“May I ask where you got that information?”
“Why, from Dr. Klein. She approached me and asked if I could help find a lawyer for her friend. She said she was helping with the investigation. Dr. Klein thinks your suspect is innocent. Do you think he did it?”
Peirce bit his lip and tried to ignore the question. He noted the reference to Dr. Klein’s involvement in the investigation and returned to his original line of questioning.
“Were you aware of anyone with whom Ms. Ackerman may have had difficulty, anyone who may have wanted to harm her?”
Dr. Green was again staring at the floor, apparently disconnected from the conversation.
“Dr. Green?”
“Oh, ah, no, no, I don’t know much about her private life, but she was well liked here. Lieutenant, this has been quite a shock, and I have a waiting room filled with patients to attend to. If you’ve finished asking questions, I’m going to need a few minutes to compose myself before I get back to work.”
“I understand.” Peirce placed his card on the instrument tray. “If you think of anything that could help the investigation, please call me. Thank you for your time, and I’m sorry for your loss.”
Hyrum Green watched Lieutenant Peirce walk out of the examining room. He dropped into his dental chair and leaned to the side, his eyes following Sam Peirce until he disappeared into the waiting room. As he leaned back into the center of the chair, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the stainless steel autoclave on the counter. He realized that he was smiling and quickly reorganized his features into a frown, but it didn’t last. Within seconds he was smiling again.
Hyrum slapped the arm of his chair, then massaged his chin with his right hand while his mind wandered back to the day he first started his practice.
When Hyrum had awakened on that morning, he had thought that that day would rank among the top five days in his life: his marriage to Elaine, the birth of each of their two children, graduation from dental school, and now the opening of his very own practice. He hung his diplomas on the wall and stepped back to admire them.
“They’re crooked,” Elaine said.
“They look fine to me,” Hyrum replied as he slightly cocked his head to the right.
“You think everything is a joke.” Elaine dismissed his remark with a shake of her head and straightened the diplomas.
“You think everything is so serious,” Hyrum said. “Sometimes you need to laugh at your mistakes.”
Hyrum had worked for the last five years in Dr. Sol Feldman’s practice as a second chair. He had a few patients of his own, but Sol controlled the office and took a piece of all the revenue Hyrum generated. He wasn’t sure he was ready to open his own office and build a new practice from nothing, but Elaine had pushed until he finally acquiesced. She really did more than push. She researched several cities and towns until she found just the right location. It wasn’t a terribly affluent area, but a community with lots of kids and lots of factory workers with dental insurance.
“We received five résumés for the dental hygienist position,” Elaine said. “I set up the interviews starting this afternoon.” She stretched out her hand, offering five manila folders, each containing an application, résumé, and a brief background check that Elaine had purchased from an Internet research company. Each folder was labeled with the name of the applicant. Hyrum held the folders in front of him at arm’s length and smiled.
“You are incredibly efficient,” he said. “If you could also clean teeth, I could throw these away and save the salary.”
“If I could clean teeth, you wouldn’t be able to afford my salary,” she said with a shake of her head.
Hyrum walked through his new office. He stopped to drink in the high-tech look of the digital panoramic X-ray machine. He ran his hand along the soft leather of one of the three new dental chairs, each in its own complete examination room. Then he wandered out into the waiting room bathed in soft lighting with comfortable contemporary furniture. The reception desk was topped with rose-colored granite, and the walls were decorated with prints of important works of art by Monet, Renoir, and Pissarro. He tiptoed around on the new carpet. It looked perfect. It smelled perfect. He couldn’t imagine a better start for his practice.
Hyrum began to flip through the manila folders and stopped at a name that looked familiar. Michelle Ackerman. Where had he seen that name before? Then the memory exploded in his brain and took him from the height of elation into a pit of despair. His thoughts were instantly transported to a police station in Bangor, Maine, more than twenty-six years ago, when his name was Hyrum Bookman, not Hyrum Green. He could see himself as an arrogant young man sitting on a police station bench with his hands folded in his lap. He could hear the old bench squeak with each movement as he had rocked back and forth, waiting. He heard his own impatient voice: “How the fuck long is this going to take?”
