Judgment

by Carey Baldwin

  He grunted. “Maybe. Now then, tell me everything you know about Judd Kramer.”

  She narrowed her eyes at Spense, who knew perfectly well she couldn’t violate doctor-­patient privilege. But, perhaps he thought she was too doped up to remember her ethical and legal responsibilities toward Kramer. Or perhaps her ill-­considered motherfucker remark had given him the impression she didn’t care about the accused man’s rights, which she certainly did, no matter how repulsive she found the guy.

  “I’ll answer your questions about what happened in the courthouse that day, but I can’t talk to you about my interviews with Kramer. Besides, at least in this instance, he’s a victim, not the perpetrator.”

  Like her, Kramer had been targeted by a killer, and victimology, analyzing the victims and what they had in common with each other, would likely be key to profiling and apprehending the shooter. She knew that, but she couldn’t violate privilege, even if she wanted to. Not unless Kramer posed an imminent threat to others, and since he was currently in police custody, he did not. “Why is there a policeman outside my door?” she asked, changing the subject and suspecting she wasn’t going to like the answer. It’d been bothering her for a while now, but she never seemed to stay awake long enough to ask the question.

  “I was just about to get to that, Caity. You may still be in danger. These hits were organized . . . surgical. This wasn’t the crazed act of some lunatic who decided to wreak havoc in the courthouse and go out in a blaze of glory.”

  In her sedated condition, she hadn’t had time to process what little information she’d been given about the shootings. A gray, queasy feeling came over her. Talking as much to herself as to Spense, she recounted the facts as she understood them. “There were four victims. Kramer and his deputy escort were shot just outside the courthouse, Baumgartner and myself inside. But no one else was harmed. The shooter made a facile escape . . . suggesting the attacks were well planned.”

  Spense waited, giving her time to soak it all in and come to her own conclusions.

  “The deputy who was shot was probably collateral damage. Not a true target. Kramer was the primary, in my opinion,” she said.

  “One hundred percent—­I agree. Kramer was the primary target, and Baumgartner was probably hit because he was defending him. The easy explanation is that a vigilante or vigilantes wanted to administer their own brand of justice,” Spense responded.

  “What does Kramer remember about the attack? Can he describe the shooter?”

  “Claims he doesn’t remember a damn thing. But I think he’s holding out—­hoping to exchange information for some kind of plea deal. A Maricopa County sheriff’s deputy and a well-­respected attorney were shot and killed. Kramer knows any information leading to the arrest of the UNSUB is valuable currency.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. He was adamant with me he didn’t want any deals. Nothing short of an acquittal was what he was after.” She glanced through the window at the uniformed officer sitting just outside her door. No doubt one was posted outside Kramer’s room, too. Her guard might have been assigned for her own protection, but she hated knowing her every move was being scrutinized. In a way, she felt like a prisoner herself. “I know your theory is that the shooter was a vigilante. But maybe, like the deputy who was killed, I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I happened to be in conference with Baumgartner, but I wasn’t on Kramer’s defense team. In fact, I was telling Baumgartner not to call me to the stand when . . .”

  “It’s possible you were collateral damage. I’ll grant you that much. But public perception is that you’re on Kramer’s side. Not to mention the fact that you’ve testified on behalf of other men—­”

  “Innocent men who were later acquitted. I testified on behalf of innocent men. Isn’t that what you mean to say?”

  “I’m not here to get into a political debate with you. I’m only saying public perception is that you’re a bleeding heart and that you’re on Kramer’s team.”

  “So now I’m a bleeding heart just because I believe in respecting the constitutional rights of individuals. I realize that’s a tough concept for you to grasp, but—­”

  “What the hell, Caity? I have respect for the suspect’s rights. You make me sound like I make a habit of running over ­people, and that’s just not true.”

  “What about the Hanson case? Are you going to claim you didn’t lie to Craig Hanson in order to get a confession out of him?”

