Silent victim s-2

by C. E. Lawrence

  "No, goddamn it," he muttered. Staggering up from the chair, he reached for the phone again. Kathy was in Philadelphia, Chuck was still on duty, and his mother was useless, but there was one person he could turn to now-he just hoped she was available. He dialed the number and got a recording.

  "You've reached the voice mail of Dr. Georgina Williams. Please leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible. If this is an emergency, please call my beeper at 917-555-4368. Thank you."

  Lee hesitated. Was this an emergency? He wasn't feeling suicidal-not yet, anyway. He decided to leave a message on her voice mail. If she was in the office, she would call him back soon.

  "Hi, Dr. Williams, this is Lee Campbell. I wonder if you have any time at all today? I-I'm having sort of a bad day, so if you could give me a call I'd appreciate it-thanks."

  He hung up the phone and looked around the apartment. This place, which he had worked so hard to make cozy and inviting, suddenly felt like a prison cell from which there was no escape. The familiar objects around him held no comfort-the carefully arranged bouquet of flowers on the piano might have been shards of straw stuck in a vase. He looked at the green Persian rug he loved so much, with the swirling patterns of light and dark that always reminded him of a forest at sunset. It might just as well have been cracked and dirty linoleum. He sat on the couch and put his head in his hands. No, he thought, not today-please not now.

  The phone rang, and he jumped, his overstrung nerves rattled by the sound. He picked up the receiver.

  "Hello?"

  "Lee, it's Chuck."

  He hesitated-should he tell his friend that this was not a good time, that he was having an episode? Or should he just tough out the phone call, jot down what Chuck said, and deal with it later? He could barely focus-his mind was being rapidly overtaken by the swiftly descending fog. He decided to tough it out.

  "Hi, Chuck," he said, wondering if his voice sounded odd. "What's up?"

  "There's been a development." "What do you mean?"

  "Looks like we have another victim. Can you come back up here?"

  No, Lee wanted to scream, no, I can't. Instead he said, "Sure. Can you give me a little time?" "As soon as you can make it, okay?"

  "Okay."

  "Thanks."

  Lee hung up, his hand now shaking so hard that the receiver rattled as he replaced it. He headed for the bathroom and fumbled in the cupboard for the bottle of Xanax. It was going to be a long day.

  CHAPTER NINE

  By the time Lee reached the subway he was sweating and trembling almost uncontrollably. The darkness had closed in around him, and he was moving automatically, as if in a trance-sliding his Metro card through the slot at the entrance, going through the metal turnstile, walking down the concrete stairs to the train with the other passengers. The fog and confusion were bad enough, but today it felt as if his soul were on fire-a burning, searing pain that blotted out all memories of the past, any pleasures of the present, and any hope of the future. The only reality was the unrelenting pain. It had no beginning and no end, covering him like a thick blanket of concrete, crushing him.

  He walked unsteadily to the far end of the platform and stared down at the subway tracks. A large gray rat poked its head out from under the near rail and scuttled across the wooden ties to a tiny hole in the subway wall, vanishing inside it. Lee wondered why the rats weren't electrocuted on the third rail-or, for all he knew, maybe some of them were. He wondered how much it would hurt and for how long, to be electrocuted. His stomach lurched and twisted as he contemplated the sensation of thousands of volts coursing through his body.

  He wrenched his mind away from these thoughts and forced himself to take a deep breath. He tried to think of Kathy, to imagine her smiling face, but it only made him want to cry. This attack had taken him by surprise. In the past few months there had been a gradual improvement in his mental state. He was still having nightmares, but they had begun to subside recently.

  And now this. He felt as if he were being dragged back to the first days of his affliction, which began five years ago after his sister disappeared and worsened after 9/11. Most New Yorkers were deeply affected by that terrible day, some of them so frightened that they couldn't sleep at night. Some left the city altogether. Others were angry, filled with a rage they had never felt. Lee didn't feel fear, or even anger-only a wrenching, leaden sadness that swept him up for weeks afterward.

