Denial (7 page)
"Don't drag Prescott into this..." I felt myself losing control and took a second to settle myself down. "Amytal is a reliable technique to recover traumatic memories."
"
Reliable?
I thought they threw that shit on the garbage heap a decade ago. You could get anybody to say anything on it."
"Not when the interview is conducted—"
"By you. The master. I see. Well, the courts don't agree with you. Neither do I. Whatever Westmoreland said in there is irrelevant. And that's not even the thing that gets to me. What really disappoints me is you going behind my back."
That got my adrenaline flowing. "Behind
your
back? Why would I go behind your back? You've been up front with me. Right?"
"Don't talk to me in riddles. I know your friend Levitsky saw Dr. Fitzgerald here. So what? I have the right to get a second opinion whenever I want one. I told you you had thirty-six hours before the door closed on Westmoreland and I meant it. That doesn't mean I have to sit still while I wait." She pointed at me. "This is no small matter, Frank. I'm supposed to report you to the Board of Medicine. You didn't have a court order to inject Westmoreland, and you certainly didn't have his consent."
"How much are you paying Fitz?"
"Less than what I was going to pay you to stab me in the back. OK?"
"I'm not stabbing you in the back. I know a murderer on the loose makes for lousy headlines, but the damage is going to be much worse if you've got the wrong man locked up back there, and we end up with another body on our hands. Then you could really kiss the commissioner job goodbye."
"Believe me when I tell you: I don't need a career counselor. I have things covered."
"I'm sure you do. Unless another body turns up. Then all hell could break loose."
"No question about it. But you know what? That isn't going to happen. I've been at this work a little while — and a lot longer than you. Westmoreland's going to trial for a murder he committed, and he'll be found guilty."
"The defense will call me, and I'll testify. It'll be me against Fitz. Westmoreland's not competent to confess. And I'll volunteer that I don't think he did it."
"You may not be a licensed professional in this state by the time he comes to trial."
My elevator was headed for the roof. I took a deep breath. "Stop threatening me, Emma. I don't respond well to being pushed around."
"Could be those late-night shopping sprees in front of the Emerson Hotel," she mocked. "If you don't sleep, you get edgy. Your judgment can be way off. That's something else I'm supposed to let the Board in on."
"What the hell are you—"
"Save it, Frank. We've had surveillance cameras in front of the Emerson for months. You really should be more discreet."
Just then Officer Lucey raced in. He looked panicked. "We need help in there. Westmoreland's going off again."
I ran to the cell with the two of them. Westmoreland was pressed against the far wall with Malloy facing him. He had stuck his tongue out and was biting into it. Blood was streaming down his chin and neck.
Malloy's hands patted the air. "Go easy," he said.
Westmoreland screamed. Blood sprayed into the air. He caught his tongue between his teeth again and bit down hard.
"Shit," Malloy said. He seemed to be wiping blood off his face.
"Can somebody bring me up to speed here?" Hancock demanded.
Malloy didn't turn around. "I asked him one simple question, and he went berserk."
I walked into the cell and stood next to Malloy. "What question?"
He shrugged. "His real name. That's it."
"Did he tell you?" Hancock asked.
"Not at first. I had to ask him half a dozen times before I got George La-something out of him. Then he went into his clam act."
Westmoreland clenched his jaws. The blood started flowing even faster.
"George, you're only hurting yourself," Hancock said.
It was a mindless thing for her to say and it made Westmoreland scream out, then bite even more fiercely into himself. But it also gave me an idea. I was starting to think that the
only
person Westmoreland was really willing to hurt was himself. I walked away from Malloy and stood against the wall about ten feet from Westmoreland. I took out a little silver pocket knife I carry to cut coke and clicked the blade into place.
"Put that thing away!" Hancock yelled.
I looked over at Westmoreland. His eyes met mine. I held my arm up where he could see it and pressed the blade against my wrist. "Your suffering is my suffering," I whispered. "Tell me when we can stop."
