Grey Zone (18 page)

‘What?' The voice in the hall made her jump. ‘Tell her five minutes, tops!'

It was too risky. Dulcie started to close the file. But as she did, a piece of paper fell out, and Dulcie reached for it. White notepaper, about half the size of a sheet of typing paper, it was blank on one side. On the other, Dulcie saw a curious block print:
I'm sorry,
it said.
This cannot continue. No one is to blame, but I've got to end it.
And that was all. Someone had torn off the bottom – the signature – but the meaning was clear.
I've got to end it
. What more needed to be said?

If suicide was something one person could give to another, like a cold virus . . . Suddenly, Dulcie remembered her talk with Dimitri. He'd been so tired, but he'd come back to life when she'd mentioned a suicide, that someone had jumped from the Poche. But when she'd told him that the jumper had been Professor Herschoft, he'd waved it off, like he didn't care. At the time, she'd been taken aback. He'd sounded a little insensitive, to be honest, which was not how she thought of Dimitri. Now it all made perfect sense. He didn't care about Fritz Herschoft because he wasn't worried about Professor Herschoft. He
was
worried about Carrie. This was serious.

A laugh right outside the door alerted Dulcie that Corkie's conversation was winding up. Without thinking, Dulcie grabbed the note. She had just time enough to shove it in her pocket and slide the clipboard back on top before Corkie walked back in, smiling. ‘Here you go.' She handed a legal pad and pen to Dulcie. ‘I can even dig up an envelope for you, if you want.'

‘That won't be necessary.' A letter would take too long. It was too chancy. She should call – or email. Memory slapped her like a blast of frost: she had emailed Carrie only days before, but in that email she'd urged her to call a number that really belonged to the police. If Carrie, fragile and distraught, had reached out and found herself being interrogated . . . No, it didn't bear thinking about. All she could do now was try to make amends.

Carrie – Call me please!
, she wrote.
I can and will help you – no matter what has happened.
She underlined the note to give it an emphasis email would never convey and signed her name, finishing the note with every number she could think of: cell, home, the departmental office. Carrie Mines had been her student once, and now she was considering suicide. She had to do anything she could.

‘Thanks so much, Corkie.' Dulcie rose to leave.

Her current student looked at her, her ready smile disappearing. ‘Are you OK?'

Dulcie nodded.

‘Because you really can talk with someone, you know.'

‘Thanks, Corkie.' Dulcie shrugged her bag over her shoulder and patted the pocket with the note. ‘I think you're doing great work here, but I'm not the one who needs your help.'

Corkie walked her to the counseling center's door, still looking confused. Dulcie nodded to the receptionist and stepped outside, into the stairwell. Her one-time student, her charge, was at risk, and she may have made her situation worse. She had to do something. But what?

And then everything turned black.

TWENTY-FOUR

A
s the light came back on, Dulcie became aware of a horrible pain in her head and of a large pink face leaning over her.

‘I didn't think this was how you meant to keep your appointment, Ms Schwartz.' The face had a bit of stubble and an unfortunate nose. She blinked, unable to place the large face. ‘I'm Detective Rogovoy.'

‘Oh, right.' She started to sit up and was stopped both by the shooting pain and by Rogovoy's hand on her shoulder.

‘I don't think you should do that yet.'

She let herself be pushed back down. She was on a bed, in a curtained alcove. Hushed voices and lights carried from the outside world. ‘Where am I?'

‘University health services.'

She nodded, a little. It hurt. ‘And?'

‘You were hit on the head with a piece of brick, coming out of the basement of Weld.'

She put her hand up to where the pain was coming from and felt dampness. Rogovoy reached over to a table and grabbed an ice pack. ‘I'm supposed to tell you to leave that on for twenty minutes at a time.'

She nodded again, a mistake. ‘An accident?' The pain was making her nauseous.

‘There's no loose masonry in that stairwell.' He looked at her, his tired eyes sharp. ‘You don't remember seeing anything? Hearing anyone?'

‘No.' She worked to keep her head still, but the thoughts were coming fast. ‘The Harvard Harasser?'

Rogovoy tightened his mouth into what could have been a smile. ‘That nickname. Makes him sound harmless, doesn't it? This fits with the other attacks, but we won't know anything until we find out more.'

