Without Consent

CHAPTER 1

The scalpel gripped securely between his fingers sent a delicious thrill up his arm. He laid the blade against her abdomen. The ease with which the razor-sharp edge sliced through the creamy white flesh triggered a response that was nearly orgasmic.

The woman’s inert body jerked violently with the first slice, her face twisting into a grotesque mask of pain. He pressed on the stainless-steel instrument and slid it across the taunt skin. She twitched several times, settled, then became still. The drug was working.

He inspected her naked form–so beautiful, so perfect, so calm. He studied the soft swell of her breasts. He saw no movement, but the flicker of the feather he’d taped to her mouth told him she was still breathing. He glanced at the empty syringe.

Maybe next time I’ll use less.

He focused on her abdomen. Cherry-bright blood oozed out of the incision. He picked a white cloth from the nearby table and wiped at the fluid. The fabric became saturated within seconds. He dropped the cloth. The smack of it hitting the cement floor ricocheted like a gunshot through the silent space.

Choosing a large towel, he draped it around the wound. Like long spider legs, blood scrambled along the towel tracing an intricate pattern on the white material. His hands trembled. Each beat of his accelerated heart rate hammered through his head.

He needed to hurry, he needed to finish before the blood stopped circulating, he needed to do this right. Sliding his hands into the incision, he felt a thrill as the heat from her body penetrated his gloves. How long would she stay warm once she’d taken her last breath?

A pool of blood filled the wound, obstructing his view. Damn. He needed to see. He pulled his hand out of the incision and used a dry corner of the towel to wipe away the fluid. The sight of so much blood sent a frigid wave sluicing down his vertebrae. He shuddered

and reached for another towel. Within seconds it consumed the liquid gushing into the naked woman’s abdomen.

He pitched the saturated towel over the table, grinning as it thudded on the cement floor. Dark fluid splattered in irregular shapes. He glanced at the family-sized ice-filled cooler sitting a foot away. Droplets of blood showered the outer plastic and formed unique ink splat patterns. What would a psychologist make of them? His harsh laugh echoed through the room.

The ice inside the cooler glittered like a mountain of diamonds– pure and unspoiled. Expensive, but worth it, the cooler would preserve his treasure for hours. He could use it for beer later. But he couldn’t think of that now. It was late, he needed to extract the organ and get it on ice before it spoiled. Then he could reward himself.

He swabbed the incision. So much blood. And the smell. He closed his eyes and inhaled letting the unique metallic odor fill him. His heart was racing so fast he could feel it pounding against his ribs. Suddenly lightheaded, he leaned into the table until the dizziness passed.

Hurry up. Get it out. Focus.

Willing his fingers to stop trembling, he forced himself to concentrate. He mopped at the pooling blood then inserted his gloved hand into the incision and probed her abdomen.

There it is. His fingers closed around the organ, so soft and slippery and warm. He lifted his hand. Resistance. Pausing, he let his fingers travel the edges of the kidney. Gentle. You don’t want to damage it. He palpated the thin cord of vessel restraining the organ and encircled it with his index finger.

Careful. Don’t be rough. You might bruise it. You know how important a good kidney is. You know what happens to the damaged ones. They can kill people, can’t they?

Sweat trickled into his eyes and clouded his vision. Using the back of his hand, he wiped away the beads of perspiration coating his forehead.

A stainless-steel table sheathed in a thin green towel stood beside the bed. On it, aligned in a neat row, lay several shining silver instruments. With one hand cradling his prize, he reached over and selected a fine–toothed clamp. He slid it into the incision and guided it around the organ. Snapping the tiny teeth over the vessel, he occluded the flow of blood.

He left the clamp in place and reached for the scalpel. Lifting the kidney a fraction of an inch at a time, he paused only when he felt tension on the vessel. He scrutinized the razor-sharp scalpel blade–a finely honed weapon. He had to be careful. It wouldn’t do to slip and leave a trace of his own blood.

Inserting the scalpel into the gaping wound, he guided it beneath his hand. He felt the blade meet an impasse. With a swift slash, he sliced through the tenuous strand. Blood spurted into the incision. Inhaling the scent, his heart skipped several beats, and he became aware of the blood spurting through his own veins.

That was the artery, now for the vein.