  “Craig Hanson was guilty, and as you know, it’s legal to lie to a suspect.”

  “It may be legal, Spense, but it’s not ethical. There is a difference.”

  Spense squeezed his eyes shut, as if gathering his control, and she scooted back, realizing she’d worked her way so close to the edge of the bed, she was about to fall off. He was right about one thing—­this was not the time for a political debate. She counted to ten. “Anyway, my point is I was not in actuality part of Kramer’s team, and I have no intention of testifying on his behalf.”

  He rubbed his forehead, then squared his gaze with hers. “Good to know you’re on our side for a change.”

  “I’m not on anyone’s side—­unless truth is a side. In which case, I’m on that one.” Her voice went up an octave. “I don’t believe there’s any ongoing danger to me. Kramer was the real target. If you want to keep a guard outside my door for now, fine. But once I’m home, I don’t want a protective detail. I’m not going to live my life in fear.” Breathless, she paused. The exertion of sitting up on her own and the strain of battling with Spense had tired her out. Hopefully, it was mostly the drugs that made her so weak. Once they were out of her system, she knew she’d feel stronger.

  “About that. I’d rather you not go directly home once you’re released.”

  “Excuse me?” He’d spoken as if he were a parent, telling a wayward child what was good for her. She didn’t care if her resentment came through in her tone or not.

  “Don’t cop an attitude until you hear me out. The locals have invited me in on the courthouse shootings since it’s a big case, and I’m already in town to testify at Kramer’s trial—­it was my profile that helped the police zero in on Kramer in the first place. The Bureau’s placed me in a nice apartment for my stay in Phoenix. I’ve got an extra bedroom, and building security’s tight. I think it’d be best for you to bunk with me until we can be sure the danger’s passed. It’d be an informal arrangement, but you’d be safe, and it would give us a chance to—­”

  “Bunk with you? Are you suggesting I’d be under your protection after I’m released from the hospital?”

  “I said I have an extra bedroom. You need protection. I need your expertise and your inside information on Kramer . . . and Baumgartner, too, for that matter.”

  “Sorry, but I don’t want to bunk with you, and you can’t force me to accept your protection, informal or otherwise.”

  “Sure I can. You’re a material witness to a major crime, and as such you will remain under my personal supervision until we catch the bad guys. Unless of course, you prefer a jail cell, but my place is more comfortable, and those prison phones are teeming with germs.”

  The tension in her back and shoulders ratcheted up a notch. Spense’s threat might be an empty one, but it brought back the feelings of helplessness she’d experienced when her father had been carted off to jail for something he didn’t do. Only she wasn’t helpless anymore. Pissed was more like it. And the resulting adrenaline surge not only amped up her energy, it cleared her brain. “You’re bluffing. No way can you lock me up under the material-­witness act. I’m cooperating fully, and I’m not a flight risk. I hereby formally wave the bullshit flag.”

  “You may not be a flight risk, but you could wind up dead without protection, then you wouldn’t be able to testify just the same as if you’d fled. So you make the call. You wanna roll the dice that I can’t persuade a judge to lock you up for you
r own safety, or make the sensible, voluntary decision to let me protect you? You’re the best hope we have of finding this guy, Caity. You’re an eyewitness, not to mention you’ve spent hours interviewing Kramer about his deep, dark secrets, and that could help lead us to the individual who is so determined to see Kramer dead, he doesn’t mind taking innocent folks out with him in the process. Think what a great team we’ll make. You’ve got the fancy education, and I’ve got the street smarts. You have to admit, you’re sort of the yin to my yang.”

  She was pretty sure she didn’t have to admit any such thing, and her blood, if not boiling, was at the very least simmering—­his free-­and-­easy interpretation of the material-­witness act was yet another example of his whatever-­it-­takes attitude. But she was interested to know how he’d arrived at the mystifying conclusion that they’d work well together. She had a compulsive curiosity about how ­people’s minds worked in general, and as inconvenient as it might be, she was particularly interested in Spense’s mind. The guy was a walking contradiction.

