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Authors: Thomas H. Cook
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metal doors.
“I’ll stay here,” Cohen told him, avoiding the morgue as he had since returning from the war, the cold air inside it, the stainless-steel refrigerators, knowing that the good thing he sought would never be found there.
Pierced nodded, then motioned Anna forward.
She followed him into the morgue, moving briskly, like someone determined to get the next step over with.
“Down here.” Pierce led her along a brightly lit corridor to where the ME had already placed the small body on a gurney and draped it with a sheet. He stepped over to the gurney. “Are you ready, Miss Lake?”
She nodded stiffly, her eyes leveled on the covered profile.
Pierce drew back the sheet.
Anna shuddered, as if hit by a small jolt of electricity. Then she stepped closer to the gurney and pressed her hand against the dead child’s cheek. “Cathy,” she said softly. “Cathy.” She bent forward and lifted her daughter into her arms.
Watching her, Pierce recalled how his wife had cradled a picture of Debra for days, even sleeping with it through long, tearful nights. Then he thought of Costa, who had caused Jenny such pain, then of the nameless vagrant who’d been found lurking near the duck pond only yards from the body of Cathy Lake, a man who lived like an animal, by means of animal cunning, passive in arrest but predatory, a vagrant in a crudely painted cave littered with smashed toys, peering out at the path that wound among the trees.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Anna Lake’s brown eyes lifted toward him. “What will you do with her now?”
“There’ll be an autopsy. Then she can be released to you.”
“I want to bury her quickly,” Anna said. “I don’t want her … like this.”
“I understand.”
She pressed her lips to her daughter’s dark brown hair, then returned the body gently to the cold steel of the gurney.
Pierce began to draw the sheet back over the girl’s face, but Anna stopped him. She took the cloth from his hand. “Let me cover her,” she said, and then, with what seemed to Pierce an otherworldly grace, she did.
In the car five minutes later, Pierce and Cohen drove Anna Lake back to her apartment on Obermeyer Street through a light rain, the measured thud of the windshield wipers beating softly in the silence. Through the watery glass, Pierce watched the city streets in an agony of remembrance, trying to focus on the work at hand, what needed to be done to find Cathy Lake’s killer, but returning instead to Costa, his release, the sneer in his voice as he’d thanked the judge “most kindly” for unleashing him once again upon the children of the world.
“We’ll find the man who did this,” Pierce said. “Won’t we, Norm?”
Cohen nodded.
“I’ll need to ask you a few questions, Miss Lake,” Pierce told her when they reached the door. “Of course, I know you need a little time to—”
“No, I don’t need any time,” Anna interrupted. Her voice didn’t waver. “If I can help you, I want to do it.”
“You mean now?” He thought of Jenny, how Debra’s death had drained her of that very energy he could see building now in Anna Lake, driving her forward, as if they shared the same purpose, sought justice laced with vengeance with the same dark need.
“Yes.” She opened the door and flipped on the light. “Come inside, please.”
8:23 P.M. , September 12, Police Headquarters, Sixth Floor Lounge
We’ll find the man who did this.
The promise circled in Pierce’s mind as Blunt pulled himself heavily from the sofa with a loud grunt. “Well, good luck cracking that fuck,” he said as he lumbered out of the room.
Pierce took a restless draw on his cigarette before he crushed it in the chipped glass ashtray on the table. He could feel himself revving up for his last round of interrogation. Round, yes, like he was going into the ring, determined to defeat an opponent in a game of combat with strict rules and established time limits. He would have another
“I’ll stay here,” Cohen told him, avoiding the morgue as he had since returning from the war, the cold air inside it, the stainless-steel refrigerators, knowing that the good thing he sought would never be found there.
Pierced nodded, then motioned Anna forward.
She followed him into the morgue, moving briskly, like someone determined to get the next step over with.
“Down here.” Pierce led her along a brightly lit corridor to where the ME had already placed the small body on a gurney and draped it with a sheet. He stepped over to the gurney. “Are you ready, Miss Lake?”
She nodded stiffly, her eyes leveled on the covered profile.
Pierce drew back the sheet.
Anna shuddered, as if hit by a small jolt of electricity. Then she stepped closer to the gurney and pressed her hand against the dead child’s cheek. “Cathy,” she said softly. “Cathy.” She bent forward and lifted her daughter into her arms.
Watching her, Pierce recalled how his wife had cradled a picture of Debra for days, even sleeping with it through long, tearful nights. Then he thought of Costa, who had caused Jenny such pain, then of the nameless vagrant who’d been found lurking near the duck pond only yards from the body of Cathy Lake, a man who lived like an animal, by means of animal cunning, passive in arrest but predatory, a vagrant in a crudely painted cave littered with smashed toys, peering out at the path that wound among the trees.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Anna Lake’s brown eyes lifted toward him. “What will you do with her now?”
“There’ll be an autopsy. Then she can be released to you.”
“I want to bury her quickly,” Anna said. “I don’t want her … like this.”
“I understand.”
She pressed her lips to her daughter’s dark brown hair, then returned the body gently to the cold steel of the gurney.
Pierce began to draw the sheet back over the girl’s face, but Anna stopped him. She took the cloth from his hand. “Let me cover her,” she said, and then, with what seemed to Pierce an otherworldly grace, she did.
In the car five minutes later, Pierce and Cohen drove Anna Lake back to her apartment on Obermeyer Street through a light rain, the measured thud of the windshield wipers beating softly in the silence. Through the watery glass, Pierce watched the city streets in an agony of remembrance, trying to focus on the work at hand, what needed to be done to find Cathy Lake’s killer, but returning instead to Costa, his release, the sneer in his voice as he’d thanked the judge “most kindly” for unleashing him once again upon the children of the world.
“We’ll find the man who did this,” Pierce said. “Won’t we, Norm?”
Cohen nodded.
“I’ll need to ask you a few questions, Miss Lake,” Pierce told her when they reached the door. “Of course, I know you need a little time to—”
“No, I don’t need any time,” Anna interrupted. Her voice didn’t waver. “If I can help you, I want to do it.”
“You mean now?” He thought of Jenny, how Debra’s death had drained her of that very energy he could see building now in Anna Lake, driving her forward, as if they shared the same purpose, sought justice laced with vengeance with the same dark need.
“Yes.” She opened the door and flipped on the light. “Come inside, please.”
8:23 P.M. , September 12, Police Headquarters, Sixth Floor Lounge
We’ll find the man who did this.
The promise circled in Pierce’s mind as Blunt pulled himself heavily from the sofa with a loud grunt. “Well, good luck cracking that fuck,” he said as he lumbered out of the room.
Pierce took a restless draw on his cigarette before he crushed it in the chipped glass ashtray on the table. He could feel himself revving up for his last round of interrogation. Round, yes, like he was going into the ring, determined to defeat an opponent in a game of combat with strict rules and established time limits. He would have another
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