by Warren Adler
"Long shot," Fiona murmured.
Gail frowned.
"You're giving this man lots of credit," she said, concentrating on studying the photographs of Phyla Herbert's body that she had gathered from the Eggplant's desk. Lost in thought for a long time, she finally raised her eyes from the pictures.
"No way," she sighed.
"No way what?" Fiona asked.
"With respect, Sergeant," Gail began, her yellow-flecked eyes meeting Fiona's.
"I'm a big girl, Gail."
"Your entire theory is based on the idea that the victim was mostly to blame for her own murder."
Fiona did not lower her eyes, perhaps plumbing the depths of Gail Prentiss for whatever vulnerabilities lay inside of her. Finally, she turned away and shrugged.
"It's only a theory," Fiona said again. She could tell that, barring proof positive, Gail would never buy it.
6
The following morning Fiona sat in Dr. Benson's office drinking hot black coffee and hoping it would help chase the effects of a sleepless night. Gail Prentiss had gone to the Justice Department to see the person that had interviewed Phyla Herbert. In light of the heavy load of investigative work on the case, they had agreed on dividing up the tasks.
Fiona looked at her watch. It was nine. In less than an hour she would be confronted by Thomas Herbert, who would have to go through the horrifying process of identifying his daughter's body. It would be awful. Gail had promised to return by then and meet her in Dr. Benson's office.
Dr. Benson studied Fiona with his Cajun blue eyes, his long fingers constructing a graceful cathedral, the pinnacle of which was placed just under his chin. He was a handsome man, still on the better side of sixty, with steel gray hair and skin the color of soft beige leather.
She had long ago appointed him her surrogate father and he had led her through the darkness of many an emotional valley. For her part, she was always there for him as well, especially when the numbing and often depressing nature of his job would coincide with recurring bouts of deep grieving for his beloved wife, who had died five years before. In Dr. Benson's case, time was not the vaunted healer it was supposed to be.
Throughout the previous night, she had debated whether or not to tell him about her experience with Farley Lipscomb and her theory that he could be the killer of Phyla Herbert. But every time her imagination reached the brink of revelation, she faltered.
She had no doubt about his reaction. He would be enormously sympathetic, fully understanding of her agony and guilt, totally supportive and reassuring. But she feared that he might not agree with her theory, on the grounds that she was letting personal trauma interfere with her better judgment.
Between them was a deep and enduring father-daughter type of relationship, full of love and sharing. She had heard most of his confessions and he had heard most of hers. But there was a point where few humans, however loving, were willing or even capable of transcending.
She could not bring herself to reveal the deep complexities of her sexual nature. It was a subject deliberately evaded between them, which was probably the norm in most relationships between people of different generations and genders. She hadn't even summoned the courage, if that's what it took, to reveal deeply personal sexual secrets to a shrink.
Earlier, she had considered herself cured of any residual bad side effects of her experience with Farley Lipscomb, like the two-year attack of frigidity that had afflicted her during her last two years of college. Last night, however, she had sensed the beginning of a reoccurrence.
As he always did since the beginning of their relationship, Harrison Greenwald had called late in the evening. She had soaked for a long time in a hot bath, normally an excellent stress chaser. It had little effect last night.
For the past six months, they had arranged their time together around Fiona's days off. Harrison's time was more flexible, although his practice was exceedingly busy. Their relationship was both intellectually and sexually satisfying and they derived from each other strong stimulation in both departments. She looked forward to their time together and it was not uncommon for them to spend many hours in bed, as they say, exercising the venery. In fact, talk and sex was their principal and joyful recreation. Nor had the effects worn off even after six months of such a routine.
But last night in their conversation, she sensed a kind of blockage, a psychological barrier that made her fearful and insecure about their physical relationship. It was exactly the feeling she had endured for those two years after the Farley experience.
"You okay, Fi?" Harrison had asked after their conversation trailed off into long pauses and dead ends.
