She sips her coffee. “What do you want to know?”
I shift in my chair and stop fiddling with the clasp on my watch by taking out my notebook. “I’m most interested in whether or not there’s a way to know if he’s telling the truth,” I reply. “Especially about his wife and Heather Martin, the lawyer.”
She gives me a slow nod. “Heather Martin, the woman who died. Well,” she begins, “that’s a loaded question. The truth question, I mean. We could sit here all day and talk about what truth is, not to mention the little problem of memory and what happens when it’s mediated by language.”
I chuckle. “Right, I know. I get that, and I’d discuss all those things with you if I wasn’t chin deep in a murder investigation that’s losing steam by the minute.” I guess I said that out loud. “What I’m trying to figure out is if we—okay, you, since you’re the literary guru—can tell what’s true or not in the book, you know, by reading it and finding patterns or whatever, or if there are ways we—okay, I, since I’m the cop—might ask the right questions when I talk to him again.” The cop and the literary guru. What an unlikely scenario this is.
“There are a few ways into it,” she replies. “Honestly, he’s been really consistent with the story—you’ve seen his talk show appearances?”
I nod. “A couple.”
“He’s been so consistent that it’s hard to poke holes in the narrative. Do you think he had something to do with Heather Martin’s murder?”
“What about the weird way he describes what happened to her?” I ask, ignoring her question. I lean forward. “I mean—and forgive me, because I’m not exactly a scholar—he puts himself there, right? In the scene in that basement. He describes her murder like he was there, in more detail than he uses in the rest of the book.”
She leans forward and raises an eyebrow.
“And then the whole thing about Martin and her misconduct or whatever he called it. He basically blamed her for never prosecuting anyone, even though—off the record—the case was cold almost right from the beginning.” I watch her purse her lips. “I mean, why go into such detail? Is it some sort of therapy thing, you know, ‘writing through what hurts’?”
She sits back, nods, and gives me a knowing smile that unnerves me. “That raises a big question I’m asking as I write the article,” she replies. “I asked him the same thing, but he wouldn’t answer. He also wouldn’t tell me why he didn’t see the police reports when she was killed and what it would mean if he had. It would throw half the book under scrutiny, expose it as a bunch of lies, maybe a hoax. There’s a lot going on in that book.” She gauges my reaction. “And if he lied, we have to wonder why. I’m also interested in how thoroughly he describes what might have happened leading up to the beating, and whether it echoes what really happened to his wife. And whether she and Heather Martin were as close as he seems to think they were. You think he killed her, don’t you? Even though that other guy was indicted?”
“Close how?” I ask. “Is this coming from the interview? There wasn’t a whole lot in the book about their relationship.”
She nods. “He didn’t want to talk much about it,” she says. “He seemed really uncomfortable. There’s definitely something there that he’s hiding.”
“Everybody’s hiding something,” I reply without thinking.
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” She sips her coffee. “Would he have had access to those reports? Either as he was writing the book or, more interestingly, back when it happened?”
“Of course,” I reply. “Don’t quote me on this, okay? I can’t be named in your article.”
She nods. “No one will read it, anyway, but you have my word.”
“Knowing Mattioli’s reputation, I’d bet he was in on the investigation, even if he claims he wasn’t. Reports are public record. You just have to know where to look. And he would have known where to look. So why he’s hiding his knowledge becomes significant. Makes me wonder what else he’s hiding, especially with regard to Heather Martin.”
She narrows her eyes. “So you are investigating him.”
“Not officially.”
“I’ll tell you this much. He creeped me out.” She leans over to the bookshelf and pulls (Un)Solved off the shelf.
“Creeped you out how?”
She shudders. “It’s hard to explain. He was adamant that we meet here. This was months ago, when the publisher sent me the advance copy and asked me to review the book. Right before I took the job here, so... February?”
I catch myself watching the way her mouth moves when she talks.
