An odd musical note trilled, and then a distant pounding sound came.
Kristeva opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling for a moment. He furrowed his brow a little, then turned his head to the side. He was lying on his back on the bed; off to the side he saw that the closet was open, and when he looked down at himself, he noticed that he was wearing clothes different from the ones he'd had on...earlier? How much earlier?
He lifted his left wrist to look at his watch, and blinked when he saw that it was gone. Then thought to lift his right wrist instead, and there it was. Perhaps an hour had passed since he'd been down in the bathroom. Confused, he unlatched it and placed it back on his left wrist, then carefully pushed himself up and put his feet on the floor. He was almost afraid to stand, in case he'd hit his head on something on the way upstairs.
He stepped into the master bathroom long enough to notice his still-wet clothing in the hamper, along with a wet towel, which he could only assume he'd retrieved from downstairs...not that he recalled how any of these had ended up in here. Like the watch, he decided not to wonder about it too much, and headed downstairs. On the way down the musical trill sounded again--his doorbell, which he was so unused to hearing that it seemed foreign to him--and a second round of pounding, louder and more insistent than the first. He picked up his pace and made his way through the living room and to the entry vestibule. It was getting dark by now, so when he peered out the sidelight, he couldn't be positive who he was looking at, even though he had a good idea; it was just that he had no clue why he'd be there. Growing more perplexed by the minute, he unlocked and opened the door.
He had to step aside quickly to avoid being pushed as Devetko stepped in, shaking water off his umbrella as he shut it. "Don't you ever answer your phone?" he demanded, wiping his shoes and heading straight into the house without awaiting an answer.
Kristeva furrowed his brow again. "Must've shut it off." He shut the door and followed Devetko into the living room. "What are you doing here?" he asked, more mystified than offended.
Devetko set his umbrella on the coffeetable and looked left and right. "Judging by how you are at work, I assume you have some sort of station set up here, too?"
Kristeva gestured to the right. "Dining room."
Devetko turned to head that way, but paused and glanced around the room once again, at the hallways and landing and doors up above. "You live here by yourself?" he asked, frowning.
Kristeva almost grimaced now. "Why do people always ask me that--?"
Again he got no answer, and fumed to himself as he went in the direction Devetko had. The dining room could only be directly accessed through the kitchen, which one entered from a short hall at the back corner of the living room, and the few times he had visitors, they always got confused by this. He wasn't certain what made it so confusing, but apparently it was. He entered the kitchen, found it empty, and then went into the dining room, and found Devetko standing near the table, staring at the wall beside the computer. He stepped beside him and saw the odd look on his face.
"No wonder you have a reputation," Devetko said.
Kristeva shrugged. "Somebody had to look into all of it."
"Did they really?"
"You're really going to ask that now...?"
Devetko's own expression turned a bit sour when he must have found no retort for that, and he turned to the table instead and set a folder down. Kristeva recognized the case folder they'd been carrying around for what felt like forever by now but wasn't actually that long at all, and frowned. His frown grew when Devetko pulled out an unfamiliar photo and pushed it toward him. He bent down over it, but couldn't even tell what it was; it looked mostly like a dark background of lines.
"Maybe if you put it in a nice frame it could pass for a decent Modernist piece," he said.
Devetko rolled his eyes. "It's blown up," he said; then, when Kristeva just looked at him blankly, he sighed and pulled out something else. He set the childhood photo beside it, and Kristeva immediately noticed that the first image was merely a blown-up section of the second, what looked to be wooden slats. His frown started to turn into a scowl.
"Any reason you're still messing around with this photo when I told you it has nothing to do with anything--?"
"You say you don't remember when or where this photo was taken. You're sure this isn't your house?"
"Our house was considerably nicer than what looks like the inside of a barn, thank you very much."
"So it isn't a barn, either?"
"I can't imagine what I would've been doing inside a barn."
"I spent half the evening searching the Web for different types of wooden buildings and got nowhere. Which I pretty much expected. But I did notice something when I enhanced the photo and blew it up..."
"You took this thing to a fucking lab--?"
"I took this thing to some photo-editing software. It's really not rocket science to increase brightness and contrast and blow something up." He looked at Kristeva for a moment, then back down at the photos. "All right, so maybe for you it's rocket science, but nowadays anybody with a computer, a scanner, and a photo program can do it."
"You have a scanner?"
"It's hooked up to the printer." Devetko put the original photo back in the folder so abruptly that it looked like he wished to hurl the entire thing across the room. "If anyone is ever patient enough to get that dinosaur to work."
Kristeva's mouth twitched. "Careful, I might start liking you." He ignored the frown he got in return and nudged the photo back toward the folder. "That doesn't explain why you're still messing with this thing, after I told you not to."
"I spotted something in the background and decided to try enhancing it and blowing it up. It looks like some sort of tag or label, but I can read only part of it, and I'm not sure what it's for." He pulled something out of his coat pocket and set it atop the photo. Kristeva made a clucking noise.
"Is that a bar magnifier, or are you just happy..."
"Finish that sentence, and I'll shove it down your throat. You look at it and see what it says."
Kristeva bent down again and squinted through the acrylic. "You know your eyes are better than mine, right--?"
"It looks like the letters T-H-U."
"I'll take your word for it, I guess."
Devetko sighed through his nose. "What I'm getting at is, do those letters hold any significance?"
"How would I know? 'Thu' is really supposed to mean anything--?"
"Not Thu, idiot. Obviously part of the word is cut off."
"So you're asking me to brainstorm words that start with 'Thu.' Seriously?"
"Thursday," Devetko said. Kristeva just stared at him. "Thud," he said; then, "Thump, thumb, thug, thunk, thus, thunder--"
"Thunderhead," Kristeva said, then blinked.
Devetko stared at him now. "Thunderhead...? That holds some kind of significance--?"
"This is your experiment, not mine."
"So what's 'Thunderhead'--?"
"I want to say it's a horse name." Kristeva made a face. "I don't know why I want to say that, though."
"Horse name." He expected Devetko to give him a very strange look, but instead the other detective peered at the letters through the magnifier, then scrolled it over the rest of the image. "I guess that could make sense...if this building is a horse stable. You'd have some reason to be standing in a horse stable...?"
Kristeva put his hands down on the edge of the table, as the room seemed to shift just slightly and he thought he might fall over. He blinked the fogginess away from the edges of his vision. "We had horse stables on our property when I was growing up," he said.
Devetko looked up at him, brow furrowing. "Horse stables--? You had horses, then--?"
"They got rid of them when I was little. The stables were empty after that."
"Was one of them named Thunderhead?"
"I wouldn't know. I don't remember being a kid that well, so it must've been pretty uneventful."
"Do you at least remember why they got rid of them?"
"There were coyotes in the area, and they killed one of them off. Probably didn't want to deal with the hassle of taking care of the rest."
Devetko turned away and looked toward the newspaper clippings beside the computer again, and Kristeva knew exactly what he was thinking. When he turned back, Kristeva was ready to snap at him to let it drop, but all that he said was, "Interesting," and put the blown-up photo back in the folder and shut it.
"And what's that supposed to mean...?"
"Just that it seems like there's a reason you're the guy who investigates dead animals, is all."
"So you think a coyote killing is big news around here, then...?"
Devetko picked up the folder and tamped its contents into place. "I think even you don't believe it was a coyote killing. Oh, and to answer your earlier question..." He gestured at the ceiling and walls--"The fact that this is a family house"--then at Kristeva's left side--"and that you're wearing that...that's why people keep asking if you live here by yourself."
He exited the dining room. Kristeva stared after him as he disappeared into the kitchen, then thought to look at his left arm again. The watch hadn't mysteriously switched sides a second time, but he noticed something else he hadn't seen before. He lifted his left hand and stared mutely at the gold band on his left ring finger.
Monday, July 23, 2018
Untitled Kristeva/DID Story: Part 27
For obvious security reasons, Kristeva's home computer didn't have access to the police databases, but there were civilian databases of missing persons online which he could--and frequently did--browse, plus it was faster. He didn't have to sit and wait ten minutes for the thing to boot up and finish loading everything, and didn't have to put up with its incessant groaning and creaking grinding on his nerves. He supposed that this was worth the sacrifice of limited database and software availability.
Most of his home browsing efforts were done on occasions when he found himself unable to sleep, but now it was only early evening. Both he and Devetko had been forced to start looking into other, fresher cases lest they be found to be negligent in their new positions; Devetko had seemed to handle the distraction well enough, browsing through the database and making calls, though Kristeva chafed at spreading his attention around--no matter how good he might be at doing so--and so heading home that afternoon had been a merciful break.
Most missing person cases were relatively trivial affairs. Runaway teenagers, mad at their parents. Runaway spouses, mad at their significant others. Runaways from life, mad at the world in general. Most missing people weren't truly missing, just temporarily misplaced. Most turned up okay. While on the one hand it was always good for a case to have a happy ending, still, he found that those cases irked him the most. It wasn't that he wanted a case to have an unhappy ending...just that the more ominous cases seemed to be a better use of his time and energy.
He felt on some level it was futile, but, after memorizing the sketch Kincaid had provided them, started keeping his eyes open for something similar in the local databases. He had no reason to believe "Melissa" was a missing person, but at least it gave him something to do to fill in an evening that would otherwise be silent and tedious.
After an hour or so of browsing through unfamiliar faces, he knew it was time to take a break when all of them started to blend into each other and look the same. He sat back, turned on the screensaver (fish swimming around in a tank), rubbed his eyes, and got up to head to the bathroom in the hallway.
He had to pass through the living room as he went, and without thinking glanced up at the landing to the upstairs level. The doorway to the master bedroom was visible to the left, another doorway to an unused bedroom to the right, and a painting hung on the wall between the two--a watercolor of a high bridge over a river. He slowed his step as he remembered how a painting of the Souris Narrows Bridge* had ended up on his wall, how he'd asked its creator to marry him mere moments after she'd shown him her work, how his space had been the corner of the dining room with its computer and wall of clippings and her space had been the unused loft area to the side of the master bedroom where she'd worked on her paintings, how three months later she'd taken all of her things and had gone and they hadn't talked to or seen each other since. It wasn't that he hadn't noticed this painting had been left behind. But every time he saw it hanging there it was like he'd forgotten.
He made a face, pushed the memory away, and continued to the bathroom.
At the sink he splashed water on his face, avoiding looking in the mirror at first, as the odd dream he'd had at the station remained in the back of his mind. When he finally lifted his head and peered at his reflection, all he saw was himself, though he didn't seem quite as recognizable as he used to be; he hadn't been aware just how dark the rings under his eyes were, before now, as if somebody had punched him in the nose. His stare shifted to the side, looking at the wall behind him just in case, but nobody stood in the empty shower stall/bathtub. He heard a splashing sound and looked down to realize that the water was still running; he shut it off, wiped his hands and face on a towel, and turned to the door to head back for the dining room, only his step faltered and he stopped without knowing what it was he was stopping for. He frowned and looked back into the bathroom, from the bathtub to the toilet and medicine cabinet to the sink and mirror to the towel rack and back again, growing more confused. When he found his stare settling on the shower stall again, it struck him, and he looked down into the empty bathtub.
"You said you were told it happened in a bathtub...that's a start."
The house had two full bathrooms, but he never used the bathtub, only the shower. It wasn't something he'd thought about before now, but when he mulled it over, it had always been that way. He tried to think of the last time he'd taken a bath and came up blank. He sometimes swam at a local pool--another good distraction when all the faces started merging together in his mind--and so had no problems with water itself...but when he tried to imagine why he'd never made use of the bathtub, it just seemed like something that would be unpleasant to do.
