Mercy

by David L Lindsey

  Palma stopped, looked at Grant. “I don’t know. Something like that,” she said. “It seems to me it would go along those lines.”

  “But made up to resemble the same woman every time?” Grant asked. “Why the same woman? That’s got to be significant.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Palma said. “But I haven’t come up with any answer. Maybe she’s the ideal woman. The killer’s mother.” She shrugged.

  Grant started slowly shaking his head. “I don’t know. When something comes up that doesn’t fall within the loop of our behavior models, we usually don’t jump to the conclusion that we’ve discovered another species. Rather, we tend to think we’ve been reading something wrong, not looking at it the way we should.”

  Palma nodded, but didn’t say anything. She sipped her coffee, glanced out to the courtyard. The sky was clearing enough now that the day was lightening even though the sun was low in the sky. The tiles in the courtyard were beginning to steam. Grant had put his finger on the curved handle of his spoon and was rocking it lightly, preoccupied, not looking at her but at the spoon and the tiny messy pattern it was making in a droplet of coffee. By this time she realized that she had grown fond of his eyes, even the beginnings of the crow’s-feet at the corners.

  “What about Reynolds?” Grant asked, looking up. “How do you look at him now? Have you changed your mind?”

  Palma nodded. “You know what did it for me? When I first noticed those wrinkles on Bernadine Mello’s scarlet silk sheet, I instantly knew they were significant, momentously significant. When I finally got back to the office and had the opportunity to look at the crime scene photographs from the Doubletree Hotel and Samenov’s condo, I knew we’d been missing something that was important to the killer. Important because it was such a minuscule detail, but one that the killer remained consistent in observing. Then, as time went by and I began to realize what the wrinkles meant…that the killer was, by lying down with his victim, engaging in an act that was essentially one of compassion, of nurturing. That was the moment when I began to have my doubts about Reynolds.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t believe the man is capable of compassion, even in a sick and twisted way. He’s all hate. I have no doubt that Haws and Marley will eventually connect him to Louise Ackley and Lalo Montalvo’s death. But is he killing these women? I don’t believe so. There’s a subtle complexity here that I don’t believe Reynolds is capable of devising.”

  “Because he isn’t that complex?” Grant asked.

  “No, because he isn’t that subtle.” Palma stopped, her eyes drifting away from Grant to the courtyard as she thought back. “This morning, at Mancera’s, when Terry was telling me about Reynolds’s delight in humiliating Louise Ackley, she made the point that Louise had told her that Reynolds always left her ‘in the middle of it.’ She said he always left her ‘stranded,’ left her tied, covered in blood or feces or whatever it was they were doing. This heightened her humiliation, that he would consider her such a nothing that he could walk away from her like that, naked and bound and stinking.”

  The entire courtyard was steaming in the heat of the falling afternoon sun which cast its turning light through the hazy humidity and bathed the low palms and banana trees and white hibiscus in a muted copper light that, for some reason, struck Palma as painfully sad. She looked back at Grant, who had not taken his eyes off her.

  “Does that sound like the person who washes his victims?” Palma asked. “Who combs their hair, perfumes them, washes them in bath oils, and then lies down beside them for what must be a strange scene of quiet whispers between the living and the dead? Reynolds hasn’t got the touch of delicacy. He isn’t capable of the sensitivity required in those last moments with the body.”

  Grant was looking at her, still as a basilisk.

  Then he said, “Christ, you’ve really put yourself into this, haven’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I have.”

  For the first time since she had met him, she thought she saw a twitch of hesitation in his expression, but she didn’t understand what the hesitation connoted. When he responded, he did so obliquely, but it was clear enough she had gotten through to him.

  “But I’ve got to satisfy myself about Reynolds. We’ve got to go ahead and get the search warrant.”

  “I’ve already filled out the paperwork,” Palma said. “Frisch is having it taken to Judge Arens now. We’ll have it when we get back.”

  He looked at her. “Good,” he said.

  “You didn’t call and make an appointment with Broussard, did you?” she asked.

  Grant shook his head.

  “Good,” she said.

  44

  A smooth, undulating reef of slate gray clouds hung in the western sky just above the tree line as Palma and Grant followed the traffic outbound on the still wet and steaming pavement of Woodway. The rain was moving west, out of the city, and the falling sun was racing the gloomy weather toward the horizon. By the time the clouds were far enough away to clear the sky, the sun was already dropping into the pines and the long shadows came out to meet them on the glistening street. The rain had cleaned the city, which now appeared more three-dimensional than usual, as though viewed through a stereoscope.

  Palma and Grant turned into the cinder drive of Dr. Dominick Broussard’s estate and immediately veered to the right on a narrow lane that brought them to the small office bungalow isolated by woods from Broussard’s home. The cinder drive made a circle in front of the office, where a small black Mercedes 560SL was parked at the door. Palma pulled up behind the car and cut the engine.

  “That’s about seventy thou worth of paint and metal,” Grant said. “Is that his?”

  “Not according to the records,” Palma said.

  “He sees clients on weekends?”

