by Greg Dinallo
A few seconds passed before the sound of someone stumbling about came from within. “Yeah, yeah, hold on. I’m coming,” a raspy voice replied. Finally, the door opened, revealing a bleary-eyed Merrick in a T-shirt, fumbling with the zipper of a pair of jeans. He stood blinking at the brightness. “Sorry, Son,” he groaned, distracted by sounds that came from inside the apartment. “I must’ve overslept.”
Jason nodded knowingly and lowered his eyes, then noticed a manila envelope leaning against the stucco wall.
“You and me both,” an equally disheveled and distraught woman chimed in as she came charging from the apartment like someone who was very late for work. Jason’s eyes widened in recognition as Faye clambered down the stairs, clutching her waitress apron in one hand and working a hairbrush with the other.
Lilah tightened her grip on the container of coffee and glared at Merrick in stunned silence.
“You better wait inside, Son.”
“But Dad—”
“Inside now, okay?” his father said more firmly.
“How could you do this?” Lilah demanded angrily the instant the door closed. “How could you accuse me of lying, and then pull a stunt like this? How could you be so deceitful? How could you leave me out there vulnerable and exposed like that?”
Merrick was stung and baffled by the onslaught. Deceitful? Vulnerable and exposed? he wondered, running a hand through his matted hair as he tried to make sense of it. “I think you’re a little over the top here, Doc. Frankly, I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about?”
“I’m talking about last night, Lieutenant.”
“Last night? I left you at the hotel. You’re secure there. No one’s going to bother you.”
“God,” Lilah groaned in exasperation. “I meant her. If you bad other plans, you should have said so, instead of playing a game with me.”
Merrick grunted, realizing he’d misunderstood, though be still had no idea what she meant by leaving her vulnerable and exposed. “I dido ‘t have plans, Doc. It just . . . happened. Come on, you know damn well I think you’re pretty hot.”
“You have a funny way of showing it.”
“Hey, when it came time to get down to business, I didn’t see you making any major moves either.”
“I had my reasons.”
“Makes two of us.”
“I’m listening, Lieutenant.”
Merrick shrugged matter-of-factly. “It’s no big deal. You’re the victim of a crime. I’m the guy stuck with solving it. I figured it’d be smart for us to keep it that way.”
“That’s a crock and you know it.”
“You really want to know?” he challenged in a threatening tone.
“Sure,” Lilah replied, thrusting her chin forward. “Go ahead, take your best shot.”
“Okay. You’re too much work. Too damn complicated. I’ve just been through weird and neurotic. I’m not up to it again. Right now, a simple slam-bam-thank-you-ma’ am is all I can handle.”
Lilah’s eyes filled with tears. “You—you—you bastard!” She reared back and threw the coffee at him.
Merrick lunged sideways as it zipped past his head and hit the wall behind him. The impact blew the lid off the container and sent coffee splashing across the stucco wall.
Lilah whirled and ran down the stairs. By the time Merrick recovered and went after her, she was getting into the Jaguar. He’d just reached the bottom when the engine roared to life. Lilah smoked the tires, then made a screeching U-turn, narrowly missing Merrick, who sidestepped to safety. The car jumped the curb and clipped some garbage pails, sending them tumbling into the street.
Merrick got to his feet and watched in shock as the Jag fishtailed around a comer at high speed. She was dangerous, he thought; dangerous and troubled, and he was suddenly convinced that what he’d been thinking about her wasn’t so unthinkable anymore.
Jason had heard the commotion and came running down the stairs, clutching the envelope he’d noticed earlier.
“Dad? Dad, you okay?”
“Yeah,” Merrick grunted, righting the trash pails and setting them on the sidewalk.
“She was really mad, huh?” Jason prompted, fetching one of the covers. “Kinda like Mom gets sometimes.”
“Yeah, it seems I have a real knack for pissing women off.”
“Me too. I asked this girl in my class if she wanted to study with me and she gave me the finger.”
“A girl did that?”
