Mirror Image

by Dennis Palumbo

I’d just made the turn onto Grandview when my cell rang. It was Harvey Blalock.

  “Hi,” he said carefully. “I just heard again from Wingfield’s people. About Phillip Camden. Seems he’s not improving.”

  “Yeah, I know. I saw him yesterday.”

  “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about him. But, shitty as it is to say so, at least it’s some good news as regards your case.”

  “I guess that’s one way to look at it.”

  Blalock paused. “If you want, we can talk tomorrow, Dan. It can wait.”

  “No, I’m listening.” I pulled over to the curb and put the car in park. I needed to concentrate on Harvey, not driving. “Go ahead.”

  “Well, I just got off the phone with Wingfield’s lead attorney, and they’re gearing up for war. Ya gotta love these Harvard Law types. They always do the gentlemanly thing and alert opposing counsel before cutting your balls off.”

  “Glad you’re entertained. What are we talking about here?”

  “For starters, expert depositions on current, approved clinical practices, as opposed to your treatment of Kevin. Character witnesses attesting to your maverick nature, your flouting of convention, and other traits deemed romantic and courageous in popular culture, but which in fact are the hallmarks of a disaffected and grandiose rebel.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Hey, that isn’t my opinion. I’m just reading what’s in front of me. There’s more, but—”

  “Harvey, do me a favor. Just tell me what you think. Gut check.”

  “Gut check? I think we’re in deep shit. For instance, I understand from Mr. Harvard Law that they’re going to take a hammer to your credibility, your general judgment. Like your involvement in Richie Ellner’s suicide. They’re even talking about getting Senator Ellner involved…”

  “But he barely saw his son these past few years,” I said. “Richie was an embarrassment, a political liability.”

  “Maybe at one time. Now he’s fodder for the Senator’s grief and righteous indignation. Face it, the voters love suffering. They think it builds character. Or something.”

  He cleared his throat. “Anyway, the frontal assault remains focused on Kevin Wingfield. And as soon as they find another heavyweight to replace Dr. Camden—”

  “I get the picture.” I let out a breath.

  “Didn’t mean to hit you with all that at once,” he said at last. “But you’re a tough man to get hold of.”

  “Sorry about that. And Harvey—thanks. I appreciate everything you’re doing.”

  He gave a throaty laugh. “Hell, I’m just getting warmed up. You hang in there, okay?”

  ***

  At last I pulled into my driveway. I’d circled the block twice, checking for news crews, but hadn’t seen anyone. It appeared the siege had ended. At least for now.

  The Sunday Post-Gazette lay on the front porch. A photo of Troy David Dowd accompanied another story about his latest appeal.

  Poor Sylvia, I thought. Just what she needs to read with her morning coffee. The nightmare that won’t go away. Wait’ll it’s playing down the street at the Cineplex.

  I slipped the paper under my arm and put the key in the lock.

  That’s when I noticed the broken pane of the front window, a few feet to my left. Shielded from the street by a thick hedge, the bottom half of the glass was gone. Tiny shards dotted the sill.

  Someone was in the house.

  Chapter Fifty

  I wasn’t thinking. Later, I realized I should’ve immediately called the police.

  Instead, I swung open the front door and stepped inside. The house was as dim as a cave. Shapes stood in shadow as I crept in, carefully laying the newspaper and my ring of keys down on the floor.

  I decided against turning on the lights, moving instead by feel and memory through the living room, then into the hall. The open door to the kitchen was just ahead. No lights on in there, either.

  Then I heard it. The music.

  A throbbing, muffled sound. As though very loud, but coming from far away.

  No. Beneath me. The basement.

  Slowly, guiding myself along the wall, I moved down toward the kitchen. Paused, straining to hear. Nothing but the insistent pounding of the music. Louder now.

  I took another step. Something made me glance into the kitchen. Curtains drawn against the bay window, the room was criss-crossed with shadows.

  But I could just make out something. There, on the floor. The silverware drawer, upended, pulled all the way out of the cabinet. Contents scattered on the cold tile. Forks. Spoons. But no knives.

