Stephen White - Warning Signs

L ucy's place wasn't an option. The media waskeeping too close an eye on it. My house wasn't an option, either. Neither Lucy nor I wanted Lauren, and therefore Cozy, to know what we were up to.

We were loitering outside Starbucks trying on alternatives when Lucy said, "We could go to Sam's house."

I considered it. "We shouldn't involve him, Lucy. His position is awkward enough as it is."

"You're right. Can we go to your office?"

"I guess that's okay. You know where it is?" She nodded. I'd forgotten that she'd responded to an emergency there with Sam years before. "There's a back door that opens onto the yard. Why don't you come in that way?"

She shifted her blond hair from her face, held it back with one hand, and smiled at me. "How about… I'll park my car around the corner and then I'll come in through the yard, and then come in the back door." She laughed. "That's always kept me out of trouble in the past."

I was impressed by her ability to find irony in her situation.

Lucy and I would be alone at my office. Diane Estevez, my friend and partner, was as likely to be working on Saturday as Boulder was to establish a sister-city relationship with Colorado Springs.

I drove the half-dozen blocks to Walnut Street and parked in back as I always did. I let myself in the French door that opened onto the yard, quieted the alarm system, and waited for Lucy to arrive.

She tapped on one of the glass panels a few minutes later.

"Nice," she said, looking at my office as though she were seeing it for the first time.

"Have a seat, Lucy. I can heat some water for tea, if you'd like. No chai here, I'm afraid."

"No, thank you, I've had enough." She touched the chair. "Is this where your patients sit?"

"There or on the couch."

Lucy was wearing a suede jacket. She took a moment to remove it and lay it on the sofa. Beneath it she was wearing a blue pinstripe shirt that was open halfway to her navel. Beneath that was a thin cotton something.

"Where do we start?" she asked.

"I don't know. I should tell you I'm not comfortable with the position I'm in right now, Lucy."

"I can appreciate that, Alan. I'm not totally comfortable with the position I'm in right now, either."

"Some people-maybe most people-would argue that what I'm about to do is highly unethical."

She sat erect, her hands on her knees. The tendons in her neck had stark definition. For the first time that morning, I got the impression that I was talking with a cop. She said, "Something I've learned working with Sam for so many years is that ethical codes should be written in pencil. Frequently they need revising. When people find new ways to be crooked, that's when it's time to rewrite the rulebook."

The thought sounded like Sam's. The translation was definitely Lucy's. "Maybe that's true, but I've never considered it my job to be the one to do those revisions. I've always been most comfortable with the guidelines that I could read in a book that's already been written."

"But somebody has to rewrite the book. I suspect that none of the authors ever really volunteered. In situations like the one you and I are in, fate determines the authors. Given the predicament, I think you'd have to agree that I'm the lesser of two evils. I'm going to be more discreet with whatever information you give me than the police would be if you called them."

"Lucy, you are the police."

"You know what I mean."

"I've considered going to the police, you know," I said. "Just telling them what I suspect. But realistically, what could they do? Sam might humor me. Maybe he'd go talk to some people. But the people would deny any involvement and say I'm absolutely crazy. I know they would. Nothing would be gained and my professional life would be over for violating confidentiality. That's the only thing that's for sure."

"There are worse things than your professional life being over. Trust me, I know."

I was trying hard not to view Lucy as a cop who was pressuring me to reveal privileged information. "I know that, Lucy. On Friday, I rationalized telling Sam to go look for a bomb at Royal's house. It was highly unlikely that anyone could ever trace that information back to one of my patients. But no matter what I do, I can't think of a way to rationalize what I'm about to tell you."

"Other than that it's the right thing to do?"

"Yeah, other than that." I sighed and said, "There's a guy named Ramp. He lives in Denver. I think he's the key to all of this."

"Ramp? R-a-m-p? Is that what you said?"

"I think that's the spelling. But I don't really know. My experience is that my patients tend to get suspicious when I press them about spelling."

Lucy flashed a grin. "Is that a first name or a last name?"

"Don't know that either."

"What do you know about him?"

"Not much. He's around twenty-one or so, give or take a few years. Like I said, he lives in Denver-city or metro, I don't know-and he's active on the Internet. He's angry at the criminal justice system because his mother was murdered by somebody who was on probation after an earlier homicide conviction. He apparently talks openly about seeking revenge. He likes explosives. He occasionally hangs out with a high school kid here in Boulder who he met on the Net. The local kid's in a similar situation: feels screwed by the criminal justice system and has all kinds of fantasies about getting even."

"Name of the local kid?"

I hesitated. There was no way around it; I was about to reveal the name of someone I had learned about in psychotherapy, someone whom, maybe, Lucy could track down by checking names in the phone book. "His name is Paul Bigg. He's the one who has the direct beef with Royal Peterson."

Lucy seemed to hesitate a second or two before she asked, "And what do you know about him?"

"He's a senior at Fairview. Actually, he works at that Starbucks we were at this morning, but he wasn't there. From a psychological point of view, he meets just about every one of the criteria the FBI has developed to predict violent acting out by adolescents. These two-Ramp and Paul-have apparently developed a hit list of all the people in the justice system that they feel are responsible for what happened to their families.

"They play this mind game, this 'wouldn't-it-be-cool' game." I explained the game to Lucy in more detail, focusing on the way that Ramp and Paul's game had almost predicted the presence of the bomb in the Peterson home. "Obviously, I concluded that Royal Peterson was definitely on the list of people that these two wanted to harm; that's why I told Sam to figure out a way to search his home for explosives. My problem is that I still don't know who else might be on the wouldn't-it-be-cool list." I thought about what I'd just said and concluded, "Unfortunately, that's about all I've learned."

"This Paul Bigg? Is he related to Leo Bigg? That whole mess from a few years ago?"

"Yes. Were you and Sam involved in the original rape investigation? Was it your case?"

Lucy shook her head. "No. But it was one of those cases where the police totally disagreed with the DA's office about the plea. I don't mean we didn't like the plea bargain, I mean we hated it. Everyone who knew anything about the case was convinced that the evidence supported a trial on the charges, or at least a tougher plea bargain. Then when the girl's father ended up doing more time than the rapist… Lord. It sucked, what can I say?"

My heart rate was accelerating and my palms were sweaty. I didn't like saying any of this out loud. I forced myself to go on. "There's something else, Lucy. Lauren was involved with the Marin Bigg prosecution. She was helping Nora with the sex crimes unit back then."

Lucy recognized the implication instantly. "Oh, Alan. Oh dear. You haven't told her, have you?"