He probed for the next vessel, clamping and cutting in a similar fashion. The cavity brimmed with blood. He couldn’t see. But now, it didn’t matter. He had what he wanted. He lifted his hand. He felt resistance. A thin tenuous cord stretched out of the wound. Another vein. Grasping the scalpel, he carved through the connective tissue and the organ came free. For several seconds he nestled the coveted organ as if holding a newborn robin in the palm of his hand. Its warmth seeped through his latex gloves. Below his hand, blood surged into the gaping wound.

He shot a glance at the woman’s face. Mary Jane, her driver’s license said. How plain. He’d call her Gabrielle. Yes, she was more beautiful than a Mary Jane. He smiled at the woman lying unconscious on the stainless-steel table–her ashen cheeks exhausted of their normal rosy coloring, her lips and eyelids tinted a powder blue not derived by artificial means. Dark shadows ebbed into the fragile skin below her staring eyes. An irregular grunt of air erupted from be- between her lips. He had to hurry.

Should I take the time to stitch her up? Yes, finish the job properly.

Laying the organ on the bed of ice, he turned back to the woman. He ripped open a package of fine black sutures and deposited it on the sterile green towel. Attaching the suture to the needle driver, he threaded it through the mottled skin.

He worked quickly. Gabrielle wouldn’t care what her scar looked like.

CHAPTER 2

Doctor Claire Valincourt’s arms pumped in rhythm with the pounding of her feet. She glanced at her watch. Six-fifty- nine. Thirty-one minutes before she started her shift in the emergency room at Grace Memorial Hospital. Eight minutes to get through the park, she’d have lots of time to grab a coffee.

Running with a fierce determination, Claire kept to her usual path through Victoria Park. Today, she didn’t admire the manicured gardens, the stately elms, or the soothing lines of the century homes bordering the park. Today, with her stomach wound in a series of macramé knots, she didn’t give a damn about her surroundings.

Despite attempts to concentrate on the soothing thud of her runners on the pavement, fragments of her sister’s conversation stuck on replay. Well, you know you’ve been gone a long time...Michael got lonely...you couldn’t expect him to wait forever...we didn’t mean to fall in love.

Claire rounded a curve in the path. The screech of bike tires, accompanied by a tirade of curses, brought her to an abrupt halt.

Watch where you’re going, lady.

Sorry, Claire mumbled as made a wide arc around the cyclist and continued along the

path. The humiliation of betrayal raged through her and a tear slid down her cheek. How could he? She’d expect it from Paige, but Michael. Well, to hell with both of them. Claire used the sleeve of her cotton shirt to wipe at a tear. Where’s your pride, Claire? Falling apart over a worthless man.

She saw a flash of red–a jogger. Turning her head to hide her tears, Claire focused on the flowering shrubs bordering the path. Something sticking out below a weigelia bush caught her attention, something pale and white. It looked like a foot.

I can’t believe it. The park is a haven for lovers, but this is ridiculous. It’s seven in the morning. Claire shook her head. You’re just jealous. How long has it been?

When was the last time she’d seen Michael, or even talked to him? She’d been so busy at the hospital. Her residency finished, she’d taken extra shifts in the emergency room and the morgue to pay back her student loans. It had taken her two years, but now she could finally stop scrimping. Maybe it wasn’t entirely Michael’s fault but damn him anyway. If he had to dump her, did it have to be for her sister?

Claire kept jogging. She expected to hear a chorus of giggles or intense moans. She heard neither. Not the slightest sound came from behind the branches. A chill ran down her spine and she experienced a strange sense of unease. She glanced back.

The foot was pale—pale and still. Despite the eighty-plus temperatures, Claire felt as cold as if she’d walked through the doors of the hospital morgue. Hesitantly, she retraced her steps. Maybe the foot would retract into the bush, maybe she’d hear the rustle of fabric as bodies disentangled, maybe she’d hear the giggle of teenage voices. But the hammering of her heart was the only sound she heard. Reaching for the Weigelia bush, she tentatively spread the fuchsia flowered boughs. Finally, another sound—a gasp, a gasp that slid hot and dry across her own lips. She stared at the ground.

A naked woman. Waxy. Pale. Still. Instinctively, Claire reached out her hand. But she knew before she touched the body what she wouldn’t find—a pulse.

Still, the stone-cold firmness of the skin made her recoil. Claire closed her eyes. Another vision invaded her brain—her own body lying in the park behind the high school, bruised and bleeding. She’d repressed the memory, but now it was back punching her in the gut. Maybe it was a dream. A very bad dream. But when she opened her eyes, nothing had changed. The body lay on the grass like a fallen Roman statue.

