Death of a Nightingale

“I need a word with you.”

It sounded more like an order than a request, Nina realized, but she didn’t care. The policeman was so young, he automatically started to obey. He was on his feet before it occurred to him that a nurse was not actually above him in the chain of command. But by then it was too late for him to sit down again without looking like an idiot. He was also young enough that not looking like an idiot was pretty high on his list of priorities.

“What about?” he asked.

“Let’s go outside,” she said.

Rina looked at them with the alertness of a wounded animal, and the policeman apparently realized—much, much too late in Nina’s opinion—that there were certain things you didn’t discuss while an eight-year-old was listening. He followed her into the hall. Rina’s eyes trailed them the whole way. She sat on her bed with the Moomintroll-patterned comforter pulled all the way up to her chest. Nina had found her a Donald Duck comic, which she dutifully had looked at, but judging by the random page turning, she wasn’t getting a lot out of the story.

“We’ll be right outside, sweetie,” said Nina, and she didn’t know if that sounded like a comfort or a threat to the child. Her anger swelled another notch, and she closed the door carefully before letting loose on the policeman.

“I understand that Rina’s stepfather is dead.” She didn’t like to give the bastard the legitimacy of having any kind of place in Rina’s life even now, but Rina had called him “Poppa Mike.” Whether Nina liked it or not, he was, in fact, a part of what Rina had lost after Natasha’s ill-considered attempt at homicide.

“May I ask where you received that information?” asked the young policeman, possibly in an attempt to regain his authority.

“From Rina, who got it from you.”

He actually blushed. The color rose along his neck and washed over his well-defined cheekbones. He couldn’t maintain eye contact.

“Fuck,” was all he said.

“Yes,” Nina said and felt her attitude soften. He didn’t try to explain it away or apologize, and that was something. “How could that happen?” she asked.

He shook his head. “We didn’t think she spoke Danish,” he said. “She didn’t answer when we asked and didn’t say anything at all to anyone. We were told that she was mute.”

“Mute?” Nina’s voice rose again.

“No, that probably wasn’t the word. ‘Speech issues’ is what I think they said.”

“That just means she has a hard time talking to strangers,” said Nina. “And that she often can’t speak in stressful situations. And no matter how little she says, she hasn’t lost her hearing.”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“When was he killed? And how?”

He shook his head. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the case with … anyone.”

“A little late for that, isn’t it?”

He didn’t answer.

“Did it happen after Natasha escaped?” asked Nina. “Is she a suspect?”

“I can’t comment on that.”

“And what about Rina’s father? Is it true that he was murdered too?”

But if there had been an opening, it had closed again. He was once more annoyingly police-like and looked as if the word “fuck” had never crossed his lips.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t comment on that.”

“Well, then comment on this,” she said, irritated. “I don’t want you in Rina’s room. I don’t want any of you in there. She’s traumatized enough already, and as long as you are there, I don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of talking with her about it or getting her to relax. We can easily make it an official medical order if that’s necessary and outline precisely why your presence has already had a powerfully negative effect.” The last part was pure coercion.

He squirmed. “I have to consult,” he said.

“Consult all you want,” she said. “As long as you do it out here and not in there.”

She turned her back on him and went back into Rina’s room.

The Donald Duck comic lay on the floor like a discarded prop. Rina sat with an old, broken cell phone, the only toy she had brought with her to the camp when she had arrived at the age of not-quite-six.

The psychologist had found it interesting, Nina remembered. “Does she ever speak into it?” he’d asked.

“She whispers,” Nina had said. “Mostly she just presses the buttons and listens. But sometimes she whispers as well.”

“Is there any pattern to when she does it?”

“I think it’s mostly when she’s feeling sad,” said Nina. “Perhaps it distracts her.”

“I think it’s encouraging that she attempts to communicate her feelings,” the psychologist had said. “Even if it’s not with us. You should definitely let her keep it.”

Now, more than two years later, Rina still had her phone and clearly needed it more than ever. Her bitten nails pressed the buttons with almost manic intent.

Nina picked up the Donald Duck comic and placed it on the little dresser next to the bed. “Would you like another ice cream?” she asked.

Rina looked up. She shook her head silently and finished dialing. She held the telephone up to her ear and listened.

It occurred to Nina that that was precisely what she was doing—listening. She wasn’t pretending; this wasn’t an act-like-the-grown-ups game. She was listening in earnest. For the first time, Nina wondered what it was Rina expected to hear.

She sat down on the desk chair and pretended to look out the window, but she was really keeping an eye on Rina’s expression, and that was why she saw it.

Suddenly the girl’s face opened, and she smiled. A completely open smile that, for some reason, gave Nina the chills. She felt like grabbing the phone out of the child’s hands but held herself back. As the psychologist said, it was good for Rina to attempt to communicate with someone.

But what did you do if this “someone” began to answer?

There was no doubt in Nina’s mind that Rina had indeed heard a reply, and it was highly unlikely to be because the defective phone had suddenly started working.

There was a quiet knock on the door. The young policeman stood outside.

“I’ve spoken with the chief,” he said. “She says that it’s okay for us to be in the room next door on the condition that you and your colleagues have someone with the girl at all times. Press this if you notice anything alarming.”

He handed Nina a little black box with a red button. A personal attack alarm. Nina remembered that not long ago, they had discussed whether the night shift at the center should be equipped with them.

“Okay,” she said. Not an insignificant victory. “Thank you.”

Rina looked at the policeman with her animal gaze until Nina closed the door again. The cell phone had disappeared into her pink backpack. The psychologist would probably consider that a step backward, but Nina couldn’t help feeling relieved.