Patron Saint, page two
"Your team have any idea why victim number five,
that girl down in Palms, didn't have the medal on her?" Jo asked.
"She's the only break in the pattern."
"Maybe the killer forgot," Nolan said. "Or maybe
he got interrupted by something, heard a noise and took off before he could
put it on her." He lit up a cigarette and inhaled gratefully. "By the way,
thanks for bendin' the rules about the smokes." He nodded at the ashtray
she'd begun leaving out for him.
"No problem. You have enough on your plate without
taking away your nicotine fix," she said.
"Thanks, I think."
They share a smile as she got up from behind her
desk and went to the window. As she turned up the dial on the venerable
A.C. unit, she could feel his eyes on her body. It wasn't the first time
she'd been appreciatively appraised by one of her patients. While this
was due in part to the fact that, in the words of her adolescent daughter,
she was "still a quasi-babe," she also knew it was an attempt on the cop's
part to maintain some macho distance, some sense of control. Okay, so maybe
the Department did give her the right to evaluate them, testosterone gave
them the right to evaluate her.
At least that's how her ex had explained it. A
lawyer in the district attorney's office, Steve claimed to know a
lot about the police. "With cops," he'd state in that patronizing tone
that set her teeth on edge, "it's pure siege mentality. Us versus them.
They think it's the best way to keep the upper hand." Then, with a grin:
"Hey, what can you expect? Basically, they're all Neanderthals. Except
for you old man, of course."
Of course, she'd thought. Prick.
Of all the things she didn't miss about her
ex-husband, his pompous lectures were near the top of the list. Along with
his politics, questionable ethics, and flagrant womanizing. That his genes
could help produce a daughter as wonderful as Jenny baffled her to this
day.
The air conditioning came on suddenly, swirling
the smoke from Nolan's cigarette as he scooped up the crime scene photos
and put them back in the envelope.
Still standing at the window, Jo felt the thick
knots in her shoulders, the strain in her lower back. She needed a two-hour
workout, a massage, something.
She loved her job, but there was no denying its
emotional--and sometimes physical--rigors: rushing in the middle of the
night to some cop's home to defuse a violent domestic dispute; advising
Department negotiators during hostage situations; cradling grief-stricken
widows outside the E.R. Plus her first-year-trial-by-fire, when an armed
robbery turned a peaceful North Hollywood neighborhood into a war zone,
and she'd found herself strapped into a flack jacket to deliver psychological
triage to embattled police at the scene.
It took a toll. Dealing everyday with stressed-out
cops complaining about their work, their spouses, their addictions to booze
and drugs and danger.
Or else not complaining. Keeping it all locked
inside. The ones who didn't talk, didn't do much except sit and glare at
her, like problem kids sent to the principal's office. Which is how most
of them saw it. Their bosses turning them over to some shrink, some stuck-up
bitch who thought she could get inside their heads.
They rarely talked. Instead, they developed ulcers,
sexual problems, busted marriages. Sometimes they got put behind a desk.
Sometimes they just ate their guns.
At least Nolan talked, Jo thought, coming back
to her desk. It had been tough getting him to open up, to trust her, but
he'd come a long way in their two months together.
Then, earlier in today's session, to her utter
surprise, he'd even shed some tears. Not about the job, or his frustrations
heading up the Task Force trying to stop this serial killer. Not even about
his recent divorce. His tears had been for someone else.
"I know our work has been primarily about the case,"
Jo said now, settling in her seat. "But I'm grateful that you're letting
me see into other parts of your life as well. Earlier, when you were telling
me about your brother--"
"Eddie's just an asshole," he said, stubbing out
his cigarette. "A total screw-up. The crap he's put our family through..."
"And the tears when you were recalling the way
you were as kids, the powerful bond you shared...?"
"So I lost it for a couple minutes. So what?"
"It seemed to me you were in touch with some deep,
painful feelings."
"Don't you get it? It's this damn case!" He stood
up violently, the chair tipping back, clattering on the linoleum floor.
"It's messing with all our heads. Like Charlie Greer. Did I tell ya about
that? I had to cut him loose, send him back to Vice."
"No, you didn't tell me." He's wired tight as a
spring today, she thought. Handle with care.
He rubbed his eyes. "Greer got the call on Roberta
Ruiz, while I was with the lab guys workin' on victim number four. So he
had to deal with Roberta. Man, it really shook him up. He said he can't
look at no more naked dead girls." Nolan's laugh turned into a smoker's
cough. He spoke between spasms. "Hell, maybe he's healthier than the rest
of us."
"Maybe," Jo said. "At least he acknowledges his
limits."
"Yeah, well, tell that to the next vic. We gotta
keep our shit together if we're gonna nail this wacko. That's our job.
You gotta just let it go through you, like a bullet that misses all the
internal organs and comes out the other side."
Jo shrugged. "That still leaves a wound. A scar."
She shifted in her seat. "But let's get back to Eddie."
He wheeled on her suddenly, hands slapping down
hard on the desk, making her jump. He seemed to tower above her. Jo tensed,
aware of the power in his huge arms, the bulk of his shoulders. "Leave
my brother outta this," he said angrily. "What is it with you shrinks,
eh? No matter what the problem is, you gotta dig around in the family."
"Take it easy, Tom."
He leaned in closer. "Besides, aren't we supposed
to be talkin' about how my parents screwed me up? Hell, I'll lay it out
for you. My sainted mother, the delicate Irish colleen. My violent, abusive
father. Every damned night, Mom weeping and praying. Dad drinking and screaming.
Me and Eddie caught in the middle. You do the math."
Jo kept her face composed. It was important to
keep him talking. Whether he knew it or not, he was finally letting her
in. His anger was a window to a deeper part of him, where the pain lived.
"You loved your younger brother. You protected
him, looked out for him."
"That's what brothers do, isn't it?" He glared
down at her, hands on the desk closing into fists. She pretended not to
notice.
"Covered for him when he lied," she went on, "or
ditched school, or shoplifted at the mall."
"So what?"
"You wanted better for him. You said so yourself,
at the beginning of today's session. You hated seeing how he broke your
mother's heart when he got arrested for drunk driving, or--"
"Again, what's the point?" He moved to a far cornder
of the room, fidgeting with his tie, his anger fading. "So we're like a
bad movie, ok? One brother becomes a cop, the other a low-life scumbag."
Jo let out a breath. "Pretty active guy for a low-life.
Assault charges, drug convictions. I guess the deeper he sank into his
world, reveled in it, the more you felt an obligation to be a cop. Get
the bad guys. Balance the scales."
Written expressly for WRITTEN
BY, Copyright 2002 by Dennis Palumbo
dennis@dennispalumbo.com
