Fear Nothing: A Detective Read online

  “When the Exiles act up, the next group, the Firefighters, kick into gear. Classic firefighting techniques include drug or alcohol abuse, binge eating, other short-term cover-ups for long-term pain. Finally there are the Managers. This section also tries to keep the Exiles at bay through hypercontrolling every situation. Striving, judging, self-criticizing, all come from the Managers. Basically your exiled pain/trauma causes emotional distress, which in turn goads the Firefighters into various self-destructive acts and the Managers into various repressive acts. And around and around you go, whirling through the dysfunctional cycles of life, caused by the core Self not being the one in charge.”

  “I fell down the stairs,” D.D. said.

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t get what that has to do with Exiles and Firefighters and Managers. Oh, and my true Self.”

  “The fall is trauma. It caused pain but also created fear, powerlessness and impotence.”

  The detective hunched her shoulders slightly, wincing.

  “Those emotions are your Exiles,” I supplied gently. “They’re screaming to be heard. The Firefighters in the system might respond with a compulsion to drink or abuse of prescription medication—”

  “I’m not taking anything!”

  “Or the Managers might rise to the forefront,” I continued, “micromanaging the entire system by controlling and judging your response to the pain. Demanding, in fact, that you be tough enough.”

  D.D.’s eyes widened slightly. She stared at me a full minute. Then her gaze narrowed.

  “The Exiles must be heard,” she murmured. “That’s why you want me to talk to my pain.”

  “Melvin. Generally speaking, it’s easier to carry on a conversation when the other party has a name.”

  “And Melvin will say what? Hey, I’m hurt. I’m powerless. I hate stairs. And I’ll say, okay, and then my pain will go away?”

  “And then your pain might feel more manageable. The rest of the system can ease while your core Self rises to the front. For the record, there have been numerous studies on physical pain. One of the most interesting findings: Everyone has pain, but only some people are bothered by it. Meaning, colloquially speaking, attitude is everything.”

  “I think,” the detective said slowly, “that’s the biggest bunch of BS I’ve ever heard.”

  “And yet, here we are. One session down, two more to go.”

  D.D. gave her awkward half shrug, rose slowly to standing. “Fucking Melvin,” she murmured under her breath. Then, “I kinda like cursing him.”

  “Detective,” I asked as she started for the door, “given that we have only two more appointments, what goal would be most valuable to you? What do you want most right now so that we can pursue it?”

  “I want to remember,” she said immediately.

  “Remember . . . ?”

  “The fall.” She looked at me quizzically. “I have physician-patient privilege, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “My injury—I fell down the stairs at a crime scene. Discharged my weapon. Except I don’t remember why I was there, or who I was firing at.”

  “Interesting. Concussion from the fall?”

  “Possibly. Which according to the docs can cause memory loss.”

  “What’s the last thing you do remember?”

  She fell silent for so long, I thought she hadn’t heard my question. Then, “The scent of blood,” she whispered. “The sensation of falling. Down will come baby, cradle and all.”

  “Detective Warren?”

  “Yes.”

  “In the middle of the night, when you’re done cursing out Melvin, I want you to ask him a question. I want you to ask him why he doesn’t want to remember.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. Then I want you to tell him it’s okay. You’re safe, and you can handle it now.”

  “The memory of what happened?”

  “Yes. Then prepare yourself, Detective Warren. Melvin may have a very good reason for wanting you to forget.”

  Chapter 4

  MY PAIN IS NAMED MELVIN.”

  “Better than Wilson,” D.D.’s husband, Alex Wilson, observed. “Or, say, Horgan.” Deputy Superintendent of Homicide Cal Horgan was D.D.’s boss.

  “Please, you two are minor pains in the ass, while Melvin is a major pain in the neck.”

