Head Wounds

by Dennis Palumbo

  I let out a breath. Had to be careful here.

  “Are you talking about Matthew again now, Robbie? That he had a head wound? Some pain in his mind?”

  He nodded slowly, arms still crossed. Wanting to say more, feel more, but needing to stay guarded.

  “Maybe that’s why Matthew shot himself in the head,” Robbie said quietly. “Like we did to aliens in the game.”

  “You mean, like maybe it was the only way he could make the pain stop?”

  Another slow nod. As tears dotted the edges of his eyes.

  I leaned closer, sitting forward in my chair. But not wanting to crowd him.

  “It’s okay to miss him, Robbie. And feel bad about how unhappy he was inside. And to be angry at him for what he did.”

  Robbie’s face darkened. “But how can I feel all those things at once?”

  “How could you feel any other way? I know I couldn’t. Not about my best friend.”

  Another long pause. “You think that’s why I’m so messed up about everything? That I got a head wound, too?”

  “I think we all do, Robbie. To some degree. It’s what lets us feel things. Understand the pain of others. It’s what makes us humans.”

  His breathing slowed as he tried to take this in.

  Finally, he said, “If I keep talking to you about all this, will I stop having nightmares and stuff?”

  I ventured a smile. “That’s the theory. We’ll just have to wait and see. But I believe talking about things really helps.”

  He gave this some thought. Then: “No offense, Dr. Rinaldi, but you have a weird job.”

  Now it was my turn to nod. “Tell me about it.”

  l l l l l

  The session ended soon after that, and Robbie reached for his coat and scarf. As usual, his mother had brought him for his appointment and would be out in my waiting room, reading a magazine until we were finished.

  Grumbling, Robbie wrapped the scarf around his neck. Though the rain had stopped, it was still fairly brisk outside, and Mrs. Palermo had worried her son would catch a cold.

  “I hate it when she treats me like a baby,” he said. “You know what I mean?”

  “I sure do.”

  Robbie didn’t need to know that I could only infer what he was talking about. My own mother had been sick from the day I was born, and died when I was three. So my parenting was the responsibility of my father, a bitter, alcoholic beat cop who’d left the nurturing part to my various aunts. Until I was old enough to start training for the ring. Then he was totally, relentlessly hands-on. Sparring with me when I was still in pajamas. Teaching me to dodge, weave. Avoid the slap of his hands. And take it like a man when I didn’t.

  My own chance to fight back would come later, he said. Which it did, against other kids my age—other, more talented amateurs, some of whom made it to the Olympics. But in all that time, I never laid a finger on him, though I’d spent most of my teens wanting to.

  Yet, when he died, I wept.

  Robbie’s searching look drew me out of my reverie.

  “You okay, Dr. Rinaldi? Maybe you’re the one getting sick.”

  “I’m fine. Now let’s not keep your mother waiting.”

  l l l l l

  Ten minutes after the last of the day’s patients had left, I was heading back across town toward the Liberty Bridge with a Nina Simone CD in the dash player, filling the car with her clear, sad, righteous voice.

  When I arrived at home, a pair of CSU techs—for whom I’d left the keys—were just finishing up. They had the bullet from my wall bagged and tagged, and were taking down the crime scene tape from my front door. Across the street, others from their crew were still at work in Joy Steadman’s place. They’d probably be at the scene till dusk.

  Alone now, I changed into jeans and a pullover sweater. Then grabbed a beer and went into the front room. To my relief, my makeshift repair of the window was still intact. I figured it should hold until the glazier arrived tomorrow.

  I was just about to click on the TV news when my phone rang. It was Angie Villanova, Pittsburgh PD’s community liaison officer. In her late fifties, she was a curt, no-nonsense veteran cop. Sturdy as an oak. She was also family.

  “Listen up, Danny. And don’t give me any shit.”

  “Some people just start with ‘hello.’”

  “Whatever. Anyway, guess what? You’re invited to a cocktail party tomorrow night. The Mayor’s hosting.”

