Shades of Passion

Scott picked up a pen and tapped it against the surface of her desk. “You mean it’ll give you more water to cast your net into. Sounds like a fishing expedition, Detective.”

That may be, Simon thought, but at least he was willing to fish. The news was plastered with accusations that the police didn’t care about the homeless or, more specifically, the mentally ill, yet here he was, doing his best to find Cann’s killer.

But he was also inferring that another homeless person might be the murderer, he realized. Suspecting she might take offense to that—as unwarranted as that offense might be—he said, “Look, the roster would help. But I’m not limiting my investigation to past residents. I also plan to talk to park employees and past employees of this shelter who might have associated with Cann.”

Jesus, he thought. That probably sounded even worse to her. Like he was accusing her previous coworkers of murder. But so what? Investigative work was about following every lead, regardless of whose feelings might get hurt in the process. Basic civility was one thing, but he couldn’t worry that his questions would be taken the wrong way. That kind of political tiptoeing would be more important when he was back in management, but right now, he had to keep his mind focused on what was best for the investigation. “Listen,” he began, but Scott shook her head.

“I’m sorry, but unless you have a subpoena, I’m afraid I can’t give you a roster or documentation on the shelter’s residents. Unless the resident signs a release, those records are confidential. And as I’m sure you can guess, no one signs a release.”

Right, Simon thought, then tried again. “I apologize if my requests seem clumsy, but I’m trying to find a killer and that means potentially keeping your past and future residents out of harm’s way. Doesn’t that count for something?”

“Of course it does, but—”

“Besides,” Simon continued, “we both know that under the law, confidentiality is waived in certain circumstances.”

“Yes, I do know that. But this isn’t a situation where a client is threatening suicide, has threatened to harm a third party or where child abuse has been disclosed. Now, I’m sorry, but I really can’t see how I can be of more help. And before you go hunting down that subpoena, I will say any information I’d have on Mr. Cann would be minimal. Dare I say even useless to you? But do what you feel you need to. Most of the residents the police talked to have already moved on, but I believe there are one or two left who knew Mr. Cann. You’re obviously free to inquire whether any of them is willing to talk with you.”

Simon’s mind automatically rebelled at that suggestion. “Given the statements I’ve already reviewed, and unless they’ve suddenly stopped drinking, taking drugs or hallucinating, the chances of me getting anything useful from them isn’t exactly high, now is it?”

Elaina Scott’s brow furrowed but she said nothing.

“I don’t mean to be insulting, but I’m trying to call things the way I see them. You know as well as I do that your...residents...often don’t make the most reliable of witnesses. Most of them are...” He hesitated, trying to be polite, but Scott tsked anyway.

“Crazy? Pathetic?” she guessed.

Simon shrugged. “Mentally challenged,” he said.

“That’s correct. But mental challenges don’t make them pariahs or murderers, Detective.”

“But it does make them extremely inaccurate reporters,” Simon said. He stood. “And the truth is, I can’t solve Mr. Cann’s murder without more than I have now. If I’m fishing in the dark, it’s because I have to. In a murder investigation, we often rely on people who were close, either emotionally or physically, to the victim, and that includes people the murder victims lived with.”

“Does it also include cops who should have been protecting the murder victim rather than killing him? Or are they subject to some kind of immunity?”

Her loaded comment surprised him, but he was careful not to let it show on his face. He simply stared at the woman and she eventually smiled, but it was a smile hardened by suspicion and experience.

“I work on the streets, Detective. I hear plenty. Mr. Cann’s murder is still a topic of conversation around here. I’ve heard the rumors that a cop has been implicated. Yet here you are, focusing your attention on residents of this shelter. On people who’ve worked here.”

“Because I’m looking to find the truth. No matter what that truth is. You can bet I take accusations of a cop’s involvement in Louis Cann’s murder very seriously. And yes, despite what I said about inaccurate reporters, I’d like to speak to your current residents about Mr. Cann if they’re willing to speak with me, whether they were interviewed by SFPD before or not. Before I do that, however, do you know anything that can help me?”

