Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 2

by J. T. Ellison

  She wrote Condition to return, which cheered them all up.

  “Tell her what she wants to hear, and you’ll be back to us before you know it,” Marcus said.

  She had every intention of doing just that, but not in the way Marcus was suggesting. There was no way, no way in hell, she was going to let anyone inside her head. Especially the shrink who she’d have to pass in the halls and say hello to in the coffee room every day.

  The boys didn’t need to know that. She smiled and nodded, rolling her eyes for emphasis. They all laughed.

  “That’s good, because we need you back. We’re up to our ears in work. We’re catching extras while Special Crimes deals with the Regretful Robber cases. They’re all kinds of tied up, have almost all their manpower looking for him.”

  Over the past several weeks, there had been a spate of bank robberies in the Metro area, all very carefully orchestrated by someone who seemed to know exactly how to cover his tracks. He wore a mask, used stolen cars, and carried a mean .40 Glock 21 that he wasn’t afraid to use. A few weeks ago out in Hermitage, he’d shot a hole in the ceiling of a U.S. Bank when the teller took too long getting him his money.

  But in a twist worthy of Robin Hood, he returned the stolen vehicles to their rightful owners in the dead of night, with a small cash bonus inside. Hence his name inside the CJC: the Regretful Robber. Thank God that hadn’t leaked to the press yet.

  McKenzie chimed in. “Without you guiding the ship, things get a little crazy around here. We’ve got a new sergeant who’s a complete dick. Thinks he owns the world. He’s always pushing us off in the wrong direction.”

  Lincoln chimed in, using a dopey voice. “‘This isn’t an assault, it’s a matter of record. Close the case.’ We’re gonna get creamed in the media if they ever find out. They’re trying to cook the numbers again, make it look like the assault rates have dropped. You should see what they’re doing in Sex Crimes. Driving us all crazy.”

  Tell Huston

  Lincoln nodded. “We did. She’s fighting it for us, but the chief made new guidelines again. Rumor has it he has a job offer. Supposedly, he’ll be gone by Christmas, which is going to make an even bigger mess. When someone from the outside starts looking at these figures, we’re all going to come under fire.”

  He shook a sheaf of papers at her, and she shook her head.

  I won’t let that happen.

  Marcus sat back at his desk. “Wish Fitz would come back. Have you talked to him?”

  She shook her head. She wanted Fitz back, too, though she didn’t see how either of them would manage to lead, between her lack of a voice and his lack of spirit. Fitz had lost too much, and Taylor didn’t know if he was going to recover. She’d tried going to see him, but they’d ended up sitting in silence until Fitz’s one good eye started to leak, and she knew that when he looked at her, all he could think about was the Pretender, and what he’d taken away from them all. She was waiting for him to reach out; pushing herself on the people whom she loved but who were not thrilled with her had gotten too hard. Between Fitz and Sam, the blame lay squarely at her feet, and right now, forgiveness was too much to ask of them. She understood that completely. She wasn’t ready to forgive herself, either.

  They chatted a bit more, catching up, until Renn asked, “What time’s your sit-down with Victoria?” He was the only one of them who willingly saw the shrink. He had his own battles and demons—coming from the goth world, being gay, losing his fiancée to suicide over his doubts about his sexuality, fighting for respect amongst his peers—all of this had led him to mighty introspection. He and Willig were big buddies.

  Taylor glanced at her watch, the gold-and-silver Tag Heuer Baldwin had given her for her birthday. She bolted upright—she was going to be late.

  Lincoln grabbed his leather portfolio with his notes. “I’ll walk you, I need to get over to the courthouse. Judge Oscar will wring my neck if I don’t present my glorious self on time.”

  Taylor hugged Marcus and Renn goodbye, agreed to dinner soon, and let Lincoln escort her from the room. Just spending some time with the guys made her feel immeasurably better. Lincoln kept up a cheery discourse while they walked, and Taylor felt damn near normal for the first time in weeks. Benedict was right, getting back into the swing of things would help. She could feel the words bubbling in the back of her throat, just ready to spill out.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  At the door to Willig’s office, Lincoln bussed her on the cheek and left her, poised and ready to embark on yet another journey to regain herself.

