Mirror Image

by Dennis Palumbo

  As Casey turned away, a change came over Stills. His eyes widened in a fixed stare. Sweat beaded his forehead. The man was suddenly terrified.

  Seemingly unmindful of this, Casey casually pulled out the chair on her end of the table and sat down.

  “Now, are you sure about what you’ve just told me?” she asked him, her voice suddenly three degrees warmer.

  Stills was having a hard time making his mouth work.

  “What was that, Doolie? I didn’t quite catch it.”

  “I said,” Doolie stammered, swallowing hard, “I said I’d maybe like to revise my statement.”

  “What do you mean? Revise it how?”

  “Change it, okay? I wanna change my story. I mean, that’s all it is, anyway. Just a story. None of it’s true.”

  “I’m confused, Doolie,” Casey said. “Now you’re saying you didn’t see Arnie Flodine the night of the murder?”

  “No, I didn’t!” His voice rose, thick with fear. “I didn’t see nothin’! I wasn’t even near Fifth that night. I spent the whole time with T-Ball. I swear it.”

  For the first time, someone on our side of the viewing glass spoke up.

  “What the fuck—?” It was Harry Polk.

  Biegler shook his head. “I knew this was too easy.”

  “Will you all be quiet, please?” Sinclair snapped.

  Inside, Casey was leaning back in her seat. “You’re going to have to explain this to me, Doolie.”

  He spread his hands. “Can’tcha just forget I ever said anything? Just forget the whole thing?”

  “Why would I do that? You’ve caused the police a lot of trouble. We apprehended a suspect, because of you.”

  “Look, I admit I fucked up. What do I gotta do, pay a fine?” He tried smiling at her, but it didn’t take.

  “Why did you lie about Flodine? Unless…” She sat forward. “You know him, don’t you?”

  He nodded, miserable. “Fuck yeah, I know him. We did some time together a year or so back, and he was always pushin’ me around, takin’ my shit. Look!”

  He twisted in his chair, to let his jacket sleeve fall off his shoulder. “See this arm? Fucker broke it in two places. They patched me up, but it still don’t work right. Hurts like hell, too.”

  “So when you heard about the murder—”

  “I swore I’d always get back at that prick. I mean, it’s all I talked about once I got out. Then last night—I was coked outta my mind and goin’ on and on about Flodine, and T-Ball, he says, ‘You’re always talkin’ about fucking over this guy, but you don’t got the stones to do it,’ and I says, ‘Oh, yeah, man? Oh yeah?’”

  “So that’s when you got the brilliant idea of pinning this unsolved murder on Flodine.”

  Stills sniffed. “It was all over the news. You were still lookin’ for the guy. I figured, now’s my chance.”

  Casey stood up, palms out flat on the table. “Well, you figured wrong. Flodine has a solid alibi for the night of the murder. We’ll have to cut him loose.”

  “Sure, I get that,” Stills said, his face the picture of contrition. “There’s just one thing.”

  He reached for the pencil again, started tapping it on the table. “I mean, does Flodine know who fingered him? Like, does he know it was me? That’s all I’m askin’ here.”

  “You know how it is, Doolie.” Casey walked in our direction, toward the door. “Word gets around.”

  Stills’ face froze. “But…but if he finds out—”

  Casey stood at the door and looked at him. “You want my advice? Make yourself scarce.” A tight smile. “Oh, and you can keep the pencil, Doolie. We’ve got lots of them.”

  Doolie Stills sat stricken, wide-eyed and wordless. A sudden odor told us he’d lost control of his sphincter.

  “Aw, hell,” Polk said.

  As Casey came out of the Box, Biegler nodded to the uniformed cop. “Go on in and process him outta here, before he stinks up the whole place.”

  The cop wasn’t too happy about this assignment, but he nodded and went into the holding room.

  Casey joined the rest of us, straightening the collar of her blouse.

  “Good work,” Sinclair said to her.

  “Thanks, but this just puts us back where we started.”

  Casey’s eyes found mine. “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be holed up somewhere, playing cards with Sgt. Polk?”

  I smiled. “I talked my way out of it.”

