Sam answered the phone out of a deep sleep on the second ring, noticing as she did so that Willy’s eyes were already open. She rarely actually saw him asleep.
“Martens,” she answered softly as Willy, on the far side of her, rolled over onto his back and sighed.
“Hey, Sammie,” the voice on the other end said cheerfully, “it’s Ron. Sorry to wake you guys up again, but I thought you’d be interested—Becky Kerr was just taken to the ER.”
Sam hit the speakerphone button so Willy could hear. “Why?” she asked.
“Something about a laceration. That part’s not real clear. My guy wondered about it maybe being a suicide attempt.”
Both of them were already out of bed and putting on their clothes.
“Who called 911?” Willy asked.
“Hey, Willy,” Ron greeted him. “Sorry to wake you up.”
“Answer the fucking question.”
Ron laughed. “Her mom. She was a basket case, screaming her head off on the 911 tape. Dispatch told me the paramedics on the way to the ER were definitely laid-back, though, so I don’t think anybody’s hanging on for life.”
“Who else is at the hospital?” Sam asked, tying the quick-lace boots she favored. “I’m hoping we can pick and choose who we talk to.”
“The mom, for sure. Don’t know about anyone else.”
“Do me a favor, Ron?” Sam asked, about to hit the Off button.
“Shoot.”
“Call HCRS and get somebody over there to hook up with us. I want to have a crack at this little girl.”
“You got it.”
“Jesus,” Willy complained as they headed outside for the car. “Did you have to drag them into it?”
“Spare me,” was her only response. HCRS stood for Health Care and Rehabilitation Services—a crucial mental health agency when it came to interactions between cops and people on the emotional edge, but a pain in the neck to people like Willy, whose instincts were always to fly solo.
At the hospital, ten minutes later, they found an unusually quiet ER, its hallways empty, one of its two glassed-in staff stations abandoned, and the other one held down by the ever-present Elizabeth Pace—who, Sammie was now convinced, had been there when they’d constructed the building around her.
“Hey, Elizabeth,” she called out as she passed through the sliding-door entrance.
“Hey yourself,” Elizabeth greeted them. “How’re you two doing? Here to see our young lady?”
“Eventually,” Sam answered her as Willy continued to wander the hallway, looking around idly. “Gotta wait for HCRS. Who did she come in with?”
Elizabeth indicated the waiting-room wall behind her. “You got one mother and two brothers.”
“The girl okay?”
“Oh, sure. Mom’s the most worked up. Daughter’s just pissed off.”
Sam glanced over at Willy. “Want to join me?”
“Sure.”
They circled around to the waiting room’s inner door and entered to find Karen Putnam sitting on a couch beside a pale-faced Richard Vial, while his brother Nicky paced the room like a restless animal, his eyes downcast and his fists in his pockets.
Sam’s face broke into a smile at the sight of Richard. “Hey there,” she addressed them both, sitting down quickly to be on their level. “How’re you guys holding up?”
Richard smiled wanly as his mother broke out, “How do you think? Crazy kid. What the hell was she doing?”
Willy, intrigued to finally set eyes on Nicky after both the blood drop finding and what Dan Kravitz had described, approached the boy at an angle that should have forced him to stop and exchange some form of greeting.
“Hi,” Willy began, but Nicky brushed between him and the wall, eyes still averted, as if Willy were part of the furniture.
Rebuffed, Willy sat down beside Sam without saying another word. The latter waved a hand in his direction, explaining, “This is my colleague, Willy Kunkle.”
Karen nodded and wiped her eyes. She looked terrible, her mascara smeared, her face haggard.
“What was she doing, Karen?” Willy asked with the surprising gentleness he always kept in reserve.
“She had a razor blade in her hand. She was slicing herself. There was blood . . .”
Willy leaned forward and rested his hand on her knee, very briefly—barely a brushstroke. “Hang on, hang on. I think I understand. Was there music?”
Karen stopped and stared at him. “What?”
“The music,” Willy resumed. “And the lighting. Did it look different than usual? Kind of theatrical, like she was trying to set a mood?”
“Yes,” she admitted, surprised.
“And the blood. Was it a thin line, with something to absorb it underneath, like a towel or some Kleenex?”
“Yes.”
“So there wasn’t a lot of it?”
“No.”
“Sam told me that Becky’s been in the dumps lately. Is that right?”
Karen flared a little at that. “Not enough to make her kill herself.”
“I don’t think she was trying to,” Willy reassured her.
Karen’s voice rose. “She cut her wrist, for Christ’s sake.”
“Her wrist or her arm?”
Her eyes widened. Her mouth opened to respond and then closed.
“Her arm,” Richard said in a small voice.
“That’s key,” Willy quickly added. “That’s not suicide.” He leaned forward and repeated the hand gesture, leaving it longer on her knee this time. “Your daughter was cutting herself, Karen. Huge difference.”
