“No history of mental problems?” Lee asked.
“Negative,” Butts answered. “And before you ask, no, his ex does not wear that shade of lipstick,” he added, pointing to the writing on the bathroom mirror in several of the photos. “She’s been wearing the same lipstick for years, according to her girlfriends and sister—Passion Fruit Panache. Apparently she’s a creature of habit. So if she did write that note, she bought or borrowed someone else’s lipstick to do it before she killed Baldy here.”
Elena Krieger stared at Butts. “I don’t think you should speak of the dead so disrespectfully.”
Butts stared back at her, then looked up at Chuck. “Is she always like this?”
“I always take our job seriously, if that’s what you mean,” she said iciliy. Lee noticed her accent thickened when she was upset.
“All right, knock it off, both of you!” Chuck said, running a hand through his blond crew cut.
“I beg your pardon,” Butts said. “I mean Mr. Malette. The point is that his ex isn’t a likely suspect. And we haven’t found anyone who disliked the guy—at least enough to kill him.”
Morton plucked another of the photos from the pile on his desk. “The writing in the suicide note found on the floa—Dr. Ziegler—is being analyzed by a handwriting expert, but there’s no question it does not belong to him.”
“That’s an odd suicide note, in any case,” Lee remarked.
Elena Krieger picked up the photo of the note and studied it. “I’m sorry—I was wrong. I don’t deserve to live,” she read slowly. “It sounds more like a confession of guilt than a suicide note.”
“Yeah,” Chuck agreed, “but guilt about what?” “If we can figure that out, we’ll have a big piece of the puzzle,” Butts remarked.
“Also, it’s not addressed to anyone in particular, which is odd. Most suicides who write notes address them to specific people in their lives,” Krieger pointed out.
“Right,” said Chuck. “And look at how carefully the note was wrapped in a Ziploc bag so the water wouldn’t spoil it. Someone really wanted us to find it.”
“You going to release it to the media?” Lee asked.
Chuck cocked his head to one side. “What do you think?”
“I wouldn’t. It’s not elaborate or long enough to give you a personality profile.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Chuck agreed. “I don’t see someone seeing the note in the paper and calling us to say it reminds him of his brother.”
“Yeah, right,” Butts said. “This ain’t no Unabomber.”
He was referring to the capture of Ted Kaczynski, the infamous Unabomber. He was finally brought to justice when David Kaczynski recognized the ranting political polemic published by the New York Times and Washington Post as sounding very much like his brother Ted.
“No useable prints, I guess?” said Lee.
Butts shook his head. “The guy must have been wearing gloves.”
“Or the woman,” Krieger corrected him.
“Whatever,” Butts said, rolling his eyes at Lee. “Anyway, we’re doing a tox screen on all the vics, just in case.”
“You think maybe the UNSUB drugged them first?” Lee asked. UNSUB was shorthand for “Unknown Subject.” He didn’t particularly like using cop jargon, but it was a way to sidestep the morass of gender issues that Krieger was clearly prickly about.
“Anything’s possible—especially if it’s a woman,” Butts replied. “She’d probably have to drug them to control them, unless she’s one strong bi—female,” he said, with a nervous glance at Krieger.
If Krieger noticed the slip, she didn’t react. “What about the writing on the mirror?” she asked. “Any match to the other note?”
Chuck picked up the crime-scene photo and shook his head. “It’s in block letters in lipstick, so our expert says she can’t do much with it.
“But look at the wording,” Krieger said.
Lee took the photo from Chuck and studied it. “I am very bad. Sorry.” He put the photo back down.
“They both say they’re sorry,” Krieger pointed out. “With most people who kill themselves, that would be an apology for the suicide itself. But this is different: they seem to be apologizing for being bad.”
Butts frowned. “So the same UNSUB wrote both notes?”
“It’s extremely likely,” Krieger replied.
“What do you make of the notes?” Chuck asked Lee.