  “Not according to his appointment secretary.”

  Grant looked at her. “I talked to her yesterday,” Palma explained. “In case I ever needed a psychiatrist. This woman seems to be something of a girl Friday, takes care of everything for him. I just chatted with her, got a general layout of the way Broussard works. She wouldn’t discuss fees with me, though. Said I would have to make an appointment with the doctor. I said that even though Dr. Broussard had been recommended to me, I was a little uncomfortable going into ‘all of this’ with a man. Did Broussard see many women? She said that actually all but two of his clients were women.”

  Grant nodded, still looking at her.

  “How did you know he’d be here rather than at his home over there?” he asked, taking a pen from his pocket and jotting down the license number on the Mercedes.

  “I didn’t. I just wanted to see where he met his clients.”

  Grant turned and looked through the car window at the front of the office again. Like Broussard’s home, it was bricked with a vaguely Georgian architectural style. Ivy was thick on the walls, and the stone walk that led to the front door was littered with leaves knocked off the trees by the two days of rain. Water was dripping here and there off the eaves of the slate roof. “Well, let’s see if he’s busy.”

  They got out of the car and Palma slipped her radio into her shoulder bag and locked the car. There was no doorbell beside the brass plaque mounted on the brick among the ivy and engraved with Broussard’s name, so Grant pressed down the ornate bronze latch on the door and pushed it open. There were no lights on in the waiting room except for a black light in a large glass case of orchids covering most of the far wall, its cold, eerie glow supplemented by the dying gray light of the afternoon filtering in through the two large casement windows overlooking the circle drive. Grant looked into the door that led to Broussard’s secretary’s office, which was arranged more like the office of a concierge than a receptionist. Obviously, Broussard wanted his clients to feel as if they were coming to see him in a domestic setting, rather than a clinical one.

  Grant looked at Palma, made a shrugging expression with his face, and stepped into the offic
e doorway while Palma went to the doorway that led out into a corridor. She looked to her right and saw a door slightly ajar and revealing a well-appointed powder room. Then she looked to her left and saw a closed door with a dim light coming from under it, and beyond that a French door looking out to an alcove where a large Labrador was sleeping in the blue light.

  Just then the door eased open slowly, and Palma quickly hissed at Grant, knocked loudly on the door frame in the hallway, and stepped back, pulling out her shield.

  “Hello, anybody here? Hello.” She glanced again at Grant and stepped back into the doorway and looked to her left again. “Hello?” She caught the silhouette of a barrel-chested man against the blue light of the French door, a handgun raised shoulder high. She fell back. “Shit. Police!” she shouted. “Drop the gun! Police!” She stuck her shield out into the corridor, and Grant was instantly beside her with his gun out, frowning at her, trying to read what was happening.

  “Police!” he added his voice, and glanced around at the front door.

  “How…How do I know you’re the police?” Broussard’s voice was unsure.

  “Look at the shield!” Palma shouted, and shook her hand dangling the badge. A corridor light came on. “Sergeant Carmen Palma, Houston Police Department!”

  “Yeah,” Broussard shouted. “Okay. I see it.”

  “Put down the gun,” Palma repeated. “Make sure the safety’s on.”

  “Okay, fine,” Broussard said. “Here, now, it’s on the floor.”

  Grant stepped out into the corridor, now holding his FBI shield in front of him, followed by Palma. Broussard was standing beside the opened door to his office looking uncomfortable, the handgun on the floor in front of him.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said as they approached him in the hall. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “We just came by to talk to you,” Palma said. “The door was unlocked. This is an office, isn’t it?”

  “Of course. But hell, people make appointments.”

  “You always come at unexpected callers with a gun?” Grant asked.

  “I’ve got a security light in my office,” Broussard blustered. “Comes on when the front door opens. Nobody was scheduled. When the light came on, and I didn’t hear anybody, nobody said anything, I thought I was being burgled. I’m not normally here on Saturdays. I thought maybe I was being robbed.”

  “Sorry, thought I was loud enough,” Palma said, not putting too fine a point on it.

  Broussard looked at her skeptically and then at Grant.

  “I’m Special Agent Sander Grant, FBI,” he said. “If you’ve got time, we’d like to talk with you.” He was removing the clip from Broussard’s automatic. “You have a license for this?”

  “Of course. Damn. Don’t you people believe in calling first?” He was still shaken and was trying to control his temper.

  “We’ve been pretty busy,” Palma said. “We just didn’t get around to it.”

  “Jesus,” Broussard said.

  Grant handed Broussard his gun, but kept the clip. “Do you have a client in your office?” he asked.

  Broussard’s face changed, as if he had just remembered her. He stepped back and pulled the door closed softly. “As a matter of fact, I do.” He looked at Palma, then back at Grant. “What do you want to talk to me about?”

  “Bernadine Mello,” Grant said.

  “Oh, my God. Christ.” Broussard was suddenly disturbed all over again, looking at Palma. “God. Poor…Listen.” He turned to Grant. “Can you give me three or four minutes in here? Can you wait in the front room?”