  All the knives were missing.

  I kept moving toward the two doors at the end of the hall. One led to the garage. The other to the basement.

  That was the one I was supposed to open. The one with the butcher knife sticking out of the wood, just above the door knob.

  I gripped the knife by its handle and pulled it out.

  Heart pounding, I reached with my free hand for the knob and pulled open the door—

  Ear-splitting music flooded from the basement below. Discordant, pulsating sounds, all reverb and bass. Some kind of electronic music, dialed up to maximum distortion.

  Knife at the ready, I started down the stairs. The noise level rose with each descending step. Piercing. Maddening.

  The room below me was pitch black, a concrete hell of deafening sound and windowless darkness. At the bottom step, I could make out my free weights stacked in a corner. The heavy bag, like a hanging man, swayed black against a deeper blackness.

  Then, at the far end of the room, a sliver of light.

  The door of the furnace room. Closed. Light on inside. He was there.

  I stretched out my hand, feeling for the light switch. The overheads. Somewhere about—

  Here! I flipped it on, flooding the basement with light. I blinked in the sudden brightness, then whirled toward the torturous sounds.

  A large boom-box sat on the floor near the wall. Twin insect-eyed speakers vibrated from the din. I kicked the plug from the wall outlet.

  The sudden silence was like a sharp blow. Shaking it off, I rushed to the furnace door.

  It was locked. Its broad, wood-paneled front was impaled by a dozen different knives. Long, serrated blades. Short, wide ones. All stabbed into the door with tremendous strength. A long vertical line of knives, intersected a third of the way from the top by a horizontal one. A cross.

  Then I knew.

  “No!” I shouted, throwing down my knife.

  I kicked hard, twice, at the door. The hinges buckled. I stepped back, hurled myself at the wood. It flew open.

  Noah Frye, wild-eyed, was backed against the upright furnace in the cramped, airless room. A large carving knife filled both hands, its deadly tip pressed against the base of his own throat.

  “My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?” he cried, sinking the point of the knife into his neck.

  “Noah!”

  I lunged and grabbed his huge fists where they were molded to the knife handle. With all my strength, I dragged the knife away from his throat, now oozing blood.

  Noah fought like a man possessed. We struggled furiously, hands locked, in the small, heat-baked room, banging against the cinder block walls. His blood smearing my face.

  Finally, I hooked one of my legs behind him, and, shifting my weight, sent us both tumbling to the floor. I landed on top, knocking the wind out of him.

  It was all I needed. I drove our clasped hands against the side of the furnace, knocking his knife free.

  With a howl of rage, Noah tried to push me off, but I’d anchored myself between the furnace and the near wall. In such close quarters, a big man is at a disadvantage. He was pinned. It was over.

  Faces inches apart, he stared up at me with frantic, livid eyes. His hair was matted with sweat, a tangled thatch.

  I saw the blood bubbling from his throat. Quickly, I pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it, still folded, against the oozing wound
.

  We stayed that way for a couple minutes, until I felt the tension slacken in his body, and saw a weary softness tinge his features. Tears filled in his eyes.

  “I’ve got to get to a phone, Noah.” I took one of his hands, placed it on the handkerchief, then covered it with mine. “Keep pressing it here, okay?”

  He gazed up, uncomprehending.

  “You’re not going to die, man,” I growled.

  The tears rolled down his coarse-stubbled cheeks.

  “Dammit, Noah, I’m not going to let you bleed to death in my basement. So wipe that stupid, zombie-ass look off your face and get with the program here. Understand?”

  I searched his ravaged, stricken face.

  Then I felt the slightest movement in his hand beneath mine…as he began pressing the blood-soaked handkerchief down on his wound.

  Chapter Fifty-one

  The ER doc looked younger than the ones on Grey’s Anatomy as he came out of the surgical unit, his face a mixture of fatigue and petulance. That’s the downside of needing urgent care on a Sunday morning. You get first-year residents who feel sorry for themselves. Inexperience and attitude. A bad combo.