"Tired," she had sighed.
"Bad day?"
"Awful."
"I can come over and cheer you up."
"Nothing would help."
"Tomorrow then?"
The thought of sexual congress induced an uncommon sense of disgust. The old symptoms were recognizable. Years ago it had begun in just that way, a vague sense of disgust, like imagining rancid food, which took away the appetite.
"I need my space this week, Harrison," Fiona said. Harrison was a sensitive man and she knew he could react.
"I thought I was part of your space, Fi."
"You are, darling," she replied, but even she could hear the tentative note in her voice. "I'm just discombobulated." She deliberately used the odd slang, hoping to lighten the atmosphere between them.
"I surrender." He hesitated. "Then when?"
"I'll call you."
For him it would be another sour note. As she expected, there was a long pause between them.
"Fi, you sound ominous."
"I'm just in a foul mood, darling. It has nothing to do with you. Really it doesn't."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure," she said firmly. It was the kind of repetitive dead-end conversations that they both detested.
Another long pause.
"You just sound so ... so cold," Harrison said.
"Oddly enough, I feel cold," she said, shivering lightly as she did so. "I need ... I need ... a little patience, darling. It will pass. I promise."
Hadn't it passed before? she asked herself.
The conversation ended, certainly for Harrison, on a note of confusion. For her it was frightening. Remembering her two-year ice age experience, she recalled the agony of isolation. She had tried combating the frigidity, but she froze at the mere touch of male flesh. Desire had simply disappeared. There were none of the usual symptoms of arousal. Her genitalia seemed irrelevant, burdensome. She could not dare to look at herself naked. Her fantasy life, once rich, varied and sexually exciting, disappeared. The curtain had come down on sensuality.
Nor were there any compensating feelings. Even her taste buds seemed to lose power. A kind of indifference invaded all of her senses. Sights and sounds lost contrast, became dull and uninteresting.
Her body's lack of normal reactions deeply affected her attitude toward others. She withdrew from social contact, became morose and perpetually depressed. She endured, coped, but did not seek professional help. Perhaps it was a legacy from her father, the determination to go it alone, faith in the power of the mind to work out personal solutions. Or pure Irish stubborness.
In the end, she was able to tell herself that she had risen above the trauma. She had begun to feel herself heal, slowly at first, then rapidly. Fantasy began again just below the surface of consciousness. She began to rationalize her actions, blaming herself less. She had simply stumbled into harm's way. Her limits had been tested. Out of this tunnel of despair, she had emerged, certainly wiser and with a lot better understanding of the sexual minefields.
How could she possibly discuss this with Dr. Benson? All night, tossing in her bed, she had concocted scenarios of confession. They did not survive the light of day.
"Are you happy with your new partner?" Dr. Benson asked.
"I like her a lot," Fiona replied. "Very bright. A wonderful specimen of a black wom
an, bigger than life." Fiona paused. Interspersed between her agonizing last night she had thought a great deal about Gail Prentiss. All her life she had searched for a true female friend.
"And very traditional," she said, which seemed to weaken the case to make Gail that kind of a friend.
Dr. Benson nodded.
"She adores her father, a man of awesome dignity, tall and straight as an oak. He hasn't got long, poor fellow. Aside from his skill as a surgeon he is a man who worships traditional values. He is very wise, impeccable in his moral stance, the kind of person who commands respect and is sought after for advice."
"Gail too has that kind of a persona," Fiona agreed.
Like you as well, Fiona wanted to say. But Dr. Benson abhorred flattery.
Fiona looked at her watch.
"I think we better get on with it. Mr. Herbert will be here soon."
"Awful," Dr. Benson said, shaking his head, but continuing to keep his finger cathedral intact.
"Her anus was violated with a large blunt instrument. There are signs of trauma everywhere in that organ."
Bingo, Fiona told herself. Not that she needed confirmation.
"I'd put her death at sometime Saturday afternoon."
