Amanda had a very clear memory of the first time she saw an autopsy photograph. She had graduated from New York University School of Law near the top of her class and had been offered a clerkship at the United States Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit. One morning, Judge Buchwald had asked her to review the file in a death penalty case. From the briefs, Amanda learned that the defendant's wife had died from shock after he shot her in the shoulder with a shotgun. Shortly before lunch, Amanda noticed an innocuous-looking brown envelope buried under some papers. She became curious and opened the flap. The envelope contained a stack of photographs. When she turned the first one over, she almost passed out. In retrospect, this black-and-white photograph of a dead woman on an autopsy table had been rather tame. The only wound was in the victim's shoulder. Without color, it was hard for Amanda to tell that she was seeing torn and mutilated flesh. Still, she had been dizzy and disoriented for the rest of the day.
In the intervening years, Amanda had viewed photographs portraying every manner of cruelty that can be inflicted on a human being. Soon the most gruesome sights had no effect on her. Then the surgeon--a sadistic murderer--had entered her life. Policemen or medical examiners are sometimes viewed as callous by civilians who hear them cracking jokes while standing over a victim, but people who deal with violent death on a daily basis have to shield themselves from the horrors that they encounter, so they can continue to function. Amanda's trauma had ripped away her shield.
When Amanda opened her eyes, she saw where she was. She didn't remember hiding in the corner. She had no idea how she'd gotten from her desk to the floor.
Amanda parked in the basement garage of a converted red-brick warehouse in Portland's Pearl District and took the elevator to her loft. It was twelve hundred feet of open space with hardwood floors, high ceilings, and tall windows that gave her a view of the metal arches of the Freemont Bridge, tankers churning the waters of the Willamette River, and the snow-covered slopes of Mount St. Helens.
Amanda double-locked her door and checked the apartment. It was irrational to think that someone was lurking inside, but she knew that she wouldn't be able to relax until she made sure that she was alone. Amanda thought back to her equally irrational reaction to Toby Brooks. She had to stop being afraid of everything. Every person she met was not a monster.
Amanda changed into sweats and went to her liquor cabinet. She was still upset by her reaction to the autopsy photographs and she needed a drink. The doorbell made her jump. Who . . . ? Then she remembered. She looked at her watch. How had it gotten so late? She peered through the peephole. Mike Greene was in the hall. He had a bouquet of flowers. Shit! What was she going to do?
Mike had been the prosecuting attorney in the Cardoni case, and Amanda had gone out with the deputy district attorney a few times since its violent conclusion. Mike was a bear of a man, with curly black hair and a shaggy mustache. Despite having a body that made people think football or wrestling, he had never competed in any sport. Greene was a gentle soul who played tenor sax with a local jazz quartet and had a passion for chess. She knew that he also cared about her, but she found it impossible to make any kind of emotional commitment since her encounter with the surgeon.
"Hi," Mike said when Amanda opened the door. Then he saw the way she was dressed.
"I'm sorry. I forgot we were going out."
Greene could not hide his disappointment. She felt terrible.
"I'm not feeling well," she said, only half lying. She felt drained and knew that she'd never have the energy to make it through their date. Greene's shoulders sagged. The hand holding the bouquet dropped to his side.
"What's going on, Amanda?"
She lowered her gaze, unable to look Mike in the eye.
"I know I should have called."
"I thought you forgot about our date."
"Don't cross-examine me," Amanda snapped, angry at being caught in a lie. "We're not in court."
"No, we're not," Mike said evenly. "There are rules in court. People have to follow them. You seem to be playing by your own rules when it comes to the two of us, and I have no idea what they are."
Amanda looked down at the rug. "I'm going through some . . . things. I just . . ."
She broke off and walked half way to the window. A river of headlights was flowing across the Freemont Bridge. She fixed on the lights.
"Look, Amanda, I know what you've been through, so I've tried to be understanding. I . . . I like you. I want to help."
"I know, Mike. I just can't . . . ."
She shook her head, her back still to him. She waited for him to say something, but he didn't speak and she did not hear him move. When she turned, she saw that Mike had laid the flowers on the coffee table.
"If I can help, call me. I'll be there for you."
Mike left, taking care to close the door quietly. Amanda sat on the couch. She felt terrible. Mike was so nice, and Amanda felt safe with him. She wondered if that wasn't what attracted her to him.
An image of Toby Brooks flashed into her head. If Mike made Amanda think of a teddy bear, Toby made her think of a cat. He made her think of someone else, too. She started to feel the way she had at the office. Fear began to overwhelm her again, and she struggled to hang on. All of a sudden, she was sorry that she had sent Mike away. She needed someone with her. She did not want to be alone.
Chapter Six.
A little after three on Thursday afternoon, Tim Kerrigan met with the detectives who were working a case involving a child pornography ring. Then he brainstormed with another DA about the best way to handle a tricky suppression motion. When the deputy left, Kerrigan checked his watch. It was after five, and Jack Stamm, the Multnomah County district attorney, would be by in forty-five minutes to take him over to the dinner that would kick off the National Association of Trial Lawyers convention.
There were so many other things Tim would rather be doing than attending that dinner. He put his feet up on his desk and closed his eyes. He rubbed his lids and drifted for a moment. His thoughts turned to the crumpled scrap of paper in his wallet, on which he had scrawled Ally Bennett's phone number. Stan Gregaros said Bennett's working name was Jasmine. He said the name to himself, drawing it out. He felt a nervous buzz in his belly and heat below his waist.
Jasmine would not be the first prostitute he'd been with but, somehow, Kerrigan knew that Ally Bennett would be different from the others--different from any woman he'd ever been with. Her breasts would be perfect, her buttocks would be exquisite, and her mouth would perform miracles. "Tell me what you want," she would say, and he would tell her what he needed, he would tell her the things that he could never tell Cindy.
Someone knocked on his doorjamb. Tim's eyes opened. Maria Lopez was standing in the doorway, looking like she'd lost her best friend. Kerrigan dropped his feet to the floor. He was suddenly aware of the ringing of a phone and the murmur of conversations outside his office.