Mind in Chains

by Bruce M Perrin

  “The water?” asked Nicole. “My parents had a cabin at the Lake of the Ozarks when I was growing up. I still miss the way the lake looked in the evening, the fireflies in the sky, the sound of the frogs and birds in the woods.”

  “Yep,” said Greenwood. “And with the ocean, it’s the sound of the waves on the shore. Hard to beat that when you’re dropping off to sleep. And I love the salty smell of the breeze coming off the water.” Greenwood’s eyes moved to my face. “You’re a cognitive psychologist—not clinical, right?”

  My forehead wrinkled in surprise at the reversal in the conversation. “That’s right,” I said slowly.

  “Good, because what I’m about to say is too much of a window into my soul to say in front of a clinician.” I grinned, now recognizing the conversational setup for what it was. “I have a small, swimming pool in my backyard. One side is your standard, wood deck. But on the other, I have beach chairs, sand, a volleyball net, umbrellas, the whole nine yards. It’s an extravagance I allow myself—although I earn it with the upkeep. It’s amazing how fast sand gets dirty around here.”

  “Anyone ready for lasagna?” asked Nicole, seeing our empty salad plates.

  “I am,” Greenwood said, as I nodded my concurrence.

  Greenwood stood to help. “I’ve got it. It’s just one dish,” said Nicole. A moment later, she returned, and we passed the food around, each of us serving ourselves.

  After a taste, Greenwood said, “Delicious. I’ve mentioned my time in Italy to Nicole. There, they’ve made pasta into its own food group, and this is every bit as good.” Nicole smiled, some color coming to her face from the compliment.

  “You mentioned that you’re not traveling as much lately,” said Nicole. “But when you do, if something comes up and you need someone to check on your place, I know Sam would love a drive in the country.”

  Greenwood hesitated, making me wonder if she thought Nicole had overstepped in volunteering my time. “Nicole’s right,” I said. “I was born and raised on a farm; it’s in my blood. I’d be glad to tend to anything that needs it.”

  “It’s kind of you to offer—both of you. But I have someone who looks after the place when I’m on the road.” She paused, taking a bite of the pasta. “And frankly, I’ve been keeping the place locked up pretty tight. We’ve had some trouble with kids getting on the property. Nothing much, but I’d be liable if they got hurt.”

  “That’s too bad,” I said. “My dad had some of that same kind of trouble.” An amusing story came to mind about a couple of teenagers who had decided one of our fields would be a good place for some privacy until they got their car stuck in the mud. Something about needing to get my dad to pull them out killed the mood. But by the time I had recalled the particulars, Greenwood had moved on.

  “So, I know you’re a psychologist working on learning and training but not much else. What is it that you do?”

  “The work of my department at Ruger-Phillips is fairly evenly split between our own research and validating the work of other companies for the government. It’s called ….”

  “Independent verification and validation,” said Greenwood.

  “Right,” I said. “So, you’ve worked with some IV&V contractors before?”

  “I have,” she replied. “Actually, it was pretty common early in my career. Funding agencies would want to make sure they were getting what they paid for. And unless they had their own, in-house experts, they’d find a third-party organization that could verify my methods and results.” She paused. “That’s got to be difficult work, what with the researchers on one side and the funding organization on the other?”

  “It can be,” I admitted. “The researchers, of course, will want to put their best foot forward, but pushing some technology out too soon can be costly. And when we’re talking about training for military systems, which is about half our work, that cost can be measured in lives lost.”

  Greenwood nodded. “So, do I need to be especially nice to you?”

  It took me a moment to catch on. “You mean because I might be evaluating your research someday?”

  “Never hurts to have a friend on the other side of the table, so to speak,” she replied, tilting her head slightly as if we were actually discussing a shady deal.

  “I doubt we’ll end up on opposite sides of a table. Ruger-Phillips doesn’t do much work in the medical field.”

  “But it does some?” asked Greenwood, sounding somewhat more serious now.