“Something just seemed off about him. Like he was there in the room, but he wasn’t really. He kept staring right through me. Does that make sense?”
I nod. Suspects do that all the time. Especially the psychopaths.
“He said a couple of fucked-up things too. He struck me as a racist homophobe.” She laughs. “Then again, a lot of people strike me that way these days.” She opens the book. “I’m thinking about the weird voice shift in chapter twelve,” she says. “Listen.” She reads a passage that I remember about what happened when Mattioli got home and found his wife’s body in the basement. “Hear all those adverbs?”
I make a face.
“Please don’t think this is about grammar. That’s not what I do. It’s significant, at least as it relates to how readers process it.”
I ask her what she means, and she says that, one, she’s surprised his editor didn’t make him take them out—something about the adverb paving the road to hell. Whatever, okay. Two, she tells me that if we read that section out loud, “the voice doesn’t match the rest.” She flips back to an earlier chapter and reads a passage about Mattioli watching his first autopsy.
His response to that postmortem, at least as he’s written it, is still strange to me too—I don’t know anyone who wasn’t shaken to the core by watching a Stryker saw do its work the first time. He almost sounds like he enjoyed it.
Then she moves back to what Mattioli claims happened to Anna and reads a couple more paragraphs. “See how it sounds different? He just sounds different there,” she says, closing the book. “More excited here, more distant there. It’s totally inconsistent. He sounds weird, too, whenever he’s talking about his partner. Raymond Gibson.”
“Uh-huh,” I reply, making some notes in my notebook. “Did you ask him about any of this when you interviewed him?”
“Yeah, but that’s what I mean. It was like he didn’t hear any of my questions. He just wanted to talk all about how he wrote the book on yellow legal pads then paid his son to type it out for him. I’m not sure what any of it means yet.”
“Yeah, me neither,” I reply. It probably doesn’t mean anything, but I’ll have to ask him if and when I can. This might be a phenomenal waste of time, and I’m supposed to be working on a cold case, not drinking coffee with professors.
“Thanks for your take on this,” I say as I stand to leave. “Let me know if you think of anything else.”
She smiles and stands, too, then her leg buckles, and she stumbles forward into me. When I catch her, she looks away. The blush is back too. She pushes off me and leans against the edge of her desk.
“Sorry,” she says. “Sitting for a long time messes my leg up.”
I’m not sure what to say. Act interested if you are, Dr. Shue would say. “It’s okay.” I slide my notebook back into my jacket pocket. “How is it teaching? Do you stand the whole time?”
She looks surprised. “I typically lean on the desk, like this,” she says. “But I’m pretty animated in the classroom. I hobble around, wave my cane.” She grins. “I do okay.”
“How do you like Cleveland so far?” I ask. “You came from, where, California?”
“I came from Pittsburgh,” she replies, “with a detour through Eugene, Oregon, and then Sacramento.” No Pittsburgh accent. I wonder if she ever had one.
“Please tell me you’re not a Steelers fan,” I say.
She laug
hs and shakes her head. “No, the NFL is misogynistic, theatrical bullshit. I only watch college football,” she replies. “I was brainwashed at Oregon. Go Ducks.” She pumps her fist in a half-assed way, and it makes me laugh.
“You have a great laugh,” she says. “Cleveland is fine. I haven’t met many people outside my department yet, but the ones I have met seem good so far.” She flicks an eyebrow at me. “I’ve been going to Pittsburgh every other weekend or so, anyway.”
I don’t ask why. She probably has a lover there or something. A woman like this—smart, gorgeous, seemingly put-together—can’t be single.
“I still have family there,” she adds. “My dad’s a cop. He thinks I walk on water because I got a PhD.” She laughs at whatever mental image she has. “Do you have family here?”
“Yeah, my mom and brother live here,” I reply.
She nods, and we stand together in silence until I decide it’s time to go.
