Forty-Three
An emergency request for an appointment from a patient who was somehow connected to the deaths of three men was as good an excuse as I could think of to get into the car and head back to New York.
I could be a responsible doctor and keep my promise to my daughter. While I knew the wrenching pain I felt backing the car out of the lot and heading south instead of north would stay with me, at least I wouldn’t have to see the look of disappointment in Dulcie’s eyes when she saw me at the play that night.
Since she had her blond wig on, the woman who was waiting for me was Liz. I was glad. I preferred for us to stick with a member of the group I knew, as opposed to the reporter I had never met.
She sat down on the couch; I took my seat. “What’s wrong?” There was no reason to waste any time.
It was midafternoon and the sunshine filtered through the leaves outside my windows and made a pattern on the rug that shifted and changed each time the wind blew. Liz sat staring at it. Not saying anything. With her was a manila envelope that she clutched to her chest, desperately, the way I had once clutched my daughter to my own chest when she was sick with fever and I waited, panicked, in our doctor’s office to find out what was wrong with her.
“Now there is a fourth man…” she said.
“When did you find out?”
“Early this morning.”
“Have you told the police?”
She nodded and then frowned. “Why were you at the police station the other night?”
“Why is that relevant?”
“Because I need to know I can trust you. That you aren’t telling them about the group.”
“I’m not.”
“So why were you there?”
“Liz, why did you want to see me today? What is the emergency?”
“How do I know I can trust you?”
“I don’t know how to convince you other than to tell you that I take privilege very seriously.”
“You are implying that I don’t.”
I hadn’t said anything that should have made her say that. “Is there a reason that I should question your ethics?”
Her laugh was not jovial or kind, but rather slightly hysterical and panicked. “Of course there is. You are the only person who knows that I am not only the reporter who is getting these monstrous packages, but that I belong to the same sex club as the men who are being murdered.”
“That’s something that is bothering you?”
She stood up. Now the knuckles that held the package to her chest were white.
“Please sit down,” I said.
She didn’t. “Is it something that is bothering me? Are you crazy? Of course it is. I haven’t slept for days. I am breaking rules at the paper. I am breaking my word to the Scarlet Society. And both you and the police think that I’m the one who is killing these men.”
“Please sit down.” I was using the softest voice that I could. She was in crisis. Her whole body was trembling and she was slightly out of breath. Before we could have any kind of conversation, I had to calm her down. “I can help you if you’ll just sit down so we can talk through what’s bothering you.”
She continued to stand, staring at me for ten, twenty, then thirty seconds, the only change the quickness of her breath and the look in her eyes, which deepened and became more troubled.
If she was in any way responsible, she was dangerous. And as one of the only people who knew about her complicity, I might be in danger. Was this woman capable of killing three-no, she had just told me four-men?
This was not the first time that I worried about my own safety with my patients, but usually I wasn’t alone at the institute on a Saturday afternoon. Usually, there were people in the hall and if I screamed someone would come running. But no one was outside and I had nothing at hand to subdue her with if she became violent.
I stood, took one step toward her, and another.
She didn’t move.
I took another step. We were within a foot of each other. I was looking in her face, but I could see her hands in my field of vision and they were still clutching the envelope. If she moved either hand to reach for something, anything else-a weapon?-I’d know and I’d have a split second to disengage her. I’d studied self-defense. I’d taken my daughter to classes, too. It was just smart to learn what to do. I could take Liz without any trouble as long as I kept my composure. As long as I kept my eyes on her hands.
“Why don’t you sit down, Liz?”
“Betsy!” She yelled.
It was so sudden I almost overreacted, but I am trained to deal with someone in the midst of a psychotic break. Was that what this was? Years of work had prepared me for it. What was surprising was how few times I had witnessed it, considering the number of patients I dealt with.
“My Fucking Name Is Betsy!”
“Betsy. Betsy, I want you to sit down.” I took her arm firmly in my hand and gently forced her down. She allowed me to seat her, and, that done, I pried her fingers apart and took the envelope out of her hands.
The minute I had it in my grasp, her whole body relaxed and her face crumpled into despair. The fury was dispelled. At least for the moment.
“I killed those men,” she said. And then buried her face in her hands.
Forty-Four
Detectives Jordain and Perez were sitting in an unmarked navy-blue sedan across the street from the Butterfield Institute. The morning had started with a call from their officer who was working the mail shift at the New York Times. Betsy Young had gotten a fourth correspondence from Delilah.
The man in the photographs had been reported missing five days earlier. Bruce Levin was a celebrity real estate developer whose name was almost as well known as the people he brokered luxury apartments for. It helped that he had been married to a top model, with whom he’d fathered a pair of twins. The divorce had been in all the tabloids because of the exorbitant demands his wife was making and the claims she made about how much she spent on her children.
Like the other three packages, this one included a lock of Levin’s hair in a small plastic bag and three photographs, all taken from the same angles as the previous shots. There were the same ligature marks around his wrists and ankles.
And as they expected it would be, the number 4 was painted in red on the soles of both of his feet.
What was different was the reporter’s demeanor when she arrived at the precinct house. She’d written up her article and had brought it with her to the station house.
Previously, she’d been very professional, slightly nervous, clearly disturbed, but in control. Even to the point of being angry at Jordain and Perez for holding the articles too long-according to her-for not letting her reveal everything that was in the packages, and for insisting the Times not print all the photographs.
Betsy Young’s star at the paper had risen in the weeks since she broke the story about Philip Maur, and with it, her attitude had become more strident.
Except that morning she had been subdued and completely shaken. Once the meeting was over, Perez offered to have a car take her back to the Times, which she agreed to. She was clearly too upset to think through why he was offering: that it would be even easier to tail her if she were in a cop car.
She’d gone back to work, stayed for three hours, and then taken a cab to the Butterfield Institute, getting out of the taxi with a different color hair than she’d had getting in. The detectives had talked about the wig and tried to come up with a reason for it. Like everything else in this case, the reporter’s hair change made no sense.
Perez sipped at his coffee. They’d been in the car so long it was lukewarm. Jordain had finished his already but wished he’d bought two cups. They might be there for a while.