Tainted Mind (4 page)

Ian felt, more than saw, Vivienne's gaze bounce to him. He didn't need to look at her to feel her censure. Without a word, she swung her light back to the body.

“She was restrained,” she stated.
That
got his attention. He came down onto his haunches beside her. “You can see where there is some damage to the bones.” She shined the light on each wrist and each ankle in turn. He examined the illuminated bones and, sure enough, he could see a couple of small, straight lines, each about a half an inch long.

His stomach went flat. “She fought the restraints.”

“Yes, she did,” came the quiet confirmation.

“Can you tell what it was? Rope?”

She shook her head. “With a mark like that, it's more likely to be something like a metal shackle.”

“A shackle?”

“Hhmm, and,” she paused again, leaning forward, “it looks like she was restrained lying down with her arms up over her head.”

“As opposed to sitting or standing?”

“I wouldn't rule anything out, but based on the location of the damage, I'd look at a restraint system that tied her down from below.”

“So she might have been tortured?” he asked. At this, her eyes swung to his and he realized he'd just given her more information
about himself, about his life, than he'd intended. Torture probably wasn't the first thing your average small-town cop would've come up with.

“And possibly sexually assaulted,” she agreed, returning her gaze to the body.

“Any indication of that?”

She shook her head. “Not from what I can see, but given her age and the evidence of restraints, I would say it's a possibility. When was the last time this road was repaved?” she asked, shining the flashlight onto the layers of blacktop Ian's crew had sliced through to reach the body.

“Three years ago, after a big storm. Is that the time of death?”

Dr. DeMarco shook her head. “You'll have to run more tests to know the time of death, but at least you know the dump date.”

“Can you do a reconstruction?”

Her eyes shot to his again, and a look of annoyance crossed her features. He was pushing and he knew it. Asking her in front of everyone else, making it harder to say no, was a strategic move. And, judging by her expression, a bad strategic move at that.

“I think I'm done here,” she said, turning away from him in more ways than one. After one last look at the body, she stood, handed Ian the flashlight, then moved to read Wyatt's badge.

“Officer Granger,” she said. “You should know I've been doing this kind of work for a while now, and it can get to you.” Wyatt's eyes darted to Ian's, but the young man was listening to Dr. DeMarco. “All the successful agents I know,” she continued, “all the best detectives and everyone else who works these kinds of cases—every single one of them—they all have the same thing in common.”

“What's that, ma'am?” he asked, as if asking for her permission to ask the question.

“They have all somehow learned how to preserve their humanity—to keep themselves from assuming the worst in every person or every situation, to maintain their belief that there are good people in the world. It's a unique ability in this field and sometimes the only thing that keeps us sane. Keep it, Officer Granger, it will serve you well, I promise.” Her words were spoken to Wyatt, but Ian knew they were meant as much, if not more, for him.

“Thank you, ma'am,” the young officer smiled. Ian was certain Wyatt fell a little bit in love with Vivienne DeMarco in that moment.

“You're welcome. And don't let anyone else tell you otherwise,” she added as she turned toward the Jeep. “I'm ready to go, Deputy Chief MacAllister.”

“I need another few minutes. Go ahead and wait in the car.” It was childish, he knew. He didn't need another few minutes, but he also didn't like being reprimanded, veiled or not, in front of his reports. Especially when she was right. Without a word, she ducked under the tape and headed back toward his Jeep.

Forty-five minutes later, he made his way toward his car. His empty car. He ran a hand over his face and cursed himself. And then he laughed—for the first time in a long time. He had to admit, she had style. She didn't like the way he'd handled her, so rather than sulk, she'd taken matters into her own hands.

He found her walking alongside the road about a half mile from town. He slowed his Jeep and rolled down the window.

“Want a lift?”

“No thanks, I'm almost there.” She didn't bother to look at him.

“Sorry I put you on the spot.”

“Call me crazy, MacAllister, but I don't like being manipulated or lied to.” Her pace didn't slow.

