Time of Death

29

Robbie Truax did not speak to Ren until lunch-time. His gaze moved between his computer screen, the floor and the television.

When everyone else had left the office for lunch, Ren stood up at her desk and held a bottle of water in her hand like an Oscar. ‘I’d like to thank my colleague, Robbie Truax, for casting me in the role of the Sensible and the Sober in the movie of the same name. I’d like to thank the Academy…at Quantico. I’d like to thank the basement karaoke bar you dragged us into — you don’t remember that do you? — where we brought to life that great American country classic “Long-Neck Bottle, Let Go of My Hand”. Thank You.’

Robbie smiled at her and relaxed back in his chair. ‘Ren, you are-’

‘Amazing, I know. I get it…’

Robbie blushed.

Ren laughed. ‘Dude, you are not used to what is known in Irish circles as “the drink talking”. Drink makes you think people are more fabulous than they are and goes on to make you say this out loud to them. That’s all it is. So it’s your

first time: that always hurts a little.’

Robbie looked up. ‘You are obsessed with sex.’

‘Me? You should have heard you last night.’

‘Aw, Ren…’

‘Aw, I’m sorry,’ said Ren. ‘I’m only teasing.’

‘Why would anyone want to do this to themselves all the time?’

‘Those long-neck bottles hold hands real well. And as soon as you let go of one of them, you discover that shot glasses are verrry sticky,’ said Ren.

Robbie’s face was desolate. ‘We were in a karaoke bar.’

‘Come on, baby,’ said Ren. ‘Do that little dance for me again. Shake it, baby! Shake it!’

Douglas Hammond’s funeral was covered in a short report on 9 News late that afternoon. According to the newscaster, his daughter Mia was the woman standing at the front door of the church behind her father’s coffin, her face pressed against the chest of a man believed to be her fiancé.

Colin stopped what he was doing and watched the screen. ‘I didn’t know you could be cremated and then buried in a coffin,’ he said.

‘You’re sick.’ Ren looked at him. ‘I really liked Naomi. She’s very warm. She’s got a very pretty face.’

Colin took up his new sport of blushing. ‘Uh…I know. Thank you.’

‘She’s a keeper,’ said Ren. ‘So keep her, for Christ’s sake. The best advice ever is “be yourself”…but that advice is just for other people.’ Ren paused. ‘In your case? Please don’t. For the love of God, don’t be yourself.’

Colin smiled.

‘Check the Hammond daughter out,’ said Ren, pointing to the screen. ‘She’s a carbon copy of her mother.’

‘I’ve never seen her mother,’ said Colin.

‘Google Image her,’ said Ren.

‘I don’t care that much.’

‘She’s like a modern version of her mom.’ Ren leaned in a little closer. ‘But with her father’s eyes.’ She glanced at Colin. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to respond, I’m just entertaining myself.’

Cliff got up from the file cabinet he had been fighting with. ‘Da-da! Fixed.’ He stood beside Ren and watched the television with her.

‘That poor girl,’ said Ren. ‘I hope I die before everyone in my family. And before all my friends.’

‘Look who we have here,’ said Cliff, pointing at an attractive, well-dressed woman in the crowd, wearing a beige coat and fur hat. ‘That is the famous Lucinda Kerr.’

‘Peter Everett’s ex-wife?’ said Ren.

‘Yup.’

‘I wonder how she knows Douglas Hammond.’

‘Same circles, probably,’ said Cliff.

‘Just because they’re rich?’ said Ren.

‘It could be anything — legal stuff, charity work, whatever…’ Cliff shrugged. ‘She was at Helen Wheeler’s memorial too.’

‘Was she?’

‘Yup, Glenn mentioned it. Why didn’t you go?’

Because I couldn’t bear it and conveniently arranged a flight to El Paso the same day. ‘Unfortunate timing,’ said Ren.

‘I guess Lucinda Kerr was there to support her ex-husband.’ Cliff gave a shrug. ‘Like I said, they were still friends.’

‘Maybe she’s one of those professional mourners,’ said Ren. ‘Maybe she’s so rich, she has to find new things to amuse herself, and showing up at funerals is her thing.’

There was more footage of the crowd and then it was back to the regular news.

‘Did you see Lucinda Kerr’s father there?’ said Ren, gesturing toward the television. ‘Old Mr Kerr?’

‘No,’ said Cliff.

‘She looked like she was on her own.’ Ren frowned. ‘Wouldn’t she have been with her father if it was a business connection? Or a charity thing? Maybe she plays golf with Douglas Hammond. Or…’

Cliff looked at her. ‘Sometimes your mind moves at such a speed, I feel like I’m on a car chase and you’re all over the road, taking all these side streets and I keep losing you…’

Mortifying.

‘Ren Bryce, you are actually blushing,’ said Cliff. ‘I meant it as a compliment. It’s like you have these bursts of thoughts and-’

‘Maybe I shouldn’t say them all out loud?’

‘Exactly,’ said Colin.

Cliff put his arm around Ren and squeezed her shoulder. ‘There are always a few gems in there.’

‘Your screwdriver is sticking into me,’ said Ren.

‘Nah,’ said Cliff. ‘I’m just happy to see you.’

Ren arrived home late that evening. As she walked up the path, she could see a yellow envelope lying on the wet tiles of the front porch. She picked it up and brought it inside. She dropped her bag and slid out the thin document. The title page was on Helen Wheeler’s headed notepaper with Patient: Ren Bryce written underneath.

Ren’s heart started to pound.

What the fuck is this?

She started to read it. Oh no. These were Helen’s notes. And they were not in shorthand.

Ren’s stomach turned. Her legs were weak, her hands shaking.

What is this? Who left this here?

She grabbed the envelope and flipped it over as if there would be a sender’s address. Anything to delay reading what was in front of her. She eventually put the title page to one side and started to read:

Patient B, Special Agent Ren Bryce, first presented to me in 2007, having spent the previous nine years under the care of three different psychiatrists for bipolar disorder. During that time, she spent periods on and off medication, but declined psychotherapy until a month into her treatment with me.

OK…that’s OK.

Ren continued to read.

Ren Bryce has expressed overpowering feelings of guilt following a serious transgression during her time as an undercover agent with the Val Pando crime organization in 1998/9. Agent Bryce concealed vital information from her contact agent and still appears to be distressed by this. This was a period of high stress in Agent Bryce’s career and leaves me with concerns as to her capacity, then and now, to perform as an agent.

In 2008, Agent Bryce carried on a sexual relationship with a confidential informant during a homicide investigation in which he was a suspect. In the course of this, she experienced delusional thoughts and repeatedly engaged in risky behavior.

During this time, Agent Bryce has consistently refused medication and after a recent period of psychosis, failed to fill her prescription for the anti-psychotic drug Zyprexa.

Following a careful analysis of Agent Bryce’s mental state, my recommendation is that she should be withdrawn from service as an FBI agent, pending further notice.

It is my considered opinion that Agent Bryce is a danger both to herself and to her colleagues.

Ren sat motionless on the stairs. She stared at Helen’s signature at the bottom of the page. And she knew one thing: this could not have been written by Helen Wheeler.

Could it?