Eye of the Beholder

sleeping with Ellie Danzinger? Sure, it’s scandalous, sixteen years ago. Not today. I-I can’t see how any of this is relevant.”

She reaches across the table and takes my hand. “But you can’t see how it’s not.”

People are dying for a reason, she means. These aren’t random victims of a psychopath. There’s a connection.

The waitress brings a bagel with cream cheese for me and a salad for Shelly. I missed dinner altogether and I have to eat something, however turbulent my stomach. We play with our food awhile in silence.

“He confessed, Shelly. I watched Burgos confess.”

She considers her salad, rearranging the cucumbers and tomatoes with her fork. She thinks twice before she asks, “You’re sure it was Burgos who killed these girls?”

“A hundred percent” I rip off a piece of the bagel and stare at it.

A group of college kids walk into the diner, smelling of liquor and cigarettes and talking too loudly. Those were the days. They are blissfully ignorant. They haven’t blazed their trails yet. They haven’t made irrevocable decisions. They have no idea about regret. They think life is one gigantic music video.

I watch them move to a corner booth, their animated conversation fading, then I turn to Shelly, who is watching me.

“Ninety-five percent,” I say. “No. A hundred percent.” I put a fist down on the table. “Goddammit-a hundred percent. He knew all of the victims by name. He knew the order they’d been placed in the basement. He’d been stalking Ellie, for God’s sake. He killed them in his own damn house. People saw the prostitutes get into his truck.”

She takes a moment with that, letting me cool. Her expression shows concern, which for some reason pisses me off.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I say. “This-y‘know what? This isn’t my problem. If there was some side issue, some secret that someone doesn’t want to come out, that’s not my problem. I haven’t been a prosecutor for fifteen years. I solved my crime. They can solve theirs.”

Shelly tucks her lips into her mouth, her eyes dancing.

“Say something, for Christ’s sake, Shelly.”

She sets down her fork, places her hands in her lap. “If it’s not your problem, then let it go.”

“Let it go.” I throw up a hand. “That’s your advice.”

“You said your-”

“I know what I said. Forget what I said.” I turn in the booth toward the window, taking a couple of deep breaths and staring at my reflection, at a lawyer who, at the moment, is acting like a supreme asshole. In my peripheral vision, I see Shelly gesture to the waitress. I’d do the same, if I were her. Check, please, and step on it.

“You don’t need my advice,” she says. “You know what to do.”

The check slaps down on the table. Shelly slips some money out of her wallet.

“It’s gonna hurt,” I say.

“Of course it will. If you go against Harland, attorneys at your firm will suffer. Maybe your firm will fold. If you discover that you missed something in the case, it will be embarrassing to you, personally. And maybe professionally. And yes, for that five percent chance that you convicted the wrong man-you’ll have to live with that.”

I rub my face. She’s right. There’s no doubt about this. I just needed to hear it.

“You could walk away from this,” she adds. “You’re right about that. You’re not a prosecutor anymore. Anyone would understand that.”

I don’t let her see my smile. She understands me better than I care to admit. She’s giving me an out so I can feel good about not taking it.

She hooks her arm into mine as I walk her to her car. The gesture is innocuous but meaningful to me. I want more of it. I want to hold her in my arms tonight, smell her hair, run a finger along her smooth stomach.

Instead, she kisses me softly and her hand flickers away from mine. I close the car door behind her. She waves good-bye, while I appreciate the fact that, this time, it’s not Good-bye but See you soon.

DON REGIS, from the County Attorney Technical Unit, rushes into the squad room. McDermott and Stoletti are eagerly awaiting him, after his call ten minutes ago.

A latent on the door of Brandon Mitchum’s apartment found a hit in the database.

“The prints belong to one Leonid Koslenko. A Russian immigrant.” Don Regis drops the file on McDermott’s desk. “Prior arrests for battery and suspicion of murder. Charges nollied both times.”

McDermott opens the arrest reports, first going right to the mug shots from Koslenko’s booking, the black and white of the square-faced man with the half-moon scar under his eye. His hand curls into a fist. A wave of both relief and adrenaline floods his chest. This is the same person from the photograph found in Fred Ciancio’s apartment. The same person who was in Brandon Mitchum’s apartment tonight.

He scans the officer’s summaries of each arrest. Five years ago, Leonid Koslenko was arrested for battery of a woman on the west side. Two years ago, he was picked up on suspicion of murder of a woman, three blocks away from the first charge.

In each case, the charges were dropped-nolle prosequi, a term for declining to prosecute.

In each case, the victims were prostitutes.

The first arrest report is thick. He looks under the initial summaries. “A psych workup,” he says. Koslenko was ordered by the court to undergo psychiatric evaluation for competency.

“They never got to the competency hearing,” says Regis, who has already read the reports. “The Vicky dropped the charges.”

Okay, fine, but McDermott is more concerned with what the shrinks said:

Patient displays inappropriate affect, inattention and disordered thoughts. Delusional persecutions and auditory hallucinations are manifest.

“Auditory hallucinations,” McDermott mumbles. He hears voices?

Patient suffers from DSM-IV paranoid schizophrenia.

McDermott checks his watch. It’s only a few minutes before midnight. He picks up the phone for the overnight desk sergeant. “I need the RAID squad, Dennis. Right now.”

He hangs up and looks at Stoletti. “Whoever’s on call,” says McDermott, “call them. We’re moving on his house tonight.”

LEO SITS IN THE rental car. The neighborhood is peaceful, as it approaches midnight. He’s been here before, looked over the brownstone, three condos stacked on top of each other, a security door in front that won’t be a problem.

The lights on the third floor are out.

He needs this tonight. It has to be tonight.