  She stood there for a minute, staring at the frosted glass. Dr. Willig was a good woman, smart and compassionate. Taylor would have to let her in, at least a little bit, if this was going to work. She took a deep breath and opened the door.

  Willig was engrossed in a book, her stocking feet up on the corner of her desk, calmly munching an apple as she read. It took her a second to notice Taylor. She dropped the book onto her desk and sat upright with a smothered exclamation.

  “Lieutenant, I’m so sorry. I was reading.” She pointed at the book, blushed a bit at stating the obvious. “My little sister’s latest book comes out Tuesday, and I’m playing catch-up before I read the new one.” She handed the book to Taylor. It was called The Orchid Affair, by Lauren Willig.

  Pretty cover. I never figured you for a romantic, Victoria.

  “Night and day, my mother always called us. I’m much too empirical to be a writer, and she’s much too creative to be a doctor.”

  Taylor smiled. She’d always wanted a sister. Sam had filled the role of surrogate since they were five. Sam had always treated her the same way. Treachery, truly it was, for Taylor to let such a horrid fate befall her best friend. She gulped back a cry of sheer frustration as Willig watched.

  “You know, if screaming will help, the office is basically soundproof. I can’t imagine anyone would mind.”

  Taylor gave it serious consideration before dropping into a chair in front of Willig’s desk. It wouldn’t work anyway. She’d been trying. At home, on the back deck, where only the squirrels and beer bottles were there to hear her, not even there. Nothing. She was stuck with mumbling her Ms and the occasional laugh.

  “Fine. I’ll do the talking. Dr. Benedict told me about the deal he made with you. He’s a dodgy one, I’d be careful.” She said it with a smile. She obviously liked the man.

  As Willig talked, she moved around the room, assembling a tray of materials. Taylor watched expectantly. Willig was pretty in an unconventional way, dark tumbling hair that she swept back over her shoulders, eyes spaced too far apart, a thin gold chain with a delicate cross around her slender neck. She wore a subtle perfume and dressed well, in a brown cashmere wrap and green corduroy trousers. Sober and inviting all at the same time, like a forest. Depth and breadth unknown, but on the surface quite striking.

  Taylor truly didn’t know what to expect, and when Willig locked the door, sat down across from her and showed her the tray, she became even more confused. There was what looked like a Walkman, with a headset and two pods.

  “It’s for EMDR,” Willig said. “We’re going to rewire your brain.”

  *

  EMDR—Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing, Willig explained—was painless. She ran through the procedure. At its most basic, EMDR used several kinds of cognitive therapies to heal the unseen wounds of trauma victims.

  “We have a lot of success using this on PTSD. The more we actively utilize the specific methodology, the more we can blur the lines of anxiety in your mind. We’ll interlace the moments of fear with moments you control, happy thoughts, and literally desensitize you. It works wonders. I’ve used it to treat several PTSD patients, with great success.”

  Taylor started to shake her head, but the doctor cut her off. “Seriously, Lieutenant, you’ve got classic symptoms of PTSD. There is nothing to be ashamed of. Post-traumatic stress disorder affects millions. It’s not reserved for abuse victims or soldiers. Car accide
nts, intense illness—anything and everything can trigger it. For you, getting shot in the head by a serial killer who’d planned to do much worse, this is rather uncomplicated. You nearly died. It’s a miracle you didn’t. It’s a miracle that your brain seems okay, physically. You just can’t talk now because you’re scared.”

  Taylor wasn’t liking this. She wasn’t scared. Hurt, angry, frustrated, yes, but scared? Hell no. She stood up, tossed the pods back onto the tray. They fell with a short bump. She’d missed her target and they sprawled on the floor like black worms.

  “Come on, Lieutenant. I thought you wanted to get better. If that’s going to happen, we’re going to have to be honest with each other.” Her voice softened. “There is nothing to be ashamed of.”

  She searched Taylor’s eyes with her own, was apparently satisfied with what she saw. Willig gestured for Taylor to take her seat. Taylor breathed deep, closed her eyes, and sat. Let Willig think what she wanted, all Taylor really cared about was getting back to normal. And if that meant letting Willig think she was afraid, so be it.