“What do you mean?” Karen’s voice had settled back down.
“It’s what a lot of girls are doing to make themselves feel more in control,” Sam contributed.
“It’s kind of an anger thing,” Willy told her. “We see it all the time. Most girls in middle and high school will try it at least once.”
“Cutting themselves with a razor?” Karen asked incredulously.
“It takes their minds off their troubles,” Sam explained. “Some say it’s like pulling the plug on their anxieties.”
“Like booze is for adults,” Willy added. “We do it to numb the pain; they do what they do to make the pain something they can see.”
Karen was shaking her head. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“Not to us,” Sammie agreed. “But it works for them.”
“You were totally unaware she was into this?” Willy asked.
“She’s not ‘into it,’ ” Karen protested.
“What do you think?” Sam suddenly asked Richard.
“She’s been sad.”
“Sadder than usual?”
“Yeah. We used to play more, and now we don’t.”
“Under the trailer?” Sam asked.
“Yeah.”
“What did you two used to do?”
“Stuff—you know. Legos and cards and some computer games.”
“But not lately?”
“She stopped coming down.”
“Richard,” Willy asked, “do you know if she ever cut herself before?”
He shook his head. “I never saw it.”
“She wear short sleeves when you played together?”
“Yeah, sure,” Richard answered, perplexed.
“What happened?” Karen asked her son.
Richard’s thin shoulders shrugged. “I don’t know. A few weeks ago, she just stopped, and after that, I saw she was really sad.”
“But she never told you why?”
“Nope.”
Willy twisted in his seat and addressed Nicky, who hadn’t stopped his circular tours of the room.
“Nick,” he said. “How ’bout you? You notice anything different about your sister lately?”
Nick ignored him.
“Nicky,” Karen ordered. “Answer the man.”
Still nothing.
“So,” Sam asked Karen as they turned away from Nicky. “Let’s go over this from the start—what happened tonight?”
“It was getting late,” she explained, “and it’s a school night, so I wanted to tell her to go to bed. I could see her light on under the door. I normally knock, ’cause she’s so big on her privacy, you know? But I hardly see her anymore, so I just walked in this time.”
Karen’s eyes were widening as she spoke. Richard held on to her arm to calm her down. She absentmindedly reached out and stroked his hair as she spoke.
“She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, like you said, with the weird music and funny lighting, just doing . . . it. She looked so angry when she saw me.”
Karen began weeping.
Sam murmured to Richard, “Did you see it, too?”
He nodded, hugging his mother.
This time, Sam reached out and rubbed his back once. “I’m sorry.”
She and Willy rose, and moved toward the door. “We’ll go talk with Becky now, along with someone from HC . . .”
“She’s fine,” Nick interrupted angrily, stopping at last, mere inches from Willy, his eyes riveted to the latter’s mid-chest.
“What makes you say that?” Willy asked, feeling crowded but not stepping back. “Do you know what’s been going on?”
Nicky shook his head, repeated, “She’s fine,” more calmly, and broke away to resume his circling.
Sam and Willy left the waiting room the way they’d entered, to find a woman waiting for them in the ER’s hallway.
She extended a hand to both of them and introduced herself, “Carolyn Taylor-Olson—HCRS.”
Sam shook hands, Willy merely said, “Hey,” still distracted by his nonconversation with Nicky.
“I understand we have a situation?”
Sam indicated the waiting-room door. “Mom said she walked in on daughter cutting herself. From what we gathered, it’s early onset, maybe the first time. The girl’s been walking around with short sleeves up till now.”
Taylor-Olson opened a file she’d been holding. “Becky Kerr?”
“Yeah. Mom’s Karen Putnam.”
“Oh, sure,” Taylor-Olson agreed. “We’ve dealt with them before. Nothing too outrageous, but they’ve made it onto the radar.”
She slapped the folder closed and smiled. “So, how do you want to proceed?”
That stopped Willy. He stared at her. “No ‘stand-aside-and-let-us-do-our-work’?”
She laughed. “Gotcha. Give me a break, Kunkle. If you don’t think we haven’t heard about you, you really are living in outer space.” She tapped him on the chest with her finger, grinning at him devilishly. “We’re not here to screw you over, despite your fantasies. It ain’t about you.”
He stared at her, openmouthed, while Sammie, off to the side, prepared to control the damage.
But he broke into a broad smile as he glanced at his partner and told her, “They’re still a pain in the ass, but I like this one.”
Taylor-Olson rolled her eyes. “Spare me.”
Willy patted her shoulder—a rare gesture for him. “Carolyn, right? You can play this one with Sam, here. It’s not my thing. But nice job. I hope we meet again.”
This time, he did shake hands, muttered to Sam, “I’ll see you outside,” and left the ER.
The women waited until the glass doors had eased shut before Sam asked the HCRS worker, “Did you set that up?”
