“Stretched, how?”
“The battery plant closed that day-three hundred jobs gone in a city that can’t afford to lose three. There was rioting. Some burned cars. People were angry. The department’s resources were strained.”
“Where was Detective Beckett?”
“He’s married with kids. He needed the time.”
“So, you went alone to a dangerous neighborhood, then into an abandoned house where screams had been reported?”
“That’s correct.”
“You didn’t call for backup?”
“No.”
“Is that normal procedure?”
“It was not a normal day.”
Marsh drummed his fingers on the table. “Were you drinking?”
“That question is offensive.”
Marsh slid a paper across the table. “This is the incident report completed by your commanding officer.” He glanced at Dyer. “It says you were disoriented after the shooting. At times, nonresponsive.”
Elizabeth flashed back to the moment in question. She was sitting on the curb outside the abandoned house. Channing was in the ambulance, wrapped in a blanket, catatonic. Dyer’s hands were on Elizabeth’s shoulders. Talk to me, he’d said. Liz. His eyes faded in and out. Jesus Christ, he’d said. What the hell happened in there?
“I wasn’t drinking. I wasn’t drunk.”
Marsh leaned back and studied her. “You have a soft spot for young people.”
“Is that a question?”
“Especially those who are helpless or abused. It’s reflected in your files. People in the department are aware of it. You respond with great passion to young people in distress. You’ve intervened with authorities, used force on multiple occasions.” Marsh leaned forward. “You feel a connection to those who are small and young and unable to care for themselves.”
“Isn’t that part of the job description?”
“Not if it interferes with the job.” Marsh opened another folder and began to spread out photographs of the dead men. They were glossy, full color. Crime-scene photographs. Autopsy photographs. They stretched across the table like a fan of cards: blood and blank eyes and shattered bone. “You went alone into an abandoned house.” He touched the photographs as he spoke. “There was no power. Reports of screams. You went alone into the basement.” He straightened the edges of the photographs until he had a perfect line. “Did you hear anything?”
Elizabeth swallowed.
“Detective Black? Did you hear anything?”
“Dripping water. Rats in the walls.”
“Rats?”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“Channing was crying.”
“You saw her?”
Elizabeth blinked, the memory collapsing into something dimmer. “She was in the second room.”
“Describe it.”
“Concrete. Low ceilings. The mattress was in the corner.”
“Was it dark?”
“There was a candle on a crate. It was red.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes and saw that, too: melted wax and flickers of light, the hallways and doors and shadowed places. It was as real as in her dreams, but mostly she heard the girl’s voice, the broken words and prayer, the way she begged God to help her, please.
“Where were the Monroe brothers at this time?”
“I don’t know.” Elizabeth cleared her throat. “There were other rooms.”
“And the child?” Marsh pushed a photograph forward. It showed the mattress, the wires. Elizabeth blinked again, but the room around her remained blurry. Only the photograph was sharp. The mattress. The memory. “How was Channing?”
“She was as you might imagine.”
“Frightened, of course.” He placed a single finger on the photo of the mattress. “Wired to a mattress. Exposed. Alone.” He removed the photographs, touched two that showed the dead men, their bodies broken and bent and shredded. “These are the ones that interest me the most.” He pushed them toward her. “The bullet placement, in particular.” He touched one man and then the other. “Both knees shot away.” He slid forward a close-up of the shattered knees. “Multiple shots to the groin. Again, both men.” Another close-up hissed across the table, this one an autopsy photo, stark and bright. “Did you torture these men, Detective Black?”
“It was dark…”
Another photograph slid across the table. “Titus Monroe. Shot in both knees, both elbows.”
“Not intentional.”
“But painful. Nonfatal.”
Elizabeth swallowed, nauseous.
Marsh noticed. “I’d ask you to look at each photograph.”
“I’ve seen these.”
“These are not random injuries, Detective.”
“I thought they were armed.”
“Knees. Groins. Elbows.”
“It was dark.”
“Eighteen shots.”
“The girl was crying.”
“Eighteen shots placed to cause maximum pain.”
Elizabeth looked away. Marsh leaned back, his eyes blue and cold. “Two men are dead, Detective.”
Elizabeth turned her head slowly, her own eyes so flat and emotionless they, themselves, looked dead. “Two animals,” she said.
“I beg your pardon.”
Her heart beat twice. She spoke with care. “Two animals are dead.”
“Liz! Jesus!”
Marsh held up a hand as Dyer seemed to lurch forward. “It’s okay, Captain. Stand where you are.” He turned his attention back to Liz, hands spread on the table. “Did you torture these men, Detective?” He lifted a bloody photograph, placed it gently in front of her. Elizabeth looked away, so he put down two more. They were autopsy photos, close-ups. The wounds were immediate and full color. “Detective Black?”
Elizabeth stood. “We’re done here.”
“You’re not excused.”
She pushed back her chair.
“I’m not finished, Detective.”
“I am.”
She turned on a heel.
Hamilton stood, but Marsh said, “Let her go.”
Elizabeth pulled open the door and was outside before Dyer could touch her arm or say a word to stop her. She pushed through the crowd of watching cops, through friends and rivals and faces that seemed strange to her. The room faded to gray as people muttered words she didn’t care about or understand. Everything was the basement. It was stone and fabric, screams and blood. She heard her name, but it wasn’t real. The world was gun smoke and wire and the twine of Channing’s fingers…
“Liz!”
Slippery skin and pain…
“Liz, damn it!”
That was Beckett, still distant. She ignored the brush of his fingers, and only in the fresh air did she realize he’d followed her down the stairwell. There were cars and black pavement, then Beckett’s fingers on her wrist.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Liz, look at me.”
But, she couldn’t. A car had leaked oil onto the tarmac. Sunlight turned the puddle into melted iron, and that was exactly how she felt: as if all the hardness had been drawn from her bones, as if she, too, were melting away. “Don’t call me, Charlie. Okay? Don’t call me. Don’t follow me.”
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know,” she said; but that was a lie.
“Maybe you should talk to Wilkins.”
“Don’t go there, either.” Wilkins was the department shrink. Every other day he called. And every other day she declined his services. “I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that, but you look like a strong wind will lift you off your feet.”
“I’m fine.”
“Liz…”
“I have to go.”
She got in the car and drove to the abandoned house where Channing had been held captive for forty long hours. She wasn’t sure why she’d come, but guessed it had to do with photographs and dreams and the way she avoided this bit of town. The structure was a shell under the darkening sky. It sat far back from the road, part of it crushed by a fallen tree, the rest of it obscured behind saplings, milkweed, and high grass. She could smell it through the open window, a whiff of rot and mold and feral cat. The house next door was empty. Three more on the street were dark.