Kill Again

by Neal Baer

  “Don’t thank me so fast, Doc,” Wilkes shot back in his more traditional bluster, “’cause I’m gonna put you through the wringer, starting right now. We need a profile as quickly as you can get us one, like yesterday or sooner. If the guy who did Rosa Sanchez is in fact the same perp who did the other two women back in the seventies, we have to believe Rosa isn’t gonna be his last victim. So the first thing I’m having Tony Savarese do is check prison records. We’re looking for someone who was put away for the last thirty-five years, possibly a serial rapist targeting women who looked like Rosa.”

  “We’re gonna need a photo of her,” Nick said.

  “I’ll send Tony to her mother’s house,” said Wilkes.

  But Claire wasn’t having it. “You will not.”

  Wilkes was dumbfounded; hadn’t the shrink just agreed to all his conditions? “Doctor,” he said, still deferential, “I can’t risk—”

  “Rosa’s mother deserves to know what happened to her daughter,” Claire interrupted. “You might think it’s okay to hold back information but I can’t let that woman suffer one second more than she has to.”

  “Telling her is a bad idea, Doc,” said Wilkes.

  Claire stood her ground. “I know her well. She’ll do whatever I ask her to, including keep her mouth shut. I can guarantee it.”

  Wilkes knew he would lose this round. “I wanna order you not to, but I get the feeling that no matter what I say, you’re not gonna listen.”

  “Not about this,” Claire agreed. “I’m going right after we’re done here. And I’m taking Nick with me.”

  This was news to Nick, and Wilkes shot him a harsh glance.

  Claire went on. “Don’t blame him, Inspector. He didn’t know about it until it just came out of my mouth. It’s my idea, not his. I want Rosa’s mother to know the police are on this. It will help me convince her not to tell anyone.”

  Wilkes was cursing himself for bringing Claire into the fold but knew it was too late to back out. He didn’t have time to find another shrink he could trust to keep their mission a secret. And down deep, he really did trust Claire. Involving her was a small risk to take for an investment that could pay big dividends.

  “In that case, I won’t argue with you, Doc,” said Wilkes, standing up.

  “We’ll work as fast as we can, Inspector,” Claire assured him.

  Wilkes headed for the door. Nick followed him out and down the hallway, now bustling with people, forcing them to keep their voices low.

  “She’s a piece of work, Nicky,” said Wilkes, exasperated but resigned.

  “Yes, she is,” replied Nick. “But she won’t screw it up.”

  This Wilkes knew, or at least wanted to believe. “I’ll have Tony bring those files to your place this afternoon,” the inspector said.

  “Thanks, Boss,” Nick answered. This was now the third time Wilkes had resurrected his career. “For dealing me back in. Again.”

  Wilkes pressed the button for the elevator. “We’re using you, Nicky, because we need to keep the lid on this, and because right now you’re the Invisible Man. Hopefully the third time’s the charm, right?”

  The elevator doors opened and he stepped in. He turned to face Nick and gestured down the hallway toward Claire. “Keep her in check.”

  “I will,” Nick said as the doors closed on his patron saint.

  The door to the apartment opened, revealing Maria Lopez, much different from the cheery woman Claire had visited two days earlier. Maria had dark circles under her eyes, red from hours of crying. She looked first at Claire, then at Nick, and knew something bad was about to happen. Nick wasn’t sure if Maria recognized him from all the press of last year’s case or because she knew what his presence here meant.

  “Maria,” Claire said, taking her hand. “Are the children home?”

  “No, they’re at school,” Maria said, making a visible effort to control her emotions. “Please, come in.”

  After they entered and she had closed the door, she turned to Nick. “You are the police, no?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Nick said. “Detective Lawler.”

  Maria’s eyes met Claire’s, the sorrow behind them confirming her worst fears. “Oh, no,” she cried, looking back at Nick. “Was it an accident?” she asked, not even wanting to say the word.

  “I’m afraid not,” he answered. “We’re going to do everything we can to find the person who did this. . . .”

