Too Dark To Sleep

by Dianne Gallagher

  “What do I… think?”

  “Yeah. What’s your take?”

  “Nick’s asking for your professional assessment,” Maggie said.

  “Yeah,” the detective smiled. “What do you think?”

  The doctor nodded as he thought. “Well, Nick…”

  “Detective Dublowski, if you don’t mind.”

  The smiles were not quite as happy.

  “Detective Dublowski, I believe the man you’re looking for is what you would call a disorganized killer. Clearly mentally unbalanced. He’s crude. Not educated or if he is, he probably isn’t terribly successful.” Galen chose his words carefully. “I don’t know the specifics, so I’m not able to comment much more.”

  Nick nodded and pulled out a thick file. Most of it was junk paper, filler to make it look like someone had been putting in overtime. The important pages were on top.

  “Born in Chicago, 1963. A West Side boy. I’m South Side.”

  “Really?” The doctor’s voice oozed sarcasm.

  “Professional parents, private schools.” Nick paused. “You have any pets when you were growing up?”

  The doctor blinked. “What does that…”

  “Me, I had this big yellow lab. Dumb as a box of hammers. I loved him, though.” Nick smiled. “How about you?”

  Maggie and Nick both knew the answer. So did Galen.

  “I don’t… my parents didn’t let me keep pets.” The doctor shifted in the chair. “Can we get on with this. I have a schedule?”

  “Sure.” Nick nodded as he sifted through papers. “My friend Jake Forsyth broke out in a rash every time he got near anything with fur. Cats, dogs, even hamsters.” Nick looked up. “He’d come to my place to play with the dog, then go home red and bumpy. You like dogs, Dr. Galen?”

  Maggie watched as the surgeon shifted again. He’s telling himself we can’t know. He’s telling himself it’s just a coincidence.

  Marcus Galen swallowed and looked up at Quinn. She smiled. He didn’t. They couldn’t know. There’s no way. Those records were expunged. The police were bluffing. Trying to get him to say something. “I can’t really say.”

  Nick’s smile faded. “Really? Hmmm. That’s interesting.” He flipped more pages. “Me? I like big dogs. The old lady who lived next door liked ankle biters. Little, fluffy dogs.”

  “Do you mind, Detective?” Galen’s teeth ground together. “As I said, I have a schedule.”

  “Right, right.” Nick made some notes.

  Marcus felt his body tense. What was he writing? A note about the dogs. But there was no way. He was only twelve and it was logged as a minor offense. Two dogs. And they were small… small and old. No one cared. No one did anything more than feed them and leave them outside all day. No one cared about them. Even if the police did find out, there was no way anyone could use what happened when he was a child.

  Nick finally finished writing and reviewed the papers again.

  “So then you started moving around all over. Graduated Harvard, 1981, medical degree. Residency at City of Hope in Duarte, CA. It’s supposed to be nice out there. Did you surf or anything?”

  Maggie bit her lip.

  “No. I did not.”

  “Let’s see. You graduated, 1994 with a degree in cardiac surgery. Chairman’s Award, Department of Surgery. Outstanding Student, St. John’s Medical Center. Outstanding Achievement as a Chief Resident. Robert E. Gross Research Scholarship.”

  Galen’s face glowed as Nick Dublowski clicked off the awards listed on the sheet. Maggie knew what the doctor was thinking. Someone pulled his curriculum vitae. His list of accomplishments. She waited for the other shoe to drop.

  “Oh, and there’s that second place in the Vascular Ana… Ana-sto-mo-sis Competition.”

  Galen froze.

  That wasn’t on your CV, was it, you arrogant fuck. Maggie smiled.

  “Turned down for the editorial board of The Journal of Cardiac Surgery. Lost a position as chief of Cardiac Surgery at…”

  “I get the idea, Detective. You did your research.”

  Marcus glared at Maggie Quinn and remembered her words. Dissecting his life. That’s what she was doing. Digging up every sin, minor or mortal. Even those involving two small dogs. She suspected him. Maggie Quinn thought he was the killer.

