Jeffery Deaver - The Lesson of Her Death

"No?" Dr. Parker asked. "What's the neat part?"

Sarah looked up at the same diplomas the doctor had watched Diane Corde scrutinize so desperately the previous week. The girl turned back, looked into the doctor's eyes and said, "What happens is Freddie hits the baseball into the street and it goes rolling down the sidewalk and into a drugstore. And there's Mr. Pillsit…" Sarah's eyes widened. "And he used to play for the Chicago Eagles. That was a ball team that had real eagles that would swoop down and grab the baseball and sail out over the grandstand and they won every game there was. And Mr. Pillsit says to Freddie -"

Dr. Parker held up her hand. "Sarah, did you read this story someplace?"

She shook her head. "No, I just made it up, like I was supposed to. I thought I was supposed to. I'm sorry…" The eyes lowered theatrically. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No, not at all. Keep going."

"'And Mr. Pillsit,' he says to Freddie, 'If you really want to play baseball, I can make you the best player that ever was, only you have to go find the tallest tree in the eagles' forest and climb up to the top. Are you brave enough to do that?'"

Freddie was of course up to the job, and Sarah enthusiastically continued with his adventures, not noticing the psychiatrist's braceletted hand reach forward and nonchalantly lift her gold pen, recording in rapid, oblique symbols of speed writing Freddie's quest for the magic baseball – fighting Hugo the Claw, the worst eagle that ever was, building a new clubhouse for the team after their original one burned down, running away from home and living in a big nest with a family of beautiful golden eagles. Freddie never returned home though he did become a famous baseball player. By the time Sarah finished, Dr. Parker had filled ten pages of steno paper. "That is a very interesting story, Sarah."

"No," Sarah said, sounding like a TV film reviewer. "But the picture was of Freddie and a baseball so I couldn't think of anything else."

The doctor flipped through her notebook slowly then said, "All right, I've got to look over all the work you've done for me and you've got to go study for your tests."

"I want my daddy to help me."

After a moment the doctor looked up. "I'm sorry, Sarah. What did you say?"

"I want Daddy to help me study. Is that okay?"

"That'll be fine," Resa Parker spoke absently. Her mind was wholly occupied by a boy and a baseball and a talking eagle.

"This is my federal firearm permit and this is my Missouri private investigator's license."

Sheriff Steve Ribbon studied the squares of laminated plastic in the man's wallet. He'd never seen a federal firearm permit. Or a Missouri private eye's license.

He said, "Looks in order."

Charlie Mahoney put the wallet back in his pocket. He wore a businessman's suit – in a fine, faint plaid that looked gray but up close was tiny lines of pink and blue. Ribbon liked that suit a whole lot. Ribbon nodded him toward a chair, observing that the man had two types of self-assurance: the institutional authority of a longtime cop. And the still confidence of a man who has killed another man.

Mahoney tossed an expensive, heavy tan raincoat onto an empty chair and sat down across the desk from Ribbon. He talked without condescension or interest about the beautiful spring weather, about the difficulty of getting to New Lebanon by air, about the ruralness of the town. He then fell silent and looked behind Ribbon, studying a huge topographical map of the county. During this moment Ribbon grew extremely uncomfortable. He said, "Now what exactly can I do for you?"

"I'm here as a consultant."

"Consultant."

"I'm representing the estate of Jennie Gebben. I was a homicide detective in Chicago and I have a lot of investigatory experience. And I'm offering my services to you. Free of charge."

"The thing is -"

"I've apprehended or assisted in the apprehension of more than two hundred homicide suspects."

"Well, what I was going to say was, the thing is, you're a, you know, civilian."

"True," Mahoney conceded. " Ill be frank. I can't tell you how upset Mr. Gebben is that this has happened. This has nothing to do with your ability to collar the perpetrator, Sheriff. Sending me here was just something he felt he had to do. Jennie was his only child."

Ribbon winced and felt genuine sorrow in his heart. "I appreciate what he must be going through. I've got kids myself. But you know how it is, regulations. You must've had those in Chicago."

"Sure, plenty." Mahoney studied the great blossom of Ribbon's face and added some shitkick to his voice as he said, "Can't hurt just to do a little talking. That can't hurt nothing now, can it?"

"No, I suppose not."

"You're in charge of the case?"

"Well, ultimately," Ribbon said. "But we got a senior detective here who's doing most of the legwork. Bill Corde. Good man."

"Bill Corde. Been doing this sort of thing for a few years?"

"Yessir, he has."

"What approach is he taking?"

"Well, he's thinking that it was somebody who knew her. Most likely somebody at the school."

Mahoney was nodding in a way that said to Ribbon he was troubled. "Playing the odds."

"Beg your pardon?"

"He's taking the cautious approach. Statistically most people are killed by somebody -"

"- they know."

"Exactly. But from what I've read about this case it's a little stranger than most. Some twists and turns, you know what I'm saying?"

"I hear you." Ribbon's voice lowered. "I've got a load of trouble with what's happening here. There are some, you know, cult overtones to the whole thing."

"Cult." Mahoney was nodding again, this time agreeably. "Like she was a sacrifice victim or whatever. Right. Those goats and that blood. The moon and everything. Whoever picked up on that idea was doing some good law enforcement work."

Ribbon's caution was on the ebb but he said, "I still have some trouble with you getting involved, Mr. Mahoney. I -"

"Charlie," Mahoney chided. "Charlie." He lifted his thick hands, with their yellow-stained index fingers, heavenward. "At least do yourself a favor and let me tell you about the reward."

"Reward."

"Mr. Gebben is a very wealthy man. He's offering twenty-five thousand dollars for apprehension of the killer."

Ribbon chewed on his cheek to keep the rampaging grin at bay. "Well, my, that's generous… Of course you can imagine that rewards like that generate a mess of bounty hunting. We got a lot of people in this county own guns and can carry them legally."

Mahoney frowned as he corrected himself. "Should've said: the reward is for professionals only. For law enforcers. That way there's no risk of people who don't know what they're doing getting hurt."

"Mr. Mahoney."

"I'm a cop, you're a cop…"

" Charlie. Charlie, it might not look good for… Well, politically is what I'm saying, to have an outsider here. It might look like we don't know what we're doing."

"It might also look like you thought so highly of the community that you had the foresight to call in some special help." Mahoney took a leisurely moment to study his watch. "Well. There you have it. Now, you can kick my ass out of here tomorrow if you want. But I'm stuck in town for the night at least and don't know a soul. How 'bout you and me get a drink and trade war stories. There's not much else to do in this town, is there?"

Ribbon almost made a comment about one pastime being raping co-eds by moonlight but caught himself. "Well, there are," he said, "but 'cept for fishing none of 'em's as fun as drinking."

She lifted the card off her desk with a trembling hand and stared at it, the little white rectangle. It was stiff and the corners were very sharp. One pressed painfully into her nail-chewed thumb, which left a bloody smear on the card. Emily Rossiter started to sit on the bed but then thought that they might have sat here. They'd probably looked between the mattress and the springs. They'd felt the pillow. They'd run their hands along the same sheets where she and her lover had lain. She dropped the card and saw, as it flipped over and over, the words Please call me… Det. William Corde flash on and off then disappear as the card landed in the wastebasket. She wondered if even the trash had been violated. Emily walked into the hall then into the telephone alcove.