“I didn't lie to you.”

“Yes, you did. You're not sorry you put me on the spot asking for the reconstruction. You may be disappointed that I didn't cave, but you're not sorry you tried.”

He let out a huff of air. Dr. DeMarco was right. But it was easy for her to say no. She didn't have an unidentified body to deal with. And he told her so. For some reason that stopped her cold.

“You think this is
easy
for me?”

Ian put his car in park and hit the emergency blinkers as she crossed the road and halted at his window. “How many murders has this area seen in the last ten years?” she asked.

He had looked into it as soon as they'd found the body so he didn't have to think about his answer. “Two.”

“Let me guess, bar brawls or domestic violence?”

Wherever this was going, it wasn't good. “One of each,” he answered.

“Now I'm not saying you haven't seen your fair share of death, MacAllister. I'll bet you have. Special Forces of some sort?”

“Rangers,” he answered with a frown. “How did you know?”

“Because you seem the sort.” She waved a dismissive hand at him that he liked even less than the comment, but before he could respond, she continued. “I've been working cases like this for over eight years. More if you count my work while I was still in residency. Do you know how many bodies I worked on last year?” It was a rhetorical question. “Over 300,” she supplied. “Think about that, MacAllister. Think about how many bodies I have worked with over the years. How many murders—how many children, parents, wives, and husbands that is. How much anger, pain, anguish, and guilt I've seen.

“I literally can't remember the last time I had more than a day off because there is always,
always
someone new that can use my help. Some husband who needs closure for the murder of his wife. Parents who are desperate to find their child, even if they know that child is dead. How do you say no to that? How can
anyone
possibly say no to that? So no, this isn't easy for me. It's not easy stepping away and taking the break everyone says I so desperately need. It's not easy knowing that I could be somewhere helping someone bring closure or justice to a senseless death. But I have finally found the courage to take that time for myself before I'm useless to everyone. Before I'm useless to myself.”

She was breathing hard and he could see her pulse beating a rapid rhythm in the hollow of her throat. And, though she probably wouldn't admit it, she was blinking back tears.

“Believe me, MacAllister,” her voice quieted. “Nothing about this is easy.”

It wasn't often that Ian was speechless, but she had rendered him that. Taking advantage of it, she turned and walked away. He let her go, watching her figure disappear down the road, and sat thinking about her words.

When he walked into The Tavern, his eyes found the doctor before the door closed behind him. She was nursing a beer at the bar, staring into the empty space between her and the bottles stacked neatly behind
the counter across from her. She looked up when he approached her, a look of disinterested curiosity on her face.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

Her expressionless eyes gazed back at him. Then she shrugged it off.

“Have you ordered dinner?” he asked.

She arched an eyebrow at his gall, and he almost smiled.

“I need to eat. I thought maybe we could eat together. I promise not to talk about the case.”

She gave him a look, as if wondering what they might talk about if not the case, but then accepted with a nod of her head. After telling him she'd already ordered, she motioned toward a table in the back. He placed his dinner order with Rob, grabbed a beer, and joined her.

“So, how was your hike this morning?”

She looked surprised by the question but rolled with it. “It was good. It's beautiful around here. I can see why my aunt loves it. Very bucolic, reminds me of England.”

“Did you meet Angus?”

“Angus?”

“Old guy, looks a little crazy, but—”

“Mostly harmless?” She finished his sentence and he nodded. “Yes, I did. How did you know?”

“You paused on your way back down to the lot and looked up the hill, like you were looking for someone.”

“Ah,” she said with a small smile. “He seemed an interesting character. Offered me a dram of whiskey from his flask. Said I looked like I needed it.” She paused. “I'm pretty sure that was an insult, but it was hard to tell with him.”

Ian smiled. “If he offered you a drink, it wasn't an insult. So, tell me how you ended up here in Windsor?”

“Like I said, I'm on a leave of absence. I was just driving through.”

“On your way where?” He was trying to be chatty, but his skills were rusty and he knew his questions came out sounding more like an interrogation.