  Impulsive, quick to act or speak, he often put ­people off by blurting out just exactly what he was thinking. Spense’s behavior showed all the telltale signs of an attention deficit disorder. Half the time, the man had no filter and no focus.

  But the other half of the time, she’d never seen anyone with a sharper intellect. Somehow, he managed to control his impulsivity and channel his energy in the right direction when it mattered most. Spense had a keen ability to home in on the salient facts within a disjointed jumble of information and whisk them together into a cohesive pattern. The man could work a puzzle of just about any sort. Like a visually impaired man who could find his way in the dark, Spense seemed to have developed some sort of sixth sense and a unique coping mechanism for the processing difficulties she suspected he’d been battling since childhood.

  As if to prove her unspoken point, Spense pulled a miniature Rubik’s cube, attached to a keychain, from his pocket, scrambled it, solved it, and shoved it back in his pants pocket, all in less than a minute. She’d seen him do that on several occasions. And though she might be persuaded that, with enough practice, most ­people could learn to quickly work the cube using rote muscle memory, that didn’t explain how Spense was able to solve the daily crossword in the time it took to her to order coffee. His brain didn’t work the same way hers did, and she found that fascinating.

  Tamping down her anger, she took the bait.

  “How do you figure I’m your yang?”

  “Yin.”

  “Whatever. If you want to convince me, let’s hear your reasoning. Why should we team up to solve this case? I presume that’s what you’re asking me to do, in addition to bunking with you.”

  “I said I have an extra bedroom. Three times now.”

  “But you also said I should bunk with you. Which implies you want to sleep with me. That term didn’t pop out of your mouth for no reason. I thought we were past that. I thought we were clear about maintaining a strictly collegial relationship.”

  “Christ, Caity, of course I want to sleep with you—­you’re gorgeous when you don’t have a fat lip and shiners under your eyes.”

  “Gee, thanks.” Gingerly she touched her tender mouth. She hadn’t looked in a mirror since the shooting, but she could well imagine the raccoon eyes and swollen facial features.

  “Maybe you caught me in a Freudian slip, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to try to get inside your knickers. You’re injured, and I’m not an ass . . . Witness my polite use of the phrase get inside your knickers rather than the more direct phrase: fuck you.”

  Of course he wouldn’t take advantage of her in this condition—­he’d just saved her life for goodness sake. She owed it to him to cut him a little slack, but there was just something about Spense that always got her back up. “So long as you understand that, I’d like to know why you think we should team up.”

  “The reason is obvious.”

  Thank heavens they were moving on. Actually, she was glad they’d cleared the air. It was all settled, and there was no need to ever discuss the nature of their relationship again. “Not to me, it’s not.”

  “We’re both puzzle solvers.”

  “Wrong again. I couldn’t work a Rubik’s cube to save my soul.” She shrugged one shoulder, conceding genuine admiration. “Where did you learn to do that anyway? Can you show me the trick?”

  “Actually, it’s not a trick. But I’ll tell you the story of how I learned, someday . . . maybe,” he said, not meeting her eyes.

  She wouldn’t mind hearing that story—­but he seemed suddenly evasive, so she let it drop. “I’m a forensic psychiatrist, not a psychic. And I’m not a profiler, either, so I don’t know how I’d be of use to you beyond telling you what I recall about the shooting.”

  “First, my official title is criminal investigative analyst. Second, you’re as much a profiler as I am, with or without the BAU algorithms.”

  Her resistance softened a bit. Spense had never acknowledged before that what she did had value. Plus, as one of the victims, she had a very personal reason for wanting this shooter to be apprehended. Perhaps she should hear Spense out before dismissing the idea of working with him on this investigation as total nonsense.

  “I profile killers and you profile . . .”