"Afternoon?"
"You look surprised."
"Flannagan figured later in the evening or early Sunday morning."
"Flannagan is wrong."
It flashed through her mind that her "episode" with Farley Lipscomb also occurred in the afternoon.
"Any evidence of semen?"
"Oddly enough, no. And there is no sign of intercourse."
"Any evidence of struggle?"
"Yes. Some."
Dr. Benson became thoughtful for a moment, then destroyed his finger cathedral, put on his half-glasses and looked at a paper on his desk.
"There were thirty-one stab wounds on the front portion of her body." He shook his head and took off his glasses. "They were messy but they weren't deep. I'd say a Swiss Army knife, a size larger than a pen knife. Actually there were two neat slices on the carotid artery, slices, not stab wounds. Very strange."
"Strange?"
"They were made after the woman was dead," Dr. Benson said.
"Really."
She was shocked and for a moment wondered if this discovery would shake her theory.
"Not very long after death," Dr. Benson said. "A kind of after-thought."
She pondered the idea silently for a long moment.
"What was the immediate cause of death?"
"Oh. How could I have neglected the most important fact? I'd say the cause of death was asphyxiation."
"The gag in her mouth?"
"More than that. I'm speculating now, but I believe that the gag contributed to blocking her air passages, when she needed them most. I'd have to check her medical history, but I'd say if you're looking for a cause of death, the principal culprit could well have been an asthma attack."
"Are you positive?"
It was, Fiona knew, a kneejerk reaction. Dr. Benson was rarely wrong.
"About seventy-five percent of the way. It was obvious that the pain must have been excruciating. But I think she went fast, perhaps just as she was intensifying her struggle to be released."
"You think the attack was brought on by the ... the situation?"
"Sometimes these things can't be pinpointed. Certainly the placement of the gag in her mouth contributed. But we can't be sure. An air passage was blocked. Asthma is an affliction that results in blocked air passages. Ergo..."
"A chicken-and-egg situation. Which came first, the gag or the attack? It does rule out first-degree murder."
"Afraid so, Fiona," Dr. Benson sighed. "Too bad. This person committed a most beastly act." He paused, remade his finger cathedral and leaned back on his chair.
"Then, seeing that she was dead, he stabbed her a number of times, which created the mess we saw in the pictures."
"At least the poor child did not suffer the pain of the stabbings."
"Do you think he believed that you would not be able to tell the difference between bloodletting before and after death?"
"Maybe. Sometimes in the press of business, you can't vouch for the thoroughness of your colleagues. We are understaffed and this is the worst murder epidemic in the history of Washington."
Fiona's mind turned over possibilities. Faced with this sudden unplanned death, a man like Farley would have to think things through. Aside from removing all clues, he would have to create a situation that might indicate an unhinged mind, a serial killing, something bizarre and brutal enough to indicate a psychopath, a condition he surely rejected in himself. He would, therefore, want the crime to look like a slaughter perpetrated by someone with a deranged mind.
"One thing is certain," Dr. Benson said. "The man was apparently not a classic necrophiliac. The woman's anus was damaged when she was alive. And the absence of semen indicates that he did not ejaculate in the woman's vagina, which someone of this abnormality might do. My own view is that he was quite clever and wanted the situation to look as if it was perpetrated by a madman."
"I agree," Fiona said, not willing to reveal that she was far ahead of him on that point.
These new facts seemed to validate her consensual theory, but they were hardly compelling enough to accuse Farley Lipscomb. Other men could also be clever. The woman had, in fact, died by what could be characterized as an accident. He was gambling on forensic inefficiency, hoping that his attempt at cover-up would go unnoticed.
"Gail thinks the woman was coerced into participating in his little charade," Fiona said, fishing for further support for her theory.
"Could be," Dr. Benson said thoughtfully.
"You said there was little evidence of struggle."