  “Where did your wife get this earring?” Dublowski asked, holding up the small sapphire.

  “How did you…” Galen couldn’t finish the sentence. A storm was gathering inside the doctor. Maggie saw it. He was going to blow.

  Dublowski saw it too and dove in for the kill. “After you took it off Sarah Dougall? After you strangled her?”

  Bad move, Maggie screamed to herself. Pull back. He’s going in too hard. Sounding like a TV cop, not a real cop. Galen would shut down.

  The doctor stared silently at Maggie. His face was blank as he wrote a new script. Maggie waited for Dublowski to continue. He was giving Galen too much time. He needed to jump on him, keep him talking.

  “Do you want a lawyer?” Dublowski asked suddenly.

  A loaded question and Galen knew it. The good doctor wasn’t going to cry uncle. No relief pitcher yet. Maggie was sure of that. Marcus Galen was probably telling himself that he could walk away from this. He would win because he was smarter. Certainly smarter than Detective Nick Dublowski.

  “Doc? You need that lawyer?” Dublowski asked, trying not to sound flustered. The guy was ready to blow a moment before, now he was the picture of calm. Jesus, Nick wanted to kick himself. He went in too hard and then pulled back too much. “Doc? Lawyer?”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary. I purchased it at Mazetti’s off of Michigan Avenue.” The surgeon seemed genuinely puzzled. He saw Quinn smile as she leaned over and whispered something. The detective nodded and left the room. “What’s he doing?”

  Maggie scribbled on some paper, then thumbed through her notebook. She took time to note a few things as they sat in silence. Galen hated silence. He wanted to talk. He wanted to talk to her.

  “He’s checking the store,” Marcus said, nodding with confidence. “They don’t always keep the best records, you know.”

  Maggie remained silent.

  “Very clever to make me think I was being consulted instead of being arrested.”

  “You aren’t arrested. Didn’t you hear the detective?”

  “Detective? He’s an idiot. You must be getting desperate, Maggie. Saddled with this… this fool. Made to work with those less skilled. Hours and hours answering asinine questions. Explaining every detail, every step in the process. And no suspect to show for all your work. No evidence. It must be frustrating. Failure is very difficult for you, isn’t it?”

  He was waiting for Maggie to fire back, but she didn’t. She didn’t because that’s exactly what Marcus Galen wanted. And he was dangerous when he got what he wanted.

  “I’m not exactly sure why you would even suspect me. Really, it makes no sense. Perhaps there was some, I don’t know, connection between us. Maybe I hit a nerve when we talked about your ... incident. You’re angry with me, that’s all.” His voice was placating. “I understand.”

  The doctor was pushing all the buttons. Maggie resisted, slowed her breathing, loosened her jaw, and scribbled more notes.

  “What sort of lies did you tell them?” Galen pushed.

  Silence.

  “It is completely futile to set up someone like me. You must know that. My job, my lifestyle, my status in the community. It won’t add up. Look at it logically, Maggie. You’re making a huge mistake because you’re desperate. You’re failing.” The surgeon’s jaw tightened. “You have no evidence.”

  Her eyes sliced Marcus Galen open. “There’s always evidence.”

  “No, there isn’t.”<
br />
  She heard the words in her mind, but did Galen actually speak them. Had anyone but Maggie heard? It didn’t matter. She leaned in. This time the closeness made her adversary uncomfortable. “You fucked up, Marcus.” She kept her voice small, focused. No one other than Marcus Galen would know what she said. “You fucked up and you know it. Everyone knows it.”

  They stared at each other. Maggie could smell his cologne. Creed. She heard his heart quicken, then slow. He blinked.

  “I need to call my wife.”

  That was Nick’s cue.

  “Okay then, where were we?” the detective said as he entered.

  Galen glared at Maggie. “I would like to contact my wife.”

  “Yeah, well, you can talk with her as soon as she’s done next door,” Nick said calmly.

