Death Row

Part Two. How Time Moves
Chapter 15

Christina stared at Ben. “You consider that a win?”

“From Derek, yes.”

“He all but said he didn’t think there was any chance we’d come up with anything that would change his mind.”

“But he gave us another week to try. From Derek, that’s a major victory. It means we still have a chance.”

“Ben, I admire your optimism, but I think you’re possibly being unrealistic.”

“What else is new?”

“I just don’t want you to get your hopes up. Unrealistically. You or Ray.”

Ben removed his feet from the desk and swiveled his chair around to face her. “Look, that was Judge Richard A. Derek in there. A for Asshole. The worst judge Ray could conceivably have drawn. As far as I was concerned, the case was over as soon as Derek saw who was sitting at counsel table. I’m surprised Derek didn’t volunteer to drive down to McAlester and inject the needle himself.”

“I think you’re overstating the case.”

“Getting anything out of Derek-even the little we did-was a triumph.”

Christina shook her head. “If you say so. Man, he sure hasn’t mellowed any over the years, has he?”

“He’s past mellow. He’s ripened and rotted.”

“Just last week I read that he’s filed for divorce against his wife.”

“Again? They were blowing hot and cold back when we were at the firm. Had some kind of sick codependent thing going. The man is seriously unstable and you know it. And snide. And self-centered. And he wears a toupee.”

Christina smiled. “What I was getting at was-most people get a bit out of sorts during a divorce. And I thought he seemed a little spacey in the courtroom. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he’s on antidepressants.”

“So what you’re saying is, we’ve drawn the worst possible judge-at the worst possible time.”

“Pretty much, yeah.” She grabbed her coat. “Come on. We’ve got an appointment to keep.”

“Thank you for seeing us, Dr. Bennett. I really appreciate it.”

Ben watched as the auburn-haired doctor with the black-rimmed glasses peered down at a tray covered with dead butterflies. She seemed absolutely absorbed by her work. He almost felt guilty, interrupting her with anything so trivial as a murder investigation.

“Not at all, Mr. Kincaid. Thank you for agreeing to see me at home. It’s my day off.”

“Least I could do. And call me Ben.”

Christina inched forward. “How long have you been collecting butterflies?”

The doctor did not look up. “Well, I don’t exactly collect them. I admire them. Lepidoptery is a science, not a hobby.” She smiled slightly. “Of course, I’m just an amateur practitioner. But still.”

Ben gazed at the walls of her study, which were covered with framed and mounted butterflies. Dozens of them. The myriad sizes, shapes, and colors were truly beautiful, Ben thought, even if he was basically looking at dead insects. The mounting also seemed very professional, at least to his untrained eye. The good doctor knew what she was doing.

“It must be an enormous amount of work,” Christina commented.

“True. But I enjoy it.”

“How long did it take you to pick it up?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Years, I suppose. A little bit at a time.” She set down the stiletto she was using to position a butterfly on a cork-based board. “Of course, I’ve spent my whole life learning to identify the butterflies themselves. Several years learning to use the tools of the trade. How to catch them. How to use the stiletto and scalpel to mount them. It’s delicate work. Requires some real skill.”

“Fascinating,” Ben said, and for once, he meant it. “How did you learn it all?”

“Well, I’m a member of the American Lepidopterists’ Society. They have meetings and such. Very detailed guidelines about collecting and exhibiting specimens. Data sharing. The handling of live material.”

Ben bent down for a closer look at her work. “Mind if I ask what that is?”

“That, my friend, is a pristine specimen of Ornithoptera victoriae victoriae. Queen Victoria ’s Birdwing from the Solomon Islands. I’ve been after one all my life. And now, thanks to the Society, I have one. They find already deceased specimens and preserve them.” She grinned like a kid with a cookie. “You can see why I couldn’t wait.”

“It’s beautiful,” Christina said, wishing she could think of a more profound comment.