“To wherever I decide to go next.”

He smiled again. “Not much of a conversationalist, are you?”

She let out a small laugh at that. “Now, are you the kettle or the pot?”

“I'm trying,” he pointed out. She gave him a look. “I've just never met anyone like you before,” he offered. One of her eyebrows shot up. “And I don't mean that as a pickup line. I mean I've never met a forensic psychologist before. I've never met anyone who has managed to work for both federal and state law enforcement.”

“I'm good at what I do.”

“I'm sure you are, and you don't need to get defensive with me.”

“That remains to be seen.”

She had a point, given what he'd done to her earlier in the day. But still, he was a fixer, so he asked. “Is it just with me or are you always on the defensive?”

She let out a long-suffering breath. “Do you know what percentage of women work in the Boston PD?”

Ian shook his head.

“A small fraction of a minority percent,” she answered. “I'd finished my medical residency, my PhD, and the police academy when I joined up at the age of twenty-eight. I'm pretty good at not letting things get to me, but sometimes they do.”

He sat back and took a sip of his beer. It couldn't have been easy joining such a predominantly male organization with her credentials and at her age. Come to think of it, it probably wouldn't have been easy to join any professional organization with her credentials at her age. Doing the math, he realized she must have started college early and finished fast. A regular child prodigy. It gave a little insight into Dr. DeMarco's character and he could deal with that.

“Like I said, you don't have to be defensive around me.” He had no problems accepting highly capable women in law enforcement or anywhere else. Good was good, regardless of gender.

“Well, like I said, that remains to be seen. How did you find out about me?”

“I have a buddy with the FBI.”

“Which team?”

“His Assistant Director is a woman by the name of Sharon Titus.”

“He must be good, Sharon only works with the best.”

“He said the same thing about you.”

“And what about you? How did you end up here?”

Which reminded him. “What did you mean that I ‘seem the type’ to have been special forces?”

Rob chose that moment to bring their dinners. She took a sip of beer while the food was laid out. He'd ordered a big shepherd's pie. She'd ordered the ploughman's meal of local cheeses, homemade Irish bread, and a salad. No frills and entirely serviceable—some protein, carbs, and greens, nothing more or less. It told him something about the woman across the table and while it hadn't been a line when he'd told her he'd never met anyone like her, the more these little details interested him, the more it was beginning to feel like one.

“Your intensity and confidence that borders on arrogance,” she said, answering his earlier question.

“What?” he asked, coming back to the conversation.

“It's what gave you away as special forces of some type.”

“Arrogance?”

“It's not a bad thing. Given what you guys do, a little arrogance can go a long way to saving your ass, or someone else's,” she added. “You were injured.” It wasn't a question.

“IED.”

“In the left leg?”

He nodded.

“You have a slight limp—nothing too noticeable to someone not in my line of business. So, how did you end up here, in Windsor?” she parroted his question.

“After my stint recovering in Walter Reed, I needed a place to recover.” Both mentally and physically was unspoken, but judging by the look on her face, understood. “I grew up here. My parents have a farm, a couple of hundred acres out off of County Route 9. It's quiet.”

“You live with them?”

He had to smile at the surprise in her voice. “No. My sister and her husband, when they first got married twenty years ago, built a small place on the north forty, so to speak. They moved out about seven years ago and I live there now.”

“And the job?”

He shrugged, a little uncomfortable. “I needed something to do.”

“But you don't like it all that much?” He was of a mind to tell her tit for tat—if he talked about himself, it was only fair that she do the same. But something held him back and he answered.

“It's not always an easy transition from being a soldier to being the police. People think it's a no-brainer, but the skills are different. It's not that I don't like it, per se, but breaking up bar fights and stopping underage drinking is a far cry from what I was doing.”

“Then why do you do it?”

That was the million-dollar question. “Right now, I do it because they need someone to do it. Will I do it forever? I don't know. Maybe it will be different when I settle in more.”