  They turned on the light in the waiting room, and it was seven minutes before they heard the back door open and close and saw a woman bundled in a raincoat walking briskly around the side of the bungalow to the Mercedes. Palma stepped to the windows but could not get a look at her face in the dying light as she unlocked the car door, slipped inside, and in a moment was pulling away on the cinder drive. At that instant Dr. Dominick Broussard appeared in the doorway.

  They sat in his office, which smelled faintly of a woman’s perfume, Broussard behind his desk, Grant and Palma in leather armchairs facing him. Broussard, calmer and sobered, acknowledged that he had heard of Bernadine Mello’s death on the noon news the day before and had read of it in the morning’s paper. He controlled his demeanor and facial expressions, but he couldn’t as easily command his voice, which grew thick and unpredictable in spite of his repeated clearing it. He told them that Bernadine had been his client for over five years, that he was consulting with her about chronic depression and a number of other things, including alcohol abuse.

  “Do you have a specialty practice?” Palma asked.

  “Not really,” Broussard said, clearing his throat once more. “I mean, I don’t accept clients with only certain kinds of dysfunctions, but as things have turned out over the years, I’ve developed a clientele that consists primarily of women.”

  “What is your approach with your clients?” Palma asked. “Aren’t there a number of different types of psychotherapies?”

  Broussard thought a moment before responding, which seemed an odd thing to Palma.

  “I’m a psychodynamic psychotherapist, really,” he said helpfully, “rather than an interpersonal therapist or a humanistic therapist or a cognitive therapist or a behavioral therapist or a counselor…whatever. My therapeutic approach to psychological dysfunction is based on psychoanalytic psychology, not one of the newer…and more popular kinds of therapies available.” He looked at Palma. “Do you know anything about psychotherapy?”

  “Practically nothing,” she said.

  Broussard nodded, studying her. “My approach attributes neurotic, emotional, and interpersonal dysfunctions to unconscious internal conflicts…usually created in childhood. Originally, the Freudian psychoanalyst sought to reconstruct his client’s personality by eliminating these internal conflicts. This was done by helping the patient to delve into her unconscious to retrieve memories and feelings, and thereby gaining ‘insight’ into her problems.”

  Broussard spoke very carefully and deliberately but with no studied thought as to what he was saying. It was clear he had done this “introduction” to his specialty before, probably to clients or prospective clients.

  “The effectiveness of this approach relied a great deal on a phenomenon called ‘transference.’ As the patient becomes more comfortable with the analyst over a long period of time, the patient will begin to see the analyst in a certain light, projecting attributes onto the analyst that are actually attributes from a person in the patient’s past. These attributes will trigger inappropriate reactions from the patient and by subtle questioning the analyst leads the patient to an emotional re-education in which the patient learns more realistic perceptions and ways of behaving.”

  Broussard seemed to decide to cut his spiel short.

  “Anyway,” he shrugged, “it’s an arduous process. Very time-consuming…and expensive. But strict psychoanalysis is no longer the vogue, unfortunately. Few people want to invest that kind of time anymore. Recent trends are toward more short-term psychodynamic therapies focusing on a single problem rather than on an exploration of the overall personality. No probing of the unconscious, no striving for insight. Transference is still important, however, but the analyst is more confrontational. The old way adapted to new times.”

  “But don’t you still have patients who prefer the longer-term approach?” Palma asked.

  Broussard smiled slowly. “Yes, I do. A number of them. Bernadine Mello was one. And there are others.”

  “If you read the articles in the paper about Mrs. Mello’s death,” Palma said, “then you know that the police believe she was killed by a person who has killed several other women as well.”

  Broussard’s countenance sobered, his already swarthy complexion darkening as the sardonic smile soured to what Palma read as a faint look of distaste, rather than commiseration.

  “I’ll get to the point,” Palma
said. “We believe you can be helpful to us in gaining some insight ourselves, into the mind of this killer.”

  Broussard’s expression was instantly brittle in the way a person’s face becomes brittle when he is caught off guard and believes he is concealing his surprise by holding his expression constant. Few people can actually accomplish this feat, and despite his extensive experience at interviewing, Broussard was not one of them. Though the change was infinitesimal and would have been difficult to describe, it was unmistakable.

  Palma reached into her purse and pulled out a small notebook which she flipped open and studied a moment.

  “Bernadine Mello has been your client since 1983?” She looked up from her notes.

  Broussard nodded, his eyes perhaps a little wider than normal. “About that,” he managed to say. “I suppose her records are correct. I’d have to check mine.” He let them know that he had guessed how they had gotten their information.

  “And Sandra Moser was your client from May to September in 1985?”

  Broussard responded more slowly. “I’d have to check my notes. And for Samenov too.”

  Palma felt her face flush, and her stomach went hollow. Jesus Christ. And Samenov too? She managed not to look at Grant, but she could sense, or did she only imagine she sensed, how his mind had locked onto that stunning bit of information so unexpectedly volunteered.

  She looked at her notebook. “I don’t have the dates on her,” she said. “Would it be difficult for you to get them for me?”