“That it is. And extremely endangered. Like all too many rainforest species, its days are numbered. The Society has tried introducing them into new environments. But it rarely takes. Unless there are some serious changes in the way we manage our natural resources, we’ll probably see this and thousands of other beautiful and diverse species disappear. In our lifetimes. A tragic loss.”

Staring at all the lovely examples lining her walls, Ben couldn’t possibly argue with her. And he would’ve much rather talked about butterflies than murder. But that was not a long-term option. “Could we talk about Erin Faulkner for a moment?”

Dr. Bennett laid down her tools. “Of course. Poor Erin. I liked her. Genuinely. Not just in a doctor-patient way. She was a good person. And at one time, she was very strong, I believe.”

“Before her family was murdered?”

Bennett nodded. “The way she handled herself during that crisis, the courage she showed in her escape, those were all remarkable. But the emotional toll it took on her-that was incalculable.”

“Were you surprised when you heard she was dead?”

“Of course. I mean, suicide had always been a possibility for her. She was struggling with so much trauma. So much guilt. But I thought she was getting better.” She sighed.

“You know,” Christina said, “there’s some doubt about whether it was suicide. In the police department, I mean.”

“I know. I just finished talking to a homicide detective. Some big gruff guy with a Raymond Chandler fixation.”

Ben’s lips turned up. “Major Morelli, perhaps?”

“Yes. That was the one. I suppose they have to be thorough.” Her eyes drifted, and Ben thought he caught a touch of genuine regret. “But it’s hard for me to imagine it could be anything other than suicide.”

“Did Erin ever discuss the source of her… guilt? I assume you can talk about this now.”

“Yes. The privilege expires with the patient, I’m afraid.” She paused. “ Erin would never have used the word guilt. Not as such. But it was always there. It was as much a part of her as her arms and her damaged leg.”

“She felt guilty because she survived. The only member of her family.”

“Yes. That was certainly a part of it. But I also…” Her head tilted slightly. “I always had the sense there was something more.”

Ben’s eyes lit up. “Did she ever indicate what that other source of guilt might be?”

“No, I’m afraid she never did. Erin had not been my patient that long, you know. And she had not yet learned to speak freely. Had not learned to trust yet, not entirely. That woman should’ve been in therapy long before she was, frankly. If she had been…” She shook her head. “But worlds could be built on ifs, couldn’t they?”

“Did she ever talk about the home invasion?”

“Yes, but she didn’t like to. And of course, she didn’t see that much of it herself. She was crippled and knocked unconscious early in the horror. When she woke, she was chained up in the cellar.”

Ben nodded. He was all too familiar with the grim events of that night. “Can you think of anything she said, anything that might not be in the official reports? We have reason to believe that the man accused and convicted, Ray Goldman, did not actually commit the crime.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

Ben blinked. This was a refreshing change of pace. “And we’re trying to find out who did.”

“Well, I could help you there.”

Christina’s eyes widened. “You can?”

“Oh yes,” Dr. Bennett said, removing her glasses and rubbing the bridge of her nose. “I know who killed the Faulkner family. I always have.”

“Can I talk to you?”

Mike glanced up from his coffee cup. Sergeant Baxter was bearing down on him. It seemed there was to be no rest, even during coffee breaks.

“Can it wait?”

Baxter placed one fist against her hip. “No, it can’t.”

Mike glanced over her shoulder. There were four other guys in the canteen, and they were already looking this way. “Not very private.”

“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

Mike poured himself another cuppa. “Okay, Sergeant, what’s the beef?”

“You filed a negative report on me.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“You accused me of unprofessional conduct.”

“And your point is?”

Mike could feel the steam rising from the top of her head. “What the hell are you trying to do to me?”

“I think you’re personalizing this, Sergeant. I’m just doing my job.”

“Bullshit.” She knocked the Styrofoam cup out of his hands. Hot black coffee flew across the room. “I didn’t complain when you tried to get transferred to a different partner. I didn’t complain when you filed reports disputing my conclusions. I didn’t complain when you tried to use all your sick leave to get away or threatened to catch the Blue Flu if you didn’t get transferred. But this is different! This goes on my permanent record.”

