The Fifth Reflection

by Ellen Kirschman

  “And now what?”

  “We need an ID on him. All the intel we have is that his name is Buzz. No last name. I’m going give the sheriff’s office a call. See if they have a mug shot we can show Chrissy’s parents.”

  “And you feel ready to take this on? You still have more time coming to you.”

  “Staying home was killing me, Chief. This is exactly what I need to do to feel better.”

  “Not by yourself. Use the task force. If you need extra help, let me know. I’ll reassign anyone you need from the PD. Anyone that is, except the doc.”

  “Why not me?”

  “Because, Dr. Meyerhoff.” Pence leans down until his face is opposite mine. “Meth addicts can be armed and dangerous. If I had to choose what to bring to a gunfight, I’d bring a big gun and a friend with a big gun. Not a psychologist.” He laughs, then yelps in pain and grabs his cheek.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I HAVE A late afternoon appointment with Dr. Randall. I promised to check back with him, let him know how things are going. Bette Randall answers the door before I knock. She walks me into the living room.

  “He’s not feeling well. Hasn’t been out of bed today. The doctor says he may be having a series of little strokes. Last night he was trying to say something to me and he couldn’t find the words.” She tears up and turns away.

  “Should I leave?”

  “No. He’s been looking forward to your visit. He needs the stimulation. And he needs to be needed. Just remember, his acuity is compromised and he tires easily. I don’t know how much you can rely on what he says.” She takes my hand and leads me up to their bedroom. Charles is sitting upright in a hospital bed wearing a ball cap and a 49ers sweatshirt over his pajama top.

  “Excuse me for not getting up,” he says. “Nurse Ratched is keeping an eye on my every move.”

  “Stinks in here,” Bette says and opens a window. “Smells like old men.” She pushes a rolling table next to the bed. “Need anything else? Tea, coffee?”

  “Privacy.” Charles glares at her. She sticks her tongue out at him and makes for the door.

  “Call me if you need something,” she says to me over her shoulder. “Like a tranquilizer gun or a martini.”

  I give him a sketchy overview, nothing Pence or Manny would object to. He listens and then shifts around in the bed looking for a more comfortable position. He reaches under the covers and winces.

  “Leg cramps. From the medication. Go on, please.”

  “What if someone, actually two people, failed to mention that they bought a blanket identical to the one Chrissy was wrapped in when she was found?”

  “Didn’t mention it or lied when asked? Because equivocation is another indication of lying. Same as skirting the issue or giving indirect responses.”

  “No one asked.”

  He looks at me over the top of his glasses. “If they weren’t asked, they didn’t lie.”

  “I asked. Not the police. One of them answered the question directly, even told me where she bought the blanket. The other woman didn’t say yes and didn’t say no. All she said was she bought her blankets at Nordstrom’s.”

  “So she skirted the issue. What about her face? The corrugator muscles near the eyes? You should be looking for tiny facial movements that last less than a second. Barely noticeable indicators that the person is lying. Attempting to conceal some emotion from the inquisitor or from themselves.” He pushes himself up higher in the bed. “Liars prefer concealment because they don’t have to worry about remembering what lies they’ve told and to whom. Pay less attention to what your suspects say and more attention to how they say it. Truth-tellers will be genuinely emotional. They will provide unique sensory details and use more arm and hand movements to illustrate what they’re saying. Liars tend to talk in a passive voice with a lot of moderating adverbs and tentative words.”

  “The first woman’s response was straightforward. The second woman . . .”

  “Your two prime suspects are women? Very rare for a pedophile to be female. Mostly it’s brothers, fathers, stepfathers, or Mommy’s boyfriend.”

  “It’s not certain that this is a case of pedophilia.” He raises a bushy gray eyebrow. “I can’t say anything more. It’s classified.”

  “If not pedophilia then . . .” He freezes. “Don’t tell me that you suspect JoAnn Juliette of murdering her own child? That’s not possible. She was here in my house. Sat in my living room. Drank my tea. I thought she was a loving mother. Careful. Concerned.” He grabs for his notepad and pen. “I don’t mean to be ghoulish, but I need to write this up.”

