C. Lawrence - Silent victim

Her face couldn't really be described as pretty. Everything was too big, too prominent: her mouth, her nose, her strong chin. And her eyes were rather small, light colored and deep set, so that they looked even smaller. Still, in the split second that Lee took in all these details, he also registered the fact that he couldn't think of a single man he had ever known who would kick her out of bed. The part of him that was pure animal instinct, the part that wasn't madly in love with Kathy, reacted to her as any other red-blooded heterosexual man would: he immediately imagined her naked, available, and interested.

And in that moment he also knew something else about her: she was dangerous. He wasn't sure who she was dangerous to-maybe herself, maybe the men she came in contact with, maybe other women-but there was no doubt she was dangerous.

In the moment or two it took for all of these thoughts to race across the landscape of his brain, Elena Krieger took the three steps required to cover the width of Chuck's small office and extended her hand.

"Hello," she said, with a light dusting of a German accent. "I'm Elena Krieger."

Lee wanted to say Of course you are, but instead he said, "Pleased to meet you," shaking her hand, which was firm, cool and strong, like a solid piece of oak, or cedar.

"And you are the famous Lee Campbell."

Lee laughed and felt his face go red.

"Well, if I'm famous, I'm the last to hear about it."

"Oh, but of course you are-everybody knows about you. What happened to your sister was terrible," she repeated, shaking her head so that her silky bangs swung back and forth like windshield wipers over her wide forehead.

Lee tried to avoid looking at her-frankly, it was distracting. He turned toward the door, which he had deliberately left open.

"Where's Chuck?" he said, pretending to search for him in the hall outside.

"He'll be back in a minute," she said. "That must have been so hard going through what you went through, the nervous breakdown and all. Are you sure you're well enough to work now?"

Stunned by this remark, he turned to look at her. His sister Laura's disappearance five years ago was the reason he turned from private practice as a psychologist to become a criminal profiler. And his recent nervous breakdown, though not a secret, was a private matter. It wasn't the kind of thing he talked about; clearly Elena Krieger had done some homework.

Her words were loaded with subtext-he just wasn't sure what it was. She certainly wasn't expressing concern for him. She didn't even know him, and from what he had heard about her, Elena Krieger cared about one thing: Elena Krieger. So there was definitely something else going on-was it a flirtation? Or perhaps she was trying to win him over with this appearance of sympathy, to get him on her side against Chuck. Or perhaps it was something even more subtle and sinister. Maybe she was trying to take him back to those awful days, to force him to relive them, thereby shaking his confidence.

He was pretty sure word had gotten around about his struggle with depression-which was definitely regarded as a weakness in the macho world of the NYPD. Any kind of mental health problem carried more of a stigma than say, having cancer, or any other physical illness. Most cops belittled psychiatry of any kind, so Lee's position as the force's only criminal profiler was tenuous to begin with. His own personal struggle with depression made it even more so.

He looked Elena Krieger up and down before answering. He wanted her to know that he was in control of the situation, not her.

"I'm fine now," he said calmly. "But thanks for asking."

Her plucked eyebrows arched upward as if she did not believe him, but at that moment Chuck Morton entered the room. He looked back and forth between Lee and Elena, then stated the obvious.

"I see you two have met."

"Ya-a-h," Elena Krieger replied, stretching the word out sensuously, like a cat sunning itself. But she was more lupine than feline, Lee thought-like a big redheaded wolf.

"Good," Chuck said briskly. "Let's get started, then."

Lee was startled. He'd had no idea that Elena Krieger was part of this investigation. He couldn't say that in front of her, so he just said, "Isn't Detective Butts the primary-"

Chuck cut him off. "Yes, he is, but Detective Krieger has recently been assigned to this station house, so she'll be working the case, too. Her specialty is forensic linguistics."

Lee thought two detectives was already one too many, but he said nothing. He could see from Chuck's discomfort that his friend didn't want her here any more than he did. It was clear she was here because of some bureaucratic game of musical chairs that neither of them had any control over.

"Where is Detective Butts, by the way?" Krieger asked. "Shouldn't he be here?"

"He should, and he is," said a voice behind them, and they all turned to see Detective Leonard Butts standing in the doorway, holding a cup of coffee and a bag of Krispy Kreme doughnuts.

"Glad you could make it after all," Chuck said. "Have a seat."

"Yeah," Butts said. "I told the wife that she'd just have to go to her uncle's funeral without me, and that I'd catch up with her at the reception. She didn't like it, but what can you do? Work is work. If you ask me, Monday morning's an odd time for a funeral anyways." He slurped happily at his coffee, took a big bite of a cream-filled doughnut, and leaned back in the chair with a satisfied sigh. "Man, these things are good."

"Have you met Detective Butts?" Chuck asked.

"I don't believe I've had the pleasure," Krieger replied. Lee couldn't tell whether she was being sarcastic or not.

"This is Detective Elena Krieger," Chuck said to Butts.

"Elena Krieger?" Butts said. "The Elena Krieger?"

She flushed from the base of her elegant neck to her cheeks, though Lee wasn't sure if it was from embarrassment or anger.

"Well, if there are others with my name in the police farce, I am unaware of it." Her mispronunciation of "force" took Lee by surprise, and he had to stifle an impulse to laugh.

"The pleasure's all mine," Butts said, shaking her hand vigorously before settling down to renew his attack on the bag of doughnuts. He seemed impervious to her charms-he was clearly more interested in the doughnuts. He munched away happily, hardly looking at her as Chuck went over the details of the case.

"Okay," said Chuck, taking out crime-scene photos and handing them around. "Now, the reason that there's some urgency on this is that if these two deaths are connected, then we may have a serial offender on our hands-one that's very difficult to catch. So far we haven't been able to find any links between these two men, other than they're both obviously phony suicides."

"Yeah," Butts agreed. "We talked to the families of both vics, and we get the same thing. No history of depression or mental illness. The floater is Nathan Ziegler, and he just got hired by Roosevelt Hospital as an anesthesiologist. Bathtub guy, Chris Malette, was doing just fine financially-he was divorced but very amicable with his ex."

"No history of mental problems?" Lee asked.

"Negative," Butts answered. "And before you ask, no, his ex does not wear that shade of lipstick," he added, pointing to the writing on the bathroom mirror in several of the photos. "She's been wearing the same lipstick for years, according to her girlfriends and sister-Passion Fruit Panache. Apparently she's a creature of habit. So if she did write that note, she bought or borrowed someone else's lipstick to do it before she killed Baldy here."

Elena Krieger stared at Butts. "I don't think you should speak of the dead so disrespectfully."

Butts stared back at her, then looked up at Chuck. "Is she always like this?"

"I always take our job seriously, if that's what you mean," she said iciliy. Lee noticed her accent thickened when she was upset.