She appeared startled by the way he’d turned the tables on her. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Something. Anything that will give me more insight into who Mr. Cann was. Whom he associated with.”

“He was a loner, Detective. He kept to himself. That’s how he preferred it.”

“Right.” Simon swiped his hands over his face, then sighed. “Too bad. It’s a little difficult to find out who murdered a man who apparently never associated with anyone else.” Simon remembered Cann’s Semper Fi tattoo and again wondered what had brought the man to the point where he’d been living on the streets. “Funny how Mr. Cann managed to spend four years in the military surrounded by people only to get out and, by everyone’s account, never talk to another living soul again.”

“That’s not uncommon for a man who served in battle, Detective.”

“What do you mean? How did a former marine come to be in a homeless shelter, Ms. Scott?”

She visibly hesitated. But after assessing Simon for a minute, she seemed to come to a decision. She sat forward. “I’m not a medical doctor. I’m afraid you just missed her. She left my office before you came in. But my best guess? You’ve heard of post-traumatic stress disorder?” When he tipped his head, she continued. “We have many former military personnel come through here, Detective. The local clinics can’t recruit volunteers to provide counseling fast enough. PTSD is a severe illness and is cropping up more and more among our returning military. It affects some of these young men and women so severely they can no longer function in society. I suspect if you go through Mr. Cann’s military records, you’ll find a diagnosis of PTSD.”

“I’ve asked for those records, but getting that kind of thing isn’t easy, especially when that person is already dead. Next of kin tends to fight us on exposing skeletons they’d rather keep buried. Too bad Cann’s family didn’t do more to help him while he was alive.”

Scott just smiled sadly and shook her head. “It’s not that simple, Detective. I wish it were. Truth is, many homeless people have loving families who’ve tried to make a difference and simply can’t.”

Maybe, Simon thought. He’d certainly heard that line before. But he couldn’t help thinking that if someone he cared about suddenly became homeless, he would make damn sure he didn’t stay that way. “The doctor who was here before me. She’s a psychiatrist?”

Scott shook her head. “A family practitioner that minored in psychology. But she just started pro bono volunteer work at a mental health crisis clinic. She stopped by to introduce herself to me and put up a flyer.”

“Right. Another flyer,” Simon murmured. “Any chance Cann saw her? Or any other counselor that you know of?”

“No. Like I said, this is the first time I’ve seen her. And Mr. Cann never mentioned seeing a counselor or dropping in at a clinic.” Scott sighed. “The truth is, I know almost next to nothing about Mr. Cann, Detective, and he didn’t keep me appraised of his comings and goings. We provide food and shelter here when we can. In order to meet our requirements, our residents have to provide basic information and follow some rules designed to keep everyone safe. Other than that...” Scott shrugged.

Right. Other than that, he had exactly what he’d had before—a big fat zero. “Is there anything else you can tell me about Cann?”

“Just that he didn’t deserve to die.”

“I agree with you.” When she just continued to look at him, he asked, “You don’t believe me?”

“I believe you’re a dedicated cop. You want to do your job and do it well. But you have obvious biases against the mentally ill. I sensed you withdraw even as I used the word PTSD. But it doesn’t matter. I want the person who killed Mr. Cann found as much as you do. Probably even more so. I promise that if anyone does turn up with new information, we will contact you right away. Now, are you ready to see if any of our current residents will talk with you?”

He sighed.

Strike one.

More and more, he thought, this was a ball game he hated playing. But for now, at least, he was playing.

“Yes, Ms. Scott. I’d appreciate your assistance with that.”

* * *

THE NEXT DAY, BACK AT SIG headquarters, Simon glowered at the man in front of him.

Liam “Mac” McKenzie, SIG’s lead detective, stared back without flinching. “I see you’re not thrilled with the idea, but my hands are tied. Elaina Scott was crystal clear in her opinion that you shouldn’t be handling the Cann murder. She said your obvious dislike for the homeless, and in particular, the ‘mentally challenged,’ was quite apparent.”

