Page 15 of The Drowned Woman
“I read that. The story with the picture of them burning an entire airplane rather than leaving it behind.”
“Yeah. And they’re right, inhaling all those toxic fumes—I mean you wouldn’t believe the stuff they burned, right next to troops’ barracks. It’s probably part of why we’re seeing so many chronically ill returning veterans. But I wasn’t there long enough for a significant exposure. And so they send me to someone else and then someone else and now…” She shook her head. Her tone turned bitter. “Now, there’s no one left. Functional disease. What do you doctors call it? A diagnosis of exclusion? But they made it very clear what they really thought. That it’s all in my head.”
“You know functional neurologic disease isn’t a psychiatric diagnosis, right?” Leah rushed to console her. “It simply means that the way your body functions is causing symptoms not in direct response to any underlying cause that current medicine can determine.”
Risa gave her a resigned shrug. “Review my case. If you want to throw out any ideas, I’m all ears.” She went silent for a moment, staring again toward the front door with its ponderous weight of locks. “But I wanted to talk to youbecauseyou’re working for the police.”
“Was there something you didn’t feel comfortable saying in front of Detective Jericho?” Leah slid her phone out, ready to record. “Maybe you could walk me through what happened this morning?”
Risa’s gaze remained distant, then she gave a little shake and turned to face Leah. “Of course. Let’s get that out of the way.” She tucked her feet under her, curled up in the chair. “If I’d only heard Trudy’s call—I could have gone over, watched Walt.”
“Trudy obviously wasn’t expecting him to wake up before she left, much less…” Leah trailed off. It wasn’t up to her to speculate about Walt’s possible actions. They had no facts, not until the autopsy results came in. Maybe not even then.
Risa kept shaking her head, small uncertain shakes, trying to deny the obvious. “He loved her so much. I mean, every time they left the apartment, they’d hold hands. Jack would watch them and say, ‘That’s us in thirty years.’ But over the past year Walt’s symptoms grew worse. And he stopped leaving the apartment. It was so heartbreaking, seeing Trudy leave the apartment alone.” She reached for her computer, scrolled through it. “Here, see for yourself.”
A black and white image filled the screen. Walt, his back turned to prevent the elevator doors closing, holding Trudy’s hand as she joined him. Both staring at each other, Trudy with a shy smile at Walt, and Walt’s face filled with a grin that creased his eyes as if they shared a silent joke known only to each other.
Then she brought up a new photo. Trudy entering the elevator. Alone. Her shoulders hunched, her gaze directed back behind her as if longing for something no longer there. She physically occupied the exact same space as in the previous photo, only the time stamp had changed. Time lost, Leah thought, her mind filling with thoughts of Ian, of the myriad moments never recorded and now at risk of being forever forgotten. She looked away, blinking hard.
“I thought you were mainly a reporter,” she said after clearing her throat and refocusing.
“When I’m on assignment, I work with professional photographers—they get much, much better shots than my amateur attempts. But I learned a lot from them over the years and I discovered a taste for shooting people. Just candid cell phone shots, but since I’ve grown more and more isolated—I barely ever leave the apartment anymore—it’s my last connection to the real world. A reminder that it’s still out there, waiting for me to explore.”
“They’re very good.”
Risa blushed. “Thanks. I’ve never shown them to anyone except Jack—he sent them to my agent, Dominic Massimo. Dom wants me to use them in my book. If I can ever get the damn thing finished.”
“Did you take any pictures this morning?” It felt like an awkward segue, but Leah knew the questions Luka would ask.
“No. When I heard Walt, I rushed out and forgot my phone.”
“What happened?”
“I’m not even sure how he got out of the apartment, but he was at the railing, shrieking at Trudy. Telling her to get up, come back. I got him into his apartment and had him almost calmed down when the cops showed up, asking him all sorts of questions he didn’t understand. I tried to explain that they were making things worse, but Walt got agitated and one of them pulled out his Taser, so I stepped between them and the other guy laid hands on me… and Walt, he just lost it. Screaming, knocking stuff over. I would have been able to calm him back down, but it was too late, the cops were already calling for backup.” She hung her head. “I feel so bad for Walt. Seeing Trudy like that… They’re not going to charge him, are they? For resisting arrest? He was just trying to defend me, he wasn’t trying to hurt the cops.”
“Did you see or hear anything else?”
“No. Like I said, I was asleep when it… happened. Only woke when Walt began shouting.”
Leah turned off the recorder. If Luka needed more, he could always come back, ask for himself. During their conversation she’d noted Risa’s tremors returning, her posture collapsing with fatigue. “It’s not writer’s block keeping you from finishing your book, is it?”
“No.” Risa took a sip from her long-cold tea mug, used it to swallow a pill from a small box on the table between them. She leaned back, closed her eyes for a long moment, as if savoring the effects of the medication. Professional curiosity had Leah wondering what she’d taken that could have such a quick impact, but the pills weren’t labeled.
“Is it because you’re sick?”
Risa opened her eyes and sat up straight once again. “It’s more than my physical condition distracting me from the book.” She nudged the computer toward Leah. “It’s this. This is what I wanted your help with. The first email came last spring, a few months after I moved here from New York. I thought it was a joke. But then… Well, read it for yourself.”
Her curiosity piqued, Leah settled into the chair beside Risa and began scrolling through the letter displayed.
Dear Obituary Reader,
First time caller, longtime fan.
You’ll ask me why. Why I’ve chosen my victims. Why I chose you. Why?
It’s the least important question, but I understand your need to know. An attempt to feel in control, as if by understanding you regain some slim illusion of power. But why is of no consequence. Because I am Chaos.
Why do I do it? Because I can. I’ve the intelligence, the raw cunning, the courage and the willpower others lack. Why shouldn’t I celebrate my superior gifts? The ones I take are all easily replaced, sheep oblivious to their small lives, their lack of destiny. My choosing them, elevating their lives if only in death, it’s the one thing that makes them less than ordinary.
