The Assailant

by James Patrick Hunt

  Helen Krans attended the dislocated shoulder. A young man of about twenty-five, shot up with morphine so that he wouldn’t feel too much pain, but his arm was still out of the socket. Helen and a nurse wrapped a sheet around his torso and then another nurse held the sheet tight on one side as Helen tugged on his arm on the other side. It took three good tugs—the guy crying out groggily during this—but the arm went back in on the third try and everyone seemed to feel better.

  Helen went on break after that. She took the stairs down to the back entrance of the hospital, passed a couple of paramedics by an ambulance, and lit a cigarette.

  She was not the only doctor on staff who smoked. Her habit during college and medical school had been roughly half a pack a day. But it had been increasing lately and she was aware of it. She knew it was related to stress and work, and she told herself that she would cut it down when her residency was finished.

  Helen Krans was aware that her life consisted mainly of work. She had no husband and no children. She was having an affair with Harry Tassett, but she didn’t think of him as a boyfriend. Nor did she think of him as a “friend with benefits,” because she thought that sort of phrase was vulgar and insulting to all parties involved. He was her lover, for the time being, and nothing more. She enjoyed Harry’s company. He was fun in bed and he could be funny, and he was not the sort to get heavy. As she saw it, they were serving out some sort of term in life—residency—and helping each other through the loneliness that comes with it.

  She was aware that some people thought she was aloof, perhaps even mercenary. This didn’t bother her though. For she knew herself, and she did not believe that she was cold or unfeeling. And she had never had much patience for professional women who went “girly” over men. Professionalism meant a great deal to her. It was more important to her than a man.

  She was one of three children born to well-intentioned parents. Her father had been a flight officer in the navy, and he too had put a great deal of stock in professionalism. He was a good egg, but he spent little time trying to tell his children to be generous or moral or upright. Rather, he stressed to his two sons and daughter the importance of being good at something. In his way, he was something of a feminist. He did not presume that his daughter should strive to be merely a good wife and good mother.

  When Helen told him that she wanted to be a doctor, he encouraged her in a way that could not be called patronizing. He supported her decision just as much as he would have had she been one of his sons. He did not create for her a different standard.

  Helen in turn always worked hard. She graduated at the top of her class in college and got accepted into medical school. Being attractive, she was often approached for dates. Those she liked, she would go out with. Usually, the relationships would last for only a couple of months because the men would compete with her on one level or another. Or, upon finding that she was a little smarter or more competent than perhaps they were, they would move on to someone else.

  She was a secure person and did not try to intimidate the men in her life. At least, she didn’t think she did. She did not try to one-up people in general. But as she went further in her ambitions, she learned that men liked to feel needed by a woman. And she was not especially good at accommodating this. She didn’t care to try to be, either. To start with, she knew it would have been contrary to her nature. Also, she knew that her father would recoil if he ever saw her “dumbing” herself for a man. He would not tolerate that.

  She saw her parents infrequently. They lived in Norfolk now, and she didn’t get much time off. Her relationship with her father was one of mutual respect and fondness, but it was not one given to long heart-to-heart talks. Her mother was starting to ask questions about marriage and family. Helen would say, invariably, that she was working too hard to think about such things now.

  Which was true. She was working too hard to think about it now. Perhaps marriage and a family would come later. But when it did, the timing would be of her choosing.

  Her cigarette was coming to its end now. She was aware of someone approaching her. Harry.

  “Hey.” He drew up next to her. He was wearing his sheepskin jacket, which he looked good in. He said, “Well, I tried.”

  “You tried what?”

  “I tried to get Raymond to switch shifts with you. So we could go to Chicago.”

  Helen frowned. “Why did you do that?”

  “Because I wanted you to come with me. You said you wanted to go.”

  “I said I’d go if I could. I didn’t want you asking him to switch shifts.”

  “It’s no big deal.”

  “If I’d wanted that, I would’ve asked him.”

