William Bernhardt - Primary Justice

Christina brushed her fingers against the side of Ben’s head. “Be careful, Ben. Promise.”

“Oh, yeah? Why?” Christina folded her arms across her chest. “Because you still owe me dinner, and I don’t want you to weasel out of it. Jerk!”

35

BEN KNOCKED SOFTLY ON the door. Then, remembering his role for the evening, he knocked again, with a solid insistent pounding.

The nurse opened the door a few inches. She was exactly as Christina had described her. Formidable, like a slab of granite. Ben felt his confidence dripping away like water from a wrung washrag.

“Yes?” the woman said. Her body language was a neon sign saying DON’T MESS WITH ME.

Ben reached slowly into his inside jacket pocket. Do it fast and smooth, Mike had said, like you do it every day. Don’t let her get a close look. It is a fake, after all. I can’t risk sending you out there with the real McCoy. I might get into trouble.

“Lieutenant Kincaid, Tulsa PD.” Ben flashed his badge with a quick fluid motion, barely giving the woman time to focus on the glinting metal. “Detective. Larceny. I’m investigating a series of robberies in this apartment complex.”

The woman did not open the door. “I haven’t heard about any robberies.”

“Lucky for you,” Ben bluffed. “Don’t you ever read the papers? Talk to your neighbors?”

“No,” she replied.

“May I come in?”

The woman peered at him. Her internal deliberations were almost visible. After a moment, with evident regret, she allowed Ben to pass through.

The apartment was sparingly decorated. The furniture had a higgledy-piggledy quality to it, as if it had been randomly collected from a variety of garage sales with no view toward the whole. A manteled fireplace with no grate, no screen, and no ashes. A round white acrylic dining room table, perfectly clean. Sheets draped across the bay window in place of curtains.

The nurse gestured toward the sofa. As Ben walked in that direction, he glanced down the main hallway jutting off to the left of the fireplace. At the far end of the hallway, in another room, he saw a woman sitting in an upright wicker chair, staring back at him.

She was wearing a long blue overcoat, or perhaps a bathrobe—Ben was too far away to tell for certain. Ben guessed her to be somewhere in her late thirties or early forties. Her legs were crossed at the knee and her arms were drawn tightly across her chest, each hand clinging to the opposite arm. She was barefoot.

Her features seemed pleasant enough from Ben’s distance, but her racial expression was pensive. Her skin seemed untouched by sun—a radiant, glowing ivory. It was a glow Ben thought he had seen before.

“That is Catherine … Catherine Andrews, my patient. This is her apartment. I care for her.”

Ben nodded. The woman down the hallway didn’t seem to acknowledge the introduction. Her eyes were glassy, and her gaze fixed.

As an afterthought, the nurse added, “My name is Harriet Morrison. I’m a nurse.”

Ben continued to look at Catherine. Something seemed wrong. So wrong that this tight-lipped nurse was spontaneously offering helpful information to divert his attention.

The nurse led Ben further into the living room, where his view of Catherine was obstructed.

Ben removed a small notepad from his back pants pocket and began to scribble disinterestedly. “Forgive me for prying,” he said, “but for security reasons, I have no choice. Do I understand that Miss Andrews is here alone at nights?”

“That is … correct,” the nurse said haltingly. “I leave after I see that Miss Andrews is settled for the night.”

“Are you here every day?”

“Yes.” Her left eyebrow rose.

Being too nosy, Ben thought. Slow down and play the game. “Do either of you have any valuable jewelry on the premises?”

The nurse sat down in the love seat facing the sofa. “Miss Andrews has a few pieces. Nothing of great value, I’m sure.”

Ben continued to make notes on his pad. Then, on the pretext of surveying the apartment, he stood up and paced around the living room. “No TV or stereo. Just as well. Burglars love electronic equipment. Easy to take, easy to pawn. Do you have any drugs on the premises?”

The nurse hesitated. “Of course, being a nurse, I have some medications here.”

“What kinds?”

“Nothing of interest to prowlers.”

“You’d be amazed what a dope-starved junkie might be interested in, ma’am. What do you have?”

“Sedatives, tranquilizers, sleeping pills, that sort of thing.” She paused. “Catherine sometimes requires … calming. Nothing illegal, I assure you.”

“I’m sure. Do all the doors here have dead bolts?”

“I’m afraid not. Just ordinary push-button door locks.”

“Unbelievable,” Ben intoned gravely. “I’ll have to make a note. The manager really ought to do something about that. A burglar could be in here and out again with all your valuables in sixty seconds. Piece of cake.”

The nurse shrugged. “There’s not much to take, really.”

Ben continued to pace around the apartment until he had positioned himself in front of the hallway. He raised his voice. “I wonder if I could ask you a few questions, Miss … Andrews, is it?”

The nurse stood immediately. “Could I speak to you privately, Lieutenant?”

Ben strode over to the nurse.

“Lieutenant, Miss Andrews is … not well. Not physically or mentally. I’m sure you’ve surmised the reason she requires the constant care of a nurse. She is not … lucid. She is in a continual depressive state, paranoid, probably schizophrenic. It would be difficult to have a conversation with her and impossible to learn anything. And it could cause considerable trauma to her, you not being a trained professional.”

Ben looked back at the woman in the wicker chair. Asleep with her eyes open, as far as he could tell.

“I understand. I probably have everything I need. But do call the police station if you see anyone or anything suspicious, will you? Ask for Lieutenant Kincaid.”

The nurse nodded her head, not smiling. “I will. What’s that number?”

There was a pause. Ben stuttered. “It’s … it’s in the book. Or dial 911.”

The nurse stared intently at Ben. “You’re very young to be a police lieutenant, aren’t you?”

“I went into the force as soon as I got out of the army,” he said, thinking off the top of his head. “I’ve done my time.”

“I see,” the woman said, without breaking eye contact. “What was your badge number again? In case I should want to contact you.”

“Not necessary,” Ben said, steadily edging toward the door. “Just ask for me by name. Thank you for your time, ma’am.”

36

THERE WAS NO MOON. Ben would have wished for a moon—not a full moon, just enough to see and breathe and feel like the night wasn’t swallowing him whole. Times like this, Ben almost wished he was a smoker. Not for the flavor—just so he would have something to do while waiting. Besides waiting. And waiting.

It began to rain. Not a lot, just a fine mist. He rolled the car windows up, but left a small crack in the window closest to him so he could hear. The windows began to fog, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. He couldn’t turn on the engine to power the windshield wipers or defogger without drawing attention to his parked car. Ben pulled his shirt-sleeve over his hand and wiped clear a circle on the side window. He had to be able to see.

How did that line go? Like sands through the hourglass, these are the days of our lives. No kidding, Ben thought. Seven o’clock passed, then eight. Ticktock, ticktock. A mixture of recollection, analysis, and daydreaming trickled through Ben’s head. Maybe the nurse lied. Maybe she stays there all day and all night. Maybe it’s a trap. Maybe she’s the killer. Ticktock, ticktock. Nine o’clock.