The Enemy Inside (35 page)

They also had yet to track down any indication of who the strange hospital volunteer might be and where she fit into the crimes.

Berg flicked radio stations, hoping for something loud to help distract her from the thoughts tumbling around her head.
 

“Stella, can you tell us more about this new link into Chicago’s alleged serial killings?” a news anchor asked.

“Yes, I can, Tim,” Stella replied. “Despite continual denials from the CPD’s Chief of Detectives Antonio Consiglio, I have it on very good authority that all seven recent Chicago murders are suspected to have been perpetrated by a single serial killer. I have also been told by a confidential source within the CPD that all seven brutal murders, including that of missing woman Melissa Shipper, are linked by a hitchhiking in some way, and they have evidence proving this, including DNA. Despite this, Chief Consiglio allegedly told the detectives of the 12th to ignore this
 
evidence—”
 

Berg turned off the radio hurriedly as her heart skipped a beat. “Fuck!”
 

Stella had left a desperate message on her voice mail requesting a private meeting earlier, which Berg had ignored. But maybe she should go, if only to find out who the hell Stella’s source was.
 

Whoever it was, they were obviously well connected, and they had probably just cost her and Jay their jobs. Berg forced her mind back to the murders as she maneuvered the car past the northern forest preserves. Nothing was making much sense.

As Stella had just announced, she was sure all the murders were linked, but there was still nothing indisputable to back up the theory.
 

The five remaining detectives continued to meet in the coffee shop for progress updates, but until Jay hit pay dirt or Ted showed up, there were not many other leads to follow. Berg had repeatedly followed up the hospitals to see if the volunteer had returned, only to be told repeatedly that she had resigned and moved interstate.
 

She was devastated to think the murders might go unsolved and knew, as did her colleagues, the chances of a case being closed with a successful conviction dropped exponentially with every passing day.
 

Berg flew along the highway and the scenery whizzed past in a blur on her way to Skokie. Berg could feel the shadows gathering the closer she got to the hospice. Whether they were brewing for the impending visit with her mother or her impossible feelings for Jay she wasn’t sure.

You’re not worth a damn,
the voice whispered.

Berg wondered glumly what would happen if she nudged the wheel to the right, just enough to slam the car into one of the tall, dark trees on the edge of the woods.
Would it hurt, or would it be quick? How long before anyone found the car? Would anyone care?
 

Pulling up at the hospice, she negotiated her small car into a tight parking space in the visitors’ parking lot. Walking slowly up to the glass doors, she waited for the low buzz and pulled one of them open with a click.
 

“Hello, I’m here to see Mary Raymond,” Berg said.
 

The bored-looking receptionist handed her a sheet. “Sign in.”
 

Berg did as she was told and walked in. Her footsteps echoed as she dawdled along the long corridor. Fidgeting, she stopped at the drinking fountain and pressed the button, the water running through her mouth and back down the drain, undrunk.
 

Unable to put it off any longer, Berg knocked quietly and opened the door, hoping her mother would be asleep.
 

Sitting in a vinyl reclining chair near the window overlooking a small garden, the woman who gave her life and then took it away again barely looked up.
 

“Hi, Mother,” Berg said, pulling up a chair and sitting next to the empty shell that used to be her parent. Berg sat about three feet away, unwilling to get any closer. There had never been any touching or affection in their entire relationship to date, and Mary’s brain degeneration had not changed that.

Berg stared at the woman in a detached way, feeling not much more for her than she would for a stranger. Mary had aged badly, Berg saw, as deep frown lines were etched around her forehead, eyes, and mouth. It seemed as if a smile never cracked the surface of her fair, white skin. Mary’s milky blue eyes looked vacant, and her cropped, nearly white hair needed a trim. Berg made a note to mention that to her primary caregiver, Helen.

Her mother, now vaguely aware of her presence, turned her head and rested her blank gaze on Berg. “Who are you?” Mary mumbled, turning her attention back to the window, unconcerned at the response.

“It’s me, Mother. It’s Alicia,” Berg said.

Mary wrinkled her furrowed brow. “Alicia.” She repeated the word slowly, like it was difficult to say.
 

“Your daughter . . .” Berg’s voice faded away. It was probably best if Mary didn’t recognize her anyway.

“Daughter? You’re not my daughter. She’s much younger than you,” Mary replied.
 

Berg realized that Mary was having one of her bad days and was stuck in a time two decades ago where Alicia Raymond was still a child.
 

Berg gave up on chitchat, and they sat in silence for a few moments, both lost in the disappearing view. Berg never had any idea of what to say during these tense visits, so they were mostly spent in silence or watching television.
 

Mary snorted again, continuing her tenuous train of thought. “My daughter,” she said sarcastically before beckoning Berg closer. “Bad egg, that one,” she said, as if sharing a secret with a confidant.
 

Mary nodded to herself, uncaring or unaware she wasn’t getting a response from the same unrecognized daughter sitting next to her. “Should’ve been a boy.” She turned back to the window. “My first husband wanted a boy. He left me when she was born . . .”
 

Berg had heard this story many times before, so she nodded absentmindedly, which Mary took as agreement.
 

