Deviations (24 page)

“If I told you I was planning to not think about
it, I guess you’d tell me that that’s not the smart way to go.”

“No,” he said, looking kind of interested. “I’d
say you’re not going to be able to not think about it.”

“How do you know? What if I’m special?”

“Well, I’m sure you are special, Detective. We all
are. It’s what makes us the same.” He smiled. “I’ve always enjoyed that line,
but I believe it’s true.”

“Yeah, it’s good. I like it.”

“The fact that you say you were planning to not
think about it—it’s like you’ve got a neon sign on your forehead flashing
Thinking
About It
. The only kind of person who could
not
think about would be
a psychopath, and you clearly are not a psychopath. Or completely delusional.
Which you’re also not. The question is whether we can work on how to think
about it productively, so that you can get beyond it.”

“All right, what do you want to know?”

“Why don’t you start by telling me some of your
feelings about what happened? We’ll just go from there.”

“Does rage qualify?”

“Of course it does. About the rapes?”

“That thing about doctor-patient confidentiality?
Does that hold, even if my boss is paying the bill?”

“It holds. One-hundred percent,” he said. “Tell me
about the rage.”

“All right. The guy who raped me—”

“I thought you said it was more than one.”

“The incompetent one didn’t count.”

He lifted his eyebrow.

“Take my word for it. The main guy, he was a
murderer—”

“You said ‘was’?”

“Yeah, both the guys are dead. We killed them. Not
me, personally. I guess you’d say it was a colleague, an FBI agent,” I said. “My
point is, the main guy was kind of a Nazi. I don’t know if he’d killed a bunch
of people, but I do know from another case, where he killed a woman, first he
raped her.”

Dr. Palchik wasn’t taking notes anymore, but I
definitely had his full attention. “Go on,” he said.

“These two rapes—me and this other woman—are not
gonna be reported. They didn’t officially happen.”

“I’m speechless,” he said.

“That’s okay. I got some things to say.”

* * * *

“Hey, good to hear from you,”
I said. Ryan had phoned me at home.

“I talked to the chief. He said you’re on medical
leave?”

“Yeah, I got some kind of flu. You ever had it?
Spewing out of both ends.”

“Absolutely. I’ve got seven brothers and sisters.
We shared everything. How long are you going to be out?”

“I’ll probably take the rest of the week. It’ll be
day-by-day next week.”

“Do you need anything? I can run by your place and
drop stuff off.”

“No, thanks, that’s all right. I’ve got a neighbor
here—a retired guy who likes to do that kind of thing. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, let me know if you change your mind. Feel
better.”

“Yeah, thanks. I’ll probably see you next week.”

Ryan was obviously not need-to-know. The chief was
true to his word: the Dolores Weston case was still open, we didn’t have any
new leads, and I’d be home sick for the next few days. Okay. I’d have to deal
with that.

I was scheduled to meet with Dr. Palchik a couple
more times this week and three times next week. Plus, the department had
authorized whatever other help I wanted from him or anyone else extending out
as long as I needed. My headaches were starting to fade, my ribs were feeling
better, my cuts and bruises were coming around. I still had the results of an
STD test I was waiting on, but all in all, I was on schedule and getting
better. Physically, anyway. The rage thing was going to take a long while.

I was well enough to drive, although getting in
the car without wincing took a little concentration. I bought food and started
cooking dinner as if I still had a family. I attended AA every day, the meeting
that Sarah did. She was glad to see me, worried when she saw me looking beat
up. I told her it was a minor traffic accident, which she seemed to believe.

I was getting in a groove. The shrink was helping
me some with the rapes, and Sarah was helping me not drink. I would be able to
work with the chief. Him being a former drunk—and choosing to tell me—gave me a
little confidence he was at least semi-human and might cut me some slack. And
maybe learn to see me as a detective he could trust. Of course, that would
require me acting like a detective he could trust. But I was optimistic that I
could do it. I had a feeling that things were going to smooth out for me from
here on.