  “I was just trying to help. Sorry.” He was pouting now. Jesus.

  “Harry, I know you meant well. But it makes me look weak, you doing that.”

  “How?”

  “It just does.” She sighed. “What did he say?”

  “You know, he got pissed. Like I’d offended him just by asking.”

  “He said no?”

  “Yeah, he said no.”

  “Well, I don’t blame him.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s full-time staff, Harry. He’s not on the same level as us. You belittled him by asking that.”

  “Jesus, I didn’t think it was that big a deal.” Harry Tassett put his hands in his jacket pockets. “Is he sweet on you or something?”

  “Oh shut up, Harry. He’s a good physician.”

  “I didn’t say he wasn’t. You want me to go up and apologize to him?”

  She knew that he didn’t mean it. She could fuck with him a bit by saying yes, but she wasn’t in the mood right now. She said, “No. Just don’t say anything more. He’ll forget about it soon enough.”

  She could see that he wanted her to give him some sort of sign now. A touch or a smile to put him at ease, maybe let him know that they could fool around after their shift. But she didn’t feel like being all that generous now.

  Harry. Maybe he meant well. But maybe he didn’t. She was aware that Raymond Sheffield had something of a crush on her. She was not comfortable with this, partly because she wasn’t at all attracted to him and also because she thought he was a little on the creepy side. She was glad that Raymond was a good doctor because his competency made it harder to feel pity for him. She did not like to pity people.

  She wondered now if Harry had spoken to Raymond not so much because he wanted to take her to Chicago for a couple of days but rather to ward Raymond away. She’s taken, pal. She’s with me. Had he spoken to Raymond as a favor to her, or rather to stake a claim on her? This would have been wrong on a couple of levels. First, she wasn’t Harry’s to claim. Second, and more important, the notion that she could conceivably bed down with Raymond was repellent to her. Did Harry actually worry about that?

  Shit, she thought. Never mind. She hadn’t gone into medicine to be wrapped up in this sort of nonsense.

  “It’s getting cold,” Helen said. “Let’s go back in.”

  They went back into the hospital, two figures walking hunched against the cold, visible to one standing at the window on the sixth floor. In sight until they walked under the cover of the ambulance sally port.

  Raymond Sheffield kept looking out the window for a few moments after that, his hands in the pockets of his smock fingering a small piece of metal, his forehead almost touching the glass. At that moment, he was unaware of his reflection, his head outlined and glasses shining back their own reflection, hiding his eyes.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Hastings ordered a cheeseburger and fries and handed the menu back to the waiter, who then left them alone.

  Carol said, “Why didn’t you order the rigatoni? It’s great here.”

  “I’m not in the mood for it.”

  “We’re at one of the best Italian restaurants in the city, and you order a cheeseburger and fries. You’re going to hurt their feelings.”

  “The red sauce upsets my stomach.�
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  “You and your stomach. You can’t drink wine? Not even a little?”

  “Not even a little,” Hastings said. “I’ll watch you drink yours. Maybe you’ll spill a little on your lovely white blouse.”

  “Then I’ll throw the rest on you.” She paused and looked at him. Then said, “How are you?”

  “Pretty beat.”

  A moment passed. “I read the story in the newspaper. The letter. Was that the real deal?”

  “We’re not sure,” he said without looking at her.

  Carol said, “It is, isn’t it? The killer wrote that.”

  “I think he did, yes. I wish I didn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s what he wants. Credit. Attention. He’s winning.”

  “And you’re losing?”

  “I don’t look it at it that way.”

  “I’m sorry. I know you don’t. Sorry.”

  Hastings waved it away. Carol trafficked in human misery too, defending criminals and seeing destruction and waste. Most of them were guilty of the crimes charged against them, but she believed the devil himself was entitled to due process of law. Like many criminal defense lawyers, she used gallows humor to deal with grief.

  But she knew Hastings too. Knew that his ego was part of what kept him going.

  She said, “It’s scary, a person like that.”