“A
liar,
too,” Mary said, her voice now vicious.

She’s not right in the head
, Berg reassured herself in the face of the loathing emanating from her own mother. Mary had often told a young Berg that her biggest regret was not having an abortion.

“Can you believe it?” Mary asked, still lost in her own world. “She expected me to believe that my second husband was interested in her 
sexually
,” she whispered, incredulous. “She came to me and told me that he had been forcing himself on her.” Another snort. “As if my husband would be interested in a little girl over a beautiful grown woman!” She threw up her hands like she never heard anything so preposterous.
 

Berg had seen photos, and Mary had been exquisite in her day, but the ex-beauty queen’s looks had been dried up by bitterness and hatred.
 

“What a little slut. She drove away my first husband and there she was trying to take my second.” Mary’s voice was thick with malevolence.
 

Berg realized her mother had forgotten a number of husbands and boyfriends in between her biological father and the man who had adopted, then raped, her.

“What did you do?” Berg whispered, wanting to hear it again, even though she knew the ending. But the story was like a mouth ulcer she kept prodding with her tongue—it hurt, but she couldn’t seem to stop poking it, and after a while, the pain felt good.

“I threw her out of the house, of course,” Mary replied. “Can’t have a lying little whore like that living with us. She’s probably making someone else miserable now.”

Despite having closed her heart to her mother many years ago, Berg felt tears that she brushed away with a cold hand.
 

Every time she visited, she got to hear the painful truth about her childhood. She got to recall how, after years of abuse, she had finally mustered the courage to report the acts to her mother, hoping and believing she would make them stop.
 

She relived how her mother had laughed cruelly and thrown her out of home without a second thought, uncaring about what could happen to a thirteen-year-old girl alone in a big city. A few months later, social services had brought her back home after she was picked up by the police, only to declare her alcoholic mother unfit to care for her. She remembered the subsequent never-ending lineup of foster homes, each no better than her own, some even worse. She remembered how she had finished school and decided to make her life worth something by becoming a cop. But soon enough, she fell into a self-destructive spiral, as if fulfilling the predictions her mother made about her all those years ago.
 

And every time she tried to stop her self-flagellation and failed, she felt her mother perched on her shoulder, her sanctimonious voice chirping in her ear.
 

See?
her mother would say.
I always knew you were no good
 . . .

Berg remembered how, as a young police recruit, she had tried to pursue her stepfather through the legal system, naively believing that justice would prevail. But he had used his considerable financial resources to tie up the court system, and died without ever admitting his crimes or serving one day in prison, defiant to his last breath.
 

Her mother never forgave her, blaming Berg for pursuing him to his death.

Mary was quiet again, looking out the window, lost in some new thought. “You’ll have to go when my husband gets home.” Mary smiled, lost in the memories of an evil, long-dead man.

Berg wearily rose from her chair and wandered out into the hall, searching for the water fountain and the brief respite it offered.

“Goddammit, Leigh!” Consiglio bellowed.
 

It was after ten at night, and the investigative services level was deserted apart from the two figures in Leigh’s closed glass office.
 

“I’ll have Raymond and O’Loughlin’s jobs for this leak!”
 

The captain, calm and unworried, stared at him as he yelled.
 

“Now I have to go outside to the media, who have been waiting to ambush me all day, and tell them what? That I’ve changed my fucking mind? Oh, sorry, I was wrong. As it turns out, a serial killer
did
actually murder seven people. Sorry about that,” Consiglio mimicked.
 

Leigh remained silent.
 

“You know I can’t do that. And to make matters worse, the board wants me to step down! They’re going to transfer me to some desk job to serve out my remaining years before putting me out to pasture! Do you have any idea what my potential constituents will make of that? Apparently, Deputy Superintendent McClymont has already got someone lined up for my job!”
 

Leigh smirked, folding her arms and sitting in her chair serenely as Consiglio towered over her desk in fury.

“You assured me the other murders were unrelated to the three original truckers! And now there’s a fourth! Why did I listen to you? A woman! What do you know about solving crime? Don’t think I’m going to take this lying down, Leigh. If I’m going down, I’m taking you with me! It’s been you who’s been assuring me that all seven murders aren’t linked!”

She smiled. “Got any proof of that?” Leigh asked. “An e-mail? Text message? Witness? Anything?” She’d been very careful to only have their special conversations face to face in her office.

Consiglio paled.

“You don’t, do you? There is absolutely no written evidence of any of that, except, of course, for the written complaints I have been sure to lodge with your superiors expressing my doubts over your ongoing inability to work with women and the fact that your political aspirations have been clouding your judgment. They are so lawsuit shy, I only had to mention the words
sexual discrimination
once before they sprung into action, unable to do enough to assist me.”

Leigh watched with immense satisfaction as the knowledge he had been played like a Stradivarius took about two seconds to dawn on his bullish features. Like all the lazy, self-important men she had encountered in her career, he had been only too easy to manipulate.
 

“You, you . . .
bitch
,” Consiglio replied, his eyes bulging. “I’m going to . . . to . . .”