“Sergeant, we may be partners, but you would do well to remember that I am also your superior officer. When I see conduct that in my opinion does not conform with the standards of this department-”

“Cut the crap, Morelli.” She surged forward, giving him nowhere to escape. “You want to embarrass me in front of the other officers, you do that. You want to make me out as some kind of man-hating ball buster, fine. But don’t screw with my career!”

“All I did was-”

“I know exactly what you did! And I know why you did it, too!”

“Sergeant Baxter-”

“I’ve been a cop for twelve years. And I’ve run into a lot of sexist creeps in my time. But no one ever messed with my record.”

“Maybe it’s overdue.”

“Your screwing around could lose me my career!”

“Maybe you should lose your career.”

“It’s all I have!” Her voice rocketed through the small kitchen. Everyone else present instantly turned away, but Mike knew they were following every word.

Baxter retreated a step. She pressed her hand against her forehead, as if struggling to regain control. “May I ask one question? What exactly did I do that you found so unprofessional?”

Mike twisted his neck. “Well, there was no one single thing, really… some of the remarks you made at the organ clinic…”

“Like what?”

“Various things. You said the place gave you the creeps. Others overheard you.”

“So what?”

“So, it’s not the behavior of a professional. It’s more something you’d expect from a… a…”

“Weak sister?”

“Not a member of the police department, anyway. Not a member of the homicide squad.”

Baxter turned away. “This is such bullshit.”

“It isn’t. We’re public officials. We have to maintain professional deportment.”

“Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.”

“Plus, if you can’t stand to be around body parts, how the hell are you going to handle yourself around a corpse? What use is a homicide detective with a weak stomach?”

Baxter’s teeth were clenched so hard Mike thought her jaw might burst. “I’ve been around plenty of corpses, Morelli. Almost as many as you.”

“You don’t act like it.”

“Why, because I don’t go in for the macho poker face? Because I don’t act like I don’t care?”

“There’s professional behavior, and there’s unprofessional behavior. And unprofessional behavior-”

“Would be that crack you made the other day about my panties. In front of witnesses.”

Mike fell silent.

“Now, that was genuinely unprofessional. That could get you suspended for a month. But did I turn you in, even though I found your behavior grossly offensive and revolting? No, I didn’t. And you know why?” She leaned into his face. “Because I would never do such a crappy thing to my partner, that’s why. Even if he’s a total and utter asshole!”

“Excuse me. May I cut in?”

Mike ripped his eyes away from Baxter and saw, to his horror, Chief Blackwell standing not a foot away from them.

The other people in the canteen scattered. Show was over.

“Could I have the next dance?” Blackwell continued. “You two seem as if you may be ready for a break.”

Baxter backed off. Mike tugged at the edges of his shirt, smoothing the wrinkles.

“Morning, Chief.”

“And to you, Mr. Senior Homicide Investigator. Enjoying your early- morning caffeine?”

“Chief…”

“This isn’t working,” Baxter said bluntly, tossing her hair back. “Not at all.”

“So I see.” Blackwell looked at both of them. Mike could read the tension in his neck, his eyes. “I think it’s time we had a private conference. A little heart-to-heart. One-on-one.”

Mike nodded. “It’s always hard to be the new kid, Chief. Don’t be too tough on her.”

Blackwell brought his head around slowly. “Her? I’m having a private conversation with you, Major. In my office. Now.”

Ben could hardly restrain himself. “You know who killed the Faulkner family?”

“Of course,” Dr. Bennett said. “I mean, I don’t know his name. But I know who he was. And it was a him, by the way. I can guarantee it.”

“How do you know this?”

“I’m a psychiatrist, remember? And I deal with a lot of sick miserable human beings. Frankly, Erin Faulkner was a pleasant change of pace from some of the cases I get, referred by prison or parole boards. Seriously deranged, dangerous individuals.”