“Uh-huh. Girls sure are weird.”
Merrick nodded at the irony, thinking if Lilah had sent the fire bombs to herself, he still didn’t have any idea why—but a psychiatrist, one who knew her well, might. He was making a mental note to ask Paul Schaefer about it when he noticed the envelope in Jason’s hand.
“What’s that you got there?”
The youngster shrugged and handed it to him. “Found it up there by the door.”
Written across the envelope in impromptu script was: “Sounds like you took my advice! Decided not to disturb you. Tattoo.” Inside, Merrick found a color print taken from a frame of the surveillance video that Pam Dyer’s computer had finally resolved. The ponytailed image was still grainy and deeply shadowed, but the face was unmistakably Fiona Schaefer’s.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Paul Schaefer was at his desk, proofing transcripts of the prison interviews, when the TV suddenly came on. A moment later the CD player erupted with a thundering symphony. He got to his feet, then saw Merrick in the doorway, thumbing a remote control.
“Checking the range,” Merrick said with a grin as the answering machine came to life. “Sorry I kept it so long.” He gave it to Schaefer, who went about shutting everything off. “By the way, how’s the missus doing?”
“Fiona’s been a basket case all week.”
“She oughta be,” Merrick taunted. “Get on the horn and tell her to hustle on over here.”
“Right now? I’m not sure that she’s—”
“Now. Make the call.”
Schaefer grumbled but complied, and minutes later Fiona strode into the office. “You got me out of an important meeting, Lieutenant,” she said, bristling.
“You lied about being out of town that night, didn’t you?” Merrick countered.
“Do we have to go through that again?” Fiona whined. “I told you I was at a seminar in Santa—”
“Not when this was taken!” Merrick interrupted, tossing the print from the video on the desk. He stabbed a finger at the date and time block. “See that? It proves you were on campus just before the fire bomb went off. You’ve been lying through your teeth.”
Fiona squinted at her likeness and the condemning data, then recoiled and paled. “Yes,” she whispered contritely, “I’m afraid I have.”
“Fiona . . . “her husband said admonishingly.
“Actually, I was in Santa Barbara,” Fiona went on, her voice strengthening. “But I came back to—”
“Kill your husband’s lover!” Merrick charged.
“No, to get some data for the seminar,” Fiona said evenly. “My J.R. was supposed to quantify it and fax me the results, but he had trouble running the program, so I left the workshop early, drove to Westwood, and ran it myself, then drove back. End of story.”
Merrick grimaced, then mulled it over. “Your J.R. will back you on this?”
“Yes. So will the department’s computer tech.”
“Why the hell didn’t you say this before?”
“Because I was frightened. As you said, I do have a powerful motive.” Fiona paused and fired a withering look at her husband. “But I’m innocent—and I felt as if my reputation and career, even my life, were being threatened. We’ve all heard the horror stories of people wrongly accused. What would you have done?”
Merrick studied her, aware that she had maintained her composure and engaged his eyes throughout. “Probably lied through my teeth.”
“Well,” Schaefer intoned a little too cheerily. “It sounds like
your prime suspect is in the clear.”
“Not yet,” Merrick retorted, eyeing Fiona’s beeper, which looked a lot like Marge Graham’s. “Not till my people run down a certain cap code for me.”
Schaefer looked puzzled. “Cap code?”
“High-tech evidence,” Merrick replied, purposely intensifying the mystique. “Like a fingerprint on a murder weapon—only better. In the meantime, there’s another theory I’ve been toying with. Thought I’d run it past you.” He turned to Fiona and said, “Weren’t you in an important meeting, or something?”
Fiona got the message, forced a smile, and left.
Schaefer peered haughtily over his oval lenses. “I don’t have time to toy with theories, Lieutenant.”
“What if I said, I’m thinking—maybe your girl Lilah’s been sending these things to herself?”
Schaefer looked astonished. “To herself? Why?”
