He was in a blue shirt and jeans talkingwith two off-duty detectives from the sixth precinct. She went to him; got hugsfrom both cops who waved and peeled off, then another big, embarrassing squeezefrom Hank Kubic.
“Congrats, I’m so happy,” he said, grinningbehind his wire rims. “Couldn’t stay away especially ‘cause I’ve got somethingfor you.”
“Oh?”
Another reporter was bugging Kerri so she ignoredand suggested they find a quiet place. They did, in a booth way at the endwhere the crowd was thinner.
“Tell,” she said, sliding in, facing him.The flameless candle between them didn’t throw much light. Silverware for two andcheckered cloth napkins filled a mason jar.
From his breast pocket he’d already pulled foldedpapers and was spreading them. “Sorry it’s been crazy, I finally got the chanceto look at Liddy Barron – what you know about her, anyway. This is something.There’s a few red flags here.”
He looked like Jiminy Cricket, Hank did, andwhen something excited or fascinated him, his small frame nearly bounced aroundin enthusiasm. Months ago they had a different killer about to get off on atechnicality, and Hank had gone off on what seemed like an annoying tangent aboutthe creep’s hatred of shoelaces – and then: “He fears confinement! Shut him ina closet!” Minutes later the slime was screaming to get out, screaming he’d tellwhere he’d buried the bodies, hidden his gun. Now Hank was pointing and tappingon his papers and starting to spew about Shakespeare and Dostoyevsky, then excusinghimself, saying he should back up, start from the beginning.
“You wanted to know the possibility, justthe possibility, right?”
“Actually it wasn’t me, it was Mackey’ssuggestion – read, order. Our dear lieutenant’s been getting worried andfrustrated with me, says I look too tired, says he heard I nearly keeled overat last Wednesday’s deposition.”
“Ah, hence the request I look at this?”
Kerri nodded. Hank nodded too and went backto his papers.
“Hallucinations and nightmares can comefrom a person’s own guilt. I’m not saying this is Liddy Barron – neitherof us knows enough – it’s just something you should consider.”
Kerri stared at his clipped, upside down report:several pages, longer than she’d dreamed he’d make, especially since he’dvolunteered his time.
“You’re saying,” she frowned slightly,“that the person reporting the torment of nightmares etc. could be thebad guy?”
“It happens.” Hank rotated his papers soshe could read them. “Case histories compared with Liddy Barron’s. Again I can’tsay identical or even close because neither of us knows enough.”
He knew Kerri could both read and listen,so he continued.
“She came to you, right?”
“Yes. Out of the blue.”
“So a cry for help or attention - or…” Hehesitated. “A confession, the beginning anyway.”
Kerri looked up from his notes.
“In describing her nightmares, they allinvolved water?”
“Yes.”
“No PTSD stuff at all about her caraccident?”
“No.”
Hank grunted; then counted off items one byone on his fingers. “That photo Sasha sent her friend of the Hudson, combinedwith the fact that the Barron boat is kept at the 79th Street docksnear where that photo was taken, combined with these water images Liddydescribed to you - wanted to tell you about…”
“Also wanted to show her Sasha sketch, saidshe wasn’t sure she’d ever even seen her, wanted me to know that too.”
“Yes…yes…” Hank’s fingers drummed. “Wow.”
He leaned forward. “Here’s the thing: Saysomeone in the heat of a terrible moment does something so horrible that thememory must repress it…but it can’t – that’s what makes us human, thepsyche really can’t force out memories too awful to face, so they come outsideways - as other things that are easier to deal with like ghosts orhallucinations or anything scary that’s socially okay to complainabout.”
Kerri stared at the flameless candle, listening,taking it in as Hank pulled the silverware-stuffed mason jar to him and racedback to Shakespeare.
“The best psychiatrist ever, betterthan Freud, Shakespeare was. Consider Macbeth, a seriously screwed-up guy,weak, insecure, jealous, wants to kill the king so he can be king.”
“One semester of English lit, I remember. Macbethwanted to be king of Scotland.”
“Right, only he’s a terrified weenie, sohis scheming, ambitious wife Lady Macbeth pushes and goads him so even beforehe kills he’s so pressured - starting to go nuts - that he starts seeinghallucinations.” Hank pulled a steak knife from the mason jar’s napkin. “Isthis a dagger I see before me?” Hank waved his knife wildly. “Poor Macreally thinks he’s seeing it! Then he has to kill Banquo, his former bestfriend, fellow general and sudden rival” – Hank jerked the knife past histhroat – “so next it’s Banquo’s ghost he thinks he sees and freaks out,embarrasses his wife who tells their freaked-out dinner guests he’s just havinga fit, an illness. But they both go bonkers – the whole play’s reallyabout insanity – remember Lady Macbeth sleepwalking and hallucinatingabout blood on her hands? Out, damn spot! Whew - the best description ofparanoia anywhere and it was done by Shakespeare in 1609! Unless you count Dostoyevsky’sCrime and Punishment where Raskolnikov sees the ghost of the woman hemurdered laughing at him, driving him crazy…”
“I get it.” Kerri was nodding. “Guilt stillspills out.”
“It splinters the mind. Both Macbeth andhis missus slip into madness and hallucinations – see terror that isn’t there.”Hank started re-rolling his knife into its checkered napkin. “So how does thisapply to your case?” He leaned forward with his eyebrows up. “I don’t know.Just wanted you to see the big picture. The mind is a crazy thing.”
“I’ll say.”
He handed her his several-page printout. “Foryou. Fascinating cases, several parallels to this one.”
Kerri shook her head, picturing LiddyBarron looking so lost and scared that night she came to the squad room. “Ihope none of this applies.”
“Ditto. What are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know. Think hard.” Kerri startedputting the papers into her bag.
“Maybe just call her. Ask how she’sfeeling.”
“I thought of that.”
“If you do, ask her about sleepwalking.Seeing
