“Doctors make the worst patients,” came her reply.
“Good one, Jenny. Never heard that before.” She started to climb out of bed and bumped into Spense’s rather magnificent, special-agent-man chest and the familiar scent of what she now knew to be Old Spice. Any other day, she would’ve shoved him aside, but no way could she manage that with her light head and weak limbs. “Let me by, please.”
“Stay in bed until the chair gets here. And just so we’re clear, I’m coming with you. As of right this minute, you’re under my protection.”
Now that she knew the sentimental reason behind Spense’s aftershave, she found the scent was growing on her—his arrogance, on the other hand, was not. “Come along if you like, but you’ll have to wait outside while I talk to Kramer. And just so we’re clear, I haven’t agreed to a damn thing yet.”
Chapter Four
AS SHE WHEELED through the door of Judd Kramer’s hospital room, Caitlin shot a firm, stay-back look at Spense. Spense returned a determined glare of his own, and she knew he’d be keeping a close eye on her through the hospital unit’s wide window. If Kramer so much as sneered at her, both Spense and the sheriff’s deputy standing watch would come to her aid in a heartbeat. Kramer was debilitated from his injuries, and his arms and legs were bound to the bed by soft restraints, ensuring her physical safety. So it wasn’t fear that set her teeth on edge when she saw him sitting up in his hospital bed. It was that feeling of needing to scrub herself clean after being around him. She hated the fact that he’d shared his secret thoughts with her, and she hated knowing he’d enjoyed her discomfort.
But as much as she despised looking into those blank eyes of his, she was glad Kramer was in an upright position. The whole point of this little excursion was to make sure he hadn’t been intimidated into signing that release, and an eye-level conversation would keep them on a more equal footing. A lanky young woman wearing paisley scrubs and a name tag that read, BELINDA, scurried around the hospital bed. Caitlin hung back in the corner, quietly observing as the nurse tended to his IV, then scanned a packet of pills and administered them to Kramer.
Caitlin’s hands curled around the wheels of her chair, and the cool metallic spokes pressed into her fingertips. That creepy-crawly feeling she got whenever she was near Judd Kramer had already taken hold. The last time she’d spoken to him, she’d had to deliver the news that she would not be testifying in his defense. And he’d been none too happy, even called her a few choice names. The recollection made her stomach tighten unpleasantly. It was hard to believe that conversation had taken place just two short weeks ago, the same day her meeting with Harvey Baumgartner had been interrupted by gunshots.
Her chin jerked up, and she set her jaw. No, she didn’t relish seeing Kramer again, but if she was lucky, this would be the last time she would ever have to deal with him. Bracing herself, she vowed to remain undaunted in the face of any obnoxious and manipulative comments he might make. Judd Kramer was the last person she wanted to be around, but she had to be sure he’d signed that consent form voluntarily—it was the right thing to do. And who knew, maybe she’d glean something useful from him today. Spense thought Kramer was holding out on the police about the shooter’s description. If she could get new information out of Kramer, this visit, while distasteful, would be more than worth it.
“I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.” Belinda smiled at Caitlin.
Kramer said nothing, keeping his gaze openly focused on the nurse’s trim bottom. Once she’d exited the room, Caitlin rolled a little closer, the wheels of her chair making a soft, rubbery sound and catching a little on the carpeted floor. Not wanting to be within sniffing distance of the man, she kept back a good distance from his bedside. Still, she was close enough to notice the pallor of his lips and a slight rapidity in his respirations. His blond hair was oil-darkened from lack of washing, and the fluorescent lighting in the room did nothing for his pocked complexion. Not surprisingly, he looked like hell.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Like shit. How ’bout you, Doc?” His grin showed his once-perfect smile, the only attractive feature on the face of an otherwise homely man, had been ruined. Two front teeth were missing, no doubt from hitting the courthouse steps face-first after being shot.
