The Ties That Bind (7 page)

Gail shrugged, leaving Fiona with the impression that Gail probably
did not have any dirty little sex secrets.

Fiona sensed the Eggplant watching this byplay, his head
swiveling from one to the other as if he were watching a tennis match. He was
surprisingly quiet and intent.

"We've certainly seen enough of it in this
business," he said. "Hard to figure how people get their
jollies."

Gail frowned and shrugged and made no comment. But Fiona
was not yet willing to let go of the subject.

"On the other hand, if she had just met this person,
hadn't known him before, he might have sensed in her such a
predisposition," Fiona said.

"You think that's possible?"

"Birds of a feather," Fiona said.

"Out of my realm of experience," Gail admitted.
It seemed to signal a kind of retreat.

"There's still other scenarios," Fiona said cautiously,
aware of her deliberate manipulation. "Take this one. Phyla is out with
some silver-tongued, awesomely important man, who can truly help her career.
She's bright, ambitious, perhaps
'All About Eve'
ambitious. She consents
to go to bed with the man. Maybe is even more aggressive than that. She invites
the man to go to bed with her. She consents to go along with his ... with his
brand of kink. It gets out of hand. Voila."

"I don't know," Gail said, shaking her head.
"It seems ... well ... considering her education and class ... culturally
out of sync."

There it was, Fiona decided. The heart of Gail's reticence.
It was still too early in their relationship to have any real insight about
Gail Prentiss. But Fiona felt she had come a long way in only one day. She
realized, too, that she would have to be extremely guarded in providing any
sisterly revelations, especially of the kind that had been filling her mind all
day.

Fiona noted that the Eggplant had nodded his head after
Gail had made her point. It was clear that he was deeply impressed by her and
Fiona was certain that the racial kinship was a source of pride to him in a
father-daughter sort of way. It struck her then that, despite the physical
awesomeness of Gail Prentiss, she seemed to radiate a tenderness and warmth
that was often absent in upwardly mobile career cops, black or white. It was a
surprise to her that the Eggplant's attitude toward her also seemed warmer, as
if he felt more comfortable with her than with most women, including Fiona.

Yet despite her own kindly feelings about Gail, Fiona did
sense in herself a twinge of jealousy. And regret. What Gail had was inborn and
uncontrived, a soothing force embedded in her own nature. Fiona generated heat
wherever she alighted. Gail had the gift of relating.

"Perhaps the Herbert woman let ambition rule her
better judgment," Fiona speculated further, but without conviction.

"That's a tough one, Fiona," Gail said.

"That's why I'm inclined to stand by consensual,"
Fiona said, coming back to that again, wondering if she was, in her desire to
plant the idea in their minds, overstating.

"I'm not there yet, Fiona," Gail said. In her own
way she was as relentless as Fiona.

Fiona tried to appear laid back, as if she had merely
voiced casual speculations.

"Sexual perversion is a very complex subject,"
Fiona said, pushing ahead, like a bulldozer preparing the road before the
asphalt was poured. She hoped she had assumed a pedagogic air. "I'm
inclined to believe that people who practice specific perversions, in this
case, bondage, sadism, masochism or whatever, know enough of the code words to
find and communicate with each other."

"Her father may not appreciate that kind of
analysis," the Eggplant said. "I would appreciate it, FitzGerald, if
you didn't make my life more difficult for me than it is."

"Believe me, Chief," Fiona sighed, "we'll
walk on eggshells with the man." She glanced toward Gail, who nodded.

"I'm glad you understand that, Sergeant," the
Eggplant said.

"But I'm not ready to deny the theory. Not yet."

Enough, Fiona rebuked herself.

"Just bring me the killer and an airtight case,"
the Eggplant said, standing up. It was his way of announcing that the meeting
was over. "And keep me apprised."

He was remarkably taciturn for a man beset by problems at
every turn. Fiona wondered if the pressure of the job was making him lose his
edge.

"I still feel she was coerced," Gail said, when
they left the Eggplant's office, revealing the obsessive durability of her
logic. Fiona decided that it was not the time to totally challenge her thesis.
Not yet.

There was a subtext here, Fiona knew. The Eggplant had to
be pleased with his decision to pair two women to investigate crimes against
women. In this pairing, Fiona suspected that the Eggplant had been more lucky
than prescient.

He might have expected bickering, backbiting, hysterics and
emotion to surface quickly in such a relationship, maybe even a down-and-dirty
cat fight. Perhaps he wanted an example that might offer a vital comment that
mirrored his opinion about women in a police setting, especially in the
homicide environment.

