Mirror Image (7 page)
“You’re pretty comfortable around cops,” Casey said, spearing a cherry tomato with her fork. “That’s rare.”
“Let’s say I’m used to them.”
“Your father was a beat cop on the North Side, right?” Her eyes crinkled at the edges. “I read your file.”
“Oh boy.”
We were sitting at a corner booth in Tambellini’s, splitting a Bordeaux. She’d told me when we sat down that she liked both her wine and her steaks blood red.
“But don’t read anything into that,” she’d said with a laugh.
“You mean, other than that you’re a carnivore?”
“Yeah, right. If you’re anything like my shrink, you’re already making assumptions about me.”
“Not me. I’m off-duty.”
“Bullshit. You guys are never off-duty. Like my being late for the meeting. He’d have a field day with that.”
“Sure. It’s Therapy 101. If you show up late, you’re resistant. If you’re early, you’re anxious. On time, you’re compulsive.” I smiled. “We have all the bases covered.”
The meeting at police headquarters had broken up an hour before, with stern warnings from the District Attorney against talking to the press. As Casey and I headed out the door, Angie Villanova had taken us aside.
“Look, Danny, from the moment Miles Wingfield lands tomorrow, this thing is gonna steamroll. Now I know Kevin was your patient…” She cocked an eyebrow.
“
But
…” I smiled down at her. My old math tutor. From the neighborhood. Now she was the voice of the Pittsburgh Police, a bureaucrat selling me the party line.
“
But
,” she repeated, “after you hand over your files, you’re out of this. Leave it to the murder dicks, okay? You’re just a witness, like any other citizen.”
“Or a suspect.”
“Biegler wasn’t serious,” Casey said, smiling. “Even
he
isn’t that dense.”
Angie gave my shoulder a parting tap. “Just keep your head down and think good thoughts, and maybe we’ll all come outta this wearin’ diamonds.”
She gave Casey a curt nod and started off, sturdy heels clicking on the polished hardwood.
Then, turning: “And, Danny, don’t be such a stranger. Come to dinner on Sunday. Sonny’d love to see you.”
She strode away toward the elevators. Her husband Sonny was a retired construction worker, living on disability following the loss of his leg at a job site accident. Even before that he was a bitter, small-minded bigot. Predictably, retirement had not mellowed him.
I could feel Casey’s gaze on me. I turned.
“Speaking of dinner,” she said, “I’m starving.”
***
Which is how we ended up at Tambellini’s, over steaks and Caesar salads. Despite the crowded tables, the frenzied hustle of waiters and busboys, Casey focused on me in a way that made me feel we were the only two people in the room.
“What?” I said, off her look.
“Angie told me you were tall and good-looking,” she said. “I just figured it was bullshit. You know, unhappily-married older woman with a crush. Something like that.”
“What makes you think she’s unhappy?”
“Are you kidding? She might as well wear a sign.”
“You’re pretty good at making assumptions yourself.”
“I’m a DA. It’s my job to think the worst. And I’m right most of the time.” Again that easy smile. That cool self-assurance.
I wished I could say the same. I tried to keep myself in check, but she wasn’t making it easy. Her eyes were deep and reflective one moment, quick and challenging the next. Somehow, despite my best efforts, I felt—there’s no other word—
caught
by them.
Jesus,
I thought. What the hell’s going on? She’s at least a dozen years younger than me.
Now, pouring her some more wine, I told myself this was an understandable reaction to the stress of the past twenty-four hours, fueled by no sleep, no food, and the undeniable fact of her beauty. I actually told myself this.
“I’ve been wanting to meet you,” she was saying. “Though not exactly under these circumstances.”
We had a window table, and outside the night was dark and thick. Beyond our own reflections in the glass, trees bent before a punishing wind. Another storm moving in.
“Word is, you’re good at what you do.” She looked at me over the rim of her glass. “I like that in a person.”
“According to Sinclair, you’re not so bad yourself.”
