by CJ Lyons
Leah gave him a small nod and stood. “Let me help.”
Risa nodded. “Thank you, yes. Jack, Leah is a medical doctor. This way you can get to the office. If you’re okay to stay a few minutes, Leah?”
Jack frowned. “No. I can—”
Risa patted his arm. “I’ll be fine. Imagine. A doctor who still makes house calls.” Her tone sounded strong, despite the fact that her entire body was shaking with chills. Jack frowned and half-carried her into the bedroom, Leah following.
Luka stood alone in the suddenly empty living room. How had such a simple case become so complicated, so quickly? He only hoped Leah remembered that Risa was a witness, not a patient.
He made his way to the door, but stopped to glance back. It wasn’t Leah’s fault that she was a healer first. Although it was damned inconvenient. Because he had a niggling feeling that there was more going on here than a simple accidental death.
Nine
After Luka left, Leah watched as Jack helped Risa into her bed. Despite his handsome looks and engaging manner, there definitely was a mother-hen side to him, she noted with bemused appreciation. Ian was like that on the rare occasions when she or Emily were sick, donning a metaphorical apron, taking pleasure in cooking their favorite comfort foods, tucking them into bed, wrapping them in quilts and robes and his love.
She smiled as Jack used a remote to adjust the bed just so, elevating both Risa’s head and feet, arranging her pillows, bringing her a glass of an electrolyte solution, and then making certain her walker, phone and medications were close to hand. All the while hovering between Risa and Leah protectively, as if uncertain if he trusted Leah.
“Jack, you’re being silly,” Risa protested. She pulled him down for a quick kiss. “Seriously, I’ll be fine. Go to work.”
He sat on the edge of her bed, caressing her hand—especially her empty ring finger. Leah turned away, edging toward the door, but Risa called her back. “No. Please, stay. I’d like your help if you have the time.”
Leah nodded and pretended to study the framed photos lining the top of the bureau: Risa and Jack covered in mud at an oil field as rain poured around them; rafting the New River, both raising their oars triumphantly; a portrait of Jack stoking a campfire, the flames casting his face in relief, his expression contemplative. Caught in a moment of stillness, he looked a little older.
“We’re in this together,” she heard him whisper to Risa. “I’m not giving up. Not on you, not on us.”
“Neither am I. Which is why you need to go, so I can talk with Dr. Wright.”
Leah turned at the sound of her name. Jack’s shoulders slumped but he nodded, gave Risa one last kiss, then rose. He gestured for Leah to follow him out to the living room, now empty since Luka had left. “I hadn’t realized Risa found another doctor. I’m not sure who you are or how long you’ll be around, but her medication schedule and medical records are on here.” He handed her a thumb drive. “Please don’t interfere with anything until you’ve read them all. Risa likes to be involved in her medical decision-making—”
“Of course, but—” Leah protested, trying to insert a quick explanation as to why she was actually there, but Jack didn’t give her a chance.
“We usually discuss any new treatments together. But,” his voice lowered as his gaze targeted the bedroom door, “if you really think you can help her—I mean, just please, don’t give her any false hope. She’s been through so much.” He nodded to the thumb drive in Leah’s hands. “Read it. You’ll see.”
One last longing glance toward the bedroom and he left. At the sound of the door closing, Risa called out, “Lock it, please.”
Leah went through the living room and down the short hallway to the front door. Risa had an assortment of locks, from old-fashioned deadbolts to a large, heavy gauge steel brace that swung down from the doorknob and inserted into a cradle bolted into the wood floor. It was very different from her neighbors the Orlys. Leah had noticed that they only had a single, ancient deadbolt. What was Risa so afraid of? Leah secured all the locks, then returned to the living room to find Risa slowly making her way out of the bedroom with the help of her walker.
“I thought you needed to lie down—”
“I’m fine.” Risa collapsed into her chair, shoving the walker aside. “Sometimes it’s easier for Jack to leave if he thinks I’m resting.” She frowned at her own words. “He’s just… overprotective. It’s hard to constantly fight both my illness and him when all I want to do is live my life. Does that make any sense?”