  He heard the rumble of the F train in the distance as it hurtled down the dark, musty corridors toward them. He imagined jumping onto the track just as it reached the station, the slamming of metal against skin. Would he be killed instantly, or just horribly maimed for life? There was no question of killing himself that way, though. In his darkest days, he had given it some thought, and concluded that he was unwilling to put the train conductor through the trauma and guilt of feeling responsible.

  The train slid into the station and the doors opened. Lee composed his face into what he hoped was a mask of New York indifference and sat down, waiting for the Xanax to take effect. It wouldn't stop the pain entirely, but at least it would blunt the anxiety.

  He changed for the uptown A train at West Fourth Street, and by the time the train reached Penn Station and Thirty-fourth Street, the Xanax had begun to work. He felt blurry and light-headed, but at least the churning in his stomach had dissipated, and his hands were no longer shaking. Not for the first time, he silently blessed pharmaceuticals in general and benzodiazepines in particular.

  When the train arrived at the Bronx station, he stood up, shook off a momentary spell of dizziness, and followed the rest of the passengers out into the burnished afternoon light of late August. Everyone had predicted an early fall this year, and the trees had a brittle, dusty look, their leaves beginning to dry out already in the soft air of the dying summer.

  Chuck was in his office when Lee arrived, along with Detective Butts. There was no sign of Elena Krieger.

  When Chuck saw Lee's questioning look, he said, "We tried to reach Detective Krieger, but without success."

  Butts snickered. "We didn't try very hard."

  "All right," said Chuck, ignoring him, "here's what's going on." He pulled a fresh stack of crime-scene photos from his desk and handed them to Lee. "This came in a couple of hours ago."

  Lee took the photos and looked at the top picture. When he saw the face of the dead girl, his head began to spin, and the room swirled around him. He tried to speak, but before he could utter a word, blackness closed in around him and he lost consciousness.

  CHAPTER TEN

  He awoke to see Chuck and Butts standing over him, looking worried. He felt guilty when he saw the frightened expression on Chuck's face, his friend's pale skin even chalkier than usual. He struggled to get up, but Morton put a hand on his shoulder.

  "Hey, hey-take it easy. There's no hurry. Take your time."

  Butts's homely face crinkled with concern. "You just fainted," he said.

  "I'm fine," Lee said, trying again to stand. He was sitting on the floor of the office. They had propped him up against the wall by the radiator.

  "Here," said Chuck, rolling over his own chair, an old but comfortable wooden captain's chair.

  "Thanks," said Lee, lifting himself into it shakily. "How long was I out?"

  "A couple of minutes," Chuck said. "What happened?"

  Lee suddenly remembered he had eaten nothing all day-black coffee in the morning, followed by the trip to the Bronx, and then once the depression seized hold of him, the thought of food was sickening. And then there was the Xanax-usually he took half of a one-milligram tablet, but today he had taken a whole one, spooked by the ferocity of the pain.

  "It's stupid, really," he said sheepishly. "I haven't eaten, and I-" He hesitated, unsure whether or not to mention the Xanax. He decided against it. He picked up the photo from Chuck's desk and held it aloft.

  There, her face washed of all color and life, was Ana Watkins.

  "I know this girl,
" he said. "Her name is Ana Watkins, and she was my patient." He took a deep breath against the emotion rising in his throat, and continued. "She came to me a few days ago and said she thought she was in danger. I've been trying to reach her ever since, so when I saw this-" He clamped his jaw closed, determined not to surrender to his feelings. There would be time to mourn her later, but now what mattered was finding who did this to her.

  "Jesus, Lee," Chuck said. "No wonder it was a shock for you."

  "That's rough," Butts agreed. "What kind of danger?"

  "She thought someone was following her."

  "Looks like she was right," Chuck said.

  "But what makes you think her death is connected with the first two victims?" Lee asked.

  "That's what we were hoping you would help with," Butts replied. "We found the same kind of phony suicide note on her. Same thing as before-carefully wrapped so the water wouldn't ruin it." He fished around in the stack of photos, pulled one out, and handed it to Lee. It was neatly typed, on eight and a half by eleven paper, and it read, I have been a very bad girl. Bad things happen to bad girls. I should have taken the advice to get thee to a nunnery. Please forgive me.