  He picks up a cowbell sitting on his night table and shakes it. “Bette’s idea of an intercom.” He rings until she opens the door. She’s breathing hard and trying not to show it.

  “Now what, your highness?”

  “Help me into the library. I need my computer.”

  “No.” She puts her hands on her hips. “You are on bed rest. Doctor’s orders.”

  He throws his legs over the side of the bed and gestures at me to bring him his walker. Bette looks at me, “don’t you dare” written all over her face. She moves his legs back under the covers.

  “I don’t need a computer to know from your face that you are tired and need a break.” She touches me lightly on the arm and taps the face of her watch. Charles leans back against his pillow, eyes closed.

  “Don’t get old, Dot,” he says. “It’s very boring.”

  Frank is waiting for me at my house. My usually dark rooms are lit and glowing in the night. A swell of gratitude washes over me. Late as it is, he’s waited to start dinner. He leans over, gives me a kiss and a long hug. If I had a lick of sense I should take a shower, change my clothes, and get him to elope to Las Vegas. I take the first step, a quick shower, wrap myself in a towel, and head for the closet when Frank opens the bedroom door and hands me the telephone.

  “It’s Manny. He’s working late.” Frank gives me the once-over. “Too bad you’re not on Skype.”

  I pull the towel tighter.

  Manny is bursting with news. Buzz has a bunch of aliases and a minor record for DUI, petty theft, and bar fights. The sheriff’s been to his house a couple of times for DV, but his girlfriend refuses to press charges. The image of her, sprawled on the front steps of that ramshackle house, head in hands, rises in front of me.

  “I didn’t think the victim had to press charges in domestic violence. The sheriff can do that, can’t he?”

  “Can if he wants. Hard to get a conviction if the victim won’t testify. In this case, the battery was mutual. They have mug shots of Buzz and his girlfriend to prove it. With his-and-hers black eyes.”

  “Sounds like a successful day’s work.”

  “Not entirely. I was hoping Buzz was a 290 reg—registered sex offender. If he was, by law he should have reported in to the sheriff’s department. Doesn’t mean he isn’t; it just means he hasn’t been caught. Yet.”

  “What’s his connection to Kathryn Blazek?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  “So what’s next?”

  “I’m thinking about a knock and talk tomorrow morning. A friendly chat. Consensual. No warrants. Nobody under arrest. Buzz is free to ask me to leave anytime. I’ll make something up like we just arrested a guy for child porn and your name was on his distribution list. I’d like to get your side of the story. That kind of thing.”

  “And you think Buzz will go for that? Voluntarily?”

  “I do. I’ve done it lots of times. Pedophiles love to talk. Know why? Because they think if they tell you what you want to hear, you’ll leave them alone and they can get back to downloading files. They’re obsessed.”

  “Look, Manny, I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job, but aren’t you afraid that if you move on Buzz he’ll get scared off? Leave town? At the moment, he doesn’t know he’s under suspicion. Doesn’t it make more sense to keep it that way until you have more evidence to connect him to Kathryn and Chrissy? All y
ou have now is the guy from the Dollar Store who says he sold a blanket to a woman we think is Kathryn Blazek and she drove away with a man we think is Buzz. The Dollar Store guy is not a credible witness. You said so yourself. You thought he was stringing us along to get more money. And now he’s gone to Mexico and didn’t leave a forwarding address.”

  “I got a deadline, remember? You were there. One month or I’m single again.”

  “I understand you’re feeling under pressure from Lupe. Buzz has a history of violent behavior. I doubt she would want you to take chances with your safety to meet her deadline. You need to think this over carefully. Can we meet at Fran’s tomorrow morning? I just got home. It’s late, I’m tired, and I don’t think well on an empty stomach. Give it a day. Twenty-four hours isn’t going to make that much difference.”

  “It would have to Chrissy.” He gives a low, airy whistle, like a punctured tire.

  “Have you talked to anyone else about this? The team? Or the chief?”

  “Not yet. I wanted to talk to Buzz first. See what I got.”

