indifference as proof positive of her psychic
wellness.
As for him, he gave no hint that the incident even lingered
in his memory. He smiled, acknowledged her with sentiment and nostalgia as
would be appropriate to the daughter of an old friend. Not a gleam, not a
single iota of subtle recognition of what they had shared that afternoon was apparent
in any visible expression or body language on his part.
As time went on, she hardly thought of him as being the
same man who had abused her that day. Nor did his constant coverage in the
media trigger any response that affected her in any emotional way.
Until she saw the body of this woman in the Mayflower
Hotel, she had no reason to let the events of that fateful day resurface in her
mind.
But the image of that poor unfortunate woman spread-eagled
on the hotel bed, with similar block-lettered graffiti on her body, had brought
back the memory with hurricane force.
Her detective's mind could not reject the notion that this
woman was victimized by a perpetrator with an MO that seriously matched that of
her long-ago lover. The effect on her had been profound, setting off shock
reactions that took all her inner resources to control.
The details of that afternoon, she had always felt certain,
were etched into her memory. But how accurate were they really? The pain, the
horror of the experience, her embarrassment, the assault on her self-respect,
the roller coaster ride of her emotions ... had all occurred. Had time rendered
them anecdotal? Nevertheless, it felt like a memory match but she couldn't be
certain.
Unfortunately, she had no photographs to validate the
similarities of the assault. The physical style of the lipstick graffiti, the
words themselves, the knots used to harness the woman, the type of injuries,
the way the woman was positioned, the specifics of her wounds were all
disturbingly familiar. And the most puzzling question of all. What had caused
her death? She would have to allow her mind to meander through the maze of
memory before giving herself permission to validate the similarities.
In her heart, she wanted, badly wanted, the perpetrator to
be Farley Lipscomb. With the onrush of memory had come the desire for revenge.
Professionally, she knew, this was a dangerous and highly unethical position to
take.
But she did allow herself to hope that it might be Farley
Lipscomb and to secretly create a scenario in which his aberration had grown
more uncontrollable and dangerous with the years. Perhaps, too, a search of
data banks would reveal the occurrence of a regional patch of cases with the
same MO. In good faith, she assured herself, she could not eliminate Farley
Lipscomb as a prime suspect, at least in theory. Could she?
And if he was the perpetrator? Even the possibility was a
double-edged sword. First, she needed to find some physical connection, some
compelling evidence that linked him with the crime. Only then could she dare
reveal what had occurred to her so many years ago, a detail that might
compromise the accusation, whatever the evidence. A personal motive was
dangerous baggage for a detective to carry. If revealed it could be raw meat for
a defense lawyer.
Such a personal confession had negative career
ramifications as well. It would mark her as someone who participated in what
the police culture would characterize as bizarre sexual practices. She could
become the butt of the kind of ridicule that undermined respect and corroded
working relationships.
But there was still another wrinkle that filled her with
dread. Suppose there was no hard evidence, no connective tissue? Suppose she
felt it necessary to confront him directly. She dared not speculate on how such
a confrontation would play.
He was no longer Farley Lipscomb, lawyer, but Farley
Lipscomb, associate justice of the Supreme Court.
5
"Jeez," the Eggplant exclaimed, looking over the
pictures of Phyla Herbert's much abused body that were scattered over the
surface of his desk. He shook his
wellness.
As for him, he gave no hint that the incident even lingered
in his memory. He smiled, acknowledged her with sentiment and nostalgia as
would be appropriate to the daughter of an old friend. Not a gleam, not a
single iota of subtle recognition of what they had shared that afternoon was apparent
in any visible expression or body language on his part.
As time went on, she hardly thought of him as being the
same man who had abused her that day. Nor did his constant coverage in the
media trigger any response that affected her in any emotional way.
Until she saw the body of this woman in the Mayflower
Hotel, she had no reason to let the events of that fateful day resurface in her
mind.
But the image of that poor unfortunate woman spread-eagled
on the hotel bed, with similar block-lettered graffiti on her body, had brought
back the memory with hurricane force.
Her detective's mind could not reject the notion that this
woman was victimized by a perpetrator with an MO that seriously matched that of
her long-ago lover. The effect on her had been profound, setting off shock
reactions that took all her inner resources to control.
The details of that afternoon, she had always felt certain,
were etched into her memory. But how accurate were they really? The pain, the
horror of the experience, her embarrassment, the assault on her self-respect,
the roller coaster ride of her emotions ... had all occurred. Had time rendered
them anecdotal? Nevertheless, it felt like a memory match but she couldn't be
certain.
Unfortunately, she had no photographs to validate the
similarities of the assault. The physical style of the lipstick graffiti, the
words themselves, the knots used to harness the woman, the type of injuries,
the way the woman was positioned, the specifics of her wounds were all
disturbingly familiar. And the most puzzling question of all. What had caused
her death? She would have to allow her mind to meander through the maze of
memory before giving herself permission to validate the similarities.
In her heart, she wanted, badly wanted, the perpetrator to
be Farley Lipscomb. With the onrush of memory had come the desire for revenge.
Professionally, she knew, this was a dangerous and highly unethical position to
take.
But she did allow herself to hope that it might be Farley
Lipscomb and to secretly create a scenario in which his aberration had grown
more uncontrollable and dangerous with the years. Perhaps, too, a search of
data banks would reveal the occurrence of a regional patch of cases with the
same MO. In good faith, she assured herself, she could not eliminate Farley
Lipscomb as a prime suspect, at least in theory. Could she?
And if he was the perpetrator? Even the possibility was a
double-edged sword. First, she needed to find some physical connection, some
compelling evidence that linked him with the crime. Only then could she dare
reveal what had occurred to her so many years ago, a detail that might
compromise the accusation, whatever the evidence. A personal motive was
dangerous baggage for a detective to carry. If revealed it could be raw meat for
a defense lawyer.
Such a personal confession had negative career
ramifications as well. It would mark her as someone who participated in what
the police culture would characterize as bizarre sexual practices. She could
become the butt of the kind of ridicule that undermined respect and corroded
working relationships.
But there was still another wrinkle that filled her with
dread. Suppose there was no hard evidence, no connective tissue? Suppose she
felt it necessary to confront him directly. She dared not speculate on how such
a confrontation would play.
He was no longer Farley Lipscomb, lawyer, but Farley
Lipscomb, associate justice of the Supreme Court.
5
"Jeez," the Eggplant exclaimed, looking over the
pictures of Phyla Herbert's much abused body that were scattered over the
surface of his desk. He shook his
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