  D.D. continued walking toward her husband, who already stood on the front porch of the modest redbrick town house. It was dusk. Sun sinking, evening air sharp with early winter bite. She’d parked three blocks back. Maybe a local, arriving home from a day’s work. Or an injured detective, who just happened to be in the neighborhood of a recent homicide, out for an evening stroll.

  She shouldn’t be here. Had no right to be here, in fact.

  And yet, leaving her new doctor’s office, she’d known the most recent murder scene was exactly where she’d go. As she’d eased herself into the driver’s seat, carefully reached across her body for the strap Alex had jury-rigged to the inside of the driver’s door, then used the strap to awkwardly pull the door shut without overjostling her left arm. The process was slow, uncomfortable, laborious.

  Meaning she’d had plenty of time to change her mind.

  Putting the key in the ignition. Shifting the vehicle from park into reverse.

  Suddenly experiencing a strong sense of déjà vu. That she’d done this before. Told herself to go home, while heading toward a crime scene instead.

  Of course. She’d repeated this pattern most of her adult life.

  The only difference was that this time, her husband was already standing before the murdered woman’s home, and he didn’t appear surprised to see his wife approach.

  “Doctor’s appointment okay?” Alex asked, lifting the bright-yellow tape so she could pass beneath it, onto the covered porch.

  “I’m supposed to talk to my pain. What the hell do you think?”

  “Does your pain speak back?”

  “Apparently, that’s the nature of pain.”

  “Interesting,” he said.

  “Bullshit,” she declared.

  She came to a halt beside him. Alex’s gaze was as calm as always, his face inscrutable. She felt her own heart race unsteadily, her breathing shallow. The pain, she told herself. Her own physical healing that depleted so much energy, even climbing up three damn steps required massive effort.

  “They call you out?” she asked finally. “Require your expertise?” Alex spent most of his time teaching crime scene analysis at the police academy. He also served as a private consultant. And on occasion, to keep his skills current, he liked to work in the field, which was how they had met, so many years ago. At another townhome, not unlike this one, except there, it had appeared that a man had killed his entire family before turning the gun on himself.

  D.D. still remembered walking that scene, following the trails of blood as Alex recited the story he saw written in each pool and spatter, of a wife, spinal column brutally severed from behind, an athletic teenage son, ambushed with a single thrust of a blade between the ribs, then the two younger kids, making their last stand in a back bedroom. The one who never made it out of that room. And the unluckier one who did.

  “I knew you would come,” Alex said simply.

  “Gonna wave me off? Put me back in my car where I belong?”

  Her husband merely smiled. He reached out and tucked an errant blond curl behind her ear. “Might as well tell the wind not to blow. Come on, D.D. As it turns out, Boston PD would like some help on this one. As long as I’m here, why don’t we both take a tour?”

  “This is why I didn’t name my pain Wilson,” she told him honestly.

  Alex’s expression, however, had already turned somber. “Oh, I wouldn’t thank me just yet.”

  Stepping into the shadowed foyer, D.D. was st
ruck first by the smell. Which set off another bout of déjà vu. She could picture herself entering Christine Ryan’s apartment, inhaling this same pungent scent, and knowing, before ever laying eyes on the body, that this would be a bad one. Then, that first, shuddering moment when she realized she was staring down at the remains of a young woman, skin peeled in long, curling ribbons and mounded next to her body.

  Alex was studying her. Not the floor, the walls or the rising staircase, all valid elements for a criminalist’s analysis. He stared at her, and that, as much as anything, forced her to pull it together.

  She took a deep breath, through her mouth this time, and got her game face on.

  Alex pointed to a bin next to the wall. It contained shoe booties and hairnets for all attending investigators, an extra precaution generally taken when a crime scene was deemed especially involved, or the evidence particularly vulnerable.

  Different protocol from the first murder victim, then. That scene had been horrific but mostly contained to the victim’s blood-soaked mattress. This one . . .