The fact was that he was getting something exactly opposite
to his expectations and he seemed, inexplicably, to be reveling in it, a
condition that meant he was on the verge of taking credit for introducing what
others might think was a brilliant idea.

Despite their different vantage points, both she and Gail
were viewing the crime through the eyes of the victim, which was the object of
the exercise. On that score Fiona seemed to have the advantage. After all,
she'd been there.

As Fiona expected, Flannagan's tech boys found a plethora
of potential "clues" and a sparse collection of latent prints. A
place of transiency, like a hotel room, was a difficult place to pinpoint a
perpetrator through circumstantial evidence. Remnants of human hair, as well as
other signs of successive human occupation, were everywhere.

Then there was the time-and-motion pressure on the tech
boys. In the murder capital of the world, they were vastly overworked and it was
impossible for anyone in the chain-of-evidence identification process to be as
thorough as homicide detectives would have liked.

"I'm afraid there won't be much to go on here,"
Fiona said, handing the report to Gail. Fiona expressed her disappointment,
although it provided yet another addition to her theory. Farley Lipscomb, a
former prosecutor in his early days, would have the know-how to be quite
scrupulous in removing evidence, wiping down the room carefully to eliminate
everything but the most microscopic clues.

"There still might be some latents," Gail said
hopefully.

"Long shot," Fiona murmured.

Gail frowned.

"You're giving this man lots of credit," she
said, concentrating on studying the photographs of Phyla Herbert's body that
she had gathered from the Eggplant's desk. Lost in thought for a long time, she
finally raised her eyes from the pictures.

"No way," she sighed.

"No way what?" Fiona asked.

"With respect, Sergeant," Gail began, her
yellow-flecked eyes meeting Fiona's.

"I'm a big girl, Gail."

"Your entire theory is based on the idea that the
victim was mostly to blame for her own murder."

Fiona did not lower her eyes, perhaps plumbing the depths
of Gail Prentiss for whatever vulnerabilities lay inside of her. Finally, she
turned away and shrugged.

"It's only a theory," Fiona said again. She could
tell that, barring proof positive, Gail would never buy it.

The following morning Fiona sat in Dr. Benson's office
drinking hot black coffee and hoping it would help chase the effects of a
sleepless night. Gail Prentiss had gone to the Justice Department to see the
person that had interviewed Phyla Herbert. In light of the heavy load of
investigative work on the case, they had agreed on dividing up the tasks.

Fiona looked at her watch. It was nine. In less than an
hour she would be confronted by Thomas Herbert, who would have to go through
the horrifying process of identifying his daughter's body. It would be awful.
Gail had promised to return by then and meet her in Dr. Benson's office.

Dr. Benson studied Fiona with his Cajun blue eyes, his long
fingers constructing a graceful cathedral, the pinnacle of which was placed
just under his chin. He was a handsome man, still on the better side of sixty,
with steel gray hair and skin the color of soft beige leather.

She had long ago appointed him her surrogate father and he
had led her through the darkness of many an emotional valley. For her part, she
was always there for him as well, especially when the numbing and often
depressing nature of his job would coincide with recurring bouts of deep
grieving for his beloved wife, who had died five years before. In Dr. Benson's
case, time was not the vaunted healer it was supposed to be.

Throughout the previous night, she had debated whether or
not to tell him about her experience with Farley Lipscomb and her theory that
he could be the killer of Phyla Herbert. But every time her imagination reached
the brink of revelation, she faltered.

She had no doubt about his reaction. He would be enormously
sympathetic, fully understanding of her agony and guilt, totally supportive and
reassuring. But she feared that he might not agree with her theory, on the
grounds that she was letting personal trauma interfere with her better
judgment.

Between them was a deep and enduring father-daughter type
of relationship, full of love and sharing. She had heard most of his
confessions and he had heard most of hers. But there was a point where few
humans, however loving, were willing or even capable of transcending.

She could not bring herself to reveal the deep complexities
of her sexual nature. It was a subject deliberately evaded between them, which
was probably the norm in most relationships between people of different
generations and genders. She hadn't even summoned the courage, if that's what
it took, to reveal deeply personal sexual secrets to a shrink.

Earlier, she had considered herself cured of any residual
bad side effects of her experience with Farley Lipscomb, like the two-year
attack of frigidity that had afflicted her during her last two years of
college. Last night, however, she had sensed the beginning of a reoccurrence.

As he always did since the beginning of their relationship,
Harrison Greenwald had called late in the evening. She had soaked for a long
time in a hot bath, normally an excellent stress chaser. It had little effect
last night.