“That’s my problem. Most arsonists are introverted, impotent men with the IQ of a fire hydrant.”
“Not exactly Lilah’s profile,” Schaefer said with a thin smile. “What makes you suspect her?”
“A little lie here, a little coincidence there, and some really off-the-wall stuff when she showed up at my apartment this morning.”
“Off-the-wall stuff?” Schaefer intoned, taking exception to the slang. “Are you saying Lilah’s behavior was inappropriate, or that it was—”
“Let’s cut to the chase,” Merrick interrupted. “She said you wanted her to see a shrink. Why?”
Schaefer frowned with disdain. “I have no intention of sharing my observations with you, Lieutenant.”
“Why not? Patient confidentiality isn’t an issue. It’s either her or some nut who’s trying to kill her. I have to know what you know.”
Schaefer steepled his fingers, then sighed in concession. “First off, it probably won’t surprise you to learn that Lilah . . . tends to be . . . promiscuous.”
Merrick nodded impatiently. “Keep talking.”
“We often see this in people who mistake sex for love and have problems with trust and meaningful relationships. In addition, Lilah is a risk taker, prone to impulsive extravagance and sudden mood swings, and can have difficulty modulating her anger.”
“Okay, assuming she’s your patient, what are you thinking? What’s driving her?”
Schaefer shifted-uncomfortably. “We’re getting awfully close to crossing ethical boundaries here. I could end up before the state medical board.”
Merrick’s eyes flashed with anger. “You’ll end up before a grand jury if some nut kills her.”
Schaefer shuddered, then sighed resignedly. “Taken to the extreme, these traits are often seen in adults who were . . . were sexually abused as children.”
Merrick winced and stared at him.
“That’s why I suggested she seek help,” Schaefer went on. “Though I never told her that.” His eyes drifted to the mirror, which came alive with stirring images of Lilah: her head thrown back in ecstasy, flaming mane snapping wildly, passion-racked torso arched atop him—an idiosyncrasy to which he’d eagerly submitted and, now, attributed to psychosexual claustrophobia. “Of course, they don’t prove Lilah was an abused child.”
“If she was . . . ”Merrick prompted softly. “Who?”
“Someone in a position of trust or authority—more than ninety percent of the time it’s a parent. Incest is the most common and devastating form.”
“Her folks seem decent enough. . . .”
“They always do.”
Merrick nodded, then, testing him, casually added, “They’ve sure had their share of tragedy.”
“Her father isn’t dead yet, Lieutenant.”
“Her sister is,” Merrick fired back.
Schaefer looked genuinely shocked. “Lilah had a sister?”
“Died from leukemia. She never mentioned her?”
“Never.”
“An identical twin.”
Schaefer’s eyes widened, then drifted to the mirror, which had taken on new meaning for him. “How old were they when her sister died?”
“Seven.”
“Oh, that’s a very powerful dynamic,” Schaefer said authoritatively. “At that age she could easily assume her sister was being abused too, and conclude her death was punishment for telling. Pedophiles often make such threats. If so, the trauma could have forever blocked it from her mind.”
“Sounds like you’re talking about repressed memory,” Merrick concluded. “Very controversial stuff, no?”
“Very,” Schaefer replied, taking a book from a shelf.
“The Myth of Repressed Memory, Dr. Elizabeth Loftus: ‘There is no cogent evidence that memories can be deeply repressed and then reliably recovered.”’ He closed it and fetched a binder of scientific articles. “Dr. Paul McHugh: ‘Severe traumas are not blocked out by children but are remembered all too well.’ On the other hand, my colleague Dick Metzner says: ‘Memories of sexual abuse are . . . usually locked into secrecy by unspeakably frightening threats from the abuser.’ And Dr. Judith Alpert: ‘The sexual abuse of a child can be so painful . . . It’s as if it happened to someone else. That memory can be locked away for decades.’”
“But how could she function? Perfect scores on the SATs, all those degrees, the research she’s into . . .”