“I appreciate your time,” I say. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do. You know, to help with your article.” Stop talking, Liz. Get out of here. Get back to work.
“Well, I’d be interested in your take on those reports,” she says. “And maybe you could find out for sure whether or not he saw them. He’d have to sign them out, right? If he wasn’t investigating?”
“Not really,” I reply. “Like I said, they’re public record. And all of the unsolved homicides are digitized these days. He probably still knows people too. There’s no way to know.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I wish to hell Fishner had never learned how to text. She wants to know where I am, what I’m doing, and when I’ll be back. I grimace at it then put it back where it was.
“Would you be interested in continuing this conversation?” Gillian asks as I turn to leave. She clears her throat. “Maybe over drinks or dinner?” She meets my eyes and doesn’t look away.
“Sure,” I say, ignoring the little jump in my stomach.
“Want to give me your direct number? I’ll call you.” She limps around the desk and pulls her phone out of a brown leather messenger bag. She looks at me like she already knows the answer is yes.
I give her my number. “I’ll send you a message now so that you have mine,” she says. She types something then grins at me. “I have to get to class. Today, we’re talking about the authenticity of sexuality in a handful of LGBTQ memoirs.” She still doesn’t look away.
Did Gillian Swift just ask me on a date? “Sounds interesting,” I reply. I keep my face cop-blank, but I’m not sure why. Gillian and I walk along the hallway together, and I head down the stairs as she enters her classroom.
I don’t look at my phone until I’m in the car. I have a message from Gillian that says: You intrigue me. Drinks soon?
Drinks soon, I reply. I don’t tell her that she intrigues me too.
I check my watch. It’s almost time for my appointment with Dr. Shue.
As I’m starting the car, I get a message from Fishner: Grimes was here looking for you with a guy named Householder. We arrested both of them. IAU wants to talk to you first thing in the morning. Call me ASAP.
I call her back.
“Boyle, this is not good. What are you doing? Get here now. Talk to Internal Affairs now. This is not good.”
“Whoa, whoa. What’s happening?”
“Grimes just showed up looking for you. He was violent and unhinged. He smashed a bunch of things on your desk and one of my office windows before Roberts could restrain him.”
“What? Are you serious?”
“I’m absolutely serious.” Her voice sounds weird.
“Is everyone okay?”
“Everyone is fine. But I need you to... Never mind. You can talk to them tomorrow.”
“Boss, what’s going on? You don’t sound like you.” I start the car.
I hear her sniffle as though she’s crying. “It’s fine, Boyle. Go do your thing.”
“Are you sure? What happened, exactly?” I put the phone on Speaker and pull away from Guilford House. The clock on the dashboard tells me I have a little bit of time. “Look, I’m on my way back. Will you be there?”
“I’ll be here.”
We end the call, and I hightail it to the Justice Center.
MAINTENANCE IS BOARDING up one of Fishner’s windows when I enter the squad room. I glance at my desk and find that everything that was on it is on the floor. Roberts and Sims are at their desks, looking worried.
“Go talk to her,” Roberts says in a low voice. “She’s freaking out. She won’t let us leave, but we were supposed to sign out an hour ago.”
“Just go,” I reply. “I’ll cover you with her.” I gently knock on Fishner’s office door.
She doesn’t answer, so I enter to find her slumped over her desk. I rush over to her to make sure she’s okay, but she pushes me away.
“Jesus Christ, Boyle,” she says through tears.
“Are you all right? What’s going on?”
She scrubs her face with a hand then stands. “Grimes and some uniform named Householder came in here today looking for you. I’m not going to ask where you were. When Roberts said he hadn’t seen you, they went ballistic. Grimes put a chair through my window. Roberts finally restrained him, but—” She starts to cry again.
“Sit down. Just sit,” I say in my witness voice. This is so weird that I don’t even know how to behave. I guide her into her chair and lean against her desk. “What’s really going on, Boss?”