  Polk shot me a look. But before he could say anything, another uniformed cop came through the entry door.

  “Sorry to interrupt, sirs,” he said. “But Dr. Rinaldi here has a phone call. Guy says it’s an emergency.”

  Instinctively, I touched my jacket pocket. After my conversation with Phil Camden, I’d shut off my cell phone.

  “Somebody called you here?” Biegler growled.

  “Well, it’s where I’ve been spending most of my time lately,” I answered. I turned to the cop. “Who is it?”

  “Says his name’s Art Tatum.”

  It was Noah.

  “Oh, yeah,” I said gravely. “Good thing you tracked me down.” I turned to Sinclair. “A patient. In crisis.”

  The DA waved a hand. “I don’t care who it is. If you need to talk to this guy, do it. Just don’t leave the building without informing either Sergeant Polk or Detective Lowrey. Are we clear, Doctor?”

  “Crystal.”

  After sending a glance in Casey’s direction, I followed the cop back out through the door.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The desk sergeant punched a blinking light on his phone cradle, then gestured toward the men’s room.

  “Extension’s over there, you want some privacy, Doc.”

  “Thanks.” I went over to the extension phone set on a small table, sequestered away from the main flow of lobby traffic. I picked up the receiver.

  “Art Tatum?” I laughed. “Not on your best day.”

  “Hey, you figured out it was me,” Noah said.

  “Wasn’t too hard.”

  “I was gonna say Bill Evans, but somehow that didn’t sound like me. Ya know what I mean?”

  “I’m just glad you got back to me. It’s important.”

  “You’re a hard dude to find, man. I called your cell, your office, your house. Then it occurs to me the cops probably got you under wraps, since there’s some homicidal maniac out there tryin’ to punch your ticket. So I tried there. Glad I reached you while you still got a pulse.”

  “Great. Listen, Noah, remember that key to my office I gave you a couple years back? In case you ever needed a place to crash?”

  “You gave me a key? To your office? Hey, man, thanks.”

  “Stay with me here, okay? Do you still have it?”

  “I’m still tryin’ to remember you givin’ it to me.”

  “Look, ask Charlene. Maybe you gave it to her, for safekeeping. Wait, let me ask her. Is she there?”

  “No, she’s down at the bar. Workaholic, that chick.”

  “Then where are you calling me from?”

  “Let me look around.” There was a long pause. “Oh, yeah. Lobby of the Penn Hotel. One of them fancy phone booths, with the cushioned seats and the little overhead lights. I just love makin’ calls from in here.”

  “Noah, the Penn Hotel is miles away from the bar. How’d you get there? You take a bus?”

  “I think I walked. I like walkin’ in the rain. Me and the Ronnettes.” He gave a short, high laugh. “Remember that tune? Just mainstream pop, but at least it spoke from the heart. Not like that soulless shit nowadays…”

  “You walked?” Something was wrong. Something in his voice was setting off my internal alarm bells.

  “By the way,” Noah went on, “they got a real loser playin’ piano here in the lobby. Sucks on ice, this guy.”

  I heard his phone booth door open. “Hey, somebody call the Music Police!” he shouted. “Guy in a tux is killin’ Duke Ellington.”

  I could hear an embarr
assed murmur of voices, under another shrill laugh. Then the door clicked shut again.

  “Jesus, Noah, hotel security’s going to toss your ass if you don’t chill out.”

  “What are you, my mother?”

  I kept my voice even. “Look, Dr. Mendors told me she adjusted your meds. You’re not screwing around with the dosage or anything?”

  “Man, I’m surprised at you. Hell, no. Honest.”

  “Okay, okay. But, listen to me now. I want you to call Charlene and tell her where you are so she can pick you up. And don’t forget to ask her about the key, all right?”

  “What key?”

  “Okay, look, I’ll call her myself, right now. Just do me a favor and stay where you are. Capice?”

  “Okay, but only since you asked nicely.”

  I hung up, then called Charlene on my cell.

  “Noah’s Ark,” she answered. “Charlene speaking.”

  I explained why I was calling.

  “No, he never gave me a key,” she said wearily. “Never mentioned one. But I’m sure glad you found him.”

