“You saw her?”
Elizabeth blinked, the memory collapsing into something dimmer. “She was in the second room.”
“Describe it.”
“Concrete. Low ceilings. The mattress was in the corner.”
“Was it dark?”
“There was a candle on a crate. It was red.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes and saw that, too: melted wax and flickers of light, the hallways and doors and shadowed places. It was as real as in her dreams, but mostly she heard the girl’s voice, the broken words and prayer, the way she begged God to help her, please.
“Where were the Monroe brothers at this time?”
“I don’t know.” Elizabeth cleared her throat. “There were other rooms.”
“And the child?” Marsh pushed a photograph forward. It showed the mattress, the wires. Elizabeth blinked again, but the room around her remained blurry. Only the photograph was sharp. The mattress. The memory. “How was Channing?”
“She was as you might imagine.”
“Frightened, of course.” He placed a single finger on the photo of the mattress. “Wired to a mattress. Exposed. Alone.” He removed the photographs, touched two that showed the dead men, their bodies broken and bent and shredded. “These are the ones that interest me the most.” He pushed them toward her. “The bullet placement, in particular.” He touched one man and then the other. “Both knees shot away.” He slid forward a close-up of the shattered knees. “Multiple shots to the groin. Again, both men.” Another close-up hissed across the table, this one an autopsy photo, stark and bright. “Did you torture these men, Detective Black?”
“It was dark.…”
Another photograph slid across the table. “Titus Monroe. Shot in both knees, both elbows.”
“Not intentional.”
“But painful. Nonfatal.”
Elizabeth swallowed, nauseous.
Marsh noticed. “I’d ask you to look at each photograph.”
“I’ve seen these.”
“These are not random injuries, Detective.”
“I thought they were armed.”
“Knees. Groins. Elbows.”
“It was dark.”
“Eighteen shots.”
“The girl was crying.”
“Eighteen shots placed to cause maximum pain.”
Elizabeth looked away. Marsh leaned back, his eyes blue and cold. “Two men are dead, Detective.”
Elizabeth turned her head slowly, her own eyes so flat and emotionless they, themselves, looked dead. “Two animals,” she said.
“I beg your pardon.”
Her heart beat twice. She spoke with care. “Two animals are dead.”
“Liz! Jesus!”
Marsh held up a hand as Dyer seemed to lurch forward. “It’s okay, Captain. Stand where you are.” He turned his attention back to Liz, hands spread on the table. “Did you torture these men, Detective?” He lifted a bloody photograph, placed it gently in front of her. Elizabeth looked away, so he put down two more. They were autopsy photos, close-ups. The wounds were immediate and full color. “Detective Black?”
Elizabeth stood. “We’re done here.”
“You’re not excused.”
She pushed back her chair.
“I’m not finished, Detective.”
“I am.”
She turned on a heel.
Hamilton stood, but Marsh said, “Let her go.”
Elizabeth pulled open the door and was outside before Dyer could touch her arm or say a word to stop her. She pushed through the crowd of watching cops, through friends and rivals and faces that seemed strange to her. The room faded to gray as people muttered words she didn’t care about or understand. Everything was the basement. It was stone and fabric, screams and blood. She heard her name, but it wasn’t real. The world was gun smoke and wire and the twine of Channing’s fingers.…
“Liz!”
Slippery skin and pain …
“Liz, damn it!”
That was Beckett, still distant. She ignored the brush of his fingers, and only in the fresh air did she realize he’d followed her down the stairwell. There were cars and black pavement, then Beckett’s fingers on her wrist.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Liz, look at me.”
But, she couldn’t. A car had leaked oil onto the tarmac. Sunlight turned the puddle into melted iron, and that was exactly how she felt: as if all the hardness had been drawn from her bones, as if she, too, were melting away. “Don’t call me, Charlie. Okay? Don’t call me. Don’t follow me.”
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know,” she said; but that was a lie.
“Maybe you should talk to Wilkins.”
“Don’t go there, either.” Wilkins was the department shrink. Every other day he called. And every other day she declined his services. “I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that, but you look like a strong wind will lift you off your feet.”
“I’m fine.”
“Liz…”