“I have my moments. And I work hard. Law review, two years running. Then a lot of paying dues. I put in my time prosecuting drunk drivers in Wilkinsburg, some white-collar stuff up-state, then applied to the DA’s office downtown.”
She gave me a sharp look. “And, yeah, it didn’t hurt that I was young, female, and easy to look at. But believe me, I earned every break I got.”
I believed her.
The waiter came by to offer us coffee. We both ordered decaf. She asked me a lot of questions about my work with crime victims and their families. Whenever my answers were too casual or generalized, she pressed me, narrowing the focus. A good trial lawyer, I thought.
“I can’t even imagine some of the things these people go through,” she said at one point. “Women who’ve been raped, or kidnapped. Bank tellers terrorized by armed robbers. How do they go on after something like that?”
“Some of them don’t. I mean, they go through the motions. Go to work, pay their bills. But the trauma stays with them, as if they don’t still live in the same world as people who’ve never gone through that kind of experience.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, take the classic symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress. Flashbacks, nightmares, intrusive images of the horrible event that keep flooding back. Plus a constant anxiety, a kind of hyper-vigilance about danger that can persist for months, even years.”
I stirred some cream into my coffee. “And it isn’t just in their heads. Exposure to gunfire can alter brain chemistry. Central nervous system pathways are disrupted. This can play hell with REM sleep, causing nightmares, anxiety, inability to concentrate.”
I frowned. “Great, this is turning into a lecture.”
“Not at all. I’m fascinated. I work the legal end of a crime. Testimony, forensics. Stuff you can sink your teeth into. But what
you
do…”
She hesitated. “Like with Kevin Wingfield. Did
he
have symptoms like that after he was robbed and assaulted?”
“Yes. Especially with his background, a childhood history of physical and sexual abuse. That break-in at his apartment might have triggered old memories of personal violation. Reinforced his anxiety about potential danger, the inevitability of violence. Studies suggest that crime victims exposed to prior domestic violence are at a greater risk for real psychological damage.”
“Like the straw that breaks the camel’s back?”
“Something like that.”
She considered this. “And this doesn’t just apply to the victims themselves, right? I mean, I saw a report on the survivors of the World Trade Center. Families of the victims feeling tremendous guilt for having survived.”
“It went deeper than that. A couple rescue workers on the scene later committed suicide, convinced they should’ve done more. Rescued more people. A tragedy of that scope, you’re looking at long-term effects on the survivors. Depression, divorce, addictions. God knows what we’re going to see when all the research comes in on Hurricane Katrina. The psychological fall-out.”
“They call it survivor guilt, don’t they?”
“Yeah, but that’s too pretty a phrase. Like battle fatigue. It doesn’t get to the core, where the pain lives.”
I tapped my fingers against the tablecloth. I felt awkward, suddenly. Exposed.
Then her hand reached across the table, rested on mine. “Please,” she said. “Tell me about Barbara.”
I gave her a quizzical look.
“I told you, I read your file. Please, Danny.”
I delayed a moment, and then, inexplicably, I found my voice. It had been so long since I’d told the story, even to myself, that my words tasted strangely new.
“She was a professor of ancient languages. Brilliant. Dedicated. She could also be a major pain in the ass.”
“You really loved her, didn’t you?”
“Marriage had been my idea,” I said. “Me, the scourge of the Pitt psych department…and I’d pushed for marriage, maybe even children someday. The whole traditional thing.”
“And Barbara…?”
I shrugged. “For some reason, she went along with it. But we were both workaholics. Driven. There were a lot of conflicts. But somehow…”
Casey nodded.
“Anyway,” I said at last, “one night six years ago, we got mugged outside this restaurant near the Point. The guy was young, built like a bull, in a hooded parka. A big 9 millimeter in his hand. He was agitated, muttering…I figured he was probably coked out of his mind.”
“Jesus…”
“He told us to turn over our wallets, jewelry. When Barbara fumbled with her purse, he shoved her with his shoulder. Hard. It was like he was coming unglued. Then I saw the gun come up, and I lunged for it. It all happened so fast. I remember our struggling, him backing away, cursing, wresting the gun back…then I heard the shots, bang—bang—bang—and then everything went black.”
