Head Wounds

by Dennis Palumbo

  Heart pounding, I went into the living room. Now, away from the opened door, there was only an oppressive silence.

  As I went slowly and cautiously across the room to the adjoining hallway, I felt again that ineffable sense of dread from the night before. The foreboding that had stiffened the hairs on the back of my neck.

  “Joy? Are you here?” My voice strained. Hollow. “It’s Dan Rinaldi. Are you in here?”

  Again, only that silence. Somehow intensified by the dimness of the rooms, the shadows crowding every corner.

  But there was something else. Something about the air in this house. It was oddly, unnaturally still.

  And then, suddenly, I knew what it was. Knew it as though it were a palpable fact.

  It was the stillness of death.

  I quickened my pace. Strode down the hall into the rooms at the back, calling out Joy’s name again. Though I knew she wouldn’t answer. Wouldn’t be able to.

  I found her on the floor of the master bedroom, as spacious and opulently furnished as I’d imagined. At its far end was a king-sized bed. Covers in disarray.

  On the carpet at the foot of the bed lay Joy Steadman. On her back. Naked. Slim legs bruised, obscenely spread-eagled. Mouth agape, frozen. As though still screaming in protest.

  Steeling myself, I crouched by her side. I knew enough not to disturb the body, but I did feel for a pulse. Nothing.

  I stared down at her still, pale face. Those blue-green eyes, open and unseeing.

  My own eyes filled with tears for this young woman I barely knew. For the pains of her shortened life, and for the way it ended. The terror of its last moments.

  Because I didn’t need a pathologist to confirm the cause of death. It was obvious from the ugly, indented marks on her throat where someone had placed powerful hands and squeezed…until her troubled life was over.

  Joy Steadman had been murdered.

  Chapter Eight

  “Man, I hate bein’ right all the time.”

  Harry Polk blew steam off the mug of black coffee I’d brought him from my house. We were sitting inside his unmarked, which was parked at my curb. Shelter from the rain that had lessened to an icy, insistent drizzle.

  Not that the weather had discouraged a number of my neighbors, including Marv Kranski, from standing beyond the semi-circle of squad cars, taking videos of the scene with their cells. Just down the street was a KDKA-TV news van, a female reporter and her cameraman beside it, huddled under umbrellas.

  After I’d called the police, I contacted my morning therapy patients and cancelled their appointments. I knew I’d need to be available for the next few hours to give a formal statement.

  The cops soon arrived and, with practiced skill, secured the scene. The CSU team wasn’t far behind. Then the medical examiner showed up and trudged through the front door. Behind him, two morgue attendants were unfolding a gurney from the back of the lab wagon. An empty body bag lay atop it, ready for use.

  Now, sweat dotting my brow, I lowered the passenger side window a crack. Polk had the dash heater on, and the mixture of warm air and stale cigarette smoke was stifling.

  I turned back to stare at his stoic profile. Something about the intensity of his last words had struck me.

  “Looks like you were right, Harry. My guess is, you’re pretty sure Eddie Burke killed Joy.”

  The veteran cop nodded. “Don’t gotta guess. It hasn’t hit the news yet, but it will. Happened earlier this morning.”

  “What happened?”

  “After Burke’s lawyer—guy named Reinhart—got Eddie out on bail, they were supposed to head over to some hotel. To keep Eddie under wraps till he cooled off. But once they were alone, in the parking lot, the crazy son of a bitch assaulted Reinhart and carjacked his Lincoln.”

  My chest tightened. “Jesus Christ…”

  “Damn right. Don’t take a genius to figger where Eddie went first. He came here and killed his cheatin’ girlfriend. Burke didn’t have a house key on him when he was processed, so that means Joy let the fucker in. Poor, stupid girl.”

  “Where’s Burke now? Do you know?”

  “In the wind. He’s got wheels and knows we’re after him. We got an APB out on him, and some uniforms at the airport and bus stations. But the prick could be anywhere.”

  I didn’t say anything. The scenario was depressingly familiar, an abused woman once more agreeing to accept her abuser back. This time, at the cost of her life.