Damn her, Simon thought. When he’d interviewed the few Welcome Home residents who’d been willing to talk to him yesterday, the interactions had gone smoothly. They hadn’t provided anything useful, but he’d been respectful and professional, just as he always tried to be. Scott must have still been pissed by the conversation they’d had in her office. Or maybe she just hadn’t believed him when he’d said he took accusations of a cop’s involvement in Cann’s murder seriously. “Come on, Mac. Since when does a bullshit complaint like this warrant pulling me off of a case?”

“I never said you were off the case. I said I want you to get some help. With the case and...off of it. DeMarco will assist. You’ve both been handling some tough cases lately with no time off to speak of. Consider the partnership a chance for a well-earned break.”

“And while DeMarco’s assisting, my well-earned break is going to consist of spilling my guts to some stranger?”

Mac sighed. “It’s called grief counseling. You need it.”

“That’s your opinion.”

“As well as Commander Stevens’s. Why do you think it was so obvious to Ms. Scott that you’re uncomfortable with mental health issues? Anyone who has them and anyone who talks about them?”

“Not everything is about Lana, damn it.”

“In this particular case, it is. It’s about Lana. It’s about you. Are you really surprised? We’ve been at you to get some help. There’s a reason we’re all worried about you.”

“Like?”

“Like it’s been over six months, yet you still leave the room if someone even mentions Lana’s name.”

Of course he did, Simon thought. Despite managing to visit her grave site the other day, hearing Lana’s name immediately caused a flood of memories to swirl through his mind. The last time they’d made love. The last time they’d laughed together. And the last time they’d argued just before she’d died. Yeah, they had been broken up before she’d been killed, but it wasn’t what he’d wanted. He’d still cared. Lana had still mattered. His insides felt like they were being squeezed in a vise, but he carefully kept his expression clear and his voice neutral.

“What’s there to talk about, Mac? Lana and I dated for a while, and dealing with her death’s been tough.” He shrugged. “Life goes on.”

“Who do you think you’re talking to, man? Lana didn’t just die. She was murdered. Violently. Yet you can’t seem to acknowledge that, can you?”

He glanced away, shoving the ache rising from his chest back down where it belonged, to the deep, dark place behind his ribs. He narrowed his gaze on the paper-filled trash can two feet in front of him. “Dead’s dead. What the hell difference does it make how she died? Elaina Scott’s accusations aside, tell me one thing I’ve messed up on the job. If you can’t, then I don’t need to see a damn shrink.”

“You haven’t messed up. Not yet. But it’s coming. This is just a preventative measure. You’re not sleeping, Simon. You look like shit. And your grim reaper attitude has everyone ready to slit their wrists whenever they’re in the office with you.”

Fuck. The desire to kick the trash can grew almost overwhelming. “Who’s complaining? Tyler? DeMarco? I saw the same shrink you guys did after Lana died and he cleared me for duty. The department has no right to impose mandatory therapy sessions.”

Mac shook his head. “No one’s complaining. Yes, you’ve been cleared for duty. And no, this counseling isn’t mandatory. You won’t lose your job if you don’t see it through.”

“No. But I’ll be stymied. Relegated to having an ‘assistant.’ Or I’ll work the less choice assignments. Great. That’s just great. Thanks for backing me up on this one, Mac.”

“Damn it, just listen! You’re hanging by a thread, Simon. You know it. We know it. And Commander Stevens knows it. No one’s wanted to push you, but this is where that ends. You want this case? You want the other ones that are coming down the pipeline? The big ones? See a shrink for regular counseling or take some time off before deciding to do it, but either way...”

“Yeah,” Simon growled. “Either way I’m gonna end up lying on some quack’s couch trying to convince her I’m not too much of a basket case to do the job we do, when only a basket case would want the job in the first place.”

Mac grinned. “You still have a sense of humor. Show the shrink that.”

“I wasn’t kidding. What we do is fucked up, Mac, and you know it. It’s what makes Lana’s murder just another day in the life.”

“So why are you still here then?”

“I won’t be. Not for long. It was a mistake coming back to SIG. I’ve known that for a while now. I was gonna wait before requesting a transfer, but this little dictate has just speeded my decision along.”

“A transfer?”

“I want back in management.”

“You tried management. You didn’t like it.”

“Maybe I didn’t give it enough of a chance.”

