Ties That Bind (4 page)

His pulse was pounding when he closed his door. He sat down and stared at the white notepaper with his nervous scrawl. On his desk was a photograph of Cindy and Megan. Kerrigan squeezed his eyes shut. His blood roared in his ears.

Kerrigan reached for his phone and dialed Ally’s number. The receiver felt hot in his hand. The phone rang twice. Kerrigan’s grip tightened. He started to hang up.

“Hello?”

It was a woman. Her voice was husky.

“Hello?” she repeated.

Kerrigan replaced the receiver on the cradle, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back. What was he thinking? His heartbeat was rapid enough to alarm him, so he took long, deep breaths. After a moment, he picked up the phone and dialed again. Cindy answered.

“Hi, hon,” he said. “I caught a break. Tell Megan I’ll be home soon.”

“This won’t take long.” Frank walked over to her desk and handed her a thick file. “It’s that new case I picked up in Coos Bay, the murder. There was a search at Eldrige’s summer cabin and I want your opinion. I dictated a memo on the points I’m interested in. I’d do it myself, but I’m off to Roseburg for a hearing.”

“Can’t this wait until the morning?”

“I have to make some decisions in the case early tomorrow. Come on, help me here.”

Amanda sighed. “You can be a real pain in the ass sometimes.”

Frank grinned. “Love you, too. I have to be in court at nine in the morning, so call my motel room around seven. The number is clipped to the file.”

As soon as the door closed, Amanda opened the file. When she pulled out a stack of police reports, some crime-scene photographs fell onto her blotter. One showed a woman’s body sprawled on a beach where the tide had left her. Close-ups of her bloated and ravaged face documented the destruction the sea and its creatures had wreaked on her humanity.

A horrible memory overwhelmed Amanda. Without warning, she was naked, her hands bound, running in the dark, prodded by the point of a sharp knife. She fought for air, her breath coming in short gasps, just as it had on that terrible night in the tunnel. For a moment she even thought that she smelled damp earth. Amanda jammed her fist into her mouth to keep from screaming. She flung herself out of her chair and huddled on the floor in a corner of her office, bringing her knees to her chest and squeezing her eyes shut. The blood had drained from her face. Her heart was racing.

Amanda had a very clear memory of the first time she saw an autopsy photograph. She had graduated from New York University School of Law near the top of her class and had been offered a clerkship at the United States Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit. One morning, Judge Buchwald had asked her to review the file in a death penalty case. From the briefs, Amanda learned that the defendant’s wife had died from shock after he shot her in the shoulder with a shotgun. Shortly before lunch, Amanda noticed an innocuous-looking brown envelope buried under some papers. She became curious and opened the flap. The envelope contained a stack of photographs. When she turned the first one over, she almost passed out. In retrospect, this black-and-white photograph of a dead woman on an autopsy table had been rather tame. The only wound was in the victim’s shoulder. Without color, it was hard for Amanda to tell that she was seeing torn and mutilated flesh. Still, she had been dizzy and disoriented for the rest of the day.

In the intervening years, Amanda had viewed photographs portraying every manner of cruelty that can be inflicted on a human being. Soon the most gruesome sights had no effect on her. Then the surgeon—a sadistic murderer—had entered her life. Policemen or medical examiners are sometimes viewed as callous by civilians who hear them cracking jokes while standing over a victim, but people who deal with violent death on a daily basis have to shield themselves from the horrors that they encounter, so they can continue to function. Amanda’s trauma had ripped away her shield.

When Amanda opened her eyes, she saw where she was. She didn’t remember hiding in the corner. She had no idea how she’d gotten from her desk to the floor.

Amanda changed into sweats and went to her liquor cabinet. She was still upset by her reaction to the autopsy photographs and she needed a drink. The doorbell made her jump. Who . . . ? Then she remembered. She looked at her watch. How had it gotten so late? She peered through the peephole. Mike Greene was in the hall. He had a bouquet of flowers. Shit! What was she going to do?

Mike had been the prosecuting attorney in the Cardoni case, and Amanda had gone out with the deputy district attorney a few times since its violent conclusion. Mike was a bear of a man, with curly black hair and a shaggy mustache. Despite having a body that made people think football or wrestling, he had never competed in any sport. Greene was a gentle soul who played tenor sax with a local jazz quartet and had a passion for chess. She knew that he also cared about her, but she found it impossible to make any kind of emotional commitment since her encounter with the surgeon.