  As though sensing my thoughts, Polk gave a mournful sigh. “Goddam shame about the girl,” he said quietly.

  “Yes. It is.” I paused. “It’s funny, I didn’t really know her, but still…”

  “Yeah. Kind of a spoiled bitch an’ all, but still…”

  Neither one of us had the words for what we were trying to say. So we merely fell silent.

  Just then, a young plainclothes cop bundled in a raincoat came out of the house and trotted over to the car. Polk and I climbed out of our seats to meet him. After the heated interior of the sedan, I relished the feel of crisp, blustery air, though raindrops pelted my head and dripped down the back of my collar.

  “M.E.’s just about through in there, Sarge. Figured you’d want to know.” In his late twenties, he had a shrewd, narrow face and close-cropped black hair.

  I’d first met Jerry Banks a few weeks before, though I saw him again just days ago when he dropped off the dossier at my office. The newly minted detective was a temporary replacement for Polk’s longtime partner, Eleanor Lowrey, who’d taken six months’ leave to help her mother raise her junkie brother’s kids. The nephew of the assistant chief, Banks was the living embodiment of nepotism, displaying an unearned confidence that clearly set Polk’s teeth on edge—which the sergeant did little to disguise.

  Unlike Harry, Banks was unaware of my personal relationship with Eleanor. As a black, bisexual female detective in the Department, she made every effort to keep the intimate details of her life private. Especially after she’d received some well-deserved publicity (and a commendation) for her bravery during a shootout with a killer last year.

  Seeing Polk’s new partner again brought an unexpected stab of pain. When Eleanor had broken it off with me, unable to resolve her conflicted feelings about a former female lover, I did my best to understand. Give her the space, and time, to sort out her feelings. But occasionally, like now, I was struck by an aching sense of loss.

  Which was interrupted by Banks’ avid glance at my coffee mug.

  “Hey, Doc, you got any more java left in the pot?”

  Polk gave him a threatening look, but I held up my hand.

  “It’s okay, Harry. He looks cold.” I gestured behind me. “Go on in my house, Detective. Door’s unlocked. The coffeepot’s on the kitchen counter.”

  A blithe grin. “I knew I liked you, Dr. Rinaldi.”

  With that, he gave his sergeant a mock salute and headed toward my front door.

  Polk frowned. “Smart-ass little shit.”

  Before I could reply, the M.E. exited the Steadman house, opened an umbrella over his head, and joined us on the street. Dr. Rudy Bergmann was known to me as well, as he was to most people in the city. His thin, bespectacled figure was a familiar presence at press conferences and criminal courtrooms. As was his famously bad hairpiece. Nearing retirement after over thirty years in office, it was obvious he felt more than entitled to his sour view of the human race.

  “Surprised to see you out here, Doc,” Polk said. Given Bergmann’s emeritus status, I, too, wouldn’t have expected him to attend personally to what appeared to be a simple homicide.

  “As am I, Sergeant. Not the kind of thing I’m normally called out for anymore. But both of my esteemed younger colleagues are working other cases, which left an old man like me to do the honors. So much for seniority, eh?”

  He turned his small, perfectly
round eyes on mine. “Anyway, Dr. Rinaldi, it was just as you thought. The girl was strangled. Clear finger marks, so it was done manually. Face to face.”

  “Any sign of sexual assault?” Polk asked.

  “Oh, God, yes. From the bruising on her inner thighs, I’d say she was quite brutally raped. I’ll know more when I get her on the table, but I expect to see severe vaginal tearing. Though she did put up a fight.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Her fingernails were manicured, but two have broken tips. Classic defensive injury. Got some epidermal matter under them, but I won’t know till later whether there’s enough to extract any usable forensics.”

  Bergmann shook his head. “It takes a great deal of rage to manually strangle someone. A great deal. I don’t know what gets into people. Seriously.”

  He gripped the umbrella tighter, grimacing up at the constant drizzle.

  “Now, as the man said, time to get out of these wet clothes and into a dry martini.” A thin smile. “Just a joke, of course. Bit early in the day. Even for me. Have a good one, gentlemen.”

