Page 24 of The Drowned Woman
Leah looked at her blankly—Andre Toussaint was the Trauma Chief, in charge of trauma surgery, the ER and CIC, but Leah couldn’t remember any appointment with him.
Monique barely suppressed her eye roll. “You were supposed to send him your preliminary budget and workforce requests? I put it on your calendar.”
Ah, the calendar that Leah never checked—it was a proprietary app that required she sign into the hospital system every time she accessed it, which made it more of a pain than it was worth. She’d never used it at all while she worked in the ER.
“Should I add the interview with this Mr. Orly to your schedule?” Monique continued. “Anything else I should be expecting?”
“No. But if Harper calls or comes by, send her through.” Leah stepped past Monique’s desk and opened the door to her office. So close to an escape. But then Monique pivoted her chair to face Leah once more.
“If this new partnership with the police is going to have you out of the office, we should discuss a procedure so things don’t fall apart here.” Monique’s tone made it clear that she did not approve of her newly appointed medical director gallivanting around with the police at crime scenes.
“This is new to everyone. But I’d love your ideas. Maybe you could write up a proposal and send it to me.” Leah hoped that would empower the assistant—after all, the CIC had done just fine with only Monique running things before Toussaint went after the grant money that necessitated placing an MD in charge. Probably Monique’s main source of aggravation. But if the CIC was going to continue to function, serving the needs of victims, they needed the money the grant was bringing in, so the change was out of their hands.
Monique huffed, then spun back to face her computer, dismissing Leah.
Leah closed the office door behind her, thankful for the solid walls that allowed her some privacy. She shed her dripping raincoat, shoved the paperwork into one of the cubbyholes behind her desk, and sank into her chair. She hadn’t had time to personalize the office, except for a framed photo of Ian and Emily that held the place of honor beside her computer. She smiled at the image and blew a kiss in their direction.
You wouldn’t believe what your friend Risa has gotten me into, she silently told Ian’s image as she opened her work laptop and inserted the thumb drive containing Risa’s medical information. She copied the files and, while the hospital system ran its automatic virus and malware scan on them, she clicked through to her email. Four from Risa, all with attachments.
Leah wished Ian was here to tell her what he’d found on Risa’s hard drives. She only had Risa’s word and she wasn’t sure if she could trust her. Leah considered this as she clicked through Risa’s emails—the journalist had helpfully named the files in the order Leah should read them. It wasn’t that Leah thought Risa was intentionally lying. But given her underlying illness, maybe Risa was delusional. Except… Leah liked Risa. Wanted to believe her. Even if believing her meant that there was a serial killer out there.
She could almost feel Ian’s scowl of warning. After what happened last month, she of all people should understand the danger of getting involved. Even though observing from the sidelines went against every grain—it was what drew Leah to emergency medicine in the first place, that urge to rush in and help when others were running away or standing by, frozen. She loved that sense of calm and certainty that came in the center of chaos, the moment in the middle of a complex resuscitation when the path revealed itself with stunning clarity.
She clicked on the first set of attachments—a text file containing the letters from Risa’s stalker.
As Leah began reading, she wondered if Ian had read them as well. He’d never mentioned it. They’d rarely discussed his work, but if he truly believed there was someone dangerous walking around Cambria City, wouldn’t he have said something? It was what made Leah question Risa’s theory. She didn’t trust Risa yet, but she did trust that her husband would have gone to the police if he thought people were in danger.
Still, even if there really was no killer, Risa felt threatened—Leah guessed that her reluctance to leave her apartment with its many strong locks had as much to do with her stalker as it did with her illness. Unmasking the stalker might do more for Risa’s health than any diagnosis Leah could offer.
The second letter was dated April 22 of last year, the day after the video of the man killed at the railroad crossing had been sent to Risa.
Dear Obituary Reader,
Hope you enjoyed the show! As you can see, I always deliver on my promises.
Let’s get back to me. Take your mind off your squalid circumstances. Who knows? Maybe there’s another Pulitzer in it at the end? A chance to win your job back.
How did I start killing, you’ll be wondering.
First off, there was no abuse or childhood trauma, so don’t expect me to whine or cry like those babies they’re always showing on the TV. They’re the cretins who get caught—too stupid to live, if you ask me.
I had an excellent childhood despite my parents getting divorced when I was young. My mom remarried a guy who was a great role model. We lived in the country and he taught me how to hunt and fish, take care of myself. He gave me everything, except his last name.
My biological father insisted I keep his, which seemed only fair since he was also good to me, but in different ways. He flew me out to visit him in California and we’d do stuff my stepdad couldn’t afford. I even got to meet a few Hollywood stars, men who were my heroes. Remember, I was just a kid. But I still was smart enough to see behind their masks—smart enough to know they were just faking it, acting just like they did in their movies and TV shows.
That’s when I decided that whatever I did in life, it would be real. Honest. Something important that would change people’s lives forever, not just for a few minutes between commercials.
It wasn’t too long after my last trip out to LA for my dad’s funeral—heart attack—when I killed my first human. I was sixteen and had no idea what I was doing. The whole thing started out so damn messy—a total disaster. I thought for sure I was going to prison forever.
But even if I hadn’t been able to get away with it, I was still glad I’d done it. It was… glorious, the hand of God reaching down to touch me.
Eager for my next kill, thirsting for that sense of excitement, the thrill of power, I almost got caught stalking my next victim. I realized that if I wanted to keep pursuing this, my passion, my bliss, then I needed to hone my skills, learn discipline, how to think better, control my emotions. And I had to find a much wider hunting ground, one where nobody would ever suspect me.
So I joined the army where the taxpayers—aka my future prey—were so thankful for my service even as they paid to teach me better ways to kill.
I returned home with more skills, more kills—sanctioned and unsanctioned—and a thirst for more thrills. Unleashed from the military’s constant surveillance, I could go where I wanted and do what I wanted, as long as I never got caught.
That became my new obsession. Not my next kill, but how to win the freedom to keep killing for years and years to come.
