“I’ll make some calls, see if I can light a fire.”
“I appreciate that.”
I cross to the window above the sink, look out at the field beyond. I should be thinking about the case, but even that is dwarfed by my keen awareness of Tomasetti.
“Kate.”
I turn to see him standing a scant yard away, staring at me with those intense eyes. “Is this how it’s going to be? We talk about the case? Make small talk?”
I want to pretend I don’t know what he’s talking about. Part of me wants to make him take that first perilous step into the quagmire of words neither of us is good at. “I’m just trying to get my footing here.”
“Are you talking about the case or us?”
“Both, I guess.” I give him a smile. “I think I’m better at the case stuff.”
“Safer ground.” But the hard lines of his face soften. “I wish you’d felt you could call me—”
“I did—”
“And ask me for help without worrying that I was going to lose it.” He smiles. “All you have to do is ask. I’ll be here.”
“I didn’t want to drag you into it.” I motion toward the bloodstained floor. “Put you through this.”
“I’m here because I want to be here.” He looks around the kitchen, sighs, then turns his attention back to me. “I’m a cop, Kate. This is what I do. God knows it’s not always easy. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to turn tail and run every time there’s a bloody crime involving a family.”
“I know you can handle it,” I say. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. But that doesn’t mean a crime like this isn’t going to bring back what happened to you. I don’t like seeing you hurt, John. Maybe that’s what I was trying to avoid.”
“I appreciate that. But in all fairness, I think it’s my call. Not yours.”
“Duly noted.” I soften the words with a smile. “If it’s any consolation, I’m glad you’re here.”
We fall back into police mode. Our boots thud dully on the wood floor as we walk into the living room. The three pools of blood are dry now, brick-red and cracked around the edges. The smell is still discernible, but not as strong, and I realize the evidence of death is fading, giving way to the unstoppable force of life. It’s a rule all of us must abide by. No matter what happens, life always goes on.
I take the steps to the second level, giving Tomasetti a few minutes alone to walk and assess the scene. I do a final sweep of the bedrooms, but I know there’s nothing more to glean here. The rooms have been searched multiple times by multiple people. We’ve got everything we’re going to get. It’s not much, but we’ll just have to make do.
Taking a final look at the empty hall, I go back downstairs. I’m anxious to talk to Tomasetti now, get his take on what might have happened, his theories, see if he has anything new to add that no one else has thought of.
I find him standing near the base of the stairs with his back to me. “What do you think?” I ask.
A quick glance over his shoulder and he walks away. Puzzled, I follow him. “At first we thought we were dealing with a murder-suicide, but—”
Tomasetti stops in the center of the living room, near where the bodies were found, and looks down at the bloody footprint. A current of worry goes through me when he sidesteps the dried blood and staggers left. I see his shoulders tighten. A sound that’s part gasp, part sigh fills the silence.
Concerned, I take a step toward him. “John?”
Leaning forward, he puts his hands on his knees and sucks in huge mouthfuls of air, like a marathoner who has just finished a long-distance race.
Case forgotten, I cross to him. “John? What’s going on? Are you all right?”
“Get the fuck away,” he grinds out.
“What’s wrong?”
No answer. He’s trembling uncontrollably now. Every breath is a rasp.
“Are you sick?”
Keeping his back to me, he raises a hand as if to fend me off. “Give me . . .” He chokes out the words. “. . . goddamn minute.”
Concern burgeons into alarm inside me. A dozen scenarios rush my brain. Is he sick? Having a heart attack? “John, talk to me,” I try. “What’s wrong? Are you in pain?”
His breaths rush between clenched teeth. I stand a few feet away, wondering what to do, how to help, growing increasingly worried. I can see the sheen of sweat on the side of his face. He’s bent at the waist, his hands clenched into fists on his knees.
“Do you need an ambulance?” I ask.
“Give me . . . fucking minute,” he says in a hoarse voice.
The urge to pull out my cell and dial 911 is strong, but I resist. If he needed an ambulance, he’d tell me. This is . . . something else.
I stand there, feeling helpless, my hand on my phone. I’m frightened and embarrassed for him. And I’m worried about his well-being. Slowly, his breathing regulates. The shaking subsides. A sigh escapes him as he straightens. Without a word, without looking at me, he turns away and walks into the kitchen.
Gathering my composure, I follow. He’s at the sink, splashing water on his face. “What the hell was that?” I ask.
He yanks a towel out of a drawer and pats his face dry, looking at me over the tops of his fingers. “Had you worried, didn’t I?”
“That’s not funny,” I snap. “You were in serious distress a moment ago. You need to tell me what’s going on.”
He looks away, takes a moment to toss the towel on the counter. “I didn’t mean for you to see that.”
“You scared me.”
“Yeah, well, I scare myself sometimes.” The lines on either side of his mouth deepen, and he sighs like an old man who bears the weight of the world on shoulders that have grown brittle and frail. “There was a time when I thought I could walk away from just about anything. I was one of those cops who could go directly from some bloody murder scene to lunch and not think twice about it. I was untouchable. Never had demons. Never felt too much. That was one of the reasons I was such a good cop. The job never got to me. I never let it.” He pins me with a grim look. “All of that changed the night Nancy and the girls were murdered.”
“That’s understandable,” I say. “But you dealt with it. You got help.”
“I let a lot of doctors prescribe a lot of pills I was all too happy to take.”
“But you’ve come a long way since then.”
“Not far enough, evidently,” he says dryly.
“I don’t know what that means. And I don’t know what it has to do with what just happened to you.”
Tomasetti scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m having anxiety attacks, Kate. I’ve been to the emergency room.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m seeing the company shrink. It’s a condition of my continued employment with BCI.”
The words hit me like hammer blows. My head is reeling. Knowing everything he’s been through, I hurt for him. “How long have you been having the anxicty attacks?” I finally manage.
“A couple of months.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Not exactly the kind of thing a guy wants to discuss with his lover.”
I think about that a moment, trying to ignore the knot in my gut. “What’s the prognosis?”
“Going to keep me on the couch awhile.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Before you go all doe-eyed on me, you probably ought to hear the rest.”
“Now, you’re really making me nervous.”
“Yeah, well, it’s a pisser.” He grimaces. “The deputy superintendent has no idea I’m here.”
That isn’t what I expected him to say. “What?”
“I’m on leave. It’s mandatory.”
“Because of the anxiety attacks?”
He sighs. “Because of ancient history.”
