10
On the Verge
Nolan Mills
“Morning, Doctor. You have four voicemails from Eleanor Devero, and two from her fiancé,” Cara informs me about three minutes after I come inside.
“Thank you,” I say after she spits off the rest of my messages. “Can you transfer me to Detective Dalton, please?” Women tend to be more long-winded and emotional than men, but men offer a better view of the timeline.
On the second ring, Kace picks up.
“Hello?” he answers with a strained voice.
Purposely, I wait a few seconds to test his patience threshold.
“Hello!” he clips, this time at a louder pitch, solidifying my ‘trouble-in-paradise’ theory.
“Hello, this is Doctor Nolan Mills. I’m returning your calls.”
“Oh…” He pauses, and due to the decrease in background noise, I assume heads to a quieter place. “Sorry about that, Dr. Mills.”
“It’s all right. What can I help you with?”
“I need to schedule a session with you. Or maybe couple’s therapy … I don’t know.”
“Something happened,” I affirm and take a seat at my desk, extending my second drawer and removing one of the neatly stacked note cards.
“Yes, something fucking happened. Elle’s not getting better, or she was and she … she’s not ready to come back to work,” he says with finality.
“Detective Dalton, I’ve already sent in my recommendation to your captain.” I balance the receiver between my chin and shoulder and reach for one of the many identical, black ballpoint pens in the pencil holder.
“I know, but I talked to her this morning, and she’s not ready.”
Twice. At the right-hand side of the page, I add a date and then a quick session summary while I listen to Kace’s labored breaths. “Can you explain to me why you believe your fiancé isn’t ready to return to work with you?”
“It’s not with me,” he clarifies. “It’s in general. She’s not ready to be here, at least not until things settle down on our end.”
I presume he’s speaking of my case. “Your captain tells me you need extra help with the investigation you’ve been working on, and her particular skill set can be useful. He said you had some suspects.”
“We can do it without her.” He grunts and slams something. “I don’t want her here interrogating anyone.”
“Perhaps we share the same concern.”
“What do you mean?”
“I did communicate my concerns with your captain. I’m not sure she’s fully capable of using her behavior interpretation abilities.”
“Why do you say that?” His tone adjusts, and his voice returns to the standard decibel, infused with concern.
“She exhibits a slower reaction time, and from my limited knowledge on the subject, micro-expressions last about half a second. This doesn’t mean she isn’t perceptive to other forms of body language, however. Thus, why I recommended reinstating her.” I pause to let that all sink in. “Perhaps, I was wrong. Can you give me a specific reason why you believe she isn’t ready? What happened?”
“We were getting ready this morning…”
As in something they did together. His pause suggests more to the story, so I guide the answer in the right direction. “For work, I presume?”
“Yes, and she told me she wanted to help me find the murderer.”
“Detective, I work with the police force often. This is the reason why the captain recommended my particular services. You don’t have to give me specifics of the case, but I’m aware you are working together to find the Bullet Man.”
“She told you?”
“And your captain,” I confirm as I shift through a stack of papers on my desk. “He conveyed that finding the identity of your killer is of the utmost importance. So, I don’t understand why Eleanor’s willingness to help upsets you.”
“It doesn’t upset me!” he whisper-shouts. “What upsets me is the reason why she wants to help.”
“What reason is that?”
“She wants to ask the Bullet Man to solve her case. I don’t think she will guide the interrogation in the right direction because she wants something out of it.”
“You’re concerned she will let him walk?” Thoroughly intrigued by this twist of events, I align my pen with the ledger and abandon taking notes for the moment.
“Yes,” he growls. “I thought therapy would help her move on, and she has in some ways, but she’s determined to cohort with him.”
Interesting. I lean back on my chair and curl my finger around the armrest. “Perhaps she’s looking for closure.”
A toilet flushing sound fills the silence, and he tries to cover it with an elevated voice. “Sorry, I didn’t know anyone was in the men’s room.” He mumbles something to someone, which sounds like a string of curses before a more coherent, “Shit! Sorry, Frank. She’s not coming into work today. We had a fight, and I grabbed my shit and left.” A pause, followed by utter silence, comes before Kace addresses me again, “Sorry, Dr. Mills. My partner says the captain is looking for me. I have to go in there and tell him what happened.”
“Before you do, are you sure you’re willing to risk your relationship? If you do this, it may be interpreted—”
“I don’t care how she sees it. I’m not going to let my fiancé come in here and talk to a murderer so she can play into the Bullet Man’s game. It’s not closure; she’s just prolonging the agony for both of us. We’re so close to nailing—Damnit—One sec…” He puts me on hold because the line goes silent.
Reprieve allows me to assess my methods. Adrenaline rushes through me, igniting my synapses. With my feet planted steadily on the floor, I glance around the office.
What if they were setting me up? Not that it would deter me, but I might have to adjust my plan. I get up and walk toward the couch, the one Elle sits on all the time. She never touches anything else, but her hand could’ve slid between the cushions and bugged my office.