  This is crazy. No way should he go to Buzz’s house without backup. Without telling anyone but me where he’s going. It’s impulsive and dangerous. Not the careful, by-the-book Manny I know.

  “Manny, I have never minced words with you. So listen carefully. I don’t care if you never speak to me again or if you tell everybody in the department I’m a snitch. But if you don’t meet me tomorrow at Fran’s, I’m going to the chief and tell him where you are and what you’re doing.”

  I walk into the kitchen in my bathrobe, barefoot with wet and stringy hair.

  “You didn’t have to dress for dinner, you know.” Frank whacks me on the butt with a dish towel. “What’s up?”

  “Manny’s going to get himself killed if he’s not careful. He’s not sleeping, he’s drinking, his wife is about to kick him out of the house, and from a tactical point of view he’s making bad decisions. Something’s off with him.”

  “He’s working a kid case. You’ve always said it’s the kids that get to cops.”

  I wonder if that’s because every cop was once a kid.

  My stomach doesn’t stay empty for long. Omelets, salad, crunchy French bread, and a glass of pinot noir plus a foot rub and I was not capable of thinking about anything but getting a good night’s sleep. Which is why I’m only interested in a cup of coffee at Fran’s the next morning. The place is a madhouse. Orders to go, orders to stay, customers lined up out the door waiting for seats. I shove my way inside and ignore the dirty looks. Eddie and Fran are behind the counter. I don’t see Manny.

  “He’s in the back,” Eddie shouts at me, his face red and slick with sweat. “At the VIP table. Only the best for my buddy. Both of you.”

  I squirm past the counter patrons. As always, there are half a dozen KPD cops race-eating through breakfast before they’re dispatched to a call. Manny’s tucked into a booth, his back to the door. Uncharacteristic for a cop. He doesn’t move when he sees me. That’s another thing that’s changed. He used to have old-fashioned manners.

  “Hiding out? Didn’t want anyone to see you drinking coffee with the department shrink?”

  “There’s enough cops at the counter to stop a dozen terrorists.”

  “Coffee, crazy lady?” Eddie fills my cup and hands me a plate of toast with a side of bacon that I didn’t order. “So what’s going on? Is my man losing his mind because he misses me so much?” He slides into the seat next to Manny. “You alright, buddy? You don’t look too good. Working that kiddie porn shit? It’s a drag.”

  “Eddie.” Fran’s voice sails over the chatter. “I need you up front.”

  Eddie rolls his eyes. “A fry cook’s work is never done.” He squirms out of the seat. “Hold that thought, I’ll be right back.”

  Manny sticks his fork into a half-eaten pile of now cold pancakes, pulls it out again, and pushes the plate away. “I have a new strategy. I’m going to make an appointment with JoAnn Juliette. Go over the mug shots of local sex offenders with her once again and slip Buzz’s mug shot into the photo lineup. See if she recognizes him. If she doesn’t, I’ll move on to the father and the stepmother. To be super thorough, I faxed the photo to Norway on the chance Buzz might be the nanny’s American boyfriend. The cops interviewed her. Same story. No American boyfriend and she doesn’t recognize Buzz. Still doesn’t explain why she ran.”

  Eddie slides back into the booth. He wipes his hands on his apron. Cop talk, bad guys, unsolved homicides. This is what he misses, what he longs for. “So, my man, making any progress?”

  Manny shakes his head.

  “Can’t talk about it, right? Especially not to a recovering drunk.” He looks at me. “Emphasis on recovering.” He turns back to Manny. “My money’s on the mother. Nice-looking broad. One of them free-spirit, earth-biscuit types. Here’s my theory. Think about the cops you know—got married young, had babies, and spent all their time working, because work’s more exciting than changing diapers. They get divorced, move on, get married again, have another child, but this time the job’s not so interesting anymore. Now the only thing in life that matters is the new wife and the new baby. It’s like they’re making up for what they missed the first time around. Maybe that’s what happened here. Pop made a pile of money. Now he wants to play house, move in, settle down, and be a full-time daddy. But Mommy likes her freedom. Doesn’t want the old—emphasis on old—man around. It will cramp her style. So she kills the kid. Or gets someone to do it for her. See what I mean? Life’s a bitch. First you marry one, then you die.”