Westmoreland kept his jaw tight.
I ran the blade over my skin so that it scratched a white line across my wrist.
His eyes widened, but his jaw stayed set.
I gritted my teeth and dragged the blade across my wrist with just enough pressure to break the skin. A clean line appeared, then turned bright red with blood.
"Oh, my God," Malloy whispered.
Westmoreland stared at my wrist, then glanced at his own.
I moved the blade to the beginning of the cut, closed my eyes and pressed hard enough for the tip to sink in about a quarter inch. I felt a sharp pain for a second, then a deep aching sensation spreading down my hand. I squirmed against the wall.
Westmoreland began to sob.
I looked over and saw he hadn't let go his tongue.
I pushed the blade in a little further.
He fell to his knees. His jaw finally relaxed. "Stop, Father," he pleaded. "My sins are great enough."
I lingered against the wall a few moments, then pulled the blade out of my wrist and walked over to him. I held out my hand. He took it and let me guide him to his cot.
"Make sure he gets seen at an emergency room," I told Hancock once I was out of the cell.
"That was quite a show, Frank," she said. "How did you know he'd stop?"
"Because he's not a killer."
She stiffened. "Your batting average on curve balls is already pretty low."
"I've never thought to keep score with people's lives," I said. I walked past her and out of the station.
I trudged to the parking lot, pulled myself into the car, started the engine, then just sat there with my eyes closed. I was spent, and on the ropes. If Hancock went through with her threat to report me to the Board of Medicine, they might suspend my license. Then the house would be as good as gone, and probably the Rover, too — all at a time when my relationship with Kathy was falling apart. But I couldn't let any of that stop me. I was the only chance Westmoreland had, and I cannot stomach a helpless man under attack. There was no telling what horrors his mind would spin in captivity. To him the bars of a cell might be razors primed to shred him. The police could be aliens using him in bizarre experiments. I had seen a psychotic prisoner split his own skull by diving into the corner of a cell, convinced maggots had infested his brain. And Westmoreland's confinement was only half of the problem; if he was wrongly imprisoned, then the real killer was free to kill again.
I ripped open the second packet of coke and inhaled about a quarter gram. My wrist was throbbing, and blood was trickling down my hand. I grabbed a chamois cloth out of the back seat and put some pressure on the wound. The shallow part stopped oozing after about a minute, but the point where I had sunk the knife deeper kept flowing. Cocaine is a potent anesthetic and a decent vasoconstrictor, so I blotted my wrist clean and sprinkled some along the laceration. That took care of the burning and slowed the bleeding, but only for a few seconds. I needed a few stitches. I started the car and headed over to the Stonehill Hospital ER.
Nels Clarke, a family practitioner who could pass for a lumberjack, was on duty when I got there. I found him checking lab results on a computer terminal. He looked up and saw the bloody cloth I was carrying.
"What the hell happened to you?" he asked.
"It's nothing. Just a little cut. I don't think it's gonna close up on its own, though."
"Did you register out front?"
"Did I..."
"Register. You just expect me to drop everything and take care of a little scratch on your arm?"
I didn't even have the energy to get angry at him. "I'll take care of it. Where can I find a needle and some 5.0 nylon?"
"Frank."
"I'll find it myself." I started to walk away.
"
Frank.
"
"What?"
"I was kidding." His brow furrowed. "You OK?"
"Long day."
"Long day? It's eight-fifteen."
"
A.M.
or
P.M.
?"
He winked. "Follow me." He brought me into one of the curtained cubicles, sat me down and grabbed a surgical tray. "Let's get a look." He covered the table between us with green draping and laid my wrist across it. "I think I can save the hand," he joked. He doused my skin with Betadine, then alcohol.
I winced.
"It burns," he smiled.
"Thanks for the warning."
He repositioned my arm. "You want a little lidocaine before I start?"
"No."
"Ah, an ascetic."
I had to chuckle. "I don't want a little. I want a lot of it. Unless I'm mistaken, you trained in family practice, not surgery."
