When the Storm Breaks (20 page)

“No one is going to close this place down for having some inherent risks in the business. Hell, look at airlines,” Aidan said.

“I won’t need to wait for anyone to shut Camelot down,” Afton said grimly, thinking about what she had already been through. “If I find we’ve been hiding a killer in
our databases I’ll close the place myself.
I can’t live with murder.
” She looked at the detectives. “Are you one hundred percent certain you can protect Claire?”

“Nothing is one hundred percent certain,” Claire said.

Neither detective disagreed.

Washington, D.C.

Wednesday morning

“T
hanks for coming in on such short notice,” Sean said, holding the door open for Claire.

“No big deal.” She glanced at him, wondering if his heart was beating as fast as hers. Probably not. “Since I’m burning vacation time at work, and all my accounts have been divided up among the other managers, my time is pretty much my own. What’s up?”

“We were lucky to get some time with the department’s psychiatrist. It’s not quite like working with an FBI criminal profiler, but hopefully we can come up with a sketch of our killer that has a stronger scientific base than the one Aidan and I threw together.”

“What does the shrink want from me?”

“He’ll ask about your memories on the night of the murder, and any impressions you’ve formed since then. Maybe he can help jog your memory. Ever been hypnotized?”

“No, and I’m not about to start.”

“Just a joke. Hypnosis isn’t that reliable anyway, and
it’s not admissible in court.” Sean steered her down another hallway. “We’ll meet with him back here.”

“We?”

“You and me.”

“I’d rather talk to the doctor alone,” Claire said.

Sean stopped outside a door that said Conference.

“Why?”

“Because that’s the way I feel.”

“But you know I’ll be reading the notes from your session.”

She winced and reached for the door.
Great.
“Read whatever you want, but one person poking into my brain at a time is all I can handle.”

She shut the door, closing him out. Soon he reappeared at the window overlooking the room, crossed his arms, and leaned against the wall. She yanked out a chair facing the window, sat, and stared right through him.

A middle-aged, balding man stepped into the conference room through a side door. “Hi, Marie. I’m Dr. Morton.”

“Actually, it’s Claire.”

“Right, sorry.” After offering her a soft handshake, he pulled out the chair directly opposite her.

Sean hovered over his head like an impatient ghost.

“You’re working on a profile of the killer with the police?” Claire asked, looking away from the glass.

“Yes. This is actually the first time I’ve worked with Detectives Richter and Burke, but the department has me on retainer to provide a number of services related to psychiatry and counseling. This is actually the fun part of my job.”

The hinges on the swivel chair squeaked noisily as Dr. Morton leaned way back. The position caused his powder blue golf shirt to strain across the spare tire around his middle.

“I’ve reviewed the known case files on the victims and other crime scenes, and feel I’ve gotten all I can from them,” he said. “I’d like to start with what you remember from the night of the murder.”

“I don’t really remember anything. Didn’t Sean tell you?” Claire asked, glancing at the detective through the glass.

“Sean? Oh, Detective Sean Richter. No, he didn’t say anything. Why don’t you tell me?”

“I fell down a flight of steps and hit my head on the night of the murder, apparently running away from the killer. People at the scene reported that I talked about seeing a murder, and I mentioned a school. The police checked out the area nearby and found the victim.”

“And you can’t remember any part of the night?”

“No. I don’t remember anything after leaving work that Friday afternoon, even though I’m told I went to Camelot Dating Services and spent hours there. I know I’d planned to walk to the bus at Dupont Circle after my appointment. That path would have taken me directly through the school’s property. Sean and Aidan have pretty much pieced together everything since then, but I can’t confirm any of it.”

“Interesting.” The hinges squeaked as Dr. Morton adjusted his position. “Your diagnosis at the hospital was a concussion, but they released you after a few days, even though you hadn’t recovered your memory.”

“I wasn’t seriously injured. My doctor said the memories might come back slowly over time, or maybe not at all. So far, I haven’t remembered anything except for some impressions and images, mostly in dreams or nightmares.”

Dr. Morton leaned forward and picked up her file from the desk, scanning through the first page. “Hmmm. It says
you have a memory of seeing a photograph that reminded you of the killer.” He continued to read, occasionally repeating phrases from the document.

