Victims by Dorothy Uhnak

had been functioning for years without serious problems, under medication, and in the care of a psychiatrist. For some reason, he had recently stopped all medication. He had first gone through a modified manic cycle, then gradually he had slid down into a despair he could never describe. It took a great deal of desperate, forced energy and determination for Kevin to go to Miranda. For whatever reason, he could not bring himself to call his brother. The Senator got him into a discreet treatment program upstate, and the word was that Kevin Collins had a drinking problem and was drying out.
    The Police Department could understand and accept alcoholism. That was the way things were. Psychiatric problems on the other hand, could not be admitted, condoned or accepted. Jesus, imagine getting on the witness stand and having some attorney ask you, “Officer, when was your last visit to the nut house and what was your problem? And what does your shrink say about your condition now, you screwball?”
    The Senator told Miranda that he and Kevin had the same father, different mothers. No one knew that Detective Kevin Collins was the older half brother of the popular, respected, ambitious Senator. It had been Kevin’s decision, and John had respected it. Any smoothing John ever had to do to protect his brother had been done through complicated channels. No one knew the connection.
    Except Miranda, now.
    The Senator was a chain smoker. He lit a fresh cigarette from the glow of his last. Inhaled deeply, blew the smoke up and away from his face. He was a handsome man, a more carefully sculptured version of his brother. There was something theatrical about him. He was accustomed to being watched closely, and his gestures, his pauses, his quick smile and studied attentiveness were all very effective. He was an energetic man, but suddenly he seemed to run out of effort. He seemed to collapse with weariness, to lose the easy ability to display a certain, particular façade. In Miranda’s small neat apartment, exhausted by the emotional demands made on him this night, he realized he had no need to present any particular aspect to this girl. He stubbed out his latest cigarette, and when he looked up at her Miranda was startled by his resemblance to his brother. The Senator had a wounded, vulnerable look.
    “Miranda, I am in your debt. Totally.”
    She sensed his anxiety and told him, “Kevin has been my partner and my friend. We learned to trust and rely on each other. There is a matter of great discretion involved. It is always that way: trust and discretion. I wish only that he becomes healthy again, that he does not suffer the way I saw him suffer tonight. And,” she added carefully, “I consider that a private and confidential matter altogether.”
    “Miranda, the telephone number that my brother had you call. It is unlisted. He is the only one who uses it. It is his direct line to me. I have a system, a feed-in, so that, wherever I am, if that number is activated the fact is revealed to me and I pick up the recorded message and get back to him. Until tonight, Kevin’s was the only voice I ever heard on that line.” He pulled a business card out of his wallet and wrote the number on the back of it. “I want you to have the same access. If, at any time, for any reason whatsoever, you feel the need of my friendship, call the number. Whenever, Miranda, day or night, twenty-four hours a day. I will return your call. Because I know that if you call, it will be a very serious matter. And I will be privileged to respond.”
    She took the card and nodded. Her mouth went dry. She had never been in the presence of such power before. She had never been the recipient of such a gift before. She had never expected anything like this—never.
    His voice, his tone, his manner changed. He became crisp, light, as though merely mouthing polite words as he asked her: What were her ambitions? What would she like her life to be like if given a choice? He