Shield of Justice (15 page)

“Well,” Hazel said, “I think I can understand your dilemma better now.” She raised a hand to halt Catherine’s quick reply. “Oh, I do not for an instant doubt your professional judgment or your ability to protect your patient. But one’s head is hardly clear when one is falling in love.”

Catherine blushed fully and looked down at her hands. “Do you think I’m foolish?” she asked softly.

Hazel reached across the table, touching Catherine’s hand gently. She had never seen her so uncertain. “Not a bit,” she replied. “It’s normal and healthy…and about time.”

“It may turn into a disaster,” Catherine went on, voicing her fear for the first time. “She sees the worst of people every day, and she’s distrustful and emotionally remote because of it. But she’s also burying her tenderness, her caring, and her fear just to maintain her balance. She’s afraid of being hurt. She wouldn’t say that; I doubt that she even realizes it. I’m not sure she’s even
capable
of knowing her feelings for me…or for anything.”

“She’s not alone in that, Catherine,” Hazel said sadly, “but I can see that she’s touched you in a way that no one has in years, and I doubt that she could have done that if she were truly emotionally bereft. Trust to time…and try to take care of yourself.”

Catherine smiled her gratitude and straightened her shoulders. Pushing back from the table she said, “I’ve got to make rounds.”

“I’ll walk with you,” Hazel replied as she picked up her tray.

They accompanied each other in friendly silence, strengthened as always by their encounter.

After running a quick check with the patrol officers who had been running down leads on cars parked illegally along the Drive the day Darla Myers and Janet Ryan were attacked—and coming up empty—Rebecca pulled into the hospital parking lot. It was just before
eleven
a.m. She took the now familiar route to the psychiatry wing with a surge of excitement spiraling through her belly. Even though she was bone tired and still reeling from the shock of Jeff’s death, the memory of awakening beside Catherine, of making love to her, made her entire body feel charged. She was aware of the quickening of her heartbeat and a low pulse of desire just from the anticipation of seeing her again.

Get a grip, Frye.
Catherine still held the pivotal piece in the puzzle of her case—access and insight to Janet Ryan—and she couldn’t afford to let her personal feelings get in the way of her professional obligations. Time was running out. Too many people depended on her to do her job right, and she was going to have to push for the information she needed. The next victims were even now going about their lives under the assumption that they were safe, never thinking that around the next corner some madman waited to destroy their future. It was her responsibility to see that that never happened.

She stepped off the elevator into the hushed hall of the inpatient ward, the image of Darla Myers and the other victims as vivid as they had been the first time she looked at their battered bodies. A woman in a blue smock was bent over a stack of metal folding charts behind the white counter of the nurses’ station, busily cross-checking medication cards. She looked up and smiled when she heard Rebecca approach.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Visiting hours aren’t until one o’clock.”

Rebecca pulled the slim black leather folder from her pocket and displayed her identification. “I’m looking for Dr. Rawlings. Is she around?”

“I think so,” the friendly African American woman replied as she checked her watch. “She should be finished with the residents in a few minutes. There’s a conference room just down the hall. Do you want to wait for her there?”

Rebecca nodded. “That’s fine. I’ll find it,” she added, motioning the nurse to stay seated. “Would you tell her I’m here, please?”

There was little of interest in the conference room, and as she always did in the midst of a troubling case, Rebecca let her mind wander back over the investigation, hoping to turn up some detail that might give her a fresh lead. Jill had always complained that even when Rebecca was with her, she wasn’t really
with
her, because mentally she was still working. Rebecca couldn’t disagree.

Hands in her pockets, she paced around the perimeter of the room, sorting facts and cataloguing data. There was something that kept nagging at her about these assaults—something she had seen or heard that might be significant—but she couldn’t quite bring it into focus. She knew from experience that the swirling impressions would eventually consolidate into a coherent image and, hopefully, bring the greater picture into sudden relief. The tantalizing clue was often the key to a puzzle whose separate pieces then quickly fell into place.
Then
, she hoped, she would be able to close the gap between herself and the man she sought.

Unfortunately, the process couldn’t be rushed. Eventually, her unconscious mind would work that tiny fragment free and allow it to float to the surface. It was the waiting for that moment to occur that drove her crazy because, in cases like this, time was a luxury she didn’t have.

The door opened and Catherine walked in. All thoughts of the case disappeared. She had forgotten, although she couldn’t imagine how that was humanly possible, how beautiful Catherine was. Twelve hours ago, they had been in one another’s arms, and as she remembered Catherine’s hands on her, her skin suddenly burned.

“Catherine,” Rebecca said, and, to her own ears, it sounded like a benediction. Searching for a more professional tone, she cleared her throat and tried again. “Sorry to arrive unannounced.”

“You shouldn’t be. I’m glad to see you.” Catherine brushed her fingers over the top of Rebecca’s hand as she moved past her to a seat at the small conference table. “You don’t look like a woman who’s been up half the night.”

The warmth in her smile and the intimacy in her voice reached deeper than the brief caress. Rebecca felt it in her bones. She flushed despite her resolve to remain detached, and she had to look away. If she didn’t, she was in danger of drowning in the depths of Catherine’s eyes.
I can’t go there right now. I can’t think about how much I needed you, and how damn right it felt
.

“It isn’t about last night,” Rebecca finally said, her tone stiffer than she had intended.

Catherine studied her intently, replying quietly. “An official visit, then?”

“Tell me about the reporter you spoke with.”

“The reporter?” Catherine asked blankly. She wasn’t used to being interrogated, and the abrupt change in subject caught her unawares. It didn’t help her concentration any that the moment she had seen who was waiting for her, she hadn’t been able to think of anything except awakening in the night with Rebecca caressing her.

“Have you seen the morning papers?”

