“How do you know they were seeing one another?”
“That’s a good question,” Izzy said. “Deacon assumed that much. But the girl I talked to only saw them together.”
“So you’re going to drag me all over campus to look for these people you can’t identify? This is one of the largest universities in the world, Bishop.”
“No,” Izzy said, turning right on Dean Keeton and back onto campus. “Whatever this is, it’s organized to some degree, and it involves desperate people. People who hurt. Cynthia fit that general profile, and one of the girls who got tattooed that day bore scars from a suicide attempt. If there’s a campus connection, the place to start is right here.”
He stopped in front of a broad four story building much like any of the anonymous looking structures crowding the massive campus. A small placard by the glass doors identified it as the University Counseling and Mental Health Center.
Esperanza said, “Smart.”
“Find out if one of those young women was Teresa Montgomery, and we’re one step closer to what happened to Cynthia and Deacon—and probably others.”
“We help each other, huh?”
Izzy pulled open the door and said, “After you.”
In a warm reception area, a bright-faced woman with short, curly hair sat behind a low, walnut-colored desk. She assumed a welcoming smile and said, “Welcome, gentlemen. How can I help you?”
Esperanza showed his ID and badge, putting himself between her and Izzy.
“Austin Police Department,” he said. “I’m trying to determine whether or not there is a particular student who made use of your facility’s services recently, and what were the circumstances of any such visit.”
The receptionist’s smile fell, and she rose from her chair.
“I—I’d better get Cheryl to talk to you,” she said, and she shuffled off through a frosted glass door to the side.
Izzy knitted his brow and considering the wisdom of brining a homicide cop along with him rather than someone like Sandy Chen. Esperanza was gruff with the receptionist, and unlikely to empathize with the center’s efforts and clientele the way Sandy would. Still, Izzy wanted the sergeant’s authority to clear the way to full cooperation. It was a nasty trick, he thought—he knew Sandy and Noah would protect their clients’ privacy to the ends of the earth, and Izzy would side with them, even against the police. Yet here he was with the Detective Sergeant, like a kid bringing his big brother to the playground to pick his fights for him. Esperanza leaned against the desk and waited quietly. Izzy swallowed hard, hoping like hell he wasn’t starting a fire he couldn’t put out.
Presently the receptionist returned, and with her a plump older woman in a pink dress and even pinker sweater over top, who walked purposefully toward Esperanza and said, “I’m Cheryl Dannemiller. I’m a social worker and the associate director here. May I see your identification, please?”
Atta girl, Izzy thought.
Esperanza showed it to her, and she looked it over carefully before nodding.
“I’m looking for a woman who might be a student,” he said.
“Then talk to the registrar,” Cheryl Dannemiller said. “They’ll be happy to tell you whether or not the person you’re looking for is a student here.”
“Specifically,” Esperanza went on, “I’m looking for a current or former student who may have attempted suicide, and may have sought some help from this facility. I have reason to believe she is associated with other young people in similar circumstances who might be able to assist in a possible homicide investigation. The registrar doesn’t have that kind of information, I don’t think.”
The receptionist grasped a pencil with both hands, staring anxiously at Dannemiller, who stared aggressively at Esperanza. Izzy sighed and wound his way amongst them, creating space between the sergeant and the social worker.
“I’m a nurse,” he said. “My name is Izzy Bishop. There have been two suspicious deaths recently, one of whom was a friend of mine. A young woman, with little options and virtually no hope. I think that’s something you can understand, if not empathize with.”
“How can I help you, Mr. Bishop?”
“If I had to guess based on what I’ve figured out,” he said, “a student named Teresa Montgomery slashed her wrists, trying to kill herself, and when that failed ended up seeking help here. I don’t think it took. I think she ended up seeking a different kind of help elsewhere, or what she thought was going to help. Something or someone that binds people like her together but is also very dangerous, Ms. Dannemiller. I need to speak with her to understand exactly what that is, who is responsible for it, before somebody else ends up dead because their pain is being encouraged instead of worked through.”