He briefly wished he'd never brought up the subject, since now he wouldn't be able to get it out of his head until he'd done what the psychologist had asked. Otherwise she would probably guilt-trip* him for ages. He made another face. Psychologists were a type of doctor, and he'd never cared for doctors.
He made to exit the bathroom again, and again halted. The look on his face turned into a grimace as he turned back to the bathtub and yanked the sliding glass door open. He almost expected to find the floor damp and droplets on the showerhead like he had in the upstairs bathroom, but he almost never used the shower in this one, and so they were bone dry. He held onto the door and stared into the bathtub for a little while, biting the inside of his mouth. He really didn't want to get in, but couldn't be sure whether it was because of actual distaste, or just a perverse desire to rebel against his mandatory therapy. Sitting in a bathtub hardly seemed like a legitimate therapeutical practice, anyway.
Once he thought this, as if to spite himself, he pushed the door open all the way and stepped over the tub's edge, turned, and abruptly sat down. He raised his hands in a Ta-da motion, as if demonstrating a magic trick to an audience. "There you go," he said aloud, and then looked up toward the ceiling, voice bouncing off the walls. "And so what should I be expecting, an epiphany--?"
He waited a moment--of course nothing happened--and reached up to grasp the metal bar along the wall. "Thought so," he said, pulling himself up onto one knee, and then he looked at the drain and paused in mid-crouch. The drain plug was sitting on a little shelf built into the wall, where it had been left for who knew how long, so that the bathtub couldn't function as a bathtub even if he did want to use it.
He sighed, picked up the plug, and climbed out. Turned on the water and let it get warm before putting the plug in the drain and then watching the tub as it slowly filled. He actually looked at his watch once or twice out of annoyance, even though it wasn't like he had anything better to do. When the tub was full he stopped the water, stood, and reached for the hem of his shirt, but then stopped. For some reason...climbing in the bathtub fully clothed was weird, but taking his clothes off seemed even weirder.
He rolled his eyes--as if anything should be making sense, by now--and stepped into the tub a second time, grasping the bar and sitting down carefully so he wouldn't slip and crack his head. He immediately felt foolish, sitting in tepid water in his clothes, and felt his ears growing warm as if somebody were watching; yet he stayed still and waited anyway. When nothing had happened after a moment or two, he felt even stupider, and was ready to climb back out, but made himself let go of the bar and lie back instead. The water came up around his ears and he lay staring up at the ceiling tiles for a few more moments, hearing his breathing and his heartbeat amplified in his head. He even heard a car pass by on the road out front of his house. He held his breath and the dull boom-boom-boom was all he heard.
Without giving it a second thought, he shut his eyes and sank until his head rested on the bottom, the water creeping up over his face and submerging him.
He kept holding his breath. The dull boom-boom-boom continued unabated. Colors swirled dimly behind his eyelids. Then, just as his lungs were starting to burn, a tiny glint flickered in the colored swirls, disappeared, then glinted again. The swirls darkened and disappeared, or merged into each other, or something; now he stared at a field of black, as if the lights in the bathroom had gone out, and the glint glinted again, only now it wasn't a glint but a circle, shining dimly but not illuminating anything. He stared at this, vaguely curious, but it didn't do anything else, just hung there.
Somewhere far off--in the back of his mind?--elsewhere?--a faint voice exclaimed, "What are you doing? What the fuck are you doing to him--?"
Immediately it felt like clamps had shut over his arms. He opened his mouth in surprise and water flooded down his throat and into his burning lungs, now making them feel like they were on fire, and he tried to push himself up but his hands were useless. He thrashed his legs intead, kicking up gouts of water--meanwhile that little dim disk continued hanging over him and the disembodied voice kept saying, "What are you doing? What the fuck are you doing to him--?"--and then suddenly his arms were working again, and he lunged upward, gasping and coughing up water and blinking his eyes open, seeing tile wall before him, his own wild-eyed and distorted reflection staring back from the hot and cold water knobs.
Just as immediately, the agonizing burning in his lungs vanished--he blinked again and opened his mouth to take a breath. His throat was dry and he actually coughed, though no water came up; after a few confused seconds of gasping in air and looking around himself, he realized he must not have breathed in any water at all, that it was just part of the--dream--or whatever that had been. He stretched and flexed his arms a few times, expecting numbness, but they felt fine. Further examination showed him the water all over the tub's edge and on the floor--he hadn't shut the glass door behind him--so the thrashing part had been real, at least. The rest of it had apparently been nothing more than his imagination.
Not quite sure what to think of this, he grasped the bar and carefully pulled himself to his feet. The water sloshed around him, cooler now than it had been when he climbed in. He stooped to pull the plug, then stepped out onto the wet floor, grabbing a towel from the rack and draping it over the tiles to soak up the worst of the mess and avoid a slip and fall. He then made his way up the hall and through the living room to the stairs and up to the master bedroom to change, because the feeling of the wet clothes clinging to him was almost more than he could bear right now.
Most of his home browsing efforts were done on occasions when he found himself unable to sleep, but now it was only early evening. Both he and Devetko had been forced to start looking into other, fresher cases lest they be found to be negligent in their new positions; Devetko had seemed to handle the distraction well enough, browsing through the database and making calls, though Kristeva chafed at spreading his attention around--no matter how good he might be at doing so--and so heading home that afternoon had been a merciful break.
Most missing person cases were relatively trivial affairs. Runaway teenagers, mad at their parents. Runaway spouses, mad at their significant others. Runaways from life, mad at the world in general. Most missing people weren't truly missing, just temporarily misplaced. Most turned up okay. While on the one hand it was always good for a case to have a happy ending, still, he found that those cases irked him the most. It wasn't that he wanted a case to have an unhappy ending...just that the more ominous cases seemed to be a better use of his time and energy.
He felt on some level it was futile, but, after memorizing the sketch Kincaid had provided them, started keeping his eyes open for something similar in the local databases. He had no reason to believe "Melissa" was a missing person, but at least it gave him something to do to fill in an evening that would otherwise be silent and tedious.
After an hour or so of browsing through unfamiliar faces, he knew it was time to take a break when all of them started to blend into each other and look the same. He sat back, turned on the screensaver (fish swimming around in a tank), rubbed his eyes, and got up to head to the bathroom in the hallway.
He had to pass through the living room as he went, and without thinking glanced up at the landing to the upstairs level. The doorway to the master bedroom was visible to the left, another doorway to an unused bedroom to the right, and a painting hung on the wall between the two--a watercolor of a high bridge over a river. He slowed his step as he remembered how a painting of the Souris Narrows Bridge* had ended up on his wall, how he'd asked its creator to marry him mere moments after she'd shown him her work, how his space had been the corner of the dining room with its computer and wall of clippings and her space had been the unused loft area to the side of the master bedroom where she'd worked on her paintings, how three months later she'd taken all of her things and had gone and they hadn't talked to or seen each other since. It wasn't that he hadn't noticed this painting had been left behind. But every time he saw it hanging there it was like he'd forgotten.
He made a face, pushed the memory away, and continued to the bathroom.
At the sink he splashed water on his face, avoiding looking in the mirror at first, as the odd dream he'd had at the station remained in the back of his mind. When he finally lifted his head and peered at his reflection, all he saw was himself, though he didn't seem quite as recognizable as he used to be; he hadn't been aware just how dark the rings under his eyes were, before now, as if somebody had punched him in the nose. His stare shifted to the side, looking at the wall behind him just in case, but nobody stood in the empty shower stall/bathtub. He heard a splashing sound and looked down to realize that the water was still running; he shut it off, wiped his hands and face on a towel, and turned to the door to head back for the dining room, only his step faltered and he stopped without knowing what it was he was stopping for. He frowned and looked back into the bathroom, from the bathtub to the toilet and medicine cabinet to the sink and mirror to the towel rack and back again, growing more confused. When he found his stare settling on the shower stall again, it struck him, and he looked down into the empty bathtub.
"You said you were told it happened in a bathtub...that's a start."
The house had two full bathrooms, but he never used the bathtub, only the shower. It wasn't something he'd thought about before now, but when he mulled it over, it had always been that way. He tried to think of the last time he'd taken a bath and came up blank. He sometimes swam at a local pool--another good distraction when all the faces started merging together in his mind--and so had no problems with water itself...but when he tried to imagine why he'd never made use of the bathtub, it just seemed like something that would be unpleasant to do.
He briefly wished he'd never brought up the subject, since now he wouldn't be able to get it out of his head until he'd done what the psychologist had asked. Otherwise she would probably guilt-trip* him for ages. He made another face. Psychologists were a type of doctor, and he'd never cared for doctors.
He made to exit the bathroom again, and again halted. The look on his face turned into a grimace as he turned back to the bathtub and yanked the sliding glass door open. He almost expected to find the floor damp and droplets on the showerhead like he had in the upstairs bathroom, but he almost never used the shower in this one, and so they were bone dry. He held onto the door and stared into the bathtub for a little while, biting the inside of his mouth. He really didn't want to get in, but couldn't be sure whether it was because of actual distaste, or just a perverse desire to rebel against his mandatory therapy. Sitting in a bathtub hardly seemed like a legitimate therapeutical practice, anyway.
Once he thought this, as if to spite himself, he pushed the door open all the way and stepped over the tub's edge, turned, and abruptly sat down. He raised his hands in a Ta-da motion, as if demonstrating a magic trick to an audience. "There you go," he said aloud, and then looked up toward the ceiling, voice bouncing off the walls. "And so what should I be expecting, an epiphany--?"
He waited a moment--of course nothing happened--and reached up to grasp the metal bar along the wall. "Thought so," he said, pulling himself up onto one knee, and then he looked at the drain and paused in mid-crouch. The drain plug was sitting on a little shelf built into the wall, where it had been left for who knew how long, so that the bathtub couldn't function as a bathtub even if he did want to use it.
He sighed, picked up the plug, and climbed out. Turned on the water and let it get warm before putting the plug in the drain and then watching the tub as it slowly filled. He actually looked at his watch once or twice out of annoyance, even though it wasn't like he had anything better to do. When the tub was full he stopped the water, stood, and reached for the hem of his shirt, but then stopped. For some reason...climbing in the bathtub fully clothed was weird, but taking his clothes off seemed even weirder.
He rolled his eyes--as if anything should be making sense, by now--and stepped into the tub a second time, grasping the bar and sitting down carefully so he wouldn't slip and crack his head. He immediately felt foolish, sitting in tepid water in his clothes, and felt his ears growing warm as if somebody were watching; yet he stayed still and waited anyway. When nothing had happened after a moment or two, he felt even stupider, and was ready to climb back out, but made himself let go of the bar and lie back instead. The water came up around his ears and he lay staring up at the ceiling tiles for a few more moments, hearing his breathing and his heartbeat amplified in his head. He even heard a car pass by on the road out front of his house. He held his breath and the dull boom-boom-boom was all he heard.
Without giving it a second thought, he shut his eyes and sank until his head rested on the bottom, the water creeping up over his face and submerging him.
He kept holding his breath. The dull boom-boom-boom continued unabated. Colors swirled dimly behind his eyelids. Then, just as his lungs were starting to burn, a tiny glint flickered in the colored swirls, disappeared, then glinted again. The swirls darkened and disappeared, or merged into each other, or something; now he stared at a field of black, as if the lights in the bathroom had gone out, and the glint glinted again, only now it wasn't a glint but a circle, shining dimly but not illuminating anything. He stared at this, vaguely curious, but it didn't do anything else, just hung there.