  “Only once that I know of,” I said. “A couple of years ago. Actually, Nicole and I were both involved in that project. It was a medical device developed by a company called Worthington-Huston Technology, but they claimed it had uses in training. That’s how Ruger-Phillips got involved.”

  Greenwood stared, her hand coming to her mouth, her eyes going wide. “I thought I had heard your name before. You were involved in that case where a madman stole some unfinished device, then went on a killing spree.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s the one,” said Nicole. “We didn’t get to evaluate the device, but with the trouble it caused, everything was seized—the hardware, software, documentation.”

  “It doesn’t take the skills you two have to know that was the right decision. Still, it’s too bad you didn’t get a closer look at it.”

  Nicole had given the public version of where things had ended, but I was worried that Greenwood might press for more. It would be hard to say no to someone with her credentials, but we would. Fortunately, her phone beeped, sparing us from that possibility. She glanced at the screen.

  “Sorry, but I need to call about this text. Is there somewhere I could talk in private?”

  “Sure,” replied Nicole. “My office is down the hall, second door on the right.”

  Greenwood stood and left the room. After a moment, I heard the door to Nicole’s office close.

  “I’m going to put this salad back in the refrigerator before it starts wilting,” said Nicole. She stood, picked up the bowl, and started toward the kitchen.

  Thirty Minutes Earlier, Five Blocks Away

  The soft beep from her watch told Sister Constance it was time. She carefully raised her head above the edge of the car window, checking the foot traffic in the fading rays of daylight. There were people, but none were close and no one was paying attention to the car.

  She opened the car door quietly, the dome light already turned off. It was probably an unnecessary precaution since sunset was still a half-hour away, but disconnecting it removed even the slight chance a head would turn. Standing on the sidewalk, she straightened her knee-length, black dress. It felt odd; she wasn’t used to such clothing, but the skirt was full and wouldn’t hinder her mission. Reaching into the back seat, she pulled out a large handbag of matching color. A wide-brim, floppy hat, also black, completed the ensemble. So dressed, the stunning, black woman appeared ready for a night on the town, even if the area was residential.

  Constance placed the straps of the bag over her shoulder and started walking down the sidewalk. Her arms swung loosely at her side, her casual gait belying the hypervigilance she maintained. But nothing in her surroundings threatened.

  After ten minutes, she approached an alley running between two apartment buildings. She stepped into the deepening shadows and turned to check the landmarks. Climbing the wrong fire escape would end her evening in failure, and the mere thought made her shudder. But everything was correct. She turned and walked precisely twenty-three paces down the alley, knowing the distance from rote. Looking up, the fire escape was directly above her head.

  Reaching into the bag, she removed a large metal hook attached to a short length of black rope. The hook was wrapped in dark gray foam rubber of the type used to insulate water pipes. In its current use, it would dull the sound of metal on metal. She checked in both directions. A car had stopped at the far end of the alley, so Constance stepped back into the shadow of the building. After a moment, the car discharged a passenger onto the sidewalk and
drove away. Constance stepped back under the fire escape, and after rechecking the exits, she tossed the hook underhand to the bottom rung. It caught the first time.

  After pulling the ladder down, climbing the steps, and letting it retract, Constance pressed her back against the warm brick wall. Again, she scanned the area for the expected landmarks and threats. Again, all was in order. She quickly scaled another flight of steps to a landing outside a frosted window. She checked it. It was locked, which is what she had hoped. The noise of unlocking it would warn her if someone was approaching from behind. Had it been unlocked, she had brought some duct tape.

  Carefully, Constance pulled the parts of a rifle from her handbag and assembled it. After double-checking the fit and loading the weapon, she chambered a round. She sat, her legs crossed lightly at the ankle, her knees slightly raised from the landing. She placed her left elbow on her left leg and tucked it close to her body to cradle the gun. The right elbow went on her right knee. She peered through the rifle’s scope. The edges of a darkened window on the other side of the alley appeared, the panes showing only an indistinct reflection of reds and pinks from the setting sun. She raised her head, waiting for the telltale sign of a light in the room.