“So getting back to the Faulkner case,” Christina said, “who was the killer?”

“The killer who almost wiped out the Faulkner family was what psychiatrists would classify as an organized nonsocial. I mean, when you think about it, the crime was really rather systematically executed. Even the eye removal was handled with consistency and efficiency. These people are usually relatively intelligent, decent looking, and well attuned to the feelings of others. Not just what they like, but what they don’t like. What scares them.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Very. Combine that with an active fantasy life that allows them to dream about their crimes well in advance-which results in them being well planned by the time they are actually conducted.”

“I see.”

“Some experts think all children are organized nonsocials-their world revolves around themselves. But at some point in their development, most learn to care about others, about the world outside. But not organized nonsocials. They never outgrow the ‘me’ stage. All they care about is what they need. They are the center of their universe. They think they are never wrong, that they never make mistakes.” She paused. “But of course they do, thank goodness. It’s the only reason some of these monsters are ever caught.”

“But-why?” Ben asked. “What would be this… organized nonsocial’s motivation?”

“That could vary,” Bennett explained. “Some of them simply like to inflict pain. They get a charge out of it-literally. Some delude themselves into believing they are scientists-conducting research into the levels of pain tolerance or some such horrid thing. For others, it’s purely a power trip; they do it because they can. And for some, it’s an intellectual challenge. What can I get away with? How long can I go without being caught?” Her eyes drifted to her butterfly wall. “And for some, it’s purely sexual. They have a preoccupation that society doesn’t condone-little girls, little boys, whatever.”

“Any common denominators?”

“Just one. People who commit crimes like this can’t help themselves. It’s not that they lack self-control or they’ve consciously decided to indulge themselves. They just can’t stop.”

“How horrible,” Christina said.

Bennett agreed. “Modern medicine has made some important strides. There are drugs now that can suppress some of the more malevolent urges. But it’s always a tricky thing. Drugs can be unreliable. And if the patient forgets to take his pill one day-”

“Another family is obliterated.”

“That’s possible, yes.”

“This may sound crazy,” Christina said, “but I have a theory that there was more than one person involved in the crime. That there was a second person present. A second person with… well, for want of a better word, a conscience. More than the principal killer, anyway. Does that fit with your theory?”

Bennett considered for a moment. “Well, it would be extremely unusual for an organized nonsocial to take a partner. He would want to do all the planning and killing himself. But I suppose I can’t totally eliminate the possibility of some kind of… procurer. Someone who didn’t participate in the killings but was still essential in some way. Someone who suggested the crime or facilitated it.”

“You expressed some doubts about Ray Goldman being the murderer,” Ben said.

“Well, he doesn’t really seem the organized nonsocial type, does he? I mean, I haven’t met him personally, but from what I’ve read, he was a high-functioning, professional, highly educated man with no apparent psychological problems.”

“Exactly,” Ben said. “That’s what I’ve been telling people for seven years. Would you be willing to take the stand and say that?”

“To be honest, I don’t care much for the expert-witness scene. It’s all a little tawdry, isn’t it?”

She’d get no argument from Ben, but he could still use a medical witness at that hearing next week. “I’m fighting for a man’s life here. I won’t ask you to say anything you’re not comfortable saying. Just tell it straight.”

Bennett pondered. “Well… I’ll think about it. But you must also remember-it’s not unheard of for an organized nonsocial to be able to disguise his illness. To hide his aberration. Lots of people knew Ted Bundy-and liked him. No one thought he was a killer. Until he’d knocked off about forty people.”

Ben nodded. A sobering thought.

“If there’s nothing else, Ben…” She smiled. “I hear a rare lepidoptera calling me.” She picked up her pins and stiletto.

“Of course.” He and Christina headed for the door. On first arrival, he had thought the butterfly business a rather unusual hobby. Maybe even a little sick. Killing the pretties. But after hearing about what she did, what she knew, what she dealt with on a regular basis-he could see why she enjoyed her butterflies. He could see why she needed them.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Chief Blackwell bellowed.