Leah knew all too well what Risa meant—since Ian’s death, she’d faced similar attitudes. Family, friends, and strangers all seemed to want her to fit their image of a grieving widow—and yet they also simultaneously wanted her to act “normal” again, get on with her life.
“Why all the locks? Aren’t they a fire hazard? Take so long to open, especially—” Leah nodded at the walker.
“It’s not fire I’m worried about.”
“What are you worried about?”
Risa opened her mouth, then closed it. She nodded to the thumb drive Leah still held. “Jack gave you my medical records.”
“He thought I was here for a medical consultation.” Leah tried to hand the thumb drive back to Risa.
Risa waved a hand in dismissal, too busy pulling her computer desk into position. “Keep it. If you’re interested, you have my permission to review anything on there. Jack makes a dozen copies anytime we start a new protocol. That way we’re ready for the next round of consults once it fails.” She opened her laptop, her forehead creasing. “And they all fail.”
Leah hesitated, searching for words to clarify her position. “I can’t really give you medical advice, Risa. Not while I’m here to interview you for the police.” She set the thumb drive on the computer stand and stepped away.
“So I’m one of your ‘fragile’ witnesses?” Risa chuckled. “You’ve got it backwards. I didn’t ask you here for a medical opinion, although I’d respect an objective evaluation, of course. But I’ve been to Johns Hopkins, NYU, Columbia and Cornell, plus the NIH, their division of rare diseases. Seen all the biggest names. Infectious disease guys thought it was a parasite or something I picked up while traveling. Immunology and rheumatology thought the same but that the reason there was no sign of infection was because it wasn’t the bug or parasite or virus causing my symptoms, but my immune response to it. Neurology thought a toxic exposure, probably from my time doing that article on the burn pits our military used in Iraq and Afghanistan—”
“I read that. The story with the picture of them burning an entire airplane rather than leaving it behind.”
“Yeah. And they’re right, inhaling all those toxic fumes—I mean you wouldn’t believe the stuff they burned, right next to troops’ barracks. It’s probably part of why we’re seeing so many chronically ill returning veterans. But I wasn’t there long enough for a significant exposure. And so they send me to someone else and then someone else and now…” She shook her head. Her tone turned bitter. “Now, there’s no one left. Functional disease. What do you doctors call it? A diagnosis of exclusion? But they made it very clear what they really thought. That it’s all in my head.”
“You know functional neurologic disease isn’t a psychiatric diagnosis, right?” Leah rushed to console her. “It simply means that the way your body functions is causing symptoms not in direct response to any underlying cause that current medicine can determine.”
Risa gave her a resigned shrug. “Review my case. If you want to throw out any ideas, I’m all ears.” She went silent for a moment, staring again toward the front door with its ponderous weight of locks. “But I wanted to talk to you because you’re working for the police.”
“Was there something you didn’t feel comfortable saying in front of Detective Jericho?” Leah slid her phone out, ready to record. “Maybe you could walk me through what happened this morning?”
Risa’s gaze remained distant, then she gave a little
shake and turned to face Leah. “Of course. Let’s get that out of the way.” She tucked her feet under her, curled up in the chair. “If I’d only heard Trudy’s call—I could have gone over, watched Walt.”
“Trudy obviously wasn’t expecting him to wake up before she left, much less…” Leah trailed off. It wasn’t up to her to speculate about Walt’s possible actions. They had no facts, not until the autopsy results came in. Maybe not even then.
Risa kept shaking her head, small uncertain shakes, trying to deny the obvious. “He loved her so much. I mean, every time they left the apartment, they’d hold hands. Jack would watch them and say, ‘That’s us in thirty years.’ But over the past year Walt’s symptoms grew worse. And he stopped leaving the apartment. It was so heartbreaking, seeing Trudy leave the apartment alone.” She reached for her computer, scrolled through it. “Here, see for yourself.”
