Burn Patterns (20 page)

‘Have they got him on special watch?' she asked.

‘He is subdued but alert. Calm. No obvious distress.' He went to the fridge, sniffed a carton of milk. He flinched, leaving it in the fridge, and returned to the bubbling kettle.

‘That stuff will rot your guts, Frank.'

‘I have developed a taste for it. My gut craves the special blend of caffeine and soap.' He topped up his mug of black coffee with a little water from the tap before coming to sit. ‘What happened?'

‘I came in for one last assessment.'

‘Bullshit. You had all you needed.'

‘I had doubts.'

‘Bullshit. You've worked the slowest I've ever seen.'

‘Yeah, well, maybe you shouldn't have dragged in a damaged person to do your police work.'

‘You seemed well. You promised me you were okay.'

Iris said nothing.

Frank said, ‘So you're acting out. Is that it? You're punishing me.'

‘Hmm. It's worth thinking about.'

‘Naughty daddy.'

‘Don't.'

‘Okay, so …' He sipped his coffee, wrinkling his face at the acrid taste he needed. His eyes remained down, contemplating the coffee. He was trying to get his brain up to full speed.

‘I crossed the line. Way over.'

He raised his eyes to hers, but gave nothing. He listened, withholding judgement. Only listening. His glasses were covered with the thinnest film of dust on the lenses.

‘I must have formulated the idea before I left home because
I chose this pendant.' She pulled it out from her blouse. ‘I did have my doubts. Not big. What if his Martian persona were merely one character creation? What if there was a twisted, calculating bomber too? What if? So, I talked my way in here, I hypnotised him.'

Iris stopped, waited for Frank to speak. He didn't.

‘Not one of my … safest ideas. I wanted to confront his trauma. Which I did.' Iris couldn't help the triumph sneaking into her voice, in spite of everything. ‘So, I tried to hypnotise him, which I'm not sure I did. I think he hypnotised me.' Iris laughed. ‘Blowback? He took a cigarette lighter from my purse and he lit a fire on the bed. Yes, I let him, kind of. Maybe he hypnotised me, maybe I hypnotised myself, or maybe it was a kind of … swoon of possibility – I was present while he acted out his compulsive behaviour, I observed and asked questions.'

Frank seemed about to say something, but waited again.

‘I believe he started a fire in his house, his family burned to death. The name of his wife is Nisa. I think we should be able to check. It doesn't sound common. Also he sang a song in an Asian language. Not Chinese or Vietnamese.'

Frank nodded.

‘We were intimate, Frank. Physically.'

Frank still didn't say anything. He scanned her face, examined each pupil. He finally said, ‘How intimate?'

‘I put the fire out. He was crying. I hugged him. It started as a hug. I kissed him. I stroked his back.' Iris recalled the strange feel of James's back, the odd, hard smoothness of the scars.

Frank said, ‘But you didn't have sex?'

‘I was comforting him and I got lost in it. I took comfort.'

‘Did you have sex with the patient, Iris? Manual, oral, penetrative. Did you?'

‘No. Nearly, but no. Frank, it wasn't the sex. It was the intimacy. My patient, powerless, sick, in need, and I took advantage of that vulnerability and trust. I forced to him confront his trauma and I have not followed up, not talked through the ramifications. What's wrong with me, Frank?'

Frank reached across the table, took Iris's hands in his own big mitts. They were warm from holding the coffee mug.

‘I'm glad you told me, Iris. I love you, mate, you know, don't you?'

‘Yes.' He did, she guessed. ‘Am I having a breakdown?'

‘Well, that's a funny word.'

‘Break, broke. Down. Up.'

‘People can wear out, Iris. Need – a break from. Would you consider having a proper rest somewhere?'

‘Here?'

‘Good gracious no. Not a public hospital, nothing like here. You know, somewhere like Xavier, in the rolling greenery of the hills with rock stars and politicians. Resting, recuperating with groovy dieticians and personal trainers and very subtle cognitive therapists.'

‘I must be sick. You're talking to me too gently. I'll go home and think about it.'

‘Iris, the light bulb has got to want to change.'

