A Biological Storm by David E. Feldman

Author:David E. Feldman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Eface Media

Chapter 14

The group sat in the bare room at the Beach City police station that was usually reserved for interviewing suspects and perps. Ganderson and Mallard had resisted Lillian Walsh’s efforts to hold the meeting on her turf, at the W.A.R. offices or the schoolroom in which they held their meetings. The detectives had acceded to Walsh’s insistence on being present for the meeting, and on having the clients who had agreed to the meeting be present en masse.

In addition to the group of W.A.R. clients, Lynn and Marty Travers, the victim’s parents, were present. They were short and slight, like Lee, with similar pale complexions, sandy-colored hair, and diffident dispositions.

“Er, eh, let me start by making clear to everyone,” Mallard began, frowning and smoothing his blue paisley silk tie and absently stroking his diamond stud tie clip, “we’re not here to antagonize anyone.” He looked at Lillian in a way Dora knew was supposed to convey comfort and assurance, but which she could see instead engendered some degree of resistance. “We only want the truth, and to find justice for Lee.”

Lynn and Marty Travers looked at one another, nodding soberly.

“What can you tell us about Lee?” Ganderson asked, looking first at Lillian Walsh and then at Mr. and Mrs. Travers, all of whom looked at one another before Lillian began.

“Lee came to us about a year and a half ago. We have always been about women’s safety, and when Lee came to us, we’d already had several women here of similar…” Her voice trailed off.

“These are women we’re talking about,” Lynn Travers interjected, “and you serve women.” Her husband laid a gentle hand on her upper arm. She pressed her lips together and covered his hand with hers.

Walsh nodded. “Exactly. Lee came here because she was uncomfortable, insecure, and frightened.”

“Of what?” Mallard asked.

“Of growing up,” Marty Travers answered.

“Of being herself,” Lynn Travers added.

“In a very real sense,” Lillian Walsh reckoned, “Lee was like many of the women who come here.” She looked around the room. “Would anyone care to mention why they came to W.A.R. in the first place?”

A cinnamon-colored woman with light brown hair that fell to her neck shyly raised her hand. “My name’s Keisha—do I have to give my last—”

“No,” Lillian said.

“My husband,” Keisha said, “is a successful businessman—a Wall Street guy, and we do well.” She hesitated. “Well, he does well. I can hear him in my mind, correcting me.”

“Go on,” Ganderson said.

“I found out he had—something on the side—someone on the side—and I was angry about that.” Her eyes teared up. “And when I asked him about that, he—he hit me.”

“You were afraid to come to us?” Ganderson asked softly.

Keisha didn’t look at him. She was looking at a burly woman on the opposite side of the circle.

“I don’t make it a practice to talk to cops,” the woman said. “My name’s Barb Skolnick—I don’t care about giving my last name—and I own the pool hall in town. I don’t have much to say except my mother was a vicious bitch—my father was long gone, so I guess she had her reasons.

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