Somewhere far off--in the back of his mind?--elsewhere?--a faint voice exclaimed, "What are you doing? What the fuck are you doing to him--?"
Immediately it felt like clamps had shut over his arms. He opened his mouth in surprise and water flooded down his throat and into his burning lungs, now making them feel like they were on fire, and he tried to push himself up but his hands were useless. He thrashed his legs intead, kicking up gouts of water--meanwhile that little dim disk continued hanging over him and the disembodied voice kept saying, "What are you doing? What the fuck are you doing to him--?"--and then suddenly his arms were working again, and he lunged upward, gasping and coughing up water and blinking his eyes open, seeing tile wall before him, his own wild-eyed and distorted reflection staring back from the hot and cold water knobs.
Just as immediately, the agonizing burning in his lungs vanished--he blinked again and opened his mouth to take a breath. His throat was dry and he actually coughed, though no water came up; after a few confused seconds of gasping in air and looking around himself, he realized he must not have breathed in any water at all, that it was just part of the--dream--or whatever that had been. He stretched and flexed his arms a few times, expecting numbness, but they felt fine. Further examination showed him the water all over the tub's edge and on the floor--he hadn't shut the glass door behind him--so the thrashing part had been real, at least. The rest of it had apparently been nothing more than his imagination.
Not quite sure what to think of this, he grasped the bar and carefully pulled himself to his feet. The water sloshed around him, cooler now than it had been when he climbed in. He stooped to pull the plug, then stepped out onto the wet floor, grabbing a towel from the rack and draping it over the tiles to soak up the worst of the mess and avoid a slip and fall. He then made his way up the hall and through the living room to the stairs and up to the master bedroom to change, because the feeling of the wet clothes clinging to him was almost more than he could bear right now.
Untitled Kristeva/DID Story: Part 26
Devetko had just raised his hand to knock on Lt. Kincaid's office door when Kristeva lifted his own hand and murmured from the corner of his mouth, "Crazy Cop, Crazy Cop, and hopefully all the crazy cancels each other out...?"
"Shut up," Devetko said, and rapped on the door. A voice told them to enter and he opened the door, letting them in and shutting it behind him. Kincaid didn't even bother looking up at them as he wrote something, so they stood silent until he spoke up again.
"Yes...?"
Kristeva peered surreptitiously at Devetko, and saw the blank look that briefly flitted across his face; he couldn't help but feel a little smug about this, but his own face must have shown it, for Devetko's elbow poked him and he winced. "Sorry to interrupt but we had a few questions about a cold case we've been looking into, and we thought you might have some information that's not in the record."
"Case?"
Even with an absolute minimum of words, their lieutenant always seemed to make his point clear; they both understood he wasn't wondering what they were talking about, but was asking which specific case they meant. Devetko flipped open the folder as if he needed to review it, even though he obviously didn't; Kristeva suspected it was merely a tactic to settle his nerves and appear more composed.
"A missing persons case, Det. Wesley Singer."
Kincaid finally looked up at them, but his expression was as impassive as ever. "That case hasn't been updated since 19**," he said, and the first thing Kristeva thought was, At least he isn't saying the case is closed. Then, "Have you been specifically asked to look into this case?"
Kristeva almost winced, wishing they didn't have to go down that particular road. "His niece requested that we look into it," Devetko said, and he then felt like slapping himself, that he hadn't thought of answering in that manner.
"And Chief Bowen gave the go-ahead?"
Now Kristeva saw a wince almost pass across Devetko's face, and spoke up for him. "He didn't order us not to."
Devetko's eyes shifted toward him and he frowned. Kristeva shrugged back. "Officially, he didn't," he added, and focused his eyes into a pointed glare when the other detective looked ready to protest. Devetko's stare shifted away and they looked back at Kincaid, who was staring at both of them. This went on long enough that the two of them almost started fidgeting, when Kincaid pushed the paper and pen aside and folded his hands on the desk.
"I fielded a call this morning while Chief Bowen was out, something about some sealed records being requested from the city court. The judge wanted to know if they'd proven helpful. I assume they did?"
Silence for another moment as Kristeva and Devetko stared at him. "They did," Kristeva said as soon as he found his voice.
"It's likely most of the information you're looking for was contained in those records, so I'm not sure what else you might hope to find."
Devetko closed the folder and spoke up, his confidence seeming buoyed by the fact that they hadn't been thrown out just yet. "I'm not sure if you've read Det. Singer's report..."
"I have."
"In it he made mention of a concept he called 'bait.' He didn't give much detail but based on context we assume this was the criminal group's method of recruiting new members or obtaining information from outsiders--"
"Utilizing women as sexual favors, yes."
Kincaid didn't offer anything else, just gazed back at them. Devetko finally looked at Kristeva as if requesting backup, or as if utterly confused, he wasn't sure which. The interview hadn't gone at all the way he'd expected just yet, and some perverse part of his mind figured it couldn't hurt to go all out, so that was what he did.
"Evidence is strong that Singer's informant in the group was initially intended to be bait, and we have reason to believe that a woman who was familiar with Mark Kincaid was intended as bait, as well."
This time Devetko didn't even try to hide the grimace that flitted across his face. He knew what the other detective must be thinking--subtlety tended to work far better in such situations--but every time he came face to face with the lieutenant, he kept expecting some kind of explosion, and none ever came, and it was almost like some sort of bizarre challenge by now. He was almost hoping he would get yelled at, at least that would prove Kincaid was human.
Instead, Kincaid still said nothing, just looked back at them.
Kristeva bit the inside of his mouth and gestured at Devetko's folder. "Phil Falcon made mention of her in a newspaper report. Described her a little bit. And said that you were familiar with her yourself--"
"Melissa."
Kristeva shut his mouth and they both stared at the lieutenant for a few seconds.
"What...?"
"First name Melissa," Kincaid said. "No last name given. Introduced herself to Mark at the Falcon's Nest. I wasn't present. He kept quiet about her for a while. Didn't wish to bring her back to the house at first. Eventually she stayed overnight some times. And yes, I know exactly what was going on between them."
"Did you ever talk with her...?" Kristeva asked, more curious than anything.
"Not much. She would try to make conversation but I didn't wish to." Kincaid pulled open a drawer, pulled out a clipboard with a notepad attached and flipped a few pages over, took a pencil out of a cup on his desk and started jotting something down. "At least a few times, she quite obviously seemed to be trying to flirt."
The detectives furrowed their brows. "With you--?" Devetko asked.
"Yes. Always when Mark wasn't around to hear it. So now you see why I didn't wish to engage in conversation."
An awkward pause. "Did you ever tell him about this...?" Kristeva asked.
"There would have been little point in doing so," Kincaid said, not bothering to elaborate.
"Based on the photos, she didn't attend Sgt. Kincaid's funeral," Devetko said.
"That would be because she disappeared shortly before then."
"'Disappeared'--?"
"Nothing like foul play. She spent the night, then left the next morning. That was the last I myself saw of her with Mark. The next day, Mark was dead." He fell silent but continued jotting on the notepad, the pencil scratching noises the only sound in the office. Kristeva and Devetko peered at each other. The flat tone of their lieutenant's voice had always been unnerving, but it was doubly so when he was describing his own foster father's death like he was giving directions to the nearest supermarket.
"And no one ever thought to track her down or question her," Kristeva said.
"Not in a suicide case, no. There was nothing to go on anyway except a first name and physical description."
"Physical..."
"Approximately five-foot-six, slender build, olive complexion, brown eyes, straight dark brown hair to the middle of her back, parted on the side. High cheekbones, slightly slanted eyes. Stylishly dressed and made up, always wore skirts, around thirty years old."
More detailed than some missing person reports. Devetko had taken out his own pen and jotted this on the corner of the folder so Kristeva could see it. He had to admit, it was. "We have the theory that this 'Melissa' person might have been sent after Mark Kincaid to either pump him for info or distract him from his case. 'Bait,' like Singer described it."
"Considering the timing and circumstances, this is a rational conclusion to reach."
"So...you agree with it, then?"
"There isn't enough proof to say for certain either way. If Melissa was sent as 'bait,' though, I doubt Mark was her initial target."
Silence again. Devetko looked almost like he wanted to say something, yet refrained. Kristeva made himself not roll his eyes, and spoke up instead.
"You think you were her intended target." A pause while Kincaid merely continued jotting on the notepad. "And when you didn't play along, she went after Mark, instead."
"Considering the circumstances...this is a rational conclusion to reach."
Devetko rapped the side of Kristeva's hand with his knuckles and tilted the folder toward him. Bait #2, it said.
"Singer had an informant in the criminal group...a woman he never identified. The rumors are that he ran off with her while investigating the case. That she was sent as 'bait,' too. I know you weren't around here just then, but did Mark ever say anything about her to you...?"
"From what little I know, Mark and Det. Singer didn't see eye to eye very much. Thus why they weren't working the initial case together. I don't believe they shared much information with each other. Considering that Det. Singer was likely sleeping with a witness, Mark thought his involvement in things was excessive and a threat to the integrity of the case."
"They didn't get along," Devetko said, frowning.
"They didn't see eye to eye. Different investigation techniques. Det. Singer was off the cuff, Mark was by the book."
The silence that filled the room seemed especially awkward, this time. Kristeva had to make himself not look in Devetko's direction.
"So it's unlikely Mark knew much about her, and he didn't share what he might have known with you."
"That's correct." Kincaid paused from scribbling on the notepad, looked at it for a moment, jotted something else down. "I'm not certain I have anything else that would be of use to you."
Devetko made a surreptitious gesture toward the door with his free hand. "We'll see if we can't dig up more on this Melissa lady," Kristeva said, more as a test just to see what reaction he'd get, though Kincaid didn't even bother looking up from the notepad.
"I doubt you'll find anything, but good luck anyway."
They turned to the door. Then, an echo of what had happened while talking to Trooper Lopata in the hospital, Kristeva turned back around just as Devetko grasped the doorknob. All out, a voice in the back of his head said.
"We spoke with Dr. Steiner earlier and he mentioned that some sort of drug had been found in Mark Kincaid's system during his autopsy. Just trace amounts. But the same drug was found in July Lockett's system after her death, and from the looks of it she'd had long-term exposure. I know you're aware of this already."
Devetko turned back and gave him a look as if to ask what did he think he was doing. He ignored it, since Kincaid had finally looked up from whatever he was writing on the notepad.
"Your point?" he said.
"My point is that if this follows any pattern, Mark probably had long-term exposure to the drug as well. Probably in conjunction with this Melissa person, since Dr. Steiner said you were positive Mark wouldn't take drugs on his own."
"Because he wouldn't."
"And yet he had drugs in his system. This drug, at least. The same drug as somebody else tied in with this case, and both of those people ended up dead."
"Max," Devetko said under his breath.
"Mark was a suicide and July was a homicide," Kincaid said, setting the notepad down in front of him. "And so what connection are you trying to make?"