“Encouraged?” she said. “Do you mean to say someone is convincing students at this university to harm themselves?”
“Yes,” Izzy said. “And others. I don’t think this person is picky about the educational goals of the individuals targeted.”
“Targeted,” Dannemiller said. She blew a sharp breath through her nose and crossed her arms. “You said you’re a nurse?”
“Mr. Bishop is a forensic specialist assisting this investigation,” Esperanza chimed in. He craned his neck and gave Izzy a surreptitious wink.
“A forensic nurse,” she said. “Then you understand how sensitive in nature it is, working with people suffering from trauma.”
“Yes,” Izzy said. “I do.”
“The number of American college students exhibiting suicidal ideation has risen in the last couple of decades,” she said. “As have attempts. There are more than a thousand successful suicides on campuses in this country every year now. There are many factors that contribute to those statistics, but a young person who has already made a serious attempt…”
“…is more likely to try again,” Izzy said. “I know, Ms. Dannemiller. That’s the last thing we want. I don’t know Ms. Montgomery. The only thing I know about her is that she was present with two people who are now deceased, and I want to know why. She could be in danger, herself.”
“I could get a court order,” Esperanza said, “subpoena your records. Maybe she’d be dead by then.”
The receptionist snapped the pencil in half, startling everyone and turning all eyes on her. The woman turned her eyes on Dannemiller.
She said, “Cheryl.”
Dannemiller said, “Oh, damn it.”
“You know her,” Izzy said.
“Promise me you’ll help her. Promise me you’ll do everything in your power to help her, no matter what she might have done.”
“I promise you.”
“I can get you what you want. Her address, even her class schedule. She’s a good kid, Mr. Bishop, Sergeant. She wouldn’t hurt anyone knowingly.”
“She knows someone who would,” Esperanza said.
“Then I’ll help you,” Dannemiller said. “But remember your promise, Mr. Bishop. Do what you’d do with any trauma case. And don’t let this one bully her.”
She jabbed a thumb at Esperanza, who looked mildly offended.
“Bully?” he said.
Izzy said, “I’ll keep him in line.”
“Wait here,” said Dannemiller. She went back behind the frosted door, and when she returned several minutes later, she gave Izzy a sheet of paper with a schedule blocked off in frames. At the bottom, she had written a dorm room number at University Towers.
“Don’t disappoint me,” she said. “Or Teresa.”
“I won’t,” Izzy said. “Thank you, Ms. Dannemiller.”
Esperanza offered a curt nod, and joined Izzy outside.
He said, “I should start bringing you everywhere when I need to question somebody.”
“The dorm’s a few blocks east of Guadalupe,” Izzy said. “Your feet tired yet?”
“If I crap out you can carry me the rest of the way.”
They set off for University Towers.
Thirty-Six
No one came to t
he door. They waited in silence for five minutes there on the ninth floor, and five minutes stretched to ten. Izzy knocked again, but still no response. Esperanza heaved a sigh.
“Let’s have a look at that schedule she gave you,” he said. “I don’t have all day for this.”
Izzy unfolded the paper Cheryl Dannemiller gave him and ran down the blocks with his finger.
“She’s supposed to be in a Pope seminar right now,” Izzy said.
“Religion major?”
“The poet, I presume,” Izzy said. “Alexander Pope. Says Par 105. I don’t know what that is.”
“Parlin Hall,” came a cheerful voice. Both Izzy and Esperanza looked up. An athletic-looking woman in sweatshorts and an orange tee shirt was coming out of a room across the hall. She said, “It’s behind the Ransom Center. You looking for Teresa?”
Izzy nodded.
“You know her?” Esperanza said.
“A little,” the woman said. “Nice girl. Kind of sad. Is she in trouble?”
“No trouble,” said the sergeant. “Just want to ask her a couple questions.”
“I don’t think she’s been going to classes much lately, but you can try.”