  She realized she was holding her breath, waiting to see if he would actually admit the truth.

  “You profile innocents.”

  Her breath released, and her jaw opened slightly. She snapped it shut. Spense had just validated her work. Quite a shift from calling her a bleeding heart.

  That still didn’t mean they’d make a good team, however. “Not exactly. You look at a crime scene and deduce what type of perpetrator you’re looking for. Whereas I look at the accused and deduce whether he’s capable of committing the crime. I don’t have any criminal investigative skills. I don’t know how to work backward from the evidence at the scene.” As she said the words, she realized there might be a rather large side benefit to working with Spense.

  “Not yet, you don’t, but something tells me you’re a quick study. Hasn’t it occurred to you that with your ability to recognize an innocent man and my killer radar, together we’d be more accurate than either of us could be separately? I’ll admit I may have been wrong a time or two . . . but so have you, Caity. If we teamed up, we’d be formidable—­not that I’m not formidable all on my own.”

  If she could pick up enough investigative skills . . . “But we have totally different objectives.” Her mind was already made up, but she decided to let him convince her. “I’ve dedicated my life to helping innocent men and women keep their freedom. Your goal is to put ­people behind bars.”

  “My goal is to put guilty ­people behind bars. I have no desire to lock up the innocent.”

  Except me, apparently. She swallowed the sarcastic retort. “And I have no desire to set the guilty free.”

  Like the man himself, she found Spense’s gotcha smile both charming and annoying at the same time.

  “Like I said, you’re yin . . . I’m yang. We’re flip sides of the same coin—­justice. At least on this one case, I think we should set aside our differences. The Phoenix police are asking for all the help they can get to catch this asshole. The chief wants a profile, and I intend to give him one. Are you in or what?”

  The throbbing in her flank magically transferred to her head. It was true she wanted the shooter apprehended as soon as possible, before he could hurt anyone else. And she wouldn’t mind being able to keep an eye on the investigation to make sure it stayed on the straight and narrow. “I need time to think about it.”

  “And I need your help to catch a killer. You know Kramer inside out, and you have personal knowledge of Baumgartner, too. You’re a brilliant forensic psychiatrist, which is why I hate seeing you on the opposing side of a courtroom. I never thought I’d say thi
s, but I want you on my team. So go ahead and tell me everything you know about Judd Kramer.”

  Covering her face with her hands, she shook her head. “I can’t do that, and you know it.”

  Spense pulled a paper from his jacket and laid it on her tray-­table. “Yeah. You can. Kramer signed a release. Claims he’s an open book, an innocent man with nothing to hide. He’s released you from doctor-­patient privilege.”

  That wasn’t impossible to believe. Kramer thought he was smarter than everyone else, and he hadn’t told her anything he hadn’t wanted the world to know. After all, he’d hoped she’d function as his mouthpiece in the courtroom. But what he didn’t realize was that his behavior and subtext had belied secrets he never intended to reveal. Before she said anything at all about the man, she had to be sure he hadn’t been misled into signing that release. “Great, so you won’t mind if I just confirm that with Kramer myself. Since he’s right down the hall, it should only take a minute.”

  Spense’s mouth twisted in consternation. “You don’t trust me.”

  “It’s not personal, but I need to make sure Kramer wasn’t coerced into signing that release. Surely, you can’t object to that.”

  He turned his palms up. “I know what you’ve been through with your father, Caity. And I get why you object to certain tactics on my part. I really do. But one of these days, you’re going to realize I’m not the enemy. I only hope that day comes sooner rather than later.” He buzzed the nurse. “When you get a chance, Dr. Cassidy would like to take a joyride in one of those jazzy hospital wheelchairs.”

  “I’ll be right in. It’s time for her Tegretol anyway,” Jenny answered.

  Caity leaned close to the speaker. “Just the chair please, Jenny. My neurologist said she was going to discontinue the Tegretol order. Can you check with her please?”