Chapter 15
Vero and I huddled in a corner of a table over breakfast the next morning. The cafeteria was buzzing with chatter about the classes for the day. I sucked down a second cup of coffee. I hadn’t slept a wink or written a word last night, consumed with worry over those damn toxicology reports.
Vero dusted toast crumbs from her mouth.
“Nothing on those reports is going to matter if we don’t find EasyClean, because Feliks will be pissed and he’ll tell the police about Ike, and we’ll both go to prison anyway.
We’ve been here two days already and we’ve got nothing to show for it.
I say we broaden our search. So what’s the plan? ”
I unfolded my schedule, holding it between us.
“We have seminars all day. Apparently, we earn points for every class we attend. My sister’s teaching a class on investigative procedure, Joey’s doing search and seizures, Stu’s giving a talk on victims’ advocacy, Sam’s offering a class on cybercrimes—”
“I’ll go to that one. What else?”
“There’s a forensics presentation in the auditorium, a K-9 demonstration on the drill field, and an arson presentation scheduled in the fire tower.”
Vero shuddered. “Pretty sure we’ve both seen enough of that. When do we get to the fun stuff?”
“Looks like we get to pick two hands-on classes tomorrow. A few patrol officers are offering ride-alongs,” I said, tapping Roddy’s name on my schedule.
“I’ll sign up to ride with Roddy. That’ll give me a few hours with him at least.” We could affirm him as a possible suspect or scratch him off our list.
“Nuh-uh,” Vero said, snatching the schedule from me. “You’ve been on three ride-alongs with Nick already. I’m signing up with Roddy. You can take firearms training with Wade. You still have the bullet we dug out of the Aston?”
“It’s in my gym bag.”
“Bring it with you. Maybe he can tell you something useful about it.”
“Where am I supposed to tell him I found it?”
“You’re the storyteller. Make something up.”
We both clammed up as Max and Riley exited the food line with their trays, searching the bustling cafeteria for two empty seats. Max gave us a broad grin when she spotted us, making a beeline for our table.
She and Riley dropped into the seats across from us. “We missed you at the movie last night,” Max said to me, breaking the seal on her carton of milk. “Sucks that we couldn’t stay to watch the end, but at least we got to practice using the extinguishers. It took two of them to put the fire out.”
“Two? For popcorn in a microwave?” I shot Vero a look. “Must have been a pretty big fire.”
Vero smiled. “No hotter than your next book.”
“Speaking of your books,” Max said between spoonfuls of oatmeal, “we researched some of your earlier publications last night in preparation for our interview. And we read all twenty-four of your Amazon reviews.”
Vero nudged my elbow. “Hear that, Finn? You got one more. I wonder who wrote it?”
Riley consulted his notes. “Some guy calling himself FarmerSteven .” Great. My ex-husband had resorted to leaving me book reviews.
Vero rolled her eyes. “And what did FarmerSteven have to say?”
“He said your work is ‘a fine example of contemporary American literature.’ And he said the sex was good, if a bit unrealistic.”
Vero slammed her hands on the table. “ Good? He thought the sex was good ? That man wouldn’t know good sex if it was happening in his own damn pants!”
“We also read that article in the gazette about your new series,” Max said. “The one about the assassin. That must be so challenging to write from the point of view of the villain.” She and Riley each uncapped a pen. Were they taking notes ?
“She’s not a villain. She’s the hero,” I corrected her.
“She’s really more of an antihero,” Vero said. “Admit it, Finn. Your lady killer is deeply flawed.”
“She’s not deeply flawed . She has a very strong moral compass, thank you very much. She’s just…”
“An opportunist,” Vero said as I said, “… misunderstood.”
Riley nodded, scribbling furiously. “Max and I were curious,” he said. “What kind of research do you do to put yourself inside the head of a killer?”
Chocolate milk shot out of Vero’s nose.
I kicked her under the table. “Mostly Google.”
Max looked up from her notes. “Too bad there aren’t any forensic profilers on the faculty. You know, like Clarice Starling from the movie last night? Someone who could help you really understand who your assassin is and what makes her tick.”
I set down my coffee. Curious, I reached for my schedule, skimming the classes. Vero frowned suspiciously as I bolted to my feet.
“Would you look at the time! We don’t want to be late for Dr. Kirby’s seminar.” I scooped up my tray, urging Vero to follow.
“But our interview!” Max called after us.
“Later!” I promised.
Max was right… there were no forensic profilers at the academy, but a department psychologist just might do.
Vero and I had agreed to split up at the stairwell.
Vero went to Samara’s class on cybercrimes and I had made it to Stu’s class just as it was starting.
I’d slid silently into a seat in the back of the room, strategizing a list of questions I planned to ask him and, more important, how to frame them, when I’d become engrossed with his lecture, nearly forgetting why I was there.
His presentation on victims’ advocacy covered a broad swath of dark terrain, from human trafficking to domestic violence to sexual assault, including accounts of actual cases and his experience working with both the victims and the law enforcement professionals who’d been involved.
