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When Fiona looked at her watch, it was way past eight o’clock. She had made a conscious decision to prolong her stay at her mother’s, so she could search Dr. Kaufman’s office. Was it illegal? Of course, it was illegal. Yet, she felt a newly-found energy invading her body, making her intensely dangerous. She presented her badge to the doorman, making up a story of a security breach she was investigating that required her to inspect Dr. Kaufman’s space.
“I believe he is still in his office. I haven’t seen the doctor leave. His last patient, a woman, left not long ago ...” he mechanically stared at his watch, “probably fifteen minutes ago.”
“Okay, thanks.” Fiona scanned her mind for an excuse to offer the doctor for her unexpected visit. She also wondered what interrogation skills and techniques to apply in extracting the hidden information Dr. Kaufman was protecting. She would search his office some other time. She went down the corridor, knocked at the door, and entered. The room, the antique chairs, the glass table, the walls, and the floor were covered in blood. She checked for a pulse, and there wasn’t a beat indicative of life. The doctor was gone. She glanced at his face closely, and she was shocked by what she saw. She was stunned that she was facing a twenty-year-old case that had been cold as ice and was becoming warm like summer again.
The doctor’s secret, whatever it was, had killed him. And it was obviously perpetrated by the makeup artist who struck twenty years ago—his face was painted like the homeless girl in Central Park. She retrieved her phone from her pocket and made a phone call requesting assistance, then called Sophie’s work phone. It rang four times. God, she thought, my tendency to count the rings is tiresome, and it’s making me anxious. She was transferred to Sophie’s voice mail. She wouldn’t leave a message. She had to find Sophie and the rest of the team. The situation was progressing in leaps and bounds, which no one could contain. She believed that something greater was approaching; that was her intuition. She called the main line of the precinct, demanding to speak to Detective Sophie Andrews or Detective Phil ‘something or other.’ She realized then, she didn’t remember Phil’s last name. They had been properly introduced. How could she be so careless and forget his last name?
“Phil Kaufman? Anyway, both left a while ago.”
She glanced at the doctor’s face again. He had bushy eyebrows and thin lips, characteristics she couldn’t dispute. She realized in that moment that Phil Kaufman was the doctor’s son and the recipient of the first device. She was baffled at how everything came together: a twenty-year-old case with a makeup artist who struck again, the device, Dr. Kaufman and his son, and of course, Dr. Taylor. She left the room. She couldn’t do anything to save him, and she didn’t want to contaminate the scene. She approached the doorman.
“You said the doctor’s last patient left a while ago. What time did she come?”
“I had to take a break, and in those instances, I lock the door. The visitors must use the intercom to get access. Probably, she came during the time I was away from my desk.”
“Can you describe her?”
“In her fifties with short hair. I never saw her before. Probably, she is a new patient. I feel like I’m being accused of something. What’s going on?”
“Dr. Kaufman was murdered,” she stated simply and walked out. She needed fresh air in her lungs to pump life into her body. She heard the sirens echoing in the open space and forced herself to think.