  “What?”

  “She’s just answering a few questions with Detective Weinstein.”

  “My old partner,” Maggie smiled.

  She wasn’t sure what pissed Galen off the most. That they hauled his wife in or that Maggie’s old partner, obviously the more seasoned detective, was with Rebecca and he had been assigned Dublowski.

  “You have no right.”

  Marcus Galen was on his feet, eyes on Maggie. His face was red as he stepped toward her. Maggie took a step in to meet him. It was coming. The fuck-up. It would be big and everyone would see it. Maggie took another step to make the trip even easier.

  “Get your ass in that seat before I put it there for you,” Dublowski snarled, his hand on Galen’s chest. He pulled his shoulders back and looked into the doctor’s eyes. Fearless. Marcus Galen froze. So did Maggie.

  Jesus Christ. The one time Maggie wanted Dublowski to do nothing and he couldn’t. He had to be the hero. If Galen would’ve gotten physical with her, it would’ve been all over. That was the play she was waiting for.

  “Sit down,” Nick growled.

  “You have no right to treat me like this. Me or my wife. This is a witch hunt, plain and simple. You two are so obvious. So ridiculous…”

  “Let’s talk about this killing next,” Dublowski interrupted as he laid out the same photos Maggie brought with to their last meeting.

  Galen pushed the photos aside and turned away like a child building up a really good pout. “I don’t know a thing about Sarah Dougall.”

  Marcus Galen just made his mistake.

  “How did you know this was Sarah Dougall?” Nick asked. “There’s no face, no name anywhere.”

  Maggie never mentioned any names. The photo she showed Galen was a torso only, no face. The same photo Nick showed the surgeon now.

  “I was just…”

  “How did you know?” Nick interrupted.

  Galen glared at the detective. How dare this punk question him like this. How dare he. And Quinn. Like stone. She was completely shut off. That’s not how it’s supposed to be, Marcus thought. He was a cardiac surgeon. A respected man.

  Push him now, Maggie wanted to yell. She was about to pick up the slack when the words were spoken and the moment missed.

  “I want my lawyer.”

  It was over.

  Marcus Galen cried uncle much sooner than anyone in the room expected. He was playing it safe. The three sat in silence.

  “Okay,” Nick finally said. “I’ll get the man a phone.”

  “You’re making a big mistake,” Galen whispered after Dublowski left.

  “Tell your relief pitcher.”

  The doctor was about to reply, but it was too late. Maggie Quinn was gone.

  “Make damn sure we have photos of all his wife’s jewelry before it leaves this office. We may not get to see it again for a while,” the chief barked as he came out of the observation room. “Ray, when those pictures are done, check out Cramer and Rosenberg to see if the parents recognize any of the pieces. Just because it didn’t make it on the list doesn’t mean the victims didn’t own it.” Tierney smiled as Maggie approached. “He knew Sara Dougall.”

  “He knew his work.”

  They let Galen’s wife sit longer than the twenty minutes Art promised. It didn’t matter. Unlike her husband, Rebecca Harding could easily stay in one place and do nothing.

  “So, Mrs. Galen…” Art began.

  “Harding,” she replied. “Marcus thought it best if I kept my name when we got married.”

  “Okay,” Weinstein said.

  “I’m a psychologist. I already had a well-established lecture circuit when I married Marcus. It didn’t make sense to change it. It would just confuse matters. Changing my name.”

  “Sure,” he smiled.

  “Name recognition is very important in my field. It implies trust.”

  “Right.” Art nodded.

  “Detective, if you could please tell me why I’m here.”

  “It’s about your husband.”

  “What, what’s happened to him? Is he all right? Has he been hurt?”

  “We’re questioning him about a couple of cases under investigation. We need information about any jewelry your husband gave you.”

  Art Weinstein was expecting tears, expecting denial.

  “Before we go any further,” Rebecca Harding said. “I would like to talk to Morris Pavlak, our lawyer.”

