9th Circle

by Carolyn McCray; Ben Hopkin

  “Peace out, man. Peace out.” Trey stalked off toward the door, pausing before he exited. “Just to get the captain off my butt, promise you’ll lie down?”

  Darc nodded, nonplussed, as Trey shut the door firmly behind him. And then Darc was alone once more in his apartment.

  But not quite alone. Bright strands of logic traced themselves like spiderwebs throughout the two-bedroom flat. The strongest and brightest of the strands, a brilliant blue-green, led out the way Keane had gone. That was not an avenue he could pursue right now. It would wait, at least for a little while.

  He took another strand, a glistening yellow, and followed it to what had been his office when Maggie was still here. He had found a single mattress at the thrift store around the corner and purchased it for twenty-five dollars. It now lay in the corner of this room. He did not go into the bedroom much anymore. Darc gazed at the four walls.

  They were covered with crime scene photos of the bodies of the victims in this case so far, interspersed with pictures of the bloody Latin symbols they had found at the other two sites. Photos from today’s efforts would soon join what was here. The letters in the pictures leapt off the walls, swirling in with the others already prancing about inside Darc’s head.

  Darc’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled out his phone and read the text from Trey. I said, lie the eff down.

  Darc had promised. Breaking a promise was not good. This was another premise that had been difficult for Darc to fully grasp. He turned to the mattress in the corner and laid himself down on the bare mat. He texted his partner back. Done.

  But his eyes did not close. They traced patterns on the ceiling. The ceiling that was plastered with the worst of the crime scene photos. Symbols pulled themselves out of the pictures and cavorted across Darc’s inner vision.

  The detective looked up in the darkness and studied his small, dancing friends.

  *

  Dr. Mala Charan put on what she hoped was an engaged and reassuring smile as the ER doctor prattled on. He “filled her in” on the patient, little Jane Doe, lying in the hospital bed next to her. He made certain that Mala knew that the girl was the latest victim in the string of murders that had been taking place in Seattle over the past three weeks. And, as of this point, the only survivor.

  Like Mala hadn’t read the file on the way over here.

  But his lengthy diatribe had nothing to do with the girl. It had to do with establishing dominance over Mala. If she thought she could get away with a sigh, she would, but knew that would not go over well. But she was used to it. Not only was she a woman, and young for her accomplishments, she had darker skin than most. None of those things should matter, of course, yet somehow they did.

  Especially to fortysomething ER doctors who strangely wore surgical caps despite the fact they were seldom within twenty feet of a surgical suite. Ah, but there was the hairline, receding back past the edge of the cap. The real reason for the adornment. She would bet a paycheck he wore a baseball cap at all times outside the ER.

  Mala sat down in the chair next to the bed. Perhaps if she were in a more submissive position, he wouldn’t feel quite so threatened. Nope, the guy took a step forward, really increasing his cadence. His insecurity was probably increased by the natural dichotomy between physician and psychologist. Physicians liked facts and numbers and absolute diagnoses. Psychologists, especially pediatric psychologists, were a little too loosey-goosey for stalwart physicians.

  But this doctor also seemed to have a few, shall we say, personal issues he was working through as well. Take his hand position. Most men trying to dominate subconsciously would engage in”genital framing.” Meaning, they would put their hands in their pockets and shove forward, thereby framing their genitals. It was a prehistoric, “see how big I am” kind of thing. It signified an alpha-type personality.

  This man, though? Yes, his hands were in his pockets, but they were crossing over his groin. Someone was a little embarrassed by something. This hand position indicated not a beta personality but an omega one. So the guy talked an alpha game, but his hands were telling a completely different story.

  “I don’t know if you saw the article in the Journal of Abnormal Child Psychology, but…”

  Mala didn’t bother listening to the rest. She was a guest editor for the journal. She had vetted the very article he was referencing. Like she didn’t know to keep the lights low and her tone soft with the patient. Or that she shouldn’t “stress” the child.

  So either the guy had some untreated mental issues or he was just a dick.

