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Authors: Stuart M. Kaminsky
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and the man kept singing in Spanish as Hanrahan saw the overturned bed and the torn mattress heaped in a corner of the room. He moved around the bed and stood in front of the mattress.
âOh Mother,â he muttered, crossing himself. With his free hand he threw back the mattress and found himself looking down at the naked body of Estralda Valdez.
Hanrahan had seen many a body in his twenty-four years as a cop. His reaction had always been the same. Something in him denied what he was seeing. It was there, but for an instant the dead body had no meaning. But that moment always passed and Hanrahan felt an enormous pain in his gut. He wanted to moan, but if others were around, he had to pretend that death had no meaning to him. His father had taught him a trick to deal with those first moments.
âDonât think of them as people,â Liam Hanrahan had advised. âThink of them as exact replicas, down to the tiniest detail. Godâs taken the real ones away and given instead these amazingly precise replacements. What you see is the evidence God left for the police to bring the killers to justice in our courts before they face his. That way, Billy, you stay sane and righteous.â
And, more or less, it had worked. When Hanrahan saw a body, he always dutifully crossed himself. He had seen a family, including a baby, cut into large parts in the crossfire of a gang battle. He had seen a man who had abused his wife for years ripped by the womanâs teeth and nails when after ten years she could take no more. He had seen ⦠but, he suddenly realized, this woman before him was still alive. God had not replaced her. The illusion would not hold even for the needed instant. Blood pulsed in her wounds and her wounds were many and deep.
Hanrahan put his gun away and knelt at her side.
âIâll get you help,â he said over the voice of the man singing in Spanish as he reached for a blanket to cover her.
Her head was at an angle but she turned her eyes in his direction and Hanrahan imagined that she said, âWhere were you?â
He had no answer.
âIâll get help,â he repeated.
Her mouth moved, perhaps a breath, perhaps the attempt at a word, but nothing came out.
âThe phone,â Hanrahan said, searching for it. âThe phone.â
He found it on the floor next to the bed. The music suddenly stopped. Behind him he heard a sound from Estralda Valdez and he knew it was death. He crossed himself but didnât look back. He made the call, reported the location, and nature of the wounds and the fact that it was an assault. He knew it was now also a homicide but heâd let them send the paramedics. Heâd made enough mistakes for one night.
After heâd called in, he started looking for Lieberman. He found him at the synagogue on the second call. When he hung up, Hanrahan moved to the sink in the kitchen alcove, used the side of a spoon to turn on the cold water so he wouldnât disturb any prints, and filled his cupped hands. He plunged his face into his hands and felt the water curl down his neck and chin. It wasnât enough. He grabbed some melting ice on the counter, and rubbed his face. He considered, but only for an instant, finding a bottle, a bottle of anything, taking a drink to straighten himself out so he could deal with what was coming. And, in fact, he did see an open bottle of Scotch on its side on the floor, the top off, the amber liquid dribbling over the lip of the bottle. Something told him that a drink now wouldnât be a grand idea and he listened to the something that spoke.
He turned off the water and stepped over debris as he moved out onto the small balcony. The moon was full, a white glowing ball casting a path on the rippling lake. It was beautiful but Hanrahan was in no mood for beauty. He leaned over the railing and looked down at the traffic. Across the way in an adjacent high-rise an early weekend party was in full swing.
âOh Mother,â he muttered, crossing himself. With his free hand he threw back the mattress and found himself looking down at the naked body of Estralda Valdez.
Hanrahan had seen many a body in his twenty-four years as a cop. His reaction had always been the same. Something in him denied what he was seeing. It was there, but for an instant the dead body had no meaning. But that moment always passed and Hanrahan felt an enormous pain in his gut. He wanted to moan, but if others were around, he had to pretend that death had no meaning to him. His father had taught him a trick to deal with those first moments.
âDonât think of them as people,â Liam Hanrahan had advised. âThink of them as exact replicas, down to the tiniest detail. Godâs taken the real ones away and given instead these amazingly precise replacements. What you see is the evidence God left for the police to bring the killers to justice in our courts before they face his. That way, Billy, you stay sane and righteous.â
And, more or less, it had worked. When Hanrahan saw a body, he always dutifully crossed himself. He had seen a family, including a baby, cut into large parts in the crossfire of a gang battle. He had seen a man who had abused his wife for years ripped by the womanâs teeth and nails when after ten years she could take no more. He had seen ⦠but, he suddenly realized, this woman before him was still alive. God had not replaced her. The illusion would not hold even for the needed instant. Blood pulsed in her wounds and her wounds were many and deep.
Hanrahan put his gun away and knelt at her side.
âIâll get you help,â he said over the voice of the man singing in Spanish as he reached for a blanket to cover her.
Her head was at an angle but she turned her eyes in his direction and Hanrahan imagined that she said, âWhere were you?â
He had no answer.
âIâll get help,â he repeated.
Her mouth moved, perhaps a breath, perhaps the attempt at a word, but nothing came out.
âThe phone,â Hanrahan said, searching for it. âThe phone.â
He found it on the floor next to the bed. The music suddenly stopped. Behind him he heard a sound from Estralda Valdez and he knew it was death. He crossed himself but didnât look back. He made the call, reported the location, and nature of the wounds and the fact that it was an assault. He knew it was now also a homicide but heâd let them send the paramedics. Heâd made enough mistakes for one night.
After heâd called in, he started looking for Lieberman. He found him at the synagogue on the second call. When he hung up, Hanrahan moved to the sink in the kitchen alcove, used the side of a spoon to turn on the cold water so he wouldnât disturb any prints, and filled his cupped hands. He plunged his face into his hands and felt the water curl down his neck and chin. It wasnât enough. He grabbed some melting ice on the counter, and rubbed his face. He considered, but only for an instant, finding a bottle, a bottle of anything, taking a drink to straighten himself out so he could deal with what was coming. And, in fact, he did see an open bottle of Scotch on its side on the floor, the top off, the amber liquid dribbling over the lip of the bottle. Something told him that a drink now wouldnât be a grand idea and he listened to the something that spoke.
He turned off the water and stepped over debris as he moved out onto the small balcony. The moon was full, a white glowing ball casting a path on the rippling lake. It was beautiful but Hanrahan was in no mood for beauty. He leaned over the railing and looked down at the traffic. Across the way in an adjacent high-rise an early weekend party was in full swing.
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