by Lisa Black
That at least stopped her flow of words. He could see the wheels turning as she considered this.
“Oh,” was all she said.
“Exactly. They’d already been caught.”
“But they might have gotten out,” she tried.
“Sure. But not likely, and not without heavy monitoring. Besides, no matter what you think of me, Maggie, I would never kill a mute ten-year-old. For God’s sake.” He felt like adding, How could you even think such a thing?, but then admitted to himself she had good reason to.
“But, Jack—”
He dropped his hands. “What?”
“I’m right about one thing. The adults in that building have much more freedom of movement than the kids.”
“What, now you don’t think Trina is our killer?”
“I’m just not sure.” She headed for the elevator and waited there for him. Jack sighed. Obviously he wasn’t going to get back to the Firebird Center without Maggie Gardiner.
As he turned he caught sight of her ex-husband, watching them from the entrance to the homicide unit.
*
There was a lot to be said for having crimes occur within the inner downtown area. They reached the Firebird Center in ten minutes flat and the receptionist, gobsmacked by all the goings-on, showed Maggie and Jack to Dr. Palmer’s office. Through the window Maggie could see the gap in the chain link where Quentin Sherman had plunged over the side.
“Ah, Miss Gardiner,” Palmer said. “I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am—”
“It’s okay. Really.” She slipped into an empty chair as Dr. Palmer fussed about how much better Trina had seemed to be doing, and what a setback this represented.
“What is her story?” Jack asked. Maggie didn’t. She felt almost afraid to know.
“Trina,” Dr. Palmer said heavily, “is mentally ill.”
Jack said, “No shit.”
“No, you don’t understand. Ninety-nine point nine percent of the children we treat and school here were born healthy, neurotypical children who now have emotional and behavioral issues due to abuse, neglect, violence in the home, and other outside influences. Trina suffered no abuse, neglect, or violence. But she was not, apparently, born healthy.”
“A bad seed?” Jack asked.
The little man frowned. “That’s a glib but somewhat accurate explanation. Her parents were lovely people who wanted more than anything for her to be happy. But from birth her life has been a battle between light and dark.”
“Like I said, born bad.”
“Trina isn’t bad. She’s ill. She’s quite ill. And her illness is difficult to treat because we don’t know its cause. It’s some form of psychosis, but not a straightforward biochemical imbalance as in schizophrenia.”
“So she’s a psychopath. That doesn’t exactly come as a surprise.”
“No, Detective. Psychotic is very different from psychopathology. Psychotics are delusional. They hear voices, they suffer from paranoia. Their thoughts and emotions are so impaired that they lose touch with reality. They live in a frightening, confusing world.”
That described Trina, Maggie thought.
“A psychopath, or sociopath, is not at all delusional in the medical sense. They see reality exactly as it is—they just don’t care, because no one else matters except them. They are not frightened, depressed, or anxious. They have no insecurities or neurotic torment.”
“No remorse,” Jack said.
“Exactly. Derald Tyson was a psychopath. Quentin Sherman was a psychopath—virtually all gang leaders are. Not gang members, who are usually kids looking for a substitute family or dullards who are looking for some self-actualization, but to have the calculated cruelty necessary to turn those kids into killers and pawns, yes, that requires a complete absence of empathy.”
“That’s not Trina,” Maggie said. She couldn’t point to what made her believe that, but believe it she did.
Dr. Palmer nodded. “We’ve used a combination of cognitive therapy and Thorazine to try to keep her on an even keel. Justin warned me that this may not be the right facility for her, but she had been doing so well. It’s been months since her last outburst.”
Jack asked, “What’d she do last time?”
“Um … attacked Dr. Szabo. With a chair. Nothing as clever as what she tried on you, Ms. Gardiner. I can’t tell you how sorry—”
“I’m all right, Doctor,” Maggie said, this assurance somewhat mitigated by another coughing fit.