My jaw tenses as I pull out the three cushions and slide my hands over the interior material, feeling for a small device. Kneeling down beside the couch, I pull my cell phone out of my back pocket and make a call to the receptionist. While I’m busy asking for different files, I listen for interference while traveling around the room, bending and crouching down while talking. When transmitting signals, electromagnetic fields may cross and create crackling noises.
No strange noises result from my call, so I end it and drop my cell phone on the desk to free my hands. While I wait for Kace, I restore the couch cushions and straighten the angles of the square furniture.
A few minutes later, Kace comes back on the line. He’s out of breath, and by the echo in the background, it sounds like he’s on the stairwell. “Dr. Mills?”
“Yes?”
“I’m back. Sorry. That was Frank telling me they just brought her in.”
“Brought who in?”
He chuckles lightly as the squeak of a door opening captures my attention. “Yeah, all this time we’ve been referring to the killer as the Bullet Man … Apparently, it might be the Bullet Woman.”
They think it’s a female? I test their hypothesis, “Female killers are often not sexually-driven.”
Kace replies, “They also tend to operate within their home base, and female serial killers tend to have neater killings.”
“You’re thinking Munchausen syndrome by proxy?”
“Or a derivation of it—at least that’s what the psychological profile says. Our suspect is a nurse at the hospital. We think she targets the waiting area for grief-stricken family members. She’s been to some of the murderers’ homes.”
What kind of evidence can they possibly have? “She may just be friends with some.”
“More than two isn’t a coincidence. It’s a pattern.”
Who am I to disagree? “Yes, you do have a point there.” I keep my tone monotonous and pull up my schedule on the computer. “I won’t keep you any l
onger. The appointment you wanted, would you prefer to do it at a different time? Once you’ve made an arrest?”
“No,” he quips. “There are tons of people here, and she’s already lawyered up. We can’t exactly prove intent or direct first step. She didn’t stalk anyone, and there’s no proof as to whether or not she targeted them. Most of the couriers identified her as someone they knew, but she’s a nurse who works at the ER. It’s probable they are familiar with her face. I’m beginning to fucking hate the word proxy.”
Ignoring his comment, I focus back on Elle. “Perhaps you were right in keeping Eleanor away for the day. Today seems particularly busy.”
“I’m not exactly sure what that means for us, though.” He clears his throat. “I don’t want to lose her, but I don’t recognize her anymore.”
“Are you basing this off the last twenty-four hours or the last three months?”
He takes a long time to answer. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t make decisions when I’m angry. I’m going to stay with Frank for a couple days and try to figure some things out, but I don’t want to leave Elle alone.”
“Why is that?” Desperation is one of the main factors in sending someone over the edge.
“Because you made her write a suicide letter, which is messed up, and she’s got a gun in the house. I don’t know what she’s going to do with it.”
“Relax, Detective Dalton. People exhibit warning signs, and from what we’ve discussed in therapy, I don’t have reason to worry about drastic situations.” Revenge is a good reason to live. Once the revenge is over, however, people often find themselves with nothing left to exist for.
“I haven’t relaxed in almost four months. I already told you this, I’m worried about her every day.”
“Precisely why I’ll make time for you tomorrow at three, is that okay? Or will you be occupied and prefer a different day.”
“No, three’s fine. I’ll come with Elle.” He hangs up shortly after his last statement. I stare at the stack of papers on my desk. The case file for the shooting and the evidence bag with the retrieved bullet.
Getting my hands on Eleanor Devero’s file was as easy as taking a leak, and virtually untraceable. One of the tech guys slid the images to the top of the queue when I mentioned needing the results for a criminal write-up. Soon I’d have the information.
The phone rings, bringing me out of my pensive state, and I drop the bag on the desk to answer. Cara has barely even spoken when the door to my office is thrown open.
“Ms. Devero,” I greet the intruder while casually standing. With the receiver to my ear, I eye the intriguingly non-disheveled girl in front of me.
My receptionist trails off excuses in my ear, but I don’t mind. My subject has just walked in, and I’m curious as to what she has to say. I nod for Elle to take a seat and thank the woman, still talking my ear off. “I’ll see her now. Cancel my ten o’clock.”
“You have a full day today and tomorrow, sir. How am I going to reschedule them this week?” the receptionist cautions. Thursdays and Fridays are generally my busiest days, but everyone else can wait. “Cancel my three o’clock tomorrow. I’m going to need that particular time available also.”
Elle looks at me cautiously. “What’s that?”
Shit, the file and the evidence bag.
“Is that my name?”
“Yes,” I answer honestly, dissuading her suspicion with the truth. “I wanted to look over the official police report on the shooting to help walk you through that day. Perhaps hypnosis could jog your memory.”
“Oh.” She takes a seat on the same couch she always does. “Cap gave it to you?”
“Yes and no, I work on a government-funded project that has access to the database and to the Tank.”
“Sounds boring.”
“Boring, tiring, depends on the day,” I joke, but it lands on deaf ears. Her heart is somewhere else today, so I cautiously slide her evidence into the top drawer and head over to my armchair.
