Jon Talton - The Pain Nurse

“Maybe the bosses are trying to figure out a way to put a spin on the positive and bury the rest. I guess big money was at stake. Doctor training funds, Medicare, Medicaid. Some big federal grant for a computer upgrade.”

“The digital medicine project. Christine had stopped her practice to work on it.”

“I learned something else about that. She had been reassigned to that basement office a month before. She had been working in the administrative offices. Berkowitz said she was moved. Why? In the police world, it would mean you really pissed off somebody powerful.”

“That’s exactly what Mason told me. She had been moved. He didn’t know why.” Cheryl Beth shook her head, processing all the new information. Then, “It still doesn’t explain the threatening letter. Maybe Dodds found Mason’s fingerprints on it. Are you really so sure your bad cop did this?”

Will was silent as she started the car.

Finally, “If I can’t make the case to you, I sure as hell can’t do it with Dodds. What would it take to convince you?”

“You’re the detective. What other tricks do you have up your sleeve?”

He thought about this for a long moment. “Are you willing to try a long shot?”

They drove east out of downtown on Columbia Parkway, quickly passing the promontory of Mount Adams and the modern condo where a chief executive of Procter and Gamble was said to keep his mistress. On the left were the tree-lined hills with condo towers sprouting out at intervals, and on the right the broad Ohio River curved and dipped. One lonely barge was being pushed upriver by a tug. Will told Cheryl Beth about the time years ago when the river had frozen solid and he had walked across to Kentucky. But she quickly moved back to the case.

“Wouldn’t the Mount Adams killer have kept the ring fingers as trophies?” she asked.

“Nobody knows about the ring fingers, so don’t blurt that out accidentally with Dodds or he’ll have a stroke.”

“I’ll be a good girl, and if he has a CVA, I’ll help treat him. Seriously, though.”

“That would be the profile,” Will admitted, “and we never found them among Factor’s things. We never even found the kind of tool that would do it.”

“Surgeons have those instruments.” She spoke more softly, staring straight ahead at the road. “Even a pair of heavy-duty bandage shears would do-they need to be able to cut off leather boots, whatever, in an emergency.”

She was still sure the killer was Gary Nagle. Will was trying to work out how to deal with Darlene Corley. Her statement had given Bud Chambers his alibi. The night of Theresa’s murder, Chambers had been on duty, except for a four-hour period that would have perfectly coincided with Theresa’s time of death. Once Will and Dodds had established this fact-after days of stonewalling by other officers on Chambers’ shift and even his watch commander-Darlene had emerged. She was Chambers’ girlfriend and he had been with her, at her place down by the river.

“How do you know she didn’t do it?”

Will laughed. “You’d make a good detective. How’d you get so cynical?”

“Old boyfriends.”

“You deserve a lot better than that.” He was instantly embarrassed he had said it, and continued quickly. “Now that you mention it, she’d be tall enough and strong enough. There’s the little matter of rape. Craig Factor was arrested and the semen matched.”

“But only one of the cases.”

Right. They never really had a chance to sweat her. Neither detective believed her story covering for Bud Chambers. But it didn’t seem to matter once Factor was in custody. Now Will would give it one more try. “Turn here.”

They could have gone north, up Delta into Mount Lookout and Hyde Park, where even the sidewalks seemed to radiate graceful prosperity. But they turned toward the river, past a restaurant called The Precinct, which was once a police station. Another quick turn and they continued on old Highway 52, in the ancient neighborhoods that clung to the riverbank below Alms Park. They usually got the worst of it when the Ohio had its way, defying the most elaborate flood control attempts. You could see the water marks on some of the old houses. Will directed Cheryl Beth to turn again, and he immediately saw the three white police cruisers.

“Hell.” He pointed to the porch of a tattered duplex. Half a strand of Christmas lights dangled off the rain gutters. Darlene Corley was sitting on the steps, her hands behind her, obviously handcuffed. One officer led a tall, rough-hewn man down the walk toward a cruiser. With stubble on his face and his dark hair poking out as if it had been shellacked, he looked as if he hadn’t bathed for a week. He was handcuffed and cursing, walking down a weedy path and through an opening in a rusty, waist-high cyclone fence. The officer opened a back door and stuffed him inside, holding his hand above his filthy head to keep him from banging it on the top of the door sill. Will had done it thousands of times. He rolled down the window and beckoned the cop over.

“Hey,” the young cop said when he saw Will’s badge.

“Hey. What have you got?”

“Domestic. Briar thing. Boyfriend’s going to jail for assault. The beauty queen up on the porch may be, too. When we got here she was waving an aluminum baseball bat at him and she hasn’t been too cooperative.”

“It’s always on the domestics when cops get hurt,” Will commiserated. “Her name’s Darlene Corley. She had a prostitution arrest a few years ago, but I think she’s clean otherwise. She’s one of my CIs.”

The uniformed cop nodded, new enough on the job to be happy to be spoken to like a peer by an older detective, to know about one of his confidential informants.

“Think you could bring her over here and cut her a break if she helps me? Otherwise, throw her under the jail. Hell if I care.”

“Sure, sure, Detective…?”

“Borders, Will Borders.”

The young man turned and walked back to the porch. Will was relieved that he didn’t make the connection a more experienced cop might make between “Will Borders” and “Internal Investigations” and get all paranoid. He stood Darlene up and walked her their way. She hadn’t changed much. She wore jeans, high heels, and a thick pink sweater with a bear stitched on it. But little about her appeared cuddly. She was both lanky and big boned-Dodds had called her “the roller derby queen”-and her face was cut hard, whatever her expression. Her long, unnaturally blond hair was poofed out.

“Hey, Detective Will. Long time, long time…”

“What’d you do, Darlene?”

“Damn Mike.” She gingerly touched the gulf of purple and black spreading out from around her left eye. “He’s my boyfriend. Long story. He’s been drinkin’ and every time he does he thinks he can beat on me, and he’s got another goddamn think coming…”

Will held up his hand.

“The officer tells me you’re going to jail.”

“No!” She whipped her head back and forth. “I ain’t done nothin’.” She wailed. Oh, he didn’t miss this part of the job.

“Here’s the thing, Darlene. You might be able to help yourself.”

Her drama ended instantly, her eyes intent on the potential transaction.

“I need information. You have it. If you help me, I might ask the officer to let you go, although the call is his.” Will looked toward the young patrolman, who nodded appreciatively.

“Anything, Detective Will. Who’s your partner with the pretty eyes? What happened to that fat nigger you used to run with?”

Will showed nothing on his face. They were words heard from whites more often in Cincinnati than the chamber of commerce types would admit. He had never used them, even though his father had, abundantly. His mother had disapproved. He waited for Darlene to realize her predicament. She was still handcuffed.