  As Bergmann walked off, Polk gave him a quizzical look. But I knew the reference. The line came from Robert Benchley, one of my late wife’s favorite writers. Along with P.G. Woodhouse, Saki, and Dorothy Parker. Humorists from the twenties and thirties. Like a lot of academics, Barbara tended to specialize, even when it came to light reading or other leisure activities. I recall her telling me once about a colleague who was addicted to true-crime shows on TV. Barbara called it “murder porn.”

  When we got along, it was the kind of thing we used to laugh about. When we got along…

  Jerry Banks, gingerly holding a steaming mug of coffee, had returned in time to watch the stoop-shouldered M.E.’s departure. He looked as though he wanted to make a comment, probably an unkind one, but his partner stopped him.

  “Stay here and supervise the scene,” Polk said. “I’m gonna call downtown and see how the search for Burke is goin’.”

  “Sure thing, Sarge. See ya, Doc.”

  Coffee in hand, Banks went back into Joy’s house.

  Polk glanced at me. “Make sure he returns your mug.”

  Given his obvious displeasure with being partnered with Banks, I had the feeling he was being serious.

  As the M.E. wagon pulled into the street, Polk seemed ready to get back behind the wheel of his car. Then he paused.

  “You, too, Doc.” Polk indicated the passenger side door. “Got somethin’ I need to tell ya.”

  Puzzled, I once again joined him inside the car. His hands on the steering wheel, he pointedly gazed out the windshield.

  “Look, this ain’t none o’ my business, but I got a call from one o’ my buddies up at State prison. He told me Lowrey’s been up there to see her girlfriend.”

  I swallowed a breath. Eleanor’s former lover was a convicted felon, doing serious time. A woman Eleanor once called the love of her life.

  “Anyway,” Polk went on, “this moron buddy o’ mine figgered I ought to know, Lowrey bein’ my partner and all. He said it was disgustin’ to see a fellow officer holdin’ hands with an offender, under the glass partition. ‘Didn’t know your partner was a dyke,’ this guy says.”

  Polk turned to me at last. “I told him the next time I see him, I’m gonna un-friend him. But not like on Facebook. I’m gonna use my fist. Nobody talks shit ’bout my partner but me.”

  I took another breath.

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I’m not tryin’ to fuck with you, Rinaldi. Honest. I just figger, no sense gettin’ your heart broke. So maybe you oughtta give it up about you and her. Besides, once Lowrey’s back on the job, havin’ you two hookin’ up again is gonna be a pain in my ass. I see too goddam much of you already.”

  I didn’t reply. Merely sipped my cooling coffee.

  “I’m going back inside,” I said finally. “I’ll come down to the precinct in an hour or so to give my statement.”

  “Hey, I hope I wasn’t an asshole tellin’ you that.”

  “No. I’m okay.”

  Polk nodded, unconvinced. “Whatever. Anyway, I’ll see ya downtown. But be careful.”

  “What do mean?”

  “You kiddin’ me? Burke just killed a girl he thought was cheatin’ on him. With you. And he’s still out there somewhere. Who the hell d’ya think he’s gonna wanna kill next?”

  Chapter Nine

  Midday traffic at the Point was at a standstill. Which was why, even with my windows barely opened an inch, I was breathing clouds of truck exhaust. And why angry drivers all around me were relentlessly, and uselessly, honking their horns, until, finally, we started moving again. I was anxious to get to my office in Oakland in time for my one o’clock patient. It was an appointment I didn’t want to miss.

  It wasn’t that I hadn’t taken Polk’s warning about Eddie Burke seriously. Though with the police scouring the county for him, I doubted whether Burke would risk staying in the vicinity. If he hadn’t ditched his car, he could’ve already made it across the Ohio state line, or south to West Virginia. And then beyond.

  I was driving up from the precinct, having just given my statement about the previous day’s events. Of course, by now the news of Joy Steadman’s murder had broken, as well as the continuing story of the hunt for Eddie Burke. It was further reported that his lawyer, though hospitalized, was expected to make a full recovery.