“You’d be amazed at how well the human psyche can compartmentalize. You remember Marilyn Van Derbur?”
“Rings a bell. Beauty queen, no?”
“A Phi Beta Kappa beauty queen,” Schaefer corrected. “Not to mention Miss America, talented pianist, public speaker, and daughter of a prominent doctor. She was in her late twenties before she recalled being violated by her father from age five to eighteen.”
Merrick shuddered visibly.
“Oddly enough,” Schaefer went on, “her sister, whom he also abused, didn’t repress any of it.”
“Okay, for the sake of argument, if Lilah’s father abused her—I mean, she swears he was the guy in Father Knows Best—why not send the incendiaries to him?”
“Because she’d have to accept the ugly truth and admit that he was her abuser.”
Merrick was still puzzled. “So she sends them to herself instead?”
“Well, these children usually hate themselves for allowing it to happen. It may be symptomatic of that, or a way to get attention—your attention.”
“You mean to get caught.”
“Exactly. To finally get the ugly secret out.” Schaefer smiled at a thought. “It’s been boxed up all these years, and finally exploded.”
Merrick nodded in tribute, then shrugged. “I don’t know. I gave her the chance to spill her guts—turned the screws really hard—and she blew it. She’s either the best liar I’ve ever seen, or there is a pyro out there trying to kill her.”
Schaefer mused for a long moment. “There is a third possibility,” he said enigmatically.
Merrick arched a brow.
“Still speculating—it’s possible we’re dealing with what we call dissociative identity disorder.”
“Which is what?”
“A split personality. D.I.D. could explain not only why she doesn’t remember the abuse, but also why she’s sending fire bombs to herself.”
“Then if it is Lilah, the one I’m dealing with really believes someone’s out to get her.”
“I’d have no doubt of it. Abused children often create this other person who deserves the abuse. Miss Van Derbur said she coped by splitting herself into a high-achieving day child and a terrified night child.”
“So, this other person sort of hangs out, and then kicks in when ‘Lilah’ feels threatened?”
“Precisely. For example, assuming promiscuity is her way of keeping her abuser at bay, when she’s without a man, the other personality would take action to keep him from reentering her life.”
“That lets her father off the hook,” Merrick said relieved. “Poor guy can barely get out of his chair.”
“Yes, but we’r
e not talking about rational fear. This would have been buried in Lilah’s subconscious for decades.”
“Try the cemetery. The one where her sister’s buried was used as the return address on the fire bombs.”
Schaefer looked stunned “It was? That gives this theory impressive weight.” His eyes suddenly darkened with a thought. “Her father was a fireman, wasn’t he?”
Merrick nodded grimly. “I think I know where you’re headed: She felt safe when he was on the job; but when he was home—violating her—she’d have fantasies about starting fires.”
“Very good, Lieutenant. And this desire to be in two places at once could have split her personality.”
Merrick nodded pensively. “Why now? Why not ten years ago? Or twenty? Or next year or the year after?”
“Because her father is dying now,” Schaefer explained.
“The pressure on Lilah to deal with her demons while he’s still alive would be enormous.”
Merrick’s brows arched with understanding. He plucked a cigarette from the pack with his lips and left it unlit. Schaefer smoothed his mustache and stared into the galaxy of halogens overhead. They were both digesting their theory when a cellphone twittered.
Schaefer went for his attaché.
Merrick went for his belt. “Dan Merrick,” he growled, brightening at the caller’s voice. “Hey, Tattoo, what’s doing?” His jaw slackened in astonishment at the reply. “What? No, no way . . . Yeah, yeah . . . Son of a bitch . . . Uh-huh, uh-huh . . . Yeah, thanks, I owe you one.” He clicked off and stared at Schaefer, awestruck. “We were wrong.”
“It’s not Lilah?”
“Neither of them. It’s her mother.”
“Her mother?” Schaefer echoed incredulously.
Merrick nodded. “The pagers that were used as detonators are registered to Margaret Graham, her address, her zip code, her phone number.”