"I said some evidence, but not enough to show a battle to the end. Which means the woman could have died when the pain reached an unbearable level. An oversized instrument was put into an organ that could not properly expand to receive it without inflicting terrible pain." He shrugged. "I seriously doubt there are people who look forward to that happening." She caught the contempt in his tone. "This woman was deliberately brutalized. She could not have consented to that."
"I'm afraid we're in a business, Doctor, where normality is not the norm."
"Well put, Fiona," Dr. Benson said. "But sex crimes, as we both know, are a real anomaly. The pursuit of pleasure is always a secondary consideration."
"In the case of this kind of act," Fiona said cautiously, "it's about power."
"Probably so," Dr. Benson said. "I'm not an expert in this type of..." His voice droned off.
"I've done some research, Doctor," Fiona said after a long pause. "It is mostly theatrics. A game of trust, where inflicting harm is not the object."
"Yes, harm," Dr. Benson said. "But often harm has a different meaning to different people. It apparently was different in this case. The woman, if she hadn't died, would have suffered mightily from injuries inflicted by the perpetrator."
"Yes," Fiona agreed, remembering her own situation. "The person who did this must have enjoyed the spectacle of seeing the woman suffer."
Dr. Benson looked up from his finger cathedral and shook his head.
"I'm afraid I'm from the old school of morality. Sex is a mystery and a wonder, something beautiful. To transform it through these ugly practices, is, for me, beyond the pale." He looked at her curiously and she averted her eyes.
The conversation was getting personal and she felt the need to turn its focus back to the victim.
"In my view, I go all the way on her consenting," Fiona said. What she needed most was an unquestioning ally against Gail's arguments.
"How can you be so sure? Just because there weren't conclusive signs of total resistance."
It wasn't the kind of support she was looking for.
"As you say it may be beyond the pale, but these practices do exist. It does happen. A young impressionable woman could be ... well ... might be ... persuade
d by someone experienced in the technique of this kind of seduction." Who was she trying to convince, she asked herself?
"Now there's an area far beyond my expertise," Dr. Benson said. "I can only interpret what the body tells me. In this case the body tells me that it was the recipient of great pain."
"Obviously, she could not have expected things to go that far..." Fiona sucked in a deep breath. She decided it was time to retreat. "Anyway it's only a hunch."
"An educated hunch by an experienced detective is no small thing," Dr. Benson said, smiling.
They talked for a while longer, with Dr. Benson's calls becoming increasingly persistent. One of them announced Thomas Herbert's arrival.
"I hate this," Fiona said as she took her leave. He stood up and kissed her cheek.
"Good luck," he said.
Thomas Herbert was a man who looked and breathed success. Even deep grieving could not erase the impression that he was a man used to authority and power. Fiona introduced herself and he took her hand perfunctorily. His flesh felt cold.
"I can't believe this," he said, keeping stride with Fiona as they followed an attendant to the body vaults. "I hope I can handle it, Sergeant."
Before they reached the swinging stainless steel doors, Gail came up to them, slightly out of breath.
"Sorry, Fiona. The traffic."
Fiona introduced Gail to Herbert, who, despite his preoccupation, took the time to inspect her. Gail simply could not be ignored.
Walking into the room, which smelled strongly of the pungent chemicals used to mask the odor of death, they followed the black male attendant to a body drawer along the wall. The attendant, without the slightest hesitation, pulled it open.
"Oh God," Herbert gasped as he saw the sculpted face of his dead daughter. He staggered for a moment, then, with an obvious effort of will, found some semblance of control.
The ivory-smooth face of Phyla Herbert looked composed, almost serene. Dr. Benson had seen to that.
"Beyond belief," Herbert muttered, clearing his throat to stifle a sob. He put out his hand and touched her face.
"My baby," he whispered, tears brimming in his eyes.
Fiona felt a lump begin in her throat. She glanced toward Gail, who shrugged with resignation and turned away. The black attendant was properly somber but indifferent. He had been through the drill countless times before.