“Why do you say that?” Izzy said.
“She stays in her room most of the time. Except when her creepy boyfriend comes around. Sorry, just my opinion.”
“No, that’s fine,” Esperanza said. “What’s creepy about him?”
“He just looks creepy,” she said. “Real skinny, hollow sort of face. No expression, you know? Dude dresses like a Russian gangster in a movie, for Christ’s sake.”
“You mean a track suit?” Izzy said.
“Yeah,” said the woman. “About three sizes too big for him.”
Izzy said to Esperanza, “That’s the guy.”
“Do you know this man’s name?” the sergeant asked.
“I never talked to him,” she said. “Except maybe to say hi or whatever. He just looks at you—or through you. Seems like Teresa called him Ray or Russ. Something like that. Sorry, I’m not real sure.”
“That’s fine,” Esperanza said, and he produced a card to give to her. They conferred for a moment in a hushed tone, exchanging information, and Izzy wandered down the hall a bit.
Two steps forward, one step back, he thought. And in the meanwhile, where the hell was Teresa Montgomery? He’d told the social worker she might be in danger, and he meant it. Now he had two witnesses describing the same man that linked it all together, but nothing to positively identify or locate him. Izzy wanted to punch a wall.
Esperanza pocketed his little notebook and the woman zipped off toward the elevator, half-jogging already.
“I’ve got to get back,” he said. “I’m parked at the campus substation, where are you?”
“Nowhere,” Izzy said.
“Aw, come on,” Esperanza said, taking Izzy’s arm and guiding him back the way they’d come. “It’s like that. A little bit at a time, then boom.”
“Apart from all those cold cases.”
“Well, yeah. Except for those.”
“Fantastic,” Izzy said.
Detective Sergeant Esperanza popped out his mobile and put it to his ear as he crossed the street, his tie fluttering in the breeze. Izzy stood at the crosswalk, watching him go, and thinking. Twice now he had heard witness descriptions of this man in the tracksuit, and up until now it had been his clothing and car that Izzy focused on. But both Mags—or whatever her name was—and the student in University Towers made a point of his gaunt appearance. Mags said he walked with a cane, an unusual affectation for a relatively young man, but she’d specifically noted it was no affectation. She said it looked as though he actually needed it.
Details swam around in Izzy’s mind, touching but not quite connecting, as he went back the way he’d come—back to the dormitory tower.
He went into the dormitory cafeteria, bought a bottle of water, and found a seat nearest the street-facing window. He sipped the water and watched the street, barely blinking, until at last he spotted her. The student he and Esperanza met upstairs, returning from her afternoon jog.
She was soaked through with sweat, her mouth hanging open and chest heaving as she slowed to a trot a few yards away. Izzy left the half-empty water bottle on the table and went out of the cafeteria to the main lobby, where she came in breathing hard and luxuriating in the cool air. She paused in the middle of the entryway, bent over and grabbed her knees, evening out her breathing and heartrate. When she rose back up again, Izzy was standing a few steps away, smiling at her. She arched an eyebrow at him.
“I thought of something,” he said, “after you left. Do you have a second?”
She blew a hard breath out through pursed lips, then nodded.
“Sure,” she said. “Let me cool off in that coffee shop over there.” She gestured with her chin at a place across the vestibule.
It was called the Monkey’s Nest, and Izzy bought her a huge bottle of water and got a coffee for himself. She dabbed at her face with a paper napkin and guzzled a quarter of the bottle in one go.
Izzy said, “You said something about that man being skinny and hollow looking.”
The woman nodded, gasping after another swallow of water.
“Yeah,” she said. “Sort of waxy.”
“Maybe a yellowish tint to his skin?”
She shrugged.
“Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
“Ever see him use a walking cane?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think so. But I could see him needing one. He had this weird, awkward gait, like his skeleton was too loose. Hair all patchy.”
“Balding, you mean?”
