“I’m sick of this shit! I’ve served my time...paid my price. Now I gotta come in here and talk about my feelings with you. Screw this!” He walks toward the door.
“You’ve paid your price?” Dr. Ryan asks, annoyed, getting up out of her chair. “I was unaware you could put a price tag on a child’s innocence.”
Randall turns toward her, away from the door, his finger pointed accusingly in her direction. “You have been mindfucking me from the first session. You wanna fuck, Dr. Ryan?”
He moves threateningly close to her. She stands her ground, unwilling to be intimidated.
“I bet you have a price tag, don’t you Patricia? Or is it Patty?” He circles around behind her, uncomfortable with the eye contact she is maintaining. He runs his fingers through her hair and down the back of her neck. “Tell me, how much does it cost to get between your thighs?”
Dr. Ryan remains firm in both her stance and vocal presence, “Nice technique Randall. Attempting to assert your power to make me feel cheap and inferior.”
“Don’t try your quack shit on me. If you know me so well, you’d know better than to egg me on.” He grabs a handful of her hair, his face pressed against the side of her head, continuing menacingly into her ear, “If I was asserting my power, believe me, you’d know it. I’d have you pinned up against the wall with your skirt up around your neck...”
The office door swings open as Detective Gronkowski enters, a subpoena in hand, meant for Dr. Ryan, calling for a release of her records. Upon entering, the scene becomes quite apparent. Within milliseconds, Tony has Randall Barnes backed up against the wall by his shirt collar.
“Care to elaborate on what the hell I walked in on?” Tony probes Randall.
“Nothing, man, nothing. I...I was just talking with Dr. Ryan.”
Dr. Ryan approaches Tony, her hands rest encouragingly on his shoulders. “Really, it’s fine, Officer. Sometimes therapy sessions get a little heated.”
“Heated? Really.” Tony pulls Randall away from the wall, spinning toward the doorway. “I’m taking him down for prints.”
“No. That won’t be necessary,” Dr. Ryan says.
“I think it’s necessary.” Tony shoves against Randall. “Move!”
Dr. Ryan positions herself between them and the door. “He’s making good progress with therapy. The only thing another arrest would do is set him back even more. Let him go, Officer.”
“Detective,” Tony corrects her on her second reference to him as Officer. “Are you sure, lady?”
“Doctor,” she corrects him. Touché. Nodding her head, she extends her hand toward the door.
Tony heaves Randall’s frame out of Dr. Ryan’s office. Randall spins, a sinister grin forming on his mouth. He takes off running down the hallway.
Dr. Ryan sits down at her desk, resting her forehead on her hand momentarily.
“You okay?” Tony asks.
Aware of the vulnerability in her body language, she quickly recovers, sitting up straight as a pin, reorganizing the already militaristic formation of her desk. “Yes. I am fine. Detective?” She rises, extending her hand to him.
“Gronkowski. Tony Gronkowski.” He meets her handshake firmly. “You know, Dr. Ryan,” he accentuates Doctor, acknowledging her previous declaration. “You really shouldn’t be alone with these creeps. Why aren’t their sessions supervised?”
“They open up more when it’s one on one,” she dismisses. “Gronkowski? You wouldn’t happen to be Detective DeLuca’s partner, would you?” She eyes him suspiciously.
He smiles, handing her the subpoena for release of her records. “I happen to be such a partner.”
She stands, her arms folded one over the other across her chest, refusing to take the paperwork.
Tony winks, dropping the forms to her desk. “Guess I should see myself out.”
IN THE MEANTIME, Detective DeLuca sits at her desk, covered in files. The phone rests on her shoulder. She’s got one on the line and one on hold. She sees Detective Gronkowski approaching, something mischievous and satisfied in his manner. Officer Marks waits for her on line two. She clicks over.
“DeLuca, you got company. A Father Trahern,” he informs.
“Father?” she questions, her wheels spinning. “Alright, send him back.”
“DeLuca, put one right here,” Tony says, bending at her desk offering up his cheek for a kiss.
Gina shrugs away from him, forcefully patting the side of his face. “Pull yourself together Gronkowski. Can’t you see I’m covered up here.”