Claire felt the vein at her neck twitching and felt a wave of nausea. Get hold of yourself. You’re a doctor. You see dead bodies all the time. She pushed the old vision back into the recesses of her brain and forced herself to look at the body.

The woman was Caucasian, in her mid-twenties, with brown hair, and blue eyes. She lay on her back, her skin as pale as chalk, a bluish tinge invading the paleness. Her lips and fingertips, denied blood flow, were as white as the scales of a belly-up fish.

Claire’s gaze traveled down the length of the woman’s torso. A brown stain coated her skin and a fresh incision split the left side of

her abdomen. Several inches in length, it had been crudely sutured together. She’d recently had surgery. Had she wandered unnoticed out of the hospital?

Claire fished her cell phone out of her backpack. Her fingers trembling, she pressed 911.

Her harsh breathing threatened to drown out the dispatcher’s voice. The words tumbled out of her mouth. I need the police, the coroner—there’s a dead body.

Adrenaline raced through her body. She wanted to do something to help, but the woman was past anything Claire could do. Taking a deep breath, her professional side kicked in. She spoke calmly into the phone. It’s a woman—she’s been dead a while. She’s cold. Claire concentrated on the operator’s question.

Where?

The park. Victoria Park. The shrub-lined walkway was a blur of greens and black. What markers had she passed? She heard honking and saw ducks skimming across the surface of the man-made pond. I’m by the pond. By the goose statue.

CHAPTER 3

The call came into the squad room at seven-twenty-three in the morning. Fifteen minutes later Detective Gerry Rosko stood by the goose statue in Victoria Park. The strobe lights of police cars directed them to the site. Two officers were stretching yellow cordon tape across the entrance of the park. Others worked the crime scene—questioning bystanders, blocking the gate, controlling the spectators.

Rosko nodded to one of the uniforms. Who was the first officer on the scene?

Thompson. He’s over there. He pointed to a policeman standing by a clump of shrubs thirty feet from the entrance of the park. Just then, Jack Wilson, his partner, stepped over the yellow cordon tape.

Rosko grinned. Hope I didn’t disturb anything by calling you in early.

Nothing that won’t keep. Wilson winked. What have we got?

A naked corpse. Rosko pointed to the bushes. She’s over there.

A mid-twenties officer stood over the body, his eyes glazed and staring. The black cover of his notebook was stained from the dampness of his palm. Rosko knew it wasn’t because he was sweating from the heat. It was more likely a result of finding his first body.

You first on the scene?The officer jumped when Rosko spoke.Yes, Matt Thompson, sir. Thompson’s head bobbed like a marionette. Rosko held out a hand. I’m Gerry Rosko, and this is Jack Wilson.Thompson’s handshake was rapid, damp, and went on too long.

He took an awkward step back allowing the detectives an unobstructed view of the scene. Rosko was relieved the officer had resisted the usual first instinct to cover the body. It was bad enough what curious spectators did to a crime scene without some rookie officer contaminating it and destroying evidence.

Rosko approached the body. She lay partially hidden by the bush; face up, eyes open, staring skyward. Fear and pain etched in those sightless eyes as the last emotion endured. It was captured in the lenses like a frozen portrait—her cries for help unanswered.

Her body lay on a plastic sheet, the edges neatly tucked beneath her torso. Shoulder-length brown hair, recently brushed, framed her pale face. Her intertwined hands rested in the middle of her chest as if in prayer. She almost looked as if she’d been prepped for a photo shoot. Had her body been positioned so that her right foot stuck out just far enough beyond the branches of the shrub to be visible?

His gaze moved down the body. A large brown stain coated her abdomen. In the center of the stain, its edges roughly aligned, was a recently sewn incision. He studied the stain. An attempt had been made to wipe away excess fluid before depositing her in her final resting spot.

Hey, Wilson, doesn’t that stain look like the cleaning solution used in operating rooms to sterilize skin?

Wilson nodded. Looks like it. In a series of blinding flashes, his Polaroid captured the corpse. She’s pretty pale. The incision looks fresh, but there’s not much blood. Looks like she died elsewhere then was dumped here.

