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“Oh, good God.”
I outlined last night’s ride with Rich to the last resort abandoned bookstore, working with SWAT, manually manning a robot, tearing the store up. I was seeing it as I was saying it. The descent to the basement, the big reveal that the killer we were chasing lived there, a place where he had worked before he enlisted, now his home base.
I said, “This psycho, Bryan Catton, had a hit list.”
“An actual list?”
“You betcha,” I said. “He displayed his victims on a grid projected on a backlit screen in full color. It looked like an ad for something. ‘Come to San Francisco and have a good time.’ If you pressed the picture, the audio would come on. Voices. Music.”
I stopped talking, panting a little as I visualized that large screen.
“Keep going,” Dr. Greene said. “I’m with you, Lindsay.”
I looked at him. “There were a lot of people on this—computer screen. Blackout had killed half of them. And the rest were on his to-do list. All the ones left on the list were friends of mine.”
I detailed the Women’s Murder Club, our partners and spouses including my husband and daughter and Mrs. Rose.
“I was on his list, too.”
“Did you listen to the audio?”
I shook my head no. I’d lost my nerve and I couldn’t talk anymore. Blackout’s hit parade was really getting to me. My snarky pen pal had been teeing me up, waiting to kill me.
“Take your time,” said my therapist. “When you’re ready to speak, tell me the story however you wish, whatever occurs to you.”
When my hands unclenched and I was breathing normally, I told Dr. Greene about Catton’s sneaky escape past all the cops in the world. I described the showdown in the parking lot. Blackout aiming his gun at my head, telling me to put down my weapon. Which I’d done. His gun was still pointed at my head when Rich fired a couple of good shots, hitting Catton in his gun arm, ending a standoff that could have meant my life and probably Rich and Cindy’s, too.
I told him about our desperation, Cindy still missing until finally the search and rescue dogs sniffed her location.
“He’d stuffed her in a garment bag, Dr. Greene, thrown her into a garbage dumpster. If not for those good dogs, a carting service would have mangled her in the back of their truck when it got light in the morning.”
I told Dr. Greene that Cindy was at the hospital and that we had enough evidence on Catton to put him in prison for life. I gulped. I tried to swallow.
“I’m here,” the doctor said.
I leaned my head into my hands and let it out. I was sobbing from too much trauma, in too little time. I cried until I became self-conscious, grabbed some tissues and mopped up.
I said, “I’ve been terrified. And now relieved. And I’m wondering if I can trust relief to last. It’s not over yet. The trial and sentencing are going to take months and I’m going to be thinking and dreaming about Blackout for years. Maybe forever. What do you think?”
“I’m sorry. Sorry you went through this—what else can youcall it?—real-life nightmare. But you got him, Lindsay. Take that in. It’s the end of his story, but not yours. The more we talk about him, the more the terror will fade.”
“Promise?”
“It won’t be a straight line up, but I think more up than down. Some pitfalls. Some great revelations. You were heroic, Lindsay. I say that without prejudice.”
Dr. Greene reached over to the magazine rack, found the paper, and opened it up. He showed me the front page of today’s edition of theChronicle. The headline was in huge type. “SFPD CAPTURES SERIAL KILLER. CINDY THOMAS IS SAFE.”
Dr. Greene said, “Lieutenant Brady lauded you and Rich to the press. I hope you can give that to yourself.”
I shrugged. “Did I mention that Richie saved my life?”
“Yes. Tell me again.”
I did.
Dr. Greene said, “He’s another of a rare breed. It’s called self-sacrificing.”
We all did that every day. It was never just a job.
