Shield of Justice (14 page)

“Jesus Christ,” Rebecca cursed, tossing the paper aside. “I can’t
believe
the asshole put Catherine’s name in the paper! He might as well have put Janet Ryan’s in, too. We’ll need to tighten security down there right away. Catherine didn’t want us to put a guard on Ryan, but we’ll have to now. God damn it.”

“I already called the patrol commander. He said he’d post someone down there in an hour or so, as soon as the day shift signs in.”

Rebecca regarded Watts with surprise, but she was too disturbed by the article to appreciate his quick thinking. “
This
kind of media coverage we do not need. It engenders public hysteria and distrust. If that isn’t bad enough, it jeopardizes the whole damn investigation. If the perp thinks we may have a lead on him, he could change his pattern or stop temporarily, and then we’re screwed. He could move to another city altogether, and we’ll never get him.” What she didn’t add was what really worried her most—the perpetrator might try to silence Janet Ryan, now that he knew where she was.

“Looks like somebody talked,” Watts remarked with disgust. “Probably the shrink.”

“It wasn’t her,” Rebecca stated flatly, knowing that Catherine would never endanger Janet Ryan. What she couldn’t understand was why Catherine hadn’t told her about the reporter.

“She knows almost as much as we do,” Watts continued unperturbed, fingering the reports in front of him. “She’s been present every time you’ve talked to the Ryan kid—”

“I told you, Watts. It
wasn’t
her. Now let it drop,” Rebecca barked. She was feeling the effects of the long night, and the nagging headache was back. “Why don’t you find out where that leak came from?”

“Yeah?” he said belligerently. “And just how do you suggest I do that?”

“Get that little twerp from the
Daily
and shake it out of him,” she said, heading for the door.

“Hey! Where you going?” he called after her.

“The morgue.”

He didn’t ask her anything else.

*

“You don’t want to be down here, Frye,” Dee Flanagan said sharply when she looked up from her microscope to see the detective striding through the lab. Hogan’s and Cruz’s bodies were still down the hall in the autopsy room, and that wasn’t the kind of memory a friend should have. “Besides, we aren’t open yet. It’s not even seven o’clock.”

“You’re always open,” Rebecca said, ignoring the frown on Flanagan’s tanned face. “Did you look at the slug you dug out of the dock?”

“Maggie has it now. I told you I’d call. You’re just gonna piss off Homicide by poking around in their case.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rebecca muttered as she threaded her way down the narrow aisle constricted further by equipment stands, boxes of supplies, and makeshift work areas. She went through the far door into the brightly lit room beyond and looked for Maggie Collins, a slender, blue-eyed redhead. Maggie was fifteen years younger than Dee Flanagan and her head technician, as well as her lover.

When she saw Rebecca, Maggie asked quietly, with just a hint of Ireland still in her voice, “Dee know you’re here?”

“Yep.”

“Hmm,” Maggie mused, setting aside a labeled tube of something that looked like it had been scraped off the inside of a dumpster. “Slipping a bit, is she?”

“Nah,” Rebecca assured her. “I was moving fast, and she didn’t have a chance to tackle me.”

Maggie smiled, a smile that melted hearts. “Ah, that’s all right then. You’ll be wantin’ the report on the gun that killed Jeff?”

“Do you have something?” Rebecca asked hopefully.

“Not as much as you’d like, but something,” Maggie responded, directing Rebecca’s attention to a large computer monitor. She slid a disk in and deftly worked the cursor through a series of images until she had a gray object that barely resembled its previously cylindrical shape centered on the screen. “That would be it—9mm standard automatic. Best guess is a Mauser.”

“Hell,” Rebecca exclaimed when she saw the condition of the bullet. “You’ll never get bore marks off that thing.”

“Don’t you be pullin’ such a long face, Sergeant,” Maggie muttered, her Irish thickening as she frowned in concentration, highlighting several areas of the distorted fragment and bringing up the magnification. “This section here shows enough of the land and groove pattern that I can make a match if you bring me a firearm to test it against, or even another bullet from the same weapon.”