  I got up from the waiting area couch and joined him near the reception desk, where Harry Polk had lounged for the past hour making eyes at the young nurse’s aide.

  “Guy gonna make it?” Polk asked the doctor absently.

  The resident, whose name tag read “Dr. Olsen,” nodded. “Mr. Frye will be fine. We just have to repair his self-administered tracheotomy, and patch up some defensive bruises.” Olsen looked askance at me. “You guys must’ve really mixed it up, since you don’t look so good yourself. I can only assume you felt it necessary.”

  “You had to be there,” I said. “What about the blood-and-urine work I wanted? And the stomach contents.”

  “I have the lab on it,” Olsen replied. “And we pumped his stomach. Mr. Frye’s psychiatric history certainly warrants these measures. But I’ll feel better once I’ve talked to his attending psychopharmacologist.”

  “I called Dr. Mendors,” I said. “She’s on her way.”

  “No rush. Mr. Frye will be out for a few hours. My guess is, the guy’s a walking medicine cabinet. Sooner or later, the system breaks down.”

  I frowned. “Any other thoughts?”

  “Well…” He drew me away from reception. Over my shoulder, I saw Polk shrug and look at his shoes.

  “You know,” Olsen said importantly, “I did six months’ psych rotation, and I know that sometimes a suicide attempt is a gesture of defiance, or even hostility.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Look at the facts. Mr. Frye came to your house to kill himself. Waiting for you to show up, so that he could do the act right in front of you. The ultimate ‘fuck you’ to the one witnessing the death. It’s in the literature.”

  I folded my arms and glared at him. I wanted to say something about MD’s and their pathetic “six months’ pysch rotations,” after which they routinely feel qualified to render psychological diagnoses for the rest of their careers. I also resented Olsen’s patronizing tone, and the fact that he didn’t look old enough to shave.

  But I didn’t say anything. Because he was right. At least on paper. I’d been thinking along those same lines myself during the drive down here to Pittsburgh Memorial, following behind the ambulance.

  “Just food for thought,” Olsen added, before heading back over to reception. He and Polk passed each other in the hall as the sergeant strolled up to me.

  “What was that all about?” Polk said, sucking on a toothpick. “Or were you docs using the big words?”

  “Sorry, Harry. Look, I’m going to wait here for Nancy Mendors. You need anything more from me?”

  “The usual paperwork. You oughtta be an old hand at filling out incident reports by now.” Polk sniffed loudly. “Speakin’ of which, anybody try to kill you lately?”

  “Not lately. But, thanks. I’d forgotten to worry about it for a while.”

  “Just thought I’d ask.” He walked off.

  ***

  “Danny?”

  It wasn’t Nancy’s voice, calling from the end of the hall. Instead, Angie Villanova walked briskly toward me. Within moments, I was wrapped in the familiar—and always slightly insistent—warmth of her embrace.

  “Soon as I heard,” she said in her clipped, brassy voice, “I had to come down to offer moral support.”

  She led us back to the couch. “Jesus, what you’ve gone through…” A thin-lipped smile. “’Course, it hasn’t been all bad for you. Not from what I hear.”

  “Casey?”

  “City Hall’s a tight little circle, Danny. People talk. In her defense, I’d say she’s trading up. I mean, sure, Sinclair’s a prize fish, but he’s a cold one.”

  “Hey, what is it with you and Casey? You seem to frost over yourself every time you see her.”

  Angie tapped her chin dramatically. “Now let me see. She’s young and beautiful. Will probably be DA herself one day. And feels entitled to all of it.” She gave me a look. “Have I left anything out?”

  “Come on, you’ve done pretty well yourself, Angie.”

  “I guess. Sure.” She lowered her eyes. “But she’s…”

  “This isn’t about her.”

  “I know. Maybe I just need to see her as an ambitious bitch so I’ll feel better. Still, she was the ADA who referred Kevin to me, after he’d been questioned that night he was robbed. That’s why I called you in. So she must have a heart somewhere under that firstclass rack.”