For the past six months, they had arranged their time
together around Fiona's days off. Harrison's time was more flexible, although
his practice was exceedingly busy. Their relationship was both intellectually
and sexually satisfying and they derived from each other strong stimulation in
both departments. She looked forward to their time together and it was not
uncommon for them to spend many hours in bed, as they say, exercising the venery.
In fact, talk and sex was their principal and joyful recreation. Nor had the
effects worn off even after six months of such a routine.

But last night in their conversation, she sensed a kind of
blockage, a psychological barrier that made her fearful and insecure about
their physical relationship. It was exactly the feeling she had endured for
those two years after the Farley experience.

"You okay, Fi?" Harrison had asked after their
conversation trailed off into long pauses and dead ends.

"Tired," she had sighed.

"Bad day?"

"Awful."

"I can come over and cheer you up."

"Nothing would help."

"Tomorrow then?"

The thought of sexual congress induced an uncommon sense of
disgust. The old symptoms were recognizable. Years ago it had begun in just
that way, a vague sense of disgust, like imagining rancid food, which took away
the appetite.

"I need my space this week, Harrison," Fiona
said. Harrison was a sensitive man and she knew he could react.

"I thought I was part of your space, Fi."

"You are, darling," she replied, but even she
could hear the tentative note in her voice. "I'm just
discombobulated." She deliberately used the odd slang, hoping to lighten
the atmosphere between them.

"I surrender." He hesitated. "Then
when?"

"I'll call you."

For him it would be another sour note. As she expected,
there was a long pause between them.

"Fi, you sound ominous."

"I'm just in a foul mood, darling. It has nothing to
do with you. Really it doesn't."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure," she said firmly. It was the
kind of repetitive dead-end conversations that they both detested.

Another long pause.

"You just sound so ... so cold," Harrison said.

"Oddly enough, I feel cold," she said, shivering
lightly as she did so. "I need ... I need ... a little patience, darling.
It will pass. I promise."

Hadn't it passed before? she asked herself.

The conversation ended, certainly for Harrison, on a note
of confusion. For her it was frightening. Remembering her two-year ice age
experience, she recalled the agony of isolation. She had tried combating the
frigidity, but she froze at the mere touch of male flesh. Desire had simply
disappeared. There were none of the usual symptoms of arousal. Her genitalia
seemed irrelevant, burdensome. She could not dare to look at herself naked. Her
fantasy life, once rich, varied and sexually exciting, disappeared. The curtain
had come down on sensuality.

Nor were there any compensating feelings. Even her taste
buds seemed to lose power. A kind of indifference invaded all of her senses.
Sights and sounds lost contrast, became dull and uninteresting.

Her body's lack of normal reactions deeply affected her
attitude toward others. She withdrew from social contact, became morose and
perpetually depressed. She endured, coped, but did not seek professional help.
Perhaps it was a legacy from her father, the determination to go it alone,
faith in the power of the mind to work out personal solutions. Or pure Irish
stubborness.

In the end, she was able to tell herself that she had risen
above the trauma. She had begun to feel herself heal, slowly at first, then
rapidly. Fantasy began again just below the surface of consciousness. She began
to rationalize her actions, blaming herself less. She had simply stumbled into
harm's way. Her limits had been tested. Out of this tunnel of despair, she had
emerged, certainly wiser and with a lot better understanding of the sexual
minefields.

How could she possibly discuss this with Dr. Benson? All
night, tossing in her bed, she had concocted scenarios of confession. They did
not survive the light of day.

"Are you happy with your new partner?" Dr. Benson
asked.

"I like her a lot," Fiona replied. "Very
bright. A wonderful specimen of a black woman, bigger than life." Fiona
paused. Interspersed between her agonizing last night she had thought a great
deal about Gail Prentiss. All her life she had searched for a true female
friend.

"And very traditional," she said, which seemed to
weaken the case to make Gail that kind of a friend.

Dr. Benson nodded.

"She adores her father, a man of awesome dignity, tall
and straight as an oak. He hasn't got long, poor fellow. Aside from his skill
as a surgeon he is a man who worships traditional values. He is very wise,
impeccable in his moral stance, the kind of person who commands respect and is
sought after for advice."

"Gail too has that kind of a persona," Fiona
agreed.

Like you as well, Fiona wanted to say. But Dr. Benson
abhorred flattery.

Fiona looked at her watch.

"I think we better get on with it. Mr. Herbert will be
here soon."

"Awful," Dr. Benson said, shaking his head, but
continuing to keep his finger cathedral intact.

"Her anus was violated with a large blunt instrument.
There are signs of trauma everywhere in that organ."

Bingo, Fiona told herself. Not that she needed
confirmation.