  “Did you ever defend it?” Hastings said. “Did you ever represent a person like that?”

  Carol knew that his question was not judgmental. He rarely judged her.

  She said, “I don’t think so. And I’ve defended some pretty bad apples. Particularly when I worked for the public defender. Most of them were poor and stupid and Latin or black. They never had anything.”

  “Did you sense . . .”

  “Sense what? Evil?”

  “Yeah, maybe.” “I don’t know. Maybe. Once in a while. Depravity. Moral depravity, sure. But you know how it works.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What I mean is, I never asked myself if they were guilty. That’s not my role. My role was to give them the best legal defense I could.” She smiled at him. “Should I apologize to you for that?”

  “Never.”

  “Anyway, I never thought of it that way. I believe in the system.”

  “Due process.”

  “Well, if we don’t have that, all you have to do to put someone in prison for life is arrest them. And you don’t want to live in a country like that.”

  “We don’t?”

  “I don’t and neither do you. So shut up.”

  “Do you believe in monsters?”

  “Monsters?” Carol waited to see if there was a joke.

  “Yeah,” Hastings said. “Monsters.”

  “You mean like human monsters?”

  “Yeah.”

  After a moment, Carol said, “Yeah.”

  Hastings was surprised. She knew that he had always considered her a bleeding-heart liberal, unwilling to accept the existence of evil. But she had never been as simple as he thought.

  Then she said, “But, George, who is it that determines if someone is a monster? You?”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Is this something you can see?”

  “I wish.”

  Carol smiled, shook her head. “You cops . . .”

  “What about us cops?”

  “You’re so black-and-white. This guy’s a turd. This guy’s a scumbag. This guy’s a gangbanger.”

  “We’re simpleminded.”

  “I didn’t say you were.”

  “But Joe is? Murph?”

  “No. Stop doing this.”

  “Okay.”

  “All I meant was, you guys have a tendency to brand people. Not all of you, but a good many of you.”

  “What do I call this fellow?”

  “It seems like he named himself.”

  “Yeah. That he did. But what would you call him?”

  “A sociopath.”

  “A sociopath is someone without a conscience. This guy’s something more than that.”

  “Well, yeah. God knows what made him like that.”

  Hastings said, “Maybe nothing made him like that. Maybe he just—is.”

  “George, come on. Nobody comes out of the womb ‘like that.’ He obviously suffered some sort of trauma.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “It’s usually the case.”

  “No. I think it’s something we’d like to believe is usually the case. So we’ll feel better. Safer. But what if they’re just born?”

  “That’s what you’d like to believe.”

  “I’d rather not, actually.”

  “Yeah, you would. You’d like to believe that because it’s easier for you to believe it.”

  “And your beliefs. Don’t they make things easier for you?”

  “No, not necessarily. Not always. I’m not simpleminded either.”

  “No. But you are cute.”

  “Don’t patronize me. Not now.”

  “Sorry.”

  “And show a little compassion.”

  “For who? The killer?”

  “No, not the killer. But for the guy who had the shit beat out of him since birth. Who’s only known poverty and cruelty. Who has nothing to lose.”

  “Well, maybe I would if I had the time. But I’m pretty busy dealing with the victims these folks leave behind. The girl who’s getting the shit beat out of her now. The women getting killed.”

  “I see. So I have no compassion for them.”

  “No. I know you do. We just see it differently, that’s all.”

  “I know it’s just liberal dogma to you, George. But environmental forces make these people.”

  “Why can’t nature make these people? Just as nature sometimes produces a three-legged frog?”

  “Because we’re not frogs, goddammit. We’re talking about a human being here.”

  “Are we?”

  “Oh, shit, George. Don’t you see where that thinking takes you? You start dehumanizing these people you’re chasing, you might just as well exterminate them like bugs. You speak of monsters, fiends . . . these are people.”

  Hastings didn’t say anything.