Chapter 23

I was still getting used to
being alive. Everybody knows they’re going to die, of course, although you
wouldn’t know it if you spent some time on traffic duty at two
am
on Saturday and Sunday, where you
could pick up fifty teenagers driving with a BAC of 2.0, just in the city of
Rawlings. But I mean among sober adults, sitting in chairs during the day, you
ask them whether they’re going to die, they’re all going to say yes.

Then there’s a smaller group, shufflers over eighty,
who know they’ve got only a little while longer, and an even smaller group of
folks who’ve had a serious talking to from a doc. My grandfather, when he was
over ninety and dripping oil and dropping parts all over the garage floor, was
told he had only a month because this tumor had come out of nowhere and spread
everywhere. He was really good with it, saying he’d lived long enough and there
wasn’t anything he could do about it, anyway. So he kept on doing what he always
did, never complaining, denying that it hurt even when it was obvious it did,
and in general showing everyone how to die.

But I think my case was pretty unusual—being
absolutely certain you’re going to die, sometime within the next few minutes or
hours. You’re not old and broken down, and you haven’t had a chance to think
about it, maybe figure out how to fit the puzzle pieces together without
snapping off any of the ends. Plus, getting beat up and gang-raped. Then, all
of a sudden, you’re not going to die—at least not at the moment. Instead,
you’re in a hospital, you’re popping Tylenol with codeine like they’re Tic
Tacs, you’re icing down your ribs and trying to breathe deep so you don’t get
pneumonia even though it feels like a couple Nazis are still kicking you,
you’re in a shrink’s office, you’re at an AA meeting, you’re grocery shopping.

You’re alive. It takes some getting used to.

One thing that helps you keep it all in
perspective: things haven’t really changed that much. In my case, my
ex-husband, Bruce, didn’t know I was gone, didn’t know I was back, wouldn’t have
cared either way. Same for Tommy. Sarah the AA woman and all the other drunks I
hang with an hour a day are still announcing that they’re alcoholics and trying
to convince themselves that feeling shitty while sober is better than feeling
shitty while drunk. Ryan is still running down scammers, telling school kids
not to suck on aerosol cans, and in general doing whatever the chief thinks is
a good use of his time. And let’s not forget offering to bring me some cold
meds.

Yes, everything today is what it was yesterday. One
of my challenges will be to figure out how to see that as good news.

I had stopped off to get some groceries after my
eight o’clock AA meeting. With dusk settling in around nine this time of year, I
was pleased to see the light on over my front steps. I’d gotten a timer because
I never had the discipline to turn the outdoor lights on. Maybe it was that I
didn’t want anyone to think I was home and actually knock on the door. As a
result, my house was always the only one on the block with the lights out. The
new me, I wanted to be a little less obviously antisocial.

I pulled into the carport and grabbed the bag of
groceries. I unlocked the front door and turned on the light just inside. I
thought I had left my kitchen light on, but I must have forgotten. I like the
kitchen light because, the way my house is laid out, a single one-hundred-watt
bulb in a frosted globe throws some light the length of the house, unobstructed
all the way from the back to the living room and entryway.

The entryway light got me across the living room
and into the kitchen. As I clicked on the overhead light, I was grabbed from
behind. His left arm was around my neck, and I felt a knife point below my
right ear.

“I’m prepared to kill you, bitch,” the voice said.

“Just let me put this bag down,” I said. It sounds
stupid now, like I was talking to a girlfriend, telling her I need to put the
bag down and then I’ll write her a check for March of Dimes. But it was the
only thing I could think of. If he was willing to let me get out of the
chokehold, I might be able to see him, figure out who he was, think of
something to do.

“Drop the bag.”

That was clear enough. I did it.

I saw a leg come around—blue jeans, hole in the
knee, dusty work boots—and kick it across the floor. “We’re going to talk.”

“Okay, let’s talk,” I said. I could hear his
breathing, way too fast and shallow, and I could smell his beery breath. “But
you’re kinda cutting off my breathing.”

“Move.” He pushed me over toward the little
kitchen table with the two chairs. “Sit down.”

I did it.