As it subsided Palmer said, “No doubt the trauma with Quentin and Luis undid much of her progress. I should have seen that coming. It’s an example of Trina’s capacity for empathy, Detective, that she worried over Luis. He missed his stepbrother terribly. We think of siblings, especially stepsiblings, as feeling nothing but rivalry and competition. We forget that when the parents are absent or abusive, the kids often have only each other to depend on. They’re the only ones who know what each other has been through.”
Jack said, “So she had a crush on Luis, until Rachael came along and screwed that up. Dr. Bellamy, Derald Tyson’s therapist, said he had taken on a girl from the resident flower child. I assume that meant Dr. Szabo. Was he talking about Trina?”
Dr. Palmer frowned, perhaps at the change in topic, but then said, “Yes. As I said, Trina’s condition fell outside our usual purview, and her father took out a loan to hire Jerome. I believe he’s only had a few sessions with her, however, and she still sees Dr. Szabo as well. I—anyway, you still feel you need to search the building?”
Jack said, “We will be looking for a pair of gloves or perhaps the sleeve of a jacket or sweatshirt. It’s—”
Maggie said, “Brown, cotton-polyester.”
“Yeah. That.”
This perplexed the good doctor, but he didn’t spend much time working it out. “Um—fine. I’m sure my staff will be cooperative. And again, Ms. Gardiner, my apologies. She wants to see you, by the way. Trina. I’m sure to tell you how sorry she is. She always does, after one of her … episodes.”
Maggie didn’t know what to say to that. Mentally she knew the poor girl suffered from forces she could not control, but emotionally she wasn’t quite ready to trust herself to remain 100 percent understanding when face-to-face.
“Of course, that is entirely up to you, and you shouldn’t push yourself. You’ve had quite a dramatic day already—we all have. Now, Detective, what will be the procedure for this—”
“Wait,” Jack said.
Maggie and the doctor looked at him.
“Let’s talk to her first.”
“What?” Maggie asked.
“Trina just became our number-one suspect. She didn’t like Rachael, Damon apparently attacked her in a hallway a while ago, and she had more than enough reason to want Quentin Sherman dead.”
Maggie opened her mouth to protest, if she could only have thought of a valid argument for Trina’s innocence. Ridiculous to feel so protective of the girl who had so gleefully tried to murder her, but there it was. Trina scared her but she couldn’t make herself blame Trina, the real Trina, that shy, tentative soul searching for someone to make her feel safe, even from herself. Especially from herself.
Dr. Palmer said, “You think Trina killed Quentin?”
“I think it’s an excellent possibility. You said she has to take medication. Does she go to the infirmary for that?”
The little doctor looked as if he might be sick. “Yes.”
“Okay.” Jack turned to Maggie. “You need to talk to her. Can you do that?”
“Of course I can.” But her stomach plunged at the thought.
“Maybe what she wants to tell you is a confession. And after that, don’t forget to ask about the gloves. We might save ourselves a lot of time here.”
“Wouldn’t that be fabulous,” Maggie said dryly.
He leaned closer. “I’ll be right there. No small rooms or closed doors this time.”
She couldn’t help but soften, though he had misread her
apprehension. “That’s unnecessary. I appreciate it, but I’ll be okay. Forewarned is forearmed.”
“You can’t be forearmed enough when it comes to that bitch,” Jack said.
Chapter 27
Maggie met with the girl, who now appeared more pale and waiflike than ever, in the middle of the visiting area. The room had been cleared and Officer Coglan stationed himself at one exit, with Jack looming in the other. Justin Quintero hovered as a standin for Dr. Palmer, nicely dressed for company in a blue suit coat, until a worried kitchen staff cook came and told him of some emergency in the catering plans for the reception. Next to Trina sat a court-ordered attorney from the Public Defender’s Office, a young woman nearly as pale as Trina in an ill-fitting suit jacket and skirt. Melanie Szabo occupied a fourth chair. Maggie failed to see how the girl could be put in a confessional mood in this fishbowl, but it could not be helped. No one intended to take chances, neither with Trina’s legal safety nor the physical safety of anyone around her.