“This whole thing is a mess.” She blinks several times then starts laughing. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I’m losing it like this in front of you.”
I give her a warm smile. “Hey, it’s okay. How many times have you seen me lose my shit? Call it karma.”
She laughs. “Seriously, though. He was after you. He came here to kill you. It’s a wonder he didn’t kill someone else. Thank God Goran is on vacation. Thank God Roberts and Sims were down the hall.”
“And Grimes and Householder are both in custody now, right?”
She nods.
“Then there’s nothing to worry about. I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re all okay. We’ll put them all away, boss. Don’t worry.” I resist the urge to pat her shoulder, because it would be as strange as my current level of calm.
“I know. Okay.” She pulls it together and stands. “Thanks.”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“What do you mean?”
“I think you know what I mean.”
She shakes her head. “Be careful, Boyle. This is deep and sinister. You’re dodging bullets. Just be careful. Forget everything I said before. Just drop it. Get back to that case I gave you earlier... Just forget it.”
I narrow my eyes.
“Detective Boyle, that is an order. Your shift is over. Go home. Be back here tomorrow, ready to talk to IAU. We need to get control of this. Of all of it—these guys who think they’re above the law. IAU needs to know what you’ve uncovered.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Boss, with all due respect, it’s either that I’m dropping it or that I’m talking to IAU but not both. Which do you prefer?”
She sighs. “At this point, I don’t really care. Let me know what you decide, and we’ll figure it out in the morning. Go home. I’m going home. Everyone can go home and relax and leave all of this here.”
I nod.
“What are you waiting for?” she snaps, suddenly angry. “Go. Now.”
She doesn’t stop me from leaving.
WHEN I GET TO DR. SHUE’S office, I can’t decide where to start. I’m freaked out that I was the collected one back there and that Fishner seems so close to coming completely unhinged—it’s like some sort of weird role-reversal thing. I’m not nearly as freaked out as I should be by the whole thing, but I didn’t witness a couple of cops trashing our squad room.
Shue leads me into her office and gestures for me to have a seat in my normal spot, so I flounce down and lean forward, my elbows on my knees
. “I have had a really strange fucking week.” I blow out a sharp breath then chuckle in spite of myself.
She slowly lowers herself into her chair then crosses one knee over the other. She looks at me through her chic rimless glasses, and something is off in her warm brown eyes.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
She nods. “My back has been bothering me.” I must be making a face, because she smiles softly. “Please don’t worry. It’s nice that you’d worry, but I’ll be fine.”
“I don’t believe you, but I’ll let it go.”
Something tells me I’m right not to believe her, but she grins. “Tell me about your strange week.”
I fill her in, and she asks the right questions, and I answer them in ways that seem to make both of us happy.
“I think I’m getting better,” I say after we discuss the investigation and what happened today in the squad. “I really think all of this”—I gesture around the room—“has helped. I’m sleeping. I’m eating. I’m taking time for myself. Cora dumped me, but we all saw that coming, so life goes on. I think it’s all gonna be okay, assuming that I don’t get killed by some asshole cop with a vengeance.”
She smiles. “I’m really happy for you, Liz.”
I grin. “So I’m all good now?”
She shakes her head. “I still think you would benefit from additional sessions. But this might be a good time for me to tell you that I’ll be out of the office for a while after next week. I have a colleague who—”
“No, I won’t talk to anyone else.” I blurt it out before I can stop myself, but then I realize that it isn’t very nice. I shake my head. “I mean, I just don’t want to talk to anyone else. It’s okay—I’ll just wait until you get back. You’re who I trust. How long will you be out? Are you sure you’re all right?”
She furrows her brow and removes her glasses, which I’ve never seen her do in the two years I’ve been coming here. Something changes in the air between us, and I sit forward on my chair.
“It’s inappropriate for me to divulge details about my personal life.” She puts her glasses back on and adjusts her hips in her chair. She winces but tries to conceal it.
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