80
Lisa walked into Bernstein’s office for a scheduled appointment. Sitting across from him in a recliner—but not reclining—Lisa told him what she’d done. “My problem is, I’m not feeling guilty about what I’ve done. For days, I even felt proud of having pulled it off.”
“Lisa, as you know, I’m not required to report a crime you have committed as long as I’m certain you are not a danger to yourself or anyone else.” He paused and tented his fingertips together, touching the joined index fingers to his lips. “That said, I don’t believe you are either of those things, but if at any point I feel differently, then I won’t be able to retain your confidence.”
“I understand.”
“I don’t have to give you the technical jargon I would another patient. You’re aware of how this could affect you. I will remind you, though, that not everyone in your circumstances experiences PTSD. The fact you haven’t, and possibly never will, does not make you a bad person.”
Lisa winced.
“Do you feel you’ve become a bad person?”
“No, I believe what I did saved the lives of many more women.”
“Yes, it very well might have. But that would lead us to a discussion of the pros and cons of vigilantism, wouldn’t it?”
Lisa paused for a moment. “In the eyes of the law, vigilantism is never permissible. But we both know it’s often overlooked—unprosecuted.”
“That’s true. But if you’ve come here for approval—or absolution—you’re in the wrong place. Have you considered talking to a priest? Making a confession?”
“I’ve never found answers or taken comfort in organized religion. I believe God is forgiving—and understanding.”
He studied her. “We aren’t here for theological discussion or debate. I believe the fact that you aren’t agonizing over this goes to your inner strength—your faith in your own morality.
“I’m not sure yet exactly why, but I believe part of your decision to eliminate Mr. Wilson goes back to your hatred for Lawrence—your plans for him. It’s possible a part of you felt cheated when you didn’t have to carry it out.”
Lisa’s mind drifted back in time. Lawrence.
He went on, “I believe the support of your friends has been essential to your peace of mind and will continue to be.”
“But not all of them know about it. Only TJ.” Lisa frowned. “It bothers me that I haven’t been able to tell Eric.”
“Is your reluctance to tell him based on wanting to protect him from this knowledge, or do you fear what you’ve done may hamper his feelings toward you?”
“Both, I’m afraid.”
81
More than thirty days after the trip to Mellen, Detective Richard Conlin received the final report. All but two of the bodies had been on the group’s list. Only one had yet to be identified. After he finished reading, he picked up the phone.
When Lisa answered, Richard said he wanted to see her. She pretended to check her schedule, trying to ignore her racing pulse. Was today the day she’d be arrested?
She said, “I’m busy today, but I have time from noon to one.”
“That works for me. I’ll bring lunch.”
Lisa hung up the phone, her tension dissipated. He’d hardly be bringing lunch to someone he planned to arrest.
They ate the tacos he brought sitting across from each other in the conference room. Richard seemed amiable enough, and when they finished eating, he opened a battered leather briefcase and took out a file-folder. “This is the final report—I thought you’d like to see it. All the bodies except one have been identified.” As he handed it to her, he said, “I’ve never apologized to you.”
“For what?”
“That first day you came to my office—I didn’t believe you.”
“There wasn’t anything substantial to convince you with at the time. The decision not to open a case based on the statistics hadn’t been yours to make.” It was easy to be gracious now, with everything settled, the bodies identified, their killer dead.
Lisa opened the folder, curious why he’d brought it to her rather than to all of them. She read through it, feeling a sense of satisfaction that their work had been the catalyst leading to the identification of the women. Her sense of accomplishment melted into disquietude as she realized whose name was missing—Jamie Denison. She looked up from the folder and saw sadness in Richard Conlin’s eyes. She understood his visit. “You want me to tell TJ.”
82
When Rollie called to tell her he’d found the perfect setting for her new business, TJ saw no harm in looking even though she was nowhere near ready to begin the endeavor. As soon as she saw it, though, she knew the large, two-story duplex off of State Street on the outskirts of Wauwatosa couldn’t have been a better fit. An insurance office had been on the first floor, so it was equipped for a business. A spacious, four-bedroom flat made up the entire second floor. The place had been taken over by the bank when the insurance business didn’t work out and was being auctioned off.
Eric had gone with her the day of the auction, acting as her advisor for the sale. She’d gotten a fantastic price and only used part of the money Jeff had left her.
She’d miss living downtown, but she’d only be minutes away. The view from the upper floor where she’d reside wasn’t nearly as breathtaking as the one from her high-rise, but the historic riverscape of Milwaukee’s Menomonee River Valley would be, nevertheless, an inspiring form of relaxation.
Her eyes welled with tears, remembering Jeff had made her dream possible, and vowed she would make him proud of her.
Busy organizing boxes in her apartment, getting ready for the move, TJ’s cell phone buzzed. She looked down to see it was Lisa, but the doorbell rang before she could open the phone.
She wondered who’d gotten in without buzzing. Putting the phone back in her pocket, TJ opened the door to see Tommy Rennicke standing at her doorstep, looking uneasy.
“Some lady let me in. I hope it’s okay.” He shuffled his feet, shaking drops of rain from his shoes. “Uh, you said I could talk to you about the shooting. You know, when you came to my school.”
She wanted to ask how he’d found her, but realized if Tommy had the computer skills of most teenagers, finding her wouldn’t have been too difficult.
“Sure, come on in. How’d you get here?”
“I’ve got my dad’s truck—I have my license now. Our school’s in the playoffs today over in Shorewood, so he let me use it.” He looked around. “Nice place. Must be really cool to live in the city.”
She offered him a soda, wondering what he wanted, but knew she had to let him get there on his own.
He looked around as if making sure no one could overhear. “If I tell you something, will you have to tell the cops?”
“Depends. Did you commit a crime?”
“Dunno. Maybe.”
“Talk to me.”
Tommy swallowed. “I can’t stop thinking about it. Sometimes it wakes me up at night . . . I have these nightmares. I guess I have to tell somebody it might be my fault that guy died. You know . . . James Wilson.
“You shot him.” TJ couldn’t imagine where this was coming from. Why would the kid think he’d shot Wilson or that he was in any way responsible?
“Um . . . no, I didn’t shoot him. But I found him there. He might have been alive.”
The kid looked about to faint. “Why don’t you sit down and tell me about it.”
She led him to the couch.
He told TJ about an incident with his dad’s sled. Without permission, Tommy had taken his father’s new snowmobile out for a spin. Wilson had run him off the trail and never looked back to see if Tommy was hurt. “He forced me off the trail and just left me there. I could have needed help. I hated him for that; used to think about killing him—even planned how I’d do it. So when I found him, I didn’t do anything—just went back home and waited for someone else to find him—just like he did to me. That’s what I never told anybody.”