This gallery was dedicated to Edgar Allan Poe. I didn’t know enough about his work to identify most of the references. But there was a spooky Victorian house, crumbling and decayed, with a façade that looked like a human face-windows for eyes, et cetera. There were cobwebs and skeletons and, of course, the requisite graveyard, which was where I found Chief O’Bannon, crouched on the floor examining something in a tiny evidence baggie. He was surrounded by a swirl of activity, at least a dozen forensic technicians carefully combing the site with dusters and infrared lights. Chemical swabs. Tweezers. I wondered if they knew about me. For a brief moment, I thought about turning tail and running before I was spotted. But that’s not my style. That would be too sensible.
One of the techs approached O’Bannon. Tony Crenshaw. His specialty was dactylograms-that’s fingerprints to the rest of the world-but he was so good O’Bannon let him mess around in hair and fiber and pretty much anything else he wanted to do. I decided to keep my mouth shut for a moment-a novel idea, for me-and just listen.
“We’ve gone over the box pretty carefully, sir. Lots of good trace evidence.”
“From the victim?” O’Bannon asked in his usual gruff manner. “Or the killer?”
“Certainly from the victim,” Crenshaw said, wincing slightly. “But we’re hoping we’ll get something from the perp.”
“What have you found on the girl?”
“Hair. A few latent prints. Blood.”
“How much?”
“Not a lot. She does not appear to have been wounded in any significant way.”
“Anything else?”
Crenshaw hesitated a moment. “Sir… have you looked inside the box?”
“Briefly.”
“The inner side of the lid?”
“No. Why would I?”
“Claw marks.”
O’Bannon squinted. “Like a wild animal?”
“Like she was desperate to get out. The marks match the victim’s fingers, which you may have noticed were raw and bloody.”
His eyes narrowed. “You mean-she was still alive when-”
Crenshaw nodded grimly. They both looked as if they were about to be sick. I crept forward to get a look at the box they were talking about.
Just below O’Bannon, sticking out of the mock graveyard adjoining the haunted house, was an open coffin. With a very scratched inner lid.
“Christ,” O’Bannon said, wiping his brow. “What have we got now?”
Crenshaw shook his head and went back to work. O’Bannon did the same, but I could tell he was shaken.
A moment later, O’Bannon spotted me out of the corner of his eye. “What the hell are you doing here?”
I moved closer, hoping to avoid a scene. “Looking for you.”
“You should’ve been stopped on the other side of the tape.”
“C’mon. You know no one can stop me.”
He grunted unhappily.
“I wanted a few words with you, Chief. About my job.”
“Here’s your few words: you don’t have a job anymore.”
“Chief, I know I kind of screwed up.”
“That’s like saying Rush Limbaugh is kind of conservative.”
“Let me make it up to you. Reinstate me.”
“No can do.”
“Please.”
He started to speak, then stopped, glancing at all the people surrounding us. He grabbed my elbow and dragged me off to where we would be less conspicuous, then looked me straight in the eyes, glowering. “Do you have any idea what I’ve had to deal with this past week, while you were off taking your rest cure?”
“It was hardly-”
“I’ve been dealing with a family-a very rich and influential family-that doesn’t understand why one of Las Vegas ’s finest beat their oldest son to a pulp. It’s amazing how unreasonable people can be about things like that.”
“The kid was a jerk.”
“Oh, well, in that case, you should’ve just killed him.”
“Chief-”
“They’ve been threatening to sue the department, something that would decimate our already strained budget, not to mention create some incredibly bad press.”
“If there’s anything I can do-”
“But there isn’t. You created a big shitpile and left me to clean it up.”
I had to take a step back. O’Bannon was way angrier than I had anticipated. I’d never seen him like this, and I’d known him even longer than I’d been on the force. His left eye was twitching, for God’s sake, and the little purple veins on the bulb of his nose were throbbing.
“Of course, I’ve had to deal with the IA boys, who were all over us, calling for an investigation, policy changes. The usual bull. I tried to point out that you were not exactly acting ex cathedra when the incident occurred-although apparently in your drunken stupor you thought you were-but that didn’t placate them. They’re demanding prompt action, which is just IA code for ‘throw us a scapegoat.’ ”
“And I’m the scapegoat.”
“What’d you want me to do, pin it on the kid you creamed?”
“So you just fired me. While I was seeking medical attention.”
“Technically, I didn’t fire you. Internal Affairs did.”
“Bastards.”
“IA wanted to go the whole dishonorable-discharge route-put a permanent stain on your record that would guarantee you couldn’t get hired as a security guard at Piggly Wiggly. But I told them you were dealing with personal problems and had a chemical dependency and a lot of other crap, so they just fired you and left it at that.”
“Thanks so much.”
“Don’t thank me. I didn’t do it for you. I did it for your dad. He earned my loyalty.”
I can’t pretend that one didn’t kick me in the teeth pretty hard. My father was a cop. He and O’Bannon had been peers. I think they were even partners for a while.
