And then the lightning bolt strikes. He sees it in her face, the way her mouth drops open.
‘You’ve got to be shitting me. A serial killer? You’re talking about a serial killer?’
Doyle’s nod is a subtle one. He almost can’t believe it himself when it’s stated so clearly, so baldly.
She says, ‘Let me be clear about this. The NYPD is now of the opinion that a number of murders recently committed in this city were the work of one person, and my ex-husband was one of his victims. Have I got that right?’
‘Uhm, not exactly.’
‘Not exactly? How not exactly?’
‘It’s not the official line of the NYPD that these murders are the work of a serial killer.’
‘Okay, I get the picture. They don’t want to panic the city. But
In response, Doyle puts out his hand and waggles it from side to side, a pained look on his face.
She says, ‘Jesus Christ, Detective. This is like talking to Lassie. A little help here, if you please. You want a crayon so that you can draw me a picture?’
‘It’s not what the NYPD believes. It’s what I believe.’
‘You. Just you?’
‘Just me.’
The room goes silent. Doyle is not sure which way this will go. He suspects she is probably wishing for her ex-husband to be back in the room. Someone who knows about people who are one sandwich short of a picnic.
She says, ‘Why? Why do you believe that?’
He shrugs. ‘A hunch. A feeling.’
‘Uh-huh. Tell me, do you hear voices in your head at night? Can you tell what dogs are saying when they bark? What do your police buddies think about this hunch of yours?’
Doyle casts his mind back to when Cesario slapped him on the arm and said it was worth a shot.
‘Not a lot.’
Friedrich smacks her lips. ‘Great. So you’re flying solo. You’re ignoring the advice of your Department, refusing to follow their example, and instead you’re following up your own half-baked theories. Actually, scratch that. Theory is too grand a term for this. You’re relying on intuition. You’re clutching at straws, scrabbling for a connection that isn’t there. Hence all the bizarre questions about Indian psychologists and hospitals. You want there to be a link so that you can tell yourself you’re right. It doesn’t matter how insignificant that common thread is, as long as it exists. It doesn’t matter that it won’t help you solve any of these murders. You just want to prove something. Isn’t that right, Detective?’
‘No. That’s not right.’ But she has wounded his confidence. Of course there’s a link. The victims were all killed by the same man. But what if that’s all there is to it? What if there’s no rhyme or reason? What if the victims were selected purely on the basis of a pin stuck in a telephone directory?
No, he thinks. I refuse to believe that. There has to be something, and maybe Anna Friedrich is the only person who can tell me what it is.
‘I think you should go now,’ she says, and once more she gets to her feet.
‘Just give me a few more minutes of your time. Please. I just have one or two more questions.’
‘What about?’
‘About your marriage to Dr Vasey. About why you split up.’
‘Are you serious? You really expect me to start talking about highly personal stuff like my marriage breakdown on the basis of your gut feeling? Forget it, Detective. You’re asking too much. I can’t help you. Now if you don’t mind. .’
She puts her arm out, gesturing to the door, requesting him to leave.
He gets up, but instead of heading for the door he moves directly to Friedrich and looks her in the eye.
‘I am not wrong. He is out there. He has killed several times already and he will kill again. Look at what’s happened. Ask yourself why the city has recently seen a number of unsolved, apparently motiveless murders. Ask yourself why the police don’t seem to have made any progress on catching your husband’s killer. Could it be because they’re looking in the wrong places? Could it be because maybe I’m right about this? And if I have it ass backwards, so what? What harm could it do to answer a couple of lousy questions? Indulge me. Lunatic that I seem, let me have what I want so that you can get me out of your hair. Please.’
She maintains the eye contact, reading him. He lets her in. Lets her see that this isn’t some bullshit game he’s playing.
She glides away and sits down.
‘Take a seat, Detective. What do you want to know?’
He accepts the invitation without hesitation, in case she changes her mind.
‘Your marriage to Dr Vasey didn’t work out. I’m not asking for all the details, but can you give me a rough idea of what went wrong?’
‘Nothing dramatic, if that’s what you’re wondering. No third party or anything like that. We were just too wrapped up in our careers. Both ambitious. Both wanting to succeed. Neither of us had any time for the other. It wasn’t really a marriage.’
‘So you dissolved it. Was that by mutual consent?’
‘Not really.’
‘So whose idea was it? Yours?’
‘One of us had to do it. We couldn’t have carried on as we were.’
‘How did Andrew take it?’
‘Hard.’
‘He was devastated?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far. He was upset. But he was still in control. It didn’t stand in the way of his work.’
‘Are you sure? I mean, could he have been worse than he seemed?’
‘No. If anything, he seemed worse than he was.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Andrew had a flair for melodrama. He liked to throw tantrums. He turned on emotions like a tap when it suited him. I knew him well enough to tell when it was real and when it was phony.’
‘So you don’t think he was as badly affected by your split-up as he claimed?’
‘No, I don’t believe he was. I think he had already accepted we were doomed as a couple. I just don’t think he liked the idea of me calling the shots.’
Shit, thinks Doyle. This doesn’t fit. Square pegs and round holes.
‘Then you don’t think he would have needed to seek counseling?’
Her eyebrows shoot up. A pair of arrowheads aimed at the sky. ‘Detective, have you forgotten what Andrew did for a living?’
‘Yeah, I know, but don’t shrinks see other shrinks when their heads are messed up? Or do they just do it themselves?’
She laughs. ‘You know, I’m not sure about that one. What I do know is that Andrew would never have consulted another therapist. He was too concerned about his reputation ever to consider such a thing.’
Damn.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Thank you. I appreciate your honesty.’
He stands up, ready to leave now.
‘You didn’t get what you wanted to hear, did you?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘I’m sorry. Maybe. . well, maybe it’s telling you something.’
‘Yeah. Maybe.’
He takes the long walk to the door.
She catches up with him. Says, ‘This means a lot to you, doesn’t it?’
‘You don’t know how much.’
‘Then I wish you luck.’