Kramer was lucky to be alive, and so was she. She tried to focus on the fact he’d been badly hurt rather than that he was most likely a cold-blooded killer and most certainly a cruel and twisted man who got off on other people’s pain. This was the hard part, putting herself in his place, empathizing with him in order to establish rapport. But there was no other way to get him to talk. At least none that she knew of.
“I feel like shit, too, I guess.” She couldn’t quite force herself to smile at him, but she mirrored his language, hoping to set him at ease. Besides, the phrase aptly described how she felt, with her legs aching and the muscles in her arms shaking merely from the effort of rolling the wheelchair a few feet into the room.
“Well, well. The pretty little lady shrink stoops to the criminal’s level. Trying to loosen him up?”
“You’re onto me.” She happily acknowledged his perceptiveness. She wanted him to feel safe and superior because that would work in her favor. Kramer had an odd, distancing habit of referring to himself in the third person whenever he was ill at ease. It was one of those behavioral tells he didn’t realize he had. She’d know he’d relaxed and let his guard down once that odd speech pattern stopped.
“You change your mind about testifying for old Kramer here, or is this a social call?” His voice was hoarse and weak, but he still managed to infuse it with a menacing tone.
Too bad for him, she didn’t intimidate easily. Not after spending countless hours interviewing psychopaths. “Neither. I am terribly sorry for what’s happened, but I’m afraid it doesn’t change my decision. My testimony wouldn’t be useful to your defense.”
“Don’t really have a defense now that Baumgartner’s boxed and rested his case.” The corners of Kramer’s mouth twitched, lifting his doughy, orange skin into a saggy, broken smile, reminiscent of a jack-o’-lantern that had begun to rot.
The callousness in his voice, the maudlin joke made at his deceased attorney’s expense reinforced her prior conclusions: Kramer had no empathy for others. Human kindness wasn’t in his nature.
“You’ll find another attorney.” There were plenty looking to make a name for themselves with a high-profile case like this one.
“I expect I will.”
Ah, good, he’d dropped that third person self-referencing already. And why not? She was no threat to him, and since she wasn’t going to testify, he no longer needed to put on a show for her. Her gaze went to the window, where Spense raised his brows, his question obvious. She gave him an a-okay head tilt.
“So if this isn’t a social call, and you haven’t changed your mind about testifying, to what do I owe the honor of your presence, Dr. Cassidy?” Kramer’s eyes fluttered open and shut rapidly, and she decided to get straight to the point.
Clearly, he wasn’t up for a long chat today. In fact, his condition seemed to be worsening by the minute, right before her eyes. His facial muscles slackened, and a bit of drool escaped his mouth, running down his chin. “I understand you signed a release, giving me permission to speak with the authorities about our interviews.”
Their gazes met, and she suppressed a shudder. His stare was cold and disconcerting. The opposite of penetrating, it just seemed to bounce off her unchanged. Never reacting to her words or expressions. Flat. His stare was empty and dead. A full minute passed with no response, and she wasn’t sure if he’d lost concentration or was simply being oppositional. “Did you sign that release voluntarily, Mr. Kramer?”
His eyes dropped to her chest. “This is boring. I’m having a hard time paying attention. Maybe if you unbutton your blouse, I’d be mo
re interested in what you have to say.”
That seemed a rather pitiful attempt at shocking her. He’d said so many awful things to her during their interviews, this present request, crude though it might have been, barely registered. “I see. I’m boring you. I’ll just let you get back to your busy life.” She shrugged and started to wheel her chair around.
“Hold on. Don’t leave. I promise to behave.” The plaintive tone in his voice was one she’d never heard from him before. It might even have been genuine distress. His shoulders heaved, and he thumped his chest. “I . . . don’t feel that well, Doc. And it’s too quiet around here for my tastes. You’re not exactly great company, but you’re better than that bitch out there.”
He meant his nurse, she assumed.
“As soon as you leave, she’ll be back here poking me and prodding me, all the while giving me the stink eye and putting on gloves just to touch me, like I’m a rodent carrying plague or something. At least you treat me like a human being. You’re the only one who does anymore.”