Kristeva shrugged. "Maybe July was taking too long to do what she was supposed to. Because according to Dr. Steiner, this particular sort of drug makes people vulnerable to suggestion. I know you have your doubts that Mark's suicide was just a suicide." He brushed away Devetko's hand when the other detective grasped at his sleeve, and took a step toward the lieutenant's desk. "The autopsy was a mystery because no injection sites were found on Mark's body. He shot himself through the mouth, right?--which means it was probably messy. A small enough needle can be used in lots of different places, maybe without someone even noticing, if they're distracted enough by a pretty face. Behind the ear maybe?--or in the neck? Maybe something like that could be overlooked even by an experienced medical examiner, if there's a mess and they don't know what they're looking for...?"
The tug on his sleeve this time was hard enough to yank his entire arm back. "Max!" Devetko hissed.
Kincaid just stared at him, hands folded over the notepad. He didn't say anything at first, though Kristeva could have sworn there was the tiniest, subtlest shift of expression in his eyes, and even though he had no idea what it meant, it seemed significant.
"You'd have to ask Dr. Steiner," Kincaid finally said, "but considering the circumstances, that's a rational conclusion to reach."
He didn't say anything else. This time Devetko twisted the end of Kristeva's sleeve so it cut into his wrist rather painfully, and he took a step back to show he was finished. He ignored the glare the other detective gave him as he turned to the door, but Kincaid's voice made them both stop once more.
"Detective--?"
They both looked back. Kincaid tore the top sheet off the notepad, folded it, and held it out, making eye contact with Devetko. Devetko frowned a little but stepped forward to take it from him. "If you'll excuse me, I have some work to get back to," Kincaid said, putting the clipboard away and digging around for something else instead, and the two of them left the office, shutting the door behind them. The DON'T FIDDLE WITH MAGIC sign rattled.
"Do you have no filter at all?" Devetko asked, unfolding the paper as they headed for their desks.
Kristeva shrugged. "I figured, take the chance while it's there, because who knows what mood he'll be in the next time. If there even is a next time." He cast a dark look at his computer. "I meant what I said about looking into this Melissa lady, if that's even her real name, though it's like he said, it must be like looking for a needle in a needlestack..." He looked up and noticed that Devetko had paused beside his chair, staring at the paper with a perplexed look on his face. "What? Did he write you a letter full of swears or something--? Because maybe that's the only way anyone can get a reaction out of him, just have him write it down..."
Devetko lifted his head to look at him, and his frown grew. "Did our lieutenant take an art class...?" he asked, and held up the paper. On it was a pencil sketch of exactly the same quality as one a forensic artist might make, of a vaguely exotic-looking woman with long dark hair and slightly slanted eyes, staring back at the viewer.
Kristeva blinked. "Melissa," he said.
"Shut up," Devetko said, and rapped on the door. A voice told them to enter and he opened the door, letting them in and shutting it behind him. Kincaid didn't even bother looking up at them as he wrote something, so they stood silent until he spoke up again.
"Yes...?"
Kristeva peered surreptitiously at Devetko, and saw the blank look that briefly flitted across his face; he couldn't help but feel a little smug about this, but his own face must have shown it, for Devetko's elbow poked him and he winced. "Sorry to interrupt but we had a few questions about a cold case we've been looking into, and we thought you might have some information that's not in the record."
"Case?"
Even with an absolute minimum of words, their lieutenant always seemed to make his point clear; they both understood he wasn't wondering what they were talking about, but was asking which specific case they meant. Devetko flipped open the folder as if he needed to review it, even though he obviously didn't; Kristeva suspected it was merely a tactic to settle his nerves and appear more composed.
"A missing persons case, Det. Wesley Singer."
Kincaid finally looked up at them, but his expression was as impassive as ever. "That case hasn't been updated since 19**," he said, and the first thing Kristeva thought was, At least he isn't saying the case is closed. Then, "Have you been specifically asked to look into this case?"
Kristeva almost winced, wishing they didn't have to go down that particular road. "His niece requested that we look into it," Devetko said, and he then felt like slapping himself, that he hadn't thought of answering in that manner.
"And Chief Bowen gave the go-ahead?"
Now Kristeva saw a wince almost pass across Devetko's face, and spoke up for him. "He didn't order us not to."
Devetko's eyes shifted toward him and he frowned. Kristeva shrugged back. "Officially, he didn't," he added, and focused his eyes into a pointed glare when the other detective looked ready to protest. Devetko's stare shifted away and they looked back at Kincaid, who was staring at both of them. This went on long enough that the two of them almost started fidgeting, when Kincaid pushed the paper and pen aside and folded his hands on the desk.
"I fielded a call this morning while Chief Bowen was out, something about some sealed records being requested from the city court. The judge wanted to know if they'd proven helpful. I assume they did?"
Silence for another moment as Kristeva and Devetko stared at him. "They did," Kristeva said as soon as he found his voice.
"It's likely most of the information you're looking for was contained in those records, so I'm not sure what else you might hope to find."
Devetko closed the folder and spoke up, his confidence seeming buoyed by the fact that they hadn't been thrown out just yet. "I'm not sure if you've read Det. Singer's report..."
"I have."
"In it he made mention of a concept he called 'bait.' He didn't give much detail but based on context we assume this was the criminal group's method of recruiting new members or obtaining information from outsiders--"
"Utilizing women as sexual favors, yes."
Kincaid didn't offer anything else, just gazed back at them. Devetko finally looked at Kristeva as if requesting backup, or as if utterly confused, he wasn't sure which. The interview hadn't gone at all the way he'd expected just yet, and some perverse part of his mind figured it couldn't hurt to go all out, so that was what he did.
"Evidence is strong that Singer's informant in the group was initially intended to be bait, and we have reason to believe that a woman who was familiar with Mark Kincaid was intended as bait, as well."
This time Devetko didn't even try to hide the grimace that flitted across his face. He knew what the other detective must be thinking--subtlety tended to work far better in such situations--but every time he came face to face with the lieutenant, he kept expecting some kind of explosion, and none ever came, and it was almost like some sort of bizarre challenge by now. He was almost hoping he would get yelled at, at least that would prove Kincaid was human.
Instead, Kincaid still said nothing, just looked back at them.
Kristeva bit the inside of his mouth and gestured at Devetko's folder. "Phil Falcon made mention of her in a newspaper report. Described her a little bit. And said that you were familiar with her yourself--"
"Melissa."
Kristeva shut his mouth and they both stared at the lieutenant for a few seconds.
"What...?"
"First name Melissa," Kincaid said. "No last name given. Introduced herself to Mark at the Falcon's Nest. I wasn't present. He kept quiet about her for a while. Didn't wish to bring her back to the house at first. Eventually she stayed overnight some times. And yes, I know exactly what was going on between them."
"Did you ever talk with her...?" Kristeva asked, more curious than anything.
"Not much. She would try to make conversation but I didn't wish to." Kincaid pulled open a drawer, pulled out a clipboard with a notepad attached and flipped a few pages over, took a pencil out of a cup on his desk and started jotting something down. "At least a few times, she quite obviously seemed to be trying to flirt."
The detectives furrowed their brows. "With you--?" Devetko asked.
"Yes. Always when Mark wasn't around to hear it. So now you see why I didn't wish to engage in conversation."
An awkward pause. "Did you ever tell him about this...?" Kristeva asked.
"There would have been little point in doing so," Kincaid said, not bothering to elaborate.
"Based on the photos, she didn't attend Sgt. Kincaid's funeral," Devetko said.
"That would be because she disappeared shortly before then."
"'Disappeared'--?"
"Nothing like foul play. She spent the night, then left the next morning. That was the last I myself saw of her with Mark. The next day, Mark was dead." He fell silent but continued jotting on the notepad, the pencil scratching noises the only sound in the office. Kristeva and Devetko peered at each other. The flat tone of their lieutenant's voice had always been unnerving, but it was doubly so when he was describing his own foster father's death like he was giving directions to the nearest supermarket.
"And no one ever thought to track her down or question her," Kristeva said.
"Not in a suicide case, no. There was nothing to go on anyway except a first name and physical description."
"Physical..."
"Approximately five-foot-six, slender build, olive complexion, brown eyes, straight dark brown hair to the middle of her back, parted on the side. High cheekbones, slightly slanted eyes. Stylishly dressed and made up, always wore skirts, around thirty years old."
More detailed than some missing person reports. Devetko had taken out his own pen and jotted this on the corner of the folder so Kristeva could see it. He had to admit, it was. "We have the theory that this 'Melissa' person might have been sent after Mark Kincaid to either pump him for info or distract him from his case. 'Bait,' like Singer described it."
"Considering the timing and circumstances, this is a rational conclusion to reach."
"So...you agree with it, then?"
"There isn't enough proof to say for certain either way. If Melissa was sent as 'bait,' though, I doubt Mark was her initial target."
Silence again. Devetko looked almost like he wanted to say something, yet refrained. Kristeva made himself not roll his eyes, and spoke up instead.
"You think you were her intended target." A pause while Kincaid merely continued jotting on the notepad. "And when you didn't play along, she went after Mark, instead."
"Considering the circumstances...this is a rational conclusion to reach."
Devetko rapped the side of Kristeva's hand with his knuckles and tilted the folder toward him. Bait #2, it said.
"Singer had an informant in the criminal group...a woman he never identified. The rumors are that he ran off with her while investigating the case. That she was sent as 'bait,' too. I know you weren't around here just then, but did Mark ever say anything about her to you...?"
"From what little I know, Mark and Det. Singer didn't see eye to eye very much. Thus why they weren't working the initial case together. I don't believe they shared much information with each other. Considering that Det. Singer was likely sleeping with a witness, Mark thought his involvement in things was excessive and a threat to the integrity of the case."
"They didn't get along," Devetko said, frowning.
"They didn't see eye to eye. Different investigation techniques. Det. Singer was off the cuff, Mark was by the book."
The silence that filled the room seemed especially awkward, this time. Kristeva had to make himself not look in Devetko's direction.
"So it's unlikely Mark knew much about her, and he didn't share what he might have known with you."
"That's correct." Kincaid paused from scribbling on the notepad, looked at it for a moment, jotted something else down. "I'm not certain I have anything else that would be of use to you."
Devetko made a surreptitious gesture toward the door with his free hand. "We'll see if we can't dig up more on this Melissa lady," Kristeva said, more as a test just to see what reaction he'd get, though Kincaid didn't even bother looking up from the notepad.
"I doubt you'll find anything, but good luck anyway."
They turned to the door. Then, an echo of what had happened while talking to Trooper Lopata in the hospital, Kristeva turned back around just as Devetko grasped the doorknob. All out, a voice in the back of his head said.
"We spoke with Dr. Steiner earlier and he mentioned that some sort of drug had been found in Mark Kincaid's system during his autopsy. Just trace amounts. But the same drug was found in July Lockett's system after her death, and from the looks of it she'd had long-term exposure. I know you're aware of this already."
Devetko turned back and gave him a look as if to ask what did he think he was doing. He ignored it, since Kincaid had finally looked up from whatever he was writing on the notepad.
"Your point?" he said.
"My point is that if this follows any pattern, Mark probably had long-term exposure to the drug as well. Probably in conjunction with this Melissa person, since Dr. Steiner said you were positive Mark wouldn't take drugs on his own."
"Because he wouldn't."
"And yet he had drugs in his system. This drug, at least. The same drug as somebody else tied in with this case, and both of those people ended up dead."
"Max," Devetko said under his breath.
"Mark was a suicide and July was a homicide," Kincaid said, setting the notepad down in front of him. "And so what connection are you trying to make?"