A black and white image filled the screen. Walt, his back turned to prevent the elevator doors closing, holding Trudy’s hand as she joined him. Both staring at each other, Trudy with a shy smile at Walt, and Walt’s face filled with a grin that creased his eyes as if they shared a silent joke known only to each other.
Then she brought up a new photo. Trudy entering the elevator. Alone. Her shoulders hunched, her gaze directed back behind her as if longing for something no longer there. She physically occupied the exact same space as in the previous photo, only the time stamp had changed. Time lost, Leah thought, her mind filling with thoughts of Ian, of the myriad moments never recorded and now at risk of being forever forgotten. She looked away, blinking hard.
“I thought you were mainly a reporter,” she said after clearing her throat and refocusing.
“When I’m on assignment, I work with professional photographers—they get much, much better shots than my amateur attempts. But I learned a lot from them over the years and I discovered a taste for shooting people. Just candid cell phone shots, but since I’ve grown more and more isolated—I barely ever leave the apartment anymore—it’s my last connection to the real world. A reminder that it’s still out there, waiting for me to explore.”
“They’re very good.”
Risa blushed. “Thanks. I’ve never shown them to anyone except Jack—he sent them to my agent, Dominic Massimo. Dom wants me to use them in my book. If I can ever get the damn thing finished.”
“Did you take any pictures this morning?” It felt like an awkward segue, but Leah knew the questions Luka would ask.
“No. When I heard Walt, I rushed out and forgot my phone.”
“What happened?”
“I’m not even sure how he got out of the apartment, but he was at the railing, shrieking at Trudy. Telling her to get up, come back. I got him into his apartment and had him almost calmed down when the cops showed up, asking him all sorts of questions he didn’t understand. I tried to explain that they were making things worse, but Walt got agitated and one of them pulled out his Taser, so I stepped between them and the other guy laid hands on me… and Walt, he just lost it. Screaming, knocking stuff over. I would have been able to calm him back down, but it was too late, the cops were already calling for backup.” She hung her head. “I feel so bad for Walt. Seeing Trudy like that… They’re not going to charge him, are they? For resisting arrest? He was just trying to defend me, he wasn’t trying to hurt the cops.”
“Did you see or hear anything else?”
“No. Like I said, I was asleep when it… happened. Only woke when Walt began shouting.”
Leah turned off the recorder. If Luka needed more, he could always come back, ask for himself. During their conversation she’d noted Risa’s tremors returning, her posture collapsing with fatigue. “It’s not writer’s block keeping you from finishing your book, is it?”
“No.” Risa took a sip from her long-cold tea mug, used it to swallow a pill from a small box on the table between them. She leaned back, closed her eyes for a long moment, as if savoring the effects of the medication. Professional curiosity had Leah wondering what she’d taken that could have such a quick impact, but the pills weren’t labeled.
“Is it because you’re sick?”
Risa opened her eyes and sat up straight once again. “It’s more than my physical condition distracting me from the book.” She nudged the computer toward Leah. “It’s this. This is what I wanted your help with. The first email came last spring, a few months after I moved here from New York. I thought it was a joke. But then… Well, read it for yourself.”
Her curiosity piqued, Leah settled into the chair beside Risa and began scrolling through the letter displayed.
Dear Obituary Reader,
First time caller, longtime fan.
You’ll ask me why. Why I’ve chosen my victims. Why I chose you. Why?
It’s the least important question, but I understand your need to know. An attempt to feel in control, as if by understanding you regain some slim illusion of power. But why is of no consequence. Because I am Chaos.
Why do I do it? Because I can. I’ve the intelligence, the raw cunning, the courage and the willpower others lack. Why shouldn’t I celebrate my superior gifts? The ones I take are all easily replaced, sheep oblivious to their small lives, their lack of destiny. My choosing them, elevating their lives if only in death, it’s the one thing that makes them less than ordinary.