Rosko scanned the area. The high temperatures of the past weeks had baked the ground too solid for a good set of footprints. Any hint of morning dew had burned off an hour ago. The blades of grass looked even and undisturbed—no matting, no evidence of dragged twigs, no broken brush. The road was thirty feet away. Whoever did this had to be strong, strong enough to carry her a good distance, he said. There’s no drag marks.

What type of person are we dealing with? Wilson shook his head. Wraps her in plastic, dumps her, then takes the time to pose her. Looks like he’s folded her hands in prayer.

Rosko nodded in response to the gravely drawl of his partner. Was there some significance in the precise arrangement? He turned to Wilson. Check with the guys at the gate. See if anyone saw something. He gestured toward Thompson standing five feet away. His shoulders stiff, his arms folded across his chest, he remained on guard. I’ll see what he’s got.

The Crime Scene Unit arrived. Technicians in white overalls began working like a well-oiled machine, each one with a job to do.

They took pictures, dusted for prints, collected samples of whatever the surrounding area had to offer.

Rosko crossed to Thompson. Tell me about the person who found the body.

A doctor from Grace Memorial. He looked at his notes. Doctor Claire Valincourt. He glanced at the ground then back at Rosko. Sorry sir, I couldn’t make her stay. She insisted she had to be on duty. Said she didn’t know anything. Just saw the body and called 911. She waited around for a bit. Said she’d answer any more questions at work.

Did you see any ID?

His shoulders relaxed as if a yoke had been lifted and his breath exhaled in an audible sigh. I saw her hospital ID and her driver’s license. His facial muscles relaxed apparently pleased he’d done something right. I’ve got the numbers right here, he said, flipping through his notebook.

I’ll get them later. Go see what the hell’s taking the coroner so long. I want to get the body out of here before the whole city shows up.

Thompson nodded and hurried away. It was early but the media was already gathering—crowding the yellow cordon tape, flashing cameras, pressing microphones into the faces of spectators thronging the park’s entrance. Rosko noted the lanky form of Wilson bent to- ward one of the reporters—Sherry Simmons.

He wasn’t surprised to see her—irritated, yes, but not surprised. Sherry worked for Channel 9 News. An elegant brunette who had come to Strathburn with a suitcase jam-packed with big dreams and bigger schemes. Rosko knew. He’d found out the hard way. Now he wanted her out of his life, professionally and personally.

Sherry looked his way and her hand raised in a wave. He turned back to the body. The technicians were still photographing the crime scene. One of them used tweezers to pick up minute samples from around the body. He placed each bit of evidence into a separate bag. Rosko watched them until his partner returned.

Well, Rosko snapped. What did you find out?

Wilson raised an eyebrow at his partner’s tone. About the dead lady—or the gorgeous live one over there? He gestured behind him.

Sherry waved again. With a curt nod, Rosko turned back to Wilson.

Wilson gave him a mock punch in the shoulder. Why she carries a torch for you, I’ll never know.

Damn right, you won’t. And you should stay away from her, too, if you know what’s good for you. That cat’s got claws.

Is that what happened? I thought I saw some incriminating marks on your back last time we played squash.

Screw off, Wilson. Just keep her away from me. He shook his head. Did you find anything out about the victim?

Nothing. Nobody saw anything. Nobody heard anything. Typical.

Footsteps sounded behind them. Coroner Kim Lee had arrived.

Well, Lee, nice of you to finally join us. Rosko’s words belied his tone.

Your bodies aren’t the only business I get.

Lee’s face contorted into a crooked grin. It was rumored he’d been in an accident as a child that damaged the muscles on the right side of his face. His rotund cheeks remained in a perpetual frown. In his line of business, that might be a bonus. From his end of police work, there wasn’t much to smile at.

Lee set his battered leather medical bag beside the body. He bent, not touching, merely observing.

Well, Lee, what do you think? Rosko asked.I think we got a dead body, female.You don’t say. And what might our body have died from?

From the look of her, I’d say shock, hemorrhagic shock, from blood loss.

There’s no blood on the body, even by the slash on her abdomen. Rosko glanced at the body, then back at the coroner. His brows raised in a question.

Ah, yes. Lee grinned. The left side of his mouth curved upward, the right side remained immobile, creating a grotesque grimace. The case of the bloodless body. The curve extended along the left side of his face and his eyes twinkled. Always a Perry Mason fan.

While you guys discuss the oldies, I’m going to see if the uniforms have turned up anything useful. Wilson headed toward the south entrance of the park.