  Dealer’s choice. Either way, he wasn’t her patient. Thank goodness.

  The little girl lying next to her was. Mala put a hand out and tentatively touched the girl’s hand. It twitched once, then settled. She kept up the physical contact. It was important for Janey to know she wasn’t alone, even if she was unresponsive. The girl wasn’t in a coma, she had simply retreated from the world. And to Mala she had every reason to.

  What truly amazed Mala regarding the ER doctor’s continued lecture was that not once had he mentioned Janey’s role in all of this. The greatest therapist in the world could not help someone who didn’t want to be helped. Nor could they help if they didn’t listen to their patient. You could take all the knowledge out of every textbook out there and try and cram it down a patient’s throat without a single ounce of improvement.

  Mala’s approach was much more organic than that. She had all the scientific knowledge that this ER doctor probably just googled at her fingertips. But it was the ability to connect to the patient, to walk their mental labyrinth with them, that got her the accolades.

  Her basic philosophy? The patient knew best. It was only her role to help them achieve their recovery, never to force it.

  The ER doctor took a breath. Mala did not let the opportunity go.

  “Thank you, doctor,” she said with a warm smile. “If you don’t mind, I would like a little time alone with Janey.” He looked like he was going to argue, so she turned up the smile. “I need to integrate my neurological system with hers. Align our chakras, as it were.”

  Disbelief, horror, and a hint of disgust crossed his face. She was not going to do either of those things, but the touchy-feely stuff usually backed traditional doctors off. Not that she didn’t lay some credence in Eastern modalities. Mala figured if a healing treatment had lasted millennia, it probably had some advantages. It was just far too early in little Janey’s treatment to try and do anything else but comfort.

  Luckily, the ER doctor didn’t realize this. He hastily made his retreat, genitals safely covered.

  Mala let the room breathe for a moment or two. Letting his tense, anxious, insecure energy dissipate. Once she felt centered, she leaned over the bed. Gently she reached out and stroked Janey’s damp hair back. She murmured soft and comforting words in her ear.

  “You’re safe. Nothing bad can happen,” Mala whispered, reinforcing the message. “You’re safe. You’re safe.”

  A grimace passed across the face of the girl. A dream? A memory? Neither one sounded pleasant. What kind of dreams were you left with once you had woken up in a pool of your parents’ blood? The horrors this little girl had face would have been enough to make anyone else want to turn away in despair. As it was, all Mala could do was keep whispering her soothing words.

  “You’re safe. No one can harm you here. You’re safe. You’re protected.”

  And then the door opened. Mala turned to see who had entered and was confronted with a very tall man in an expertly tailored suit. His face masked in shadow, the only feature she could make out was his eyes, which were…piercing. Mala wasn’t sure if she’d ever seen such keen eyes. They stared straight at her, then through her. She had to resist the urge to turn around and look to see if he was looking at someone behind her.

  He took another step forward, illuminating his handsome features. Mala normally didn’t find bald attractive, but damn. He wore a dark beard, neatly trimmed to hug his chi
n. Arms at his side, he held a leather satchel pressed tight against his body.

  Yeah, this guy didn’t need genital masking or framing.

  Mala bet this man intimidated a lot of people. Despite her feeling slightly flustered, she was not quite that easy to intimidate.

  The man spoke, his tone flat, almost without inflection. “Who are you?” There wasn’t any outward sign in his face that was even talking to her. He spoke in an almost mechanical way. Except that machines didn’t typically stare into your very soul.

  Wow. Get a grip, Mala.

  Then a lightbulb went on in her head. She knew who this was. She got up from her station beside the bed and moved toward the man with her hand out to shake his.

  “I was called in for an evaluation. I’m Dr. Mala Charan.”

  She held her hand in front of the completely unresponsive man for a long and awkward moment. Once she realized nothing was going to change unless she changed it, Mala lowered her hand. Yeah, no doubt now about who this was. She cleared her throat.

  “And I would guess you are Detective Robi Darcmel?”

  “Do I know you?”