  “A cocktail party? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Nope. It’s a fund-raiser for His Honor’s campaign. Lots of local bigwigs. Captains of industry. You’ll fit right in.”

  “Very funny. Except I’m not going.”

  “Yes you are. That’s a direct order from Chief Logan. So you gotta play ball. Thing is, Danny, some o’ the top brass are itchin’ to cancel your contract as a consultant.”

  “Why?”

  “Why do ya think? Your behavior the last couple years has made a lotta people nervous. Gettin’ your ass mixed up in high-profile investigations. Endin’ up on the news for things that could embarrass the Department. Hell, I’m surprised they haven’t punched your ticket long before this.”

  “So I have to attend this thing, whether I like it or not?”

  “Yep. Logan said either you come or you’re gone.”

  “Okay, okay. Tell me where and when.”

  “I’ll text it to ya. Serves ya right, though. It’s what you get for bein’ such a media whore.”

  “Bite me, Angie.”

  “Love you, too, Danny.”

  We hung up. By now, the pale, uncertain light of the setting sun was painting the walls. I sat for a moment, sipping my beer, my thoughts drifting. Then my gaze fell to the dossier, open-faced on the coffee table. As if by rote, I pulled it onto my lap.

  Wearily, doubting whether I’d find anything new, I flipped through the pages to the rear section, where the case files were located. Inexplicably, my eye was caught by the biographical details about my late wife that the cops had assembled. I’d read them before, of course, but for some reason found myself drawn again to the pages about Barbara’s family. Particularly her bitter, widower father.

  My father-in-law, Phillip Camden, died some years back, in the midst of my involvement in the Wingfield investigation. In fact, I’d been at his hospital bedside when he’d taken his last breath. A distinguished psychiatrist and clinical researcher, he’d been one of my mentors in the Pitt graduate department. Though we’d disagreed strongly about therapeutic practice, he was even more unsettled by my marriage to his daughter, and sole child, Barbara.

  She’d been barely out of her teens when her mother died, so Camden was her only parent thereafter. And she’d been the only thing on this Earth that he loved. So it was no surprise that, after Barbara was killed, he blamed me for her death. For somehow allowing it. And for being the one who lived.

  He died still blaming me.

  I closed the dossier, throat suddenly constricted, and threw the damn thing on the floor. Feeling a sheet of shame, remorse—something—burning like acid on my face.

  All the years came flooding back. My marriage to a woman I both loved and battled, with equal passion. My attempts to find common ground with my father-in-law while Barbara was alive, and seek some kind of solace with him after her death. But in our shared grief, there was no room for peace.

  Stung by the memory, I leapt to my feet. I stared down at the dossier on the floor as though wishing I could somehow make it disappear. Make it stop pulling me back into a past it had taken me years to come to terms with. At least for the most part.

  Suddenly, jarringly, the phone rang again. Harry Polk.

  “Listen, Doc, I got some news. Couple joggers found that lawyer’s car wrapped around a tree out past Monroeville. Looks like it skidded off the road leadin’ to the
turnpike on-ramp.”

  “What about Eddie Burke?”

  “I’m lookin’ right at him. Or what’s left of him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s still in the car. Whole goddam front’s caved in. Road crew got the Jaws o’ Life tryin’ to pry his dead-ass body out. They say it could take a while.”

  I said nothing, watching the last light fade from the room.

  “That’s that, then,” Polk was saying. “Nice to clear a homicide so quick. Cuts down on paperwork.”

  “So you’re convinced it was Burke who killed Joy?”

  “Who the hell else could it be? We’ll know for sure when we get the autopsy results. And the rape kit. Get a match for the bastard’s DNA. But it was him, all right.”

  “And now that he’s been considerate enough to die in a car crash trying to flee the state—”

  Polk chuckled. “See, it even saves taxpayers the cost of a trial. A win-win all around. Right, Doc?”

  l l l l l

  According to the morning news, everyone seemed to feel the same way. The police media flack gave an on-camera statement, saying, in effect, that the case was over. Not officially, of course, but for all practical purposes.