“No, like it was falling out. I don’t know, you think he was sick or something?”
“That’s exactly what I’m thinking,” Izzy said.
“Dude had a lot of bruises, too. On his arms and stuff, like he’d fallen down a lot.”
“You saw him without that tracksuit on?”
“The top, yeah. Just a wife-beater underneath. Arms like toothpicks.”
Izzy narrowed his eyes and said, “Any tattoos?”
“A few, actually. Why?”
“Give me a moment,” he said, and went up to the counter where he snagged a pen from a little cup by the register. He brought it back, pulled a napkin from the dispenser, and drew a leminscate. “This? On his wrist, maybe?”
“Exactly that,” the woman said, widening her eyes. “I remember that, because Teresa got one just like it.”
“I thought she had.”
“And a lion’s head,” the woman said. “The guy, I mean. And a strange sort of cross, right here.” She tapped the inside of her right forearm.
“Can you draw it?” Izzy asked, pushing the napkin and pen over to her.
The woman stuck out her lip and gave it a shot. She first drew a regular cross, but then added a shorter cross-bar over the main one, and a diagonal line across the bottom.
“Like that,” she said.
“A three barred cross.”
“You know what it means?”
“Not a clue. Might help, though. Thanks very much.”
Izzy took the napkin with the cross doodle on it and scooted back in his chair, preparing to leave.
“Hey,” she said. “Is Teresa okay?”
“I don’t know,” Izzy said, standing up. “If she’s running around with this guy? Okay isn’t the word I’d use, no.”
“I can’t tell you what she sees in him. He looks like he might keel over any second, for God’s sake. And besides that, he just looks mean as all hell.”
“He’s appealing to a part of her she doesn’t think anyone else understands,” Izzy said, half talking about Cynthia, too.
“What do you mean? What part?”
“The part that tells her she’d be better off dead.”
Thirty-Seven
The anxiety was worse than usual all that night. Izzy jumped at every footstep, every raised voice
. His hands trembled when he drew blood from a public intox hauled in by a pair of bored-looking cops. At one point, a few hours after logging in for the night, he found himself on the verge of tears for no apparent reason. He thought about grounding techniques, things he’d recommended or heard recommended for some patients. Cynthia sliced herself with razors, but Sandy Chen sometimes suggested a rubber band around the wrist or forearm you could pull and snap when necessary. Izzy found one at the nurse’s station and slipped it over his hand. He pinched it, slowly drew it out, and let go. The rubber band snapped his skin and it stung like hell. He didn’t feel any better at all.
Shannon Delfry brought him a cup a coffee from the lounge around one AM, whereupon she quietly apologized for snapping at him about the arterial blood gas report.
“I heard it ended up being important,” she said. “I guess I fucked up.”
“No,” Izzy said. “Easy mistake. I’d not thought anything of it either if I wasn’t so invested.”
“I’ve actually seen the whole exit bag thing before, though. It just didn’t occur to me.”
“Exit bag?”
He pinched the rubber band again, but only held it there.
“Suicide bag,” Shannon said. “Whatever you want to call it. When I first started working I had one like that. I mean, it was way too late when they brought him in here—it was a relative found the guy with the bag over his head. They brought that, too. It was an oven bag with a drawstring. He’d rigged it up with sleep apnea equipment, CPAP tubing and the mask and everything. All of it connected to a nitrogen tank, which you can just buy online if you can believe it.”
“Inert gas asphyxiation,” Izzy said. “But helium is surer. He might have still been alive when they found him. Braindead, probably.”
“He was gone when he got through triage,” Shannon said. “Turned out to be stage four liver cancer. The relative said he’d been trying to get to Sweden or someplace where you can do the assisted suicide thing, but the rig he ended up with cost him maybe two hundred bucks and was delivered right to his door. Family was religious and worried about the sin of it all, but the poor bastard was just in agony. Sad all around, you ask me.”
The Irish Goodbye (Izzy Bishop Book 1) Page 19