Kristeva shrugged. "Maybe July was taking too long to do what she was supposed to. Because according to Dr. Steiner, this particular sort of drug makes people vulnerable to suggestion. I know you have your doubts that Mark's suicide was just a suicide." He brushed away Devetko's hand when the other detective grasped at his sleeve, and took a step toward the lieutenant's desk. "The autopsy was a mystery because no injection sites were found on Mark's body. He shot himself through the mouth, right?--which means it was probably messy. A small enough needle can be used in lots of different places, maybe without someone even noticing, if they're distracted enough by a pretty face. Behind the ear maybe?--or in the neck? Maybe something like that could be overlooked even by an experienced medical examiner, if there's a mess and they don't know what they're looking for...?"
The tug on his sleeve this time was hard enough to yank his entire arm back. "Max!" Devetko hissed.
Kincaid just stared at him, hands folded over the notepad. He didn't say anything at first, though Kristeva could have sworn there was the tiniest, subtlest shift of expression in his eyes, and even though he had no idea what it meant, it seemed significant.
"You'd have to ask Dr. Steiner," Kincaid finally said, "but considering the circumstances, that's a rational conclusion to reach."
He didn't say anything else. This time Devetko twisted the end of Kristeva's sleeve so it cut into his wrist rather painfully, and he took a step back to show he was finished. He ignored the glare the other detective gave him as he turned to the door, but Kincaid's voice made them both stop once more.
"Detective--?"
They both looked back. Kincaid tore the top sheet off the notepad, folded it, and held it out, making eye contact with Devetko. Devetko frowned a little but stepped forward to take it from him. "If you'll excuse me, I have some work to get back to," Kincaid said, putting the clipboard away and digging around for something else instead, and the two of them left the office, shutting the door behind them. The DON'T FIDDLE WITH MAGIC sign rattled.
"Do you have no filter at all?" Devetko asked, unfolding the paper as they headed for their desks.
Kristeva shrugged. "I figured, take the chance while it's there, because who knows what mood he'll be in the next time. If there even is a next time." He cast a dark look at his computer. "I meant what I said about looking into this Melissa lady, if that's even her real name, though it's like he said, it must be like looking for a needle in a needlestack..." He looked up and noticed that Devetko had paused beside his chair, staring at the paper with a perplexed look on his face. "What? Did he write you a letter full of swears or something--? Because maybe that's the only way anyone can get a reaction out of him, just have him write it down..."
Devetko lifted his head to look at him, and his frown grew. "Did our lieutenant take an art class...?" he asked, and held up the paper. On it was a pencil sketch of exactly the same quality as one a forensic artist might make, of a vaguely exotic-looking woman with long dark hair and slightly slanted eyes, staring back at the viewer.
Kristeva blinked. "Melissa," he said.
Untitled Kristeva/DID Story: Part 25
Devetko was sitting at his desk, phone pressed to his ear, when Kristeva entered the station; he glanced up but kept talking as Kristeva slumped in his chair and tried to squeeze some of the water out of his clothes.
"So you can have it here sometime this week and all I need to do is fill it out, then find somebody high enough up to sign it?" Devetko was saying, and held up a finger in a Hold on a moment gesture when Kristeva tilted his head. "And then I sit and wait," he added, and paused. "Any idea how long that should take?" He made a face at the answer. "All right...just send it along, please, and I'll get it signed and sent back in. Thank you. Have a good day." He hung up, cast a foul look (or was it just a normal look?) at his computer, then turned back to Kristeva, speaking up before Kristeva could ask what that was all about.
"So I spoke with Cheryl Singer this morning, since I figured you'd be busy."
"She called--?"
"No, I called her. I think it's kind of an oversight that none of us thought of showing her the necklace found with those unidentified remains, to see if she could identify it or not."
Kristeva's brow furrowed, then he made a slight face. "I guess that's an understatement...how did you even get hold of the necklace? Hasn't it been entered into evidence yet?"
"Not yet. I asked Dr. Steiner nicely if I could borrow it as long as it remained in an evidence bag. I brought it back to him when I was done."
"What exactly did you ask Cheryl and what did she have to say about it?"
"I said I'm working her uncle's case with you and had an item possibly related to the case. I let her know we can't prove without a doubt that it's directly tied to the remains we found, or that the remains are those of her uncle, but she seemed to understand that. As soon as I gave her the bag she recognized it. Said it's the same necklace her uncle wore all the time when he was alive, that he'd told her once it's called a mandala, and that it means 'whole, everything working together, all in one piece.' I asked if it was possible if there was more than one necklace like that and she said she was positive it was his." He gestured toward Kristeva. "I'd say take this with a grain of salt, though, considering that you've been wearing the exact same thing around your neck the entire time I've been working here."
Kristeva blinked and looked down, out of reflex; the little mandala glinted back up at him. He tucked it inside his shirt.
"Well, it's as good an ID as we can get at this time, though nothing that'd hold up in a court or anything."
"There was something else."
"Oh?"
Devetko just stared back at him for a moment or so, tapping a pen on the desk, as if waiting to see if he'd offer anything first. Kristeva just gave him the dumbest look he could muster, which wasn't that difficult at the moment.
Before the silence could grow to awkward proportions, Devetko tossed the pen into a cup and reached down to open one of the desk drawers. "Ms. Singer asked if you had any updates on the case and of course I had to tell her nothing definite, we're still looking into things. She said she would've dropped by the station by now if she hadn't thought maybe she'd be a nuisance."
"The other guys here got fed up with her ages ago. She didn't even know nobody was actively investigating the case anymore."
"Anyway, she asked if you ever managed to find out who that missing kid is."
Kristeva furrowed his brow again. "Which one--?"
"The one she asked you about."
"I don't remember her ever..."
"She said there was some kid related to her uncle's case, something Singer was looking into, and that you said if the kid was listed as a missing person you might be able to look him up and find out who he is and what exactly it was Singer was getting into. We know by now what Singer was getting into, so it seems like we should've ID'ed this kid by now. She said she'd given you a photo." He took something out of the drawer and pushed it across the desk toward Kristeva. "Remember now?"
Kristeva stared down at the picture Devetko had pushed across the desk. The black-and-white image of the pale-eyed boy stared back at him.
His throat stuck for a moment, and his voice sounded faraway when he finally managed to speak.
"Where did you get this?"
"In your desk drawer, where you put it."
"You broke into my desk?"
"It wasn't in the folder with everything else related to this case, so I figured it was either in your desk, or at your house. What I'd like to know is, is there any particular reason you're withholding evidence related to this case--?"
Kristeva almost didn't hear the question, since the blood was roaring in his ears by now, muffling everything, and the edges of his vision had gone grainy like bad film again. "You had no right breaking into my desk," he hissed under his breath.
"Police property," Devetko said back under his own breath. "And you have no right withholding evidence in a criminal investigation. I asked you at the start if there was any sort of drama that was going to interfere with this, and you said no. You want to revise that answer--? Or how about answering my original question?" He leaned over the desk and his own voice turned into a hiss. "Why were you hiding this?"
Kristeva glared at him but he held the stare without a flinch. For some odd reason, Jenner's words to him at the prison--"Good luck finding a new partner...because after today I really don't think you two are going to last very long"--echoed in his head; and he remembered also his conversation with Det. Tulie. His mouth twitched and he was ready to just say Fuck off and get it over with already, when Devetko spoke again, evidently getting impatient.
"Well--spit it out. There's something you don't want Cheryl Singer to know?" A small pause, then, "After all the shit you've been dragging us through, you're the absolute last person I figured would've done anything to impede this investigation."
Kristeva opened his mouth--Fuck off and die, then, his tongue wanted to say--but then what he'd just heard finally made its way into his brain--"dragging us through"--and he shut his mouth again. Held the stare for another few seconds, Devetko holding it just as well. Then leaned far to the side and yanked open another drawer on his desk, one that he never bothered locking since there wasn't anything dangerous or of great importance in it. He withdrew a large hardcover book--Where The Wild Things Are--slammed the drawer shut, stood, and made his way across the office and toward the hallway leading to the file rooms. He didn't bother pausing to look back but did briefly catch his reflection in the windows to Chief Bowen's office, seeing Devetko hurrying after him.
He entered the first empty file room and halted at the table, clapping the book down on it. Devetko entered a moment later, carefully pulling the door almost closed behind him, and standing on the other side of the table. Kristeva glared at him again before picking the book up and shaking it violently over the table; Devetko looked down in time to see something fall out from between the pages. Kristeva flipped over the small piece of photo paper and pushed it toward him, an echo of Devetko's own actions a few minutes ago.
Devetko glanced at the photo, then frowned and picked it up. It was an old color photograph of a young blond girl and an even younger boy with darker hair, striking silly poses and both smiling widely at the camera. A note jotted in the lower corner read, Fourth of July outing 1979.*
Devetko stared at this for a moment, then lifted his other hand--Kristeva saw now that he'd carried the other photo into the room with him. He glanced from one to the other, and Kristeva could tell it had struck him almost immediately. The color photo was obviously a little older, but those eyes were unmistakable.
He lifted his head and looked at Kristeva. "You know this kid?" he demanded, voice tinged with disbelief.
"He's not a missing person," Kristeva said.
Devetko transferred both photos to one hand and shook them a little as if scolding him. "Missing or not, he's part of this case and Cheryl Singer deserves to know who he is, especially if he was involved with her uncle somehow!"
Kristeva ground his teeth and would have dug his fingernails into the wooden tabletop if possible. "He's not missing and he's not part of the case. Therefore, Cheryl doesn't need to know about him."
Devetko slapped both photos onto the table like he was revealing his cards. "Well, since you know so much, who is he, how do you know he's not missing, and why did Singer have a photo of him--?"
"I don't know why Singer had a photo of him. I know he's not missing--" He cut himself off, fumed, then flipped the book open to the title page and turned it around to face Devetko. The other detective looked down again and saw a handwritten inscription below the title.
Max--
Was going to give you "The Nutcracker" but this seems more appropriate! (Just kidding.)
Good luck out there. Love you lots.
--Chrissie
Kristeva stood and waited while Devetko leaned over this, looking at it closely, then looking at the writing on the color photo. One to the other, several times over, comparing the two as Kristeva had known he would. The girlish scrawl in both was nearly identical, though more refined, less childish, in the book inscription; the J, though, was what gave it away as being the same handwriting in both samples.
Devetko stood and met his eyes again, looking confused. "Who wrote these?"
"Christina Kristeva," Kristeva said, putting a finger on the color photo and drawing it back toward himself. "My sister." He stuck the photo back between the pages of the book and shut it. "Now you know how I know the kid isn't missing, because as far as I know I'm not missing, and the only way I'm part of this case is because I'm the one investigating it. And now you see why Cheryl doesn't need to know? I think she suspects I'm in over my head with this, and I really don't need her worrying about this even more than she already is. I have enough people thinking I'm nuts."
"But..." Devetko looked down at the other photo, brow furrowing. "Why and how would Singer have gotten a picture of you? Do you remember when this was taken?"
"No, I don't. It looks like it was taken without me knowing anyway. And I can't say why he had it, just that, since I'm standing here investigating this, it can't have anything to do with the case. Maybe Cheryl made a mistake and found the wrong photo, or maybe she misunderstood what Singer told her about it."
"You really believe that?"
A shrug. "There's no other explanation, is there?"
"Well, what about your sister, then--? Does she know anything about this, or would the rest of your family know--?"
"I don't talk to Chrissie about my work. And I don't talk to the rest of my family, period. And I'd appreciate it if you don't bother going there. Now, were we going to talk with Kinnie, or not--?"
