The Ties That Bind (8 page)

"In the case of this kind of act," Fiona said
cautiously, "it's about power."

"Probably so," Dr. Benson said. "I'm not an
expert in this type of..." His voice droned off.

"I've done some research, Doctor," Fiona said
after a long pause. "It is mostly theatrics. A game of trust, where
inflicting harm is not the object."

"Yes, harm," Dr. Benson said. "But often
harm has a different meaning to different people. It apparently was different
in this case. The woman, if she hadn't died, would have suffered mightily from
injuries inflicted by the perpetrator."

"Yes," Fiona agreed, remembering her own
situation. "The person who did this must have enjoyed the spectacle of
seeing the woman suffer."

Dr. Benson looked up from his finger cathedral and shook
his head.

"I'm afraid I'm from the old school of morality. Sex
is a mystery and a wonder, something beautiful. To transform it through these
ugly practices, is, for me, beyond the pale." He looked at her curiously
and she averted her eyes.

The conversation was getting personal and she felt the need
to turn its focus back to the victim.

"In my view, I go all the way on her consenting,"
Fiona said. What she needed most was an unquestioning ally against Gail's
arguments.

"How can you be so sure? Just because there weren't
conclusive signs of total resistance."

It wasn't the kind of support she was looking for.

"As you say it may be beyond the pale, but these
practices do exist. It does happen. A young impressionable woman could be ...
well ... might be ... persuaded by someone experienced in the technique of this
kind of seduction." Who was she trying to convince, she asked herself?

"Now there's an area far beyond my expertise,"
Dr. Benson said. "I can only interpret what the body tells me. In this
case the body tells me that it was the recipient of great pain."

"Obviously, she could not have expected things to go
that far..." Fiona sucked in a deep breath. She decided it was time to
retreat. "Anyway it's only a hunch."

"An educated hunch by an experienced detective is no
small thing," Dr. Benson said, smiling.

They talked for a while longer, with Dr. Benson's calls
becoming increasingly persistent. One of them announced Thomas Herbert's
arrival.

"I hate this," Fiona said as she took her leave.
He stood up and kissed her cheek.

"Good luck," he said.

Thomas Herbert was a man who looked and breathed success.
Even deep grieving could not erase the impression that he was a man used to
authority and power. Fiona introduced herself and he took her hand
perfunctorily. His flesh felt cold.

"I can't believe this," he said, keeping stride
with Fiona as they followed an attendant to the body vaults. "I hope I can
handle it, Sergeant."

Before they reached the swinging stainless steel doors,
Gail came up to them, slightly out of breath.

"Sorry, Fiona. The traffic."

Fiona introduced Gail to Herbert, who, despite his
preoccupation, took the time to inspect her. Gail simply could not be ignored.

Walking into the room, which smelled strongly of the
pungent chemicals used to mask the odor of death, they followed the black male
attendant to a body drawer along the wall. The attendant, without the slightest
hesitation, pulled it open.

"Oh God," Herbert gasped as he saw the sculpted
face of his dead daughter. He staggered for a moment, then, with an obvious
effort of will, found some semblance of control.

The ivory-smooth face of Phyla Herbert looked composed,
almost serene. Dr. Benson had seen to that.

"Beyond belief," Herbert muttered, clearing his
throat to stifle a sob. He put out his hand and touched her face.

"My baby," he whispered, tears brimming in his
eyes.

Fiona felt a lump begin in her throat. She glanced toward
Gail, who shrugged with resignation and turned away. The black attendant was
properly somber but indifferent. He had been through the drill countless times
before.

Fiona felt the man's pain. It did not take much of a leap
of faith to imagine her father in that role if events had taken the wrong turn
years ago. The attendant glanced toward Fiona, who nodded, and he closed the
drawer.

Herbert wiped his eyes, took a deep breath, then turned
away and walked with them out of the room. Fiona led him to a small office set
aside specifically for the aftermath of these trying circumstances. There was a
battered desk in a corner and some scattered mismatched wooden chairs.