Pulling on a pair of non-latex gloves, Lee began examining the victim. He checked her eyes, turned her head slightly to check both ears, probed her mouth. Starting at her neck and working his way down, Lee pressed his fingertips into various spots on her body. Rosko stood silently by. He turned away when the coroner checked her liver temperature. Lee jotted the numbers in a small black notebook.

Rosko didn’t speak until Lee stood. Well, what can you tell me?

Looks like traumatic shock from blood loss. Don’t know where from yet.

Rosko pointed to her abdomen. ‘Wouldn’t it be from the wound?"

Someone’s done a hack-up job on her, but the incision alone wouldn’t account for the dramatic blood loss she’s had. Have to wait for the autopsy. Lee grinned again. But she didn’t die here. And— He paused. Her blood drained out before she was dumped.

What? Thompson stood behind Rosko. His eyes brimmed with questions.

We have an eager one here, do we? Lee asked.

He let her bleed out somewhere else. Then he dumped her, Rosko explained to Thompson.

Lee knelt beside the body and motioned Thompson to join him. He lifted the woman’s underarm and pointed to the skin. See the difference in color?

Thompson stared at the area. The skin closer to the ground looks darker than the skin at the top.

Lee nodded his head. Good, good. He’s smarter than he looks.

How does that subtle change tell you the body was moved? Thompson asked.

When a person dies, the blood stops flowing, and gravity takes over. The blood drains to the lowest point and gets trapped in the vessels where it congeals. That produces the darker blush line you see on corpses. Now our lovely lady here doesn’t have real distinctive lines. That’s because most of her blood drained out before it had a chance to congeal.

So the question is: where is her drained blood, Rosko stated.

Where, is up to you to find out, Lee said. You’re the cop. I can only tell you she wasn’t killed here. The technicians will check for occult blood on the ground, but I doubt they’ll find much of anything. Now, wherever she was killed, that’s where you’ll find a mess of blood.

Can you give us an idea of when our lady died?

From her temperature and the lividity of the body... He reached down and pressed a finger into the woman’s naked thigh. Rosko watched the skin around his fingertip. A depression remained when Lee took his hand away. I’d say about one or two in the morning. I’ll let you know more later.

Any idea of what time later? Rosko asked.

The way you guys keep me running it should be a couple of weeks. The left side of Lee’s mouth twitched as he grinned at Rosko’s glaring face. He shrugged. I’ll get you a preliminary this afternoon, and a final one, hopefully by tomorrow. The boys are going to take her to Grace Memorial. Doctor MacFarlane will do the autopsy.

Get us what you can as soon as possible. We don’t have a clue who she is. We need to identify her and let the family know. Hate to have them find out on the six o’clock news.

Lee nodded. As soon as I have anything, I’ll let you know. But you could start looking for a van.

A van? Rosko asked.Your body has track marks down her butt.Lee knelt beside the body and tipped her on her side. Rosko saw the distinct pattern of angled ridges traversing the woman’s back and lower torso. A technician took the opportunity to snap several photos.

A car mat? Rosko asked.

From the tread, I’d say a van mat. MacFarlane can make an im- pression when he does the autopsy.

Gesturing to the technicians that he was finished, Lee gathered up his leather satchel. He pushed past the reporters mobbing him and hurried to his black SUV.

Wilson had organized a search of the surrounding area. He jerked his thumb toward the retreating coroner. How come he only talks to you?

Lee doesn’t trust many people. Just says what he has to. Not like some people I know.

Wilson grinned. Are you saying my chattering drives you around the bend?

There are times, Wilson. There are times.

The sound of rustling plastic drew his attention. Technicians were unfolding a large white sheet and laying it alongside the body. Two attendants waited with a stretcher. Together they slid the corpse into the body bag and onto the stretcher. The detectives followed as the trolley rattled away with its lifeless package. Rosko wasn’t deeply religious, yet he said a silent prayer for the woman.

Technicians remained at the site collecting evidence where the corpse had lain. Others searched the surrounding area—more camera flashes, more evidence bags filled with clumps of earth, blades of grass, discarded gum wrappers, cigarette butts—anything that might give a clue to the identity of the woman, or her killer.

Rosko hoped they’d find a good set of fingerprints to match ones on file. Then they’d know who their killer was. If they were lucky, they might even have a current address. They could just drive over to the perp’s house, pick him up, and have a signed confession by nightfall.