  “Good. Thank you. I’m going to ask a lot of you today, and over the course of our sessions. We’re going to go places you aren’t going to want to go, but that’s how this works. You’ll relive the situation, and using my voice and eye movements coupled with both auditory and tactile sensations, we’re going to rework your thought process. There are several steps, and we’ll take it gradually. I’m almost one hundred percent convinced that this will work, but you’re going to have to let it. Okay?”

  Taylor nodded. There were about a million things she’d rather do than relive the situation. God, she wished everyone would stop calling it that.

  “I’ve reviewed the details of the case, but there are parts that I don’t know. Dr. Baldwin typed up his recollections for me, so I’m there from his perspective. But I’m going to need you to do some homework, too. I need to know everything that happened in that attic. When I can recreate the scene for you, then I’ll be able to guide you through it, help you detach and let go. Are you willing to write it all down for me?”

  Taylor had already written an account of that afternoon’s events. She’d had to explain to Baldwin the few moments that led up to the shooting, try to make him understand how she’d managed to get herself shot.

  She had the write-up in her notebook. She pulled it from her back pocket, opened to the right page and handed it over.

  “Oh, fantastic. Give me a second here.” Willig’s eyes moved quickly across the page, moments of recognition showing here and there as Taylor’s version matched what she’d read from Baldwin’s case notes.

  Why wouldn’t it? She’d given him what he wanted to hear, too. She’d glossed over some of the details, but no one needed to know that.

  After a few minutes, Willig shut the notebook and handed it back, looking thoughtful. Respect and compassion shone in her eyes. “Wow.”

  Yes, wow. That about summed it up.

  “Okay then. Are you ready?” she asked.

  As I’ll ever be.

  Taylor put on the headset, settled the two pods in her palms and grasped them carefully. She felt like an idiot, all wired up like this, but she was willing to do most anything to get herself back up to snuff, so whatever Willig had planned, she was going to try her best to comply.

  “This is just a quick test that makes sure everything is running properly.”

  Taylor jumped a mile as the headset and pods came to life. Her ears were filled with pings, and the pods in her hands pulsed in time. Left, right, left, right, left, right, metronomic, perfectly in time with the ponging in her ears. After the initial sensation, she relaxed.

  “Perfect,” Willig said. “Everything is in working order. Okay, Taylor. I want you to think of a place that’s very safe. A place where you feel completely at home, where you can let your guard down. Someplace that is strictly about you and your happiness. It can be a memory, or a physical spot. That’s where you’re going to be spending some time, so pick something that’s very strong, very immediate for you.”

  Someplace I feel safe?

  Taylor had to think about that for a moment. Home was out, though that normally qualified. Right now it was too intertwined with Baldwin, and that brought mixed emotions. Her cabin in the woods, the place she’d lived before she met Baldwin—that was good. But ruined by the events that forced her to move out. No, neither of those would work.

  Unbidden, a memory rose to the surface. She was eight, gangly and awkward, with slightly buck teeth and freckles, her long hair wrestled into submission in a single braid down her back. She was at camp, a whole summer away from home, and while the other campers were sad and lonely for their parents, she felt a kind of freedom she didn’t fully understand. She rode horses for the first time, and fished in the lake. Attended bonfires and had a mad crush on a boy much older, thirteen, from the neighboring cabin. Scandalous. Just thinking about it suffused her with joy, and she felt the corners of her lips rise.

  Willig nodded. “Excellent, I see you have it. Let it fill you. Let yourself remember the happiness. Focus on how good that feels, to be happy, and safe. Now, we’re going to go back to the moment you entered the room and saw Sam tied to the chair. Think about what you saw, how you felt. I want you to rate your emotions on a scale of one to ten. Give a numerical valuation to how you feel right now, thinking about it.”

  Taylor’s mind was shoved back to reality, to the vision of her best friend handcuffed to a chair, tears streaming down her face as blood ran over her stomach and dripped onto her legs. She held up four fingers on each hand. Eight. High enough to reveal her fear, not enough to feel too far out of control.

  The pulsing started in her palms.

