"I just told you. I don't want to be placed in another situation where I may have to shoot someone."
"Kill someone."
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"Shoot, kill, yes."
"You don't see any difference?"
"When someone's coming at you and you've got three seconds to make a decision, there's no difference, right."
"Must have been pretty frightening."
"It was."
"Are you still frightened?"
"Yes."
"Just how frightened are you, Miss Burke?"
"Very frightened."
She could admit this now. Karin had freed her to do this.
"Because you killed this man?"
"No. Because I was raped. I don't want to get raped again, I'd kill anyone who tried to rape me again. So I don't want to be ... to be constantly put in situations where someone may try to rape me, which frightens the hell out of me, and where I'll . . . I'll have to kill him, which . . . which also frightens me, I guess. Having to kill someone again."
"Sort of a vicious circle, isn't it?"
"If I stay with Special Forces, yes."
"So you're thinking of the hostage team."
"Well, Karin thought I should come up here and talk to you about it. See what it was all about."
"It's not about killing people, that's for sure," Goodman said, and smiled again. "Tell me about these other problems. The ones that aren't related to the job."
"Well, they're personal."
"Yes, well, hostage work is personal, too."
"I understand that. But I don't see what my personal problems have to do with ..."
"I just interviewed a detective who's been with Narcotics for the past ten years," Goodman said. "I've been interviewing people all day long. There's a high burnout rate on the team, lots of stress. If the inspector and I can keep a good negotiator for eight months, that's a long time. Anyway, this detective hates drug dealers, would like to see all of them dead. I asked him what he'd do if we were negotiating with a hostage-taker
9
r
who was a known drug dealer. He said he'd try to save the lives of the hostages. I asked him who he thought was more important, the hostages or the drug dealer. He said he thought the hostages were more important. I asked him if he'd kill the drug dealer to save the hostages. He said yes, he would. I told him I didn't think he'd be right for the team."
Eileen looked at him.
"So what about these personal problems you're working on?" he asked.
She hesitated.
"If you'd rather ..."
"The night I shot Bobby . . . that was his name," she said, "Bobby Wilson. The night I shot him, I had two backups following me. But my boyfriend ..."
"Is he the personal problem? Your boyfriend?"
"Yes."
"What about him?"
"He figured he'd lend a hand on the job, and as a result..."
"Lend a hand?"
"He's a cop, I'm sorry, I should have mentioned that. He's a detective at the Eight-Seven."
"What's his name?"
"Why do you need to know that?"
"I don't."
"Anyway, he walked into what was going down, and there was a mix-up, and I lost both my backups. Which is how I ended up alone with Bobby. And his knife."
"So you killed him."
"Yes. He was coming at me."
"Do you blame your boyfriend for that?"
"That's what we're working on."
"You and Dr Lefkowitz."
"Yes."
"How about you and your boyfriend? Are you working on it, too?"
"I haven't seen him since I started therapy."
"How does he feel about that?"
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"I don't give a damn how he feels."
"I see."
"I'm the one who's drowning," Eileen said.
"I see."
They sat in silence for several moments.
"End of interview, right?" she asked.
They found the letters in a jewelry box on the dead woman's dresser.
They had ascertained by then - from the driver's license in her handbag on a table just inside the entrance door - that her name was Susan Brauer and that her age was twenty-two. The picture on the license showed a fresh-faced blonde grinning at the camera. The blue cloth backing behind her told the detectives that the license was limited to driving with corrective lenses. Before the ME left, they asked him if the dead woman was wearing contacts. He said she was not.
The box containing the letters was one of those tooled red-leather things that attract burglars the way jam pots attract bees. A burglar would have been disappointed with this one, though, because the only thing in it was a stack of letters still in their envelopes and bound together with a pale blue satin ribbon. There were twenty-two letters in all, organized in chronological order, the first of them dated the eleventh of June this year, the last dated the twelfth of July. All of the letters were handwritten, all of them began with the salutation My darling Susan. None of them was signed. All of them were erotic.
The writer was obviously a man.
In letter after letter - they calculated that he'd averaged a letter every other day or so - the writer described in explicit language all the things he intended to do to Susan . . .
. . . standing behind you in a crowded elevator, your skirt raised in the back and tucked up under your belt, you naked under the skirt, my hands freely roaming your . . .
. . . and all the things he expected Susan to do to him . . .
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. . . with you straddling me and facing the mirror. Then I want you to ease yourself down on my . . .
As the detectives read the letters in order, it seemed possible that Susan had been writing to him in return, and that her letters were of the same nature, his references to her requests . . .
. . . when you say you want to tie me to the bed and have me beg you to touch me, do you mean . . .
. . . indicating an erotic imagination as lively as his own. Moreover, it became clear that these were no mere unfulfilled fantasies. The couple were actually doing the things they promised they'd do, and doing it with startling frequency.
. . . on Wednesday when you opened your kimono and stood there in the black lingerie I'd bought you, your legs slightly parted, the garters tight on your . . .
. . . but then last Friday, as you bent over to accept me, I wondered whether you really enjoyed . . .
. . . quite often myself. And when you told me that on Monday you thought of me while you were doing it, the bubble bath foaming around you, your hand busy under the suds, finding that sweet tight. . .
. . . known you only since New Year's Day, and yet I think of you all the time. I saw you yesterday, I'll see you again tomorrow, but I walk around eternally embarrassed because I'm sure everyone can see the bulge of my . . .
The letters went on and on.
Twenty-two of them in all.
The last one was perhaps the most revealing of the lot. In part, before it sailed off into the usual erotic stratosphere, it dealt with business of a sort:
My darling Susan,
I know you're becoming impatient with what seems an interminable delay in getting you into the new apartment. I myself feel uneasy searching for a taxi when I leave there late at night, knowing the streets to the south of the Oval are neither well-lighted nor well-patrolled. I'll be so much happier when
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you're settled downtown, closer to my office, in a safer neighborhood, in the luxurious surroundings I promised you.
But please don't take the delay as a sign of indifference or changing attitude on my part. And please don't become impatient or forgetful. I would hate to lose this apartment before the other one comes free - which I've been assured will be any day now. I'll make sure you have the cash to cover any checks you write, but please pay all of the apartment bills promptly. You can't risk losing the lease on default.
I've been going to my post office box every day, but nothing from Susan. Is little Susan afraid to write? Is little Susan losing interest? I would hate to think so. Or does sweet Susan need reminding that she's mine? I think you may have to be punished the next time I see you. I think I'll have to turn you over my knee, and pull down your panties, and spank you till your cheeks turn pink, watch your ass writhing under my hand, hear you moaning . . .