  When the station cut back to the news anchor, he added that Joy Steadman’s grieving parents had arrived to accompany their daughter’s body back to Philadelphia for burial.

  I clicked off the TV. Suddenly, the image of her still, lifeless body flickered in my mind. Those empty blue-green eyes. I quickly pushed it away.

  I swallowed the last of my coffee. Though it was just past eight, the glazier had already come and gone. It had taken over an hour to remove what was left of my front window, then replace and reset a new one. All I’d had to do was clean up the debris.

  Now, heading out the door for work, the first thing that greeted me was the lilt of birdsong, normally a reassuringly familiar sound in the morning, especially after a week’s worth of rain and gusting wind. But not today.

  Nor was my somber mood lightened as I drove down from Grandview by the sight of a clear, startling blue sky.

  “That’s that,” Polk had said. Perhaps he was right. Joy Steadman and Eddie Burke, two people I didn’t know, had each suffered sudden, violent deaths. Summarily snuffed out of existence. Now the rest of the world, including me, was just supposed to move on.

  After all, what other choice did we have?

  Though it is amazing how quickly it happens. Less than twenty minutes later, I was pulling into my office garage, thinking about some of the patients I’d be seeing today. Calls and e-mails I had to return. The usual litany of everyday tasks.

  Moving on.

  Or so I thought.

  What I didn’t know—couldn’t know—was that by the time this particular day was over, my life would be shockingly, horrifyingly, changed.

  Forever.

  Chapter Ten

  “Danny! I’ll be damned, you showed up!”

  Within moments, I was enveloped in the firm embrace and insistent perfume of Angie Villanova. Having risen up the ranks to her current position in the Department, she was stout and proud, sporting a cloud of lacquered hair. Her tailored outfit as sensible as the woman herself. The only concession to the manufactured pomp of the occasion was the string of pearls she’d inherited from her mother.

  “Where’s Sonny?” Even standing in the foyer, I could hear the chatter of a party in full swing. “The food’s free, right?”

  She laughed. “Yeah, but my husband knew that if he came he’d have to talk to people. And that’s somethin’ neither of us wants, right? By the way, ya shoulda worn a tie.”

  I was in a sport coat with an opened shirt collar. Clucking her tongue, she began fiddling with it.

  “Jesus, Danny, this is a fund-raiser. Wealthy folks oozin’ money. What the Mayor’s people call ‘high-value targets.’ So try to act like ya belong here, okay?”

  I was about to protest when she slipped a proprietary arm in mine. “Now, c’mon, I’ll introduce ya around.”

  I sighed. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  After finishing at the office, I’d just had time to hurry home, change, and head back downtown. When I stopped at a red light on Grant Street, I opened my driver’s side window all the way. For the first time in a week, the night sky was clear and cloudless. An array of stars shimmered above me in the cold air. The concrete and steel towers of the urban core dusted in silver by a pale, benign moon.

  Waiting for the light to change, I frowned in resentment at being forced to attend the Mayor’s cocktail party. But, as Angie had warned, my position with the Department was too shaky to blow it off. So, reminding myself that there’d be liquor on the premises, I accepted my fate and set my GPS for the address.

  The party was taking place at the private residence of one of the Mayor’s wealthier friends, who’d just moved here to newly gentrified Lawrenceville. Once a dying small town on the outskirts of Pittsburgh, it soon became a low-rent haven for artists, musicians, and other struggling types. In recent years, however, those same colorful residents had been pushed out, unable to afford the high prices of the renovated homes and condos. Now the area boasted wealthy hedge-fund managers, software entrepreneurs, and similar movers and shakers.

  My kind of crowd, without a doubt.

  As Angie led me from room to room, making introductions to conspicuously dressed men and women, whose names I immediately forgot, I took in the moneyed opulence of our host’s home. Soon to be featured in Architectural Digest, Angie whispered to me.

