man managed to sink his teeth into Mullendore’s hand. There was a low growl of a curse before the prisoner burst free and ran headlong into Ben. “Jesus, give me a hand, will you? This guy’s an animal.” Mullendore made a grab, sandwiching the prisoner between them. For a moment they looked as though they were ready to rhumba. Then all three men lost their footing on the damp floor and went down in a heap.
Beside Tess, Lowenstein watched with her hands comfortably on her hips.
“Shouldn’t you break it up?” Tess wondered aloud.
“The guy’s cuffed and weighs maybe a hundred pounds. They’ll just be a minute.”
“You ain’t putting me in a cell!” The black man rolled and squirmed and screamed, and managed to bring his knee solidly into Ben’s groin. In reflex, Ben jerked his elbow and caught him under the chin. As his body went limp, Ben collapsed on it, with Mullendore panting beside them.
“Thanks, Paris.” Mullendore held up his wounded hand to study the teeth marks. “Christ, I’m probably going to need a shot. The guy went crazy when we walked into the building.”
Ben managed to rise to his hands and knees. His breath whistled as he sucked it in, and left a hole burning in his gut. He tried to speak, dragged in another whistling breath, and tried again. “Sonofabitch put my balls into my stomach.”
“I’m real sorry about that, Ben.” Mullendore took out a handkerchief and wrapped it around the bite. “He looks real peaceful now, though.”
With a grunt Ben pushed himself off to sit on the floor, braced by the wall. “For Christ’s sake get him into holding before he comes to.”
He sat there as Mullendore hefted the unconscious prisoner. The cold, coffee-stained wash water had soaked through the knees and thighs of his jeans and splattered his shirt. Even when it soaked through the seat, he continued to sit, wondering why the knee that had connected with his pride had been so bony.
As he headed down the hall for a fresh batch of soapy water, the maintenance man rattled his mop in his bucket. “I’m talking to the shop steward. I had that floor almost finished.”
“Tough break.” Ben spared him a look as the pain between his legs sang its way up to his head.
“Don’t worry about it, Paris.” Lowenstein leaned on the doorway, carefully avoiding the small river. “Chances are you’re still a stallion.”
“Kiss my ass.”
“Honey, you know my husband’s a jealous man.”
Tess crouched down beside him, giving him a sympathetic tut-tut. Her hand was gentle as she patted his cheek, but her eyes were lit with laughter. “Are you all right?”
“Oh, I’m terrific. I like absorbing my coffee through my skin.”
“Executive branch, right?”
“Yeah, right.”
“Want to get up?”
“No.” He resisted reaching a hand between his legs to make certain everything was in place.
The laugh wasn’t quite muffled as she pressed a hand to her mouth. The long, narrowed look he gave her only made it worse. Her voice hitched and bubbled. “You can’t sit here all day. You’re sitting in a puddle, and you smell like the floor of a cafe that hasn’t been washed over the weekend.”
“Great bedside manner, Doc.” He took her arm as she fought a losing war against laughter. “One good tug and you’re down here with me.”
“Then you’d have all those guilt ramifications to deal with. Not to mention the cleaning bills.”
Ed walked down the hall, still bundled in his outdoor gear. As he avoided the worst of the wet, he dug the rest of his breakfast yogurt out of the carton. Licking the spoon, he stopped in front of his partner. “Morning, Dr. Court.”
“Good morning.” She rose, still swallowing laughter.
“Nice day.”
“Yes, a little cold though.”
“Weatherman said it should hit fifty this afternoon.”
“Oh, you two are a riot,” Ben told them. “A real riot.”
Tess cleared her throat. “Ben… Ben had a little accident.”
Eds bushy brows lifted as he looked at the stream running down the hall.
“Just keep your sophomoric humor to yourself,” Ben warned.
“Sophomoric.” Ed rolled the word around on his tongue, impressed. He handed his empty carton to Tess, then hooking his hands under Bens armpits, hauled his partner effortlessly to his feet. “Your pants are wet.”
“I was restraining a prisoner.”
“Yeah? Well, things like this happen in the midst of all that tension and excitement.”
“I’m going to my locker,” he muttered. “Make sure the doctor hasn’t hurt herself laughing.” He sloshed, a little spread-legged, down the hall.
Ed took the empty carton and plastic spoon from Tess. “Want some coffee?”
“No,” she managed, strangling a bit on the word. “No, I think I’ve had enough.”
“Give me just a minute, and I’ll take you in to Captain Harris.”
They met in the conference room. Though the heater sent out a hopeful mechanical buzz, the floors remained chilly. Harris had lost his annual campaign for carpet. The blinds were closed in a fruitless attempt to insulate the windows. Someone had tacked up a poster urging America to conserve energy.
Tess sat at a table, with Ed lounging beside her. The light scent of jasmine steamed out of his tea. Lowenstein balanced on the edge of a small desk, idly swinging one leg. Bigsby hunched in a chair, an economy-sized box of Kleenex on his lap. Every few minutes he blew his already red nose. Roderick’s flu had him in bed.
Harris stood beside a green chalkboard on which the names and other pertinent information on the victims had been aligned in neat columns. A map of the city stretched over the wall, pierced with four blue flags. There was a corkboard beside that. Black-and-white glossies of the murdered women were tacked to it.
“We all have transcripts of the phone calls Dr. Court received.”
It sounded so cold, so businesslike, she thought. Transcripts. They couldn’t hear the pain or the sickness in transcripts. “Captain Harris.” Tess shifted her own notes in front of her. “I’ve brought you an updated report, with my own opinions and diagnosis. But I feel it might be helpful if I explained these phone calls to you and your officers.”
Harris, with his hands linked behind his back, only nodded. The mayor, the media, and the commissioner were snapping at his ankles. He wanted it over, long over, so he could spend some time doting on his new granddaughter. Seeing her behind the nursery window had almost made him believe that life had its points.
“The man who contacted me called because he was frightened, of himself. He is no longer controlling his life, but is being controlled by his illness. The last…” Her gaze was drawn to the photograph of Anne Reasoner. “The last murder was not part of the plan.” She moistened her lips, glancing over only briefly as Ben walked in. “He was waiting for me-me specifically. We can’t be certain how he focused in on the other victims. In the case of Barbara Clayton we can be all but certain it was coincidence. Her car broke down. He was there. In my case it’s much more fine-tuned. He’s seen my name and picture in the paper.”
She paused a moment, expecting Ben to slip into the chair beside her. Instead he stayed back, leaning against the closed door, separated from her by the table.
“The rational part of his mind, the part that keeps him functioning on a daily basis, was drawn. Here was help, someone who hasn’t condemned him out of hand. Someone who claims to understand at least some of the pain. Someone who looks enough like his Laura to trigger feelings of love and complete despair.
“I think it’s accurate to say that he waited for me the night of Anne Reasoner’s murder because he wanted to talk to me, to explain why before he… before he did what he’s being driven to do. From your own investigations I think it’s also accurate to say that he didn’t feel this need to explain with any of the others. In your transcripts you’ll see that time and time again he asks me to understand.
I’m a hinge at this point. His door is swinging both ways.“ She put her palms together, moving them back and forth to demonstrate. ”He’s asking for help, then his illness takes over and he only wants to finish what he’s started.