  The question took Mala off guard. It was an honest question. As far as she could tell, he wasn’t trying to be rude. The man truly was looking for confirmation as to whether or not they’d met.

  “No. Not really.” Mala hemmed for a moment, a little embarrassed at what was coming next. Not that a bit of embarrassment was going to stop her. “Actually, you are a bit of a celebrity in my circles.”

  The implied compliment seemed to make no impact on the detective whatsoever. His expression didn’t change, and neither did his posture. He seemed to be waiting, not due to any sense of patience, but simply because it was the most efficient course of action at the present moment. Mala tried again.

  “To have your history in the foster care system and your Asperger’s syndrome?”

  Still not a flicker of response, or even much of an awareness that she was there in the room with him, for that matter. If it weren’t for the fact that she was in his direct eyeline, he might not even be looking at her. You know, except for the whole I-can-read-your-thoughts vibe.

  “Then to rise to the level of detective?”

  Nothing. She decided to make one more effort to draw him out.

  “Your story could inspire a lot of people.”

  The detective finally shifted, his face showing…something. Determination? Maybe. Something more than what was there a moment ago, anyway. He opened his mouth to let loose one word.

  “Move.”

  Confused, Mala glanced around, then followed his gaze to her chair. The one right next to the bed.

  “Of course,” she said, moving out of the way. “Sorry.”

  The detective placed himself in the chair with an economy of motion that was almost frightening in its robotic-like precision. It spoke of an almost total lack of awareness of how he might come across to others. Or if not a lack of awareness, a lack of concern.

  Mala couldn’t take her eyes off him. To have such an intellect packaged in such a completely outside-the-bell-curve personality? Fascinating didn’t even come close. She had to bite back the thousand questions she’d had for him since she read his story in the Advanced Criminology Journal. Mala knew he worked in Seattle, but it had never occurred to her to track him down. Her specialty was abnormal child psychology. His progress with his disorder, while amazing, was outside of her field. Or was it?

  “It’s just… to do a case study like yours could really help us understand—”

  Mala stopped as Detective Darcmel removed several small items from his satchel. They included a small lap desk, crayons, and paper. She got where he was going with this.

  “I’m not sure if Janey’s ready for draw therapy quite yet.”

  Darcmel swiveled about, his eyes boring into Mala’s. His gaze was like a furnace, only one with laser focus. She found herself wanting to step back from the power of the attention. It was messing with her sense of equilibrium, but damn, it was heady.

  “We have a name for her? Janey what?” The detective’s tone had sharpened.

  “Uh. Um. No,” Mala stuttered. “I’m sorry. I do that. You know, like John Doe? Jane Doe? So impersonal, like they’re not really…” Mala realized she was babbling, stopped herself, and looked at the girl on the bed. She took a moment, then turned back to the detective with a shrug and a half-apologetic smile.

  “She seemed more like a Janey to me.”

  The energy of Darcmel’s gaze ended with an abruptness that left Mala feeling the air had been sucked from the room. She grabbed the railing of the bed to steady herself. Like she’d said, fascinating.

  The detective directed his attention back to Janey, took out a blank piece of paper and a red crayon, and drew a letter on it. Mala looked over his shoulder to see that he had drawn a symbol. It looked to be Greek. He held the paper up so that Janey could see it.

  When the girl’s eyes landed on the symbol, she took in a sharp breath and her eyes widened. Mala couldn’t tell what the reaction was, but hey, it was a reaction. Anything other than her dead-on-the-inside stare was a step in a good direction.

  “That’s the first response we’ve gotten.”

  But as Janey continued to look at the symbol, she got more and more agitated. It was clear that the letter frightened her. Mala moved to the side of the bed opposite the detective and resumed stroking her hair.

  “I would be careful,” Mala said to the detective. “Children in these circumstances have a hard time rebuilding trust with adults.” Mala tried to make eye contact with Darcmel, hoping to help him understand how important this was. Individuals with Asperger’s syndrome weren’t known for their warm fuzzies, and that could be a big problem with a girl as fragile as Janey.

