The Blue Journal (26 page)

He was thinking about those old friends, feeling the urge to visit one of the watering holes where he spent too much time during nights gone by, maybe stop by his old precinct. But he knew it would be a letdown, he knew it for sure. There would be different faces, the roll call at the old station house full of unfamiliar names. He remembered Lieutenant Kenny, the best superior officer he ever served under. Had cancer a few years ago, retired to Arizona or Nevada or something. Walker would love to have a beer with Brian Kenny someday, but he knew it was never going to happen. He figured that was all right, just part of the deal.

What upset him, what really depressed him, was the sense that every trace of his existence in this city had been completely washed away. He had risked his life, day after day, year after year, chasing down drug dealers and thieves, doing his job like a good cop should, putting the villains away and protecting the public. And now, looking back, what was it all about? As soon as he moved out of New York, the city had forgotten him. He even lost his wife and daughters along the way, and now he was alone.

What a waste.

Jesus
, he thought,
you're a morbid sonuvabitch
. He tried to shake it off, but the feeling stuck. He found himself driving even more slowly as he continued north on Madison, looking at the shops and restaurants, new places, names he never saw before.
Hell
, he thought,
if I go downtown I probably won't even find a bar I would recognize
.

He finally made a right turn, found his way to the East Side Drive, then headed up the interstate for what had now become his home, for the good and bad of all that.

CHAPTER 31

By the time Walker arrived back in his office from his visit to New York it was after seven. Sitting at his desk, he pulled out the printed version of Elizabeth Knoebel's diary. He picked up the pages that had been stored under JWJCR.DOC and read them again.

SEXUAL RITES
Notes on the Mechanics of Sexuality

Like most men, J was inept when it came to solving the sweet mysteries of femininity.

Bred as egocentrics, men learn early on all there is to know about their own genitalia. Even before puberty, a boy becomes obsessed with his penis, exploring the sensitivity of the underside of the glans, running his fingers along the frenulum, endlessly touching himself and playing with his testicles. His first erections and ejaculations constitute a rite of passage that arm him for a lifelong pursuit of satisfaction, just as the primitive hunter must have felt when he finally honed the tip of his spear to a sharp point and embarked on his search for prey.

Oddly, there are very few men I have ever known who have the same curiosity about the physiology of the vagina that they have for their own equipment. They tend to view a woman's pussy as a goal to be achieved rather than part of a process to be enjoyed. The vagina becomes a receptacle for penetration, nothing more. If the pussy is wet, the easier it is to enter. Whether the lubrication comes from within—as an expression of the woman's arousal—or is abetted by a cream or an oil, does not matter to most men. They believe the point is to find their way in and then employ all the subtlety of a jackhammer in driving home their stiff cock with thrust after thrust until the inevitable conclusion.

Inevitable, that is, for the man.

Even men who enjoy fondling, touching or licking a woman's pussy often fail to understand what pleases and what does not. Rough sex does not mean unpleasant sex. Would a man enjoy a woman painfully squeezing his balls? Or digging into them with her nails? Or scraping his cock with her teeth?

The first thing a man should realize is that the vagina is as sensitive for a woman as the underside of a man's scrotum is to him. The interior membranes are incredibly thin. The clitoris is something to be worshipped with tenderness, not chafed or bitten or lapped at like a thirsty dog drinking water from a bowl.

There can also be too much of a good thing. Constant rubbing or touching or licking in the same area can become more irritating than exciting. A woman has innumerable erogenous zones, all of which should be investigated and caressed before zeroing in on the ultimate target. A woman's neck, her nipples, her ears, her ass, and—that most overlooked source of pleasure—her skin itself, when properly approached and stroked and caressed, can leave her pussy dripping wet even before the man arrives there.

When it is time for the vagina to be fondled or kissed, it should not be attacked. Care must be taken. The outer lips should be gently parted, not shoved aside. The inner skin should be treated with delicacy, not assaulted with a stiff finger jammed inside. The clitoris should be lovingly embraced, not chewed or jabbed at.

