Middle Of Nowhere

C H A P T E R

21

"Y ou're being awfully quiet," Daphne said, stung by the irony of the prominently displayed sign that reminded hospital visitors to keep silent.

The morning routines kept the corridors busier than on their previous visits. Doctors were doing their rounds, med students in tow. Nurses and orderlies seemed harried and overworked.

"Thinking," Boldt replied.

"About last night's assaults," she completed for him.

"Pendegrass is a loyalist. He'll do whatever Krishevski asks. You're the staff psychologist. You know there's a thin line between cop and criminal."

"From what you told me, his wife's explanations made sense. Tell me how that connects to Krishevski."

"You didn't see his eyes. His attitude. Pendegrass, Riorden—Krishevski's boys down in Property—they all ride in the back of the bus."

"It doesn't mean they cracked open a couple of heads."

"But they could have," he said. He needed answers. He still believed Sanchez the best source for those answers

The rent-a-cop security guard on Sanchez's hospital room recognized Matthews and Boldt. Daphne led the way through the door. It warned of oxygen in use, but Boldt thought they might post other cautions as well. This woman's assault seemed to be tearing at the fabric of SPD's integrity, implicating misplaced loyalties to labor unions and dissolving the bonds between fellow officers. He came to find out if Sanchez had worked an Internal Investigation prior to her being found tied to her bed with her neck cracked. He came hoping that her assault was nothing but a burglary gone bad. Without confirmation otherwise, this was how the case had to be investigated. It was rare for him to enter an interrogation desiring his hunches and instincts to be proved wrong, but that was exactly what he felt as he stepped into the room and looked over at the paralyzed woman lying in the bed.

Sanchez's haunting eyes had come to plague Boldt. Pleading. Silent. Saddened. A young, vital woman had been sacrificed. Maria Sanchez was trapped—her spirit was confined to a body that would not release her. Within the next few days or weeks, surgeons would apparently know if her surgery would reconnect this woman to the life she had previously known.

"We know this is difficult for you, Officer," Daphne began after greeting her. The reference to the patient's rank was intentional. They needed the participation of a policewoman. They needed honest, difficult answers.

"We've had several important developments in the case," Boldt informed her. Her eyelids shut with some difficulty, and as they opened her dark brown irises fo cused intently on Boldt, whose voice caught as he said, "Some questions we'd like to ask you."

Her eyes shut and then reopened again, her pupils fixed to the right. "Yes," came the woman's answer. She seemed worse today than the last time he'd seen her. He reeled.

"There have been two more assaults," Daphne said, stepping closer to Boldt at the foot of the bed to make it easier on the patient. "Both officers. Both badly off."

The eyelids shut.

Boldt said, "There seems to be the possibility of a connection that we would prefer not to face, but face it we must. Our primary interest remains this burglar— especially in your case, where your possessions went missing. We're pursuing all relevant leads. But unfortunately, another possibility has raised its ugly head— that these assaults on officers, my own included, have to do with an I.I. investigation. That this investigation, whatever it is, or was, is the common thread we've been missing."

"And that's why we're here," Daphne said.

Boldt said cautiously, "Sometimes the system itself can stand in an officer's way. We need answers, and we're not getting them from upstairs."

"We need your help."

When her eyes opened this time, they aimed to the right. "Yes."

"Prior to your assault," Boldt began, "were you involved in an Internal Investigation?" Her eyes fluttered shut and remained so.

"Please, Maria," Daphne pleaded.

"Yes," came the answer.

Boldt experienced a combination of relief and anxiety. Sanchez had been working an I.I. prior to her burglary assault. A dozen questions danced on the tip of his tongue.

"Did the investigation involve Property?" he asked.

She stared at the ceiling. Unable, or unwilling to answer? Boldt wondered. "Krishevski?" Boldt asked quickly, for his suspicions remained with the Property sergeant.

The ceiling. But he thought she struggled not to answer.

"Pendegrass?"

The ceiling. Perhaps she was overmedicated, he thought.

"Chapman?"

Her eyelids fluttered, she squeezed them shut tightly. When they reopened, she stared at the ceiling.

"Maria . . ." a frustrated Boldt pleaded. "Please. You're the only one who can answer these questions." He allowed this to sink in. "Do you believe someone— anyone—from Property was involved in your assault?" He asked this with as little emotion as he could summon, and yet his own convictions surfaced.

"No," replied the injured woman.

Daphne glanced at Boldt—Sanchez's first definite answer took Property out of the assault. A part of him felt satisfied. He could focus on the burglary and let others turn over the rocks—if those rocks even existed. But Chapman's anxiety the night before remained in the forefront of his thoughts, and cautioned against accepting Sanchez's answers.

"Do you believe your assault was related in any way to your I.I. case?" Daphne inquired.

Again, she stared at the ceiling. Boldt's frustration built.

"Maria, we have two more officers in this hospital this morning. We have suspicious movements from officers in Property. We have far more questions than answers, and you're apparently one of the few people who knows what's going on. I know it's asking a lot—too much even—but please, help us out here!"

Her eyes shone. A tear escaped down her cheek.

"We've upset you," Daphne apologized to the woman. "Are you avoiding answers, Maria, because we are not I.I., not directly your superiors on this case?"

"Yes!" Somehow those eyes shouted.

Again Maria stared at the ceiling, tears running.

"But we want to help!" an exasperated Boldt pleaded.

Daphne repeated softly, "Do you think your assault might be connected to your I.I. case?"

Her eyes shut and reopened. "Yes," she replied, now staring directly at Boldt.

Daphne looked across to a relieved Boldt and said, "We need this burglar in custody. If he can give us an alibi for the night of her assault, then—"

"Maybe that would be enough to take a good long look at whatever case she was working," Boldt interrupted. The secrecy surrounding I.I. cases was notoriously impossible to crack. He said, "You're right about the order of things—this burglar just might become our star witness."