3
Bill Larson hadn’t been home since he received the phone call twelve hours ago. Since then, other than his time at Sarah Gordon’s house, he’d felt almost chained to his desk and the surrounding parts of the squad room. It was time to repair the damage. That’s enough. If I look like I feel, I’ll frighten anyone who sees me.
He turned away from his computer, rose from his desk, and headed for the locker room. There, he pulled out the toiletry kit he kept in his locker. He did a quick above-the-belt wash with a wet cloth, then applied some Axe body spray. He wet a comb and ran it through his hair, although experience told him that five minutes later it would probably look unkempt again. As he observed himself in the mirror, he wondered idly when he’d have a chance to get a haircut. Finally, he changed into the clean shirt he kept in his locker. The same tie he’d been wearing would have to do. He felt better, but he still wished he had time to go home for a shower and a complete change of clothes.
Back at his desk, he ran his hand over his jaw and felt the rasp of day-old growth. I could swear I had a razor in that kit. Got to put one in there. Then again, maybe he’d just let his beard grow. Not shaving would give him another five minutes of sleep in the morning. Of course, this was Texas, not Minnesota, and summer was about to start in earnest. Perhaps a beard wasn’t a good idea. Besides, five more minutes in bed would most likely be spent staring at the ceiling, struggling with his always-present desire to start the day with a drink. Maybe a Bloody Mary, or . . . No! Enough of that.
He gathered the pages he’d filled with notes while talking with Sarah Gordon, butted them together, and stowed them in a manila file folder. He was about to shove everything into a locked drawer in his desk and get out to start chasing down leads when the phone on his desk rang. Please don’t let it be another case. “Police department, Larson.”
“Bill . . . Detective Larson? This is Sarah Gordon again. A friend has reminded me of some other things that might be helpful in your investigation.”
He opened the file folder that was still on his desk, found the last sheet of his notes, and pulled out his pen. As Dr. Gordon talked, questions arose in his mind, but he didn’t stop her. He’d flesh out the information later. For now, he wanted her to keep talking.
When she finished, he said, “Yes, you should have told me this when we talked earlier, but I’m glad you decided to call me now.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I guess I tried to ignore these episodes. After Harry and Jenny were killed, it was all I could do to keep going each day. I focused on the patients I saw, tried to move forward a day at a time, and if there was a bump in the road, I swerved around it and kept going.”
Larson knew the feeling. After his wife left him, taking Billy with her, his whole world felt like it left the tracks. Even the simplest decisions were hard to make. He’d found it difficult to concentrate on anything beyond what it took to get through the day. Matter of fact, the only time he seemed to be able to keep everything together was when he was dealing with police matters. Focusing his attention on cases was almost therapeutic. Maybe that had been the case with Sarah Gordon. Maybe that’s how everyone handled a traumatic event.
“Look, why don’t I call you later and get more details?” he said. “Meanwhile, it would help if you check your calendar, see if you can pin down the dates of these calls.”
“I will. And I’m sorry—”
“No need to be sorry. You’ve been under a lot of stress.” He knew how she felt. Larson wondered if she realized just how long that feeling might last. In his case . . . well, it was a slow process.
After he hung up, Larson’s thoughts remained on Sarah Gordon, although not as the victim of a crime. As he’d told Cal, he still hoped his family could be reunited, but there were times when it seemed to him even his continued sobriety wasn’t enough to mend the rift. As a result, Larson sometimes had dreams of starting over with a woman who loved and accepted him, one who would stand beside him as he fought the battle of continuing sobriety. And at times, especially now, those thoughts involved someone like Sarah Gordon.
* * *
Tom Oliver’s crew was hard at work, and a cacophony of sound made by fans, motors, hammers, and occasional shouts seemed to surround Sarah. There was no peace to be found in her living room, so she retreated to her bedroom upstairs. She lay there, propped in bed trying to read, but rather than being focused on the book that lay open in her lap, her thoughts flitted here and there like a restless butterfly.