This should all be obvious to any man who has ever left a woman unsatisfied, which includes virtually every man engaged in the journey of sexual discovery. Yet so many of them fail to see what is apparent, ignoring the needs of the vagina, even as they ignore the emotional needs of the woman herself. They should learn to enjoy the complete experience, they should understand that the pleasure they give will only enhance the pleasure they receive.

J neither understood nor seemed to have any interest in learning.

Unfortunately, as we have seen, most men are fools.

Walker could not help but smile as he put the pages down. Whoever and whatever this woman was, it would have been interesting to meet her.

He shook off the thought when he saw a note on his desk to call town counsel, Ben Youngman. The message said that Chief Gill had spoken with Youngman about Dr. Knoebel and his attorney, so Walker picked up the phone and made the call.

“I'm walking out the door,” the lawyer told him.

“Okay. Just wanted to know if you had a chance to think it over yet.”

“Yes, actually.” There was a pause. “Legally, I don't see why we have to give any of it back. I've spoken with the prosecutor's office. Cohen feels the same way.”

Walker nodded to himself. “But?” He knew that any time a lawyer gives an answer with his voice rising at the end of the statement, there was always a
but
.

“An hour ago I got a call from Knoebel's lawyer.”

“Mr. Bennett is really getting around.”

“He threatened a suit against everybody—you, the department, the town.”

“Did the chief tell you what we found on her computer?”

“He gave me a general idea.”

“Then why don't you tell Attorney Bennett how pleased we'd be to fight this out in court? I'm not so sure Dr. Knoebel will see that as such a terrific idea, having a battle over a diary that says his wife was humping half of Fairfield County.”

“TMI, Walker. I told you, Gill only gave me a vague description of what you found.”

“And I'm telling you they won't fight us.”

“Maybe not. I want you to return it anyway.”

“What?”

“That's our position.”

“Your position? What the hell sense does your position make? What if we need this as evidence?”

Youngman hesitated again. There was nothing he liked about this discussion, and he obviously considered Walker a nuisance. “Is Knoebel a suspect? A target?”

“Probably not. I verified his alibi in New York today.”

“And you've been through the woman's files, right?”

“Yes.”

“Have you found anything in the computer that's material to your investigation?”

“I'm not sure.”

“That's not good enough, Detective. The man's wife is dead. If you don't think he's the one who killed her, and you've discovered no material evidence in her laptop, why give him a hard time?”

“There's something about it that doesn't feel right.”

“Could it be the bully-boy tactics coming from the lawyer in New York?”

“I'm used to that crap. It's just a feeling I have, that's all.”

“A feeling?”

“The stuff in her files is about people she knew. You said Gill gave you the
Reader's Digest
version?”

“I got the summary.”

“Then you understand the situation. At the very least one of these stories might help us prove a motive if we ever finger the murderer.”

Youngman hesitated. “All right. Get me the computer. I won't give it up until I speak with Cohen again.”

“Okay,” Walker agreed. Cohen was a hard-nosed prosecutor, and he would take a tougher line than Youngman. Walker was going to call him first thing in the morning and offer his version of the facts.

“You know,” Youngman said, “the guy was an idiot not to demand her computer back in the first place.”

“Except this guy is no idiot,” Walker said. “So why did he do it? That's what I can't figure. At first I thought he was trying to help the investigation, a natural instinct to help us find his wife's murderer, right? Then I read the stuff.” Walker shook his head. “What's he up to, Ben? Did he know what was in there or not? Is he trying to implicate other people to cover his own tracks? Did he just want someone to see what his wife was all about?”

“Easy there, cowboy. I'm not a detective or a psychiatrist, I'm just a lawyer. You say his alibi checks out. If that's true he's not a suspect, he's just the grieving widower. Get me the laptop in the morning and I'll speak with David.”

“I'll drop it off myself.”

“And Walker.”

“Yeah?”

“Don't do anything stupid.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you,” the lawyer said.

