Transience (6 page)

"What's this?"
 

"Results from the most recent DNA search.
 
No matches.
 
Searched all the border state databases; Ohio, Illinois.
 
At least we know Angelina's not a Jane Doe somewhere."

"What's your point?"

Jack stood up and gazed at his map on the wall.
 
He placed a colored thumbtack into a location.
 
There were several others that he'd used to dot the areas where the other bodies had been found, each thumbtack an
X marks the spot
.
 

"I got a similar case hit up in Ann Arbor.
 
Lisa Delgado, 18.
 
Same M.O." Jack said as he placed a thumbtack to mark the spot her body was found, standing back to examine the pattern forming.

Harrington slid the report out halfway.
 
Affixed with a paperclip to the front was a picture of a beautiful young Hispanic girl, long black hair.
 
Jack tapped his chin. "That would make four victims."

"You think there's a pattern?" Harrington asked.

"I'm sure of it.
 
I've already arranged a meeting with their department.
 
You should read this."

"Tomorrow." Harrington handed the folder back to Jack.
 
He put one arm in the sleeve of his coat. "I can't even keep my eyes open."

Jack sat down and went back to work.
 
Harrington frowned pitifully. "It's late."
 
He walked back and opened the door to leave. "No one will ever accuse you of not giving your best, Jack." Harrington waited a moment, huffed through his nose, and closed the door.
 
The room fell silent.
 

Jack could hear the clock tick again.
 
Then a sharp pain in his midsection forced him to sit up straight.
 
He'd grown accustomed to living in constant discomfort, but every now and again the really bad ones caught him off guard.
 
He took a few deep breaths and reached for his pill bottle, hidden behind some books on his desk's hutch.
 
He popped the lid and shook two into his palm.
 
He washed them down with some warm club soda he'd poured a few hours ago and forgot about, grimacing as he waited for them to take effect.

Jack heard footsteps in the hallway headed towards his office.
 
The door swung open, Harrington tossed his jacket on a chair and stepped up to the coffee pot, switching it back on.
 
He glared at Jack, muttering as he flopped loudly into a chair.
 

"When my wife runs off with the postman, it'll be your fault," Harrington said.
 
Jack heard him whisper
"dick"
under his breath.
 
Harrington's show of solidarity gave him a second wind.
 
He put on his glasses to get back to it when the phone rang.
 

He reached for it, letting out a groan, his muscles stiff.
 
Jack answered with a tired, raspy, "Hello?"

"Jack?" The voice asked, not sure he had the right person on the line.
 
Jack searched his memory, trying to match a face to the voice, but couldn't quite place it.
 
He cleared his throat again.

"Who's this?"

"It's Leonard.
 
Dr. Leonard Hellerman."

"Leonard," Jack said familiar, wringing out his body with a one-armed overhead stretch that made his spine crack and his shoulders shiver.
 
"They miss you around the courthouse."

"Jack, I need to speak with you."
 

"…Sure, go ahead."
 

"It's about your case.
 
Can you come here to my office tomorrow morning?"

Jack paused, intrigued. "What's the address?"

CHAPTER 10

Pain shot through Jack's nervous system like a lightning bolt.
 
The bursts of discomfort were getting more pronounced with each day.
 
He flipped two pills into his mouth before realizing he had no water to wash them down.
 
They were too expensive to spit out, so he swallowed them dry.

He climbed out of his car.
 
It was drizzling, but Jack never carried an umbrella, real men didn't need one.
 
To Jack it was the equivalent of prancing around in a dress.
 
Real men lifted their collar and, if the rain was heavy, wore a hat.

Leonard's office was on the third floor of a modern building with mirrored windows.
 
Jack entered the lobby and slid his finger down the list of companies on the lighted directory.
 
He confirmed Leonard's floor with a tap on his name and office number
, 304.

He pressed the up button on the elevator and waited.
 
A young woman entered the lobby holding the hand of a little boy, about six.
 
Jack smiled lazily at her, and then at the boy, who looked up at Jack with a dark, murderous glare.
 
The elevator door opened with a ding, Jack held it open for them.
 
The boy resisted, so she tugged his arm with a jerk.

She managed to drag the boy into the elevator and nodded her appreciation.
 
Hate radiated from the boy's eyes like he was sick with fever.
 
Jack thought maybe this was where it begins, maybe the evil that kept him employed was manufactured early on.
 
Could it be that some of these fuckheads were just born this way?
 
The woman exhaled with a pained look, as if expecting Jack to comment on her "problem".
 
Jack tried to think of something funny to say to break the silent elevator ice.
 
Let me lock him up now, save everyone the aggravation,
was all that came to mind.
 
A sympathetic raise of his eyebrows was the extent of their conversation.

The doors slid open and he held them again.
 
As they all stepped out, Jack immediately saw an arrow pointing in the direction for room number 304.
 
He turned to the woman, who had wandered in the other direction.

"It's this way," Jack called out to her.
 

She turned and whirled her hand in the air with an
of course I went the wrong way
flip.
 
"Thanks," she said, aware it probably didn't take much to guess where she was headed.
 

Jack led the way down the hall.
 
He entered Leonard's office and paused at a few more disturbing sights: a girl kneeling on the floor with her face in the seat of her chair, sobbing.
 