Devetko pressed his mouth shut into a straight line and Kristeva could tell he was itching to keep asking questions, but to his credit he refrained. He turned to the door, but then picked up the photo before Kristeva could--"Nobody else can ID it, so this is going in the case folder," he said, in a voice that brooked no argument--and he was out the door before Kristeva could snap at him to give it back, so all he was able to do was steam to himself as he picked up the book and followed him out of the room.
"So you can have it here sometime this week and all I need to do is fill it out, then find somebody high enough up to sign it?" Devetko was saying, and held up a finger in a Hold on a moment gesture when Kristeva tilted his head. "And then I sit and wait," he added, and paused. "Any idea how long that should take?" He made a face at the answer. "All right...just send it along, please, and I'll get it signed and sent back in. Thank you. Have a good day." He hung up, cast a foul look (or was it just a normal look?) at his computer, then turned back to Kristeva, speaking up before Kristeva could ask what that was all about.
"So I spoke with Cheryl Singer this morning, since I figured you'd be busy."
"She called--?"
"No, I called her. I think it's kind of an oversight that none of us thought of showing her the necklace found with those unidentified remains, to see if she could identify it or not."
Kristeva's brow furrowed, then he made a slight face. "I guess that's an understatement...how did you even get hold of the necklace? Hasn't it been entered into evidence yet?"
"Not yet. I asked Dr. Steiner nicely if I could borrow it as long as it remained in an evidence bag. I brought it back to him when I was done."
"What exactly did you ask Cheryl and what did she have to say about it?"
"I said I'm working her uncle's case with you and had an item possibly related to the case. I let her know we can't prove without a doubt that it's directly tied to the remains we found, or that the remains are those of her uncle, but she seemed to understand that. As soon as I gave her the bag she recognized it. Said it's the same necklace her uncle wore all the time when he was alive, that he'd told her once it's called a mandala, and that it means 'whole, everything working together, all in one piece.' I asked if it was possible if there was more than one necklace like that and she said she was positive it was his." He gestured toward Kristeva. "I'd say take this with a grain of salt, though, considering that you've been wearing the exact same thing around your neck the entire time I've been working here."
Kristeva blinked and looked down, out of reflex; the little mandala glinted back up at him. He tucked it inside his shirt.
"Well, it's as good an ID as we can get at this time, though nothing that'd hold up in a court or anything."
"There was something else."
"Oh?"
Devetko just stared back at him for a moment or so, tapping a pen on the desk, as if waiting to see if he'd offer anything first. Kristeva just gave him the dumbest look he could muster, which wasn't that difficult at the moment.
Before the silence could grow to awkward proportions, Devetko tossed the pen into a cup and reached down to open one of the desk drawers. "Ms. Singer asked if you had any updates on the case and of course I had to tell her nothing definite, we're still looking into things. She said she would've dropped by the station by now if she hadn't thought maybe she'd be a nuisance."
"The other guys here got fed up with her ages ago. She didn't even know nobody was actively investigating the case anymore."
"Anyway, she asked if you ever managed to find out who that missing kid is."
Kristeva furrowed his brow again. "Which one--?"
"The one she asked you about."
"I don't remember her ever..."
"She said there was some kid related to her uncle's case, something Singer was looking into, and that you said if the kid was listed as a missing person you might be able to look him up and find out who he is and what exactly it was Singer was getting into. We know by now what Singer was getting into, so it seems like we should've ID'ed this kid by now. She said she'd given you a photo." He took something out of the drawer and pushed it across the desk toward Kristeva. "Remember now?"
Kristeva stared down at the picture Devetko had pushed across the desk. The black-and-white image of the pale-eyed boy stared back at him.
His throat stuck for a moment, and his voice sounded faraway when he finally managed to speak.
"Where did you get this?"
"In your desk drawer, where you put it."
"You broke into my desk?"
"It wasn't in the folder with everything else related to this case, so I figured it was either in your desk, or at your house. What I'd like to know is, is there any particular reason you're withholding evidence related to this case--?"
Kristeva almost didn't hear the question, since the blood was roaring in his ears by now, muffling everything, and the edges of his vision had gone grainy like bad film again. "You had no right breaking into my desk," he hissed under his breath.
"Police property," Devetko said back under his own breath. "And you have no right withholding evidence in a criminal investigation. I asked you at the start if there was any sort of drama that was going to interfere with this, and you said no. You want to revise that answer--? Or how about answering my original question?" He leaned over the desk and his own voice turned into a hiss. "Why were you hiding this?"
Kristeva glared at him but he held the stare without a flinch. For some odd reason, Jenner's words to him at the prison--"Good luck finding a new partner...because after today I really don't think you two are going to last very long"--echoed in his head; and he remembered also his conversation with Det. Tulie. His mouth twitched and he was ready to just say Fuck off and get it over with already, when Devetko spoke again, evidently getting impatient.
"Well--spit it out. There's something you don't want Cheryl Singer to know?" A small pause, then, "After all the shit you've been dragging us through, you're the absolute last person I figured would've done anything to impede this investigation."
Kristeva opened his mouth--Fuck off and die, then, his tongue wanted to say--but then what he'd just heard finally made its way into his brain--"dragging us through"--and he shut his mouth again. Held the stare for another few seconds, Devetko holding it just as well. Then leaned far to the side and yanked open another drawer on his desk, one that he never bothered locking since there wasn't anything dangerous or of great importance in it. He withdrew a large hardcover book--Where The Wild Things Are--slammed the drawer shut, stood, and made his way across the office and toward the hallway leading to the file rooms. He didn't bother pausing to look back but did briefly catch his reflection in the windows to Chief Bowen's office, seeing Devetko hurrying after him.
He entered the first empty file room and halted at the table, clapping the book down on it. Devetko entered a moment later, carefully pulling the door almost closed behind him, and standing on the other side of the table. Kristeva glared at him again before picking the book up and shaking it violently over the table; Devetko looked down in time to see something fall out from between the pages. Kristeva flipped over the small piece of photo paper and pushed it toward him, an echo of Devetko's own actions a few minutes ago.
Devetko glanced at the photo, then frowned and picked it up. It was an old color photograph of a young blond girl and an even younger boy with darker hair, striking silly poses and both smiling widely at the camera. A note jotted in the lower corner read, Fourth of July outing 1979.*
Devetko stared at this for a moment, then lifted his other hand--Kristeva saw now that he'd carried the other photo into the room with him. He glanced from one to the other, and Kristeva could tell it had struck him almost immediately. The color photo was obviously a little older, but those eyes were unmistakable.
He lifted his head and looked at Kristeva. "You know this kid?" he demanded, voice tinged with disbelief.
"He's not a missing person," Kristeva said.
Devetko transferred both photos to one hand and shook them a little as if scolding him. "Missing or not, he's part of this case and Cheryl Singer deserves to know who he is, especially if he was involved with her uncle somehow!"
Kristeva ground his teeth and would have dug his fingernails into the wooden tabletop if possible. "He's not missing and he's not part of the case. Therefore, Cheryl doesn't need to know about him."
Devetko slapped both photos onto the table like he was revealing his cards. "Well, since you know so much, who is he, how do you know he's not missing, and why did Singer have a photo of him--?"
"I don't know why Singer had a photo of him. I know he's not missing--" He cut himself off, fumed, then flipped the book open to the title page and turned it around to face Devetko. The other detective looked down again and saw a handwritten inscription below the title.
Was going to give you "The Nutcracker" but this seems more appropriate! (Just kidding.)
Good luck out there. Love you lots.
--Chrissie
Kristeva stood and waited while Devetko leaned over this, looking at it closely, then looking at the writing on the color photo. One to the other, several times over, comparing the two as Kristeva had known he would. The girlish scrawl in both was nearly identical, though more refined, less childish, in the book inscription; the J, though, was what gave it away as being the same handwriting in both samples.
Devetko stood and met his eyes again, looking confused. "Who wrote these?"
"Christina Kristeva," Kristeva said, putting a finger on the color photo and drawing it back toward himself. "My sister." He stuck the photo back between the pages of the book and shut it. "Now you know how I know the kid isn't missing, because as far as I know I'm not missing, and the only way I'm part of this case is because I'm the one investigating it. And now you see why Cheryl doesn't need to know? I think she suspects I'm in over my head with this, and I really don't need her worrying about this even more than she already is. I have enough people thinking I'm nuts."
"But..." Devetko looked down at the other photo, brow furrowing. "Why and how would Singer have gotten a picture of you? Do you remember when this was taken?"
"No, I don't. It looks like it was taken without me knowing anyway. And I can't say why he had it, just that, since I'm standing here investigating this, it can't have anything to do with the case. Maybe Cheryl made a mistake and found the wrong photo, or maybe she misunderstood what Singer told her about it."
"You really believe that?"
A shrug. "There's no other explanation, is there?"
"Well, what about your sister, then--? Does she know anything about this, or would the rest of your family know--?"
"I don't talk to Chrissie about my work. And I don't talk to the rest of my family, period. And I'd appreciate it if you don't bother going there. Now, were we going to talk with Kinnie, or not--?"
Devetko pressed his mouth shut into a straight line and Kristeva could tell he was itching to keep asking questions, but to his credit he refrained. He turned to the door, but then picked up the photo before Kristeva could--"Nobody else can ID it, so this is going in the case folder," he said, in a voice that brooked no argument--and he was out the door before Kristeva could snap at him to give it back, so all he was able to do was steam to himself as he picked up the book and followed him out of the room.
Untitled Kristeva/DID Story: Part 24
ORIGINAL AUTHOR'S NOTE: Two of the dreams Kristeva describes in this part of the story--the playroom one, and the darkness one--are based on recurring dreams of my own. The dream about the light coming in the door is the basis for my older short story, "A Crack Of Light," which overlaps with this story and explains some of what's going on.
Kristeva hated long silences, but even more, he hated needless talking. So the long silence seemed to go on forever, though he knew it couldn't have been more than a minute or so.
The smartly dressed woman sitting opposite him bobbed one foot as if listening to music he couldn't hear. She always held a clipboard and notes on her lap, but wasn't writing on it at the moment, because of the silence. He didn't like staring at her, since it seemed like a challenge, and so let his eyes wander along the walls with their annoying wishy-washy watercolor paintings that he sensed were meant to have a calming effect but which he just found...annoying.
As if he'd forgotten, he suddenly remembered that his ex-wife had painted watercolors, watercolors which he'd liked, and he looked away from them, feeling the heat rise in his face.
He inadvertently ended up looking back at the smartly dressed woman instead. As if taking his eye contact as a cue, she spoke.
"You know...sitting and saying nothing doesn't accomplish much."
He gave a halfhearted shrug. "I get the feeling that sitting and talking doesn't accomplish much, either."
"I don't know about that...I was under the impression it'd helped, at least somewhat. You haven't physically assaulted anyone else, have you?"
Kristeva winced. "Physically assaulted...no."
Her foot stopped bobbing and her pen hovered over the paper, and he tried to keep the wince from turning into a grimace. "I take that qualifier to mean something else happened, instead."
"Just some minor car damage. Nothing that can't be fixed." When she said nothing, he spoke up just to fill in the silence before it could take over again. "I'll probably be getting the bill for it sometime soon, and I'll go ahead and pay it. And no, I'm not making a new habit of destroying other people's property. So we don't need to plan for the next time it might happen, because hopefully it won't."
"This person whose car you damaged, they instigated the incident at all--? Physically accosted you, maybe?"