“You’re beautiful.”

“She is,” Dee said as she walked up behind them, “but you should leave this alone, Frye.”

Rebecca fixed the Crime Scene chief with a steady stare, and said in a low, dangerous voice, “He was my
partner
.”

“All the more reason to let Homicide handle it.”

For a moment the two women faced each other in stony silence, and then Rebecca said, “I can’t.”

Flanagan continued as if she hadn’t heard. “We’ve pretty much finished up with all the exemplars from the River Drive rape site. There’s nothing there that will help until you have a suspect and can search his place for physical evidence. I can tell you this with certainty, though—Janet Ryan was involved in a physical altercation with your perp. The skin under one of her nails matches the DNA from the semen on all the rape victims. I got the preliminary analysis back just now. You have your witness.”

“Yeah,” Rebecca snapped, tired and frustrated and knowing that Dee was right to tell her to back away from the homicide. “If she ever remembers anything.”

“Why don’t you do us all a favor and concentrate on
that
case. Trish Marks is a good homicide cop, and even Charlie Horton isn’t going to screw around when it’s a cop who has been taken out. Give them some room to work.”

“Thanks for the info on Ryan,” Rebecca said, walking away without bothering to pretend she could leave Jeff’s death alone. No one would have believed her anyway.

Catherine finished her second cup of coffee and glanced up at the cafeteria clock. It was 7:15 a.m. Residents and students were beginning to gather in tired clumps to discuss the night’s events and the day’s demands over breakfast. She was one of the few staff present. The surgeons had already come and gone on their way to the operating room, and it would be relatively quiet for the next hour until the outpatient clinics opened at 8:30. She had come early for one specific reason—to intercept Hazel Holcomb before the chief of psychiatry’s busy schedule made her inaccessible for the day.

Catherine saw the familiar figure moving through the coffee line at precisely 7:30, carrying a coffee and danish as she had each morning for the fifteen years that Catherine had known her. She was nearing sixty, but her age showed only in the gray of her hair and a slight thickening of her body. Her brisk step and quick piercing gaze were as youthful as ever.

Hazel’s face registered faint surprise when she saw Catherine beckoning to her from across the room. As she settled into the chair across from her younger colleague, she said, “I don’t suppose this is just a pleasant coincidence, is it?”

Catherine flushed in embarrassment. Hazel had been her supervisor when she was a resident, and they had since become friends. She always meant to call her just to chat or perhaps have dinner, but work always seemed to take precedence, and there never seemed to be time for it. Perhaps more than anyone else she knew, Catherine valued her opinion. Hazel had the ability to provide insight without judgment and the wisdom to hold her counsel until the patient—or friend—was ready to accept it.

“No, it isn’t,” Catherine admitted. “I have a professional matter I want to discuss with you. Do you mind me interrupting your breakfast time?” She knew that this was probably one of the few private moments Hazel would have all day.

“Your company is always a pleasure, Catherine. Tell me about your problem.” While Catherine relayed the details of Janet Ryan’s involvement with the recent assaults and her subsequent amnesia, Hazel absently nibbled at her breakfast, absorbing the tale.

“And what about all of this troubles you?” Hazel finally asked astutely. “It sounds as if your patient is recovering faster than you had hoped.”

“I’m not sure how hard I should be trying to reverse her amnesia,” Catherine said. “Obviously, it’s vital to know exactly what she witnessed. It’s critical to the police investigation. On the other hand, I have to think of Janet’s psyche first. She is a sexual abuse victim herself. Her brother repeatedly raped her throughout her childhood. I’m certain that the shock of witnessing the assault this week triggered many old terrors for her.”

“Enough to account for the amnesia?” Hazel asked, while dunking the corner of her cheese danish into the steamy black coffee.

Catherine shrugged. “The beating she took by itself may account for the amnesia, but she’s having more frequent and more detailed flashbacks from her early childhood—previously unremembered episodes of abuse. That is a result of witnessing the rape, I’m sure.”

“She must be very fragile right now,” Hazel commented sympathetically.

