by Amy Cross
"You've got a name?" I reply, turning the bag over to see the numbers filed into the side of the metal.
"Elizabeth Mary Read," he says, with a hint of triumph. "Twenty-one years old, although by some macabre coincidence it happens to be her twenty-second birthday tomorrow. What do you think? Should we wheel her out of the fridge and have a party? I could rustle up some bunting from somewhere."
"So where's she from?" I ask.
"I already took the liberty of running a check on her," he continues, passing me one of the print-outs. "She had quite a history. In and out of juvenile detention centers from the age of nine. Drugs, sex, vandalism, arson... You name it, she was involved in it, almost as soon as she learned to walk. Her parents seem to have pretty much given up on her, which is sad but not exactly hard to understand. She was a wild child, spending most of her time in squats near her family home in Norwich before, some time between 2009 and 2010, shifting down to London. God knows why, but there you do. After that, her history's a little more sketchy, so I'm thinking she lived in a series of squats before ending up on the streets. Given her background, it's a fair bet that she was willing to do just about anything to score money or drugs, and then somehow she ends up with her guts ripped out and a hook through her face."
Reading through the girl's record for a moment, I can't help but feel that someone should have helped her. Sure, she was responsible for her own decisions once she became an adult, but it looks like she was more or less on her own before she even hit her teenage years. In many ways, she seems to have embraced the stereotype of the troubled young runaway with surprising enthusiasm, progressing step-by-step from alcohol to soft drugs, then on to hard drugs, then prostitution and a life on the streets.
"I hate myself for thinking this," Tim continues eventually, "but a girl like that... There was nothing that could have been done for her. She was too far down the rabbit hole."
"I need to find out everything I can about her life once she got to London," I say after a moment. "She was probably picked by the killer at random, but it's still worth making sure. Someone has to have known her. Even if she was living rough, there would have been people who recognized her and saw her around. If you're going to survive living rough, you need to know someone, right? You need to buy and sell drugs and services, so you need a kind of network. There are people out there who know something about her, people who miss her."
"Miss?" he replies. "That's a strong word. People who noticed she was gone, maybe. I doubt there are too many deep emotional attachments on the street. You're either useful to someone or you're not, and I can't exactly see them organizing a search party just 'cause someone hasn't been around for a while." He pauses. "Speaking of which, how's it going with hook-girl? I'm guessing by the lack of euphoria that she hasn't been too useful?"
"She's barely said a word," I mutter, still reading through the details about Elizabeth Read. "She corrected my Shakespeare, but that's about it."
"Shakespeare?"
"She's educated," I continue. "To some extent, at least. She's smart, too, and she doesn't think she needs to talk to me. Whatever's going on in her head, it's complicated, and she's got this notebook where she seems to write things down in code. It might turn out to be nothing, but I need to be sure."
"Code?" he asks.
"Nothing I can make out so far," I tell him. "I'm sure it all makes total sense to her, but it's probably designed so it seems like complete nonsense to anyone else."
"You gonna get it analyzed?"
I turn to him. "It doesn't matter. The notebook's just a distraction. The blunt truth is, she's clamming up and I can't seem to get through to her. I think she must have been through some traumatic events in her life that make her distrust authority figures. She thinks we're going to hurt her."
"Maybe," her replies, "or maybe she's just a bit of a bitch."
"Not you too," I say with a sigh.
"Not all homeless people are traumatized victims," he continues. "Hear me out, okay? They weren't all bright young things who got pushed onto the streets by bad parents. Some of them just made bad decisions, Laura, and they don't all need or want to be rescued. They're weak, or they're dumb, or they're lazy."
"Funny," I mutter, "you're the second person in the past half hour who's decided to give me a lecture."
"You know what I mean," he says. "It's very easy to get suckered into a cliched view of these things. I saw that Ophelia girl when she was brought in. Sure, she might well have some psychiatric problems, but that doesn't mean you can run through a checklist until you've worked out what's wrong with her. She's no more or less complicated than anyone else who might get brought in. Don't start trying to save her."
"Now who's making assumptions?" I reply. "I don't want to save her. I just want to get some answers and then let her go. At the end of the day, she's none of my business."
"Good," he says. "You can't afford to get attached to someone just because they seem vulnerable, Laura. A bleeding heart won't do you any good in this job."
I can't help but smile.
"If you knew me at all," I tell him, "you'd know that really isn't my kind of problem at all."
"So are you gonna call her parents?" he asks.
I pause for a moment.
"I've got their details," he continues, holding up a sheet of paper. "Someone needs to let Andrew and Sheila Read know that their daughter's dead body is on a slab down here. They might want to claim it and hold a proper funeral." He waits for me to reply. "Or they might not. Either way, they need to know, and since you're the lead officer on the case..."
He lets the words linger for a moment.
"Fine," I say, taking the sheet of paper from him. I glance at the phone number, and I can't help but shudder at the thought of making that call. Without saying anything, I turn and head out of the room. I'll call the victim's parents at some point, but I'm too busy right now.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ophelia
"Have you ever spoken to a psychiatrist before?" the woman asks, smiling at me from the other side of the table.
