Bullet in the Night by Judith Rolfs

she’d already reached the door.
    When she left, I took a deep breath. I wasn’t sure what to make of this successful but unhappy woman who went out of her way to be disliked. Could I service her without getting annoyed? Of course. My framed professional licenses on the wall behind me signified I could squelch negative feelings. Yes, I’m well trained, but she’d be tough. I wished frustration toward a client never cropped up but sometimes it did. I wanted their lives to be the best possible, but some were stubborn about changing unproductive behaviors. Christ’s command to love reminded me to avoid judging.
    I wrote on Sandy’s client intake sheet. Client expressed but didn’t emote concern about Lenora’s plight. Outwardly hard, appears to guard a fragile shell.
    Had she transferred anger at her parents and the world into a motive for killing Lenora? Had she come in today as a cover-up? Did Lenora’s confrontational method lead to deep anger? Did Sandy have a fetish for killing? For that matter, was it safe for me to be around her?
    A distinct chill rolled over me. I crossed the room to the opposite wall and twisted the control to turn down the air conditioning.

 
    CHAPTER NINE
    At three, I left my office for my appointment with Kirk at his all-expenses-paid residence, the Walworth County jail. The massive complex built with rectangular chunks of stone in two shades of tan spread over several acres. It might have blended into the landscape as a typical business building except for the sign, Law Enforcement Center, and parked sheriff’s department cars in the front spaces of the lot.
    I shuddered. The idea of a structure constructed to cage human beings deemed too dangerous for the public welfare repulsed me. This would be my first and hopefully last visit.
    After I parked, I pulled the hand-sized pepper spray from my handbag after several minutes searching. So much for being prepared to use this easily accessible crime deterrent in an emergency. I dug the silver metal nail file out from beneath my blush then rifled past two lipstick tubes and Chapstick to find my peppermints. I popped a mint into my mouth to soothe my queasy stomach. Best to leave the spray and nail file in the driver’s seat of my car. No way would I carry anything inside remotely resembling a weapon. On second thought, I left my purse in the car.
    My stomach growled, reminding me my lunch had been light. I envisioned the fast food salad I’d grab when I left.
    I charged toward the front door to overcome my reluctance to enter the building, carrying only a small notepad, pen, and car keys, and strolled in bravely. Murphy’s Oil and sweat filled my nostrils—same as our local high school during Tara and Collin’s basketball games.
    A droopy-eyed female receptionist with puffy cheeks and a thin neck sat at a desk in a glass enclosure inside the spacious foyer. At least forty thin black braids coiled perfectly around her head. I waited as she methodically checked the identification of the gentleman ahead of me—I surmised a lawyer. The navy suit moved off briskly and disappeared.
    I stepped up to the window, aware of the fluttering in my stomach. She responded to my hello with a noncommittal grunt as I handed over the letter of authorization allowing me to visit Kirk.
    “ID?” An expressionless request, no small talk wasted here.
    I pulled out my driver’s license with my picture ID and quipped, “Bad hair day.”
    The woman ignored my remark and glanced wordlessly back and forth from the license to me as if the picture might change. Finally her head jerked left toward chairs in the waiting area. I assumed that was permission to sit down. I tried to smile as I said thank you, but it was hard through shaky lips.
    Fifteen minutes passed before a handcuffed man in a green cotton uniform appeared with a guard and was led to one of four glass-enclosed visitor’s cubicles at the far end of the room.
    I was summoned and gestured to sit on the