Although to be honest, I don’t actually choose them at all. That’s my secret to success. I embrace Chaos, allowing chance to guide my destiny. Everything I do is random. Where, when, how, and yes, even who.
I’m the important one in this equation, not my victims. If I want to play the game, I had to be smart, find a way to never be caught. Because a mind like mine, trapped in a cage, surrounded by imbeciles and thugs? Can you imagine anything more tragic? Almost as wasteful as a talent like yours trapped by your own body, relegated to meaningless busywork instead of exploring the world’s secrets.
No, to play the game, I must have no connection to those I touch, including you.
There is no why. No motivation beyond my own enjoyment. No signature or modus operandi, no victim profile. I am a cipher, random and unique, able to strike anywhere at any time, driven by chance alone.
No rhyme or reason. Only my unrelenting need for more, more, more…
Leah looked up in alarm. Victims? Was Risa’s letter writer claiming to be a serial killer? This had to be a hoax. “Risa. This reads like a confession. Have you told the police?”
“Yes. But there’s no proof of any crime, nothing for the police to go on. They said there’s nothing they can do.” Her tone turned bitter. “Other than to laugh me off the phone.”
If the other letters were as vague as this, Leah wasn’t surprised that the police dismissed them. After all, a well-known journalist like Risa had to attract fans who wanted her to tell their story.
Risa continued, “I read about your husband in the paper, what happened, how he was killed. So when you showed up at my door, as if…” She paused. “Anyway, I thought if anyone might understand, might give me an objective opinion, it would be you. Keep reading, then we can talk.”
Leah’s heart pounded, the memory of entering her darkened house last month overwhelming her. Frantically searching for Ian and Emily, dreading what she knew she’d find; that primal instinct screaming for her to stop, to run… but like last month, Leah ignored it now as well. She couldn’t have stopped if she’d wanted to.
She kept reading…
But why you?
Why choose you as my confessor, my chronicler, my cohort in Chaos… my silent partner?
Perhaps you were selected by a throw of a dart or toss of the dice. Maybe it was less than random. A glimpse of that bemused smile beaming out from the headshot beside your byline. The intelligence obvious behind your insightful interviews. A regard for the courage—almost as reckless as my own?—that drove you to explore the dark heart of humanity.
I hope I haven’t scared you away with my frank admiration. No. Of course no
t. You’re intrigued, compelled to follow the breadcrumbs I’ve dropped for you, determined to find the truth. No illness could conquer that relentless curiosity that once compelled you to risk life and limb for a story.
I’d read some of your work—honestly, I thought your piece on the Kurdish women snipers was much better than that series on the Thai child prostitutes that they gave you the Pulitzer for—so I was surprised when someone shared a link to a fundraiser page set up by your boyfriend.
I was certain it was a scam. I mean, he was just so damn needy. And the whole thing seemed beneath you, asking strangers to help you raise money for doctors and tests. I was angry—on your behalf—and determined to out him as a fake.
Then I found his videos of you, withered away to nothing, that tube down your nose to feed you, and the doctors with no idea what was wrong. And I kept looking, saw that you hadn’t been published in almost two years, that you were freelancing, even writing obituaries, of all things.
And I couldn’t help but think what a waste that was. A journalist of your caliber being forced to beg for scraps.
I can’t help with the medical stuff but I can help ease the boredom, exercise your mind. So here I am, offering what might be the greatest adventure you’ve ever undertaken—a journey into the heart of a killer.
Or maybe everything I’ve said is a lie—that’s what you’re thinking.
But what if it’s not?
What if I’ve told you the truth? What if you have been chosen for something more, the most important story of your life?
Would you choose to join me, experience the vicarious thrills that only someone like me can offer? Or will you settle for your current mundane, homebound, monotonous existence, your talents wasted?
No need to tell me your answer. I already know it. And I’ll prove it with my first offering.
You’ll know it when you see it.