Mike drew himself back into the armchair. He felt about two feet tall. Like he’d been called into the vice principal’s office. “I can’t work with her, Chief. I just can’t.”

“You can if I say you can.”

“No, I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

“You mean you won’t.”

Mike gripped the arms of the chair. “It’s impossible, sir. She’s got a chip on her shoulder the size of Sand Springs. She’s bullying and domineering. A real harpy.”

“Don’t start with the sexist remarks.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“No? I suppose you meant to say something about her panties?”

Mike closed his eyes. “I should’ve known she’d go running to you.”

“For your information, Major, she did not report the incident, although pursuant to departmental regulations, she should have. Happily, I got reports from about twelve other eyewitnesses who heard the whole thing. You’re the talk of the department.”

“Chief, it was just me and Frank and some of the boys shooting the breeze.”

“I don’t care what it was. And I don’t want to hear any excuses!” Blackwell pounded his fist against his desk. “I don’t understand this, Mike. Hell, you’re supposed to be the sensitive one on the force. The college man with the graduate degree. The English major, for God’s sake. And you’re behaving worse than the worst of the old-guard male chauvinists. The difference being-they don’t know any better. You do.”

Mike’s mouth felt dry. “Chief, you know I don’t have a problem with women working on the force-”

“I don’t know that I do, Mike. I used to. Now I’m not so sure.” He leaned across his desk. “What do you think would happen if word got around about this? What if the press got a hold of your ‘panties’ remark? What if it got back to the mayor? Huh? I can assure you she would not find it amusing.”

“Sir, I have absolutely no objection to women police officers. Or even personally working with women. It’s just… this woman. Baxter. I can’t work with her.”

“Why? Are you hot for her?”

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

“It hasn’t escaped my notice that Sergeant Baxter is quite attractive. And I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your notice, either. Is that the problem? Do you have feelings for her? Are you suppressing your sexual frustration with open hostility?”

“Sir, I can assure you that isn’t the case.”

“Yeah, I hear your mouth working. But I’m not sure your brain is along for the ride.” He rapped a pencil on his desk. “That would explain a lot. I’m aware that your personal life has been totally screwed up ever since your divorce. Rarely a date, from what I hear. Hanging out with defense attorneys. Perverse stuff like that.”

“Sir, I give you my personal guarantee. There is no sexual attraction. If the rest of the female population were covered with pustulant weeping boils, there would still be no sexual attraction.”

“Says you.” Blackwell stared across the desk at him. Mike didn’t remember ever seeing the man look so angry. “May I remind you how this assignment started, Major? It started because you screwed up. Badly.”

“Sir-”

“Just shut up and listen. A lot of the higher-ups thought I should’ve yanked your badge right then and there, after you butted into that hostage scene where you had no business and made a mess of it. But I said no. I said give him another chance.”

“I appreciate that, sir.”

“Our record as an equal opportunity employer has not always been the best. The mayor wants to change that.” He paused, looking squarely at Mike. “You can see where she might have an interest in that sort of thing. She wants Baxter to succeed. And therefore, so do I. That’s why I assigned her to you. And that’s why you are going to do everything possible to make the assignment a success. Do you understand me?”

Mike’s face tightened. “I suppose.”

“I will not accept excuses, Mike. You will make this work.”

“I’ll do my best-”

“Don’t give me that schoolboy crap about doing your best. You will make it work. Are we clear on that?”

Mike stood at attention. “Yes, sir!”

“I’m tearing up this bogus report you wrote. I wouldn’t allow that to sit in anyone’s file, much less Sergeant Baxter’s.”

“Yes, sir.”

Blackwell pointed a finger. “And make no mistake about it, Mike. I don’t care how long we’ve worked together. If you screw this up, I’ll have your badge.”

“Chief-!”

“I mean it, Mike. You keep that in mind as you continue to work with your new partner. You want this to work.” He lowered his voice. “Because it’s not just her career that’s on the line here. It’s yours.”