When they hung up, Walker dialed Blasko. “Can you make me a disc with all those files from the Knoebel laptop? Strictly on the down low?”

“No problem.”

“I need it by first thing in the morning. We've got to give up the computer.”

“I'll stop by, it'll take me all of two minutes.”

“You're the best, Teddy.”

Walker hung up and sat back in his chair.
Damned lawyers
, he thought. He checked his voice mail and found that Jake had phoned from the coroner's office. He returned the call.

Jake said, “I had a thought, after I spoke with you. You say Knoebel was in surgery that day.”

“Uh huh,” Walker replied wearily.

“Did you check the roster or the actual OR records?”

“The roster? Yeah, I think that's what the nurse showed me.”

“Did it list more than one surgeon?”

“I think so, but they wouldn't let me take copies with me. Once I confirmed Knoebel was there, I didn't fight it. Why?”

“That's just it. You don't actually know if Knoebel was there. I thought of this after we spoke. Knoebel could have had residents performing surgery under his observation. He might have come and gone during the procedure. If it was a simple operation, he might not have been there at the end. Unusual, I admit. But possible.”

“All right. How do I find out and how do I prove it?”

Jake thought it over. “The patient charts wouldn't show it. You need actual OR transcripts. That's the only place it might appear. The surgical abstract. It's a narrative of what happens during the operation, it says who does what. This is a long shot, I admit. And you may need a court order if they get tough with you.”

“Uh huh.”

“Or you might find a friendly resident who could tell you.”

“I'll take a crack at it. Thanks Jake.”

Walker hung up and returned to Elizabeth's diary. He wasn't giving these printed pages back, that was for sure. And he was going to hang on to the disc Teddy would make. That meant Randi Conway had the only other copy. He would have to get that back from her.

He was lost in thought when his intercom buzzed. “Someone here to see you, Lieutenant. I already sent him up.”

“Okay,” Walker said. He did not have to wait long before a familiar face appeared in the doorway. It was Kyle Avery.

“Sir?”

“Hey, come on in.”

The boy stepped inside, looking around. They were alone.

“How are you?” Walker asked.

Kyle began nodding his head. “Good, I'm good.”

“Sit down.”

“Oh, that's okay. I just, uh, wanted to come here and, well, you know, just say thank you. For your help I mean.”

The kid was so nervous Walker thought he'd better sit down before he fell down. “You're welcome,” he said. “Sure you won't grab a seat for a minute?”

Kyle scanned the room again and figured it was okay. “Fine,” he said, then came over and lowered himself into the wooden chair beside Walker's desk. “Saw you on television.”

“That right?”

Kyle nodded.

“How'd I look?”

The boy shrugged.

“I don't think Hollywood's in my future.”

Kyle uttered a short laugh.

Walker thought the boy looked different—it was his hair, he decided, it was cut a lot shorter—but he seemed just as jumpy as the night they met on the bank roof. “Everything working out for you at home?”

Kyle tilted his head slightly. “Not so much. They keep an eye on me all the time, you know, like I'm on suicide watch or whatever they call it.” He offered up an embarrassed smile. “I'm okay, though.”

“Guess you are, if you came to the police station to say thanks like this. Not easy to do.” When the boy did not respond, Walker leaned forward, his chin on his hand, and smiled. “Your mother's idea?”

“No,” he said with a determined shake of his head. Then he asked, “You remember that night?”

Walker nodded. “Sure do.”

“Well you were right about what you said. Woulda been a whole lot worse if I didn't listen to you.”

“Glad you figured that out. Your folks doing any better?”

Kyle looked down at his sneakers. “Nah. Mom and my sister and me, we moved out.”

“Moved out?”

“We're staying with a friend in town for a while,” Kyle told him, “This way Nina and I can still go to school here. Mom is really pissed about something. I'm not sure what.” The way he made that last statement, Walker had the sense the boy knew exactly why his mother had taken them out of the house. “I don't think Dad even knows we left. He's away on a business trip. Gets home tomorrow.”