  Carol said, “You think this killer is an aberration. I agree with you. But then you suggest that he just exists. That he was a monster from birth. That’s just too . . . cold.”

  “Nature can be cold.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Raymond finished his shift at eleven o’clock and drove home. He poured water into the kettle and cut some slices of apple and set them on his cutting board. While the kettle boiled, he read again his letter in the newspaper. It brought a satisfied smile to his face. But it was fleeting.

  He was wondering about Helen Krans.

  The events of the day had knocked his thinking out of whack. He had supposed that she was having some sort of relationship with Tassett. He had convinced himself that she was a modern woman and that she could live how she wanted to. He believed that he had convinced himself of that. But he had managed to think that she was not a bad woman. He had placed her in a certain compartment. But she didn’t seem to fit there. Not anymore.

  What was she doing with Tassett? Tassett was only screwing her. Did she think of him in a similar way? A pig to fill the void? Why had she sent Tassett to tell him that she wanted to go away for the weekend? Did she think so little of him?

  Helen was supposed to be different. A physician who admired his work. A professional. Not just another slut on her back, spreading her legs and telling her idiot boyfriend to put it in, put it in, put it in.

  No, he thought. She was nice to me. She’s better than that.

  Isn’t she?

  Or was she laughing at him? Saying unkind things about him to Tassett. Maybe Tassett teased her about him. Told her that Dr. Sheffield was after her and what did she think about that? Did Tassett tell her to close her eyes and think of Dr. Sheffield? What things did they d
o? What did they say about him?

  Raymond reached into the pocket of his jacket and touched the small piece of steel, making sure that it was there. It made him feel better when he touched it. He took it out and placed it on his kitchen table.

  It was a small, black hairpin.

  She wore hairpins at work. She was like that. Not fancy, not taking the time to have her hair done because she was a professional and she didn’t fuss much with her looks. Though she was attractive, to be sure. She would put her yellow hair up with hairpins, clipped at the top of her head. They would fall out here and there as her shift progressed. People joked that some of her pins could be found in the patients.

  Raymond had found this one on the floor of the operating room where she had attended the young man’s dislocated shoulder. It must have been knocked loose while she tugged on his arm.

  After he found it, Raymond’s first impulse was to bring it back to her. Tell her he’d found it and thought that she might want it back. Might want it back after it had been on the floor in an emergency room ward.

  An offering.

  And maybe he would have given it to her. Maybe he would have given it to her even after she’d sent Tassett to tell him she wanted to switch shifts. Go ask Raymond. He’s got nothing going on. Ask Raymond to stand by while we rut like animals. . . . Maybe even after that he would have taken the pin to her, and she would have smiled at him and cleared up the misunderstanding. Told him that the thing with Tassett was over. Or had never been.

  But then he had seen them through the window. And after seeing that, he had reached into his pocket and touched the hairpin, and when he felt it, he felt comfort. For a moment, he felt peace. He had a part of her now. But only a part.

  There were things in his past he liked to remember. Things he liked to take out and look at again. His work on Ashley was one of those things. A killing that he’d created. His creation, his work. He liked to think about that. He liked to think about the beginning, the middle, and the end. Sometimes he would start out by thinking of the end. The last moments of her life, and then he would go back to the beginning, where he had picked her up. Sometimes it was fun to do it that way. Explain the beginning after the end. He liked to play it different ways. It was his work, after all, and he felt entitled to move it around when it suited him. But there were also things that he did not like to remember. He was getting better at sorting out the memories he liked and the memories he did not. He was getting more and more control. But he was not there yet. He had not yet reached perfection. Some of the bad memories would come upon him, and he could not stop them from coming. Like the times after his parents divorced and his mother would come home with a man she had picked up at a bar or a party. Sometimes the man would be surprised to see a little boy sitting alone in front of the television. And his mother would say, “He’ll be fine.” And then she would take the man by the hand and lead him off to her bedroom. Later, Raymond would listen for sounds—silence, muffled conversation, more quiet, laughter . . .