“Mr. Kramer, did you sign that release voluntarily?” She tried to bring him back around to the point as quickly as possible.
“Sure. I’m an open book. I told the FBI already. Nothing . . . to . . . hide.” Kramer started breathing faster. His skin was getting pinker, which usually indicated better oxygenation, but his expression told her he was tiring rapidly.
“Maybe you should call your nurse.” She was too far away to reach his call button, and it’d be slow going for her to wheel up to the bed, or she’d have pressed it herself.
“No. Not that bitch. Just stay with me a while longer. You can talk to anyone you want about me, Doc. An innocent man’s . . . got no secrets.” He let out a wheeze and a cough. “I’m okay. Let’s have our little chat. Whatever you want to know, all you gotta do is ask. I signed the consent, and I don’t regret it.”
He seemed so eager for her to stay, and he’d recovered his breath again. Perhaps he had something important to get off his chest. She’d let him say his peace and send Belinda right in after her. She gave Spense the reassuring nod she knew he was looking for, then said, “All right, but we can stop anytime you want. And as long as we’re clear you haven’t been pressured into anything, and that I may be sharing anything you say to me with the authorities. Is there anything at all you can tell me about the courthouse shootings? Did you get a look at the person who shot you? Was there more than one?”
His cold eyes stuttered from side to side, before coming back to center and landing on her. What the hell was wrong with him? “Call your nurse, Mr. Kramer. I don’t like the way—”
“No!” His torso jerked forward like he was trying to bolt from his restraints.
Her instinct was to wheel away from him, but she followed her training instead and wheeled closer, her muscles jumping and jittery from the effort. She didn’t like the way his chin was bobbing up and down, nor the way his eyes were shimmying from side to side. She wasn’t going to try to reason with him any longer. She was close enough now to reach the side rail of the bed where the call button rested. At least she thought she was. But when she stretched her arm out, she couldn’t quite reach the control. Her eyes sought the window to signal Spense for help, but his back was turned, and she saw him bring his phone to his ear. She couldn’t see the deputy and guessed he’d used Spense’s presence to take a break.
Gripping the guardrail on Kramer’s bed, she dragged herself to a stand. Her legs were too weak to support her, though, and she fell forward, her body landing halfway onto the bed, her face now inches away from Kramer’s. His body was shaking, and she could feel the trembling of the pillow beneath her cheek. She stretched her fingers, feeling around for the call button, and suddenly Kramer’s hand clutched her wrist. His nails dug into her flesh. His putrid breath was in her ear, and her gut knotted in revolt, but her sense of duty was stronger than her disgust. She pressed the call button.
“Help’s coming,” she said. By now white foam had replaced the drool sliding out of Kramer’s mouth. His cheeks had gone a bizarre shade of red. Like nothing she’d seen before, not even during her med-school years. “Don’t try to talk.” She yanked her hand away and tried to push herself off the bed into a standing position, but her legs had turned to water.
“I . . . got something for you, little lady. Just for you . . . Because I like you.” He sputtered out the words. “Because you don’t treat me like an animal.” The effort of the speech took its toll. Vomit and foam spewed onto the front of his hospital gown and onto the sheets. The putrid smell filling the air was the least of her worries, but . . . Oh, Lord, his breath, his vomitus, smelled ever so faintly of almonds.
Oh, no no no.
Something clicked in her brain, and she realized what was happening . . . But that was impossible. Wasn’t it? She hadn’t taken her eyes off him for at least ten minutes. His arms were restrained. He hadn’t put anything at all in his mouth except . . .
Twisting his neck, he fixed her with those blank eyes of his. Only they weren’t totally blank anymore. There was real fear there. “Find the Man in the Maze,” he wheezed the words into her ear just as Spense rushed through the door. The corners of Kramer’s mouth twitched into a macabre smile. “Fuck me if I didn’t do somebody right at the end.” Then his body went limp.
Her legs lost all remaining strength, and she clutched the sheets, dragging them with her as she began a slow slide to the floor. “Help him!” she cried out, as Spense gathered her in his arms. “He’s been poisoned!”