  “Well, he sort of found me. But, listen, I got a weird vibe from him over the phone. I think he’s in trouble.”

  “Funny, I thought he was actin’ strange myself this morning, but with Noah it’s kinda hard to tell—”

  “He’s not messing with his meds, is he?”

  “I don’t think so. But I’ll grill him when he gets home.” Her voice softened. “And thanks, Doc. I’ll send a cab over to the Penn for him when we hang up.”

  “There’s a special place in heaven for you, Charlene.”

  Her laugh was rueful. “If there ain’t, there oughtta be.” We hung up.

  Before I left, I put in a call to Paul Atwood, the therapist covering for me, just to make sure none of my regular patients were in crisis. Thankfully, things were relatively quiet on that front.

  I made my way across the lobby again. I was feeling the effects of another sleepless night, so I took a detour to the coffee lounge, two flights down to the basement.

  The place was well-lit but empty. Plastic tables and chairs, vending machines. I put some coins in a slot, got black coffee in a Styrofoam cup, and pulled up a chair.

  The Metro section of that day’s Post-Gazette had been left on the table. The lead story was a recap of the Handyman’s current Death Row appeal, with numerous quotes from the serial killer’s attorney. He seemed quite confident that his client’s scheduled execution would be stayed once again. “Troy David Dowd’s mental competency, and thus his culpability, remains the cornerstone of our argument,” the lawyer told reporters.

  There was also a story about the upcoming movie based on Dowd’s crimes. In addition to De Niro, Susan Sarandon had just been signed to play Sylvia Lange, the woman who’d managed to escape with her life. And my first patient after going back to work following Barbara’s death.

  I blew steam off the rim of my cup. Sylvia’s recovery from her ordeal had been so slow, so torturous. What the hell was this new film going to do to her? Having the most horrific events of her life replayed as entertainment. Millions of people knowing her story. Or at least the Hollywood version of it.

  The anger rose in my chest as I kept reading the article. Making a movie about Dowd was nothing less than a second violation of his victims and their families. Not to mention the real possibility of retraumatization for Sylvia and the other survivor, that 12-year-old boy whose name has thankfully never been revealed.

  I made a mental note to phone Sylvia, see how she was doing. I wanted to make sure she had a support system in place—shrinks, family, and friends. She’d need it, now that the publicity surrounding the film was growing. And it was only going to get worse. Interviews with the director and cast on Entertainment Tonight. Getting their “take” on the story. Christ!

  I folded up the paper and tossed it into a trash can.

  “What’s the matter, Danny? They spell your name wrong or something?”

  The voice caught me off guard. I turned in my seat.

  It was Casey, leaning against the open door. She had her jacket thrown over one shoulder, her long silken legs crossed at the ankle. It was a pose, the studied casualness, the confidence with which she held her body.

  She gave her audience a long look, then pushed off from the door and walked to my table. I stood up and pulled out a chair for her.

  “I was hoping I’d see you again today,” I said.

  “I know.”

  “No, that wasn’t what I meant. I mean, well, yes, I wanted to see you—but I was talking about something else.”

  She leaned back, enjoying this. That knowing smile.

  I gave her one right back. “Anyway, where do things stand now?” I sipped the hot, black coffee, giving no sign that I’d just scalded my tongue. Mr. Smooth.

  “Let me see,” she said easily. “There’s still somebody out there looking to kill you. Biegler’s people haven’t got squat, and Leland says the mayor is demanding an arrest in twenty-four hours. Wants every available cop on the case.”

  “This all come out of that meeting with Wingfield this morning?”

  “According to Lee, it wasn’t exactly a meeting. More like an audience with the Pope. A really pissed-off pope.”

  “Bad combination: unlimited wealth and a thirst for revenge. The man wants his son’s killer.”

  “Or he wants blood.” Her lips tightened. “The mayor’s. Yours. Mine. Anybody’s.”

  We grew silent. I watched the coffee cool in my cup. When I felt her eyes on me, I glanced up.

  “Look, about you and Sinclair…”

  Her gaze didn’t waver. “That’s…over. Now.”