Claire waited impatiently while he went through her entire case file. If one of her assistants had come to a meeting so ill prepared, she would have scorched the person for wasting her time. When Dr. Morton leaned back again with a thunderous squeak and studied her as if a spaceship had just dropped her off, she wondered what was up with him. Her eyes strayed once again to the hallway. Sean was still there, still watching.

“If you can’t remember what the killer looks like, how did you decide which clients to choose in the dating service catalogue?” Dr. Morton asked.

“We’re hoping that subconsciously I picked out men who resemble him in some way, or that I may even have selected the killer himself.”

“Subconsciously. I see.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Did your doctor ever mention the term
hysterical amnesia
to you?”

“No. He used the term
traumatic.
He said that many victims of head injuries have no memory of the time leading up to the trauma.”

“Yes, but we often see this in other types of injuries as well. There’s some debate on whether there are physical or psychological factors involved. However, I’m of the opinion that since amnesia is found in patients with vastly different injuries, the roots of the condition are probably psychological. It’s certainly not surprising that the brain would want to edit portions of a shocking event,” he said, looking at her in an understanding way.

“Interesting. But I’m of the opinion I took a blow to the head that interrupted a few synaptic functions. I’ve been
through horrible events before and never had any trouble remembering things in painful detail.”

“Have you ever witnessed a murder before?” The question was accompanied by an eyebrow lift.

“Of course not. I didn’t get knocked on the head, either. In spite of the trauma, I’m doing everything I can to help the police. I’ve been working with Sean and Aidan for over two weeks on this, to the exclusion of everything else in my life.” She glanced out the window. He was still there. “I
want
to remember that night. I’ve tried thinking about it until my head feels like it’s going to explode. I’ve tried to remember my dreams. But there’s nothing there.”

“You keep looking out the window. Why?”

“Sean is pacing out there, waiting for us to finish. He said he’d be eager to look over the notes from our discussion.” She looked pointedly at the blank yellow notebook in front of the doctor.

“You seem to be on friendly terms with Detective Richter.”

Claire stopped fidgeting and focused on the doctor. She’d have to tread very carefully here. “He and Aidan have been very kind to me. They have an excellent bedside manner with victims.”

She thought about how Sean had been in the hospital before tension had developed between them, and told herself that she wasn’t really lying.

The doctor flipped through a couple more pages in the file. “I see you’ve been working very closely with Detective Richter. He’s detailed multiple meetings, interviews, and strategy sessions with you.”

“Yes,” Claire said, even though it wasn’t a question. “He and Aidan have—”

“It would be easy, in a situation like this, for someone
to become emotionally attached,” Dr. Morton continued, ignoring her words. “Especially someone who is vulnerable and needs help.”

“I suppose someone who only looked on the surface might see things that way,” Claire said neutrally.

“But you don’t?”

“No. I see people working together to stop a killer. It’s no different from one of my office projects, except the stakes are much higher.”

“It’s perfectly understandable that you would develop feelings for Detective Richter. His job places him in the role of protector, and in this case he’s protecting you. That can lead to powerful emotional bonding, especially for someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” she asked through clenched teeth.

“You’ve been through a traumatic event and are probably feeling a little fragile. Plus…” Dr. Morton pursed his lips thoughtfully.

“Go on. I assure you I won’t break into pieces.”

“You seem to have a need to be rescued. Call it a ‘White Knight’ fantasy.”

She stared at him. “Excuse me?”

“It all fits quite neatly. Detective Richter—who you’ve repeatedly looked at through the window since I arrived—is responsible for guarding you. Your participation in the investigation reinforces the role of protector, because he watches over you every day during the operation. Furthermore, you need him to solve the case so that you can be freed from the role of victim, or in other words, rescued. It’s pretty classic.”

“So is bullshit,” Claire said, trying to shock him.

“Look at what you did the night of the murder. You joined a dating service. Essentially, what that says to me
is you’re looking for a man to solve your problems. Even the name of the dating service, Camelot, underscores the White Knight fantasy. Why do you think you chose that company over the many others out there? You were attracted to the symbolism.”

“The name had nothing to do with it. My friend recently took over the management there. My company had a contract with Camelot last year, so I knew the previous owner. It was only logical that I would go back to them.”

“I’m sure you can rationalize it that way. But subtle clues like this only underscore my initial opinion.”

She thought carefully before responding. Losing her temper would not improve her position with the doctor. “But you’re not here to give an opinion about me. You’re here to develop a profile of the killer.”

