” the ME said, finishing his beer.

  Maggie tried to smile as she turned back. “My ride’s coming.”

  “Your husband?” Marcus probed.

  “Wouldn’t that be something?” Harley smirked.

  “Shut up,” Maggie said. “Look, I’m just gonna wait up front so he doesn’t have to park.” Build in those excuses. Good way to get away from the table so you don’t break down in front of them. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Harley.”

  The sun was just a sliver and the shadows were creeping through the sidewalks and streets. Maggie waited too long. She pulled back her shoulders and hardened her jaw. The impression of strength was just as good as the real thing. It would be okay. Rayney would be there soon. He was already driving when she called.

  “Want some company,” Harley said.

  “No, you stay. Hang out with the Boys. God knows you have no other social life. My ride will be here any minute.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” said Harley.

  “Couldn’t be better,” she lied. “Thanks for dinner.”

  Ed Harley paused for a moment, then leaned down and kissed her on the cheek, lingering longer than he should have. “It’s good to have you back.”

  As he headed to the table, Maggie’s eyes darted around the restaurant. The large open room was dim and getting dimmer every moment. She needed to get out of sight. She couldn’t lose it with everyone watching. The ladies room. No, not with the dark hallway. A door opened and more patrons filed in. There was a street light right in front of the restaurant. All she had to do was make it to the light and wait for Rayney. It was okay if she fell apart outside. No one would notice.

  With her head pounding and stomach lurching, Maggie Quinn stepped out. Less than four yards to the light. Farther than the living room to the kitchen, but she could do it. There was no other option.

  Out into the night.

  Run.

  Keep the steps even. Don’t trip.

  As she moved, the dark nipped at her heels, lapping the sweat from her ankles and legs.

  Steady breath.

  Focus on the light.

  Just a few more steps and she would be there.

  Without warning, something leaped from the shadows and clung to her shoulders. Maggie jumped, then hid the motion by brushing an imaginary bug from her face. The dark clung to her neck, nuzzled in her hair, into her brain.

  Just a few more steps.

  As the rays of light hit, Maggie’s body spasmed. She wanted to throw up. Instead, she swallowed the bile in slow, small gulps as the lamp post held her up. Reaching in her pocket, she fished out a fresh stick of gum.

  Maybe she should go back in the bar. No, that was no good. She probably looked like hell now and there was no telling how much longer she could hold herself together. The dark was pushing against the halo of light surrounding her. Fighting to break in. Maggie held the coat tightly around her.

  “Are you all right, Maggie?”

  She spun to the left. Marcus Galen was standing behind her.

  “I was just heading home and saw you. Long day in surgery.”

  “Really?” Maggie said quickly. She studied the man. He wasn’t going home. He wanted something else. If he didn’t get it, he’d go back in and spend the rest of the night with Harley and the others.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” She nodded and pushed the hair away from her face.

  “Are you sure?” For a moment, he didn’t look like a doctor. For a moment, he looked like he was genuinely concerned. And that cologne. Creed. It smelled like Richard when they still loved each other. And blood. Blood and the smell of Creed.

  “Fine. Just fine,” she said.

  “There’s someth
ing on your lip.”

  She swept her index finger quickly across her mouth and saw the red streak. “I must’ve bit my tongue. Gum.”

  “Here.” Galen pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and reached out for Maggie.

  The hair on her arms jumped to attention. Her heart sped, pumping adrenaline she might need. Something about him was wrong. Instinctively, she pulled away. The sudden movement caught them both by surprise.

  “It’s all right. I’m a trained professional.”

  “I’m fine.” Maggie wondered if she could take him if it came to that. He was a big man, muscular. Probably worked out.

  “Let me get a look at that lip.”

  Not too close, a voice whispered in the back of her hear. Don’t let him get too close.

  Something brushed against the back of her hair. The dark was burrowing, wrapping itself around her neck and cooing in her ear. She must’ve stepped back out of the light. Maggie stayed calm as she pretended to lose balance and pushed herself into the yellow dome of the street lamp and into Marcus Galen.

  The doctor smiled.

  He thinks you’re flirting, Maggie’s brain whispered. And he did. Maggie saw it.

  Marcus Galen pulled her close.

  Too close. She felt his heart beating against her bones. This was why he came out. This was what he was looking for. Maggie pulled away, but he didn’t let go.

  “You really took a bite out,” the surgeon said. “Here.” His hand slid down her neck and tightened slightly as he wiped away the blood.

  Maggie froze as every nerve in her body sparked. She looked up into the doctor’s face, watched his eyes, felt his hand against her throat, her skin analyzing every touch.

  “Hold still.” His right hand tightened more as his left hand moved the handkerchief. “You have a little more right here.”

  Galen’s breath was warm against her skin. Rhythmic, hypnotic. Almost calming. And the smell of his cologne. His cologne and her sweat. And blood. His hand stayed on her throat, then loosened as the palm swept down her neck, barely touching her breast.