Неизвестный - 3. In Pursuit Of Justice

“Yes. Of course.” Catherine had known that her involvement in the serial murderer/rape case might come up with any of her patients. Unfortunately, it had been heavily publicized, and the dramatic ending had also been covered by the news and print media. Despite her attempts to downplay her involvement, her photograph had been displayed on television and in local newspapers and magazines. Nevertheless, anticipating that it would come up in session and actually having it presented to her were two different things. Still careful to keep her expression neutral, she continued, “I’m glad this new assignment hasn’t turned out to be a punishment.”

“Are you kidding? As soon as I get a better idea of how she’s going to run the street end of things, I’m hoping I can make myself useful. I’ve been working the Tenderloin for more than half a year. It could be I know some people who might give us some leads. But no matter how it turns out, any uniformed officer would pay money to work with her.”

I don’t doubt it. Except this is supposed to be desk duty for her. But I can’t very well bring that up, can I? Mentally turning that thought aside, the psychiatrist concentrated on her new patient. Mitchell’s entire demeanor had changed from one of quiet resignation to enthusiasm. It was clear how important her work was to her emotional state. And it was time to get back to that. “Our last session ended before you were able to tell me what happened in the alley that night. We need to go through it, and talk about what happened after, before I can sign off on my evaluation.”

“I know.” Mitchell’s expression became serious as she met Catherine’s eyes. She was ready to get it over with. Perfunctorily, she stated flatly, “There isn’t very much more to tell. I went down the alley—”

“Wait,” Catherine interrupted softly. She didn’t want a recitation; she wanted the remembrances. “It was dark, and you were alone, and your backup hadn’t arrived. There were sounds of a struggle, and you went to investigate, correct?”

Mitchell’s eyes darkened as Catherine’s quiet voice brought her back to the moment that was still as clear in her memory as the instant it had happened.

“I had my weapon out and my heart was beating so fast it was like a drum beating in my ears. I pressed my back flat against the brick wall and I could feel the uneven surface of the stones catching on the back of my shirt as I eased my way down the alley. I didn’t want him to know I was coming until I was close enough to subdue him, because I didn’t know if he had a weapon. It’s impossible to subdue a suspect hand to hand if you’re not within arm’s reach. If he has a gun and you can’t physically reach him, you’re dead. It was hard not to stumble over bits of trash and broken glass and rocks. I was certain I was announcing my presence with every step I took. The gun barrel was angled up—I was holding it beside my face in a two-handed grip, and I was looking past it towards the shapes that were just shadows moving in the little bit of light that filtered down from the windows high up above me. As I got closer I could hear him grunting, and she was…” Mitchell swallowed, trying not to remember the sound of a skull being slammed hard against a stone wall and the soft moan of pain.

“She had been screaming before, shouting, I think, for him to stop. Now she was…whimpering. I was afraid he was going to kill her.”

Without realizing it, she had clutched the arms of the chair, her hands white-knuckled with the force of her grip. “I could see them more clearly now. He was big—linebacker kind of big. He had one hand around her throat and the other under her skirt. Her thighs were bare, pale, ghostly in the moonlight. I saw her face for the first time then. There was blood on her face…”

From across the desk, Catherine could see the sweat bead on the young woman’s forehead and knew that although her eyes were open, she wasn’t seeing anything except those moments replaying as real as if they were happening now. She didn’t have to imagine the feeling. She knew the feeling. “Go on,” she said very gently.

Mitchell jerked slightly at the sound of the voice that seemed to be coming from very far away. “I announced myself…I think I yelled ‘Police! Put your hands up where I can see them.’ God, he was fast. It was almost as if he knew I was coming, or at least he wasn’t surprised to find me there. He let her go and she slumped to the ground. My eyes followed her for just a second, but it was enough time for him to swing around with his hands locked together and catch me in the side of face. Stupid move on my part. I went down on my knees and he followed up the punch with a kick. At least I saw it coming and managed to roll away from most of that. His foot connected with my hip but it wasn’t that bad. I was still between him and the street and the alley wasn’t that wide. I knew I had I had to get up or he would just jump over me and be gone. As I got to my feet, he grabbed my shirt and punched me low, below the bottom of my vest. And that’s when I hit him with the butt of my service revolver.”

“He hurt you.” It was a statement, because the facts spoke for themselves. “Do you remember hitting him?”

Mitchell blinked as if awakening from a dream. She could still smell his sweat, and the coppery odor of blood, and the acrid stench of her own fear. She felt the ache between her thighs where his fist had landed, and she saw with perfect clarity the battered face of the woman lying on the ground.

She stared at Catherine for so long that Catherine began to wonder if she would answer. Finally, the psychiatrist asked, “Officer, do you remember striking him?”

Mitchell wasn’t certain what she should say. She didn’t know how her words would be used against her. She met the warm green eyes that held such tenderness, an acceptance that eased some part of the terrible pain, and she answered hoarsely, “No.”

“Sorry I’m late. Traffic.”

“That’s all right. How are you? I haven’t seen you at all the last few days except at conferences.” Hazel Holcomb settled into her chair and regarded her young colleague with a speculative expression.

Catherine shrugged wearily as she dropped her briefcase by the sofa, then smiled deprecatingly. “I could plead workload, but…I think I’ve been avoiding you.”

“Ah ha.” Hazel sipped her coffee and pulled an ottoman over in front of her chair with her toe. Propping both feet up, she raised her cup slightly. “Coffee?”

“Tonight, I think I’ll take you up on it.” Catherine walked to the antique credenza against one wall in Hazel’s home office/study and poured the aromatic brew into a delicate china cup. “I’m surprised that you even use these except for special occasions,” she remarked absently as she sat down across from Hazel. “They’re so beautiful.”

“Too lovely to keep behind glass. Now, let’s get back to that therapeutically laden statement about avoiding me.”

“You said I should see you regularly, and I didn’t want you to remind me about that.”

“Why not?”

“Probably because there’s something I don’t want to talk about.”

“Only one thing?” Hazel asked in mock seriousness. “How fortunate. We should be able to clear that up tonight then.”

Catherine laughed. “All right. Several things.”

“And yet you called me for the appointment this afternoon.”

“Yes,” Catherine admitted. “I know enough to recognize avoidance, and I know that’s not the answer. So, here I am.”

“How are you sleeping?”

“Better.”

“And the dreams?”

Catherine shook her head. “Not for the last couple of nights.”

“Good.” She didn’t need to add that it might be temporary. The younger psychiatrist knew that, of course. “Then what’s troubling you?”