  His voice trailed off as Maria sobbed, with such force that Nick held her lest she collapse onto the floor. With Claire’s help, he led Maria to the living room sofa. Nick cleared a toy dump truck and a stuffed bear away so Claire could sit down with Maria. She held the grieving woman and stroked her hair as if Maria, a grandmother, was a little girl.

  “I’m so sorry, Maria,” Claire said as Nick lowered himself into a nearby chair. He’d made many death notifications over the course of his career; Maria’s explosive sorrow was nothing new to him. Of the hundreds of murders he’d investigated, something bumped for him about Rosa Sanchez’s. Something he couldn’t put his finger on just yet.

  Maria’s sobs grew quiet, and after a few minutes she composed herself. “Please forgive me,” she said, sniffling.

  “No need to apologize,” Nick said. “We’re terribly sorry for your loss.”

  Maria wiped her eyes with a tissue. “Where should the funeral director go to pick my Rosa up?”

  Claire began the conversation she’d dreaded since learning about her patient’s murder. “Rosa’s remains are at the medical examiner’s office,” she told Maria. “But you can’t send anyone for her yet.”

  “I want to know what you mean by her ‘remains,’” Maria said, knowing Claire was trying to spare her the details. But she wasn’t having it.

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea right now,” Claire answered, struggling to maintain eye contact with Maria.

  But the grieving woman was steadfast. “No, it has to be now,” Maria said. “I have to know.”

  “I understand,” Claire said, determined to abbreviate the story as much as possible. “We believe Rosa was kidnapped after she left my office the other day. When you gave me permission to track her cell phone, we traced it to some woods on Staten Island where we found evidence she was killed. And all we were able to recover were her bones.”

  That she neglected to tell Maria that Rosa’s bones were discovered in the Bronx was part of the plan she and Nick had discussed before coming here. The fewer people who knew this detail, the better.

  “Just her bones?” Maria asked, sounding like the breath had been knocked out of her. “Nothing else?”

  “No,” Claire said, wishing she could absorb some of Maria’s pain. Maria sat staring into space. Claire wondered what horrible scenarios Maria was conjuring in her mind to explain what had happened to her daughter. After a minute, Maria blinked, like someone coming out of a trance. “If they’re just bones, how can you be sure they’re Rosa’s?” she asked.

  Claire explained to Maria how they matched an X-ray of the fracture Rosa sustained during the sexual assault in jail to the X-ray of the bone.

  Maria’s face turned to stone, taking in all the information.

  She’s shutting off her feelings. I can certainly understand that, Claire thought.

  When Claire was finished, Maria looked up at her and Nick. “You said I can’t put my baby to rest yet,” Maria said, “and I need to know why.”

  Nick spoke before Claire could. “I know this will be very hard for you. But the longer nobody knows that Rosa is a victim, the better chance we have of catching the man who killed her.”

  “Someone who would do something so horrible is not a man, but a demon,” Maria said with a bitterness that Claire and Nick had not heard before.

  “You’re absolutely right,” Nick agreed. “And that’s why we need you to keep what we’ve just told you to yourself. You can’t even tell your grandchildren. And now I’ll tell you why you can’t bury Rosa yet,” he sai
d, launching briefly into the story of the two homicides from 1977. “We need to catch this demon before he hurts another woman. If he knows we’re on his trail, he may leave the area.”

  Maria wiped away fresh tears. “Yes, I understand,” she said. “I’ll do whatever you say if it will bring me and my family justice for Rosa.”

  Claire and Nick got up and Claire embraced Maria. “You have my number. If there’s anything you need, even if it’s just a shoulder to cry on, call me and I’ll come right over.”

  “Thank you,” Maria said, “thank you for finding my little girl.”

  “It’s okay, Cisco,” Jill Lawler shouted to the dog barking behind the closed door of Nick’s bedroom. She hurried to the entrance of their apartment, wondering what Claire was doing there so early. Just an hour before, her father had taken a phone call and left, saying that he had to meet someone. He said he’d be back in a few hours, before Claire showed up, but if for some reason he was late, Jill and her younger sister, Katie, shouldn’t wait for him to have dinner.