  The rain had finally ceased, but the streets were still slick enough to slow the procession of cars heading down Forbes Avenue. At last I pulled into my building’s parking garage, took the elevator up to the fifth floor, and unlocked my office.

  I put my battered Tumi briefcase in its appointed spot next to my marble-topped desk, and opened the shutters on the broad window overlooking Forbes Avenue and Pitt’s urban campus. Lastly, I checked my phone machine for messages. Nothing urgent.

  I’d just hung up my suit jacket when the signal light came on. My one o’clock was here.

  l l l l l

  It was my fourth session with Robbie Palermo, a ten-year-old student at a nearby Catholic elementary school. He had a thatch of brown hair and somber gray eyes. Every time I’d seen him, he’d worn his school uniform and high-top sneakers. A rule violation the stern nuns allowed, “due to the circumstances.”

  Robbie was exceedingly bright, verbal and well-mannered. Perhaps too much so. It was hard to get him to open up about his feelings, the things that troubled him. Not unusual in an adolescent boy, of course. And normally I wouldn’t press a kid like him to share his emotions. Not this early in our work.

  But in this case, I felt it important that he do so. His parents agreed, which was why Robbie had been referred to me.

  Two weeks before, right after school, Robbie’s best friend, Matthew Condon, also ten, put a gun to the side of his head and pulled the trigger. The revolver had belonged to the boy’s father, a divorced city planner.

  Robbie had found the body, the gun beside it sticky with blood, in the gardener’s shed behind Matthew’s house, where they’d planned to play video games. Robbie’s parents didn’t approve of the violence in his favorite games, so he couldn’t play them at home. As he’d shared with me during our first session, playing them with Matthew in the rarely used shed was part of what made it exciting. It was a secret they shared.

  What they’d never shared, apparently, was what Matthew had been feeling bad about lately. What might have been upsetting him. Why one day, without warning, he’d taken his own life.

  Though he wouldn’t talk about it, Robbie couldn’t figure it out, either. Instead, he had recurring nightmares, panic attacks at school. He could barely eat, or concentrate, or show much interest in anything.

  Now, sitting across from me in my consulting room, his bony arms slim and white against the chair’s leather, he looked down at his snea
kers. He hadn’t said a word since he’d come in.

  “We don’t have to talk about anything if you don’t want to,” I said after a few minutes. “Or if you do, I’ll just listen. I’m pretty good at keeping my mouth shut.”

  He glanced up, managed a thin smile. “Wish you’d teach that to my stupid parents.”

  “What makes them stupid? I mean, other than what makes most adults stupid…”

  “Aw, they’re okay, I guess. I just wish they wouldn’t worry about me so much. It really sucks. Like I can’t think things through myself.”

  “You’re a damn smart kid, Robbie. I’m sure you do a lot of thinking. About a lot of things.”

  Again his head came up. Eyes narrowing a bit. “You’re talking about Matthew, aren’t you?”

  I shrugged. “Aren’t you?”

  “I guess so.” A long pause. “I mean, I’ve been thinking about the gaming we do. We did…” Voice dropping.

  I let my own voice stay calm, measured. “What about those games you and Matthew played?”

  “Usually they had aliens in them. You had to kill aliens. We both liked doing it.” He gave me a wary look. “Does that mean anything? Like there’s something wrong with me?”

  “I doubt it. Might just mean you’re brave. If I ever saw an alien, my first instinct would probably be to run like hell.”

  “I’m serious.” He folded his arms. “I’ve been thinking a lot about the games. About how the only way to kill aliens is to shoot them in the head. Only way to snuff them.”

  “Head shots. Sounds reasonable.”

  “In this one game, every time you shoot an alien and it dies, the graphic says ‘Head Wound.’ Then you get points.”

  I wasn’t sure where this was going, but I wanted to let Robbie lead me there. So I waited.

  “See?” For the first time today, he stirred in his seat. “Head wounds. Maybe that’s what people with something wrong with their brains have. A pain in their heads. Like wounds.”