“She is, of course. She’s been working with me both individually and in group for some time and has made a lot of progress. But this whole event has brought up a great deal for her to handle all at once.”

Hazel pushed her chair back slightly and sat quietly regarding her friend and colleague. Catherine had been the brightest resident she had ever trained and was now the most accomplished psychiatrist on her staff. Hopefully, Catherine would assume her own position as head of psychiatry when she retired. She knew Catherine to be both an empathetic therapist and an accomplished theoretician. She also knew that when Catherine sought her advice, it was often simply to confirm what she already believed.

“What do you think would happen to Janet if she were to recall the details of this recent trauma before she was emotionally prepared for it?” Hazel asked at last.

Catherine thought carefully before replying. “I can’t be sure, and that’s what’s bothering me so much. There’s a good chance she would handle it well. She has a supportive partner, and she’s made great progress with resolving much of her confusion as to her own responsibility—or
lack
of it—for the abuse in her childhood.” She hesitated, thinking aloud. “But there is still a possibility that she might see her inability to prevent this rape as a reflection of what she considers to be her failure to protect herself from her brother. That kind of guilt, even though unfounded, could be damaging.”

“That’s your answer, then, isn’t it,” Hazel said calmly. “She’ll remember when it’s safe for her to remember. Until then she needs to be supported and reassured that her inability to remember is natural and healthy.”

“Of course. You’re so right.” Catherine felt a wave of relief as she often did when Hazel grasped the essence of some professional dilemma and reduced it to its simplest form. “I’m afraid I momentarily lost sight of exactly what my issues are. My responsibility is to her welfare first. I guess I’ve allowed myself to think too much about what will happen if the rapist isn’t apprehended quickly. I owe it to Janet to be cautious.”

Hazel recognized the look of self-accusation that crossed Catherine’s fine features, clouding them for an instant with self-doubt.
Ever the perfectionist.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Catherine,” she said softly. “This is not a simple matter. There
are
many important issues here. Are the police pressuring you to force Janet along?”

“Oh, no,” Catherine replied quickly. “Rebecca has been wonderful with Janet.”

Hazel picked up immediately on the change in Catherine’s tone, but she didn’t comment on it. Catherine, however, flushed slightly and hastened to explain.

“Rebecca Frye is the detective in charge of the rape investigation. She’s very good with Janet. She’s frustrated, of course, because she doesn’t have much to go on. But she’s allowed me to handle Janet my own way.”

“Sounds unusual for the police,” Hazel noted dryly. “It hasn’t been my experience that the police are particularly sensitive about how they elicit information.”

“Rebecca
is
unusual. It’s more than just a job to her. Oh, she’s a police officer, down to her last cell, but she’s also sensitive and kind. She
cares.
This investigation is stalled, and it’s wearing on her.” As she spoke, she thought about the exhausted woman who had sought comfort in her arms just a few hours before, and she warmed to the memory. She remembered too how eagerly—desperately—she’d given herself to Rebecca, and she flushed again.

Hazel knew Catherine too well not to notice. “How serious is this…with this police woman?” she asked pointedly.

“Oh, Hazel. I wish I could answer that.” Catherine met Hazel’s gaze evenly, but her eyes betrayed her uncertainty. She sighed deeply and shook her head. “I hardly know her, really. We only met a little over a week ago, but my feelings for her are so strong. It’s completely unlike me.” She spread her hands in a rare gesture of helplessness. “There’s a connection I can’t explain. I suppose I should be able to, but I can’t. I’m afraid I’m quite taken with her already.”

Hazel wasn’t all that surprised. She was probably the person who knew Catherine best, and she had watched her hold herself apart from potential relationships—unsatisfied by casual encounters, not given to sexual liaisons; searching, seeking; unconsciously waiting for some deeper connection—and being continually disappointed. She knew it had been some years since Catherine had even seriously dated anyone, and she suspected that Catherine’s detachment had grown out of her disillusionment with love. For all of Catherine’s training and knowledge of life, she remained, at her core, a true romantic. And she remained a woman, Hazel feared, who might never find the soul partner she so desired.