We’re directly in front of each other, with only a coffee table between us.
“Would you like some tea or coffee?” I offer.
“No,” she says sharply and leans forward, resting her elbows on her thighs. “I’m sorry to just barge in like this.”
“It’s okay,” I assure her, making myself comfortable. “You look different today.” Based on my conversation with Kace, I expected her to be more distressed and a lot less put together.
She glances down at her white lace shirt and fiddles with the buttons on her three-quarter-sleeve jean jacket before resting her fingers at the base of her neck, just above her breasts. “Does it look okay?”
I scrunch my brows in confusion, a bit surprised by her question.
She reads me and explains, “I’m going to try to get Kace back.” She points to her face, more specifically, the toned-down reddish hue of her lips.
“What do you mean ‘back’?” I reach to the side of my chair, in the pocket, and pull out a leather folder to take notes.
“He left me.” Her voice cracks as she fidgets around, trying to get comfortable.
I don’t offer any information otherwise. “Why do you say that?”
Her eyes cut to me sharply. “Because he took his bag and walked out the door after saying he should have left a long time ago.”
“Does that bother you? That he said that?”
“It sounded so definite, like he couldn’t stand me anymore, and maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s time to try and be the woman I was before all this happened. It felt good to be her yesterday.”
“Perhaps,” I offer and use the cap of my pen to point at her. “Is that why you’re dressed up?”
She scoffs and cocks her head. “I used to care what I looked like.”
“Do you not anymore?”
She rubs her hands on her thighs and returns a half-hearted smile in response. “Is it weird if I say I care if it will bring him back?”
“No, but I’d like to explore that a little.”
She nods.
“So, what happened?”
“We fought and cried, then he kissed me. I felt so guilty for loving the way his lips felt on mine; our bodies recognized each other, as if time didn’t exist at all. It’s been months, aside from a few touches here and there, without any kind of physical contact.”
Interesting. I jot down the lack of human connection and ask, “Guilt aside, how did it make you feel? Him touching you?”
“Amazing.” Her face contorts in disgust, and she adjusts her comment. “That sounds awful. It hasn’t even been that long.”
“Do you think there’s a set grieving period for losing a child?”
“What do you mean?”
“In some cultures, the amount of time someone wears black, in mourning, is directly dependent on the degree of separation from the deceased. While others believe when a child dies at a young age, tears and dark colors will weigh the soul.” She purses her lips at the idea, so I continue, “Grief is often quantified in order for someone to surpass a loss. I advise my patients not to fall into this grief trap.”
“Time is subjective?”
“There’s no right or wrong here. I’m simply curious as to where these emotions of guilt come from. Is it from moving on, from something you didn’t do, or for surviving?”
She rests her hand on her chin and glances at the coffee table. “All of them. That’s why I want to find out who did this and put an end to it. I thought Kace would help me.”
“Help you how?”
She swallows and blushes. This wasn’t a trap. If it were, the shame crossing her features wouldn’t be so genuine.
Tears fill her eyes, and she swats the lone ones as she explains, “I wanted to get the Bullet Man to help me solve the case. Kace didn’t like the idea.”
“Do you think the idea didn’t warrant any backlash?”
She shrugs. “It sounds stupid, I know it does, but he had just told me how hard it was to lose Tyler. He said he
’d do anything.” She pauses there, the pain she felt transparent on her face.
“You think he’s lying?”
“It hurts a mother more.” She glances up at me and uses both hands to forcefully swipe the tears away. “I created that hear; my body molded it until it had fingers and toes. Premature babies can survive at seven months… he wasn’t born, but he was in this world. I don’t think men will ever understand what it feels like to create life. To exist in the same moment and experience something at the same time for months.” She sniffs and asks, “Do you have children?”
“No,” I reply. “I’ve never been much for small children.” I reverse the conversation back to her. “Do you think you have more of a right to grieve then he does?”
“No!” she shouts back, slightly offended. “Maybe I loved Tyler more because of it, though?”
I nod and place the ledger on my lap. “When my patients begin to speak, and words like ‘more’ or ‘enough’ come up in conversation, I like to point out the slope they are heading down.”
“What slope?”
“Though some believe it can be done through neuronal mapping and concentrations of neurotransmitters—and even then, environmental factors must be considered—quantifying emotion, or rather measuring emotion, isn’t something we can do on a daily basis, much less on an hourly basis. At least not accurately. What you’re doing is putting limits—expectations for people to measure up to.”
“Is that so bad?” She knows it is, but her brain rationalizes her actions.
“It is when those limits keep increasing. Eventually, not even you can meet your own expectations. It’s a hard cycle, and one our society is hard-pressed on continuing. Numbers are understandable … One is one. Two is two…. Words, with their multiple definitions and various usages and the thoughts behind them, are open to too much interpretation.”
“That makes sense.”
Of course, it does; it’s part of what she should already know.
“So, you’re saying it’s not that Kace didn’t love Tyler, it’s that he loved him differently than I did. My connection was different, but the loss was the same.”
Leave Me Breathless: The Black Rose Collection Page 142