Trina slumped in the hard chair, knees up to her chin, arms around her shins. Her dark hair fell over her downturned face.
Maggie sat. When Trina didn’t move she looked to the lawyer and the therapist for guidance.
“Trina?” Melanie Szabo spoke quietly. “Did you have something you wanted to say to Ms. Gardiner?”
The girl shook her head up and down in short, spasmodic movements. Then she murmured, “I’m sorry for trying to kill you. I’m glad you’re all right.”
“She’s not admitting any wrongdoing,” the lawyer put in.
Maggie didn’t bother pointing out that Trina had just done exactly that. The lawyer had the unenviable task of protecting Trina’s rights in the murky world of juvenile law, with a client who resided in an even murkier land between a hospital and a prison.
Instead, Maggie considered responses. Me too would not sound very forgiving. That’s okay would be neither true nor helpful. “I understand that you’ve had some difficulties in the past.”
A glance up from under those dark brows, lasting only a nanosecond. “Yeah, I have a lot of difficulties.” She began to chew on one cuticle.
“You can tell me about them,” Maggie said. “If you want.”
A bit broad, but she figured Are you now or have you ever been a serial killer? might be too harsh.
Trina shrugged, still working on the cuticle.
“I know what happened yesterday must have upset you terribly.”
Longer eye contact this time. “I liked Luis. He was always nice to me. He gave me a sticker once.”
“That was horrible when he died. It threw everyone’s equilibrium for a loop.”
Szabo put in, “But we don’t excuse hurting other people in response.”
“Yes,” Maggie said. “Of course. Did you have anything else you wanted to tell me?”
Gaze on the floor, the finger—now with a spot of blood around the edge of the nail—in her mouth.
“Trina?”
The quick, agitated shake—but now from side to side. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
“If she needs to talk about her feelings, that should be with her therapist,” the lawyer ventured. Maggie could guess her thought process. Since the therapist had set up this meeting she must feel it would assist in Trina’s road to health, so the attorney wanted to cooperate, but at the same time didn’t want her young client talking herself into any more charges.
Trina turned her head just long enough to give the woman a mighty frown. “I do talk to Dr. Szabo.”
“Yes. And that’s fine.” Because it was privileged, of course. But this answer confused Trina, who shook it off and repeated that she had nothing else on her mind.
“Did you want to tell me about Quentin?”
“I’m glad he’s dead now.” Trina might have expressed an opinion on the sunny day or the way she liked her pizza.
Maggie’s thoughts bounced around as she wondered how to respond to this. Asking the girl if she had helped the boy get that way might scare her back into her shell. On the other hand, she seemed quite comfortable discussing the issue. “Do you know how he died?”
“He fell off the roof.”
“Do you know how?”
“She doesn’t have to answer that,” the lawyer said.
“I can. The fence fell out. He bounced onto the street.”
Bounced. Did she refer to Quentin’s habit of throwing himself onto the chain link? Maggie asked if Luis had liked to play basketball. If Trina had a little crush on him, she might have gone up to the roof or snuck up there to watch him in action. But the girl said the teenage day students didn’t stay there for rec (recreation). They left right after classes.
“Do you know why the fence collapsed?”
“She doesn’t have to—”
Trina’s feet nearly hit the floor, clearly annoyed by the interruptions, before refolding into her standard position. “I can! Someone loosened the holder things. Someone killed him. I’m glad they did.”
“Do you know who?” Maggie asked.
“Trina, don’t answer—”
“Shut up!”
Szabo said calmly, “Trina, that’s not how we speak to people with respect. This lady is trying to look out for your legal status. You understand that that’s necessary.”