  Shit, Pavlak. Maggie snapped her gum as she watched Art work from behind the glass. Richard went to law school with Morris Pavlak. The guy was master of the paper chase and could shoot down any medical malpractice suit at twenty paces. But could he handle criminal law… or would Galen bring in even bigger guns? It didn’t matter. With lawyers in the mix, nothing would be happening for hours. Maggie needed air. She’d been around too many cops for too long. She dialed Rayney.

  “I’m waiting out front.” Rayney’s voice was tense. “Are you ready to go home?”

  “Yeah, pretty soon.”

  “How did it go?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Maggie was deadly silent on the ride. Was she missing anything? Did Galen really cry uncle or did he have a plan? After swallowing some meatloaf and mashed potatoes, Rayney convinced her to play a few rounds of his favorite game.

  “Battleship?” Maggie smirked.

  “What the fuck’s wrong with Battleship. It’s a cool game. I always wanted it when I was a kid.”

  “And now you’ve got it.”

  “Shut up and play.”

  He flipped open the box, grabbed one of the cases and set up his board. Maggie was hesitant to touch the game. The last time she played was with Erin. She could smell the scent of her child rise from the plastic.

  “Are you waiting for an invitation?” Rayney grinned. “Or are you just scared.”

  Maggie let out a breath and placed her own ships in the water. Some randomly, some in a pattern.

  “Okay, I’m starting,” Rayney smiled with genuine enthusiasm. “B5.”

  The trick to most games was not figuring out how to defeat your opponent, but understanding just how your opponent intended to defeat you. Maggie already knew a great deal about Antoine Rayney. He never gave up. They always played to the last dollar of Monopoly and the last man in Risk as if some monumental strategy would fall into place and he would reclaim dominance in one fell swoop. Overall, he was cautious. Didn’t like to put everything on the line. He never bet the bank and, as she knew, never bluffed.

  Rayney’s tragic flaw was that he considered himself a superior gamesman. In many ways, he was. He was entertaining. Always made Maggie laugh. Was completely committed to the game. There was a colorful mastery of language. Antoine Rayney was definitely someone you wanted to blow time with. Unfortunately, these were not the qualities Rayney saw. Rather, he considered himself a player of vast strategic skill. This might have made him an excellent adversary… if he actually use
d all the tricks he said he had. Which led to the second lethal flaw. Rayney believed he knew everything about Maggie Quinn and built his approach around that belief. Huge mistake.

  “You’re trying too hard,” Maggie pointed out after Rayney’s third straight loss.

  The young man stared at the board and the red pegs impaling his seafaring vessels.

  “I can’t play when you’re talking,” he whispered.

  “You can’t play when I’m not talking either.”

  “Shut up,” he grumbled.

  Maggie yawned as she stretched. “You’re being predictable. You think I’ll always play logically, so you try to throw me by taking a radical approach. Like putting all your ships on the perimeter.”

  He looked at the tiny gray ships following each other around the edge of his board. Rayney shook his head. “You got lucky.”

  “Bullshit.” She knew him. His habits, his idiosyncrasies, the way he ate, books he read, the TV shows he watched. It all added up. “Put your pieces on again and I’ll tell you where they are.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Scared?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “I’ll even turn my back.”

  Rayney hesitated. “What do I get out of it?”

  “What do you want?”

  The young man smiled. “You sleep. At night. Two weeks.”

  Maggie stared at the board.

  “Scared?” he taunted.

  “Okay,” Maggie answered quickly. She turned around, focusing on her feet, ears open. “Ready?” she asked after a couple of minutes.

  “No.”

  He was thinking too hard or just trying to make her believe he was thinking too hard. Don’t over-analyze, Maggie told herself.

  “Okay,” he finally said.

  She turned to the stone-faced man and took a moment to study him. “The majority of your ships are around the perimeter. Again. The smallest ship is in the middle of the board just to fuck me up.” She paused, looking at his face, his hands, the way he sat. “The battleship is in your left hand.”