“Well,” he began, but Krieger intrrupted.
“Obviously the victims offended the killer in some way,” she said.
“Jawohl,” Butts said.
Krieger glared at him, and then at Chuck, but he pretended not to notice.
Lee thought, not for the first time, that this was going to be a challenging investigation.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Lee arrived at his apartment a little after noon to find three messages on his answering machine. Unlike some of his friends, who were discarding their landlines, he kept his. He’d had the same number ever since he moved to the East Village, and he held on to it partly out of sentiment—but also because it was the coveted 212 area code, no longer available to newer residents of Manhattan. He was a little embarrassed that this meant something to him, but it did.
He pressed the button and listened to the first message. It was from Kathy, telling him she missed him. He missed her too, all the more so because he had been so preoccupied all weekend with Ana’s plight. He felt he hadn’t been truly present with Kathy. He was sure she noticed—but, true to form, she didn’t reproach him with it.
He put the kettle on while listening to the second message. Fiona Campbell’s voice was clear and cool as ever.
“Lee, it’s your mother. Don’t forget you’re expected for dinner to celebrate Kylie’s birthday on the weekend. She’s really looking forward to seeing you. See you then—bye.”
His niece Kylie would be turning seven in a week. She had lived with her father, George Callahan, ever since Laura’s disappearance, but spent weekends with her grandmother. There was the usual subtle playing of the guilt card in his mother’s message. If you don’t come, you’ll disappoint your niece. Not her, Fiona; no, never her. She had renounced her own claim on personal emotions the day his father walked out.
It was also typical of her to remind him of social engagements, as if he were incapable of remembering them himself. His father’s desertion left her with the overwhelming opinion that men were erratic, unreliable creatures who could not be counted on. And, of course, his father’s abandonment had left its mark on Lee, and was probably the reason for his decision to become a therapist. If he couldn’t mend his own family, at least he could help other people come to terms with theirs.
But when his sister disappeared, his need to help people traveled a darker road, driven by his need to know. And if he couldn’t know who had killed his sister (unlike his mother, he was certain Laura was dead), then he would help other people find out who had killed their loved ones.
The kettle began its long, slow climb to a piercing whistle, and he ducked into the kitchen just as the third message began to play. He heard it as he was pouring the tea water into the cup, and what he heard stopped him cold, so that the hot water splashed all over the countertop.
The voice was cold, hard, and flat, almost reptilian.
“What about the red dress? You think no one knows anything, but I do. I know about the red dress.”
There was a click as the line went dead, then a whirring sound as the answering machine began to automatically rewind. But Lee didn’t hear any of that—all he heard, over and over in his head, was that reptilian monotone: “I know about the red dress.” His sister Laura had been wearing a red dress the day she disappeared—a detail that had not been released to the press or the public. Stunned, he ignored the spilled water dripping from the counter onto the kitchen floor, and stumbled into the living room to look at the caller ID on his phone. He knew it was useless, but he had to look. To his surprise, there was
a number there with a 212 area code—Manhattan! And the first three numbers were 533—which he recognized as an East Village exchange. His hand trembled as he picked up the receiver and dialed the number. It rang four times, then a man answered.
“Hello?” The voice was nothing like the one on his machine. This one had a thick Brooklyn accent, and was an octave lower.
“Hi—excuse me, but can you tell me what number I just dialed?”
“Well, there’s no number on it, but you reached a pay phone on Third Avenue and Fifth Street. Who are you lookin’ for, buddy?” The man sounded happily inebriated, eager to help.
“I’m sorry—I must have dialed wrong,” Lee said, certain that he had dialed correctly.
“Hey, no problem, buddy—take it easy.”
Lee hung up and sat down in the overstuffed armchair next to the phone. So the man had called from around the corner—from a pay phone, no less. Who uses pay phones anymore, except to avoid being identified? The questions swirled around his head. Did the caller pick a booth nearby on purpose, or does he live in the neighborhood? Or was it purely coincidence? Or was there an even darker explanation—what if he was stalking Lee, watching him? His number was unlisted—how did the man manage to get it? Would there be any point in dusting for prints? No crime had been committed—would Lee be able to convince anyone that it was even necessary?