‘OK.' In her current state, that had almost made sense. ‘So what happens now?' The ice was helping. If she spoke softly it didn't hurt so much.

‘So I take your statement, such as it is, and then I pretend you just woke up and call for the nurse.'

That was her cue, she decided, to close her eyes and wait.

The next time she opened them, it wasn't Detective Rogovoy's nose that greeted her, but Chris, looking more pale than usual.

‘You OK?' Dulcie asked, sitting up. It didn't hurt as much.

‘Me?' His thin face broke into a grin. ‘Dulcie, you had us all so worried.'

‘Us?' She risked turning her head to look around. They seemed to be alone.

‘Me, Suze. Even Trista came by.' He reached to stroke her cheek. ‘But never mind all that crap. You're awake.'

‘Yeah.' He was always pale, and it was March in New England. One sunny day didn't change that. Still, something was up. ‘Chris, how long have I been out?'

‘You've been in and out for a couple of hours. The doctors say you probably have a concussion.' He slumped back in his chair, leading Dulcie to wonder how long he'd been perched over her. ‘They kept saying it probably wasn't serious, but you were so still.' He turned away, but she saw him wiping his face. ‘I was scared.'

‘Oh, Chris.' Despite the pain, she smiled. It was nice to be cared about. But something was bothering her. ‘Chris, I found something.'

‘Oh, no, you don't.' Her boyfriend sat up in his seat. ‘You are not playing cops and robbers. You're in no shape.'

‘I know.' It was a relief to admit it. ‘But there's something I found. Would you hand me my coat?'

He looked around until he found it and then gently laid it on the bed.

‘I shouldn't have taken this, I know, but—' She reached into the pockets. She pulled out a mitten. One mitten, and that was it. ‘Oh, hell.' She caught herself. ‘Goddess preserve.'

‘What?'

‘This is all that was in my pockets?' She held up the ragged knitting.

He shrugged. ‘The Coop's having a sale. I'll pick you up some new ones before you get out.'

She closed her eyes. Was he being dense? ‘It's not the mitten. It's what else was in there. A note. A suicide note. I think Carrie is at risk, and that somehow Dimitri is involved. And maybe that professor, too. I had it. In this pocket.'

She looked up to see Chris staring blankly, like she wasn't making sense. Behind him, stood a gray-haired woman in a white coat. ‘You've decided to come back to us?'

Her professional calm was too much for Dulcie. ‘Yes, I'm back. And I need to know what happened to the note that was in my pocket.'

‘Hang on.' The woman reached to lift Dulcie's eyelid, and it was all Dulcie could do not to shake her off.

‘We have to talk before you rush off. Don't blame your boyfriend.' The white coat cut off Dulcie's protest and moved on to her chest. ‘He's been a real stalwart here. You gave us all a scare, young lady.'

Dulcie smiled at the description. Emotionally, it was apt anyway. And then Chris saw her smile and the worried look fell away. ‘Yes, she did,' he said to the nurse. ‘But I think she's back.'

‘If that's the case,' Rogovoy interrupted, appearing in the doorway, ‘then I would like to have a few words with Ms Schwartz here.' He looked at the nurse, rather than Dulcie, for confirmation and must have gotten it. She turned to leave.

‘Chris stays,' Dulcie put in before anyone else could. The detective nodded as if his head were heavy and pulled up a plastic chair. Looking at her with tired eyes, he started to take down her statement, writing longhand on a yellow pad just like the ones Suze used. Dulcie gave him an abbreviated version, ending with her waking up in the infirmary.

‘So, what's the note?' He'd been listening.

She paused. It wasn't just the content, a cry for help, it was how she had gotten it. ‘I . . .' She paused, unsure how to proceed. ‘I happened upon a note that I believe was written by Carrie Mines. A note that sounded like she was on the verge of something. Something desperate.'

He nodded, and Dulcie had all the confirmation she needed. ‘You knew she wasn't really missing, didn't you?'

‘Wait a minute. Dulcie?' Chris started to protest.

Rogovoy raised a hand. ‘Please. You're here on sufferance.'

Dulcie nodded. ‘It's OK, Chris.' And, with a sigh, began again. ‘I don't know what's going on, but she's not missing. I've seen her. A few times.' The way Rogovoy was nodding, Dulcie figured this wasn't news to him. ‘I thought I saw her going into the counseling center.'