“No, I’ve been on rounds until just now. Why, what is it?” She stared at Rebecca, aware of the tension in the detective’s slim frame as she continued to pace. Her body was practically humming with it. “Rebecca?”

“There’s an article in today’s
Daily
announcing the fact that we have a witness to the rape.” Rebecca was unable to hide the anger in her voice.

“They have Janet’s name?” Catherine cried, horrified.

“No, not yet,” Rebecca assured her grimly, “but they have yours.”

“Oh, thank God,” Catherine said, relieved to hear that her patient’s identity had not been revealed. “Oh, of course! There was a reporter here yesterday asking questions—” She stopped and looked at Rebecca, her eyes filling with concern. “You think I told him?”

“Did you?”

“No, of course not.” She tried to ignore the quick flash of pain at the veiled accusation, reminding herself that even though they had been intimate, it had been very much a physical connection. Rebecca did not know her. “But he seemed to know that the police were involved with Janet’s case. I assure you, Rebecca, I told him nothing.”

“I’m sorry,” Rebecca said with a sigh, finally sitting down next to the psychiatrist. “I didn’t think it was you, but I had to check.” Before she realized what she was doing, she grasped Catherine’s hand and held it, circling her thumb slowly over the soft skin. She let it go reluctantly, leaning back in her chair because she had an overwhelming urge to touch her again. To keep touching her. “Can you think of anyone who might have talked to him?”

“A dozen people.” Catherine’s face revealed her frustration. “A hospital is the least private place in the world. Everyone is eager for a story, and every bit of human drama is grist for the gossip mill. It could have been anyone.”

“I was afraid of that,” Rebecca said angrily. “There’s not much we can do about it now, but it makes it even more important that we find out what Janet saw. Can you help me with this?”

Catherine was quiet for a long moment, sorting through her thoughts, trying not to be swayed by the sight of Rebecca’s drawn and tired face. She wanted so much to be able to offer some relief—not just to the detective but also to the woman. But she had a deeper obligation, one even greater than her growing affection for Rebecca.

“I’ll do all I can. I’m seeing Janet for a therapy session later today. If I learn anything at all that I can reveal, I’ll tell you immediately. I know that if she remembers any details she will want you to know.”

“I may need to have Janet interviewed by the police psychiatrist,” Rebecca said quietly. She saw Catherine’s body tense and realized that she had offended her. She didn’t want that—professionally or personally. “He may be able to recognize something you don’t. It’s routine.”

“Of course,” Catherine responded formally. “I’m not a forensic psychiatrist.”

“Damn it.” Rebecca shook her head impatiently. “I’m not suggesting you’re not competent, Catherine, but he is trained in criminal investigation.”

“May I be present at the interview?”

Thinking quickly, Rebecca replied, “I don’t see why not. It might make it easier for Janet.”

“I don’t like it, Rebecca, but I can see why you might have to do this.”

“Thank you,” the detective said softly, realizing in that moment how much she had not wanted Catherine to be angry with her. It was hard enough keeping a clear head and her priorities straight around this remarkable woman without that. “I’d be pissed as hell if someone started interfering with how I ran one of my investigations.”

“Yes, well, we have that in common.”

Startled, Rebecca searched Catherine’s face, looking for the anger she had heard in her tone. She couldn’t find it, and wondered if that was due to supreme control or just a very balanced temper. “So…how pissed
are
you?”

“I’ll survive,” Catherine said dryly.

“Good. Then there’s something else I need from you,” Rebecca continued.

“There’s more?” Catherine couldn’t suppress a chuckle. The woman was certainly relentless.

“I need some insight here. Something about this case feels off. It’s not like the usual sexual assault, if there is such a thing. What do you know about serial rapists? This doesn’t seem to fit with what I’m used to seeing.”

The doctor nodded, happy to be on safer ground. It was difficult being at odds with Rebecca over the issue of Janet Ryan, and getting more difficult every minute to concentrate.
God, ever since I walked into the room, I’ve wanted to grab her by the lapels, pull her close, and kiss her. This is so very much not the time.

Focusing on the detective’s question, she answered, “Most rapes occur between acquaintances; case in point is the all too prevalent date rape. Next are those common to particular settings—groups, or gang rapes, in bars or at parties. And, of course, the repeat rape of young children by adult sexual abusers, generally family members. The type of patterned, serial rape you’re dealing with is actually quite unusual. In broad psychiatric terms, it’s a sociopathic activity, a crime perpetrated out of some deep-rooted psychopathology.”

“Such as?”

“Oh, any number of things—low self-esteem, attributed, often incorrectly, to powerful female figures such as a domineering mother or a failed relationship with a woman; anger at feelings of impotence or lack of control, especially his frustration at not being able to direct events around him. The rapist often feels like a victim of social or personal injustice and translates that into anger against women. The rape is rarely purely sexually motivated, but, of course, sex is equated with power, especially in our culture. So, the rape represents an attempt to control events, to gain superiority over the perceived persecutor.”

“Are you saying that these rapes are the result of a disease?” Rebecca asked suspiciously.
Wouldn’t a defense attorney just love
that
.

“No,” Catherine responded firmly. “Make no mistake about that. These assaults are a crime, regardless of what psychopathology may underlie the motivation.”

“What can I expect in terms of the pattern of these attacks?” Rebecca asked, making notes as she listened.

“It’s hard to say. There isn’t anything particularly ritualized about them. As far as I’m aware, the only similarities are the site and the fact that all of the victims have been joggers.”

“They’ve all been young and fit, but you’re right, there hasn’t been any physical similarity beyond that fact.” Rebecca took a deep breath. She had never shared information with civilians, but then Catherine defied preconceived definitions. “There is something else, though. All of the victims were sodomized. And also, there was no vaginal penetration.”