Because of the noise of the fans, extractors, and cleaning machines, Sarah wasn’t sure if someone was really knocking at her door. She closed her book, not bothering to mark her place, and hurried down the stairs. As she approached the front door, she heard the sound more clearly. It had increased in intensity to a banging such as she’d seen on TV when the policeman hit the door with the flat of his hand and called out, “Open up. Police.” Although no words accompanied this knocking, there was no mistaking the intention of the person behind it.
Sarah looked out the clear diamond of glass in the center of the front door and saw a determined Bill Larson, slamming his hand against the wood. She called, “Hang on. I’m opening it.”
“Sorry,” Larson said once she had the door open. “I tried the bell several times. I wasn’t sure if the noise inside kept you from hearing it, or that it just didn’t work.”
Sarah averted her eyes. “The bell was one of the things Harry was going to fix. But he never . . . he never . . . ” She fought for control of her emotions.
“That’s okay,” Larson said. “I wonder if you have time to go over a few things.”
He came in and Sarah closed the door behind him. “I thought you were going to phone,” she said. As she spoke, she led him into the living room.
“I decided to come by, instead. Is it okay if we talk there?” He pointed to the sofa and chairs in the room.
“I’m afraid the quietest rooms in the house are upstairs,” Sarah said. Immediately, she wondered about the propriety of leading a man upstairs to her bedroom. What other rooms were upstairs, away from the noise? She thought of and discarded the choices immediately. Jenny’s bedroom and the large room where her daughter played hadn’t been used since the accident, and Sarah couldn’t bear to think of going into them now, especially to talk with a detective.
“I think down here is fine,” Larson said. “Or, if you like, we can get out of the house for a bit.”
That was the last thing Sarah expected, and she let her puzzlement show on her face. “Look, you show up unexpectedly, you don’t have another detective with you, and then you ask if I’d like to go out somewhere.” She looked directly at him. “Is this an official visit, or are you trying to make it personal?”
“I’m sorry. That didn’t come out right.” Larson shook his head. “Let me explain. I’m in kind of an awkward position here. To begin with, one of our detectives is out after surgery, where they found cancer. This is a small department, and that leaves two of us staffing the detective bureau. The other man, Cal Johnson, has the weekend off and needs to spend some time with his wife. So this investigation is up to me. That’s why I showed up alone.”
She opened her mouth to respond, but he held up his hand to stop her.
“Then there’s this that makes it sort of personal with me. You and I go to the same church—or, at least, you used to go there. We . . . ” He took a deep breath. “We’ve both had losses in our life—we don’t need to talk about mine, but I imagine you’re having some of the same feelings I had after my ex-wife, Annie, left with Billy.” He grimaced. “So it’s hard for me not to identify with what you’re going through. I mean, you lost both your husband and your baby. That must have hit you hard.”
Sarah averted her eyes. Harry. And Jenny. I’m not a wife anymore. I’m not a mother. And I may never be. She fought to keep from crying, but the tears came anyway. When she turned back, Larson was holding out a clean handkerchief.
She took the hand
kerchief and blotted her face. “Sorry. My emotions are still pretty fragile sometimes.”
“No problem,” Larson said. “There’ve been times I wanted to cry myself.”
Sarah turned away for a moment, took some deep breaths, and fought for control. Finally, she turned back and said, “I’m okay now.” She handed him the handkerchief. “Let’s get back to what you came for. I suppose you want more details about the episodes I told you about.” She pointed to the sofa. “If you can stand the noise, maybe it’s best that we sit in here.”
Larson took a seat, but before he could get out his notebook, Sarah cocked her ear toward the front door.
“I think someone’s knocking,” she said. “I’d better get it.”
She headed for the front door. Given the tension associated with her interaction with Larson, she was glad for the interruption. Sarah appreciated the detective’s obvious empathy for her, but it seemed to her there was more to it than that. Could the detective be hitting on her?
