Austin Camacho - Collateral damage

“I know Oscar, er, experimented,” Dean said with a grin, “but he and I were never more than friends. We got to talking one day and it turned out we had some background in common. And he told me once that he had something on Joan, some kind of information that might tie in to something bad in her past.”

Hannibal almost lunged toward Dean, pushed by the force of a revelation. “Of course! That’s why you felt guilty about Oscar. You thought he was killed because of something you told him, maybe just confirming Joan’s connection to your father’s murder.”

“Yes,” Dean said, hanging his head again, “So you see, I killed him too.”

“Well I don’t think so,” Hannibal said, laying a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “It looks like Oscar was a blackmailer maybe, so lots of people might have had a reason for going after him. Personally, I think your boss Joan is the lead suspect. I’m thinking she did the deed and left. Your mother comes in, sees her husband dead and picks up the knife just like people always do in the movies.”

“I’m sorry,” Quincy said from the other side of the bed. “Believe me, Joan was just not capable of that sort of a crime.”

The whole room seemed to hold its breath as a single thought jumped from Hannibal’s mind to everyone else’s like a psychic signal. Finally, when it became too uncomfortable to hold his breath any longer, Hannibal looked up at the older psychiatrist, forcing calm into his voice.

“And just exactly how would you know that, Doctor?”

Under the stars Quincy Roberts’ white shirt glowed, making him look like some puffy, gray-bearded angel recently descended from the dark clear sky to a muddled ball of confusion. Cindy and Hannibal faced him as if awaiting the answers to all questions. Hannibal’s stomach rumbled, reminding him how the day had gotten away from him. Maybe he should have stopped for a bite, but he was hungry for something else even more than food. He hungered for the truth.

“So she was a nut case way back then,” Hannibal said, foregoing all delicacy.

Quincy bristled. “Joan Kitteridge was my patient, yes, but she was never violent. In fact, I’d go on record as saying she was incapable of violence. She had serious ego strength issues. I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

“Us now or the police later,” Cindy said. “They’d just subpoena your patient records. It IS a murder investigation.”

“It was so long ago it probably doesn’t matter now,” Quincy said. He drew in a deep breath but puffed it out as if a great weight had slammed into his chest. “The poor girl was so badly dominated by that man she could hardly breath without his approval. How she survived to be a success in the business world…”

“By that man,” Hannibal prodded, “you mean her husband?”

“Well of course,” Quincy said. “So young to be married, too. If I could have gotten him to come in to therapy I might have helped her more, but I never even saw the man.”

By the time Hannibal got home, he was both ravenous and irritated. At these times he appreciated Cindy’s perceptiveness. She knew the wise thing to do was to keep her distance until he was fed and calmer. It was a good time to be alone, just the two of them, at least until he could regain his perspective. He knew that was why her mouth dropped open in fear and her eyes darted back at him when they found Janet Ingersoll slumped into his doorway. Hannibal stared at her for a moment, as if he spotted a booby trap set between himself and his long delayed dinner.

“What are you doing here?” he asked between tightened lips.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” Janet said. Hannibal was about to tell her, but Cindy spoke first.

“We’re about to have a late supper. Some sandwiches and maybe some soup. Why don’t you come inside and join us?”

The trio entered Hannibal’s railroad apartment and he led them down its length toward the kitchen. At his bedroom, he stopped to lose his suit coat, tie and shoulder holster. In the kitchen, he dropped into a chair and began rolling up his sleeves. Janet sat opposite him but Cindy went straight for the coffeepot. Hannibal’s shoulders lowered a bit at the sound of grinding beans. He smiled when she handed him a steaming mug, the first sign that he might soon return to normal. But knowing the job was only half done, Cindy loaded bread, mayonnaise and lettuce onto the table, then pulled out the half ham she knew was in the refrigerator.

After taking a long slow sip of coffee, Hannibal turned his attention to Janet for the first time. Her short-cropped hair was recently dyed a slightly darker blonde than before, a color that always looked dirty to him.

“What brought you here?”

“He’s been following me,” Janet said, her body vibrating the way a Chihuahua’s does. “Day and night, just won’t leave me alone. I need some peace. I knew Nicky would be safe at Monty’s so I left him there and took off. Ended up here.”

“Well you’ll be safe here,” Cindy said, carving thin slices off the ham with a butcher knife, “but you can’t keep running forever. You need to get a restraining order against that big lug.”

Hannibal spread just the right amount of stone-ground mustard on a slice of dark rye bread, positioned two slices of the honey baked ham on it, covered them with a slice of extra sharp cheddar cheese and covered it all with a second slice of bread. His mouth began to water in anticipation as his nose reacted to the sharp scent of the mustard mingled with the sweet aroma of the ham. This was going to be good.

“That’s a legal issue,” he said, not looking up from his sandwich, “which we can deal with tomorrow.” Then he wrapped his mouth around a big bite of the sandwich. His eyes half closed as he chewed. Cindy smiled.

“He’ll be okay now,” she said. “And I’m betting he’ll be fine with you staying over in his office tonight if it will make you feel better.”

“Yes,” Janet said. “That would be nice. Sometimes I just get so scared. I guess it’s the memories. It’s like I carry in my head every time he’s hit me with those big ugly hands of his.”

Janet jumped like a bee-stung child at the thump on the door. Two more heavy blows followed. Hannibal muttered an obscenity under his breath, put down his sandwich and stood. The pounding was coming from his front door. After one more sip of coffee he walked back through his apartment to open it. He knew who he would find on his doorstep, he just didn’t have the patience for it right now.

Standing just inside the door, Hannibal said, “It’s late. What do you want?”

“I can’t find Janet,” Isaac Ingersoll said from the other side of the door.

Hannibal unlocked the door and opened it as far as its safety chain would allow, to stare up into Isaac’s watery blue eyes.

“I am not the missing person’s bureau. Besides, if you can’t find her it probably means she doesn’t want to be found. I don’t think she wants to see you.”

“I don’t care,” Isaac said, and the beer cloud drifted down into Hannibal’s face. “I need her.”

“You see, that’s your problem,” Hannibal said. “You don’t care what she wants, but you know, she has the right to do whatever she wants. Now, I think it’s time you went home and got some sleep, don’t you?”

Hannibal thought he had the situation under control and his mind wandered for just a second to honey-baked ham and coffee. That’s when Isaac’s eyes left Hannibal’s and turned to the darkness behind him and to his left. Hannibal turned his head in time to catch a quick glimpse of Janet’s terror-stricken face before she darted back into the darkness.

Before he could turn his head back, the edge of the door slammed into his face. Pain lanced out from his temple to fill his head as he staggered back. Darkness flowed in around him, but a missile shot through that darkness to smash into his chest hard enough to drive all breath from his body. Even as he dropped to his knees, Hannibal knew that missile was Isaac’s fist. He felt more than heard heavy footfalls moving away toward the kitchen.