by Neal Baer
Over the week, Nick’s stock as a cop had skyrocketed from zero to hero status. He’d given dozens of interviews, the media carnivores forgetting all about their vendetta against him after the death of his wife. His valor erased their animosity, as if the suicide of Jenny Lawler had never happened. They were all a bunch of douche bags. Nick smiled as he considered the irony.
Big hero. I couldn’t even drive the damn car.
His reverie was interrupted by a stapled sheaf of papers landing on his desk. Nick looked up to see Lieutenant Wilkes walking away.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“I gotta teach you how to read too?” Wilkes said gruffly.
Nick picked up the papers. It was a fax from the medical examiner’s office.
Todd Quimby’s autopsy report.
“Any highlights?” Nick shouted to his boss.
“Big surprise. The bastard drowned. Nothing unusual pending toxicology results. Cause of death is being a lousy driver. Finish your fives and close those cases out.”
The thick files on Nick’s desk were lined up in the order in which the murders occurred. Nick instinctively pulled out the one on the right—Quimby’s last kill.
Detective Maggie Stolls.
In the NYPD, a cop killed in the line of duty is entitled to what is called an “inspector’s funeral,” though the moniker had for decades been considered a joke. The rank of inspector was roughly equivalent to a colonel in the army, and only one inspector had died on the job in the police department’s history.
Still, Nick had been at the church on Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn, along with thousands of other cops, some from as far away as California, to mourn Maggie’s untimely death. Privately, many questioned her judgment for letting Quimby into the safe house without calling for backup and thought she’d brought her demise upon herself. The one or two jerks with the stones to mention that within earshot of Nick quickly found themselves up against the nearest wall with Nick in their faces assuring them they would never have a fraction of the guts Maggie had.
Maybe all the guts in the world didn’t matter when you’re up against a madman, Nick thought. Or maybe I’m telling myself that because I feel responsible for Maggie’s death. If I’d only gotten there earlier . . .
“Excuse me,” came a voice from across the room. “Is Detective Lawler here?”
Nick looked up, alarmed. He knew that voice, and the man who owned it had no business in the city of New York, let alone in this squad room.
“I’m Detective Savarese,” Tony said, rising from his chair and heading toward the doorway. “Can I help you?”
“I got it, Tony,” Nick said, bolting to the door in a preemptive strike he knew was futile. The voice belonged to Dr. Frank Mangone, his ophthalmologist from Boston. Other than Claire Waters and his mother, he was the only person on the planet who could reveal Nick’s secret.
Nick tried to play it down, as if he’d been expecting Mangone. “Nice to see you,” he said to the doctor, shaking his hand. “Why don’t we talk outside?”
A minute later, the two men emerged from the precinct onto the street.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Nick demanded.
“I should ask you the same question,” Dr. Mangone replied, matching Nick’s anger and not missing a beat.
“How did you find me?” Nick snapped.
“You’re not much of a cop if you can’t figure that one out,” the doctor said. “Your picture’s all over the Internet. Congratulations on catching your serial killer.”
“And that gives you license to stalk me?”
“It gives me license to stop you from killing someone.”
“I’m not going to kill anyone, Doc. I’m okay.”
“You’re going blind and it’s not going to get any better. You’ve got to turn in your gun.”
“Sorry, Doc. Not a chance.”
“Then for Christ’s sake, give it to someone. You have no business walking around with that thing.”
“I’m a cop.”
“You can’t see a damn thing at night!” Mangone exploded. “Is that how your wife died?”
“What are you talking about?” Nick roared.
“Did you shoot her by accident? Because you didn’t see her?”
Nick knew he had to bring it down a notch.
“My wife got her hands on my gun and shot herself with it. Her death has nothing to do with my problem.”
“It’s not just your problem anymore. It’s mine too.”
“I don’t understand,” Nick said as he led the doctor away from the building and down the street, as if they were old friends—in case anyone saw them.
“I took an oath,” Dr. Mangone began, “to do no harm. By allowing you to continue as a police officer and carry a gun, I’m putting countless people at risk.”
“Are you threatening me?” Nick asked incredulously.
“Call it what you want,” the doctor replied, “but here it is. I’m giving you one month to resign, retire, whatever it is you have to do.”
“Or what?” Nick asked, though he knew full well what was coming.
“Or I call the police surgeon and tell him about your condition.”
Nick gave him the same hard stare he’d given countless perps he was about to nail. Dr. Mangone didn’t flinch.
“You can’t do that,” was all Nick could muster.
“I can and I will,” returned the doctor. “This is a matter of life or death. If you accidentally shoot the wrong person, their blood is on my hands. I can’t live with that.”
As Mangone walked away, Nick knew he meant every word. And Nick was at a loss.
Until he realized what he had to do.
The fluorescent lights have a strange corona to them, Nick thought as he walked down the hospital corridor. He tried to retreat into his usual denial about his deteriorating vision, but Dr. Mangone’s ultimatum an hour earlier had robbed him of that ability.
Nick turned the corner, promptly bumping into one of two doctors walking together, nearly knocking him over.