Herbert slumped in a chair, avoiding their eyes, obviously
trying to collect his thoughts. His ashen face was now flushed and droplets of
perspiration had appeared on his upper lip. Fiona had been through this routine
many times before. Unfortunately, repetition did not lessen the effect on her
emotions.

"We've got to get this bastard," Herbert said
suddenly after a long pause, his lips trembling.

"We will, Mr. Herbert," Fiona said. Herbert
slowly lifted his eyes and looked at them both as if for the first time.

"Frankly," he said with evident scorn, "I'm
not very optimistic."

"I don't understand," Fiona replied. Of course,
she understood. The reputation of the Washington MPD had suffered mightily in
the last few years. Judging from closing ratios, the department seemed a model
of incompetence, which it wasn't. Actually, the closing ratio on mystery
murders, such as this one, was pretty much in line with other cities. But the
gang and drug-related killings, unfortunately, were not as easily closed and
they pulled down the percentages.

Fiona was determined not to debate this point with Herbert.
His mental state made rational argument impossible. Besides, the prevailing
mood everywhere was a general cynicism about the police. In this case, the
essential point of the moment was to get Herbert to cooperate with their
investigation.

"I'm going to see to it that not a stone is unturned
to find the sick bastard who did this," he said, staring at both of them
with obvious contempt. It was not uncommon, Fiona knew, for a victim's relative
to direct his anger and frustration toward the police. At this point any
attempt to defend their position would only make things worse.

"First, I'm going back to Chicago tomorrow to bury my
little girl," Herbert said. "Then I'm coming back here and I don't
intend to leave this town until justice is done."

"Which is exactly our intention, Mr. Herbert,"
Fiona said.

"Is it really?" Herbert asked.

Fiona ignored the sarcasm. Nothing, she knew, could placate
the man while he was in this state.

"Now let's start from the beginning," Herbert
said. Fiona and Gail exchanged glances. The man was putting himself in charge
of the investigation. Still, Fiona decided, it was not the time to challenge
him. Obviously, he was a man used to being the boss and manipulating others.

"The beginning?" Fiona asked. It was more of a
reflex than a question. Where, indeed, was the beginning, she wondered,
instantly sorry that she uttered the remark. She could see that he had
interpreted it as a display of bad attitude.

"Let me say at the onset"—his glance played
between Fiona and Gail—"I have been a United States Attorney and have
turned down numerous opportunities to be on the federal bench. I have both
prosecuted and defended criminals. My firm is one of the most prestigious in
the United States. I am the managing partner of my firm, which employs two
hundred and seventy-eight lawyers. Moreover, I am intimately acquainted with
many of the most powerful figures in this town. I have the clout to make things
happen here and, I warn you in advance, I will go to the ends of the earth to
find the bastard who did this thing to my daughter. Do you get my drift?"

His drift was inescapable. Fiona was feeling less and less
sympathy for the man and more and more for the Eggplant. The Chief would have
to react to the man's pressures and there was no doubt in Fiona's mind that
Herbert could muster the muscle to make the Eggplant sweat and the department
dance.

"Do you understand, girls?" Herbert hissed.

By then, Fiona surmised, he would test her level of
tolerance, but she also knew that she would have to tread carefully. The ace
card she held, his daughter's possible compliance, could be frittered away by a
bungled effort on her part. Worse, she had to continue to hide her suspicions
about Justice Lipscomb. If her first theory held, Herbert would be mortified.
If her second, a long shot, proved correct, Herbert would be shocked into
stupefaction.

Even the revelations of such suspicions without absolute
proof would have negative implications. For him, whether proven or not, it
would be a no-win situation. Deep conflict lay just ahead.

"We girls do understand, Mr. Herbert," Fiona
said, ignoring his deliberate put-down but unable to resist a dollop of vitriol.

"Good. Now." He paused. Her remark seemed to sail
harmlessly over his head. "Are there any leads?"

"None yet," Fiona replied, going along.

"Any hard evidence? Latents? Clues? Have the lab boys
finished their work?"

"Nearly," Fiona replied. "But they're still
plugging along."

"You mean they have nothing?" Herbert demanded.

"Not so far."