Another boy was hanging upside down reading a book, his finger deep in his nostril, his mother repeating “sit up straight" over and over with monotone uselessness.
 

"Jack Ridge," Jack said at the desk.
 
Leonard's secretary looked up and made an "
oh
" with her mouth.

"The doctor's expecting you, go right in."

Jack took another glance at the full waiting room and figured this must be important.
 
He looked up and down at Leonard's impressive all glass door, his name etched with calligraphy lettering.

Leonard stood up as Jack entered, but stayed behind his desk.
 
"Jack, come in, come in."
 
Jack brought the noise of the waiting room in with him.
 
"Close the door."
 

Jack did, and the noise was sealed off completely, leaving Leonard's office library quiet.
 
"You running a nursery?"

"I only treat children now," Leonard said, extending his hand.
 
Jack reached across the desk and shook it.
 
Leonard did a double take upon seeing up close how much Jack's appearance had disintegrated since they last met.

Jack took a brief stroll around Leonard's office, admiring his many awards and certificates.
 
Jack had previously only interacted with Leonard during police investigations.
 
Leonard was a very respected authority on whether a defendant was insane or just faking it.
 
Seeing a framed photo of Leonard with his arm around Muppets at a charity fundraiser for Autism research elicited a rare smirk from Jack.

"Got tired of patients putting you in headlocks?"
 

"It's less money, but yes, the risks are fewer, thanks for hashing that memory up.
 
Please sit down."
 

Jack turned and coughed hard into a ready handkerchief.
 
He sat, hoping the spell would pass.
 
After a few more embarrassing hacks, he steadied his breathing, willing the attack away.

"That doesn't sound good."

"You said you have something for me?
 
About my case?"
 
Jack's gaze was very intense, eyes red and watery, a man with little time to waste.
 
It unnerved Leonard; he shifted in his seat.
 

"I'm not supposed to divulge anything about patients.
 
But I've been following your case, and under the circumstances, I felt an obligation.
 
Can I trust your discretion?"

"That depends."
 

"Jack, I think one of my patients may have witnessed a murder."
 
Jack sat back, Leonard had his full attention.
 
"She was brought to me suffering from night terrors, erratic behavior, blackouts.
 
The elementary school psychologist referred her.
 
This past month I've been putting the child through regressive hypnotherapy, trying to get to the root cause.
 
Without provocation, she recounted witnessing a brutal attack in graphic detail.
 
The girl she described… matches Angelina's description."

Jack processed it, nodding, his detective's cynicism navigating the likelihood of any plausibility to the claim.

"Maybe she saw something on TV?
 
They don't censor details like they used to."

"If I can recognize anything after all those years of examining witness testimony, it's how to discern the difference between imagination and real memories."

"Who is she?
 
Can I speak with her?"

Leonard stood up and opened a very large metal filing cabinet.
 
"Her name's Rebecca Lowell.
 
Her mother concluded her treatment.
 
I don't think I'll be seeing her again."

He pulled a large folder out and slid the drawer closed with a loud metal slap.
 
He handed the folder to Jack like a priest would hand off a bible to an aspiring scholar of the clergy, hands on top and bottom to prevent the overflowing contents from spilling out.
 
Jack opened it.
 
On top of a thick stack of notes was an audio tape.
 
Jack picked it up.

"The sessions were recorded.
 
Most of the dialogue is random and obscure, but you'll know it when you hear it."

Jack stood up, eager to get past Leonard's dramatic rambling and unearth the truth, if there was any to be had.
 
He had exhausted every lead till it was worn down to the nub, desperate for a break.
 
No matter where it came from.
 

"Where can I find her?"

"That's not a good idea."

"I'm working against time here.
 
If this is real, I need to speak with her."

"She has no conscious recall of the incident," Leonard said, a strange look of panic on his face, as if he was starting to regret calling Jack in the first place.
 

Jack sensed something was off.
 
"You said the school recommended you?"
 

"Jack, I've violated a trust by telling you this."

Jack acknowledged Leonard's appeal for discretion with a nod of understanding.
 
He looked Leonard up and down, realizing how exposed and vulnerable this disclosure made Leonard feel.
 
Jack was familiar with the rule of law in patient doctor confidentiality — in as much as Leonard and others of his kind had discussed it aloud over the years.
 
Especially in cases where they felt a patient could be a threat to the public.
 

This was more than just supposition by Leonard, he must have done his homework on this and debated the merits of disclosure prior to contacting him.
 
But there was something about the look on Leonard's face, the uncertainty — almost apprehension — that said Leonard was holding something back.
 

Jack was a master of reading people.
 
He didn't lay claim to any sort of clairvoyance, but being in the detective business you develop a sixth sense for knowing when someone was hiding something.
 
Facial ticks, body language, vocal intonation can often reveal someone's guilt or innocence.
 
And Leonard had a terrible poker face.
 
Well, Leonard, the box is partially open, there's no going back now.
 
The baton had been handed to Jack; whatever Leonard knew, Jack would soon discover for himself.
 

There was a loud pounding on Leonard's door.
 
Jack could hear the natives getting restless outside in the waiting room.
 

Leonard's intercom beeped: "Doctor?"

"I'll let you get back to work," Jack said.
 

"Jack, this conversation never happened, okay?"

"You know I can't agree to that."

He opened the door.
 
The boy from the elevator was smashing his head on the other side.