“I’d like to cover you up,” he smirks. “Seriously, you are going to want to slip me the tongue. I just delivered Dr. Ryan a subpoena for release of all her records.”
“Hold it together, Frenchy,” she pipes back, referring to his aforementioned form of kissing. “We already have her records.”
“Now, they’ll be legal. Completely admissible in court.”
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you have it in for her,” Gina huffs, filing her paperwork.”
“A hunch, DeLuca. Got a feeling.” He inspects her eye, the bruise at the corner darkening. “Geez. You need to ice that thing again.”
She swats his hand away. “It’s fine.” Looking up, she notices a priest walking toward them. “And I got a feeling, you better move. I don’t need any lightning striking my desk.”
Tony turns in the direction of her eyeline. “Ah, Christ,” Tony says nervously.
“That would be the man he works for.” Gina smiles as she stands beside him.
Tony fidgets, further tucking his department-issued black fatigue sweater into his black BDU’s. He turns to Gina, breathing into her face. “I had a few more drinks last night after I left your place. Can you smell anything?”
“You’re fine Gronkowski.” She grins. “Although a breath mint wouldn’t hurt.”
Tony holds his hand to his lips, breathing into it.
“Will you relax,” Gina mutters out the side of her mouth, elbowing him.
A short, yet stately man approaches, wearing black dress pants and a black button-down shirt with a white clerical collar inserted behind the top button. Gina extends her hand. Tony awkwardly puts his hands together palm to palm, bowing his head. Gina chokes back a giggle, as the priest takes her hand in his. “Gina DeLuca.”
“Father Trahern. St. Francis Catholic Church,” he introduces himself.
“This is my partner, Tony Gronkowski.” Gina pats Tony’s hands down from their prayer position. Motioning toward a chair across from her desk, she says, “Please. Make yourself comfortable.”
They all sit.
“Where is St. Francis?” Tony asks cordially.
“401 East Hampton Boulevard.”
“Huh?” Tony expels. “You keep some rough company over there,” he refers to the numerous pawnshops and its infamous reputation as Prostitution Central.
Father Trahern nods.
“So, ah. What brings you in?” Gina kicks things off.
“I find myself in a bit of a dilemma.” He sits forward in his chair, his body language displaying his internal discomfort. “As a priest, I am restricted in discussing confessions. However, when someone is in danger or poses a threat, I feel obliged to speak out.”
Tony lights up. “Did someone confess a murder or something?”
“Not exactly,” Father Trahern quickly interjects.
Gina eyeballs Tony, willing him mute. “Go on, Father.”
“Yesterday evening a man came in. He was asking questions about taking justice into his own hands. An eye for an eye, things of that persuasion. He wanted to know if people were forgiven if they took care of wrongdoers themselves.” Father Trahern clears his throat. “Pardon me for insinuating such, but he made mention that when the system fails, civilians are left with few alternatives.”
“Vigilante justice,” Tony declares.
Father Trahern nods. “I didn’t think much about it until I heard what happened over on MLK Boulevard this m
orning.”
Tony picks up the phone, speaking into the receiver. “Marks, get me everything you got on William Truly,” Tony refers to the father of the young woman they met on scene in the alleyway of MLK.
Father Trahern watches Tony intently. Gina comforts him. “Standard operating procedure.”
“Now, I don’t know who the man is. Confessionals are confidential. No names, no faces. I am unable to identify anyone,” he speaks nervously.
“You’ve done everything you can do, Father. More than enough. Now it’s up to us to put the pieces together,” Gina councils.
Tony hangs up the phone.
“But there’s more.” Father Trahern takes a deep breath. “He said the revolution is coming. That he’s not the only one who feels this way.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Then again, I’m not sure he’s even mentally stable. He talked of unreal things...a Vigilare, I believe was the word,” Father Trahern sifts through his memory bank. “And a green sparkling light...”
“Sparkling emerald green light,” Tony and Gina mouth the words together. The explanation Aubrey Raines gave them in the wee hours of the morning.