First Kyle and now Larson. She’d have to be careful about the signals she was sending. Of course, Sarah had heard tales about the vulnerability of young widows, but until now she’d never figured they applied to her. She certainly wasn’t ready to move into any kind of a relationship. Her loss was still too fresh. Sarah wondered when, if ever, that would change.
A glance through the tiny diamond of glass in the front door showed her that Kyle was standing there, his hand poised as though to knock again. She wasn’t sure why he had come. She hoped his visit wasn’t going to include an invitation to a relationship for which she wasn’t ready. Sarah squared her shoulders, opened the door, and beckoned him inside.
* * *
“Sarah, how are you doing?” Kyle looked around. “I see the restoration people I recommended are at work,” he said.
“Yes. Thanks for your help in that.” She closed the door and pointed him toward the living room. “Detective Larson is here. I called him to say I’d remembered some other things that might be helpful to him, and he came by with some questions.”
“What—”
“Connie reminded me of some events I’d either forgotten or repressed. I thought the police should know about them.”
“But—”
“Kyle, I can handle this. But you’re welcome to sit in if you like.”
In the living room, Kyle exchanged greetings with Larson and took a seat in a chair at right angles to the sofa. Sarah eased down next to Larson, careful to keep some distance between them. She glanced at the two men and could tell the tension between them was almost palpable. Well, there was nothing she could do about that right now. She felt a bit of tension herself.
Larson had his notebook out now. “Tell me again about the events you mentioned,” he said. “I need any details you can remember.”
Sarah said, “They started about six months ago. My phone would ring well after midnight, sometimes as late as two or three a.m. The caller ID showed ‘blocked number’ or ‘anonymous call,’ I can’t remember which. At first, I answered, but there was never anyone on the line. Pretty soon I just let it ring without answering.”
“Did you try dialing star sixty-nine?”
“No, initially I figured it was either a wrong number or maybe some kids playing a prank. Then, when they continued, I tried to just ride it out.”
“Did you think about changing your number?” Larson asked.
“I could have, I guess, but it would have been a hassle to do it. I’d have to notify lots of people—the hospital, other doctors—and I . . . Frankly, at that time I didn’t want to invest the time and effort.”
“How many times did this happen?” Larson asked.
“Probably four, maybe five, all about a week apart. Finally they stopped, and I thought things had run their course. But a few weeks later I saw a prowler outside my window. At least, I think I saw one.”
“Tell me about that,” Larson said.
Sarah suppressed the shudder she felt. “I went to close the blinds in the living room one evening, and I saw the bushes outside the window moving as though they’d just been disturbed. I looked past them into the yard and that’s when I saw him.”
“Who?”
“I saw what I thought was the outline of a man running away. I recoiled, sort of a reflex I guess, and when I looked again there was nothing there.”
“Did you see a car?”
“No. I listened for a car starting, watched for headlights, something to show I wasn’t imagining things, but the street was quiet.”
Larson looked up from his notebook. “Was it a man or a woman? Tall or short? Did you see—”
“I have no idea. Frankly, I wasn’t even sure I’d seen anyone outside. I decided it was my imagination.”
“Did you go out to look?” Larson asked.
“No. I just closed the blinds, checked to make sure the doors and windows were locked, and went to bed.”
“Did you call the police to report this?”
Sarah shook her head. “The more I thought about it, the more I wondered if I was imagining things. Maybe I should have reported the incident, but right then was a bad time for me. I was doing well to put one foot in front of the other.”
“What about the next morning?” Larson asked. “Did you look outside in the daylight? Were there footprints in the flower bed?”
“Like I told you, I tried to ignore the incident. I wasn’t sure I hadn’t imagined it.” Sarah said. “Besides, it rained that night. Wouldn’t the rain have washed away any footprints?”
Larson ignored her comment and moved on. “Was this the only time you thought you saw a prowler?”
