“In the end, I’ll always be the cop who killed a child,” she said hollowly. “No matter who I was before or who I become after, that’s who I will be.”
“To who? You?”
“I pulled the trigger, Alex. That’s what they’ll write after I die.”
“I empathize with the pain and regret you must be feeling, but you don’t know what the future holds for you. None of us do.”
She blinked slowly, said, “There is a way to know your future for certain.”
That got my attention and concern. “Have you thought about that, Tess?”
Aaliyah took a big breath and then shook her head. “No. Not really.”
“Not really?”
“Not at all. I’m just trying to find a way to process this, you know?”
There was little conviction in the detective’s voice, and she appeared preoccupied.
“Are you sleeping?” I asked.
“Some days it’s all I do.”
“Self-medicating? Alcohol? Drugs?”
“Honestly, I wish they’d work, but they don’t, so I don’t.”
“When does the civil suit go to trial?”
Aaliyah continued to avoid eye contact. “I don’t know what they expect to get from me. This has already cost me everything.”
I continued to watch her, thinking about the flat affect in her voice and expression, the defeated way the detective was holding herself, and some of the statements she’d made, especially talking about herself in the past tense.
“Tess, I think I’d feel more comfortable if, for your own safety, we take you somewhere to get a proper, in-depth evaluation of your current condition.”
Aaliyah raised her head for the first time in many minutes, gazed dully at me, and said, “I’m nowhere near the padded room.”
“Given what you’ve been through, suicidal ideations are cause for serious concern, Tess. This could be a medical issue that—”
“No one’s putting me in a psych ward,” Aaliyah said, getting to her feet angrily. “Least of all me.”
“Tess—”
“Sorry,” she said, heading for the door. “I thought I could trust you and I was wrong. Good-bye, Dr. Cross.”
After a long look at the situation I came to a decision, grabbed my jacket, went outside, and hailed a cab.
Chapter 19
We pulled up in front of the DC Police Union building twenty minutes later. I paid the cabbie, went inside, and asked to see William Roth.
Did I have a meeting set up with Mr. Roth? the receptionist asked. No. Had I tried to call him? I’d thought it was a dire enough situation to come down to talk with Mr. Roth in person. It wasn’t until I told him it might be a matter of life and death that he called upstairs.
Mr. Roth was in an important meeting, the receptionist told me after hanging up the phone.
“You didn’t explain the gravity of the situation. Call back.”
The receptionist rolled his eyes, snatched up the phone again, and dialed. “He says break into the meeting. It’s that important,” he told someone.
The receptionist waited, waited, and then hung up and said, “Go on up, third floor, second door on the right. Roth’s not happy.”
“I don’t care,” I said, and I took the stairs up.
I knocked on the door and then entered an anteroom with a very irritated secretary at her desk. “Mr. Roth has been working for this meeting for six months,” she said.
“Would it matter if someone you cared about was in danger?”
“Well,” she said, flustered. “I suppose so.”
“Where’s Roth?”
“Roth’s right here,” said a flushed, bald man who appeared in the open doorway behind the secretary. “This better be good. I’ve got people at the table I never expected to—”
“It’s Tess Aaliyah,” I said, walking past the secretary into Roth’s office. “You’re her rep, correct?”
“Aaliyah?” Roth said with mild disdain. “Dear God, what’s she done now?”
“You sent her to me this morning for an evaluation. I believe she’s depressed and possibly suicidal.”
“No,” Roth said, taking a seat at his desk. “I saw her last week. She was bummed but knew it wasn’t her fault that the little girl was playing in the front hall before the shooting started.”
“I don’t think Aaliyah cares. About anything. Which can be chemical, and which is why I need your help getting her into a psych ward for three days so she can be evaluated by medical professionals.”
“You want me to commit Aaliyah?” Roth said incredulously. “No, absolutely not. Even if I had that authority, and I don’t, absolutely not.”
“Aren’t you supposed to look after her, represent her?”
“In the shooting, yes, but this? No.”
“The depression and suicidal thoughts followed from the shooting,” I said firmly. “She needs help. More than I can give her.”
“You tell her that?”
“I did.”
“What did she say?”
“That she was upset but fine and nowhere near the padded room.”
“There you go, then,” Roth said, getting up. “I have a meeting to run.”
I blocked the door and said, “You don’t care about Aaliyah’s well-being?”
“I care,” Roth said. “But if you want her in a psych ward, convince her doctor or someone in her family to recommend it. Or get the department to make it a stipulation of her suspension revocation. Any way you try to do it, though?”
“Yes?”
“Expect her to fight.”
Chapter 20
After several unsuccessful attempts to reach her, I spoke with Esther Dodd, an attorney for the police department. It was obvious by her curtness that Ms. Dodd was none too happy to take my call, probably due to the murder charges pending against me. She listened impatiently and dismissed out of hand my request to have Aaliyah undergo psychiatric evaluation as soon as possible as a stipulation of her rejoining the force.
“She’s on suspension with a lawsuit pending,” the attorney said. “That puts Detective Aaliyah in limbo and gives us very few options, especially since your evaluation was done on behalf of the police union. With all due respect, it holds no weight from a legal perspective. Good-bye, Dr. Cross.”
I tried to find Aaliyah’s doctor next and lucked out when a friend in the human resources department checked some old records and gave me a name, Dr. Timothy Cantrell. I looked Cantrell up and found he was not only an internist but affiliated with GW Medical Center and its famous tropical medicine division. I called Cantrell’s office but found that the physician, a member of Doctors Without Borders, was currently out of the country, working in Brazil to stem a yellow fever outbreak.
I was frustrated but refused to give up without making every effort.
At 2:12 p.m., after making the long drive, I turned down Francis Street in the small town of Arbutus, a suburb of Baltimore, and soon found a small blue-and-white bungalow with a neatly tended yard.
A raw northeast wind had picked up and caused me to shiver as I ran up the walk and knocked at the door. A tall and very put-together redheaded woman in her late fifties answered the door.
I introduced myself, and her features softened.
“I’ve seen you on the news,” she said. “Tess and Bernie say you’re innocent, wrongfully charged.”
Her name was Christine Prince. She was Aaliyah’s father’s girlfriend and was happy to tell me that Bernie had gone off surf-fishing, his passion in retirement. I asked when he’d return, and she said that he’d gone to one of his favorite spots out on Assateague Island, so he probably wouldn’t be back until around midnight.