‘But we need the eggs.' Old psychiatrist jokes.

Frank finally let go of Iris's hands to pat his suit pocket. ‘I'm going to go find a script pad. Try a mild sedative.' He leaned back against the fridge. ‘I will let the police know about what you've found from James. I will have him examined and organise follow up. In terms of the contact, I think it was wrong, but I'm not sure how it's going to play out. Counter transference, I'd guess. Clearly you can't have any further professional contact with him. I should have seen. The school explosion may have triggered a relapse, set back your recovery. Or just be a whole new thing. I should not have put you onto this case so soon after …'

Iris could tell Frank didn't want to finish it so she did. ‘Georgina and Williams dying in the fire at my office.'

Frank blinked at her. Simply said, ‘Interesting.' He stood, shuffled, said, ‘I'll write you that script. You know we'll get through this, don't you?'

‘Yes. I'm strong, Frank. Stupid, irresponsible, deeply disturbed – but strong.'

He leaned down and kissed her on the top of the head. It sent a warm glow through her.

Iris got up, washed Frank's mug, put away the coffee. She
suddenly remembered James sitting up in the bed and the voice he'd used to say he would borrow her car. It had been quite cynical. It was not like boyish James or Martian James. Was the hypnosis a performance too? Was the family tragedy another cover, the sexual advance too, another bit of glitter to distract?

Iris woke in her own bed to sunshine. Mathew was away. Frank had allowed her to drive herself home. She hadn't filled out his sedative prescription. She wasn't going to. The front doorbell chimed again. She looked to the clock. It was ten fifteen on Saturday.

Iris put on a robe, went downstairs. The doorbell chimed again as she reached the bottom steps. Impatient, she thought. Where's the fire? She opened the front door to Detective Stuart Pavlovic.

Pavlovic wore a striped shirt, dark trousers, black leather shoes. He carried a small soft leather bag, too effeminate for a cop. He was looking towards the garage when she opened the door. He swung back, noting the robe. ‘Oh, sorry. I woke you.'

Iris shrugged.

‘I've been sent to ask you some questions.'

‘Come in.' Iris led him towards the lounge. ‘Let me help you with your inquiries.'

‘Thank you.'

‘Do you want coffee?' asked Iris.

He nodded.

‘Okay. Come through to the kitchen. Do you know how these pod coffee makers work?'

‘Yes, of course.'

‘Very well. Could I have a green one? You can pick your own colour. I'll get dressed.'

Iris went upstairs. She recalled the last thing she'd done before bed was to put all her clothes, including the skirt, into the
washing machine. She supposed she had destroyed evidence. She'd thrown away the clothes she'd worn the day of the school explosion. Was it really so easy to put disconcerting events behind her?

She put on shorts and a t-shirt, went into the bathroom. She decided not to subject the detective to more of her morning face. Her eyes were puffy. She dusted the wrinkles, chose a subtle pinkish lipstick, Chanel.

He stood at the back windows, sipping his coffee and gazing into the garden. It was magnificent in the morning, a tangled forest dappling sunshine onto the grass and limestone surrounding the huge swimming pool. The jacaranda still held the last of its flowers.

Iris said, ‘Your bandage has gone.'

He held up his arm, flexed it gingerly. ‘It was in the way.'

Iris found her coffee on the counter.

‘You don't have any milk,' he said.

‘Sorry.'

‘I don't need milk.' He went to the kitchen table, sat at the other end.

‘You're not going to comment on the house?'

‘Nice house.'

‘Everybody comments on the house.'

‘There's all kinds of houses.'

Iris thought he pretended to be unimpressed. He didn't want to show any inferiority. Maybe he even resented the house. Iris used to. ‘Well, enough pleasantries, Detective. What?'

‘A few things, Mrs Foster.' He took a pocket sound recorder from his man bag, placed it on the table. He took out his mobile, a small notebook, fished for a pen.

Iris took her coffee and sat at the table within range of the recorder. She said, ‘How is the investigation going?'

He looked at her sharply. ‘It's an operational matter.'

‘I can help more, if I know things.'

‘Let's deal with the incidents at Fieldhaven last night first.'

‘I am working on the case.'