  Jill was surprised when she opened the door to find Claire holding several bags of groceries. “What’s all this?” she asked as she took one of the sacks from Claire.

  “Dinner,” Claire answered, reshuffling the remaining two bags in her arms and laughing at her own clumsiness.

  Jill led Claire into the small but workable galley kitchen that, like those in most rent-controlled apartments, hadn’t been updated since the 1960s save for new appliances. The Formica countertops were in bad need of replacement and the wood cabinets had at least two coats of paint on them. There was a small table in one corner big enough for four people. Though only three had dined there for most of the last year, it would come in handy tonight.

  “Dad said you weren’t coming until after dinner,” Jill said.

  “He’s not here?”

  “He left a little while ago.”

  Claire glanced in the direction of the barking. “Without the dog?”

  “He got a phone call and left. Said he’d be back before the sun went down.”

  Claire wondered where Nick had to go so suddenly but covered her concern. “Then he’ll come back to a nice meal.”

  They unloaded the bags onto the table. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” Jill said, the adult in her rising to the surface. “I can handle it.”

  Claire was ready for this resistance. “I know you can,” she said, “but tonight you get to take a break. And besides, it’s been a long time since I had anyone to cook for.”

  Jill was about to reply when eleven-year-old Katie ran in, excited, wearing pink sweatpants and a yellow T-shirt, her auburn hair a mess. “What’s going on?”

  “Doctor Waters is making us dinner,” Jill said, sounding more like a mother than a big sister.

  “Please, both of you. Call me Claire.”

  “Dad may not like that,” said Katie. “He says we should call adults mister or missus. Or doctor, I guess.”

  “I’ll tell him that in my case, it’s okay. It makes me feel more comfortable.”

  Katie eyed all the food being taken out of the bags. “What are we having?” she asked.

  “Do you like chicken?” Claire asked.

  “The dark meat grosses me out,” Katie said. “But I like white meat.”

  “Well, then you’re in luck, because I only brought white meat. I’m going to sauté it in a Dijon and garlic sauce. Do you know what haricots verts are?”

  “Dad says that’s a stupid name for green beans.”

  “Actually, it’s French,” Claire said with a chuckle. “I’m also going to make potatoes au gratin and a salad. How’s that sound?”

  “Better than what Jill makes us,” Katie said, turning to her sister for a reaction that didn’t come. Katie turned back to Claire. “Can I help?”

  “You have homework,” Jill said.

  “You have homework too,” said Katie, mimicking her older sister.

  “Tell you what,” Claire said. “Katie, you go do your homework and Jill will help me prepare everything. Then, when you’re ready, Jill can do her homework and you can help me cook. Make sense?”

  The gentle but firm authority got both girls’ attention. “Sounds like a plan,” Katie said. The girl raced out of the kitchen so fast that Claire and Jill could only laugh.

  “You made that look so easy,” Jill said.

  “She’s cute,” Claire responded.

  “She never does anything that easily when I tell her to,” said Jill.

  A pang of emotion hit Claire. “Katie’s lucky to have you,” she said, wishing she’d had someone like Jill, an older sister she could have turned to.

  If Jill detected any of this she kept it to herself. “I can wash off the chicken breasts,” she volunteered.

  “Great, and I’ll start on the potatoes,” offered Claire, removing the spuds from a bag while watching Jill out of the corner of her eye take the chicken from its wrapper and expertly wash it. Clearly she’d done the same task dozens of times since the deaths of her mother and grandmother. Claire looked away, the emotion stirring inside her, wanting to mourn Jill’s lost childhood.

  “Are you okay?” Jill asked, after the kitchen had become quiet.

  Claire realized she was just standing there with a potato in her hand. “Sorry, I was just thinking about something I have to do,” she said, moving toward the sink where Jill stood.