Taylor-Olson tilted her head equivocally. “I didn’t even know who’d be here.”
“Well, you’re a rare bird, to still be alive after that.”
The other woman looked at her. “You seem to stand your own ground, and I hear you two are an item.”
Sam laughed. “Right—a regular science experiment. It wasn’t always so cozy. You want to meet the young lady in question?”
Taylor-Olson nodded. “Yeah, good idea. If all goes well, I might still be able to get a few hours’ sleep.”
They found Becky in the treatment room farthest from the front doors, sitting in a chair in the corner, her knees up and her arms wrapping her shins. Her left forearm was bandaged with gauze.
Sam studied her carefully, given the connection she suspected the girl had to Wayne Castine. Becky was big for her age, more overweight than developed, and remarkably plain. But she was dressed in the teasing, pubescent style that was all the fad at the moment—permed hair, makeup, tight, spaghetti-strapped crop top, short shorts. Over the tops of her knees, enough of her shirt was visible to reveal the word “Gorgeous” stenciled across the front. Her fingernails were lavishly painted and decorated, complete with fake diamonds, although now peeling and in need of a remake. She struck Sam as a girl caught out in the open—the only guest at a costume ball to have dressed the wrong way. Sam put her chronologically and psychologically between childhood and adolescence, with a firm foothold in neither.
Taylor-Olson started out, her voice supportive and upbeat, without a tinge of the cynical savvy she’d shown Willy. “Hi, Becky. I’m Carolyn and this is Sam. Not that you care, but I’m from HCRS and Sam’s a police officer, and we’re just here to find out if you’re all right.”
“I’m fine.” The voice was flat and sullen.
“Your mom says you were cutting yourself, is that right?”
There was no response. Becky merely watched them over the tops of her knees.
Taylor-Olson perched on the edge of the nearby bed. “Things been a little rough lately?” she asked quietly.
No answer.
“I’d never pretend to know what it’s like to be you, Becky,” she continued, “but I can tell you that you’re not alone—I and people like me are ready and available to help, at the drop of a hat. It’s nice to know that sometimes, when you’re feeling like you’re all alone.”
Becky continued watching them.
Sam began mentally reviewing what she knew of the family’s dynamics.
“How have things been going at home?” Taylor-Olson continued.
Sam was caught by Becky’s fingernails. She’d never had her own done—no surprise—but she knew it wasn’t cheap. And these were top of the line—positively ornate. Way more than this kid could afford.
“I love your nails,” she said suddenly.
Her companion glanced at her unhappily. Becky looked surprised.
Sam dropped to one knee, to not appear threatening. “Could I see?”
Becky’s first response was to make fists of her hands.
“I hate my nails,” Sam said, holding them out. “I’m always trying new stuff, but they always end up the same way, and everybody just laughs at me anyhow, so I don’t know why I bother. But yours are really cool. I get mine made up that way, it might work.” She wiggled her fingers at the girl. “What d’you think?”
“Maybe,” she said.
Sam was wracking her brain, trying to remember what she knew of this teenage world, feeling hopelessly old.
“The shiny chips make all the difference—that and extensions, of course.”
That did the trick. Becky’s fingers shot out straight. “They’re diamonds,” she said forcefully. “Not chips—that’s why they cost so much.”
Sam didn’t hesitate. In one smooth movement, she brought the open cell phone she’d secreted in her other hand and took a picture of the flashy nails, before Becky could react.
Sam gave her a huge smile, just as quickly pocketing the phone. “Cool. I’ll show those to my nail person and see if she can do the same thing. I really appreciate it. Where did you have yours done?”
But the girl was suspicious. The nails disappeared into fists again, and she tucked her chin in defensively.
“I don’t remember.”
Sam backed away. “That’s okay. It won’t matter. Even if they don’t look exactly right, I’ll be better off than I was. How much did they cost, just so I can be prepared?”
“That’s all right, Becky,” Taylor-Olson said softly, giving Sam a sharp look. “And they are very pretty.”
Unrepentant, Sam stepped outside the examination room. Becky’s problems were her own, in the long run. For her part, Sammie had a job to do, and right now that didn’t include counseling and comfort.
Willy was back walking the corridor. He showed his surprise as she closed the door behind her. “That was fast.”
“That was useless,” she said. “The kid’s a clam and I don’t have the time. HCRS can have her.” She pulled out the phone and opened it up to check her photographic skills. “I got this, though.”
He sidled up next to her and peered at the small screen. “What the hell?”
“Her fingernails,” Sam explained. “Very over-the-top. A little ratty now, but primo when they were new.”
He stepped back to study her. “And your point is?”
Sam looked at him pityingly. “They cost a fortune, Sherlock. So who paid for them? I’ll guarantee it wasn’t her or Karen.”
His face cleared. “No shit. Nice work.”