“Chief-please. Listen to me.”
He pushed my hands away. “Pulaski, we’ve got nothing to say.”
“I need to work right now.”
“They’re hiring at McDonald’s.”
I gestured toward the coffin. “Looks like you’ve got a weirdie on your hands. Some kind of psycho?”
“God, I hope so. Maybe if we have a real case to work, IA will ease up on my former behaviorist’s drunken brawls.”
“You’re going to need someone with expertise.”
“I’ve promoted Granger to homicide detective.”
“Granger couldn’t detect his ass with both hands.”
O’Bannon leaned right into my face. “But you know what? When I get back to the office tonight, he’ll be sober.”
They found Helen. Just as he’d planned.
He was experiencing so many emotions at once, it took a moment to sort through them, to catalog them in his brain. There was a calm, yes, definitely a peace that came from knowing it had begun. His actions had begun to concatenate. He had taken the prophet’s nebulous meliorisms and converted them into a concrete plan of action. There was no chance of turning back, losing faith, rethinking the agenda. It was done, and because it was done, nothing would ever be the same.
But he couldn’t deny that he also felt a certain disappointment. Did anyone appreciate what he had conceived? Of course not. Who could appreciate how dramatically their lives would soon be changed, irrevocably? What had begun with Helen would soon affect every soul on this earthly plane. Helen, thy beauty is to me / Like those Nicean banks of yore…
He continued observing the busy proceedings in the ballroom; his security uniform gave him an entrance pass to anywhere he wanted to go. So much energy, but so little of any importance being accomplished. They would not be among those who understood, these poor functionaries charged with an impossible task. Not a one of them.
Except perhaps…
He watched the woman, the tall one, the one most of the others studiously avoided. What had she done to make herself such a pariah? he wondered. He sensed th
at he himself might be more welcome than she was at the moment. And yet there was something special about her, something he sensed, something he felt in his heart.
He watched as she approached the remains of dear Helen. The others had obsessed over her shaved head-still did, in fact. He could well imagine what they were thinking. Obsessive-compulsive, perhaps. Organized nonsocial, the shrinks would proclaim. Woman-hater, the chief was probably grumping. Fools. Children.
But not the tall one. Her eyes had already moved to the torn earlobes. Then the damaged fingernails. She knew instinctively what was important. What was telling.
She was strikingly attractive-tall, slender, athletic. Her face seemed drawn, strained, but her features were sound. And she had hair the color of his totem.
But there was more than that. Her eyes.
They were not the same. One was darker than the other. The left was a smoky gray, but the right was pure ebon.
He closed his eyes. Now all my hours are trances; / And all my nightly dreams / Are where thy dark eye glances…
Her presence here was no accident. She had been sent to him.
She was part of the plan.
Could it be she who would share his dream? That he might work in solitude no longer?
No, Ginny, I am not being unfaithful. But it’s hard to be alone always. So hard…
He opened his eyes and peered all the more intently at the woman. She was older than his usual; she could not be an offering. But why not a colleague? Poe had taken a young girl for his bride, but he had chosen an older woman for his companion, his true soul mate. Maria Clemm had been with him longer than his child wife, and in the end, she had been far more important to him.
He gazed longingly at her eyes again, wondering at their importance. And this time, he saw more than just their color. There was pain in those eyes. She had been hurt, this one. Scarred. She was still reeling. Trying to find her place in a world that had turned against her.
She needed him.
His shift was over. One quick stop at the dentist’s office, and then he could return his attentions to the new offering. Darling Annabel. But all the while he walked and later drove, he thought about the woman he had seen in the gallery, the one with the hair of the raven. How could he reach out to her? How could he make contact? A blessing such as this could not be ignored.
I tried to give the IOP classes a chance. I really did. I played Dr. Coutant’s game. But it didn’t take long to realize that this wasn’t going to be helpful.
As I predicted, it was mostly a big group therapy session run by two former users, neither of whom was remotely qualified to lead a big group therapy session. They’d probe with their little questions, trying to get people to talk. I was willfully noncooperative. I couldn’t relate to anything anyone was saying, most of which was incredibly stupid. As a trained psychologist, I resented seeing these nudniks turn therapy into Ted Mack’s Original Amateur Hour.
Okay, so I was the only one in the group with a college degree. I wasn’t going to be snotty about it. I’ve never had any trouble mixing with people from all walks of life. And I remembered Dr. Coutant saying that intellectuals rarely did well in these programs. Does that mean they’re only successful with dunderheads? People who buy into anything anyone tells them? At any rate, I had a hard time relating to the travails of guys working on the loading dock making eight bucks an hour who got hooked on street drugs mostly out of boredom because it wasn’t football season and there was nothing on television. And I detested hearing people whine about their personal problems, most of which didn’t amount to a hill of beans.