"Not so far. Not so far." Herbert slapped his
thighs with his fists. "I can foresee what I'll be getting around here.
Not so far. That will be the operative phrase. Not so far." He suddenly
shot a glance at Fiona.

"I want the best people on this job. Do you
understand? The best."

"Is your implication that you're dealing with less
than that, Mr. Herbert?" Fiona inquired pointedly.

"I think I'd like a little more experience brought to
bear," Herbert said.

"I see," Fiona said nodding her head. It seemed,
at this moment, futile to defend themselves. Again she exchanged glances with
Gail, who returned a look of unqualified support.

"And please. Don't lay any of that gender bullshit on
me. A female detective might do wonders on television, but I'd like to have
someone on this case with years of experience in dealing with crimes of this
nature."

"You mean an all-male team?" Fiona said.

"I didn't say that," Herbert replied, backpedaling.
Fiona was having a progressively difficult time trying to make allowances for
his grief.

"I think perhaps I should consult the Chief,"
Fiona said.

Herbert looked at his watch.

"I'm certain he has been consulted already." So
he had lost no time in putting his muscle to work, Fiona suspected. He was
already calling in his political chits. Poor Eggplant, Fiona thought. She
looked toward Gail and raised her eyes. Prentiss nodded her understanding.

"One thing is certain. We're going to get the man who
murdered my daughter."

At that moment, the Eggplant walked in the door. He looked
harassed and angry as his eyes roamed the room. Of all the places in the world
he would have liked to have been at this moment, this one was, obviously, at
the bottom of the list. Fiona knew exactly what had happened. The mayor had
been leaned on by members of the Illinois congressional delegation.

"This is Thomas Herbert, Phyla Herbert's father. Mr.
Herbert, Captain Luther Greene."

The men shook hands and the Eggplant, in a defensive
gesture deliberately assumed the most authoritative seat in the room, behind
the battered desk. Neither of the men made any effort to be ingratiating to the
other.

"We're pushing every button," the Eggplant began.

"That's not what I've been getting from your
girls," Herbert sneered.

Girls? Hold off, Fiona urged the Eggplant silently. In a
white man, she would have read the reaction on his skin. With the Eggplant, his
eyes told the story. Behind the facade of his official persona, he was fuming.
He appeared to have picked up her silent message. Besides, he had learned the
hard way all about acceptable feminist nomenclature.

"Have we got the pathologist's report,
FitzGerald?" the Eggplant asked.

"I have a verbal report, Captain," Fiona said
crisply. She was about to take Mr. Herbert on his first tour of the minefield
he insisted on traversing. "And these pictures."

She had carried the set of pictures in a manila envelope in
her pocket-book. She slipped them out of the envelope and reverse rolled them
to flatten them.

"Would you care to look at them, Mr. Herbert?"
the Eggplant asked politely. He shot Fiona a glance of approval.

"Of course," Herbert replied.

"I must warn you," the Eggplant began.

"Warning noted," Herbert shot back arrogantly.

He took a pair of gold folding glasses from his jacket
pocket, slipped them from the leather case, opened them and placed them
carefully on his nose. With shaking hands, he picked up the pictures. His
reaction was instantaneous.

"I'm sorry," the Eggplant said. "They're not
pretty."

Swallowing hard, beads of perspiration popping on his
forehead, Herbert tried to hold himself together as he forced himself to look
at the pictures. The flush on his face disappeared and his pallor indicated
that he might be ready to keel over.

"I'll get some water," Gail said, rushing out of
the office. Herbert sighed, shook his head and gave the pictures back to Fiona.
A nerve had begun to palpitate in his jaw and his nostrils flared as he drew in
air. Somehow he managed to pull himself together, and by the time Gail arrived
with the water, he was almost under control, although his hands continued to
shake as he held his glass and drank the water.

"I want to assure you, Mr. Herbert, that we're moving
as fast as we can..."

"But you've got nothing. Not so far..." His
display of vulnerability did not seem to make him less contentious. He cut a
contemptuous glance at the Eggplant. "I won't sit still for that,
Captain."