Chapter Five
WITH A HANDFUL of detectives from the Phoenix PD, a representative from the sheriff’s office, and the NCAVC coordinator from the Bureau’s Phoenix field office hanging off the walls, squatting on the floor, and sitting in the lone visitor chair, respectively, Caitlin’s room looked more like a police command center than a hospital room. Spense leaned against the head of her bed, going for casual but probably coming across as hovering. But to hell with it. He’d saved her life, and the way he saw it, that gave him a right to hover—a right to care what happened to her, whether she liked it or not.
Fuck me if I didn’t do somebody right in the end had turned out to be Judd Kramer’s last words. After he uttered them, he’d gone into cardiac arrest. Valiant attempts to revive him had failed, and the State of Arizona would now be spared the expense of a trial and the execution that most likely would’ve followed. Kramer wouldn’t be mourned by many, and probably no one would’ve much cared that he’d succumbed to his injuries had his skin not popped cherry red.
“Cyanide, you say? Now what exactly makes you think so, Dr. Cassidy?” Detective Riley Baskin wrinkled one side of his cheek and squeezed an eye shut, then pushed out his lower lip, clucked his tongue, raised his eyebrows, and proceeded to repeat the entire series of facial gymnastics. Spense figured he either had a tic disorder or he was skeptical.
Spense stuffed a pillow behind Caity’s back, his hand lingering protectively near her shoulder. “I’m not sure Dr. Cassidy is up to this. She’s already given a preliminary statement, so maybe we should let her rest and come back this evening.”
“I’m okay, Spense. I’d like to do this now. If I get too tired”—she gave him a pointed look—“I can say so myself.”
“I mean you’re a psychiatrist, not an actual doctor, so how would you know what cyanide poisoning looks like?” Baskin went through more facial gyrations, transforming his appearance from baby-faced to wizened.
Spense’s shoulders tensed. He didn’t care for the detective’s attitude. “What the hell, Baskin? Psychiatrists are actual doctors. They go to medical school. They go through internships, just like the rest of them. Dr. Cassidy went to fucking Stanford. Now, I’m asking you nicely to show a little more respect for the witness. She’s been through hell, and she doesn’t need attitude from a sorry little pissant like you.”
“You got a funny way o
f asking nicely,” Baskin fired back.
It’d been a stressful week, and Spense was running on little sleep and even less patience. He could feel his control slipping. One leg jittered, and he had that restless energy that always seemed to precede his saying or doing something he later regretted. From the corner of his eye, he saw Special Agent Gretchen Herrera, the NCAVC coordinator from the Phoenix field office, working her brow. Agent Herrera’s job was to act as liaison between local law enforcement and the criminal investigative analysts on loan from the BAU. In other words, she was the go-between for Spense and the locals, and Spense’s calling Baskin a pissant wasn’t making Agent Herrera’s job any easier. He’d make it a point to get some shut-eye at his next opportunity.
“I’m sure Detective Baskin didn’t mean me any disrespect,” Caity said. “It’s a common misconception that psychiatrists don’t have medical degrees, and I take absolutely no offense. Besides, in all my years of training, I never once saw a case of cyanide poisoning, so he makes a good point. The main reason I suspected cyanide is because I read detective novels. I’m a big fan of murder mysteries, you see.” She shot Spense a look that wasn’t as appreciative as he’d hoped it would’ve been. In retrospect, maybe he should have let her answer for herself, and he was already kicking himself for antagonizing Baskin.
Baskin made a throat-clearing noise and addressed Caity. “You like Harry Bosch?”
“He’s one of my favorite detectives.” She smiled sweetly at Baskin, and Spense felt the hair bristle on the back of his neck.
Baskin unfolded his arms and relaxed his stance. “Well, then, I’d like to get a quick account of what happened from you, Dr. Cassidy, and feel free to include any of your own conclusions.” His glance slid sideways to Spense, then back to Caity. “If you feel up to it, I mean. We can bounce and come back later if you want.”
Judgment Page 5