Kristeva paused a moment, then said, "Accosted, no." Another pause, then he propped his foot up on his knee, just to give his hands something to do. "He didn't do anything that warranted it. Like I said, I'll cover the damage, lesson learned."
He heard her jotting something down, and looked up instead at the degrees on the other wall, the name KATHERINE APPLEGATE and various acronyms whose meaning escaped him emblazoned on each one. The police department had no in-house psychologist, and so he'd had to see a private one, which he'd thought might be for the better, except that everyone at the station seemed to know about it anyway. Thus the silent treatment he'd been getting for weeks now. He couldn't help but suspect that a similar reputation was what made everyone in the station so standoffish toward their lieutenant. He mulled over the nickname Kooky Kincaid and wondered how long it would be before he earned that title himself, if he hadn't already. Kooky Kristeva. Mad Max...? He made an unpleasant face.
"Well, aside from that," Dr. Applegate said, "how have things been going? I know you've been working on a particularly difficult case, is it going anywhere...?"
"Not sure. One of those one step forward, two steps back sort of things. Comes with the territory."
"You'd mentioned some odd dreams you'd been having, is that still going on?"
"I think it comes from the environment. I'm betting you have dreams about treating patients all the time, don't you?"
"Clients. And we're talking about your dreams, not mine." She looked up from the note she'd been taking, as Kristeva had said the sentence aloud along with her. He gave a dismissive wave.
"I know...I know. Just that I figured all this dream stuff went out around the time of Freud or whatever."
"I wouldn't call myself a Freudian, but dreams can have their uses, especially if they help figure out the mindset underlying somebody's actions. You never have come up with a decent explanation for why you assaulted that suspect the way you did."
"I said I didn't like him touching me, I figured that's good enough."
"And you generally don't like people touching you."
Kristeva looked ceilingward and let out a heavy sigh. "I'm not the touchy-feely sort...and no, I wasn't neglected as a kid."
Dr. Applegate pursed her lips. "But you can't be 100% positive of that, can you...?" The look on his face must have grown unpleasant again without him being aware of it, for she flipped through her notes and changed the subject. "So you'd say that the dreams you've been having lately tie in with your work. You dream about the cases you're investigating? People you've questioned? That sort of everyday thing?"
The images of Det. Singer in the courthouse with his throat slashed open, and of him jabbing a syringe into Kristeva's arm, and of him and Sgt. Kincaid, both soaked in blood, standing behind him in the restroom, flitted through his head and then disappeared. "I guess," he said. "That sort of everyday thing."
Flip-flip. "You'd briefly mentioned a couple of other dreams that didn't sound like they have much to do with your work, but you've been having them repeatedly anyway. Would you mind going into more detail on those? Only if you feel up to it."
Kristeva sighed again, not really feeling up to it, but it was better than sitting in awkward silence, or pondering why he'd felt like breaking somebody's mirror. "The one with the playroom and the one where everything goes dark--right?"
"Those are the ones."
"There isn't really much to elaborate on. Number one, I find this weird little playroom in the attic* of my house. Looks like any kid in their right mind would love such a place to get away to. But I'm obviously not in my right mind, else I wouldn't be here talking to you, plus I'm not a kid, so I just want to get the fuck out."
"The room itself is that disturbing to you--?"
"Well." He lifted a shoulder. "Not really. It's just that the place smells bad, I guess. Not like the kind of place somebody would like to hang out in."
"Can you describe that smell at all?"
It smells like dead people, Kristeva thought, but didn't say this aloud. "Just this sickening sweet smell. Like something going bad. That's all."
"I know you said these dreams didn't seem to have much to do with your work," Dr. Applegate said, "but have you ever smelled something like that before? Maybe in your job?"
A pause. "Once or twice," Kristeva said, not elaborating.
Jot-jot. "And number two...?" she said.
He let out a small breath, grateful that she didn't ask for further clarification. "Nothing that interesting...I'm just outside, doing I don't know what, and suddenly it gets too dark to see. It isn't nighttime, the sun is still out, but it's just this useless yellow disk in the sky, it doesn't light up anything around it. I guess it's better than nothing, though. I try to get back inside our house but the wind picks up and it's hard to breathe and I can't really figure out where I'm going."
"Do you ever get back inside the house?"
"Not that I recall. Usually wake up before then." He held up his hands. "Is there some magic you do with stuff like this--? Because, no offense, it just seems like there are much more useful things I could be doing with my time, and that you could be doing with your time, rather than sitting here talking about what I dreamed last night."
"Did you have any of these dreams last night--?"
A sigh. "It was a figure of speech."
"You mentioned in the first dream that you're not a kid so you don't go in the kids' playroom, right? You're grown up in that dream?"
Kristeva frowned. "Yeah, I guess."
"What about this dream where everything goes dark, are you grown up in that dream, too?"
"I figure I am. I mean, I'm grown up in real life, aren't I?"
"You said you were trying to get in the house..."
"That's right."
"...Only you said, 'our house.' You currently live alone, right? Whose house are you trying to get back into?"
Kristeva opened his mouth, blinked, then shut it. Stared at her for a minute. "My old house," he finally said, after a very long pause, and his brow furrowed a little. Details of the dream had always varied, and had always been vague, but when he focused on what little he could make out of the mental images, the dim lights shining in windows, he realized it didn't look at all like the two-story house he currently occupied in a residential neighborhood just outside the city. It was far too big...too many windows...too much open space.
"Your family home...?" Dr. Applegate said, and he nodded. "When's the last time you lived there?"
"I moved out as soon as I graduated high school. Eighteen. Haven't gone back."
"Is there a possibility you're younger in this particular dream? Not grown up like in real life?"
"I guess."
Flip-flip. The psychologist paused on one page further back in her notes and stared at it for a moment or so; he did his best not to fidget, but couldn't stop himself from peering at the clock. Time here always seemed to drag itself along so glacially, yet every time a session ended, it felt like he'd barely been there a few minutes.
"I'd almost forgotten something you brought up in our second session," Dr. Applegate said, and he looked at her again. "There was another dream you mentioned, do you recall it?"
"I think you'll have to jog my memory."
"Something about a light appearing at your door."
Kristeva bit the inside of his mouth. It was the most inane dream, he couldn't even remember why or in what context he'd brought it up, and in fact he'd almost forgotten it himself, but now that she mentioned it, it came rushing back into his thoughts, and along with it the same weird panicky feeling that it had induced when he'd started having it. "I guess," he said again, hoping she'd move on to something more productive.
"Do you think you could describe that one again?"
"It's in your notes, isn't it--?"
"Of course, but maybe you've remembered more of it since then?"
"I really doubt it, since there isn't much to it to begin with."
"Maybe just humor me a little."
He sighed and again looked toward the ceiling, twiddling his fingers around each other. "It's nothing much...just I'm lying in bed, it's dark, I hear my door open, I see a little crack of light shining in, and somebody says it's time to go. The end."
"You omitted a detail this time."
"I did?"
Dr. Applegate nodded, not looking up from the notes. "The first time you described it, you said you were a child in that dream. Not grown up."
"Well...I suppose. No other reason for somebody to be peeking in my bedroom, seeing that I live alone and all. This really helps you at all--?"
"A moment ago you were insistent that you're grown up in your dreams, because you're grown up in real life, but this is two recurring dreams so far where you seem to be younger than you currently are, and you're back in your childhood home. I can't say what it means, but you have to admit it must mean something, right?"
He wanted to say No, but bit the inside of his cheek again, instead. Another thing his ex-wife had found odd about him was his habit of describing the dreams he'd had to her in the mornings--he was a cop and she was an artist and yet she seemed more down to earth than he was. Go figure that this odd habit would come back to bite him in therapy.
Fortunately, Dr. Applegate didn't pursue this line of questioning, instead flipping back toward the most recent notes and halting there. "One more thing on this subject before I stop pestering you about it," she said, and he felt his ears grow hot, as if she'd read his thoughts. "There was a new detail you offered in this dream where you're outside and it gets dark. You said it gets hard for you to breathe. Can you describe what that feels like at all--?"
What do you think it feels like? he felt like asking, but what came out of his mouth instead was, "Like I'm drowning." And then he blinked again, because he hadn't intended to say that, hadn't even been aware he was thinking it. Yet when he thought about the dream, that was exactly how it had felt, like the air had turned to water and his lungs had filled up. He'd never consciously realized that, until now.
Dr. Applegate didn't seem surprised to hear this, though she did write something down. "It might sound trite," she said, "but have you ever had any personal experience with drowning? An accident maybe, or anyone you know, or something in your line of work--?"
"You mean like me personally," he said, and finally she looked up at him. "Right?"
She lifted a shoulder. "Preferably, but it isn't necessary."
"Well, I guess I'm going to make your day, because according to my parents I almost drowned in the bathtub when I was little."
Again she didn't seem surprised, and again she wrote something down. "Really?"
"I don't know the details and I don't remember it at all. Just what they told me later on. Now maybe you can share why this is so fascinating to you."
"I was just thinking," Dr. Applegate said, "how that must have felt for you, compared to how it must have felt for that suspect whose head you shoved down a toilet."
Kristeva didn't even bother trying to hide the annoyance he felt now, staring up at the ceiling and deliberately letting his breath out his nose. He happened to glimpse the clock again, saw that it was a few minutes to the end of the session, and stood up; she glanced up at him as he reached for his jacket, hearing the rain still pattering outside.
"I really doubt there's anything else we can cover in three minutes," he said, even though he felt he shouldn't have to explain his eagerness to leave.
"I doubt it," Dr. Applegate said, and he paused, not having expected her to agree. "I'd like to ask you to do one thing for me, though, before the next time we meet."
He fought down another sigh and turned to face her, lifting his hands a little--anything to get out of here with at least a shred of his dignity intact. "Yes...?"
"This childhood incident you say you don't recall. I don't suppose you could ask your family for further details--"
"No, I couldn't. That bridge is burned, sorry."
"If that's the case, then perhaps you could try remembering it for yourself?"
He furrowed his brow. "And how do you propose I do that?"
"Sometimes a sensory prompt is all that you need. A visual cue, a sound, a physical sensation. Something that has to do with the memory."
"And how do I know what sort of 'cue' would have to do with the memory when I don't even have the memory--?"
Dr. Applegate shrugged. "You said you were told it happened in a bathtub...that's a start."
Kristeva stared at her for a moment, made an odd face, then left the office. "In another two weeks," she called after him, like always, and he made a vague gesture but stopped long enough at the front desk to get an appointment card.
On the way through the lot to his car, he wasn't sure why since it had never been an issue before, but the raindrops starting to soak him through were particularly irritating today.
Kristeva hated long silences, but even more, he hated needless talking. So the long silence seemed to go on forever, though he knew it couldn't have been more than a minute or so.
The smartly dressed woman sitting opposite him bobbed one foot as if listening to music he couldn't hear. She always held a clipboard and notes on her lap, but wasn't writing on it at the moment, because of the silence. He didn't like staring at her, since it seemed like a challenge, and so let his eyes wander along the walls with their annoying wishy-washy watercolor paintings that he sensed were meant to have a calming effect but which he just found...annoying.
As if he'd forgotten, he suddenly remembered that his ex-wife had painted watercolors, watercolors which he'd liked, and he looked away from them, feeling the heat rise in his face.
He inadvertently ended up looking back at the smartly dressed woman instead. As if taking his eye contact as a cue, she spoke.
"You know...sitting and saying nothing doesn't accomplish much."