The shadows on the frosted glass of the detective’s office door grew larger as two men walked toward it, and then finally the door opened.
“Just ask her,” Max Bookman was saying. “I spoke to her mother yesterday. She told me that the girl lied. My son never touched her. She made it up because he paid no attention to her. Go ahead, ask her mother. You’ll see.”
Hyrum jumped to his feet as his father and the police officer approached. “That’s right,” he said. “I never touched her.”
Max Bookman stared at his son with a look that Hyrum knew only too well. He stopped talking and sat back down.
Detective Plumb motioned to the bench. “Sit here with your son, Mr. Bookman, and we’ll see if she’s going to press charges.”
Man and boy sat on the squeaky bench and waited.
“It wasn’t my fault. She’s been chasing me around all year. I finally gave her a break and took her out.”
“Not another word until we’re out of here,” Max Bookman said.
Detective Plumb shifted his weight from foot to foot, trying to talk into the telephone, but not getting a chance to finish a single sentence. “I see—but—I see.” He hung up the phone and looked out his office door at the two men on the bench. He motioned them back into the room.
“You stay here,” Max said as he squeezed Hyrum’s thigh. “I’ll handle this.”
Later, as they drove out of the city, Max said to his son, “You’re a lucky boy.” “I knew she would cover for me,” Hyrum said. “She likes me. I knew she really didn’t mean no. She just didn’t want to give it up too easily.”
“Listen, you little shit! If it was up to her, you’d be in a jail cell right now. You’re seventeen years old. You would be tried as an adult. Do you know what a conviction for a sex crime would do to your chances of getting into a good college? Your plans for a career would be over right now. It was her mother who made her recant her story. And if she had taken her daughter to the doctor to be examined, you would really be in deep crap.”
Hyrum remembered looking confused. “Why didn’t she?” he had asked.
“I took care of it,” his father told him. “That’s all you need to know.”
At that point, a drop of perspiration had fallen from his brow and splattered on the manila folder in his hand, shocking him back to that day. A day that had begun as a great day, but now he recalled as the start of a nightmare from which he could not awaken.
Michelle Ackerman was that young girl that Hyrum had violated as a teenager. The girl whose mother made her say she lied. That Hyrum never forced her. Hyrum never knew if his father, who was very influential in Bangor, had threatened Mrs. Ackerman, or simply bought her off. Either way, Hyrum was off the hook. Now Michelle had found him, and the price for her silence was a job with a pay scale far above that of any dental hygienist in the area.
“How much would it take to make this go away?” he had asked her. “My practice is new, but I can probably get what you need in about six months.”
He remembered her laugh; it was shrill and cold. “You’re not getting rid of me that easi
ly,” she said. “You ruined my life. Not just because of what you did, but because your father coerced my mother into forcing me to lie about it. We didn’t speak for years, and she died before we ever made our peace.”
Hyrum hired Michelle Ackerman. She proved to be a competent worker, but she demanded additional payment, off the books, each month to maintain her silence.
Now Hyrum slapped the arm of the chair again, then composed himself, checked his reflection again to ensure the right amount of sadness, and went to tell his staff of the tragic news.
***
Peirce stood in the corridor for a moment considering—or maybe dreading—his next move. Then he turned, took a deep breath, and walked toward Dr. Ruth Klein’s office. A doorstop was holding the outer door to her waiting room open, and the inner door to her office was open as well. Peirce was about to knock, or shout—he doubted that she was in a session with a patient while the doors were held open—when he realized that he could see Ruth’s reflection in the mirror of the open closet door in her inner office. She was standing before several easels and writing on large charts of some sort. The writing was backward in the reflected image, but he could make out some of the words: Who Killed Sylvia Radcliffe? There was writing under the printed title, but he couldn’t decipher her scrawl through the mirror. Doctors, he thought, and then knocked.