I didn’t recognize him. He was about five-ten, one
eighty. I’d put him at thirty to thirty-four years old. He had a shaved head,
with a soul patch and goatee, and a loop earring in his left ear. There were gray
bags under his eyes, worse than mine. His eyes were rimmed in red, the pupils
dilated like he was high. He was wearing a plaid flannel work shirt over a gray
t-shirt, and his hands were cut up, with caked dirt beneath his nails, like he
was in construction or maybe irrigation.

“Who are you?”

“Shut up, Detective Seagate,” his voice high, his
body all jittery. “You don’t ask the questions. I ask the questions. Then I
tell you what we’re gonna do next. If you’re not good with that, stand up right
now and walk toward me. I will kill you.” He paused. “Is that clear?”

“Yes,” I said. Abundantly.

“We’re going to talk about Willson Fredericks.”

Was this guy BC, the one in the emails? I didn’t
know what to say, but he seemed to be waiting for me to reply. “Okay,” I said.
“Let’s talk about Willson Fredericks.”

“Why did you question him about the Dolores Weston
murder? You know goddamn well he didn’t have anything to do with that.”

“We interviewed him about the patriot movement
because he was an expert on the subject. We were perfectly fair with him.”

“Don’t lie to me,” he said, loud, almost shouting,
stepping toward me, the knife waving back and forth a little, him keeping it in
motion so his arm won’t freeze up and he could take a long swipe at me. “I will
not let you tell me you treated him fair when I know you didn’t. I’ll kill you,
and I’ll kill myself. I swear to God I will.”

“Listen, I don’t know who you are or what you
want. But I’m telling you the truth. We interviewed Professor Fredericks to
understand more about the patriot movement because we thought they might be
involved in the Dolores Weston case. That’s the absolute truth.”

“But then you started to lie about him. You took him
in to police headquarters, you accused him of planning illegal activities—when
you know he did nothing of the sort.”

“We did bring him down to headquarters. But I
explained to him why that was. When we interview someone at headquarters and
record it, it’s for their protection. If they’re charged with anything, they
have full access to the recording. That’s all it was.”

“I’ve given you the last warning. You lie to me
again, I’ll kill you.” The knife was waving back and forth in bigger arcs, and
I was worried he might not be able to control it much longer.

“Listen to me. You’re obviously freaking out here,
but nothing you’ve done so far is gonna get you in trouble. So let’s just turn
it down a little bit and see if we can work this through without anyone getting
hurt.” I reached out my hand toward him. “I’m gonna stand up now and walk over
toward you. Why don’t you just hand me the knife—”

He pulled away, his eyes on fire. “Get back,” he
shouted.

“Okay.” I put my palms up, walking backwards to
the chair and sitting down. “You keep the knife. Just tell me who you are.”

“Who I am doesn’t matter. You’re gonna answer my
question. Why did you kill Willson Fredericks?”

I shook my head. “Willson Fredericks died of a
heart attack. I was about two-hundred miles away when it happened. I really have
no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’ve told you for the last time: I won’t let you
lie to me.” The knife was waving in front of my face now, way too close.

“Okay, I get it. You’re BC. Is that right?”

“No, I am not BC. There is no BC. There never
was.”

“I’m sorry to tell you this, buddy, but there was
a BC. I saw the emails between Willson Fredericks and BC. They were planning
operations. I saw the emails.”

He shook his head and started walking toward me.

I got into a fighting stance, pivoted my feet to
the right, and swung my left elbow as hard as I could at his right arm, trying
to knock the knife out of his hands. But my blow landed too high up on his arm,
sending his arm swooping down. I heard the knife rip through the front of my
nylon jacket and felt its sting as it sliced across my chest.

He stumbled to the side, bent over, more surprised
than hurt. He pulled back, too far away for me to pull him in and get at the
knife. He straightened up, breathing loud, his eyes blazing. “You’re dead,” he
said, between breaths, and he started to walk toward me, knife up.