But Rosko suspected this one wasn’t going to be quite so easy. The way the killer had positioned his victim spoke of someone who paid attention to detail. He wasn’t likely to fold her arms just so across her chest, align her legs carefully with just one foot protruding beyond the cover of the bush, and then carelessly drop a gum wrapper or cigarette butt for the police to lift a print or DNA from.

No, this was going to be a tough case. Rosko could feel it in his gut.

CHAPTER 4

Claire pushed through the double glass doors of the emergency department of Grace Memorial Hospital. Her heart still pounded. What was wrong with her? She’d seen more grotesque things working in the emergency room—car accidents, traumas, beatings, stabbings, abuse. She’d seen it all, yet she couldn’t let go of the image of the woman in the park. She told herself it was just another dead body.

But, it’s not. You’ve never been personally involved before, never found a body, never been the one to call 911. The bodies always come to you.

She shook her head, but another image flashed in front of her. She saw long brown hair, hair so much like her own, spread in a halo around a blood-drained face. Then the face became hers. A shudder went through her and she wiped a tear away.

Nurses gathered at the station for shift change, but afraid to trust her voice, Claire nodded and hurried past. The night physician, Doug Murphy, leaned against the office door. He glanced at his watch.

Claire smiled apologetically. Sorry I’m late. She swept past him into the physician’s office. Focusing her attention on the patient information board, she listened while he gave a quick report of patients in the department. She felt his gaze on her.

Are you okay, Claire? You look like hell.

Thanks, Doug. You’re such a charmer.

Sorry, but you look like you didn’t get any sleep last night.

His eyebrows rose. Did Michael come into town?

Stay out of my private life.

Doug’s head snapped back as if she’d slapped him in the face. She sighed and tried to form her stiff lips into an apology. Sorry. I didn’t sleep well. She hesitated. There was a woman murdered in the park.

Sorry, Claire. Did you see her?

She nodded. I found her.

Are you sure you’re okay? It’s not quite the same thing running into death on the streets as it is dealing with it here.

I’ll be fine. I just need to keep busy.

Are you sure? He paused, his hand on his briefcase. When she nodded, he shrugged. See you tomorrow morning then.

Claire reviewed the patient’s charts then made her rounds. She checked Mr. Kelly’s X-rays and sent him for an abdominal ultrasound. She checked the urinalysis on Mrs. Johnston and discharged her with a prescription for a bladder infection.

The humidity that had descended on the city in the past four days was creating havoc with people’s breathing. At present, there were three patients in the department whose asthma was acting up. Claire examined them, ordering a Ventolin treatment for each.

For the next hour, Claire kept busy dealing with the existing patients and several new ones. She’d just finished reinforcing a cast on a patient in the fracture room and was coming along the back corridor when she heard the whoosh of doors sliding open. Glancing toward the sound, Claire saw the covered stretcher rattling its way to the morgue. Her heart racing, she hurried back to the office and sipped her lukewarm coffee. When would the detectives come and question her? She didn’t know anything. As if on cue, the phone’s ringing interrupted her thoughts.

Claire, there’s a Detective Rosko here to see you, Betty Hammond the charge nurse informed her.

I’ll be right there. She took another sip of her coffee before leaving the office.

A man in a charcoal business suit leaned casually against the counter of the nurse’s station talking to Betty. He was tall, at least six-foot-two. He turned at her approach. Doctor Valincourt? He extended his hand. Detective Rosko.

With his tailored suit and gleaming leather shoes, Detective Rosko looked more like a drug salesman or a businessman than a policeman. She couldn’t help noticing how nicely he filled out the fine linen suit. He smiled and Claire wondered if the lines around his eyes were from laughter or worry.

Intense blue eyes examined her. Was he gauging how she’d held up after her morning’s discovery? The hand he offered was firm, the grasp solid. She released her hand but with the contact broken, she felt a vague sense of loss. Something her father said came back to her, You can tell a lot about a man by his shoes and his handshake. What would Dad say about this man?

The detective’s voice interrupted her thoughts. How are you doing?

Fine. Claire heard the shortness in her tone and saw an eyebrow rise as if he doubted her. You have some questions for me?

I know you told the officer everything, but I’d like to go over things in case there’s something else you remember. Is there somewhere we can talk?

Page me if you need me, Claire told Betty before turning back to the detective. We can go to the cafeteria, if that’s okay with you. It’s not busy now.

