could see it in the darkness. Garrety anticipated him.
"We're here to help our Danish friends as well."
"I'm not sure I see how," Tim said slowly.
"I definitely do not see how," Hansill said. "And I don't see that a therapist has a place in a criminal arrest."
"I think that Chief Detective Garrety does, Mr. Hansill," Bente Flindt said. Her voice seemed deeper and more resonant in the darkness. "We
are
hoping for a perpetrator identification, arrest, and arraignment. My presence at these events will be an important part of my client's therapy. If you'd hold still long enough, I can give you a precis of the psychology involved."
"Please do, Ms. Flindt," Garrety said. "I'd like to hear it."
"My seven-year-old client will be in therapy for a long time. My job here is to function as a recording device, just as was she. I need to lay down memories of the apprehension and perhaps punishment of her attacker and murderer for playback to her in a safe and controlled environment, perhaps years from now. The object is to establish protection. One key element of the therapy is to allay anxieties—anxieties that she is projecting on to me—that such abuse might happen again. My recording of the arrest of the perpetrator and some footage of him in his cell would establish a high measure of protection." She paused. "Beyond that, perhaps later in the therapy, we want to establish empowerment. My presence at the arrest will allow her to identify with me as a strong, engaged participant, empowering her to take charge of her own self and safety."
"I don't like the sound of that," Hansill said. "You're not a professional in law enforcement. Your presence could constitute a danger to the lives of police officers and even yourself."
"Mr. Hansill—my young client is potentially suicidal. I'm trying to save a life. Can you appreciate that?"
Oh, can I ever,
Tim Marchese thought. He kept his mouth shut.
There was no way to make a detective's office a place to entertain visitors. The furnishings were plastic and metal, and didn't even pretend to be more. The window overlooked a parking lot. No brightly colored windsurfers there. Marchese had done his best with photographic blowups of Marilee running the Honolulu marathon and the two of them skiing the east face of K-2 at Squaw. The two Danes looked mildly intrigued by this evidence of an outdoors lifestyle. Bente Flindt detoured to the marathon shot, eyeing it closely and giving it a nod before settling into her chair.
"Here's the data on Conerly Carpet," Tim said. "Offices and physical plant at the same address in a light industrial section of Oakland. Twenty-two employees at last tax reporting period. Owned by Thomas Conerly, divorced and living alone—grown kids—on Grizzly Peak in the Oakland hills."
"Better views than here," Christian Juul said with a smile.
Tim looked up and found himself paying attention to Juul's accent. There was none.
"Yes indeed," Tim agreed. "On matters at hand. I imagine that you two would like to wrap up your end of this business as soon as possible, but I'd like to hold off contacting Conerly at his place of business. It's a small shop, and word of a police inquiry or visit will travel fast. We don't want our suspect, if he's still there, pushed toward flight, violence or suicide. All these are very real prospects these days, I'm afraid."
"What do you have in mind?"
"Calling Conerly at home and setting up a meeting there or at some removed setting. We'll have photos from your vid to show him for identification purposes by then."
"Perhaps after a day of dirty carpets, or the paperwork attached to them, the live-alone Mr. Conerly metamorphoses into a social butterfly," Juul said. "What if he doesn't come home till late? Or not at all?"
"This case has been dormant almost eight years. I'll give it a couple of days of doing it this way before we try a contact at the workplace. I'm afraid I must insist on this, Detective."
"Christian. In fact, I'd prefer
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