The Third Victim Part 52

"And you?"

"I can't. There would be more talk."

"George Walker isn't very happy with you."

"No. A lot of people aren't. I was hoping ... I wanted to be able to say that Danny didn't do it. Before we got to the funerals, I wanted to have so much evidence I could look George Walker in the eye and say, "A thirteen-year-old boy didn't murder your daughter, sir. Some other b.a.s.t.a.r.d did it." As if that would make a difference."

"You're not so sure about Danny anymore, are you?"

Her expression grew strained. She said softly, "No."

"Charlie Kenyon?"

She slowly nodded.

"His account of what Danny told him. That he wanted to cut his father

into pieces, run him through a blender .... So much anger. I didn't realize ... I didn't know things had gotten that bad."

"It's not your fault, Rainie. It's hard for any of us to believe that people we personally know and care about are capable of violence.

People seem to forget: Murderers don't come from test tubes. They're born into this world like the rest of us, and they also have family and friends."

"That's just a plat.i.tude. I don't want any more plat.i.tudes. I'm sick of easy answers or thirty-second a.n.a.lyses of complicated crimes. Kids are shooting up their schools, grown men are walking into offices and mowing down their coworkers. And I understand your point that schools and businesses are still safer than driving on the highway,-but that explanation is not enough. These shootings are happening everywhere, even places like here, where they don't belong. And they are happening to everyone, even to Danny O'grady, who just three days ago seemed like a normal kid going through a hard time. And .. . and I feel like I missed something. I should've seen this coming. But then I look at it again, and I know I still never would've expected violence. Because I don't understand it, Quincy. Even I, who was raised by a woman who lived by her fists, can't imagine shooting up strangers. And I need to know why this happened to my town, because no matter how hard I try, I just can't get to sleep."

"It's not your fault, Rainie," he said again.

She shook her head impatiently.

"Explain the shootings to me. I need to know. Is it because of guns?

As an officer, should I be banning them from my community? Or is it video games and violent movies, and books.... Is it all because of that?"

Those things are factors. On the other hand, do I think censoring Hollywood and banning guns would end all the crime? No. Some people, even kids, are that angry."

Then it's inevitable? We've become a violent culture and there's nothing we can do about it?"

"I don't think that. There's always something we can do. We're an intelligent society, Rainie. Nothing is beyond our grasp." Tell that to George Walker. Tell that to the parents of Alice Bensen. I'm sure they're sitting home right now thinking about how capable society is."

Quincy fell silent. She was in a mood tonight.

"Do you want a solution, Rainie," he asked after a moment, 'or do you want an excuse to be angry?"

"I want a solution!"

"Fine," he said crisply.

"I'll give you my two cents, for what it's worth. Society is not filled with evil souls. But it is filled with people who are mobile, fractured, overworked, overweight, overcrowded, and overtired. That's a potent combination, particularly for people with poor coping skills and volatile tempers. And we're seeing the proof of that in the increasing number of impulsive, angry acts, such as ma.s.s murders and road rage."

Rainie sighed. She rubbed her temples.

"It's a sign of the times?"

"It's a sign of stressful living," Quincy said, then shrugged.

"In the good-news department, some of the solutions are fairly simple.

Why not teach rage-management cla.s.ses and stress-coping skills in school? While we're at it, we could emphasize good communication skills and self-monitoring. Physical care also makes a big difference.

In fact, the first thing a child psychologist does when he begins treatment of a new client is address sleep, exercise, and eating habits. You think you have trouble with rage? Try getting eight hours of sleep at night, eat more fruits and vegetables, and enjoy a good workout. Ironically enough, very few people bother with these basic steps anymore, and then they wonder why they're tense all the time."

He gave her a pointed look, his gaze sliding to the untouched carton of food by her side. Rainie nodded slowly. She said, almost hesitantly, "I took a cla.s.s in anger management."

"In Portland?"

"Yes. After I'd enrolled in AA. When I was still struggling. Alcohol numbs a lot of emotions. Then you give it up..." "I think that was a great thing for you to do," Quincy said honestly.

"I wish more people would think that way."

Rainie immediately shook her head.

"I'm not so great, Quincy. Don't admire me too much."

He didn't say anything, waiting to see if she would elaborate. The darkness still rimmed her eyes, and she was clutching her cup of tea as if she wished it were a bottle of beer. Apparently, however, she still wasn't in the mood to share.

"How's your daughter?" she asked shortly.

"The same. I called this morning."

She regarded him curiously.

"That doesn't make you feel worse? She's your daughter, she's dying, and you're not there for it. A phone call doesn't seem like much in the face of all that."

"Rainie, when I said my daughter was killed by a drunk driver, I was being a little misleading."

She froze.

"I see."

"My daughter wasn't hit by a drunk driver," Quincy said matter-of-factly.

"She was the drunk driver. She loaded up at a friend's house, then tried to drive home at five-thirty in the morning. And she killed an elderly man out walking his dog before she wrapped her car around a telephone pole. My daughter is dead. The man is dead. The dog is dead. And yes, a phone call to a hospital room is completely inadequate."

"Quincy, I'm sorry."

He smiled roughly.

"So am I. I'm not perfect either, Rainie. Some things, like what really matters in life, we all learn the hard way."

She nodded. Her expression was still troubled, though. She had more things to say; he could feel the words churning just below the surface.

He leaned forward as if he could will the truth out of her. He hadn't lied to her last night. She fascinated him. She had worked her way into his mind, and now he wanted to cup her cheek with his hand, brush her lips with his fingertips .. .