They took the elevator to the third floor. Let’s sit over there where we can talk without being interrupted or overheard. He pointed to a corner table. Coffee? I know I could drink a pot full.

Please.

She sat at the table while the detective ordered their coffees and noted the breadth of his shoulders and the snug cut of the tailored suit. Someone had good taste. Was it him? Or did his wife buy his clothes? Claire bet on the second option. He was too attractive not to have someone in his life.

Claire looked out the window. What’s wrong with you? You’ve just been dumped by Michael. How can you even think about men? Anger flared again at her sister’s betrayal. Absorbed in her thoughts, Claire jumped when Rosko set their coffees on the table.

He sat across from her and placed a notebook and pen on the table. Running his fingers through his hair, he exposed several strands of gray previously concealed in the thick blackness.

What happened to that woman? Claire asked. It looked like she’d had recent surgery, but I don’t know any doctor who’d do such a poor suturing job. And patients don’t just walk out of the hospital naked.

We don’t know what happened. His face tightened. We don’t even know who she is.

Claire thought of some poor family receiving this type of news and slumped in the chair.

Tell me what you remember about this morning, Rosko said.

Claire listed what she remembered—finding the body, the cyclist she’d nearly run into, the jogger. They were Caucasian, both in their late twenties or early thirties.

Anything else?She shrugged a shoulder.What time were you in the park?

About five to seven. I remember looking at my watch and thinking I had half an hour before my shift started.

Did you speak to anyone?

No. She paused. Well, I said sorry to the guy on the bike. I wasn’t watching, almost ran into him.

Anything distinctive about the bike?Claire shook her head.Just try. Sometimes the littlest things are important. He spoke in a rich soothing baritone. And sometimes, one detail leads to another. He laid his pen on the table, sat back in the chair, and sipped his coffee. He looked as if he had all the time in the world, not like a detective with a murder to solve.

Was he putting her at ease so she could recall more details? She thought of the baby shower game with a platter of objects you had a minute to memorize. She hated the game, but she closed her eyes and pictured the park. She saw the naked body, a flash of red, the jogger in red shorts and a sleeveless top. She tried but saw nothing more. Then the squeal of tires and the gleam of blue metal flashed in front of her.

It was a mountain bike. Blue.What about the cyclist? Was he wearing a jacket?Claire closed her eyes again. No. Blue jeans and a white T-shirt, the sleeves rolled up, and a package of cigarettes shoved in the fold.

Good. Anything else?

She tried to remember more details. Brown hair. About six foot. Claire closed her eyes, but nothing more came. When she opened her eyes again, he was nodding at her.

Now, what about the jogger?

Claire saw the flash of the jogger’s red outfit. He was wearing a suit, matching top and shorts. He looked fit.

What color was his hair?

Brown, I think. I was looking away from him.

Rosko raised an eyebrow.

I was upset. I didn’t want anyone to notice. Claire shrugged and glanced out the window. But even with her face turned she felt the intensity of his gaze. A family matter.

That’s good for now. If you remember something later, here’s my card. He slid it across the table. It has my number at the station and my pager. Call if you remember anything, no matter how insignificant.

Claire glanced at the card before sliding it into her pocket. Picking up her coffee, she took a sip. It was lukewarm and she pushed it away. I should get back to work.

I need you to come to the station to make a formal statement. Would tomorrow morning at ten-thirty be okay?

That’s fine.

They walked to the elevator. At the first floor, he reminded her to call if she thought of anything. His gaze was direct, and she found it difficult to look away. His brow wrinkled. How are you doing?

Could he see right through her? Claire shrugged and forced a smile. I’m okay. It’s not the first dead body I’ve seen. She turned to go but his words stopped her.

Just because you’re a doctor doesn’t make it easier. This senseless killing, the horror, it never gets easier. You just learn to hide it better.

The soft melodious tone of his voice surprised her as much as his words. Their eyes met and locked. I thought I’d be able to handle it better, especially with everything I see here.

It’s different. Here you have immunity. The patients and their injuries are abstract. You treat their symptoms. It’s not personal. What you saw today was. The sight of that woman will haunt you for a long time.

She shook her head, but she knew he was right. When patients came to the emergency room, you repaired their injuries, then sent them home or admitted them. Then there were the ones you fought to save—doing everything you could to resuscitate them, working for hours sometimes, eventually having to tell the family you’d been unsuccessful. Though emotionally draining at the time, you didn’t know them long enough to develop a bond.