I stare at her. This is an unexpected development, and I don't like it very much.
"My name is Dr. Richards," she continues. "You can call me Gillian if you like, or Dr. Richards. It doesn't matter to me. I just want you to feel comfortable, and I want you to feel that you can talk to me openly and honestly."
She leaves another pause, evidently thinking that maybe I'll say something. I won't, of course, but I guess she'll learn soon enough. She thinks I'm just some dumb kid who can be manipulated, but eventually she'll realize that I'm much smarter.
"Are you sure you don't want to have a lawyer present, Ophelia? I know you might not think you need one, but some people feel a lot better if they've got some proper legal advice. No-one's going to think you're guilty just because you change your mind or decide you want to consult someone."
I wait for her to finish. She bores me.
"I want to make it clear right from the start that I'm not part of the police," she says, her voice sounding soft and carefully modulated. "I'm completely independent of them, and of their investigation, and nothing you say to me in here will get back to them. There are no recording devices currently running in here, and I'm on your side. It's very important that you understand that point. I'm here to help you, not to assist the police in their investigation."
I stare at her for a moment. Finally, I decide to blink.
"It must be quite scary being here," she continues. "I don't know if you've ever been in trouble with the police before, but I imagine it's very hard to keep up with what's happening. It must be like a whirlwind. I've been told about your case and about the situation you're in, so if there's anything you want to ask me, I hope you'll feel free to do so. If there's something I don't know, I can always ask someone else. We have a very good support system in place for people who are vulnerable, and although it might be difficult for you to accept help, I hope you'll consider exploring y
our options. As difficult as things might seem right now, today could turn out to be the first day of the rest of your life. This could be the new start you've been waiting for."
I wait for her to continue. There's nothing I want to ask her. She's irrelevant. Worse, she's wordy; everything she says takes so long to come out, and she doesn't have a clue what I really want.
"So," she says suddenly, forcing an even bigger smile than before. "Ophelia, huh? That's an unusual name. I don't think I've ever come across anyone called Ophelia before. It's from Shakespeare, isn't it? Hamlet, if I'm not mistaken. Ophelia, the queen of Denmark. A very regal name. Do you happen to know why your parents chose it?"
This is pathetic. She's trying to be my friend, which is never going to happen. At least the police officer, Laura, didn't keep ingratiating herself with me. Dr. Richards seems to think she can engage me in conversation and bring me around to her way of thinking, which is just some bullshit approach she probably learned from a textbook. It's insulting when people try such basic techniques and expect there to be results.
"Now let me think back to my school days," she continues. "Quite a long time ago, I'm afraid..."
She keeps talking, rambling on and on about Hamlet and about the character of Ophelia. It's quite scary, in a way, to think that such a stupid woman could ever be put in a position of authority. Sure, she seems fairly harmless and innocuous, but she hasn't got a clue how to do her job and she sure as hell isn't ever going to get a word out of me. Unfortunately, she doesn't even have any amusement value, which means I have to just sit here and wait for her to stop rambling. I don't need her help, but I feel sorry for anyone who ever relies on her for actual psychiatric help. They'll be absolutely screwed.
"So why don't we talk a little about you?" she says eventually, having apparently exhausted her thoughts on Shakespeare. "Tell me about yourself, Ophelia. I don't mind where we start, so just give me something to start with. A memory, perhaps, or some kind of detail from your life. What's your favorite color? Do you play any instruments? What's the funniest joke you ever heard?"
She waits, and finally I can tell that her constant smile is beginning to waver. She's tried all her opening gambits, like a chess player cycling through different moves. The problem is, I'm not playing, so nothing she does can force me to make a move in return.
"Did you choose the name Ophelia for yourself?" she asks suddenly.
I try to keep a straight face.
"Some people choose their own names," she continues. "They get older, they decide they don't like the name they were given, and they decide to change it to something they think is a better fit for their personality. Is that something you've ever thought about doing?"
It's tempting to tell her to go to hell, but I manage to stay quiet.
"I'm sorry," she adds. "It just struck me that perhaps it's the kind of name someone might choose if they wanted to get rid of their old name. For example, maybe you want to make a break from your past, from the name your parents gave you, and consequently you decided to take on the name of someone from literature. Someone you admired, perhaps? Someone from a favorite book?" She pauses. "Forgive me for going off on a tangent for a moment," she adds after a moment, "but since you're not saying anything, I'm going to have to fill the silences somehow. In Hamlet, Ophelia is driven mad following the death of her father, who has been killed by the man she loves. Eventually, Ophelia falls into the river and drowns, although there are hints that she might have killed herself instead. Her death is a key event in the text of the play, isn't it? She drives the plot toward its resolution."
I wait for the inevitable suggestion.
"So is there something about Ophelia's story that made you want to appropriate the name?"
Bingo. I knew she'd ask that question. It's Psychology 101.