“Hi,” Mike said when Amanda opened the door. Then he saw the way she was dressed.

“I’m sorry. I forgot we were going out.”

Greene could not hide his disappointment. She felt terrible.

“I’m not feeling well,” she said, only half lying. She felt drained and knew that she’d never have the energy to make it through their date. Greene’s shoulders sagged. The hand holding the bouquet dropped to his side.

“What’s going on, Amanda?”

She lowered her gaze, unable to look Mike in the eye.

“I know I should have called.”

“I thought you forgot about our date.”

“Don’t cross-examine me,” Amanda snapped, angry at being caught in a lie. “We’re not in court.”

“No, we’re not,” Mike said evenly. “There are rules in court. People have to follow them. You seem to be playing by your own rules when it comes to the two of us, and I have no idea what they are.”

Amanda looked down at the rug. “I’m going through some . . . things. I just . . .”

She broke off and walked half way to the window. A river of headlights was flowing across the Freemont Bridge. She fixed on the lights.

“Look, Amanda, I know what you’ve been through, so I’ve tried to be understanding. I . . . I like you. I want to help.”

“I know, Mike. I just can’t . . . .”

She shook her head, her back still to him. She waited for him to say something, but he didn’t speak and she did not hear him move. When she turned, she saw that Mike had laid the flowers on the coffee table.

“If I can help, call me. I’ll be there for you.”

Mike left, taking care to close the door quietly. Amanda sat on the couch. She felt terrible. Mike was so nice, and Amanda felt safe with him. She wondered if that wasn’t what attracted her to him.

An image of Toby Brooks flashed into her head. If Mike made Amanda think of a teddy bear, Toby made her think of a cat. He made her think of someone else, too. She started to feel the way she had at the office. Fear began to overwhelm her again, and she struggled to hang on. All of a sudden, she was sorry that she had sent Mike away. She needed someone with her. She did not want to be alone.

Jasmine would not be the first prostitute he’d been with but, somehow, Kerrigan knew that Ally Bennett would be different from the others—different from any woman he’d ever been with. Her breasts would be perfect, her buttocks would be exquisite, and her mouth would perform miracles. “Tell me what you want,” she would say, and he would tell her what he needed, he would tell her the things that he could never tell Cindy.

Someone knocked on his doorjamb. Tim’s eyes opened. Maria Lopez was standing in the doorway, looking like she’d lost her best friend. Kerrigan dropped his feet to the floor. He was suddenly aware of the ringing of a phone and the murmur of conversations outside his office.

“Do you have a moment?”

Tim managed a nod. Maria crossed the room and sat down.

“What’s up?” Kerrigan asked the young DA.

“A hiker found Lori Andrews in Washington Park.”

“Ah shit.”

“It’s Dupre. He killed her.”

“You know that for a fact?”

Lopez shook her head. “But I know he did it.” She rubbed her forehead. “I saw the pictures, Tim. She was naked. She’d been beaten so badly. Then that bastard dumped her like a sack of garbage.” Maria paused. She looked devastated. “Her little girl will probably go into foster care.”

“Don’t beat yourself up like this. We all make mistakes,” Kerrigan said unconvincingly, thinking of his own.

“On the first play from scrimmage, Oregon’s star running back ran sixty-five yards and Oregon was only down by thirteen. Michigan missed a field goal with seven minutes left on the clock. Two plays later, the same running back sliced through Michigan’s line again for forty-eight yards and cut Michigan’s lead to six. The teams traded field goals. When Oregon took over for its final series on its own ten, there were only forty-three seconds left on the clock.

“Oregon’s quarterback had a good arm. Everyone expected him to fling a pass toward the end zone and pray for a miracle. Instead, he handed off to his back one more time. Ninety yards later, Oregon was the national champion. That year no one questioned who deserved the Heisman Trophy as the nation’s best college football player.

“Now most young men who win the Heisman make millions by turning pro, but this young man was cut from a different cloth. He went to law school. As we all know, many young law-school graduates sign on with firms like mine, but this young man showed his character.” Barbera paused while the audience laughed. “He turned his back on riches once again and opted instead for a job with the district attorney’s office here in Portland, where he has dedicated his life to public service ever since.

“When I learned that this year’s convention was going to be in Oregon I knew immediately who I wanted as our keynote speaker. He is one of the greatest college football players who ever lived, he is a great prosecutor, but most important, he is a man of great integrity and an example to us all.

“So, it is with great pleasure that I introduce our keynote speaker, Tim Kerrigan!”