“Excuse me,” he said hastily. “I wasn’t looking.”
“Maybe you should slow down,” the doctor replied. “This is a hospital.”
“Sorry,” Nick said, continuing onward. The office he was looking for was just a few yards ahead, which he covered quickly.
But when he got there, he saw that the nameplate had been removed from the door.
He knocked, waited a few seconds for an answer. There was none.
He turned the knob, which gave way. But he wasn’t expecting what he saw when the door opened.
The office was empty, except for a clean desk and two chairs. As if no one had ever been there.
As if Claire had been erased from his life.
Even now he wasn’t sure what had driven him to see her. But for some reason he knew he had to.
As he gazed into the empty office, the reason dawned on him.
All his life, Nick had been surrounded by friends. Family. His wife, before she sunk into the depths of major depression. His brotherhood of cops.
Dr. Mangone’s promise to reveal his condition changed everything. His wife was dead. His friends wouldn’t understand. And his fellow cops would curse him for putting their lives in danger because of his failing eyesight. They’d blame him for what happened to his young partner, Wessel, on the subway tracks the previous week.
And they’d be right.
“Can I help you with something?” came a voice from behind Nick. He wheeled around.
“Dr. Curtin,” Nick said.
“Detective . . . ?” Curtin queried.
“Lawler, Nick Lawler,” Nick answered, extending his hand. Curtin shook it.
“I gather you’re looking for Dr. Waters,” Curtin replied. “Something about the case?”
“Just closing things out,” Nick replied, “and I had a few more questions.”
“As you can see, Dr. Waters is no longer with us.”
“Wh
at happened to her?” Nick demanded.
“You know what happened,” Curtin answered without missing a beat. “You were there, weren’t you?” he asked, a bit too accusatory for Nick’s taste.
“You know I was.”
“Then you know what she went through,” Curtin replied. “Dr. Waters is taking the rest of the year off. She’ll be back again next June.”
Nick had no intention of waiting until then. “Can you give me some contact information?” he asked.
“It’s against hospital policy to release any information about patients or employees.”
Nick thought about this. The guy didn’t have to be a prick about it.
“Look, Doctor,” Nick started, “I don’t know how responsible you hold me for what happened to Dr. Waters, but I was just doing my job, and I’m trying to do it now.”
“Todd Quimby is dead, Detective,” Curtin said. “What could possibly be left for Dr. Waters to help you with?”
“I need statements from her,” Nick replied as nonjudgmentally as possible, “so I can close these cases once and for all.”
Whether Curtin saw through his lie was unclear. Or maybe it was pity. Because Curtin’s hard expression softened.
Maybe he can see that I need help.
“Come to my office,” Curtin said, “and I’ll have my assistant give you what you need.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Nick said instantly.
“On one condition,” Curtin continued. “If anyone asks, you didn’t get it from me.”
CHAPTER 20
You could tell a thunderstorm was close. The air was thick with humidity, the clouds approaching from Lake Ontario an angry gray.
Just like the day Amy disappeared.
Claire’s mind raced as she hurried down Burt Street with the large cup of coffee she’d bought at Clancy’s Diner around the corner on Park Avenue. The red banquettes and waitress uniforms hadn’t changed since Claire was a child, but that only made her feel uneasy.
Nothing’s changed around here, she thought, racing to reach her parents’ house before the downpour began. The same house where she and Amy had been playing outside that day her best friend was abducted. There was no easing into a summer storm in Rochester. The first raindrops were always big ones, and they always fell hard.
They were just starting to fall as Claire turned the key in the front door of the stately colonial on Burt Street and scurried through, barely inside when a lightning bolt lit up the sky. A deafening clap of thunder shook the house, and the deluge struck.
It was the middle of the day, and both her parents were at work. Her mother taught high school biology, which is where Claire thought she got her interest in medicine. Her father was a physicist, doing research on fiber optics. But he was religious, too, attending church every Sunday at All Souls Episcopal. He’d told Claire since she was a child that science had made him a believer in God because some questions could only be answered on faith.
Who made the world, Daddy? she’d asked him many times growing up. He always told her he didn’t know.
As Claire made her way into the living room, she couldn’t help but think that, save for the somehow soothing din of the rain, the house was beautifully quiet.
She let herself fall into the deep, comfortable sofa, sipping her coffee as she watched the rain cascade down the front picture window. The waterfall blurred everything outside, as if nothing existed beyond the walls of this place, her childhood home. She pulled a nearby comforter over her. For the first time in weeks, she felt like she was wrapped in a cocoon, protected from the world.
And more than anything else right now, Claire needed to feel protected. From what she wasn’t sure, except for a quiet anxiety that still surfaced, especially at night, when she was alone with her dreams. Something unexplained, a feeling that haunted the edges of her consciousness.
After all, wasn’t it her right to feel safe? She’d made it through the emotional upheaval of packing up the apartment she’d shared with Ian, of donating his clothes to charity and putting the rest of their belongings into storage for when she returned to New York and Curtin’s fellowship program.