  Angie flashed me a semi-lewd grin, but it didn’t stick. She aimed her eyes at the floor again. I waited.

  “It’s just…I mean, with Sonny and me—It’s not so great, ya know? And now, with the kids gone…”

  She stopped suddenly and climbed to her feet, clutching her jacket around her as if it were a blanket.

  “Aw, the hell with it. But sometimes…” A rueful look. “Sometimes, it’s hard to watch the Caseys of this world. Now just forget I said anything. Okay?”

  “Will do. Thanks for coming by, Angie.”

  “Hey, we’re family. It’s in the rules.”

  A clattering of heels announced another visitor. Nancy Mendors wore jeans under a voluminous sweater, and black boots that shone in the corridor lights. As we hugged, I smelled a subtle perfume.

  I smiled to myself. No longer being thought a murder suspect does a lot for a person’s mood.

  Chapter Fifty-two

  “She seems nice.” Nancy opened the window on her side of the car. We were driving out of town, toward Penn Hills. And Ten Oaks.

  “Angie?” I smiled. “She’s something. Part Old World Italian, part feminist. Depends on when you catch her.”

  Angie had hung around at the hospital another hour, while Nancy visited Noah and consulted with Dr. Olsen about their mutual patient. As we said good-bye, Angie repeated her objections to my refusing police protection. As I’d expected. As she expected, I wouldn’t budge.

  Back in the ER, I learned that Noah had been moved to Intensive Care. He was still sedated when I joined Nancy at his bedside. Bandages circled his neck like a collar.

  “We got lucky,” was all she’d said.

  Now, as a blustery wind hurried the clouds overhead, Nancy leaned back against the headrest.

  “My lawyer says the DA had to drop the charges,” she said wearily. “With the evidence against Elaine Garman, Puzzini could argue that there are two credible suspects, thus guaranteeing reasonable doubt.”

  She reached over to touch my forearm as I drove. “I owe you a lot, Danny. I know that.”

  “Wait’ll you get my bill.”

  “Tough guy.” She took her hand away.

  I changed the subject. “How’d it go with Dr. Olsen?”

  “You mean, the annoyingly young Dr. Olsen? Okay, I guess. He’s competent enough.”

  “Did he share his theory about Noah’s suicide attempt? I’ve been wondering about it
myself.”

  “I knew you had. But he’s wrong. The way I see it, no matter what was going on in Noah’s mind, some part of him reached out to you. Saw you as his friend, his protector.”

  “Maybe…”

  “Think about it. In the grip of a chaotic, delusional state, he managed to get himself to your house. To guide you to the basement with the music. To signal his suicidal intent by displaying his crucifixion obsession with the knives, outside the furnace room door. Then he waited in there, knife in his hands, until you broke the door down.”

  Her voice rose. “Jesus, Danny, he didn’t want you to witness his suicide. He wanted you to stop it!”

  We drove in silence for a minute. “I guess I like your version better. Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me. I happen to be right about this. I’ve known Noah as long as you have, and almost as well.”

  True enough. “Olsen say anything else?”

  “Just that when Noah comes to, he won’t be talking for a few days. Not with his throat injury.”

  “Charlene will probably appreciate the quiet.”

  Nancy peered out the window at the rush of rolling greenery. We were driving through residential Penn Hills, with its cluster of tree-shrouded cul-de-sacs.

  “God, I’m so worried about all this,” she said. “First Richie Ellner, now Noah…I mean, what’s going on?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m hoping we’ll find some answers at the clinic.” I made the turn onto the exit ramp.

  “Bullshit.” We exhanged looks. “I know what you’re thinking, Danny. Why we’re going to Ten Oaks. Richie and Noah had similar atypical psychotic episodes. And there’s only one thing linking the two of them. One person they have in common.” She took a breath. “Me.”

  ***

  Things were pretty quiet at the clinic. Sundays were when most of the patients were picked up by family members and taken out for brunch, or a walk. The few remaining patients were usually too depressed to leave their rooms, or else were on special watch. So other than a case manager and some orderlies, staff was at less than half-strength.