It wasn't the whole truth, but it wasn't a lie either. She looked up at the detective and waited for his response. When none was immediately forthcoming, she asked: ‘You saw that she emailed me.' She paused, the memory of her own complicity almost too painful to bear. ‘I assume she didn't call you?'

‘She did not, and she hasn't gone back to her apartment or responded to subsequent phone or email queries. We have made it clear through all resources that we'd appreciate her coming in to answer some questions.' Rogovoy chose his words carefully. ‘We believe she may have information on an ongoing investigation, but there is not an active alert out for her. I probably shouldn't even be telling you this, but she has a history of what we call “voluntary missing.” She always turns up, and her parents aren't worried. That said, yes, we would like her to come talk to us.'

‘You'd
like
her to come in.' That was food for thought. Dulcie had always assumed a summons from the police was as good as law. But maybe the university cops didn't have the clout that city police had. Either way, she realized, Lucy would be appalled at her blind acceptance of authority. ‘What is this about, Detective Rogovoy? I think you owe me an explanation.'

‘No, I don't.' But from the way he shifted in his seat, Dulcie knew something would be forthcoming. ‘But I think you've figured out that there was a connection between Ms Mines and the professor who . . . who died.'

‘Fritz Herschoft.' He nodded, and she was hit by another thought. ‘Suze, my room-mate, said that suicide can be contagious.' She started to get up. ‘And if somehow I scared her off, scared her away from her therapy session . . .'

‘Relax, Ms Schwartz.' Rogovoy held his big hands out, as if to calm the air. ‘We're not concerned about Ms Mines' well-being right now. We don't have her listed as a person at risk. You were the one who was attacked, remember?'

‘Well, yeah.' The sudden movement had set her head aching again. ‘But wasn't that just the Harvard Harasser? My room-mate said she thought he might escalate, might really hurt someone.'

‘I'd like to talk to your room-mate.'

Dulcie thought for a moment about Suze, ace law student, under questioning. That thought alone was enough to keep her mouth closed – in a smile.

‘Well, that's not a priority. What is, is finding out who attacked you and why. Because – and I am only telling you this because I want you to stay out of trouble, Ms Schwartz – we have begun to believe that the so-called harasser's attacks are not entirely random. The fact that something may have been taken from you while you were unconscious, something that may have a connection to recent events, is reason to suspect that this was not some random act.'

‘But it wasn't a clue. It was a suicide note. A cry for help.' Dulcie paused and tried to remember exactly what the note had said. It hadn't been specific. Nothing about a date or time. But its tone had been desperate: the voice of a person driven to the brink. ‘Wait, “
may have
”?'

‘You were hit pretty hard, Ms Schwartz.'

Dulcie looked from the detective to Chris.

Chris nodded. ‘You had your bag and everything when they brought you in.' He was trying to make peace. ‘Maybe there was something, and it fell out of your pocket? They had to lift you out of the stairwell.'

She shook her head. A mistake. ‘I don't know. Maybe.' She had to acknowledge the possibility. ‘But it doesn't matter. I know what I read. And you've got to believe me.' She turned from Chris to the detective. ‘Maybe the attack wasn't meant for me. Maybe someone is following Carrie. Threatening her. And maybe you're wrong about Carrie not being at risk. If she heard about Professor Herschoft or knew him . . . You should be looking for her – actively looking for her. Add it all together and she could be on the brink of suicide, just like Professor Herschoft.'

‘Only that wasn't suicide, Ms Schwartz.' Detective Rogovoy looked from her to Chris, his dark eyes sharp. ‘You'll be reading this in the papers soon enough anyway, so here goes. Despite the initial reports to the contrary, we now have reason to believe that Fritz Herschoft's death was in fact a homicide.'

TWENTY-FIVE

‘
O
h, this is maddening!'

Chris smiled, but didn't respond. Dulcie had been raving since Rogovoy had left. The detective had refused to say any more, even after eliciting a promise that she turn over the note ‘if it turned up.' Even Chris had given up arguing with her. So had the nurse, who had poked her head back in when the portly cop had took off. ‘Overnight,' she'd said, finally. ‘Doctor's orders.'