C. Lawrence - Silent victim

"All right, knock it off, both of you!" Chuck said, running a hand through his blond crew cut.

"I beg your pardon," Butts said. "I mean Mr. Malette. The point is that his ex isn't a likely suspect. And we haven't found anyone who disliked the guy-at least enough to kill him."

Morton plucked another of the photos from the pile on his desk. "The writing in the suicide note found on the floa-Dr. Ziegler-is being analyzed by a handwriting expert, but there's no question it does not belong to him."

"That's an odd suicide note, in any case," Lee remarked.

Elena Krieger picked up the photo of the note and studied it. "I'm sorry-I was wrong. I don't deserve to live," she read slowly. "It sounds more like a confession of guilt than a suicide note."

"Yeah," Chuck agreed, "but guilt about what?" "If we can figure that out, we'll have a big piece of the puzzle," Butts remarked.

"Also, it's not addressed to anyone in particular, which is odd. Most suicides who write notes address them to specific people in their lives," Krieger pointed out.

"Right," said Chuck. "And look at how carefully the note was wrapped in a Ziploc bag so the water wouldn't spoil it. Someone really wanted us to find it."

"You going to release it to the media?" Lee asked.

Chuck cocked his head to one side. "What do you think?"

"I wouldn't. It's not elaborate or long enough to give you a personality profile."

"That's what I was thinking," Chuck agreed. "I don't see someone seeing the note in the paper and calling us to say it reminds him of his brother."

"Yeah, right," Butts said. "This ain't no Unabomber."

He was referring to the capture of Ted Kaczynski, the infamous Unabomber. He was finally brought to justice when David Kaczynski recognized the ranting political polemic published by the New York Times and Washington Post as sounding very much like his brother Ted.

"No useable prints, I guess?" said Lee.

Butts shook his head. "The guy must have been wearing gloves."

"Or the woman," Krieger corrected him.

"Whatever," Butts said, rolling his eyes at Lee. "Anyway, we're doing a tox screen on all the vics, just in case."

"You think maybe the UNSUB drugged them first?" Lee asked. UNSUB was shorthand for "Unknown Subject." He didn't particularly like using cop jargon, but it was a way to sidestep the morass of gender issues that Krieger was clearly prickly about.

"Anything's possible-especially if it's a woman," Butts replied. "She'd probably have to drug them to control them, unless she's one strong bi-female," he said, with a nervous glance at Krieger.

If Krieger noticed the slip, she didn't react. "What about the writing on the mirror?" she asked. "Any match to the other note?"

Chuck picked up the crime-scene photo and shook his head. "It's in block letters in lipstick, so our expert says she can't do much with it.

"But look at the wording," Krieger said.

Lee took the photo from Chuck and studied it. "I am very bad. Sorry." He put the photo back down.

"They both say they're sorry," Krieger pointed out. "With most people who kill themselves, that would be an apology for the suicide itself. But this is different: they seem to be apologizing for being bad."

Butts frowned. "So the same UNSUB wrote both notes?"

"It's extremely likely," Krieger replied.

"What do you make of the notes?" Chuck asked Lee.

"Well," he began, but Krieger intrrupted.

"Obviously the victims offended the killer in some way," she said.

"Jawohl," Butts said.

Krieger glared at him, and then at Chuck, but he pretended not to notice.

Lee thought, not for the first time, that this was going to be a challenging investigation.

Lee arrived at his apartment a little after noon to find three messages on his answering machine. Unlike some of his friends, who were discarding their landlines, he kept his. He'd had the same number ever since he moved to the East Village, and he held on to it partly out of sentiment-but also because it was the coveted 212 area code, no longer available to newer residents of Manhattan. He was a little embarrassed that this meant something to him, but it did.

He pressed the button and listened to the first message. It was from Kathy, telling him she missed him. He missed her too, all the more so because he had been so preoccupied all weekend with Ana's plight. He felt he hadn't been truly present with Kathy. He was sure she noticed-but, true to form, she didn't reproach him with it.

He put the kettle on while listening to the second message. Fiona Campbell's voice was clear and cool as ever.

"Lee, it's your mother. Don't forget you're expected for dinner to celebrate Kylie's birthday on the weekend. She's really looking forward to seeing you. See you then-bye."

His niece Kylie would be turning seven in a week. She had lived with her father, George Callahan, ever since Laura's disappearance, but spent weekends with her grandmother. There was the usual subtle playing of the guilt card in his mother's message. If you don't come, you'll disappoint your niece. Not her, Fiona; no, never her. She had renounced her own claim on personal emotions the day his father walked out.

It was also typical of her to remind him of social engagements, as if he were incapable of remembering them himself. His father's desertion left her with the overwhelming opinion that men were erratic, unreliable creatures who could not be counted on. And, of course, his father's abandonment had left its mark on Lee, and was probably the reason for his decision to become a therapist. If he couldn't mend his own family, at least he could help other people come to terms with theirs.

But when his sister disappeared, his need to help people traveled a darker road, driven by his need to know. And if he couldn't know who had killed his sister (unlike his mother, he was certain Laura was dead), then he would help other people find out who had killed their loved ones.

The kettle began its long, slow climb to a piercing whistle, and he ducked into the kitchen just as the third message began to play. He heard it as he was pouring the tea water into the cup, and what he heard stopped him cold, so that the hot water splashed all over the countertop.

The voice was cold, hard, and flat, almost reptilian.

"What about the red dress? You think no one knows anything, but I do. I know about the red dress."

There was a click as the line went dead, then a whirring sound as the answering machine began to automatically rewind. But Lee didn't hear any of that-all he heard, over and over in his head, was that reptilian monotone: "I know about the red dress." His sister Laura had been wearing a red dress the day she disappeared-a detail that had not been released to the press or the public. Stunned, he ignored the spilled water dripping from the counter onto the kitchen floor, and stumbled into the living room to look at the caller ID on his phone. He knew it was useless, but he had to look. To his surprise, there was a number there with a 212 area code-Manhattan! And the first three numbers were 533-which he recognized as an East Village exchange. His hand trembled as he picked up the receiver and dialed the number. It rang four times, then a man answered.

"Hello?" The voice was nothing like the one on his machine. This one had a thick Brooklyn accent, and was an octave lower.

"Hi-excuse me, but can you tell me what number I just dialed?"

"Well, there's no number on it, but you reached a pay phone on Third Avenue and Fifth Street. Who are you lookin' for, buddy?" The man sounded happily inebriated, eager to help.

"I'm sorry-I must have dialed wrong," Lee said, certain that he had dialed correctly.

"Hey, no problem, buddy-take it easy."

Lee hung up and sat down in the overstuffed armchair next to the phone. So the man had called from around the corner-from a pay phone, no less. Who uses pay phones anymore, except to avoid being identified? The questions swirled around his head. Did the caller pick a booth nearby on purpose, or does he live in the neighborhood? Or was it purely coincidence? Or was there an even darker explanation-what if he was stalking Lee, watching him? His number was unlisted-how did the man manage to get it? Would there be any point in dusting for prints? No crime had been committed-would Lee be able to convince anyone that it was even necessary?