Good Lord, Campbell, get a grip. His sister’s disappearance was continual torture, a piece of unfinished business that would haunt him until the day he solved it—if he ever did. Maybe his mother was right about men after all….
The swirling sensation began to transform into something darkly familiar and sinister, as he felt the evil fog of depression envelop him. The walls of the room seemed to close in around him, and his thoughts swarmed like angry bees in his head. He was losing focus, and knew he had to stop the fog before it could take hold. He had told Kathy and everyone else that he was feeling much better lately, and to an extent that was true. But depression was its own kind of minefield. Sometimes, if he stepped carefully enough, he could stay aboveground and keep from landing on the hidden entrances, secret traps covering gaping holes in the ground. But other times the ground gave way when he least expected it, and he sank down and was swallowed up before he knew it.
“No, goddamn it,” he muttered. Staggering up from the chair, he reached for the phone again. Kathy was in Philadelphia, Chuck was still on duty, and his mother was useless, but there was one person he could turn to now—he just hoped she was available. He dialed the number and got a recording.
“You’ve reached the voice mail of Dr. Georgina Williams. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. If this is an emergency, please call my beeper at 917-555-4368. Thank you.”
Lee hesitated. Was this an emergency? He wasn’t feeling suicidal—not yet, anyway. He decided to leave a message on her voice mail. If she was in the office, she would call him back soon.
“Hi, Dr. Williams, this is Lee Campbell. I wonder if you have any time at all today? I—I’m having sort of a bad day, so if you could give me a call I’d appreciate it—thanks.”
He hung up the phone and looked around the apartment. This place, which he had worked so hard to make cozy and inviting, suddenly felt like a prison cell from which there was no escape. The familiar objects around him held no comfort—the carefully arranged bouquet of flowers on the piano might have been shards of straw stuck in a vase. He looked at the green Persian rug he loved so much, with the swirling patterns of light and dark that always reminded him of a forest at sunset. It might just as well have been cracked and dirty linoleum. He sat on the couch and put his head in his hands. No, he thought, not today—please not now.
The phone rang, and he jumped, his overstrung nerves rattled by the sound. He picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Lee, it’s Chuck.”
He hesitated—should he tell his friend that this was not a good time, that he was having an episode? Or should he just tough out the phone call, jot down what Chuck said, and deal with it later? He could barely focus—his mind was being rapidly overtaken by the swiftly descending fog. He decided to tough it out.
“Hi, Chuck,” he said, wondering if his voice sounded odd. “What’s up?”
“There’s been a development.” “What do you mean?”
“Looks like we have another victim. Can you come back up here?”
No, Lee wanted to scream, no, I can’t. Instead he said, “Sure. Can you give me a little time?” “As soon as you can make it, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Thanks.”
Lee hung up, his hand now shaking so hard that the receiver rattled as he replaced it. He headed for the bathroom and fumbled in the cupboard for the bottle of Xanax. It was going to be a long day.
CHAPTER NINE
By the time Lee reached the subway he was sweating and trembling almost uncontrollably. The darkness had closed in around him, and he was moving automatically, as if in a trance—sliding his Metro card through the slot at the entrance, going through the metal turnstile, walking down the concrete stairs to the train with the other passengers. The fog and confusion were bad enough, but today it felt as if his soul were on fire—a burning, searing pain that blotted out all memories of the past, any pleasures of the present, and any hope of the future. The only reality was the unrelenting pain. It had no beginning and no end, covering him like a thick blanket of concrete, crushing him.