If I ever go back, she thought.
Ian’s funeral had been hard on Claire. Curtin and Fairborn were both there, along with all the fellows from the program. Their words were soothing, especially Curtin’s, who, in a private moment, reiterated his promise that her place in the program was secure whenever she wanted to come back. But coming back, at the time, was the last thing on Claire’s mind. The desire to run as far away from her life as she could nearly overpowered her. Her parents offered to pay for any trip she wanted to take, to do anything that might help erase the horror of the previous few weeks.
In the end, Claire realized there was only one place where she’d feel truly safe. And that’s where she was right now.
In the week she’d been home, her parents had done their best. Both had taken a few days off from their busy jobs to dote on her. Now back at work, they were coming home as early for dinner as their schedules would allow so their child wouldn’t be alone all the time. Claire’s older sister, Diane, who worked in London as an architect, had also offered to come home. But Claire told her not to. Diane was five years older and they had never been close, and Claire wasn’t up to repeating to her all the details of the last terrible weeks.
Claire couldn’t help but think that her parents were doing more for her now than they’d done when she was growing up. It was ironic, she thought, that it took seven murders and a near breakdown for them to wake up.
Better late than never.
For the first time in her life, Claire wasn’t hiding in plain sight. For the first time, she didn’t feel invisible.
Boom! Boom! A succession of powerful thunderclaps jolted the house and shook her brain.
In a sudden panic, Claire bolted from the couch and ran to the front door. She fumbled with the quirky dead bolt, yanking it open . . .
. . . just in time to see Mr. Winslow carrying Amy to his car.
“Mommy, Mommy, come out here! Please . . .”
Claire looked back into the house. Her mother wasn’t coming. Where was she?
“Mommy! The man took Amy away!”
She ran to the stairs, screaming, getting no answer. She was crying, almost sobbing as she ran back out the door, knowing what awaited her.
Thunder. Claire could see Amy, in tears, peering at her through the window of Mr. Winslow’s BMW. Somehow knowing they would never see each other again.
She stood there, as she had all those years ago, letting the pouring rain soak through her clothes, barely keeping up with the tears flowing from her eyes.
Will I ever feel safe again? Anywhere?
Claire turned, leaned against the house, and sobbed like never before. Because this time, she was crying for everything she’d lost.
All her advanced degrees, all the research into neurotransmitters and their effects on human behavior, all the fellowships in the world would never be enough to erase the one emotion she’d felt since that day Amy was taken from her:
Helplessness.
She knew she had to make herself whole. Even if it consumed the rest of her life.
The carton was in the far corner of the attic, behind an old bed frame, right where Claire remembered putting it many years ago.
It hadn’t been opened in so long that the packer’s tape holding it closed was cracked and powdery. Just before leaving home for her freshman year in college, Claire had consigned the box to what she thought might be its final resting place. At the time, to her parents’ chagrin, she’d purged as many of her belongings as she could stand to, emptying even her own bedroom as if she were never coming back.
She’d been tempted to throw out the carton. But something back then had stopped her, an unseen hand holding her back, an unknown voice telling her she’d regret it. Instead, she hid it where she knew no one would see it, far from any of her parents’ stored belongings.
; Claire dragged the box across the floor of the attic, raising a storm of dust that burned her eyes and triggered a fit of sneezing. Her spasms subsided as she reached the trapdoor and steadied herself on the folding stairs, thinking with some satisfaction that she was making the right decision.
It wasn’t until the carton was planted on the dining room table that second thoughts began to creep in. Did she actually have the strength to open this box and unleash the memories stored inside? No more than a few seconds passed before she decided.
I have no choice.
She ripped the lone piece of tape off the top, opened the flaps, and without looking, reached inside and pulled out the first item her hand came to.
It was a large, unmarked photo album. Claire stared down at the white vinyl cover, its inviting, nonthreatening design hardly indicative of what lay within.
If there’s any way to face my fears, this is it.
She took a deep breath and opened the cover. Staring her in the face was a clipping from the Democrat and Chronicle, Rochester’s daily newspaper, dated July 18, 1989, the headline proclaiming the past she had tried so hard to bury:
POLICE SEEK KIDNAPPED GIRL
Accompanying the article was a large, black-and-white photo of Amy, wearing the same T-shirt she had on the day she disappeared.
It’s okay, she heard Amy say to her. Mr. Winslow works with my dad.
Claire started to read the story she knew so well, the initial pain dissipating as the words soaked into her brain. Maybe it was like removing a Band-Aid, she thought. It hurts less when you rip it off quickly.
She left the scrapbook open as she took the remainder of the contents from the box: two more photo album/scrapbooks, numerous pictures of her and Amy together. Jumping rope. Playing hopscotch. On the carousel at Seabreeze Amusement Park near Lake Ontario. Mugging in front of the elephants at the Seneca Park Zoo. With every photo, the memories Claire had worked her whole life to forget came rushing back into her head. Without knowing it, she started to giggle, remembering how much she loved Amy and what fun they’d had together.