“I remember Lana telling you that. What? Now that she’s dead, you feel guilty enough to do what she’d have wanted you to?”

Simon smiled tightly. “Nice try, Mac, but I don’t feel guilty for her death. She put herself in a killer’s sights, and then she walked right up to him. She was careless despite the warnings I gave her. I’m not blaming myself, and that’s exactly what a shrink will tell you.”

Mac nodded. “Then you have nothing to worry about. If you want a shot at another management position, you need to prove you’re stable enough for it. That’s going to mean another psych evaluation eventually anyway. Might as well get it done now.”

Simon blew out a disgusted breath. “Might as well. It’ll probably take a while to get scheduled—”

“I made an appointment for next week. See this for what it is, Simon. Stevens and I are doing you a favor.”

“Yeah,” Simon grunted. “Thanks heaps. So what do I do in the meantime?”

“You’ll continue working the homeless murder case with DeMarco. Close it, see the shrink and you’ll get considered for management. Hell, I’ll even recommend your promotion myself. I’ll do everything I can to make it happen for you, Simon. But you have to work with me.”

Simon knew he didn’t have a choice. If he wanted a shot at a promotion, hell, if he wanted to continue working—and he needed to continue working—he had to appease Mac and Stevens. Volunteering to attend some damn fundraiser wasn’t going to be enough. Even solving Cann’s murder might not be.

He didn’t blame himself for Lana’s death, but he sure as shit didn’t want spare time on his hands.

Whether he blamed himself or not, spare time meant time to think about Lana. Time to think about how she’d cried and pleaded with her killer before she’d died. And time to wonder if some part of her had blamed Simon for failing to save her.

CHAPTER TWO

UNBELIEVABLE, DR. NINA WHITAKER thought as her boss, and she’d like to think her friend, continued to pace in front of her. She just won’t give up. Karen was determined to pull Nina away from her geriatric dementia patients in order to deal with politics and policing issues. Never mind that those things had once been Nina’s passion. They were in her past for a reason.

Almost three years ago, she’d sold her carriage house in Charleston, South Carolina, and moved across the country. Her goal had been to heal and start over, but in running from her past, she’d also been forced to leave behind one of her greatest accomplishments—convincing the Charleston law enforcement community to embrace greater mental health training and oversee the formation of a Mental Health Intervention Team. At one time in her life, Nina would have run with that success and continued to advocate the same kind of change in every city across the nation.

The death of her patient Beth Davenport had changed all that.

After Beth died, Nina had decided to leave crisis work, policy reform and decisions of life and death to others, and instead focus on a quieter though still worthwhile existence. Now, Karen wanted Nina’s help convincing SFPD to adopt the same MHIT training model that Charleston had implemented. Unfortunately, she was no longer content with Nina acting as a source of information on the topic. She wanted Nina to rally for funds. To talk to the police. To act as the program’s spokesperson.

She couldn’t do it, Nina thought.

She wouldn’t.

Stay strong. Don’t give in.

But despite her inner pep talk, Nina could feel herself being swayed by Karen’s words.

“Another homeless man’s been hospitalized after resisting arrest. That’s two this week. Both those men were mentally ill, and both times they didn’t understand they were being arrested. It wasn’t that they were resisting arrest—it’s that they didn’t understand reality. We can put a stop to it, Nina. What’s it going to take before you’re willing to get involved?”

Hell freezing over? The fact that it was a question, even in Nina’s own mind, further signaled her weakening resolve, but she managed to shake her head. Karen was an expert manipulator, but Nina was a psychiatrist. While that didn’t mean she was wholly immune to being manipulated, she had the advantage of knowing it was happening. Not only that, she was a realist. Give Karen an inch and soon Nina would find herself fully immersed in the trap she’d worked so hard to free herself from. “I’m sorry, Karen, but you’ll have to be content with the help I’ve already given.”

There. That was good. She sounded firm. In control.

