Fugue State (2 page)

When the audio paused, she didn’t have to look at the jury’s faces. She could feel their scornful glances burning into her skull. If only she had heard him speak with the police, she would have demanded a rebuttal. But it was too late. It was too late to undo any of the mistakes she had made regarding the incident.

CHAPTER 2

A
lexa turned into the physician’s parking garage, her left eye twitching from chronic sleep deprivation. She popped open a canned energy drink from the glove box and quickly slurped it down.
Don’t look tired or depressed. Don’t let them see the hurt. Remember, you’re resigning, so they don’t fire you from the career you’ve worked your life to achieve.

As a neuroradiologist, Alexa interpreted advanced imaging studies of the brain and spine. She evaluated patients with neurological problems such as seizures, brain tumors, and trauma. She took pride in her expertise, which made quitting even more difficult. Her own lackluster attitude was more than she could tolerate.
Relax, Lex. It’s just one more goodbye. Goodbyes are a cakewalk these days.

Too-old-and-stubborn-to-ever-retire Norma Pate served as the garage attendant. Norma’s eyebrows rose nearly up to her hairline when Alexa’s Mercedes SLK pulled up next to her. “Dr. DeBrow,” Norma said with a tone of condescension. “I didn’t think you were with us anymore. I thought you were . . . locked up somewhere.”

Ah, Norma, you old bat, you must be the welcome party.
Alexa wiped the go-to-Hell look from her face and replaced it with a look of complacency, tightly pressed lips with upturned corners. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I’m out on bail,” Alexa said, handing out her parking pass.

The old bat frowned so heavily her seventy-two-year-old face could have passed for the remnants of an Egyptian mummy. “Humph,” she fumed. Her eyes scanned the permit through her developing cataract clouds, and she thrust it back in Alexa’s direction. Alexa’s eyes met the old woman’s testy glance, and she fought the urge to speed away in contempt.

Now at the height of her trial, the public appearance made her stomach flip-flop. As she pulled into an empty space, she used the last swallow of the highly caffeinated beverage to wash down a double dose of antacids. She addressed the rumbling in her midsection.
Sorry, can’t avoid the hospital today.
She’d tried to avoid the leering glances of her peers since the trial began. Five months ago, she emptied her office and lived as a recluse, interpreting the overnight emergency department studies from a computer system she had set up in her home. But the stress of the trial had corrupted her abilities, and she was no longer fit to read anyone’s MRI.

She refrained from removing her Burberry aviator sunglasses as she walked through the shadows of the parking garage.
Maybe I should leave them on
.
Why not shield myself from their scrutiny?
She
hesitated when she got to the revolving door and slowly pushed the aviators to the top of her head.
Always a martyr.
Let them look.

She squared her chin and entered the hospital corridors with a glassy glare as patients, employees, and visitors stared her down. Eyes rose from all directions and followed her intently when they met her face. People whispered. Someone pointed. One man chuckled. She blinked and bore her look of complacency and hoped her face didn’t show the pain she carried with her every step. She made her way to the radiology department, and to Dr. Jimmy Thornton’s door. Jimmy, the youngest senior partner in her radiology practice, served as her immediate supervisor. Although they spoke often over the years, she never really understood his character. At times, the arrogance he displayed was intolerable. His ego dominated both his short stature and his mid-gut paunch. He seemed to have a need to belittle those around him in order to feel less mediocre.

Jimmy’s self-centered nature stopped with Alexa. He seemed to have a genuine interest in her. He asked questions about her personal life and listened carefully to her stories. He always left a simple, tasteful card — nothing lewd or disgraceful — on her desk on her birthday. She tried to forgive his many faults for that reason. But in the end, she didn’t like him.

Jimmy had left his door open.
He’s expecting me.
The click-clack of her heels on the linoleum must have stirred him. Jimmy’s head popped out of the doorway, and he invited her in. “Ah, Alexa. It’s good to see you.”