Of course, they had the AA twelve steps up on the wall. We all recited them in unison, then the group leader talked about each of them, even though the first eight or so all seemed to me to say pretty much the same thing over and over again. What is all this “admit that I am powerless” crap, anyway? Wouldn’t it be a better technique to admit that I am powerful, that I have the strength to overcome my troubles? I had a real problem with this sniveling approach to better health. I couldn’t help wondering if that was why AA and other similar programs didn’t have a better recovery rate.
We also had this guy, Herb, a little salt-and-pepper-haired man who fancied himself a motivational speaker. He had lots of standard routines, gimmicks, anecdotes, acronyms. I thought it was just a matter of time before he tried to sell us his three-hundred-dollar award-winning series of inspirational cassette tapes. He asked us how we were, starting with me.
“I’m fine,” I said succinctly.
“That’s not an answer.”
“I’m fine,” I repeated, a little louder.
“That’s not an answer. That’s a blow-off.” He pointed to a poster on the wall next to the twelve steps. It was basically a long list of adjectives. “Pick three that describe how you are.”
Okay. His class, we’ll play it his way. I chose three at random. “Optimistic. Determined. Reverent.”
Herb arched an eyebrow.
For the following hour, we were treated to this blustering rodomontade about Herb’s successful battle against demon rum. We were supposed to be inspired, but I couldn’t help thinking that if the guy had ever had one day like most of mine, he’d be back in the gutter with a dollar bottle of muscatel.
Then, for his next act, Herb wrote PEOPLE PLACES EVENTS on the chalkboard. “You abuse substances,” he announced, “because of one of these three things. Something a person in your past did. A place that hurt you. An event that traumatized you.” He used examples from his own life, so we got to hear about how his mother threw plates at him when he was six and how his drunken daddy left when he was nine and how he got busted up in ’Nam. And oh yeah-his daughter is a sex addict, so he won’t speak to her anymore. Thanks for sharing.
Mental note: next time I develop an addiction, sex addiction sounds a lot more fashionable, not to mention pleasurable, than substance abuse. All the major movie stars are sex addicts, right? But no one treats them like they would a wino. Alcoholism gives a girl ruddy skin and liver damage. Sex addiction adds luster.
Anyway, this guy’s sermon opened the floodgates on what all the women in the group wanted to do anyway-blame it on their spouses. This was not remotely helpful to me, but I have to admit listening to it had a certain addictive quality, like tuning into a poorly written soap opera-just one damn thing after another. I listened to hours of the running battles between Jill and Buddy, every last mean thing he ever supposedly said. Oddly enough, she never did anything to provoke his invective. At least as she told it. Jacqueline was slightly more honest. She admitted that she argued back when her husband came after her for no reason. But she was blameless. Those bad men made those nice girls drink.
Yeah, right.
So at the end of this interminable three-hour session, one of the leaders, a heavyset gal named Margie, decided to pick on me. I hadn’t said much, so I guess she felt obliged to try to get me into the whining bee.
“Why do you think you drink, Susan?”
“Drank. I don’t do that anymore.”
The smile only flashed for a second, but I didn’t miss it. “Why do you think you drank?”
“I liked it.”
She batted her long false eyelashes. “That’s all?”
“Yup. Tastes good. Makes me feel good. What more do you want?”
“You don’t think it… could have anything to do with your work?”
“Of course not. I love my work.” I left out the detail that I didn’t actually have work at the moment.
“You don’t think it could relate to… what happened with your husband?”
“No,” I said, giving her a stony glare. “I don’t.”
“You took a piece of glass-”
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
“You seem to have a lot of anger. Why is that?”
“Maybe I don’t like having people prying into my private life.”
“We’re only trying to help you.”
“You’re talking about things you know nothing about.”
“Then tell us. We want to learn.”
“There’s nothing to learn.”
“No problems?”
“No. Everything is fine. Perfectly pleasant.” I even forced myself to smile.
Margie leaned forward. “Susan… what’s your secret?”
“Excuse me?”
“What’s your secret?”
“I don’t have one.”
She paused a moment. “I remember a patient I had about three years ago. He said everything was fine, too. Then one day I asked him, ‘What’s your secret?’ And he looked at me for a long time. Then he finally told me he was sexually abused when he was six years old. And he started crying. All that fear and anger tumbled out of him. He’s been well ever since.”
So that was what she wanted. Some big fake Hollywoodesque Prince of Tides-like single-event explanation for every problem I’ve ever had. Talk about trite. I considered making one up: I was stolen by Gypsies and forced to work on a coffee plantation in Kenya. But I knew I would be the only one laughing.
“There’s no secret. Your whole approach is psychologically wrongheaded. You can’t boil all of a person’s problems, all of their life, down to one person or incident.”
She remained implacable and insistent. “Susan… what’s your secret?”
What was this-some kind of hypnagogic brainwashing technique? “How many times do I have to say this? There is no secret.”
I could see the other patients in the room shaking their heads sadly. Margie sighed. “I hope that’s true, Susan. For your sake. You have a lovely smile, and I’m glad to see you using it occasionally. Beautiful eyes, too.” She paused, staring at me. “But when I look into those eyes-I see pain.”
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