  Lee handed the photo back to Butts. "It's him, all right," he said, although up until this moment it had occurred to him that the killer might be a woman. But at the sight of that note, he felt with certainty that the perpetrator was a man.

  "It doesn't make sense, though, does it?" said Butts. "I mean, don't these guys usually stick to one gender or another?"

  "Usually," said Lee, "but not always. There have been cases of serial killers who killed both men and women-David Berkowitz, for example."

  "Yes, but he killed couples," Chuck pointed out. "This is a different kind of thing."

  "That's true," said Lee. "But he's just one example-there are others. I think one of the worst mistakes we can make is to try to categorize this offender as fitting one rigid type or another, rather than looking at the specifics of his crimes to see what they tell us about him."

  Chuck rested his trim body against the windowsill and folded his arms, his taut muscles straining against the white cotton of his starched shirt. "Okay, so what do we know about him?"

  "Where did they find… Ana?" Lee asked. Her name felt awkward, and he said it reluctantly.

  "Up around Spuyten Duyvil," Chuck said. Spuyten Duyvil (Dutch for "Whirlpool of the Devil," named when New York was New Amsterdam, and under Dutch rule) was the thin slice of water between the mainland of the South Bronx and the island of Manhattan. The churning currents were notoriously treacherous there, as the waters of the Harlem River rushed to join the Hudson, already flowing south toward New York harbor.

  "Who found her?" asked Butts, scratching his chin, where there was evidence of a five o'clock stubble, accentuating his already rumpled appearance.

  "A couple of guys on the Columbia rowing crew," said

  Chuck. "They were out practicing when they saw her floating in the water, snagged on some rocks."

  The Columbia boathouse was perched on the bank of the slip of land jutting out into the eddies and fast-running currents of Spuyten Duyvil, clinging to the last thin strip of Manhattan Island before the river claimed it. Lee always thought it must be a hell of a place to row, but it was a beautiful setting for a boathouse. The view was spectacular-across the channel the Bronx mainland stretched out to the north as far as the eye could see, and to the west, the Palisades rose majestically along the Hudson. Lee thought of poor Ana, floating alone in those cold waters-it was never warm up there, not even in August.

  "Well, at least they found her before she was swept out into the Hudson and out to sea," Lee said sadly.

  "Yeah," Chuck agreed. "Not much comfort, but at least there's that."

  "What do you know about the currents around there? Any idea where she might have been put in?"

  Chuck shook his head. "I really don't know much-it seems to me she could have been put in as far south as the East River, and floated all the way up there."

  "Allow me," Butts said, producing a nautical chart from his battered briefcase. "It just so happens my oldest kid is a sailor, and he lent me this."

  Chuck raised an eyebrow and exchanged a look with Lee, but Butts continued, unperturbed. "I figured since we're dealing with floaters, this could come in handy, so I brought it along. Of course, we may need to consult with an expert in the field of currents and tides, but this should help for now."

  He spread the map out on the desk. "Now, these arrows here," he said, pointing to little green arrows along the shoreline, "indicate the direction of the current at this spot."

  "Okay," said Chuck. "So what does that tell us?"

  Butts leaned over the chart, squinting, his face almost touching it. "I'm not a hundred percent sure, but I think what it tells us is that she had to have been put in somewhere between here, where we found the original floater," he said, pointing to a spot in the East River, "and here, where she was found." He placed a second stubby finger on the spot marked SPUYTEN DUYVIL.

  "And Baldy was found here," he continued, poking his middle finger at the area of the South Bronx where Mr. Malette was found in his bathtub.

  Lee and Chuck stared at the stretch of land that encompassed both the Upper East Side and, across the East River from it, Queens.

  "So in all likelihood, he lives-or works-somewhere near here," Lee said.

  "So that should narrow our search," Butts said triumphantly.