“Which you’re unwilling to assist me in doing,” Dr. Morton replied. “Yet you’re still working quite happily with the team of investigators, including Detective Richter.”

“I’m sure you have an opinion about that, as well.”

He nodded. “I do. As long as you keep working with the investigation, you get to be rescued. It’s no wonder you haven’t had any success ‘recovering’ your memory. Once you do, your role as damsel in distress will be over.”

“Fascinating opinion, but I’m afraid it only underscores the fact that you don’t understand me, or this investigation, at all.”

The doctor looked her over. “Defensive posture, dismissive language, flushed cheeks. I’d say I scored a direct hit.”

Claire had had enough, but she would be professional if it killed her. An emotional outburst at this point would only make Dr. Morton more smug. She stood up and
straightened her skirt. Pretending he was a difficult, important client, she smiled warmly and held out her hand.

“Well, then I think we’re done,” she said. “Thank you so much for your time today, Dr. Morton. I’m sure you’re a very busy man, and I appreciate being able to get some of your insights.”

He stared at her switch from defensive victim to polished diplomat. “I don’t think we’re finished here.”

“It’s gracious of you to offer more time, but I’m afraid I have another appointment. If there’s anything further you need from me, my number is in the case file.”

Claire rounded the table, opened the door, and closed it softly behind her. Leaning back against it, she saw that Aidan had joined Sean in the hallway. They both turned inquiring looks in her direction.

“How did it go?” Sean asked.

“You’d have better luck consulting chicken entrails than relying on Dr. Psychobabble in there.” She brushed past the detectives and walked quickly down the hall.

“Claire?” Sean called after her. “What happened?”

“Ask the shrink. If he’s still capable, I’m sure he’s panting to talk to you. He’ll throw in an analysis of your relationship with your mother at no extra charge.”

Claire went through the doorway without looking back.

Aidan glanced over at Sean. “What the hell…?”

Sean headed into the conference room to find out.

Washington, D.C.

Wednesday morning

A
idan and Sean left the conference room and Dr. Morton behind, feeling like they’d been to a bad movie. The two detectives gave each other sideways glances, not knowing whether to laugh or bang their heads on the wall.

“What a putz,” Aidan muttered.

“On his best day, he’d have to stretch to be a putz.” Sean headed toward their desks. “I don’t think we can use anything he told us.”

“How did he describe Claire again?”

“I’m not sure. My mind had kind of numbed by then.” Sean skimmed the single page of quickly scribbled notes Dr. Morton had pressed on them during the brief meeting. “Here it is. ‘Ms. Lambert is an emotionally fragile witness whose potential contribution to the case is questionable given her tenuous mental state.’”

“Shit,” Aidan said in disgust.

“And don’t forget about the part where she wants to be the center of attention in an ongoing police psychodrama,” Sean said.
“He can’t decide whether her amnesia is hysterical or feigned.”

“If he can’t see Claire, who’s sitting right in front of him, how can he give us a useable psych profile on the killer?”

“He can’t. I’m going to stick this crap under the ‘related documents’ tab at the end of the file.” Sean went over to his desk and sat down with a tired sigh. “Christ, I’m surprised she didn’t go for his throat.”

“Nah, she’s too refined.” Aidan tossed back the last of a cup of coffee that had been poured hours ago, grimacing at the bitter taste.

“Bullshit. If she’d thought it would suit her needs, she’d have ripped Morton’s throat out in a heartbeat,” Sean said, for once having a deeper insight into someone than his cousin. “She must have had some other reason for walking out of there and leaving him intact.”

“Well it sure wasn’t his brains. Anyone who can look at you and Claire and babble about White Knights and Damsels in Distress deserves to have his jugular ripped out.”

Sean moved uncomfortably. He didn’t like thinking that Claire’s attraction to him was less than it seemed. “Since Dr. Morton’s a washout, I’m going to talk to Keeley in Vice. Her brother works for the FBI out of Quantico and has had some specialized training in criminal profiling. He even teaches a course. Maybe he can do an informal assessment, just to give us a jump start in weeding through our list of suspects,” Sean said, standing.

“Good idea. Just don’t let the brass hear anything about it. And cousin?”

“Yeah?”

“Morton was wrong about everything else—why
would he be right about what makes Claire hum like a race car whenever you’re around?”

Sean kept walking because anything he could say would only dig himself into a deeper hole.