"I'd put her death at sometime Saturday
afternoon."

"Afternoon?"

"You look surprised."

"Flannagan figured later in the evening or early
Sunday morning."

"Flannagan is wrong."

It flashed through her mind that her "episode"
with Farley Lipscomb also occurred in the afternoon.

"Any evidence of semen?"

"Oddly enough, no. And there is no sign of
intercourse."

"Any evidence of struggle?"

"Yes. Some."

Dr. Benson became thoughtful for a moment, then destroyed
his finger cathedral, put on his half-glasses and looked at a paper on his
desk.

"There were thirty-one stab wounds on the front
portion of her body." He shook his head and took off his glasses.
"They were messy but they weren't deep. I'd say a Swiss Army knife, a size
larger than a pen knife. Actually there were two neat slices on the carotid
artery, slices, not stab wounds. Very strange."

"Strange?"

"They were made after the woman was dead," Dr.
Benson said.

"Really."

She was shocked and for a moment wondered if this discovery
would shake her theory.

"Not very long after death," Dr. Benson said.
"A kind of after-thought."

She pondered the idea silently for a long moment.

"What was the immediate cause of death?"

"Oh. How could I have neglected the most important
fact? I'd say the cause of death was asphyxiation."

"The gag in her mouth?"

"More than that. I'm speculating now, but I believe
that the gag contributed to blocking her air passages, when she needed them
most. I'd have to check her medical history, but I'd say if you're looking for
a cause of death, the principal culprit could well have been an asthma
attack."

"Are you positive?"

It was, Fiona knew, a kneejerk reaction. Dr. Benson was
rarely wrong.

"About seventy-five percent of the way. It was obvious
that the pain must have been excruciating. But I think she went fast, perhaps
just as she was intensifying her struggle to be released."

"You think the attack was brought on by the ... the
situation?"

"Sometimes these things can't be pinpointed. Certainly
the placement of the gag in her mouth contributed. But we can't be sure. An air
passage was blocked. Asthma is an affliction that results in blocked air
passages. Ergo..."

"A chicken-and-egg situation. Which came first, the
gag or the attack? It does rule out first-degree murder."

"Afraid so, Fiona," Dr. Benson sighed. "Too
bad. This person committed a most beastly act." He paused, remade his
finger cathedral and leaned back on his chair.

"Then, seeing that she was dead, he stabbed her a
number of times, which created the mess we saw in the pictures."

"At least the poor child did not suffer the pain of
the stabbings."

"Do you think he believed that you would not be able
to tell the difference between bloodletting before and after death?"

"Maybe. Sometimes in the press of business, you can't
vouch for the thoroughness of your colleagues. We are understaffed and this is
the worst murder epidemic in the history of Washington."

Fiona's mind turned over possibilities. Faced with this
sudden unplanned death, a man like Farley would have to think things through.
Aside from removing all clues, he would have to create a situation that might
indicate an unhinged mind, a serial killing, something bizarre and brutal
enough to indicate a psychopath, a condition he surely rejected in himself. He
would, therefore, want the crime to look like a slaughter perpetrated by
someone with a deranged mind.

"One thing is certain," Dr. Benson said.
"The man was apparently not a classic necrophiliac. The woman's anus was
damaged when she was alive. And the absence of semen indicates that he did not
ejaculate in the woman's vagina, which someone of this abnormality might do. My
own view is that he was quite clever and wanted the situation to look as if it
was perpetrated by a madman."

"I agree," Fiona said, not willing to reveal that
she was far ahead of him on that point.

These new facts seemed to validate her consensual theory,
but they were hardly compelling enough to accuse Farley Lipscomb. Other men
could also be clever. The woman had, in fact, died by what could be
characterized as an accident. He was gambling on forensic inefficiency, hoping
that his attempt at cover-up would go unnoticed.

"Gail thinks the woman was coerced into participating
in his little charade," Fiona said, fishing for further support for her
theory.

"Could be," Dr. Benson said thoughtfully.

"You said there was little evidence of struggle."

"I said some evidence, but not enough to show a battle
to the end. Which means the woman could have died when the pain reached an
unbearable level. An oversized instrument was put into an organ that could not
properly expand to receive it without inflicting terrible pain." He
shrugged. "I seriously doubt there are people who look forward to that
happening." She caught the contempt in his tone. "This woman was
deliberately brutalized. She could not have consented to that."

"I'm afraid we're in a business, Doctor, where
normality is not the norm."

"Well put, Fiona," Dr. Benson said. "But sex
crimes, as we both know, are a real anomaly. The pursuit of pleasure is always
a secondary consideration."