“Here Sarge,” Officer Marks interrupts, flopping a file down in front of Tony. He eyes the priest. “Interrogating men of the cloth now, DeLuca?” He smiles, nudging Tony. “Don’t mess with this one. She’s tough as nails, boss.” He winks at Gina, to which she responds in kind, as he walks off.
“Well, if that’s all, I must be going,” Father Trahern asks before standing from the desk.
Tony and Gina quickly follow his lead, rising to their feet, extending their hands once again. “Thank you, Father,” they speak in unison.
He ducks his head somewhere between a nod and a bow. “You kids come see me sometime, won’t you?”
Gina and Tony glance to one another, knowing full well they cannot fib to a priest. “We don’t get down to your area of town much,” Tony replies.
“But, if we do, we’ll stop in,” Gina adds politely. Tony elbows her in the side.
Father Trahern smiles and walks away.
“What’d you say that for?” Tony mutters.
“I didn’t want to be rude.”
“That’s just great, DeLuca. Now we have to.” He picks up the file from her desk.
“Like it would kill either one of us.”
“Obviously you’ve never been to confession.”
“Maybe not. Or maybe I’m not as bad as you.” She smiles.
“Now where’s the lightning going to strike?” He sidesteps her, purposefully giving her a wide berth, as he heads toward the exit.
“Where are you going?” she calls after him.
He spins around, holding the file against his chest. “Turns out William Truly’s an ex-Navy Seal. The training he must have,” Tony responds determinedly.
“Let him have this one, DeLuca,” she coaches herself, resisting the urge to accompany him, compete with him, rather. She sits down at her desk, her hands laced behind her neck, eyes on the ceiling, contemplating the hectic events of the day, wondering just exactly how it all ties together...if it ties together at all.
The sound of women’s heels clicking on the tiled floor interrupts her thoughts. A purposeful, flawless cadence, click-click-click-click. Oh great, she mumbles internally, while presenting a smile to Dr. Patricia Ryan who stands before her in a perfectly tailored designer pantsuit, accessorized with commanding four-inch heels. Her poise flawless. Gina refuses to speak first, causing Dr. Ryan to do the honors.
“May I?” she asks, gesturing toward the chair across from Gina.
Gina nods, her body stiffening from its previously relaxed state. She sits upright. “Help yourself.”
“Looks like this case has you covered up, Detective,” she refers to the mounds of files and paperwork on Gina’s desk.
Gina props her arms up on the bulky pile. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
Dr. Ryan scopes out her black eye. “Isn’t helping your beauty regimen, either.”
“What do you want, Dr. Ryan?”
“So much for pleasantries.” She smirks, meeting Gina’s ante, propping her arms up on the desk, her body language leaned forward and intense. “I know what you’re trying to do.”
“Do tell.” Gina leans into her further, looking around, and continues with a sarcastic whisper, “That way I’ll know too.”
“You and your boy. The department is coming down on you for answers. You need a fall guy for this case. Who better than the psychologist? ‘A bitter woman who is subjected to the vile scum that is a rapist. Poor lady, has to sit day in and day out listening to the truths of those pigs hearts, until she can’t take it anymore. Until she is forced to take justice into her own hands.’ Is that the way it’s going down? Does that about sum it up, Detective DeLuca?”
Gina crosses her hands one into the other. “Ya know, Dr. Ryan, sounds as though you could use some psychological counseling yourself. Does the word delusional mean anything to you?”
“You want to play word games? Okay. Incompetent. Buffoon. Washed-Up. Mean anything to you?”
“I’d love to sit here and exchange civilities, but I’m afraid I have to highly recommend you leave.” Gina’s tone has turned icy, her jaw twitches. She files some paperwork, slamming the drawer to her desk shut. “Now.”
Dr. Ryan smiles. “Well, Detective DeLuca, seems you have quite the temper. Tell me, how do you feel about rapists?”
Gina ignores her goading.
Dr. Ryan eyes her thoroughly, focusing on her neck. Her hand subconsciously following her train of thought, she reaches out pulling at the mock collar of Gina’s black fatigue sweater, revealing what appears to be rope burn. “Where were you last night?” she provokes.