  D.D. pulled the blue booties over her low-heeled boots. The booties were large and elastic, not too hard to manage with one hand. The hair covering proved more challenging. She couldn’t figure out how to pull it into place, while simultaneously gathering up her wayward curls. Alex had to help, his fingers skimming along her hairline, corralling her blond ringlets and tucking them in. She held still, letting him work his magic, as his breath whispered across her cheek. Outside of him assisting her in the shower, it was the most they’d touched each other in weeks.

  “Look,” Alex murmured, and pointed to the wall adjacent to the staircase.

  She followed his finger and immediately spotted it, just above the lowest riser, a dark smudge against the lighter paint. The first smear of blood.

  “And again.” He indicated a spot on the floor now, six inches from her left foot. In the dimming light, it was hard to see, but this mark was larger, more distinct.

  D.D. dropped down for closer examination, while Alex snapped on his high-intensity light. He illuminated the mark, and D.D. couldn’t help the small gasp that escaped.

  “Paw print.”

  “Victim owned a small dog named Lily. A fluffy small dog, by the look of the stair riser.”

  Upon closer inspection, D.D. saw what he meant. The bloodstain there had formed a distinct smear pattern, featuring dozens of thin red lines, such as what happened when blood-soaked hair brushed along a floor or slid down a wall.

  “Straight hair, not curly,” D.D. murmured. “But yes, Lily is one fluffy dog.”

  The reason behind the booties, D.D. realized now. Because the dog, however innocently, had already contaminated the scene, and the detectives couldn’t afford any more distractions.

  Alex headed straight for the staircase, but D.D. stopped him. She wanted another minute to get her bearings, form an initial impression of this house and the woman who’d lived here.

  A modest foyer, she noted now, with a floral cushion–topped bench surrounded above and below with a clutter of shoes. She saw boots, clogs and several pairs of heels. Practical shoes, in neutral tones of brown and black with modest heels. All women’s, size eight.

  From the foyer, the space opened up to a small sitting room, with a slightly threadbare, overstuffed sage green sofa and matching ottoman. A fleecy throw blanket was piled on one corner of the love seat, while a dog blanket covered the ottoman. Piles of clothes decorated what was probably the extra chair—the to-be-folded pile?—while the sofa faced a medium-size flat-screen TV.

  From the family room, D.D. passed into a vintage-1970s kitchen, complete with aging gold linoleum and an ancient olive-green oven. In contrast to the well-used sitting room and foyer, this space was nearly sterile. One Keurig coffeemaker, one tiny microwave on the counter. A single plate, fork, knife and glass in the sink. Definitely the kind of kitchen used by people partial to takeout. D.D. knew because before she’d married Alex, her kitchen had appeared almost exactly like this.

  She and Alex returned to the foyer. “I’m going to guess nurse,” she mused out loud. “Makes a decent living, enough to purchase the condo, but not enough to update the cabinets or splurge on Pottery Barn. Spends most of her job on her feet, hence the sensible shoes. Single, or just beginning a relationship. But if so, they go to his place, as this is her domain and she’s not ready to share it yet.”

  Alex arched a brow. “Close. Regina Barnes. Forty-two years old, recently divorced occupational therapist who worked at a nearby senior-care facility. Don’t know about any new boyfriends, but no witnesses and no sign of forced entry.”

  “Maybe she met someone recently. Or an online relationship. She let him in.”

  Alex didn’t say anything. The tech geeks would mine the victim’s computer and other devices for records of online activities. Alex’s domain was the bloody paw prints and the intermittent pattern of smears leading up the stairs.

  “No sign of forced entry at Christine Ryan’s house,” D.D. considered. “And her friends swore they would’ve known if there was a new guy, virtual or otherwise. Neighbors hear anything?”

  “No.”

  She reached over, knocked on the internal wall experimentally. Generally speaking, town houses in this kind of neighborhood weren’t known for their solid soundproofing. A life-or-death struggle, screaming, shouldn’t have gone completely unnoticed.

  “Neighborhood cameras, home security system?”