He laughed with real pleasure, and I realized again why his patients adored him. Still in his thirties, he exuded the warmth of an old country doctor. He filled a syringe and deftly injected the margins of the wound. The skin tented up, then flattened as the anesthetic was absorbed. By the time he placed the first stitch, all I felt was a little tugging.
"So what happened?" he asked. "Some pretty thing tie you up too tight?"
"I wouldn't say
pretty
."
He took another bite with the needle. "Naming parties?"
"Sure. General William Westmoreland."
"I didn’t know you swung both ways. And you landed a military man. Good for you."
"Actually, he's a paranoid schizophrenic. I was evaluating him down at the jail, and we got into a little tug of war over sharp objects."
"All in a day's work, I guess.
Your
work, anyhow." He tied the second knot. "He's not the one who killed Sarah Johnston..."
"Word's out, huh?"
"Front page of the
Item
last night. I didn't know her, but I think I met her once or twice in the cafeteria. Thank God they caught that bastard." He sprayed some saline over my wrist to wash the blood away. "I hear half the nurses on the psych ward called in sick. We're short down here, too. I can't imagine what this place would be like if the guy was still out there."
"Let's hope things settle down."
"He's real crazy, huh? The paper said he cut her up."
I didn't want to get into it. "We only talked a few minutes."
"Oh." He looked up at me, then back down. He put in another stitch, tied it and cut it loose. His brow furrowed. "This being a work-related injury, I guess I don't need to ask the standard questions."
I watched the needle pierce my skin again. "Standard questions?"
"You know. There's a whole protocol that goes along with wrist lacerations. I'm even supposed to get a psychiatric consultation. But since you
are
a psychiatrist — and a friend — I figure you'd tell me if I should be worried about you."
"Worried? You're not thinking I'm
suicidal?
"
"It's routine to ask."
"Nels, I didn't try to off myself. I'm too narcissistic to even think about it. I'm more likely to try cloning myself."
He smiled and cut the nylon thread over his last knot. He had put in five stitches. "I just wanted to make sure, with Kathy and everything." He dropped the needle on a plastic tray and peeled off his gloves. "Not that you two haven't had your ups and downs before."
"I didn't know the rumor mill here was so goddamn efficient."
"Trevor's as discreet as a bonfire."
"Trevor? He's old news."
He folded the surgical drapes in on themselves, threw them in a laundry bin and walked over to the sink to wash up. "He, fuck him."
"Nels..."
He turned around and looked at me. "Why don't we grab coffee or something?"
"Save the bedside manner for grieving relatives. Just tell me."
"Tell you." He exhaled audibly, then leaned back against the sink. "OK. I was covering Buck Berenson's shift last night. I get a kid with a bad facial laceration — ran through a glass door. So I call Trevor in for the plastics. I don't happen to like him. I think he's nuts. But he's a gifted surgeon, no denying that. If I got hurt, he's the one I'd want working on me. Anyhow, he gets here maybe eight, nine o'clock and starts rushing me... You sure you don't want to get a quick coffee?"
"Thank you. No."
"No problem." He looked at the floor. "I call Trevor, and he comes in and starts saying how he wants to get through the job on the kid fast, because..."
"Spit it out."
"Because he's got Kathy back at the house waiting for him." He looked at me like he'd just told me I had cancer.
I let my breath out all at once. "I should have seen that coming."
"I feel like an asshole," he said, shaking his head. "It wasn't my place to say anything."
"I'd rather hear it sooner than later."
"you want to talk?"
"There's nothing to say. Kathy was close with Sarah Johnston. Where she takes comfort is her own business." I rolled down my sleeve and stood to go.
"You sure there's nothing I can do?"
"There is one thing."
"Shoot."
"Let me know if anything odd walks through the door. Scratch marks. Bit wounds. Signs of a struggle."
"That's not a reassuring request from someone working on Lynn's latest murder. They do have the right guy, don't they?"
"I think we'll know soon enough."
* * *