  Her wait wasn’t long. After about ten minutes, the light came on, and Constance could see a figure between the partially closed slats of the window’s shutters. It was her target. She clicked the safety off, took a deep breath, and slowly released it. She willed her body to relax. She willed her heart to slow. She squeezed the trigger.

  7:51 PM – An Apartment in the Central West End

  Nicole dropped the bowl of salad on the kitchen floor, the sound of it breaking joining the echoes from the crack of a rifle and the noise of a shattering window. I rushed into the kitchen.

  “Was that …?” started Nicole.

  I didn’t let her finish. I grabbed her wrist and pulled her back into the dining room. The shot had come from the alley, and since the kitchen windows were intact, the round must have hit one of the windows in her office or bedroom.

  “Are you OK?” I asked, quickly looking her up and down. I didn’t see anything except a few leaves of salad on her shoes.

  “Just a bit freaked,” she said.

  I took my phone from a pocket and gave it to her. “Stay here and call the police. I’m going to check on Laura.”

  Nicole grabbed my arm, her fingers tightening like a vice. Her normally large, brown eyes looked immense as she studied my face. She opened her mouth to say something then closed it. Her eyes went to the door to the kitchen. “Sam, please be careful. Keep your head down and stay behind the island.”

  “I will.”

  I entered the kitchen in a crouch, taking the route she’d suggested. As I reached the hall, Greenwood came stumbling out of Nicole’s office. A hand was raised to her forehead, blood seeping between her fingers and down across her face.

  “Nicole, call an ambulance,” I yelled down the hall. As I turned back to Greenwood, I saw her stumble, leaving a bloody handprint on the wall when she caught herself. I hurried to her, putting an arm around her waist to support some of her weight.

  “Let’s get into the bathroom,” I said. It was on the opposite side of the hall, giving us protection against any further shots. We started walking, but Greenwood was unstable, staggering away from me one moment and stumbling into me the next. Eventually, we got inside, and she dropped down onto the toilet.

  “Where are you hurt?”

  “My forehead,” she mumbled.

  Greenwood hung her head, perhaps dizzy from the trauma. I stooped and looked up into her face. She appeared alert, although her breathing was shallow and rapid. I wondered if she was about to go into shock, which could turn this bad situation deadly in an instant.

  Blood continued to ooze through her fingers, flowing down her hand until it reached the cuff of her white shirt. I got a washcloth, dampened it, and gently pulled her hand away while leaving her head bowed. The position should help, but if she became dizzier, I’d need to get her out of the bathroom. It was too small for her to lie down.

  I found the injury—a long, jagged cut near her hairline. I knew nothing about wounds from gunfire, but as I dabbed away the blood, it seemed too thin to be from a bullet. Perhaps it was made by a shard of flying glass? In any case, my first aid did little to staunch the flow. I started to ask if she felt up to pressing the cloth against the wound when I noticed her hand was also bleeding. I cleaned away that blood, finding another thin cut. That done, I asked her to hold the washcloth to her head.

  Nicole called from the dining room. I didn’t catch her exact words, but I heard enough to know she wanted to come back.

  “Stay there,” I shouted. “And stay away from the windows.”

  The pressure Greenwood was applying to her forehead was working. The flow was easing. I got another washcloth and started gently wiping the blood from her cheek. I heard a gasp from behind me and turned to see Nicole in the doorway. Somehow, I wasn’t surprised she was there.

  “I hope you kept your head down.”

  Nicole didn’t answer, turning to her guest instead. “Are you OK?”

  “Stunned, mostly.” Her voice was stronger.

  We all paused, hearing the wail of sirens approaching. Nicole took over the cleanup. “Do you think it’s safe to go back out front, be ready to open the door?”

  “Yeah, should be,” I said.

  I turned to go, but Nicole caught my arm. “Sam, be careful.” I nodded and left.

