Jonathan Kellerman - Billy Straight

“Okay,” said Petra. “But I’ll have to write this up for my boss, and you can bet the first thing Boehlinger’s going to do when he gets back is contact the media. He’s already played that game.”

Forbes cursed under his breath.

Beckel said, “Let’s call it in, Chick.”

“Yeah,” said Forbes. “I’m calling my boss.”

When Petra returned to the car, Dr. Boehlinger was sitting in the backseat with Ron, talking animatedly. Dry-eyed, still tense, but conversing at normal volume. Ron listened intensely, nodding. Boehlinger smiled. Ron smiled back, said, “Interesting.”

“Extremely interesting,” said Boehlinger.

Petra got in the driver’s seat.

“So?” said Boehlinger.

“I told them I thought they should take you seriously, Doctor. They’re notifying their superiors.”

“In their case,” said Boehlinger, “that encompasses most of the world.”

Petra couldn’t help herself; she laughed.

Ron said, “Doctor?” in a prompting tone.

Boehlinger cleared his throat. “I apologize for everything I said before, Detective Connor.”

“Not necessary, Doctor.”

“Yes it is. I’ve been a rude lout… but you have no idea what it’s like to lose everything.”

“True,” said Petra. Suddenly she pictured Kathy Bishop under the knife. It was almost noon-Kathy was probably out of surgery, chest stitched. How much had been taken from her? Petra resolved to call the hospital soon.

“So tell me, Doctor,” said Ron. “Those autopsies you mentioned, were they part of your duties as ER chief, or special consultations?”

“That was years ago, Ron,” said Boehlinger wistfully. Ron? “Back when I was chief resident. I actually deliberated going into pathology, spent some time with the St. Louis coroner’s. Back in those days, the place was a regular-”

New man. Dr. Banks, master psychologist.

Shuffling sounds drew Petra’s eyes to the side window. Forbes’s big feet scraping asphalt. “Okay,” he said, looking at Petra, avoiding Boehlinger. “The boss is coming. Then we’ll have a look at this so-called grave.”

Captain Sepulveda was a blocky, silver-haired man around forty-five, with brown-suede skin and an impeccable uniform. He arrived in an unmarked with a third deputy, went onto Ramsey’s property alone, and emerged moments later, ordering all three officers inside.

Petra and Ron and Boehlinger waited in the car as Boehlinger rambled on about medical school, graduating top of his class, multiple triumphs as an ER doctor.

Twenty minutes later, Sepulveda appeared, dirt streaks on his shirt, rubbing his palms together. A few athletic steps brought him to Petra’s side. His eyes were slits, so compressed Petra wondered how he could see.

“Looks like we have a body. Female, buried four feet down. Maggots, some deterioration, but plenty of tissue still on it, so it’s been days, not weeks.”

“Maybe two days,” said Petra, thinking: Had the car exchange been just a cover for Balch’s trip? “Older Hispanic female? Approximately five-two, one-forty?”

The razor-cut eyes dipped at the outer corners. “You know her?”

“I believe I do. You might also want to have a look at that black Lexus.”

“Look for what?”

“Blood.”

Sleeping indoors is great. At first I woke up every hour, but then I was okay.

The brown blankets Sam brought me are rough but warm. The sheets and pillows smell of old guy. Before I turned out the lights, I lay there looking up at the shul’s ceiling, the red bulb in the silver holder hanging in front of that ark. Sam never said not to sleep in the shul, but I figured it wouldn’t be respectful, so I set myself on the floor near the back door, next to the bathroom. Every so often I could hear a car drive through the alley, and once I heard someone’s feet shuffling outside, probably someone Dumpster-diving, and it made me lose breath for a few seconds, but I was okay.

I think I fell asleep watching the red bulb. Sam told me it wouldn’t go off, was something called an eternal light to remind the Jews of God. Then he laughed and said, “Wishful thinking, eh, Bill? The bulb dies every couple months, I get up on a ladder, take my life in my hands.”

He tossed me a bagel, left, and locked the door.

It’s 5:49 and I’ve been up ten minutes. I can see the colored glass windows in front of the shul get brighter. I want to go outside and have a look at the ocean, but I don’t have the key to the front door. Shaking out and folding the blankets and sheets, I wash off in what Sam calls the gents’ and finish the rest of last night’s bagel. Then, opening the back door an inch, I look through.

The air’s cool-cold, even-with tons of salt in it. The alley is empty. I step outside, make my way around the side of the shul to the front of the walkway. No one’s out, just gulls and pigeons. The ocean’s dark gray with spots of light in a few places, like orange-pink freckles. The tide’s coming in very softly, then rolling back out like someone tilted the earth, back and forth, this whoosh-whoosh rhythm. I think of something I once saw on TV: panning for gold. God’s tilting the whole planet, looking for something valuable.

I stand there, watching and listening. Then I think of that woman in the park and how she’ll never see the ocean again.

I shut my eyes tight and blow out those thoughts.

Thinking of the ocean, the air, how salty it smells, how I like that smell. How this is the end of the earth, this is as far as you can run. There’s some litter on the walkway-papers and beer bottles and soda cans-but everything still looks beautiful. Quiet and empty and beautiful. Not a single other person.

I will always love being alone.

Now the sky behind me starts to brighten up more and the skin of my arm turns gold and I spot the sun, rising, humongous and egg-yolk yellow. I can’t feel any heat yet, but with a sun that big I know it will be coming.

Now I’m not alone anymore: From the south, maybe a block away, I see a guy coming toward me on roller skates, wearing nothing but a bathing suit, holding his hands out like he’s trying to take off and fly.

The picture is ruined. I go back to the shul.

Sam’s Lincoln is there, parked crazy as usual; and I find him in the shul, looking at a book.

“Good morning,” I say.

He turns around fast, closing the book. He doesn’t look happy. “Where were you?”

“Outside.”

“Outside?”

“To see the ocean.”

“The ocean.” Why is he repeating everything I say? He puts the book down, walks toward me, and for a second I think he’s going to hit me and I’m ready to defend myself, but he goes past me and checks the back door to make sure it’s locked, stands with his back to the door, definitely unhappy.

“Do you want me to leave?” I say. “Did I do something wrong?”

He blows out air and rubs his neck. “We got a problem, Bill.” He takes something out of his pocket. A piece of newspaper. “This is yesterday’s edition,” he says. “Dealing with you kept me busy; I didn’t get to it until this morning.”

He unfolds it and shows it to me. I see the word murder. Then a drawing of a kid.

Me.

I try to read the article, but the words are jumping up and down. So is my stomach. My heart starts pushing against my chest, I feel cold, and my mouth is dry.

I keep struggling to read, but nothing makes sense, it’s like a foreign language. Blinking, I clear my eyes, but the words are still weird and jumping. I grab the paper from him and hold it close, finally start to understand.

The woman who got killed in the park has a name. Lisa. I have to think of her as Lisa now.