He gave a halfhearted shrug. "I get the feeling that sitting and talking doesn't accomplish much, either."
"I don't know about that...I was under the impression it'd helped, at least somewhat. You haven't physically assaulted anyone else, have you?"
Kristeva winced. "Physically assaulted...no."
Her foot stopped bobbing and her pen hovered over the paper, and he tried to keep the wince from turning into a grimace. "I take that qualifier to mean something else happened, instead."
"Just some minor car damage. Nothing that can't be fixed." When she said nothing, he spoke up just to fill in the silence before it could take over again. "I'll probably be getting the bill for it sometime soon, and I'll go ahead and pay it. And no, I'm not making a new habit of destroying other people's property. So we don't need to plan for the next time it might happen, because hopefully it won't."
"This person whose car you damaged, they instigated the incident at all--? Physically accosted you, maybe?"
Kristeva paused a moment, then said, "Accosted, no." Another pause, then he propped his foot up on his knee, just to give his hands something to do. "He didn't do anything that warranted it. Like I said, I'll cover the damage, lesson learned."
He heard her jotting something down, and looked up instead at the degrees on the other wall, the name KATHERINE APPLEGATE and various acronyms whose meaning escaped him emblazoned on each one. The police department had no in-house psychologist, and so he'd had to see a private one, which he'd thought might be for the better, except that everyone at the station seemed to know about it anyway. Thus the silent treatment he'd been getting for weeks now. He couldn't help but suspect that a similar reputation was what made everyone in the station so standoffish toward their lieutenant. He mulled over the nickname Kooky Kincaid and wondered how long it would be before he earned that title himself, if he hadn't already. Kooky Kristeva. Mad Max...? He made an unpleasant face.
"Well, aside from that," Dr. Applegate said, "how have things been going? I know you've been working on a particularly difficult case, is it going anywhere...?"
"Not sure. One of those one step forward, two steps back sort of things. Comes with the territory."
"You'd mentioned some odd dreams you'd been having, is that still going on?"
"I think it comes from the environment. I'm betting you have dreams about treating patients all the time, don't you?"
"Clients. And we're talking about your dreams, not mine." She looked up from the note she'd been taking, as Kristeva had said the sentence aloud along with her. He gave a dismissive wave.
"I know...I know. Just that I figured all this dream stuff went out around the time of Freud or whatever."
"I wouldn't call myself a Freudian, but dreams can have their uses, especially if they help figure out the mindset underlying somebody's actions. You never have come up with a decent explanation for why you assaulted that suspect the way you did."
"I said I didn't like him touching me, I figured that's good enough."
"And you generally don't like people touching you."
Kristeva looked ceilingward and let out a heavy sigh. "I'm not the touchy-feely sort...and no, I wasn't neglected as a kid."
Dr. Applegate pursed her lips. "But you can't be 100% positive of that, can you...?" The look on his face must have grown unpleasant again without him being aware of it, for she flipped through her notes and changed the subject. "So you'd say that the dreams you've been having lately tie in with your work. You dream about the cases you're investigating? People you've questioned? That sort of everyday thing?"
The images of Det. Singer in the courthouse with his throat slashed open, and of him jabbing a syringe into Kristeva's arm, and of him and Sgt. Kincaid, both soaked in blood, standing behind him in the restroom, flitted through his head and then disappeared. "I guess," he said. "That sort of everyday thing."
Flip-flip. "You'd briefly mentioned a couple of other dreams that didn't sound like they have much to do with your work, but you've been having them repeatedly anyway. Would you mind going into more detail on those? Only if you feel up to it."
Kristeva sighed again, not really feeling up to it, but it was better than sitting in awkward silence, or pondering why he'd felt like breaking somebody's mirror. "The one with the playroom and the one where everything goes dark--right?"
"Those are the ones."
"There isn't really much to elaborate on. Number one, I find this weird little playroom in the attic* of my house. Looks like any kid in their right mind would love such a place to get away to. But I'm obviously not in my right mind, else I wouldn't be here talking to you, plus I'm not a kid, so I just want to get the fuck out."
"The room itself is that disturbing to you--?"
"Well." He lifted a shoulder. "Not really. It's just that the place smells bad, I guess. Not like the kind of place somebody would like to hang out in."
"Can you describe that smell at all?"
It smells like dead people, Kristeva thought, but didn't say this aloud. "Just this sickening sweet smell. Like something going bad. That's all."
"I know you said these dreams didn't seem to have much to do with your work," Dr. Applegate said, "but have you ever smelled something like that before? Maybe in your job?"
A pause. "Once or twice," Kristeva said, not elaborating.
Jot-jot. "And number two...?" she said.
He let out a small breath, grateful that she didn't ask for further clarification. "Nothing that interesting...I'm just outside, doing I don't know what, and suddenly it gets too dark to see. It isn't nighttime, the sun is still out, but it's just this useless yellow disk in the sky, it doesn't light up anything around it. I guess it's better than nothing, though. I try to get back inside our house but the wind picks up and it's hard to breathe and I can't really figure out where I'm going."
"Do you ever get back inside the house?"
"Not that I recall. Usually wake up before then." He held up his hands. "Is there some magic you do with stuff like this--? Because, no offense, it just seems like there are much more useful things I could be doing with my time, and that you could be doing with your time, rather than sitting here talking about what I dreamed last night."
"Did you have any of these dreams last night--?"
A sigh. "It was a figure of speech."
"You mentioned in the first dream that you're not a kid so you don't go in the kids' playroom, right? You're grown up in that dream?"
Kristeva frowned. "Yeah, I guess."
"What about this dream where everything goes dark, are you grown up in that dream, too?"
"I figure I am. I mean, I'm grown up in real life, aren't I?"
"You said you were trying to get in the house..."
"That's right."
"...Only you said, 'our house.' You currently live alone, right? Whose house are you trying to get back into?"
Kristeva opened his mouth, blinked, then shut it. Stared at her for a minute. "My old house," he finally said, after a very long pause, and his brow furrowed a little. Details of the dream had always varied, and had always been vague, but when he focused on what little he could make out of the mental images, the dim lights shining in windows, he realized it didn't look at all like the two-story house he currently occupied in a residential neighborhood just outside the city. It was far too big...too many windows...too much open space.
"Your family home...?" Dr. Applegate said, and he nodded. "When's the last time you lived there?"
"I moved out as soon as I graduated high school. Eighteen. Haven't gone back."
"Is there a possibility you're younger in this particular dream? Not grown up like in real life?"
"I guess."
Flip-flip. The psychologist paused on one page further back in her notes and stared at it for a moment or so; he did his best not to fidget, but couldn't stop himself from peering at the clock. Time here always seemed to drag itself along so glacially, yet every time a session ended, it felt like he'd barely been there a few minutes.
"I'd almost forgotten something you brought up in our second session," Dr. Applegate said, and he looked at her again. "There was another dream you mentioned, do you recall it?"
"I think you'll have to jog my memory."
"Something about a light appearing at your door."
Kristeva bit the inside of his mouth. It was the most inane dream, he couldn't even remember why or in what context he'd brought it up, and in fact he'd almost forgotten it himself, but now that she mentioned it, it came rushing back into his thoughts, and along with it the same weird panicky feeling that it had induced when he'd started having it. "I guess," he said again, hoping she'd move on to something more productive.
"Do you think you could describe that one again?"
"It's in your notes, isn't it--?"
"Of course, but maybe you've remembered more of it since then?"
"I really doubt it, since there isn't much to it to begin with."
"Maybe just humor me a little."
He sighed and again looked toward the ceiling, twiddling his fingers around each other. "It's nothing much...just I'm lying in bed, it's dark, I hear my door open, I see a little crack of light shining in, and somebody says it's time to go. The end."
"You omitted a detail this time."
"I did?"
Dr. Applegate nodded, not looking up from the notes. "The first time you described it, you said you were a child in that dream. Not grown up."
"Well...I suppose. No other reason for somebody to be peeking in my bedroom, seeing that I live alone and all. This really helps you at all--?"
"A moment ago you were insistent that you're grown up in your dreams, because you're grown up in real life, but this is two recurring dreams so far where you seem to be younger than you currently are, and you're back in your childhood home. I can't say what it means, but you have to admit it must mean something, right?"
He wanted to say No, but bit the inside of his cheek again, instead. Another thing his ex-wife had found odd about him was his habit of describing the dreams he'd had to her in the mornings--he was a cop and she was an artist and yet she seemed more down to earth than he was. Go figure that this odd habit would come back to bite him in therapy.
Fortunately, Dr. Applegate didn't pursue this line of questioning, instead flipping back toward the most recent notes and halting there. "One more thing on this subject before I stop pestering you about it," she said, and he felt his ears grow hot, as if she'd read his thoughts. "There was a new detail you offered in this dream where you're outside and it gets dark. You said it gets hard for you to breathe. Can you describe what that feels like at all--?"
What do you think it feels like? he felt like asking, but what came out of his mouth instead was, "Like I'm drowning." And then he blinked again, because he hadn't intended to say that, hadn't even been aware he was thinking it. Yet when he thought about the dream, that was exactly how it had felt, like the air had turned to water and his lungs had filled up. He'd never consciously realized that, until now.
Dr. Applegate didn't seem surprised to hear this, though she did write something down. "It might sound trite," she said, "but have you ever had any personal experience with drowning? An accident maybe, or anyone you know, or something in your line of work--?"
"You mean like me personally," he said, and finally she looked up at him. "Right?"
She lifted a shoulder. "Preferably, but it isn't necessary."
"Well, I guess I'm going to make your day, because according to my parents I almost drowned in the bathtub when I was little."
Again she didn't seem surprised, and again she wrote something down. "Really?"
"I don't know the details and I don't remember it at all. Just what they told me later on. Now maybe you can share why this is so fascinating to you."
"I was just thinking," Dr. Applegate said, "how that must have felt for you, compared to how it must have felt for that suspect whose head you shoved down a toilet."
Kristeva didn't even bother trying to hide the annoyance he felt now, staring up at the ceiling and deliberately letting his breath out his nose. He happened to glimpse the clock again, saw that it was a few minutes to the end of the session, and stood up; she glanced up at him as he reached for his jacket, hearing the rain still pattering outside.
"I really doubt there's anything else we can cover in three minutes," he said, even though he felt he shouldn't have to explain his eagerness to leave.
"I doubt it," Dr. Applegate said, and he paused, not having expected her to agree. "I'd like to ask you to do one thing for me, though, before the next time we meet."
He fought down another sigh and turned to face her, lifting his hands a little--anything to get out of here with at least a shred of his dignity intact. "Yes...?"
"This childhood incident you say you don't recall. I don't suppose you could ask your family for further details--"
"No, I couldn't. That bridge is burned, sorry."
"If that's the case, then perhaps you could try remembering it for yourself?"
He furrowed his brow. "And how do you propose I do that?"
"Sometimes a sensory prompt is all that you need. A visual cue, a sound, a physical sensation. Something that has to do with the memory."
"And how do I know what sort of 'cue' would have to do with the memory when I don't even have the memory--?"
Dr. Applegate shrugged. "You said you were told it happened in a bathtub...that's a start."
Kristeva stared at her for a moment, made an odd face, then left the office. "In another two weeks," she called after him, like always, and he made a vague gesture but stopped long enough at the front desk to get an appointment card.
On the way through the lot to his car, he wasn't sure why since it had never been an issue before, but the raindrops starting to soak him through were particularly irritating today.
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