  I shook my head. “None of my business, but—”

  She shrugged. “He’s got a wife and kids. And political ambitions. What did I expect?”

  Her beautiful face softened, showing faint signs of fatigue under the alabaster skin. Strain at the edge of her eyes.

  “You know the worst part?” she went on. “My pride. I hate being reduced to some kind of cultural stereotype. You know, female protégée, older male mentor. So…retro. So damn conventional.”

  “Conventional? I don’t think that’s something you have to worry about.”

  A wry smile. “You’re just saying that ’cause you want to jump me.”

  My embarrassed look made her laugh suddenly. Her eyes became animated again.

  “Hey,” she said, “weren’t you going to ask me about something?”

  “Yeah. Doolie Stills…”

  “Too bad that didn’t pan out. We could’ve used a break.”

  “But how’d you get the truth out of him? You did something, I know it. When you picked up his pencil. I thought I saw you whisper in his ear as you were getting up.”

  “I did. One word. I said, ‘Harpoon.’” She flicked a piece of lint from her sleeve. “Doolie’s a smart guy. I knew he’d get the message. I figured he’d tell me the truth after that.”

  “Harpoon?”

  “Yeah. I was letting him know I’d see to it that his parole violation landed him in a cell with Cecil ‘Harpoon’ Washington, ex-NFL pick, former bouncer with two manslaughter convictions, and legendary prison stud. Harpoon’s always looking for a new bitch, and Doolie knows he’s just his type: white, skinny, and verbal. He could tell Harpoon lots of street stories during those long prison nights. Between getting ten stiff inches up the ass on an hourly basis. The word is, Harpoon’s got a big appetite, and doesn’t mind if things get a little rough. His last two pets ended up in surgery.”

  I must have stared. Casey smiled.

  “It worked, didn’t it?” But her smile tightened a bit at the corners. First time I’d ever seen her defensive.

  “Sinclair’s right,” I said at last. “You’re good.”

  “Meaning what?” Her voice grew an edge.

  “Nothing…” Suddenly, the air between us thickened, coagulated like blood.

  “You got a problem with it?”
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  I stared, at a loss. “Hell, no—”

  “You do, don’t you?”

  “I said, no…”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I mean, who the fuck are you?”

  Something was happening, a sea-change, an eruption of raw feeling. Like I was looking at a different person.

  I spread my hands. “Look, I was just—”

  But Casey was livid, leaning across the table. Face flushed as though it had been slapped.

  “I do what I have to do,” she said. “And I like it. Love it. So go fuck yourself.”

  “Dammit, I’m not—”

  She reached under the table, eyes still holding mine, and brought up her hand, fingertips glistening.

  “See? Just talking about it gets me wet.”

  She stood then, and reached across the table, and streaked the side of my face with her juices.

  And bolted out of the room.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  I never knew my mother when she didn’t have to be fed through a tube. She lay in her hospital bed, dying as beautifully as the Irish saint my father thought her to be, unmindful as I squeezed her hand.

  I was about four, I think. Maybe three. I just remember being small, feeling small, the child-flesh of my forearm indented by the cool bed railing as it rested there, reaching through for her cold fingers, as though to keep her from heaven, and me from hell.

  My father told me she’d been very sad for a long time, and the doctors had tried to help by putting lightning into her brain, a cleansing electrical storm like the kind that used to wash away the smudged, sluggish air of Pittsburgh summers. But it had only made things worse.

  By the time I was five, I was motherless, and being raised alternately by my father, between shifts and binges, and my mother’s sister. Since her husband Frank worked in the produce yards off Penn Avenue, I ended up spending most of my teenage after-school hours working with him.

  Called “the Strip,” it was a world I knew well. As a child, I’d played along the railroad tracks that ran behind it. Later, I’d earn spending money unloading crates of lettuce, peppers, and tomatoes from the backs of trucks.

  I remember sweaty old men, skin dark and wrinkled as olives soaking in brine, shouting at each other over the static blare of Pirates games on transistor radios. Two-wheeled carts, piled high with produce, would bounce crazily over unused streetcar tracks imbedded in the cobblestone pavement.