I let out a long breath. Watched her watching me.
“When I woke up,” I went on, “I was in ICU, given a fifty-fifty chance to live. I lived.”
I sat back in the chair. “Barbara hadn’t been so lucky. I learned later she’d died instantly, at the scene, from two bullet wounds to the head.”
Casey dropped her eyes, seemingly at a loss. A strand of hair fell over her eyes, but she didn’t push it back.
I ran a finger around the rim of my coffee cup. “You asked about survivor guilt. Well, I had it in spades…I believed Barbara’s death was somehow my fault.”
“It wasn’t.”
“I know that now. But I went through the classic stages…blaming myself for allowing us to be caught off guard by the guy. Plus, I had done some boxing when I was younger, so some part of me thought I should’ve been able to take him. That I’d failed her…”
Casey let a silence fill the space between us.
“What happened after you got out of the hospital?”
“I guess my life fell apart. I couldn’t imagine doing therapy again, treating patients. Hell,
I
was the patient now. So I quit my job at the clinic. Totally dropped out. I needed the time to work things out, get a handle on it.”
“And did you?”
“Finally, yeah. With some help. It took two years of therapy to realize that
I
didn’t kill Barbara, some prick with a gun did.”
I paused. “Anyway, soon after, I knew I was ready to work again. More than that, I knew
why
I wanted to work. Maybe for the first time in my career. I got my chance when Angie Villanova called me out of the blue one day. If you remember, two of the Handyman’s victims had gotten away. Angie referred one of them to me.”
Casey’s eyes darkened. “That reminds me, I guess you heard about the movie—?”
“Yeah. Don’t get me started.”
Just then, the waiter came over with the check. Before I could make a move, Casey scooped it up.
“I invited
you
, remember?” She took out a credit card. “So that’s how you started working with crime victims?”
“Only a few people at first. Then my work-load started to build. In a year or so, I went into private practice full-time. I also signed on as a consultant to the cops.”
I smiled. “Funny. My old man hated being on the job, used to get pissed when I even
kidded
him about joining the force myself someday. Strange how things turn out…”
“Is he still alive?”
I shook my head. “Drank himself to death a long time ago…”
Casey signed the credit card slip and we got up from our seats. We walked outside under a cold, cloudless sky, our coats bundled against the wind.
She followed me in her Lexus to my office building on Forbes. Thick tree branches that canopied my street shook in the wind, sawing against each other like old bones.
I pulled up at the curb. The parking garage was still cordoned off with yellow tape. In the wake of the news about Kevin’s father, my guess was that a fresh team of CSU techs was scouring the place even now.
Casey confirmed this, as she locked her car in the space behind mine. She pointed up at bright white lights fanning out from openings in the garage’s upper level.
“Poor bastards are in for straight double-shifts,” she said as I walked up to her on the sidewalk.
I opened the double front doors and let us into the lobby. Pulled by the wind, the door shut behind us with a whoosh, as though vacuum-sealed. We took the elevator up to the fifth floor.
I unlocked the outer office door, then the connecting door into my consulting room. I flipped on the overhead and led us over to my file cabinets. I’d already signed the subpoena for Kevin’s records, so I slid open the file drawer and started looking for his folder.
Casey stood beside me, taking in the décor.
“Nice office,” she said. “Kind of like—”
Her voice caught. I turned, and saw that her face had gone ashen. I whirled around, following her gaze.
There on my desk, stark against the whiteness of the blotter, lay a blood-covered knife. The blade was long and thin, the blood dried, caked, black like soot.
I took a step toward my desk, heart pounding.
“Don’t,” she said, her voice a gasp. “Don’t touch it.”
“I know.”
I stared down at the knife. I’d never seen one like it before. But I knew what it was.
Just as I knew whose blood was on it. It was the knife that had killed Kevin Merrick.
It was also a message.
Next time, it said, the killer would get it right.
Next time, the blood would be mine.