“Please. Tell me why. Why Amy? Why Ian?”
“I wish I could tell you, Claire. But that's a question for a higher power.”
Claire looked at her sharply. “Oh, come on. We're doctors. We turn to science for the answers.”
Fairborn nodded gently. “Science can never tell us why your friend Amy was kidnapped or why Todd Quimby murderedâ”
“But it can. Todd Quimby had schizoid personality disorder,” Claire said, as if reciting from a textbook. “He should have responded to the meds I prescribed.” Claire put her head down and sobbed harder.
“You're looking for answers where there are none,” Fairborn said.
“What am I going to do?” Claire cried.
“Forgive yourself.”
“I don't know how.”
Fairborn paused, considering how to respond. Then she faced Claire, taking her by both arms. “Remember when you interviewed Quimby for the first time? How you struggled and struggled, and finally you got him to spill his guts? He was your first patient at Rikers and you hit a home run.”
“And then I dropped the ball.”
“Because you're human, Claire. We all are. We can't predict how we're going to act from minute to minute, let alone predict how others will act. We want to tell ourselves that we can explain behavior if we have enough information. But there's a human factorâour patients don't tell us everything. And God only knows what they don't want to tell themselves. Or what we don't want to tell ourselves.”
Claire looked at Fairborn, her face pleading for something to hang on to.
“I know you're in pain. It's not going to go away tomorrow, or the next day, or even next month. It will get better with time. But only if you stop blaming yourself for what happened to these women. And to Ian. And to your friend Amy.”
The tone in Fairborn's voice made Claire believe it was possible.
“I'll try,” Claire said. And she closed her eyes tight against the world and its cruelty.
Â
Todd Quimby lay on the autopsy table, his chest precisely cut open in the Y incision, a victim of his own mother's cruelty, who then set out to turn his rage on others. ME Ross looked down at Quimby's body and examined the dead man's heart. It looked normal, like any other man's his age. Ross smiled to himself. There were no signs inside it of the evil Quimby bore. There never were in all the killers' hearts Ross had examined.
And then Ross looked at Quimby's lungs.
That's odd,
he thought.
Why have the blood cells in his lungs burst?
Ross decided to take samples of the water from Quimby's lungs and send them to the lab.
Maybe there's a good explanation for this,
he thought.
Science will give me the answer
.
It always does
.
C
HAPTER
19
N
ick sat at his desk staring at eight manila case folders, seven of them holding the story of a life Todd Quimby had viciously ended. The last and thickest file belonged to Quimby himself. Nick could almost feel them all staring back at him, asking the same question he was: Why?
He'd explain to the families of the seven young victims that Quimby's killing spree was most likely borne of some deep-seated mental illness. Then he asked himself,
Is it my job to answer that question? Isn't it enough that we seek justice for the dead? Whatever God does, he does for a reason. Good people get murdered; good people commit suicide.
Good people go blind.
And yet, buried in those files, Nick couldn't help but think that there had to be an answer. It was human nature to want a reason, an explanation for why seven innocent people had been brutally murdered.
A week after Quimby's grand finale of snuffing the life out of three people in one night, he remained a mystery. Nick knew he would remain that way forever. Because with Quimby dead, Nick would never have the chance to interrogate him, to extract a confession where he would admit what he did, maybe even proudly, as some of them were known to do, with a sick, twisted smile on his face. There would be no trial, where the victims' families would see justice done as Quimby was convicted by a jury of his peers and sentenced to spend the rest of his miserable life in prison.
Nick felt cheated.
Face it, life is never fair
.
Nobody knew that better than he did.
He lifted his head, his failing eyes still able to take in the activity in the squad room, which was quiet tonight. Like the entire city, Nick mused, now that Quimby's wretched soul was in hell.
Over the week, Nick's stock as a cop had skyrocketed from zero to hero status. He'd given dozens of interviews, the media carnivores forgetting all about their vendetta against him after the death of his wife. His valor erased their animosity, as if the suicide of Jenny Lawler had never happened. They were all a bunch of douche bags. Nick smiled as he considered the irony.
Big hero. I couldn't even drive the damn car.
His reverie was interrupted by a stapled sheaf of papers landing on his desk. Nick looked up to see Lieutenant Wilkes walking away.
“What's this?” he asked.
“I gotta teach you how to read too?” Wilkes said gruffly.
Nick picked up the papers. It was a fax from the medical examiner's office.
Todd Quimby's autopsy report.
“Any highlights?” Nick shouted to his boss.
“Big surprise. The bastard drowned. Nothing unusual pending toxicology results. Cause of death is being a lousy driver. Finish your fives and close those cases out.”
The thick files on Nick's desk were lined up in the order in which the murders occurred. Nick instinctively pulled out the one on the rightâQuimby's last kill.
Detective Maggie Stolls.
In the NYPD, a cop killed in the line of duty is entitled to what is called an “inspector's funeral,” though the moniker had for decades been considered a joke. The rank of inspector was roughly equivalent to a colonel in the army, and only one inspector had died on the job in the police department's history.
Still, Nick had been at the church on Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn, along with thousands of other cops, some from as far away as California, to mourn Maggie's untimely death. Privately, many questioned her judgment for letting Quimby into the safe house without calling for backup and thought she'd brought her demise upon herself. The one or two jerks with the stones to mention that within earshot of Nick quickly found themselves up against the nearest wall with Nick in their faces assuring them they would never have a fraction of the guts Maggie had.
Maybe all the guts in the world didn't matter when you're up against a madman,
Nick thought.
Or maybe I'm telling myself that because I feel responsible for Maggie's death. If I'd only gotten there earlier ...
“Excuse me,” came a voice from across the room. “Is Detective Lawler here?”