  Manny’s face goes pale.

  “Shit,” Eddie says and whacks his forehead. “I’ve stepped into it again, haven’t I? Wife giving you a hard time, buddy?” He slips his arm over Manny’s shoulder. “Take it from one who knows. You may love your job, but it don’t love you. As a matter of fact, the only time you need your vest is in the station, because that’s where they stab you in the back. Take care of things at home first.”

  I can’t tell if Eddie is talking about himself or Manny. Maybe both.

  “On the other hand, I’m definitely not the person you want to get marital advice from.” He slides out of the seat. “Take care of him, Doc. He’s a good man.”

  I push my toast and bacon to Manny. He pushes it back.

  “Eddie loves you, you know.”

  “At least someone does.”

  He waves his hands in the air and shakes his head. I don’t have to dig deeply to know this is not the time to talk about his and Lupe’s relationship.

  “So. I like your new plan much better than the one you proposed last night. Much safer, and if someone identifies Buzz, then you have a real link to Chrissy.” I take a sip of coffee and chew off the end of a piece of bacon. Manny doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look at me.

  “I’d like to ask you a favor. Is that okay?” He doesn’t respond. “As part of my graduate work in psychology, I studied the detection of deception. I’ve become interested in it again. Done a little reading, even visited my old professor, Dr. Charles Randall. He’s an expert in pedophilia and the detection of high-stakes lies. And, coincidentally, one of the psychologists JJ consulted before she mounted the show with Chrissy’s photo in it. She wanted to know whether her photographs would entice pedophiles. He’s happy to talk to you if you ask. But I have to warn you, he’s sick.”

  Manny makes a notation on his clipboard. Why is it that I’m the one who has to point out things he may have missed?

  “What did he tell her?”

  “That it’s impossible to predict who will be aroused by what. He encouraged her to go on with the exhibit.”

  “And this is the guy you’re taking advice from? Brilliant.”

  “There’s enough blame to go around for everybody. I don’t think it helps. Do you?”

  Manny doesn’t answer. He’s rubbing his index finger over a burn mark on the Formica tabletop, around and around as if getting this ages-old scar off the table is the mos
t important thing in the world. I wonder what else he’s trying to erase.

  “Would it be possible, Manny, for me to observe JJ, Kathryn, and Bucky when you show them Buzz’s picture? Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not implying that you can’t do the job yourself.”

  “Or that you’re spying on me for the chief?”

  “Manny, I’m sorry I told the chief you looked stressed.”

  Once again he waves his hands in the air. “Go on.”

  “The detection of lying has strong evidence-based research behind it. It works. All I need is a one-way mirror with a sound system, just like the one in the conference room. I can sit there and take notes. Nobody will even know I’m around. What have you got to lose? It might even help the investigation.”

  “I can give them a polygraph.”

  “It’s my understanding that the polygraph can be useful if there are facts known only to the police and the killer.”

  “That’s what we got. The makeup. The heart atrial thing. Nobody knows about those but the killer.”

  “But polygraphs aren’t admissible in court. Plus, they aren’t always accurate. Some produce results as high as 95 percent accuracy and some are no better than chance. There can be sizable false positives. Ditto for false negatives where the guilty person looks innocent because they’re good liars. That’s why they’re not admissible in court—too much depends on the examiner and the person being examined. Randall’s theory is based on a coding system of facial actions. I think it’s more reliable. If I get nothing, then you can reconsider polygraphs.”

  “I’ll have to run it by the chief.”

  “Of course. I can come with you when you talk to him. Explain how it works.”

  He smiles for the first time. “I’d better handle this one myself, Doc. The chief will take it better if it comes from me.”

  The minute Manny leaves, Eddie sits down. I need to go to headquarters to meet with three records clerks who have some sort of personal dispute. Eddie takes twenty minutes I don’t have to be convinced that what he said won’t damage Manny or destroy their friendship. He’s still highly reactive, but at least he’s talking instead of medicating his anxiety with a six-pack of beer.