She winced at the trepidation in his voice and found the lighthearted façade reproachable. Everyone at the office must have known this day was coming. She’d asked to meet with him at the lunch hour, knowing the ancillary staff would be gossiping in the break room and swapping their desserts, so she wouldn’t have to face them when she walked in. They were her coworkers, people she’d known well and whose eyes she couldn’t bear.

“How are you holding up?” Jimmy asked, taking a seat. It felt good to think for a moment that someone still cared about her well being, even if his words were merely a polite banality.

“I’m fine, Jimmy. Thanks for asking,” she lied. She wasn’t fine, and they both knew it. If she were fine, she would be working her usual daytime hours, not spending her days in a courtroom while struggling to interpret a few MRIs at night.

“How’s the trial going?” Thornton asked and motioned toward another chair. The words fell from his lips slowly, as if treading lightly on the subject.

She hesitated before she sat. Today was the only day all week she wasn’t scheduled to be in the courtroom.
Please don’t make me talk about the trial.

“Everything’s fine.”

“Good, very good. We look forward to having you back full-time again. Isn’t that why you wanted to meet with me? That voicemail sounded urgent.” His cheery expression faded and little frown lines settled in around his mouth.

She raised an eyebrow, and a small sigh escaped.
Why make this difficult?
You know why I’m here.
He knew the stress was getting to her, and her work was suffering.
The urgent voicemail.
She scolded herself.
I’m going to spare you the details of that night. The night I let that word slip out.
She shuddered. Two nights ago, after a long day in court, Alexa tried to get some work done reading MRIs at home. With the help of speech recognition software, the word she’d spoken into the microphone instantly appeared on her computer monitor. She stared at the word in incredulity. She had meant to say the word
myelogram,
a follow-up procedure she was recommending on a postoperative spine patient. Instead, the word she saw on the computer screen was
murder
. The horror.

She wanted to blame it on the late night, the stress of the trial, the combination of alternating sleeping pills with caffeine pills and the other stimulants on which she relied in an attempt to maintain a steady balance of sleep and wakefulness. No. She had cracked under the pressure. After deleting the word one letter at a time, she called Jimmy and left a message requesting that he meet with her.

“You know I’m not coming back, Jimmy. You know that’s why I’m here.”

“Alexa, you just need more time. You…You’ll be able to come back. Perhaps after the trial is over. You can still make partner next year. You need more time, that’s all.”

Don’t fight me, Jimmy
. “I can’t do it anymore.” She tried to sound strong and unwavering, but the abrupt change in the pitch of her voice conveyed her apprehension.

“Is it the nightmares?” he pressed.

Damn.
My loose lips have said too much.
The vivid nightmares she’d been having since the incident were so frequent, so commonplace in her daily routine — occurring nearly every time she closed her eyes — that sometimes she doubted she was ever asleep to begin with. It slipped out once to Jimmy in passing. She had mentioned them indifferently, as if they were discussing the weather, and hadn’t expected him to remember it. But of course, Jimmy Thornton would remember that moment.

“You’re still having the nightmares?” He stood abruptly, his questions becoming louder and more assertive.

Are you actually concerned?

He paced beside her now, his words and footsteps quickening. Her hand covered the queasy sensation developing in her stomach. Having put on such a strong front for so long, it pained her to acknowledge the nightmares to others.

Every night, when she drifted into sleep, the dark man with the yellow eyes crept into her dreams. Every slumber, he attacked. Sometimes he raped her. Sometimes he maimed her. Sometimes he killed her. Although unsuccessful in life, he had great success in the afterlife.
He
was the victor now.

“Yes, Jimmy. I’m still having the nightmares.” Her voice quivered. The nightmares became insomnia and spurred the sleeping pills. Alexa quickly tallied last night’s concoction — one-hundred milligrams Benadryl, twenty-five milligrams Phenergan, and a shot of NyQuil for good measure. She experimented with a variety of mild sedatives, hoping not to become addicted to any one substance.

Jimmy stood behind her now, his hand dropping onto her shoulder like so many times before. He’d done this frequently in the three years they worked together. She hated that it had taken her nearly a year to realize his predominant goal was to place himself above and behind her so he could gaze down her shirt. He paused in that location, and she felt his eyes drift to her neckline. But there was nothing for him to see from his familiar vantage point.
You pervert.
She seethed.
I’ve buttoned my blouse clear to the chin today.