  It wasn’t until we’d reached the large, glass-domed library that I spotted a familiar face. Standing in line with people sampling exotic items from the catered buffet table was Harvey Blalock. Champagne glass in hand, he was chatting with a stunning Asian woman in a strapless dress and heels.

  I’d met Blalock during the Wingfield case. President of the Pittsburgh Black Attorneys Association, he’d represented me briefly when I’d been sued for malpractice. In the years since, our professional relationship had evolved into a warm friendship. Harvey was one of my favorite people.

  Angie nodded in his direction. “Go ahead and say hi to Harvey. I’ve gotta go find Chief Logan and the Mayor. Let ’em know you’re here.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Last I saw, they were huddled with Dr. Langstrom at the bar. Probably anglin’ for a big donation to the city coffers.”

  She smiled at my blank look. “Langstrom’s our host, Danny. Plastic surgeon to the rich and wrinkled. Lotta money in that, in case ya hadn’t heard. Beats shrinkin’ heads for a living.”

  She gave me a wink and strode off, leaving me to weave through small clusters of the rich and formerly wrinkled till I got next to Blalock. His broad face broke into a smile.

  “Daniel! I hoped I’d run into you here.”

  As usual, Blalock looked avuncular and robust. Also as usual, his handshake was just short of crushing.

  Then he turned to his companion. “Dr. Daniel Rinaldi, meet Lily Chen. One of my new hires. Harvard Law Review.”

  The beautiful woman put her slender hand in mine.

  “Nice to meet you in person, Doctor. I’ve been following your career for years. Ever since reading about your work with that poor victim of the Handyman.” She glanced at her boss. “I understand he’s still on Death Row.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Blalock gave a dark chuckle. “And he’ll stay there as long as his lawyer keeps filing appeals. At this rate, Dowd will probably live to senility and die of natural causes.”

  Dubbed “the Handyman” by the media, Troy David Dowd was a serial killer who tortured his victims with screwdrivers, pliers, and other tools. He’d murdered and dismembered twelve people before his eventual capture and conviction.

  Only two of Dowd’s intended victims managed to escape. One of
them, a single mother in her fifties, was sent to me for therapy. It was my treatment of her PTSD symptoms that led to my consultant’s contract with the Pittsburgh Police.

  I was just about to thank Ms. Chen for her kind words when her gaze was caught by another guest waving from across the room. After she excused herself, Blalock and I watched her departing form with interest.

  “Has your wife met your new protégé, Harvey?”

  “Wipe that smirk off your face, Doctor. Lily happens to be a brilliant litigator. Plus it’s about time my shop had a little diversity, don’t you think? Keep the brothers on their toes.”

  After having a couple drinks together, and waxing nostalgic about the blue-collar Pittsburgh of our youth, I managed to slip away from the gregarious lawyer and head across the room to where Angie was speaking to another woman. I just wanted to make sure she’d told the Mayor and Chief Logan I’d shown up, then get the hell out of there. I’d done my duty to the Department.

  However, as I got closer, I realized that Angie’s companion looked vaguely familiar. She was about my age, slender and elegant in a black sleeveless dress matching the color of her short, loosely curled hair. Dangling hoop earrings accentuated her high cheekbones and hooded gray eyes.

  Angie took hold of my forearm. “Dan Rinaldi, meet Liz Cortland. According to the Mayor, she’s his favorite cousin.”

  Liz shrugged. “That’s only because I’ll occasionally appear at these obnoxious orgies of self-promotion. Doing my bit for the extended family.”

  I shook her hand. Firm, unfussy grip.

  “I’m sure he appreciates it. But if you don’t mind my asking, have we met before? You look familiar.”

  “I should, Dr. Rinaldi. Though it’s been over a dozen years now. We used to see each other at faculty events. I was a good friend and colleague of your late wife, Barbara.”

  Realization dawned at last. “Of course. Dr. Cortland. You taught Comparative Lit, right?”