“I think so. But frankly, I kept the blinds closed day and night after that, so if someone was outside, I didn’t see him anyway.”
Larson looked up from his notebook. “Any other incidents?”
“No.” Sarah said. “Do you think these are related to the fire?”
“They could be,” Larson said. “At least this information gives me a time frame to start my investigation.”
“All these happened after Harry died,” Kyle said. “Right?”
Sarah nodded but said nothing.
Larson stood and pocketed his notebook. “I wish you’d let us know about these things when they happened, but I can understand how you must have felt about that time.” He looked directly at Sarah. “I shouldn’t have to say this, but I will. Keep your doors and windows locked. Arm your security system. Do you have a gun?”
“I . . . I don’t have a security system,” she said. “And I don’t have a gun. Harry got rid of his when Jenny . . . when we knew we were going to have a baby in the house.”
Kyle turned to Larson. “Do you think she needs one?” he asked.
“I can’t give you an official position on that,” Larson said. “But if you had a pistol, with a permit, and you knew how to use it, this would be the time to keep it handy. In the meantime, I’ll arrange for a patrol car to drive by here periodically for the next few days. I’ll be in touch, but call me if anything comes up before then.” He handed her a card.
“I already have your card,” Sarah said.
“This one has my cell number on the back,” Larson said. “Use it . . . anytime, day or night.”
After Larson was gone, Kyle said, “I came by hoping to buy you dinner.”
“I can’t eat, Kyle,” Sarah said. “But thank you anyway.”
Kyle stood and looked down at Sarah. She could tell he had something on his mind, but after a moment he simply nodded and said, “I’ll give you a call in the morning.”
* * *
Sarah was in the living room, staring numbly at the walls, when Tom Oliver found her to tell her they were leaving. He promised to be back tomorrow, Sunday.
“About what time?” she asked.
“I figured you might want to go to church, so I thought sometime after noon,” he said. “It looks like we may be able to have almost everything done by sometime Monday. Maybe ev
en late Sunday.”
“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Oliver stood there for a moment longer, apparently thinking. Then he turned away without saying anything more. In a moment, Sarah heard the front door closing.
After the house was quiet, she wandered around and found the crew had accomplished a lot. Bare floors in a couple of areas awaited new carpet that would be ordered Monday and put down when it arrived. No problem—she could stand uncovered floors for a few days. The smell of smoke was still there, but it was very faint. Soon that smell would be replaced by the odor of fresh paint. A few areas of soot staining around the door from her garage into the kitchen had been treated but needed more attention. That would undoubtedly be remedied tomorrow or Monday. She could look forward to having her house—her home—back soon.
Despite her approval of the work the restoration crew was doing, Sarah felt fear clawing at the back of her brain. She tried to fight it, but it wouldn’t go away. Would her home ever feel normal? And, even more important, was this fire the last event she’d have to tolerate? Surely the police would find the person responsible and stop him . . . or her. At least, she hoped so.
Sarah tried to summon up enough courage to put aside her fears. Bill Larson was working on solving her problems. Kyle was available if she needed help. Right now, she’d concentrate on some of the routine things that usually occupied her on a Saturday.
When she finished remaking her bed with clean sheets, she noticed that the sun had set fully, leaving only pale gray twilight to illuminate the area outside her bedroom window. She had barely picked at her lunch. And what about dinner? Kyle had offered to take her somewhere, but she remembered telling him she wasn’t hungry. No matter. Her stomach knotted when she thought of food.
Before she could move on to the next mindless task, Sarah’s cell phone rang. She pulled it from the pocket of her slacks, saw who was calling, and remembered that she should have called Connie back long before this. Sarah dropped onto the edge of the bed and answered the call. “Connie, I’m so sorry for not getting back to you before this.”
“I understand,” her friend said. “What did the police say when you told them about the phone calls and the prowler?”
Medical Judgment Page 4
