Patron Saint
Dr. Jo Kepler folded her hands on the desk
and waited for her patient to compose himself.
“This is so lame,” Detective Thomas Nolan said,
squeezing he eyes with his thumbs. Teardrops dotted them like beads.
His florid face, showing the strain of his nineteen
years on the job, turned away from her. “You must think I’m a total pussy.”
Jo Kepler smiled in a way that managed to be genuine
and clinical at the same time. A single mother in her late 30s, she was
pretty in a subdued, unaffected way.
“We’ve been coming to this point for weeks now,”
she said gently. “It’s a sign of growth, of emotional maturity, that you
can risk showing me how you feel.”
“And none of this gets written down in your report,
right?” Detective Nolan asked, glancing at the file folder on her desk.
“I’m a therapist and you’re my patient,” she said.
“The fact that I work for the Department doesn’t change that. What happens
in this room is confidential. What I do in my report is make my recommendation
to your supervisors as to your fitness for duty.”
He gave a dark laugh. “And you base that on what,
exactly? My drinking, the panic attacks, the sleepless nights? Hell, I
wouldn’t sign off on me.”
She didn’t respond, letting a silence fill the
space between them. Bright morning sunlight baked the walls, warming the
thick air. Soon it would be stifling. It was August in Los Angeles.
Nolan stirred, uncomfortable. Sweat glistened on
his forehead. He was 45, according to his personnel file, but looked ten
years older. Though big and tough as a bear, his body had already begun
to sag. He had a cop’s beer gut, a cop’s stiffened joints, a cop’s dour,
suspicious squint.
A look Jo Kepler knew well, and not just from the
patients she treated. She’d seen it for years in her father’s eyes, before
he was killed in the line of duty when she was twelve.
Now Nolan was training those cop’s eyes on her.
“You know why they’re makin’ me come here, don’tcha? It’s just the Department
coverin’ its ass before they yank me off the Task Force and stick me behind
a desk.”
“There are concerns, Tom,” she said carefully.
“I’ve seen too many good, solid cops get overwhelmed working a case like
this.”
“You think I’m wiggin’ out?”
“Are you?
“Why? ‘Cause I just blubbered like some loser about
my baby brother? ‘We used to be best buddies, and now we hate each other’s
guts.’ Boo hoo. End of story.”
“Your ‘blubbering,’ as you put it, is the good
news. The memories of your bond with Eddie when you were young, your grief
over the way things are now…it’s the most human I’ve ever seen you. Frankly,
I was beginning to wonder.”
“Thanks a lot, Doc.”
She smiled “I’m on your side, remember? And like
it or not, we’re stuck with each other.”
Nolan sat forward, head hanging between his shoulders.
“Maybe. But once it gets out that a guy’s been sent here…”
“We try to see that it doesn’t, “ she said. It
was an understatement, she thought. As a police psychologist, one of a
dozen on permanent staff at the LAPD, she worked in a small, single-windowed
office in a nondescript bank building in Chinatown. You couldn’t even see
Parker Center, police headquarters for the city, from here.
Everything was done to normalize the experience
for the cops sent to her, including allowing them to keep their guns. Jo
could see the bulge under Nolan's blue jacket. A lot of people questioned
the wisdom of this policy, which was why therapists like Jo also had a
panic button installed within easy reach under their desks. If a cop became
violent or self-destructive, a guard stationed out in the corridor could
be summoned in seconds.
In her six years with the Department, Jo had never
had to push that button. Things had gotten pretty intense more than a few
times, but she'd handled it. She was good at her job.
"I meant what I said before," she went on now.
"All of your feelings are welcome here. About anything going on in your
life. God knows, you're under tremendous stress. With all the political
pressure, the media..."
"And it's only gonna get worse." He shook his head.
"We just found victim number eight last night. Eight women, Dr. Kepler.
The bastard's laughin' in our faces."
Jo lowered her eyes. "Same as with the others?"
Nolan nodded. "Prostitute. Beaten to death. No
evidence of rape, no usable forensics at the scene. He's gotta be wearin'
gloves. Only blood is always the victim's." He paused. "He must surprise
'em. No defensive marks, no skin samples under the vic's fingernails. Perp
just uses her for a punchin' bag til he hits something vital, and that's
it."
He looked off, grimacing. "Can you imagine the
rage, the fury it takes to beat someone to death with your fists? I mean,
Christ..."
His words hung in the air for a few moments, then
he reached in his jacket pocket and withdrew a manila envelope. "This is
weird, and probably grosses you out, but I gotta show 'em to you."
"I understand," she said. "I'm getting used to
seeing them. God help me."
Nolan's eyes flickered up at this rare personal
disclosure. Jo took a fresh breath and chastised herself. It wasn't that
she had professional qualms about sharing personal feelings with a patient,
when appropriate. It was just that, as a police psychologist, she needed
to maintain a slightly more authoritative stance with the officers assigned
to her. Cops--especially males--responded to hierarchy and chain of command,
and it was always a battle gaining their respect. And an even tougher one
keeping it.
Nolan spread the crime scene photos on her desk.
Steeling herself, Jo examined them. The poor girl. Sad, lifeless eyes peering
up at her. Bloodied, broken body splayed against the throw rug, like some
discarded toy.
"Her name's Gina Hill," he said. "Twenty-six. Lived
in West L.A. Three arrests for soliciting."
"Pattern's the same," Jo noted, struggling to keep
her voice calm. "Naked, except for the St. Christopher medal."
"Perp loops it around her neck. Since, it's not
blood-spattered or marked up, the M.E. figures it's placed there post-mortem.
Some nutso message from the killer."
"Or maybe some kind of ritual. Isn't Christopher
one of those saints the church has discredited?"
"Yeah, but tell that to a dyed-in-the-wool Catholic
like my mother. She still won't eat meat on Fridays."
Jo carefully picked up one of the photos by the
edges. "Christopher was the patron saint of travelers, right? People prayed
that he'd guide their souls to heaven."
He shrugged. "You're askin' the wrong guy, Doc.
I haven't seen the inside of a church in twenty years." He sat back in
his chair and unwrapped a fresh pack of Camels.
Written expressly for WRITTEN
BY, Copyright 2002 by Dennis Palumbo
dennis@dennispalumbo.com