Ruth glimpsed into the mirror on the closet door and saw Lieutenant Peirce standing in the waiting room doorway. She was thankful for the warning. She might not have felt quite as thankful if she had realized that the mirror worked both ways.
Ruth pulled each of the whiteboards from its easel and placed them in a stack facing the wall. Next she flattened the three easels and stuffed them behind her desk. “Come in,” she called as she threw the marking pen into her purse.
“Lieutenant Peirce, how nice to see you.” She offered her hand. Sam Peirce had come in contact with many private citizens who believed that they could solve crimes better than the police. Most tired of the fruitless pursuit and set aside the delusion quickly, but Peirce could see that this interloper might be persistent enough to be a challenge to his patience.
“What brings you here on a Saturday, Lieutenant? Has there been a break in the Sylvia Radcliffe murder?”
“Not unless you’ve broken the case.” He walked to the wall and turned one of the whiteboards around, revealing its title.
Being caught in the act was not a new situation for Ruth. As a child her record was flawless. The first time she smoked a cigarette, her father smelled it on her breath. The first time she raided her father’s liquor cabinet, she vomited the evidence on the living room floor. And the first time she shared her answers to a history exam with a friend, her friend copied every answer word for word, including the essay question—that resulted in a week’s suspension from school and being grounded for a month.
It was time to come clean. Maybe Peirce would be interested in her theory.
“Actually, I’m not here about Sylvia Radcliffe. Did you know Dr. Green’s dental hygienist, Michelle Ackerman?”
Ruth discontinued mentally planning the explanation of her theory of Sylvia’s murder. “I met her occasionally in the corridor. She was usually leaving as I arrived. You said did I know her. Has something happened to her?”
Peirce remembered the last time he tried to give Ruth bad news gently, and how her impatience made it all but impossible to break the news without her interrupting. He decided the direct approach was best.
“She was murdered about three weeks ago.”
Ruth digested the news silently for a moment and then asked, “What do we know so far?”
“We—don’t know anything,” he said. “We are not investigating this case. I am investigating these murders, and you need to stay out of my way.”
“There’s no need to be rude, Lieutenant. I’m just trying to help. I have a theory.”
“I have a theory,” said Sam Peirce, “and that’s the one that counts.”
“Have you ever thought about working on your anger management?” asked Dr. Klein. “I could recommend someone if you’re not comfortable working with me, but actually I’m a specialist in the field.”
“Thank you, Dr. Klein. I’m sure you’re great at dealing with anger. It’s probably the cornerstone of your career. You seem to cause enough of it to keep you busy forever.”
Ruth lowered her chin and uncrossed her arms, realizing she was being defensive and argumentative.
“I guess I have been stepping on your toes. Somehow we always seem to push each other’s buttons. I should know better.”
Ruth’s feelings were usually kept under strict control, but the recent loss of a patient had worn her defenses thin. She was a professional in the field of other people’s emotions, and here she was, losing control of her own. It was embarrassing. Ruth reached into her purse, pulled out a tissue, and began to dab at her eyes. Her stare was locked on Sam Peirce’s face.
For the last several years, Ruth’s priorities had been to raise her daughter and to build her career. Being a single parent had taken a great deal of her time, leaving little for personal relationships with anyone. Most of her interaction was with her patients. Even if she were allowed to date a patient, she wouldn’t. They all had serious problems, and she wouldn’t want to add them to her own.
Ruth hadn’t been with a man for longer than she could remember, and although Lieutenant Peirce was exasperating, short-tempered, and on occasion condescending, there was something in his manner that caused her to feel comfortable with him and to almost enjoy these minor altercations. She was even slightly aroused by his forcefulness and bravado.