  "Yeah," Chuck agreed, but none of them said what they were all thinking: Would it be enough to catch him before someone else died?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  When Lee got back to his apartment he found two messages from Dr. Williams: one on his landline and the other on his cell. He had neglected to take his cell phone with him uptown. It was all he could do to concentrate enough to lock the door behind him.

  He called her back, and this time she picked up.

  "Yes, Lee-you need to come in today?" Her voice was composed, but he heard the concern in it.

  "Do you have any open time slots?"

  "I can see you after my last patient-six o'clock okay?"

  "Great. Thank you so much."

  He hung up. Just hearing her voice-low, calm, and comforting-made him breathe easier. It was like the murmur of water over stones, a smooth, soothing sound.

  He looked at the kitchen clock, a sunburst of bronzed Mexican pottery he had found at a yard sale upstate. It was just after six. He gazed at the piano, its polished wood gleaming in the slanting rays of the sun in the western sky. He looked down at his hands-they were shaking again.

  He went to the kitchen, opened a can of chocolate protein shake, and forced himself to drink it. It tasted like chalk. He chased it down with a glass of tap water, then went back to the living room. The piano waited for him-silent, watchful, the evening light lingering on the keyboard as the sun slipped northward and out of view behind the crowded buildings of Manhattan.

  He sat down and dove into a Bach partita. No scales, no warm-up to get him in the mood-just Bach, straight up, no chaser. The sound washed over him, as primal and powerful as the first time he heard it. The notes twisted and danced on the page, in his fingers, on the keyboard. As he played, he experienced the piano as the percussion instrument it was-a great, resounding drum with eighty-eight voices, made up of tones and half-tones, a glorious creation of wood and metal and ivory, all melded together by engineering genius.

  As he dug his fingers in deeper, pounding the keys in an ecstasy of fury and release, he was enveloped by a feeling of profound gratitude. He was able to participate in the grand dance of music, communing with great composers-a gift shared by even the lowliest of musicians. It wasn't about ego, or showing off-there was a purity about this that existed nowhere else in his life.

  It was only when he stopped that he felt the tears sliding down his face.

  Afterward, he sat in the green stuffed armchair by the window and thought about Ana Watkins. What he
didn't tell Chuck or Butts-what he had never told anyone-was that he had very nearly fallen for her. He had to admit, she was good-she pushed every button he had with such dexterity it left him breathless. She played the hapless victim, tossed aside by the men around her, a fragile waif orphaned by the storms of an unfortunate life. She drew out his need to protect and shield women, a need instilled in him by his mother long before his father walked out. His father's desertion only intensified his determination to make up for the sins of all men, brutish and uncaring creatures. His mother had already decided, without realizing it consciously, that Lee's job-indeed, his duty-was to make up for the transgressions of thoughtless scoundrels like Duncan Campbell.

  And so when Ana Watkins leaned into him, her thin body trembling with terror and desire, he met her halfway, pulled toward her with an inexorable magnetic force. Even as he felt himself falling into the sinkhole of self-disgust, he was helpless to stop, spinning like a top when he tried to pull back against the centrifugal force of their mutual desire. They shared a fervent and fumbling embrace in a rain-darkened alley one Friday night, soaked and sweating under a burned-out streetlamp. He managed to pull away after a prolonged and very wet kiss, but he felt himself weakening even as his forehead burned with shame and his ears rang with the sound of self-condemnation.

  Fortunately for him, fate-or luck, or chance, or whatever it was-intervened before he betrayed his ethics and his profession. Ana came down with a serious case of bronchitis, and an elderly aunt swooped down from New England to nurse her back to health, breaking the forward momentum of their passion. Left standing alone, he took a shaky step backward before regaining his footing and his self-respect. When Ana recovered, he insisted on meeting only at the clinic in Flemington, and only on days when his accountant was sitting in the outside office.

  Faced with this new reality, Ana discontinued her sessions and slunk away. He considered himself lucky that she didn't report his conduct to the state licensing board. Perhaps she had enough of a conscience to realize that would be less than honorable, since she had instigated the whole thing. He had not heard from her until she called two days ago.