  8:33 PM – An Apartment in the Central West End

  The police arrived, followed closely by the emergency medical technicians, and Greenwood was taken to the hospital. Nicole and I sat helplessly in the living room watching and listening. One of the first patrolmen on the scene said something about “random gunfire.” That could make sense, I decided, if Greenwood’s injuries were from flying glass. And though still rattled by the incident, some of the tension drained from my body at the thought. It wasn’t an attempt on Greenwood; it was just kids playing with a gun.

  And that’s better?

  It was strange how careless gunfire had become a partial cure for my worries, but that’s where my mind was. Nicole, on the other hand, seemed to be getting little relief from the patrolman’s surmise. She was wringing a towel with a vigor that might soon turn it into a pulp of cotton fibers and lint.

  One of the patrolmen wanted a statement, so I obliged. There wasn’t much to tell. Neither of us had experienced anything beyond hearing the crack of the rifle and finding Greenwood dazed and bleeding. For her part, Nicole mostly sat fidgeting beside me, adding details or concurring when asked. Her constant motion was understandable; I was having a difficult time burning off the extra adrenaline dumped into my bloodstream as well.

  As the officer was finishing his report, answering my unspoken plea to write faster so I could comfort Nicole, a detective entered the apartment. He nodded to the man taking our statement but continued to the back of the apartment without a word. When he returned to the kitchen, I could hear him through the open door. I couldn’t make out every word, but the phrase “shooter on the fire escape” came through clearly enough. A chill ran through my body as if the temperature of the room had changed rather than only the implications of the shot.

  Nicole must have heard too; she shuddered on the couch beside me. I placed a hand on hers, and she turned to me. Nicole had never been one for public displays of emotion, but her eyes were filled with so much pain and uncertainty that I pulled her close in an embrace. She returned the hug, pulling me tightly to her body. Either the patrolman heard the detective too, or he sensed the mood. He nodded to me quietly before standing and going into the kitchen.

  The detective came into the living/dining room, introduced himself, and told us what we already knew—he believed the shot might have been an attempt on Greenwood’s life. Then, he told us what was going to happen. A second detective was on his way. A crime scene investigation unit would
arrive momentarily. They would need at least a couple of hours to process the area, with the worst case being that Nicole would have to leave her apartment for a day or two. And, they needed another statement from us, this time separately.

  The second detective arrived. He and Nicole went into the kitchen. The first asked me to stay in the living room while he placed “a couple of phone calls.”

  I could see Nicole in the kitchen through the still-propped-open door, although I could hear little over the growing hubbub of people coming and going. Her discussion with the detective was going haltingly. Each time he was distracted by a question or call, I’d see her get up to clean the floor of the broken bowl and salad. And each time she was called back for more, she’d frown. Sure, the broken bowl was an unsightly mess, but it paled to insignificance when compared to the shattered window in her office, the pool of blood there and in the bathroom, and the bloody handprints everywhere in between. It was, however, something positive she could do while she was prevented from doing more.

  The first detective returned from his calls. He started with much the same questions as the patrolman. When did Greenwood arrive? Did you talk before dinner? Where? How long? And so on. He spent more time recreating the timeline than it had taken to live it. And then, the questioning changed. Who knew Greenwood would be here? Had I seen anyone outside, either at the office or when I arrived? Did I have any enemies? That one caught me by surprise until I realized that with her hair color and height, mistaking Greenwood for me was more likely than mistaking her for Nicole.

  Around 11:30, the police finished taking measurements, samples, and photographs. They’d strung crime scene tape in front of the wall where the bullet had lodged but had given us access to the rest of Nicole’s apartment.

  The door had hardly closed from the police departing when the building’s superintendent knocked. I wasn’t sure if I was impressed or concerned, but he was exceptionally well prepared for this eventuality. He had everything we needed: a piece of plywood the exact size of the broken window already pre-drilled, screws to attach it, disposable rubber gloves, and a bottle of disinfectant so strong that I was sure the fumes would kill germs in the next unit.