His hand fell to his side, and his words turned firm. “What you need, Alexa, is a gun. Get yourself a handgun, and learn how to use it. Go to a shooting range and shoot it often.” His advice turned fatherly now. “A gun buys you peace of mind. Buy a gun. Love your gun, use your gun, and you won’t be scared of that son-of-a-bitch anymore.”

She nodded, but his words were slow to sink in. In spite of the antacids, the sour burn in her belly progressed, and she pushed her fist into her midsection, trying to force it away.

There were other things Jimmy Thornton said. She didn’t absorb them all. When it was clear that their conversation was coming to a close, Alexa stood. She reached out to shake his hand, but he stepped in for a hug. It was awkward, but it felt good to feel the arms of a man — even this man. The embrace lasted too long, and she squirmed away from his grasp. His eyes met hers; there was longing in them.
Maybe that look is more than lust. Maybe a part of him is in love with me.
With that thought, she told him goodbye.

Her meeting had lasted longer than she expected, and the ancillary staff was trickling in from their lunch breaks. She avoided their glances and hurried out the door, leaving the Radiology department for good.

CHAPTER 3

O
n her way out of the hospital, Alexa paused outside of the emergency department while a young man in his twenties lying on a gurney rolled by. The man wore a c-collar, and his face was speckled with blood. Two uniformed male police officers accompanied him; a red-headed officer with a face like a horse and a tall, thin, slightly balding man. These were the same officers dispatched the night of the incident. The horse-faced man had talked with the bouncer that night, and they both thought Alexa was a prostitute. He’d seemed amused by her story, treating her situation with a subtle sense of humor rather than the gravity she demanded.
An ass with an ass’ face, how fitting
. She cast a steaming glare at the men, and then turned her head before they could notice her.

The horse-faced man’s questions had only stopped when the detective arrived. Her thoughts went to Detective Kevin Marcum, the slightly overweight and average-height man in his early forties, who began interrogating her that night after a brief introduction. She began telling him her story, but he didn’t want a narrative, only the answers to his questions. “Where were you leaving? Where were you headed?” He wanted to know the timing of the night’s events. He asked specifics about the attack. “Where did the knife come from? Who stabbed first? When and how did you gain control of the knife? How were you able to stab your attacker?” He seemed particularly intrigued by Alexa’s ability to slit Jamar’s throat.

“Miss DeBrow, most victims aren’t capable of making such calculated moves when facing an attacker. The fact that you were able to cut through your attacker’s carotid artery with such precision speaks volumes. I can’t help but think that you are either well-trained with a knife, or you’ve done this before.” She shrugged at what seemed like an empty comment. But his words would come back to haunt her. Now she realized it was an accusation rather than an intrigue.

Her knowledge of anatomy directed her aim that night. Perhaps she should have been clearer about that to begin with. Instead, her precision with the knife led Marcum to think that Alexa was not the victim she claimed to be, and that she killed on purpose. He indicted her on multiple weak charges of criminal homicide against her attacker, Jamar Reading, a forty-year-old African American who worked at a fish market for the four months preceding his death.

Travis County police, led by Marcum’s investigation, deemed Jamar’s death an unreasonable use of force following his attempt of forcible rape. Detective Marcum assumed the media spotlight and worked closely with the prosecution. He seemed determined to hold her accountable.

Alexa hurried past the ER before the horse-faced man could recognize her, although it seemed very unlikely he would find any resemblance between the polished young lady before him and the blood-covered
hooker
he met on the street that fateful night.

She stopped off at the lab just down the hall to pick up her second set of blood work. Alexa glanced at the paperwork.
Hepatitis C: Negative.

Jamar’s blood was tainted with hepatitis C, a consequence of a lifetime of dabbling in IV drug usage that produced his jaundice eyes. His blood had mingled with hers via the cut on her thigh. She exhaled; relieved she wouldn’t acquire his yellow-tinged sclera.