With catlike swiftness, Gina places her hand over Dr. Ryan’s, pinpointing localized pressure to a reflex area, causing it to open unwillingly. Dr. Ryan winces, a smile forming on her lips. Gina loosens her grip. Dr. Ryan pulls her hand to her lap, massaging it briefly.
“Bodies coming up dead. No solid evidence. Guess work and speculation. Resorting to blaming your own. I feel a panic coming on, Detective DeLuca. Something tells me this city’s on the brink of a witch hunt.” Dr. Ryan stands, pushing her chair in. “Unless you have an affinity for fire, you may want to take care of that neck.” She winks furtively before turning to walk away.
Chapter 5
LATE NIGHT. ONE seedy apartment complex after another. This side of town is dark and dreary, even on the most luminous of days. Randall Barnes wears a hooded, bulky winter coat, his hands tucked deeply in the pockets of his ill-fitting jeans. He carries himself cautiously, his posture stooped, eyeing every corner and alleyway for what may be lurking there. He enters his apartment building, taking an old-school freight elevator to his unit. He holds his finger over the UP button. The elevator takes off, making it to the tenth floor before coming to a screeching halt.
“Goddammit,” he mutters, jamming the palm of his hand against the UP button.
“I see you, Randall.”
His head cranks upward in the direction of a muffled, distorted voice. Glaring fluorescent lights cloud his vision. He shades his frantic face, holding his arm above his forehead, searching for someone, anyone. “Who’s there?” He turns circles.
“How does it feel?” the voice echoes out of the speaker box in the elevator ceiling.
“What...what are you talking about? Who’s there!” The whites of his eyes protruding, his chest heaves up and down.
The voice laughs lightly. “Do you remember Rudy Sangino?”
Recognition displays itself in Randall’s expression. He says nothing.
“What’s the matter, Randall? Cat got your tongue?”
He panics, pushing and punching the UP button until it breaks loose. His breath heavy with adrenaline, his mouth is dry as cotton from the massive endorphins released by his sympathetic nervous system...fight or flight. He bangs on the door of the elevator.
“Five years ago, you dat
ed Rudy’s mother. She trusted you with her little boy. Dark black hair, big brown eyes, sweet smile...infectious laugh. Remember him?”
He backs up in the corner away from the speaker box, his arms clutching the walls of the elevator. “What do you want from me!”
“‘The one who sows to please his sinful nature, from that nature will reap destruction,’” the voice quotes from the Bible, Galatians 6:8. “It’s your turn to reap the fruits of your harvest, Randall.”
The elevator lights flicker as it begins to drop. Randall slides down the wall in the corner, hiding his head between his knees. With a hard jolt, the square box stops midair, clanking and clacking. The pulley above creaks, as it rocks back and forth.
Randall jumps up, raging and punching at the walls of the elevator and at the vent above him. “Let me out of here!” he screams, frightened to the point of tears.
“Not so fun, is it, Randall? Being caged up like an animal against your will. How do you think Rudy felt? Every time you picked him up from school and took him home to his mother’s apartment. Telling him the elevator was the Buddy Box. A secret place, only for you and him. How many times did he ask you to stop? When you touched him, made him touch you. Did you? Did you stop, Randall? You had no mercy for him. I have no mercy for you.”
“That was a long time ago. I’m a different person now. I swear I am. Please!” he cries, his hands pressed together in prayer formation. “Let me go!” He sobs.
Laughter purrs out of the speaker. “A leopard never changes its spots, Randall. You have a new girlfriend. With a fifteen-year-old daughter. You think I don’t know what you’re thinking every time you look at her? You swear you’re a different person. Let’s test psychological theory. Does rehabilitation work on the mind of a pedophile? A rapist? I’m not gambling with those odds.”
“Somebody help me!” He bangs frantically on the elevator door.
The flickering lights in the elevator go to black, complete darkness. Randall screams, pleading and begging for help.
“You guys make me sick. You push, and you prod, and you threaten...little kids, women...rob them of their lives, their sanity. But when pushed back, you scream and cry and flail about. Pathetic mother-fuckers.”
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