  “What did you feel when you saw her, Taylor?”

  Fury. Anger. Hurt. Fear. No, no, no, no. Something else under all that.

  She let the emotions wash over her, felt her throat constrict. Willig kept up a soothing instructional flow, having Taylor watch her finger as it moved in front of her face, back and forth. She guided Taylor’s thoughts through the attic room, to the chair, looking down on Sam from above, to the actions that allowed her to be freed. As Sam, intact and liberated, left the imaginary room, she glanced back with imploring eyes. Taylor tensed, and Willig told her to shut her eyes and think about her happy place.

  The intensity of the ponging increased, wiping out all other noise, and her hands began to tingle. She thought about camp, about that horse she learned to ride on named Tonto, about how ridiculous she thought the name was, but couldn’t help herself, his velvety nose was so sweet and he loved carrots….

  “Okay, Taylor. Come on back to me now.”

  Taylor opened her eyes. She was exhausted, and slightly relieved.

  “How do you feel? Rate the emotions again, on the one to ten scale,” Willig said.

  She thought about it. Maybe a six?

  “Mmm…mokay.” Taylor said. Wow, was her voice working? She tried a few more words, but nothing came. Damn it.

  “It’s okay, Taylor. You did great. We’re already seeing progress. EMDR is a wonder tool, and you’re responding to it well. We’ll go deeper tomorrow. But think about Sam now. Think about that moment in the attic. Does it hurt as much?”

  She thought about it in astonishment. It was still there, the searing, awful pain of her friend’s hurt, but the sharp edges that tried to control her were muddled a little bit. Wow. She had to admit, that was impressive. She smiled at Willig, who smiled back.

  “We’ll go through every step of that afternoon, and I promise you, we’ll get you back to normal in no time.”

  Taylor hoped so. She stood and shook Willig’s hand. She couldn’t get over the sensation in her palms, and her ears were ringing. She pointed to her left ear and Willig smiled.

  “Yeah, it might ring a bit for an hour or so. Just promise me this: if you have flashbacks of the day you were shot, revert yourself to the happy place. Don’t go trying to sort things out on your ow
n. I’ll help you get through this, Lieutenant.”

  Willig sounded so earnest Taylor couldn’t help but smile. She wrote How long? on her notepad, and Willig said, “Give me four sessions, then we’ll revisit. We can meet three times a week. Can you come back tomorrow? I like to overload you the first few times. Next visit we’ll jump in faster, and go deeper. Okay?”

  Taylor grabbed her notebook.

  Can anyone provide this kind of treatment?

  Willig knit her brows for a moment. “Any qualified therapist who’s been trained. It’s not as uncommon a therapy as it was several years ago. Why, you thinking about cheating on me already?”

  Might be going away for a bit. Just checking.

  “Okay. See you tomorrow.”

  Taylor nodded, and mouthed, “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure, Lieutenant. This is what I do best.”

  Taylor left Willig smiling in the middle of her office and went to meet Baldwin at the CJC’s entrance. All in all, she felt good about her chances of making it back. The EMDR had helped a bit.

  She wondered, though, how much Willig would be willing to help if she found out the whole truth about that day.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Sam pulled herself together and finished the afternoon’s work. She needed to talk to someone. She didn’t have many friends; it was hard to keep folks on her side when they found out she cut up dead people for a living. No matter how politely they tried to incorporate it into conversation, they eventually came to see her as a ghoul. She was used to it now. She tended to have people around who understood why she’d chosen to become a pathologist.

  She and Taylor came from the same world: wealth and privilege. But unlike Taylor’s incendiary home life, Sam’s parents had loved her to the point of smothering. They were gone now, both dead much too soon, her father of liver cancer, her mother, Sam was fully convinced, of a broken heart, less than four months later. She missed them—their enthusiastic encouragement, their grounding force.

  Her father had been an inventor, with an engineering degree under his belt and multiple patents, though he rarely would discuss what they were. He’d had something to do with the modern electrical plug and some little gadget Sam barely understood. Her mother used to have a glass of wine at parties and intimate that his inventions were in every house in the world. It had made him millions on top of his already hefty trust fund.