Lisa Gardner - Live to Tell

“What about the rest of the family?”

“I have no memory of them. A shame, too. Parents seem to feel they’ll traumatize their other children by bringing them to an acute-care unit, when really, it’s good for all the children to see one another and reaffirm that each is doing okay.”

D.D.’s eyes narrowed. “And Tika’s family?”

Karen shook her head, bewildered. “Greg?” she asked.

He’d just returned with a tray bearing four cups of water. He handed me one, then Karen, then offered one to Sergeant Warren, who passed.

“Tika?” he repeated. “Little girl, ’bout a year ago? Cutter?”

“That’s the one,” Warren assured him. “I understand you worked with her.”

He nodded. “Cute little thing. Had a wicked sense of humor if you could get her to open up. But yeah, she had some self-esteem issues, depression, anxiety. Maybe even suffered sexual abuse, though she never disclosed.”

“What was her family like?” Sergeant Warren wanted to know.

“Never visited.”

“Never?”

“Never. Tika’s file described the mother as ‘disengaged.’ We never experienced anything different.”

“And our records show them living in Mattapan,” I spoke up, remembering the exchange between Sergeant Warren and the George Clooney detective. “We wouldn’t know they’d moved; our involvement was over and done.”

“Not so hard to look up,” Sergeant Warren said with a shrug.

“But why? We’re caretakers. We don’t hurt children. We help them.”

“Tell that to Lucy.”

“Fuck you!” I exploded.

“Eighteen minutes,” the sergeant shot back. “Gym Coach here just fetched four cups of water in a fraction of that time. Explain eighteen minutes.”

“Easy,” Karen interjected, ever the manager. “Let’s just take a deep breath here.”

“Lucy wouldn’t just wander into a radiology room,” I insisted hotly. “And where would she find the rope?”

“Like you said, someone must have helped her.”

“Lucy didn’t trust anyone. Had limited social skills, limited speech skills. Hell, we don’t even know that she had the dexterity required to tie knots. Whatever happened, it was done to her, not by her.”

“By someone she trusted,” the sergeant reiterated, staring at me, then the little string ball I held in my left hand.

“I wasn’t gone that long!”

“Maybe hanging a troubled kid is quick work.”

“Sergeant!” Karen protested.

As I heard myself say: “Dammit, I loved Lucy.”

“She attacked you.”

“It was nothing personal-”

“Looks like she tried to wring your neck.”

“It’s part of the job!”

“Does the rest of the staff have any bruises?”

“You don’t know what it’s like here. We’re the last line of defense these kids have. If we can’t help them, nobody can.”

“Really?” The sergeant’s voice turned thoughtful. “I remember now. In your own words, not much hope for a child like Lucy. Missed too many development stages. Doomed to be institutionalized the rest of her life. Some might say she was better off dead.”

Karen gasped.

I heard myself scream: “Shut up. Just shut the fuck up!”

Lucy, dancing in the moonlight. Lucy, swinging from the ceiling.

My mother with the single hole in the middle of her forehead.

“I’ll take care of this, Danny. Go to bed. I’ll take care of everything.”

“Oh Danny girl. My pretty, pretty Danny girl…”

My knees gave way. The rage wasn’t enough to stave off the pain after all. Lucy, who never got a chance. My mother, who I loved so much and who still didn’t save me. Natalie and Johnny, stuck forever as stone angels.

Blood and cordite. Singing and screaming. Love and hate.

Vaguely, I was aware of Karen bending over me, ordering me to place my head between my knees. Then Karen’s voice louder, directed at the sergeant.

“You shouldn’t be pressuring her like this. Not so close to the anniversary of what happened to her family.”

“Her family?”

Greg’s voice, angry, protective. “Are you arresting her?”

“Do you think I should?”

“You need to leave now,” Karen was saying. “You’ve done enough damage for one night.”

“Two families connected to this unit are dead and one of your patients was just found hanging from the ceiling. Frankly, I think the damage is just beginning.”

“We’ll take care of it,” Greg snapped.

Greg and Karen closed in around me, a protective shield. My second family, the unit I’d probably fail just as badly as the first. I squeezed my eyes shut, wished it would all go away.

As if reading my mind, the sergeant announced crisply, “This time tomorrow, I’ll know everything there is to know about every single one of you. So you might as well get used to my charm, people. From here on out, you belong to me.”

Despite D.D.’s big words, she and her team departed shortly after five a.m. The four of them had been up for thirty-six hours. Given the location of the crime scene and the sheer number of people to now question, they faced a grueling stretch of days. Might as well grab four or five hours of sleep before returning to the trenches.

As the crime-scene guru, Alex had spent the evening working in radiology. Unfortunately, the room had yielded scant physical evidence-no blood, no signs of struggle, no unexplained scuffs, dents, debris. They had the hangman’s knot from the rope, and that was about it.

Neil, who’d taken a break from flirting with the ME in order to interview every janitor in the joint, reported similar results. Yes, a janitor had caught sight of a small figure in green surgical scrubs rounding a corner. Yes, the janitor happened to notice she was trailing a rope behind her. Yes, he happened to think that was odd. No, he didn’t pursue the matter; he had other work to do.

Cameras would’ve been great, except, as Phil learned from security, the hospital used them mostly for the main-level entrances and exits, plus maternity. Radiology didn’t make the cut.

Which left them with a crime scene that, four hours later, might or might not be a crime scene.

D.D. arranged for a fresh homicide squad to take over canvassing for witnesses. She also got the hospital to agree to a twenty-four-hour security guard for the psych ward. Then she made it down to the hospital lobby before her shoulders sagged and her steps faltered from fatigue.

She took a minute in the parking lot stairwell, pinching the bridge of her nose and waiting for the worst of it to pass. She didn’t care what anyone said-the death of a kid never got any easier, and the second it did, she was quitting her job. Apparently, she didn’t have to retire just yet.

The night had sucked. She wanted to go home, take a long hot shower, then pass out on top of her bed.

Instead, her pager went off. She checked the number. Couldn’t place it. Then, given the early-morning hour and sheer curiosity, she entered the number on her cell phone and pressed Send.

“I’m worried about you.” A man’s voice immediately filled her ear.

“Who is this?”

“Andrew Lightfoot.”

“How’d you get this number?”

“You gave it to me, on your card.”

D.D. paused, searched her mental banks, and remembered that at the end of the interview, she’d handed Andrew Lightfoot her business card. Routine protocol-she’d already forgotten all about it.

“Little early to be calling, don’t you think?” She leaned against the stairwell wall, giving the conversation her full attention.

“I knew you were up. I dreamed of you.”

Lotta things D.D. could say to that. Given her shitty night, and her instinctive distrust of anyone who called himself a spiritual guru, she didn’t. “Why’re you calling, Lightfoot?”