  They were standing beside each other, doing their separate tasks, yet somehow together. It seemed almost normal to Claire, comfortable, and she wasn’t sure why.

  “I know how that feels,” Jill said, placing another chicken breast in a metal bowl. “Sometimes I daydream too.”

  Claire saw an opening. “You’ve got a lot on your plate these days,” she said.

  “I guess,” Jill replied, trying to make light of it. “I never realized how much there was to do around here until Grandma got sick.”

  “You must miss her.”

  Jill stopped what she was doing, looking like she was about to cry. Claire was sorry she made the comment. But only a few seconds passed before the teenager resumed washing the chicken. Claire realized that this young woman was so much like her, especially when times got tough and the only way to survive was to bury your emotions and plow through.

  And then, to Claire’s surprise, Jill opened up, as if the water running on her hands was in some way therapeutic. “Yeah, I really do miss her.”

  “You were close,” Claire offered, as she sliced the potatoes on a cutting board atop the counter to the left of the sink.

  “We talked a lot. You know, about guys, the bitchy girls at school, stuff like that. It really helped after Mom . . . well, you know.”

  “I know,” Claire said, trying not to revert into therapist mode, though clearly Jill could use one. “I’m sorry that happened to you,” she said.

  “I wasn’t talking about when Mom killed herself,” Jill replied so casually it almost seemed not to hurt. Not once since the discussion began had Jill turned away from the sink and directly faced Claire. “I mean like a year before, when she checked out mentally.”

  Claire realized that the girl’s mother emotionally abandoned her long before she committed suicide. Claire put down her peeling knife and reached around Jill to shut off the water.

  “What are you doing?” Jill asked.

  Claire resisted every impulse to mother Jill, to take her in her arms and tell her it was all going to be okay. But Claire wasn’t her mother. How could she or anyone else make that kind of guarantee?

  What she could do, though, was give Jill a break from trying to be a mother to her own sister. “Why don’t you let me finish?” Claire offered.

  Jill looked at her blankly. “But you said—”

  “When was the last time anyone cooked for you?” asked Claire. “I never get to make dinner for anyone. Let me do this. You get your homework done and then you can relax,” she suggested.

  But Jill seemed eager for the company. �
��Nah, I can do it later,” Jill said. Claire could feel how starved the girl was for someone to talk to. She backed away, giving Jill enough room to turn around so they wouldn’t be in each other’s faces.

  “I think it’s great how you stepped up after all you’ve been through,” said Claire. “And I know you want to take care of your dad and your sister. But you need to let yourself be taken care of too.”

  Jill dropped the piece of chicken in her hand. Still facing the sink, she could no longer control the pent-up emotion she’d held inside for so long. She cried silently, her shoulders moving up and down, half hoping Claire wouldn’t notice, half hoping she would. Spasms of sorrow wracked the girl’s body.

  Claire moved up behind her and put her right hand on Jill’s shoulder, then her left hand on the other. Jill reached up and grabbed both of Claire’s hands, pulling them down so they’d wrap around her waist.

  “I’m sorry,” Jill uttered between sobs.

  “It’s okay,” said Claire, her voice soothing. “You’re allowed to cry. Let it out.”

  “It’s just that I feel . . .” Jill said, unable to finish.

  “Like you’re all alone,” Claire whispered in her ear.

  “Yeah,” Jill said. She turned around, facing Claire, putting her head on Claire’s shoulder.

  “Nobody knows what you have to deal with,” Claire continued. “You don’t want to burden anyone, especially your father and your sister. You want to be strong for them like your grandmother was and your mother couldn’t be. And inside, you don’t know where Jill went, what happened to her. Who she is.”

  “How do you know?” Jill asked, then laughed through her tears. “That was stupid,” she said. “You’re a psychiatrist.”

  “It wasn’t stupid,” Claire assured her, taking the teenager’s hands in hers. “I know because I’ve been there. I look at you and I see myself. You’ve been through more pain than any fourteen-year-old should ever have to go through. Pretending it doesn’t bother you just makes it worse.”