Nick looked up, alarmed. He knew that voice, and the man who owned it had no business in the city of New York, let alone in this squad room.
“I'm Detective Savarese,” Tony said, rising from his chair and heading toward the doorway. “Can I help you?”
“I got it, Tony,” Nick said, bolting to the door in a preemptive strike he knew was futile. The voice belonged to Dr. Frank Mangone, his ophthalmologist from Boston. Other than Claire Waters and his mother, he was the only person on the planet who could reveal Nick's secret.
Nick tried to play it down, as if he'd been expecting Mangone. “Nice to see you,” he said to the doctor, shaking his hand. “Why don't we talk outside?”
A minute later, the two men emerged from the precinct onto the street.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Nick demanded.
“I should ask you the same question,” Dr. Mangone replied, matching Nick's anger and not missing a beat.
“How did you find me?” Nick snapped.
“You're not much of a cop if you can't figure that one out,” the doctor said. “Your picture's all over the Internet. Congratulations on catching your serial killer.”
“And that gives you license to stalk me?”
“It gives me license to stop you from killing someone.”
“I'm not going to kill anyone, Doc. I'm okay. “
“You're going blind and it's not going to get any better. You've got to turn in your gun.”
“Sorry, Doc. Not a chance.”
“Then for Christ's sake, give it to someone. You have no business walking around with that thing.”
“I'm a cop.”
“You can't see a damn thing at night!” Mangone exploded. “Is that how your wife died?”
“What are you talking about?” Nick roared.
“Did you shoot her by accident? Because you didn't see her?”
Nick knew he had to bring it down a notch.
“My wife got her hands on my gun and shot herself with it. Her death has nothing to do with my problem.”
“It's not just your problem anymore. It's mine too.”
“I don't understand,” Nick said as he led the doctor away from the building and down the street, as if they were old friendsâin case anyone saw them.
“I took an oath,” Dr. Mangone began, “to do no harm. By allowing you to continue as a police officer and carry a gun, I'm putting countless people at risk.”
“Are you threatening me?” Nick asked incredulously.
“Call it what you want,” the doctor replied, “but here it is. I'm giving you one month to resign, retire, whatever it is you have to do.”
“Or what?” Nick asked, though he knew full well what was coming.
“Or I call the police surgeon and tell him about your condition.”
Nick gave him the same hard stare he'd given countless perps he was about to nail. Dr. Mangone didn't flinch.
“You can't do that,” was all Nick could muster.
“I can and I will,” returned the doctor. “This is a matter of life or death. If you accidentally shoot the wrong person, their blood is on my hands. I can't live with that.”
As Mangone walked away, Nick knew he meant every word. And Nick was at a loss.
Until he realized what he had to do.
Â
The fluorescent lights have a strange corona to them,
Nick thought as he walked down the hospital corridor. He tried to retreat into his usual denial about his deteriorating vision, but Dr. Mangone's ultimatum an hour earlier had robbed him of that ability.
Nick turned the corner, promptly bumping into one of two doctors walking together, nearly knocking him over.
“Excuse me,” he said hastily. “I wasn't looking.”
“Maybe you should slow down,” the doctor replied. “This is a hospital.”
“Sorry,” Nick said, continuing onward. The office he was looking for was just a few yards ahead, which he covered quickly.
But when he got there, he saw that the nameplate had been removed from the door.
He knocked, waited a few seconds for an answer. There was none.
He turned the knob, which gave way. But he wasn't expecting what he saw when the door opened.
The office was empty, except for a clean desk and two chairs. As if no one had ever been there.
As if Claire had been erased from his life.
Even now he wasn't sure what had driven him to see her. But for some reason he knew he had to.
As he gazed into the empty office, the reason dawned on him.
All his life, Nick had been surrounded by friends. Family. His wife, before she sunk into the depths of major depression. His brotherhood of cops.
Dr. Mangone's promise to reveal his condition changed everything. His wife was dead. His friends wouldn't understand. And his fellow cops would curse him for putting their lives in danger because of his failing eyesight. They'd blame him for what happened to his young partner, Wessel, on the subway tracks the previous week.
And they'd be right.
“Can I help you with something?” came a voice from behind Nick. He wheeled around.
“Dr. Curtin,” Nick said.
“Detective ... ?” Curtin queried.
“Lawler, Nick Lawler,” Nick answered, extending his hand. Curtin shook it.
“I gather you're looking for Dr. Waters,” Curtin replied. “Something about the case?”
“Just closing things out,” Nick replied, “and I had a few more questions.”
“As you can see, Dr. Waters is no longer with us.”
“What happened to her?” Nick demanded.
“You know what happened,” Curtin answered without missing a beat. “You were there, weren't you?” he asked, a bit too accusatory for Nick's taste.
“You know I was.”
“Then you know what she went through,” Curtin replied. “Dr. Waters is taking the rest of the year off. She'll be back again next June.”
Nick had no intention of waiting until then. “Can you give me some contact information?” he asked.
“It's against hospital policy to release any information about patients or employees.”
Nick thought about this. The guy didn't have to be a prick about it.
“Look, Doctor,” Nick started, “I don't know how responsible you hold me for what happened to Dr. Waters, but I was just doing my job, and I'm trying to do it now.”
“Todd Quimby is dead, Detective,” Curtin said. “What could possibly be left for Dr. Waters to help you with?”
“I need statements from her,” Nick replied as nonjudgmentally as possible, “so I can close these cases once and for all.”
Whether Curtin saw through his lie was unclear. Or maybe it was pity. Because Curtin's hard expression softened.
Maybe he can see that I need help.
“Come to my office,” Curtin said, “and I'll have my assistant give you what you need.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Nick said instantly.
“On one condition,” Curtin continued. “If anyone asks, you didn't get it from me.”