I stepped back, bumping into a kitchen chair, a
piece of crap with a plastic seat and back on a steel-tube frame. I bent down,
grabbed its back with both hands, and swung it at him like a baseball bat. But
I was off balance, and, with my busted ribs, I couldn’t generate enough force.
I heard him grunt as one of the steel legs slapped against his thighs, then he
just pushed it away.

He kept coming.

I lifted up the chair, pointed the legs at him,
trying to stay out of the range of his knife.

He grabbed one of the legs, pulled the chair out
of my hands, and tossed it against the wall like it weighed a few ounces.

He stood up straight and just looked at me.
Slowly, he put his knife back in a sheath on his belt. I watched him as he
pulled a pistol out of his sweatshirt pocket and started to walk over to me. He
seemed calmer now. Now that he had decided what to do.

I heard his boots on my linoleum floor as he
approached me. Saw him raise his pistol slowly and deliberately into the firing
position. Saw his finger fold around the trigger.

I felt time slow down as a calm descended on me. I
knew I could simply stand there. One or two more steps and he could touch the
barrel to my chest and squeeze off the round. It would be over in just a moment
or two.

My left hand came up, grabbing the pistol barrel up
high, where it met his hand, twisting it clockwise, hard.

He was looking into my eyes and didn’t see it
coming, and with my palm covering his knuckles, there wasn’t anything he could
do about it. His eyes went down to his hand, which must have been hurting
pretty bad because I was torqueing it with all I had, so he never saw my right
hand come up and break his nose.

What gives the straight punch its extra pop is the
twist on impact. His head reeled back and, as it snapped forward, I landed one
more jab. The first jab had broken his nose, so this one had a softer landing. After
the third jab, his face was pulpy and mostly red.

My right hand came under my left, which now was
controlling his pistol. With my right, I grabbed the gun barrel, all the way
back near the hammer, and rotated it one eighty so the hammer was closest to
me, the butt closest to his leg. I heard the satisfying click as his trigger
finger broke, then his cry of pain. I yanked down and had the gun. I stepped a
few paces back.

But he was a tough son of a bitch. His face a
bloody mess, the end of his busted nose pointing out to the left, he staggered
toward me. I think his courage was beer-fueled, because there was no way he
could’ve thought this was a smart idea.

Turns out it wasn’t. I waited till he was almost
on me, then I squeezed off a single round. Pistols aren’t known for their
accuracy, but from two feet, me in a two-handed stance, I got him. The blast
reverberated, sending blue smoke into my tiny kitchen. The acrid smell of gunpowder
filled my nostrils.

He crumpled to the floor, lying there on his left
side. Now I started shaking as I stood over his body, looking to see if he was still
a threat. I pushed his right arm with my foot, but it just flopped, like a
piece of meat. With my gun still in position, I leaned over him and put a
finger on his carotid. He was officially alive, the pulse faint.

With my foot, I pushed his right shoulder so he unfolded
onto his back. The way his right arm slapped my linoleum floor, I knew he was
almost gone. I unbuttoned his flannel shirt and held it back so I could see the
entry wound, about nipple high, a little left of center in his chest. I could
see he’d lost a lung, but the bullet also might have hit his heart. Little pink
bubbles formed and popped at the entry point as the air leaked out of his lung.
I could hear him breathing, fast but shallow. He blinked his eyes once, but then
they were dead, like on a fish in a boat. The red stain spread out on the guy’s
t-shirt.

I got my phone from my bag on the kitchen table
and phoned it in. I didn’t recognize whoever I was talking to. “This is Detective
Seagate. Officer-involved shooting at my house.”

“Are you in danger, Detective?”

“No.”

“Are you injured, Detective?”

“No.”

“Does the shooting victim need an ambulance?”

“He’s dead.”

* * * *

“Who was he?”

Ryan said, “His name was Andrew Howell.”

“Willson Fredericks’ boyfriend?”

“That’s right.” We were sitting in Ryan’s car,
which he had parked a block down. The squad cars and the ambulance were all
over the street in front of my house. Forensic Services and Harold Breen, the
ME, were in my house.

I pulled Ryan’s handkerchief off the knuckles on
my right hand, scraped up and still bleeding a little. “I really don’t like
punching people.”