Virna DePaul: Shades of Passion

She told herself she wasn’t going to fall for Karen’s obvious ruse.

Less than thirty minutes later, she opened the folder and scanned the papers inside. Each article had a common theme: that someone—suspect, civilian or police officer—had suffered personal injury or death because a confrontation with a mentally ill suspect had escalated when it probably hadn’t needed to. Several articles also included statistics.

That people with severe mental illnesses were killed by police in justifiable homicides at a rate nearly four times greater than the general public.

That ten to fifteen percent of cases where law enforcement officers acted with deadly force could be considered premeditated suicides.

That people with mental illnesses killed law enforcement officers at a rate five point five times greater than the rest of the population.

The facts went on and on.

She’d seen thousands of articles just like these. It’s what had spurred her to seek change in South Carolina—a task made far easier given she’d had her father’s political influence behind her— and the positive effects of that change continued to bear fruit even today. San Francisco, while more liberal than most cities, still had to function with limited funds, which meant reluctance to provide training that appeared extra rather than essential. Police routinely received training on how to handle mentally ill suspects, but it was usually subpar, barely covering the basics. What if Karen was right and Nina could convince San Francisco officials to take them seriously and make positive changes as a result?

She closed her eyes as guilt prodded at her.

It was one thing to make a lifestyle and career choice, but something else entirely to stand by and do nothing when she had the ability to help society as a whole, and one particular community specifically. What harm could it really do to act as Karen’s consultant, and talk to police about starting a Mental Health Intervention Team in San Francisco? If she could help even a handful of police officers truly understand that those experiencing a state of psychosis could be subdued without resorting to violence, didn’t she have an ethical duty to do it? No, she wouldn’t be able to help everyone, but helping even one person...

Someone like her former patient, Beth Davenport...

Or someone like her sister, Rachel...

Pain rippled through her. Oh, God, Rachel. She still missed her every hour of every day.

What would Rachel want her to do?

She withdrew her purse from the drawer of her desk and took out the small cloth rag doll that had been Rachel’s. She knew what carrying it said about her. That it was an unhealthy attachment brought on by lingering guilt.

A crutch.

A way to punish herself.

It didn’t matter. The doll was the last tangible connection she had to her sister. She wasn’t giving it up.

With a sigh, she put the doll back in her purse, stowed the purse in the drawer, picked up her phone and called Karen. “A phone call,” she said when the other woman answered. “Maybe a meeting or two. But that’s all I’m committing to. And you owe me drinks when this is over.”

“I’ll take it. Thank you, Nina. You won’t regret this. Drinks are on me—I promise.”

Nina hung up. But even as she did, she had the unsettling feeling she’d soon be regretting a lot of things.

CHAPTER THREE

LESTER DAVENPORT HAD made many mistakes in his life. He hadn’t taken school seriously. He’d taken alcohol far too seriously. And he’d been a terrible husband. So terrible that his wife had ultimately left him, just as he’d always known she would, then up and died anyway, leaving him to deal with his daughter’s grief as well as his own.

His biggest mistake, however, had been entrusting his daughter—his sweet little Beth—to the care of the Charleston mental health system. He’d known his daughter had deserved better. Not a county hospital, but the best that money could buy. He should have done whatever it took to get her out of there.

Only he hadn’t had that kind of money. And his daughter had suffered because of it.

Now, as Lester imagined that suffering—the kind of pain his daughter must have been feeling to have done what she had—he sobbed so loudly the sound hurt his ears. Hands shaking, he reached for the box of cards he’d bought at the grocery store. He picked one at random—they all sported puppies, so it didn’t matter—and began to write.

Beth had loved puppies.

Beth! his mind cried as he wrote.

His sweet Beth.

After a few days in the hospital, she’d started to get better. He’d seen it in her eyes. The last time he’d visited her, he’d talked about bringing her home. How wonderful it would be—just the two of them together again. This time, he’d promised, he wouldn’t mess up. They were going to have a fresh start.

As he’d talked, Beth hadn’t spoken a word.

She’d seemed to get worse after that.

He’d seen it. Why hadn’t they?

They’d left her alone. His sweet daughter. Even after they’d known what she wanted—to end her pain, to leave this world—they’d left her alone with the means to accomplish her goal.

A damn teddy bear. One that Leo, her hoodlum of a boyfriend, had brought her. Lester had never liked the kid. He’d done his best to keep Beth away from him, but the hospital staff hadn’t been smart enough to do the same thing. They’d taken the teddy bear away from Beth, but they hadn’t thought to check Beth’s mouth. That’s where Beth had hidden the ribbon.

After Beth had died—no, after she’d killed herself with the ribbon that had been tied around the damn teddy bear’s neck—Lester had wanted to kill Leo. He’d thought about it. Planned it. Had been this close to ending Leo’s life.

But then he’d realized the kid couldn’t really be blamed.

No, she was the one to blame.

Beth’s doctor.

Nina Whitaker. The daughter of a wealthy politician who’d played at helping others when she hadn’t known what the hell she was talking about.

She’d said Beth was going to be okay.

That she’d take care of her.

She’d lied.

Then she’d left.

She’d thought she could run and leave her mistakes behind her, right along with Beth’s memory.

But she couldn’t.

She wouldn’t.

Every year, Lester made sure of it.

Every year, he sent her a card.

Every year, he reminded Nina Whitaker that Beth was dead—and that it was her fault.

CHAPTER FOUR

SEVERAL DAYS AFTER BEING told he had an appointment with a shrink, Simon pulled into San Francisco Memorial Hospital’s parking lot. If he drove a little faster and slammed his car door a little harder than normal, so be it. Normally, he was cool as ice, unflappable and disciplined enough to work a case for hours, days, even months—whatever it took to get the job done. But he was here under protest and he was pissed and he didn’t care who knew it.

Damn it, he had interviews in the Cann murder case to conduct. At least, he should be conducting them. Instead, he’d been forced to hand off a few of them to DeMarco just so Simon could spill his guts to some stranger. If his fellow SIG members had thought he was surly before, they’d better watch the hell out. Work was supposed to be his escape, but ever since his conversation with Mac, all he could think about was Lana.

Not good. He needed to burn off some of his anger and frustration before he met with Dr. Kyle Shepard or he might just find himself on a leave of absence from SIG before he was ready for it.

As he made his way to the hospital’s main entrance, the sound of female laughter caught his attention. To his right, two women were getting into a convertible Bug. They smiled flirtatiously when they caught sight of him, but he felt no surge of attraction toward them; that worried him. They were young and pretty and he felt nothing? It was as if Lana’s death had killed his ability to be attracted to another female.