He walked unsteadily to the far end of the platform and stared down at the subway tracks. A large gray rat poked its head out from under the near rail and scuttled across the wooden ties to a tiny hole in the subway wall, vanishing inside it. Lee wondered why the rats weren’t electrocuted on the third rail—or, for all he knew, maybe some of them were. He wondered how much it would hurt and for how long, to be electrocuted. His stomach lurched and twisted as he contemplated the sensation of thousands of volts coursing through his body.
He wrenched his mind away from these thoughts and forced himself to take a deep breath. He tried to think of Kathy, to imagine her smiling face, but it only made him want to cry. This attack had taken him by surprise. In the past few months there had been a gradual improvement in his mental state. He was still having nightmares, but they had begun to subside recently.
And now this. He felt as if he were being dragged back to the first days of his affliction, which began five years ago after his sister disappeared and worsened after 9/11. Most New Yorkers were deeply affected by that terrible day, some of them so frightened that they couldn’t sleep at night. Some left the city altogether. Others were angry, filled with a rage they had never felt. Lee didn’t feel fear, or even anger—only a wrenching, leaden sadness that swept him up for weeks afterward.
He heard the rumble of the F train in the distance as it hurtled down the dark, musty corridors toward them. He imagined jumping onto the track just as it reached the station, the slamming of metal against skin. Would he be killed instantly, or just horribly maimed for life? There was no question of killing himself that way, though. In his darkest days, he had given it some thought, and concluded that he was unwilling to put the train conductor through the trauma and guilt of feeling responsible.
The train slid into the station and the doors opened. Lee composed his face into what he hoped was a mask of New York indifference and sat down, waiting for the Xanax to take effect. It wouldn’t stop the pain entirely, but at least it would blunt the anxiety.
He changed for the uptown A train at West Fourth Street, and by the time the train reached Penn Station and Thirty-fourth Street, the Xanax had begun to work. He felt blurry and light-headed, but at least the churning in his stomach had dissipated, and his hands were no longer shaking. Not for the first time, he silently blessed pharmaceuticals in general and benzodiazepines in particular.
When the train arrived at the Bronx station, he stood up, shook off a momentary spell of dizziness, and followed the r
est of the passengers out into the burnished afternoon light of late August. Everyone had predicted an early fall this year, and the trees had a brittle, dusty look, their leaves beginning to dry out already in the soft air of the dying summer.
Chuck was in his office when Lee arrived, along with Detective Butts. There was no sign of Elena Krieger.
When Chuck saw Lee’s questioning look, he said, “We tried to reach Detective Krieger, but without success.”
Butts snickered. “We didn’t try very hard.”
“All right,” said Chuck, ignoring him, “here’s what’s going on.” He pulled a fresh stack of crime-scene photos from his desk and handed them to Lee. “This came in a couple of hours ago.”
Lee took the photos and looked at the top picture. When he saw the face of the dead girl, his head began to spin, and the room swirled around him. He tried to speak, but before he could utter a word, blackness closed in around him and he lost consciousness.
CHAPTER TEN
He awoke to see Chuck and Butts standing over him, looking worried. He felt guilty when he saw the frightened expression on Chuck’s face, his friend’s pale skin even chalkier than usual. He struggled to get up, but Morton put a hand on his shoulder.
“Hey, hey—take it easy. There’s no hurry. Take your time.”
Butts’s homely face crinkled with concern. “You just fainted,” he said.
“I’m fine,” Lee said, trying again to stand. He was sitting on the floor of the office. They had propped him up against the wall by the radiator.
“Here,” said Chuck, rolling over his own chair, an old but comfortable wooden captain’s chair.
“Thanks,” said Lee, lifting himself into it shakily. “How long was I out?”
“A couple of minutes,” Chuck said. “What happened?”
Lee suddenly remembered he had eaten nothing all day—black coffee in the morning, followed by the trip to the Bronx, and then once the depression seized hold of him, the thought of food was sickening. And then there was the Xanax—usually he took half of a one-milligram tablet, but today he had taken a whole one, spooked by the ferocity of the pain.
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