  The detective moved the paper back, still holding it up so that Janey could see it. He took another crayon, this one black, and drew a line through the symbol, using far more force than was necessary. Clearly the detective was telling the girl, without words, that those symbols no longer had power over her. A stunningly simple yet powerful technique. Mala wished she had thought of it.

  Darcmel then removed the metallic gold crayon and drew a rough detective’s badge around the struck-through symbol. Janey instantly calmed.

  Mala was stunned. “Okay, I take that back,” she conceded. “I guess she trusts you.”

  All her cooing about how safe and protected Janey was clearly paled in comparison to Darcmel’s nonverbal message.

  He then fished out the yellow crayon and drew a taxicab. Mala felt a twinge of discomfort as she saw where the detective seemed to be headed. She respected his ability to connect with the girl, but some bridges were just too far, too soon.

  “I wouldn’t bring up such a reminder of her parents—”

  But Darcmel just kept drawing. The only thing that kept Mala from intervening was that Janey wasn’t responding, even as the detective finished the picture and added a stick figure of a mother and a father. Mala heaved a sigh of relief.

  “So she didn’t witness them being…”

  She allowed her words to drift off as Darcmel handed the crayon box to Janey. The little girl pulled out the brick-red crayon and began scribbling with fierce intensity over the images of her parents. The detective spoke over his shoulder.

  “Oh, she saw it. Just not at the cab.” He directed the next word back at Janey. “Where?”

  The girl picked out a brown crayon and began drawing once more, her brow furrowed with intent. As amazing as the process had been up to this point, Mala knew they could not rush healing.

  “Darcmel. You are very high functioning,” Mala said, not expecting an answer. “You are self-aware enough to know that your emotional radar is limited.” The detective’s gaze remained riveted to Janey, so Mala reached across the bed and grabbed Darcmel’s shoulder, forcing him to look at her. She spoke with quiet emphasis.

  “You need to listen to me. You are pushing her too far.”


  *

  Darc knew the woman was saying something she felt important. Only it wasn’t. A woman of science should really know the difference. Because what could be in the face of the girl and her drawing? Bright lines danced all around the girl, creating a near-halo around her. The girl was breathing more and more quickly as she finished the picture. It appeared to be a teddy bear.

  Dr. Charan’s voice buzzed about the surface of his awareness. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  But the pictures were pulling themselves up from the paper, limning themselves in bright light. The taxi. The teddy bear. The stick-figure family. A blank appeared in a space between them, right in the center.

  Darc drew a picture of a store but purposely left the name blank.

  Once more, the doctor’s voice waded into the shallow end of his focus. “That’s it.” The woman moved around the bed, placing herself between Darc and the girl. As she stood there, blocking Darc’s access, he noticed that her features were very symmetrical. There were few to no markers of fluctuating asymmetry. The psychologist apparently had good coping techniques for the stressors of daily life. She had very few wrinkles or blemishes. All this, taken together with her mocha-colored skin, full hips, and above-average bust size, meant that society would consider her highly attractive. Darc filed the information away, turning his attention back to the glowing pathways.

  He shoved the picture past the doctor, placing it firmly in the little girl’s hands. The girl was breathing even more heavily than she had been before, and her eyes glistened with unshed tears. The grey threatened, with its unreasoning blurry haze. Trey was constantly telling him how important that grey was, but right now Darc didn’t have the time to decipher why that might be.

  The doctor called over to the nurses’ station nearby, “Get security.”

  The voice of the nurse drifted into the room, her tone confused and more than a little nervous.

  “Um…but he’s a cop…”

  “Just get them,” the doctor insisted.

  Dr. Charan then physically tried to push Darc out of the room. Again, as a person of science, she should have realized that she did not have the weight, leverage, or power to accomplish such a task. He stood unmoved from his spot. It was vital that he see what Janey was doing, as her crayon inscribed a single word across the top of the storefront in the picture. The girl was shaking so much that the word was almost unintelligible. Almost.