  “Nada.”

  “Time of death?”

  “Between midnight and two.”

  “Maybe he ambushes his victims while they’re asleep. That’s why there’s no sign of a struggle.”

  “But how does he get in?”

  “Picks the lock?” D.D. turned around, inspected the front door’s locking mechanism. As befitting a single woman living in a city, Regina had taken home security seriously. D.D. noted a steel bolt lock in relatively new condition. Christine Ryan, the first victim, had been equally diligent.

  Alex waited quietly as she arrived at the answer he already knew.

  “Could be done,” D.D. murmured. “But not easily.”

  “Probably not.”

  “But if she let him in . . . one plate, one cup in the kitchen sink. It wasn’t social. Say, inviting a special friend over for a nightcap. Any evidence recovered from the family room or kitchen? Footprint, hair and fiber?”

  “No footprints. Still processing hair and fiber.”

  She nodded, looking down at the paw print on the floor, as Alex leaned once more toward the stairs.

  She was stalling. Her feet remaining in place versus taking that overdue step forward, up the stairs, into the master bedroom, arriving at the heart of the matter. Was she dreading the scene she would find in the bedroom so much? Or was it worse than that? Was she dreading the stairs?

  Alex finally did the honors. He climbed the first few risers. D.D. had no choice but to follow.

  With his high-intensity beam, Alex illuminated more blood evidence along the way. Paw prints, some full, some partial, as the small dog had gone up and down the stairs. Then, at the top of the stairs, a significantly larger streak, as if someone had found a large pool of blood and tried to mop it up.

  “We’ll have to conduct some experiments to see if we can reproduce the pattern,” Alex was saying, “but I believe this smear pattern is from the dog as well. She was agitated, spending time next to the body, then running back and forth in the hallway. Here, at the top of the stairs, I think she lay down for a while. Maybe waiting for help to arrive.”

  D.D. was having a hard time breathing again. The climb up the stairs, she told herself. But she had a death grip on the right handrail and her chest felt unnaturally tight. As if a giant had reached inside her body and was now squeezing her lungs with his meaty fist.

  She bent over slightly. Found herself
panting.

  Then, as white dots began appearing in front of her eyes . . .

  Rockabye, baby, on the treetop . . .

  “Hold my hand. Steady. Now breathe. Inhale through your mouth, one, two, three, four, five. Exhale through your nose. One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five.

  “Easy, sweetheart. Easy.”

  Another minute. Maybe two, three, ten. She was embarrassed to realize her whole body was shaking uncontrollably. And she was sweating. She could feel the beads of perspiration dotting her brow, rolling down her cheeks. For an instant, she was seized by the overwhelming compulsion to bolt back down the stairs and race out the door. She’d flee the scene. Run away and never look back.

  Alex’s fingers, enmeshed in her own.

  “You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly. “Anytime you want, D.D., we can walk away. I’ll drive you home.”

  That did it. His voice was so patient, so understanding, she had no choice but to grit her teeth and steel her spine. She did not want to be this person. This weak, trembling woman who required her husband’s support just to climb the damn stairs.

  She inhaled, counting to five. Then exhaled. Then got her head up.

  “I’m sorry,” she said shortly, looking at anything but Alex’s face. “Clearly, time to boost the cardio.”

  “D.D.”

  “All this lying around. Doesn’t do a body good.”

  “D.D.”

  “Maybe instead of naming my pain, I should force it to run laps instead. That’d teach it.”

  “Stop.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t lie to me. If you need to lie to yourself, fair enough. But don’t lie to me. This is the first time back at a crime scene since your accident. That you’re suffering some kind of panic attack—”

  “I don’t panic!”

  “Some kind of emotional response isn’t unwarranted. You’re not carved out of stone, sweetheart.” Alex’s voice grew gentle. “You’re a real person. And real people feel fear and pain and uncertainty. It doesn’t make you weak. It just means you’re human.”