The girl’s shoulders slumped, in pique more than in defeat. She gazed at Maggie and said clearly, “I don’t know who did it but I’m glad they did.”
“Okay. What about Damon Kish? Did you know him?”
Trina took to rolling her head as if her neck hurt. “Who?”
“The little boy who didn’t talk.”
“Oh, him.”
“Who’s that?” the lawyer asked.
“Shut up!” Trina said again, more forcefully.
“Trina—” Szabo began.
“Make her go away!”
The lawyer explained, her tone hovering around impatience, “I can’t do that, Trina. I am here to protect your—”
“I don’t care.”
“You’re agitating her,” Szabo said to the lawyer, gently. “She—”
“Well, she’s going to have to be agitated, then. I’m not going to let her talk herself into a murder charge—”
“Shut up!”
Maggie tried, leaning forward, hoping to pull Trina into a world where only the two of them existed. “Trina. What can you tell me about Damon?”
“It wasn’t my fault, okay? It just wasn’t my fault!” Her eyes filled with tears and she clutched at Maggie’s collar and shoulder with one hand, tiny mouse fingers plucking the material. Maggie willed herself not to flinch.
“Honey, I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me.”
“Trina, don’t—”
“Go away!” Trina jumped up, skittering back from the table and knocking over the chair in her haste. “I want you all to go away!”
She backed away from them as the lawyer and the therapist also rose. Maggie stayed down, still hoping to calm the girl enough to talk. But Trina had had enough; she turned her back on them and made for the hallway. Unfortunately, Jack stood in her way, glowering as if he itched for a rematch.
The girl stopped, her tennis shoes squeaking against the linoleum. The arms encircled her own body again, and she sidled toward Officer Coglan. The therapist and the lawyer continued to bicker, their client hovering unnoticed in the background.
“Keep her here,” Jack called to the officer.
“You’ve got it.”
“Come on,” he said to Maggie.
Chapter 28
“What do you think?” he asked her as they beat a quick path to the third-floor girls’ area.
“How could I possibly know what to think? I know nothing about mentally ill children.”
“She knew who Damon was.”
“We think. There could be other boys here who can’t or won’t talk.”
He went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “And then said it wasn’t her fault.
Meaning she had to kill Damon only because the voices told her to?”
“Or Quentin wasn’t her fault? Or me?”
“You have a point,” he admitted, and knocked for Ms. Washington to admit them.
“I don’t feel qualified to interpret Trina.”
“I don’t think anyone is qualified to interpret Trina. That girl is in her own little universe.”
The dorm mother opened the door and gave them access to Trina’s room. Jack had a search warrant that applied to the entire building but didn’t bother to produce it. The Firebird Center was both Trina’s prison and her school, and in neither type of place could she have an expectation of privacy. For the children’s own safety more than anyone else’s, Maggie knew, but figured it must still suck for the girls there.
Classes had ended for the day and the other girls were in various states of doing homework, freshening up, closeting themselves in their rooms, or talking in the conversation area. At least they had been, until Maggie and Jack walked in. Then they all went still, and watched the progress with the sharpest of eyes, missing nothing. It reminded Maggie of lions and antelopes scattered across the plain in a frozen tableau, but she couldn’t have said which camp were hunters and which were prey.
Maggie had not expected Trina’s room to be so stark, since she had been at the center much longer than Rachael Donahue. Despite what she knew about the girl she’d still expected a typical teenage girl’s room—a jumble of clothes and magazines and makeup and maybe a kitten poster.
The cubbyhole wall unit had one or two items of clothing, neatly folded, on each shelf. The bedding had been removed from the mattress, but folded neatly at the bottom of it. The shelves were bare. The top of the desk was bare. Every other item in the room—clothes, books, pens, a towel—rested in a pile in the corner on the other side of the desk from the bed.
Maggie sighed, got down on the floor with her legs folded underneath her, and went through it piece by piece.
“What’s with the bed?” Jack asked Ms. Washington.