This makes no sense, she thought. I don’t even know this man. How could I feel so sure that under all the bluster lies a sensitive, caring individual? She felt vulnerable and looked for reassurance in the big man’s face.
Peirce began to smile. Ruth wiped her nose with the tissue and returned the smile. Peirce’s smile became wider. Ruth felt her face begin to flush. She reached into her purse for a second tissue and patted the perspiration that had formed on her forehead. Her pulse was becoming rapid; she breathed deeply to calm herself. Peirce’s smile became broader still. Ruth widened her own smile, waiting for Peirce to say or do something to ease the sexual tension she was feeling. Peirce’s smile broke into a chuckle. He lifted his finger and pointed at her, releasing a loud, hearty laugh.
Ruth’s eyebrows came together, and her face formed a scowl. All Ruth’s feelings of sensuality and desire quickly reverted to anger.
“You are the most insensitive, brutish lout I have ever met,” she said. She picked up her glass paperweight and threw it at Sam Peirce’s midsection. Sam caught the solid glass sphere in one hand while still pointing at her with his other. He tried to speak, but his laughter was so hard and his breath so short that he couldn’t get any words out. His face was bright scarlet as he walked up to Ruth, grabbed her by the shoulders, and turned her to the mirror on the closet door. Through laughter and halting speech, he managed to say, “You threw an open marker in your purse. Your tissues are full of ink.”
***
“Is it coming off?” Ruth asked.
“Hold still before I poke out your eye.” Sam carefully wiped at the last black ring under Ruth’s left eye with a cotton ball.
“It’s not permanent ink, is it?” she said.
“Yes, it is. You’re going to have to live the rest of your life as a panda.”
“Very funny.” She punched him in the shoulder.
“Hey, watch out! This is delicate work.” Sam put down the cotton ball and admired her clean face. “Not bad,” he said.
Ruth looked at her face in the mirror. The ink was gone, replaced by a bright-pink hue. She wasn’t sure whether her rosy complexion was the result of the cleaning or a blush caused by his touch.
“I’m sorry for coming on so strong,” Peirce said. “I understand that you were trying to help.”
“That’s OK. I shou
ldn’t have told Dr. Green that I was helping with the investigation, or at least I should have told him that my involvement was unofficial.” Sam Peirce nodded his acceptance of her apology.
“So, Lieutenant, let me tell you my theory of the crime.”
Now Peirce was ready to tear into her again. To let her know once and for all that he didn’t need her help. That he didn’t want her help. He leaned over, placing his face within inches of hers. He looked directly into her bright-green eyes and paused a moment. Then he said, “All right, tell me what you think happened.”
Ruth jumped up out of her chair, almost bumping foreheads as she ran to the easels lying on the floor and began to set them up. Peirce placed his hand on her wrist. “Just tell me.”
Ruth felt the warmth of his hand travel up her arm. She could feel the beat of his heart in his grip, or maybe it was her heart.
“Tell you what?” she asked.
“Your theory of the crime,” Peirce said, sounding a bit confused.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I think Dr. Green knows more about Sylvia’s death than he’s told you. Dr. Green and Sylvia were having an affair.”
“I never asked him about Sylvia Radcliffe,” he said. “I didn’t know he knew her.”
“There, I’ve helped already,” Ruth said. “I have irrefutable evidence that they were having an affair.”
“Irrefutable, huh? Show me your evidence.”
“I can’t. It falls under—”
“Doctor-patient privilege.” Peirce finished the sentence for her.
Ruth rolled her eyes. “Sorry.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter,” he said. “Let me tell you my theory of the crime.”
Ruth sat up in her chair, clasped her hands in her lap, and stared into his eyes.
Peirce suddenly felt uncomfortable making eye contact with Ruth. He turned and paced around the office as he spoke.
“Mortimer Banks was an ex-convict who, we believe, has been burglarizing homes in this area for more than a year. We know Banks broke into Sylvia’s house and stole a flash drive that Sylvia had hidden in her bedroom.”
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