‘As far as I know Mrs Foster, you have been helping Dr Silverberg. You used to work for the Fire and Rescue Service.
You have also done contract work and consultancy for a number of departments, including the police.'

Iris noted the recorder, raising an eyebrow at the detective.

‘It's all in your file, Mrs Foster.'

‘Well, if it's in my file.'

‘I'm working for people, Mrs Foster. They like transcripts.'

‘To add to the file. You're not on the terrorists.'

He shook his head.

‘Or the bikies.'

He sat back watching her. He didn't answer.

‘You're on the Martian.'

He paused ever so slightly before saying, ‘I was on the schoolkids.'

‘Until it played out. Now you're miscellaneous.'

He nearly smiled. ‘Yes. Miscellaneous loose ends. Speaking of which, any problem with me asking a couple of questions for the record?'

He had a healthy ego, this man. He believed in himself. He knew who he was, where he fitted into the world. Maybe he wasn't a type A personality, but a healthy B, happy to work within the team. He'd make a good firey, thought Iris.

‘Fire away, Detective.'

‘The suspect at Fieldhaven, the Martian …'

‘James. He calls himself James.'

‘He apparently disclosed an incident to you.'

‘Yes. While I was assessing him, he appeared to re-experience a particular traumatic event which I believe forms part of his psychosis. A fire in his house. I believe his two children and possibly his wife died in the house fire. The wife's name is Nisa. I'm not sure where it occurred. Asia. He speaks an Asian language. Not Chinese or Japanese or Vietnamese. Oh, and I think those burn wounds on his back were part of the same incident, so hospital records and some police investigation should be available.'

The detective took notes.

Iris added, ‘I went back partly to test your theory, Detective.'

‘My theory!'

‘Yes. Whether he had a breakdown after he'd set the school bomb.'

‘And …'

‘I don't think the school bomb is in his life. Only this family fire.'

‘An odd way to put it. Not very conclusive.'

‘I live in a world of guesses.'

‘What do you guess about our school bomber?'

‘I think he likes the numbers, the fuss. He keeps score. He likes the attention. And he likes getting away with it. Because he likes getting away with it, he doesn't get too close. He liked preparing. He is content to imagine the pain. He rigs things so as to cause suffering. He likes hurting.'

‘Who are you working with on this?'

‘Your taskforce, I assume, through Frank.'

‘You have a lot of information, even considering you might have seen a couple of our files in the incident room. Your profile is way ahead of the curve.'

‘Theories.'

‘Why were you in the incident room again?'

‘I was looking for one of your team members. I didn't realise the room was off limits, Detective Pavlovic. I'm sorry about that. The breach has clearly put me offside with you.'

‘Who were you looking for again?'

‘A fire investigator.'

‘Why?'

‘I possessed information he'd asked for.'

‘Was it Charles Koch?'

Iris considered the recorder again. An interrogation trick is to have a suspect go over the same story a number of times to see if it tallies with itself. Interrogations were now called interviews, of course. Just the facts, no prejudice. ‘Yes. I think if you check back on your previous recording of our conversation outside the room, you'll find I said so.'

‘So you're working with him on his Zorro theory, huh?'

‘I've given him a few ideas, yes. Shouldn't I have?'

‘Did you know he is looking up old cases?'

‘Good for him. It is a sensible line of inquiry, don't you think?'

‘The taskforce are aware of his movements. They've sanctioned his involvement.'

‘They.'

‘Yes?'

‘You said they, rather than we. Odd choice. Does it mean you don't feel part of the team, or do you disagree with their decision regarding Chuck's access?'

‘The school doesn't fit the Zorro pattern Chuck put forward.'

‘I'm keeping an open mind,' said Iris.

‘Me too,' he retorted. ‘Do you think Chuck could have done this?'

‘The school!'

‘Yeah. Keeping an open mind, could Charles Koch have set this up?'

‘Why?'

‘To confirm his ideas. To be a hero again. He misses the limelight. His plan was to stop it, only it went wrong. Like the security guard in Atlanta.'

‘Richard Jewell?'

‘Yeah. Sad, lonely fake hero looking for affirmation.'