I couldn’t help wondering what he and Nick talked about every week, or the kinds of traumas Nick had been a witness to.
I lingered in the classroom as the other students filed out after Stu’s lecture. He smiled when he spotted me, as if he knew who I was. I introduced myself and extended a hand.
“It’s good to meet you, Finlay,” he said, confirming my suspicion as he set down his messenger bag to shake my hand. “Nick speaks very highly of you.”
I wasn’t sure how to return the sentiment. Everyone seemed to like Stu, but Nick had been pretty tight-lipped about his counseling sessions. “Thank you, Dr. Kirby. I was hoping you might have a few minutes to help me with a question.”
“I’m happy to try. And please, call me Stu.” He gestured to a chair in the front row, waiting for me to settle into it before perching casually on the edge of his desk.
“I’m not sure if Nick told you,” I continued, “but I’m a suspense novelist, and I’m working on a new project.
I’m actually here this week doing research for my next book.
One of my characters in the story is a…” I hesitated.
Was there a clinical term for a dirty cop?
“… a police officer who’s become involved in criminal activities. ”
Stu’s eyebrow rose over the rim of his glasses. “Not the hot one, I hope.”
“No,” I stammered, blushing at his wry grin, wondering how much Nick had already told him about my books, “not that one. See, the villain in my story is also a cop, only he’s secretly working for some pretty bad people on the side.
I’d like to portray his character as realistically as possible, and I was wondering if you could tell me anything that might help me understand who he is?
” I felt a small stab of guilt. Lying to a therapist felt a lot like lying to a priest, but if Stu sensed I was fibbing, he didn’t let on.
“That’s a hard question to answer,” he said thoughtfully. “I’ve worked with a few police officers who’ve found themselves on the other side of the law for one reason or another, but every case was different, each influenced by that individual’s own unique struggles.”
“What do you mean?”
“People who work in law enforcement see a lot of things most of us couldn’t stomach, and their job is pretty thankless. It isn’t always easy to be the good guy. Most days, playing the bad guy probably feels like the easier option.”
I bit my lip as I pondered what else to ask. By the sound of it, EasyClean could be any of them.
“So if I was writing a mystery, what specific clues might reveal the identity of my dirty cop?”
Stu pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“Well, from a practical standpoint, money is usually a motivator. There’s a reason they gamble with peanuts,” he said with a compassionate smile.
“May I ask, does any of this have to do with Nick?” At my puzzled look, he said, “I know you said you’re trying to understand a character in your book, but it seems that maybe you’re asking something else. ”
“What do you mean?” I asked cautiously.
“The use of metaphors can be a safe way for our minds to explore subjects that are hard to talk about. If you were hurt in your last relationship, it makes sense that you might be searching for clues that a new romantic partner could secretly be a bad guy, to protect yourself from being hurt all over again. Creating a character can be a cathartic way to explore our own fears and traumas. It can also help us identify what we need to move beyond them.” He paused, considering me as he let that sink in.
“I can’t divulge anything of a clinical nature, but I don’t think it’s a breach of confidentiality to say that Nick’s one of the good guys.
He’s been through an ordeal, but he has a strong support system here and he’s doing all the right things.
And it would probably mean a lot to him to know that you care.
” He arched an eyebrow, hinting at a suggestion.
I nodded, quiet as I unpacked all that. In the space of a moment, we’d gone from dissecting the killer’s heart to mine, and my insides felt both hollow and jumbled, as if someone had opened me up and dumped me out, then left me with a mess to fold and put away.
Stu’s smile was sympathetic as he glanced at the clock. “I should probably head to my next session. And you should probably get to yours—that is, if you don’t have any other questions?”
“Not unless you can tell me how to get my two-year-old to stop playing hide-and-seek in public bathroom stalls and my five-year-old to stop tackle-hugging people.” Stu studied me with a curious tip of his head.
“My sister has been reading parenting blogs and she’s convinced my son is expressing an unhealthy avoidance of potty training and that my daughter is developing attachment issues as a side effect of my divorce.
” My laugh was unconvincing as I waited for affirmation that I hadn’t screwed up the one part of my life that meant more to me than anything else.
“I can’t say I’m much of an expert on potty training,” Stu confessed, “but games like hide-and-seek can be a way for children to reinforce their sense of object permanence—their confidence that even when they can’t see something, it still exists in the world.
As for the tackle hugs, it’s not necessarily unusual, or concerning, for children to be uninhibited when expressing themselves.
Your son’s willingness to put space between you, trusting he’ll be found, and your daughter’s unreserved passion for the people she cares about…
those aren’t unhealthy qualities, Finlay.
If anything, we could all learn something from them. ”
“That’s a metaphor, isn’t it?”
Stu’s smile creased the corners of his eyes as he took up his messenger bag. “Children are remarkably resilient, Finlay. Grown-ups can be, too.”
The door swung closed behind him, muting the hum of conversations in the hall, leaving me alone in the empty classroom and yet oddly reassured that there was hope for my heroine after all.