But Dr. Karen Harper, the chief administrator for San Francisco Memorial Hospital’s Mental Health Division, remained unconvinced. Like a predator scenting weakness in its prey, she moved closer. “Do you want someone to die?” She paused, hands on her hips, looking down at Nina over the tops of her glasses, which were a dark navy blue the exact shade of the top she was wearing. “A transient? Maybe even a cop? Because it’s happened before and it could happen again. It will happen again. It’s just a matter of time. I’m trying to do everything I can to stop it, and with all the bad publicity the police have had with the homeless lately, this is as good a time as any to push. But in order to make the police listen to me, I need your expertise on this, Nina. Please.”

Please.

The word wasn’t normally in the hospital administrator’s vocabulary. It just proved how desperate Karen was for Nina’s help and how passionately she believed in the MHIT program. Obviously, Nina believed in it, too. It could help the city’s police reduce violent confrontations with not just the homeless, but all mentally ill suspects. It could help save lives. But becoming immersed in that kind of advocacy again? It just wasn’t something Nina could afford.

Helping others without actually being responsible for whether they lived or died. That’s all she wanted. That’s why she’d left her home and chosen to work with geriatric dementia patients in the first place. It wasn’t a job without its own pain. She genuinely liked her patients. She tried to help them through their suffering, and eventually she grieved their passing. The fact remained, however, that when the end came, it usually wasn’t a surprise. She was prepared. What Karen was asking of her came without that type of assurance, and she wanted no part of it.

Nina knew herself. Her strengths, but most of all her weaknesses.

What Karen was asking would play into every single one. If she started trying to save lives again, she’d feel duty-bound to save them all, and her failure to do so would eat away at her. Reminding her of the other lives she’d failed to save.

Two lives in particular.

“We’ve talked for hours,” Nina reminded her friend. “I’ve given you the information you need. The statistics. You’re more than capable of educating police officials about Charleston’s Mental Health Intervention Team program and the benefits the city has seen—”

“Not without the support of the program’s creator and chief advocate. With these latest claims of police brutality, higher-ups from the SFPD have finally agreed to meet with me. However, I suspect it’s just a political tactic to appease the press. They want to show the public the police aren’t taking our concerns lightly. But no matter how much you’ve prepared me, I can’t anticipate all the questions that will be asked. And I don’t have first-hand knowledge of how the program was implemented. Having you by my side at these meetings will lend us credibility we just can’t get otherwise.”

She was right, but Nina told herself to stand firm. Nina was a treasure trove of information when it came to police interaction with the mentally ill, but she could help Karen without becoming personally involved. “I’m sorry, Karen. You knew when you hired me where I wanted to focus my efforts. If my services haven’t been valuable to the hospital then—”

“I didn’t say your work here isn’t valuable, Nina. And yes, you were very clear that you were no longer interested in public policy work. That you wanted to focus your practice in the geriatric department. But I thought...” She shook her head and blew out a breath. “I guess I thought you wouldn’t be able to help yourself. The work you did in Charleston was so important.”

“And it’s work you’ll implement here, too,” Nina said softly. “It didn’t happen overnight in Charleston, either. I’ll continue to be a resource to you. But I don’t want to be directly involved. It took over my life, Karen, and I’m just starting to get it back. This isn’t the kind of thing you can just dip your toes into. It’ll consume my time.”

It’ll consume me, she thought.

“All right. Thank you for hearing me out,” Karen said. “Please...let me know if you change your mind.”

It was only when Karen left Nina’s office that Nina spotted the folders her boss had forgotten.

Or more likely, the ones Karen had deliberately left behind.

She could guess what was in them. Articles about recent confrontations between police and the homeless, most of who were mentally ill or challenged and therefore more prone to intense reactions if the particular responders didn’t know how to deal with that person’s condition. Too often police didn’t understand what was happening in a schizophrenic’s brain, or how mania could induce psychosis in someone with bipolar disorder. Threats only revved up those people’s minds—made things worse, not better.

She told herself she wasn’t going to fall for Karen’s obvious ruse.

Less than thirty minutes later, she opened the folder and scanned the papers inside. Each article had a common theme: that someone—suspect, civilian or police officer—had suffered personal injury or death because a confrontation with a mentally ill suspect had escalated when it probably hadn’t needed to. Several articles also included statistics.