"She's certainly a complex psychological character. I read up on Hamlet on my way over here, and I can certainly understand how some people might find it appealing to frame their own personality in that kind of cultural reference point. After all, Ophelia was a very misunderstood young woman, wasn't she? There's also the fact that she confounded a male-orientated society and caused a great deal of heartache. To be completely honest with you, I think it's a rather loaded name, and I can't imagine someone who'd choose it - either for a child or for themselves - without being very much aware of its significance."
She waits for me to say something.
"No?" she adds. "Am I completely wrong?"
We sit in silence for a moment.
"Why are you doing that?" she asks suddenly. "You keep fidgeting in your seat. Is there a problem?"
I wait for her to move on.
"I'm going to go with the assumption that you want to sever yourself from your past," she continues, making some notes on her clipboard. "I don't suppose there's any chance that you'd be willing to answer a few simple questions for me, is there? Just one word responses, for the most part. Nice and easy."
I wait for her to continue.
"Let's try anyway," she mutters under her breath. "Ophelia, do you consider yourself to be a danger to yourself or to anyone around you?"
I stare at her.
"Have you ever self-harmed?"
I stare at her.
"Do you believe that you're in danger from anyone?"
I stare at her.
"If I were to recommend your release, do you have anywhere to go? If not your family, then maybe a friend?"
I blink by accident, but mostly I continue to stare at her.
"Do you care whether you live or die?"
I stare at her.
"How do you see me, Ophelia? As a friend?"
I stare at her.
"As an enemy?"
I stare at her.
"As a complete irrelevance? Just an annoying bug to be swatted?"
I stare at her.
Sighing, she makes some more notes. There's a part of me that would love to see what she's writing, but I can't let her know that I'm curious. She'd just try to read something Freudian into the whole damn thing.
"It might please you to know," she says eventually, "that unless you're going to start answering my questions, or at least acknowledging my presence, I'm going to have to call this brief encounter to a close. When a subject refuses to engage, I can only interpret that as a passive aggressive move on her part and, as a result, I must write my report accordingly." She pauses again, as if she expects me to finally yield. "So at least we know where we stand," she adds finally. "If you have any questions about the procedure, feel free to ask me, or you can of course ask anyone else and they'll make sure you get answers."
I, of course, merely stare at her.
"Okay," she mutters as she gets to her feet and gathers her papers. "It was interesting to meet you, Ophelia. I have to go and speak to some people now." She heads to the door, before stopping and turning back to me for a moment. "If you identify yourself as Ophelia," she adds, "then who's your Hamlet?"
I stare at her.
"I saw that," she says after a moment. "It might have been involuntary, Ophelia, but I saw a little twitch. It wasn't the first time I've seen it during our interview, either. You might think you're sitting there completely impassively, but you've got a tell, just like everyone else. You probably don't even know it's happening, do you?" She pauses, and finally a faint smile crosses her lips. "If you want my advice, don't take up poker any time soon. You're not quite as good at hiding your feelings as you like to believe."
As she walks out of the room, I try to work out if she's right. I thought I was just staring at her without giving anything away, but now I'm starting to wonder if maybe I do have some kind of twitch that gives me away. After a few seconds, however, I realize that this is probably just her pathetic attempt to trick me into getting flustered, in which case there's no way it's going to work. I'm way too smart to fall for something as simple as that, and I'm insulted that she even tried.
No, insulted isn't the right word. I'm angry.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Laura
"She's certainly a difficult one," Dr. Richards says as we stand in the corridor near the custody suite. "I've never met a patient who refuses to speak before. I mean, she absolutely refuses to utter a word. They usually at least give me a grunt or two, but she just stared at me with those dark eyes like she saw me as some kind of monster."
"Do you think she's just being stubborn?" I ask.
"I think that's certainly an element," she continues. "She seems to have a sense of superiority, as if she thinks she's better than anyone else. I imagine that, in her head, she considers all our questions to be utterly beneath her. Maybe she's right, but I doubt it. She wants to present herself as some kind of undiagnosed genius, but I think it's far too early to start accepting her opinion of herself. If I had to speculate, I'd say that deep down she's probably a very scared young woman right now and she has no intention of opening up." She pauses. "Still, we have ways and means."
"She didn't say anything at all?"
"She has a very slight tell," she replies. "At certain moments, probably when she felt threatened, there was a faint tremor in her left eye. I don't think she's even aware of it, but it's a sign that at least she was listening to me."
"I need to get through to her," I reply.
"It'll take time -"
"I don't have time," I continue, interrupting her. "I have a live murder investigation and I need answers by the end of the day, or more people might die."
"I'm afraid that won't be possible," she replies. "Ophelia has erected some very strong barriers around herself. It's going to take time to get through those, and we certainly can't rush the process. I'm going to recommend that she's held on a mental health order for a minimum of fourteen days, so she can be properly assessed at the clinic where I work. It's only at the end of those fourteen days that we can really begin to get to the bottom of her problems -"