“Oh!” I clasp a hand over my mouth. “Oh my God. That’s awful. She was only… She was very young.”
“Twenty-five years old,” he says. “Really a shame. She disappeared two days ago, and she turned up floating in the San Joaquin River.”
“Oh my God.” I close my eyes against the image of Amber Swanson’s lifeless body floating in the river. “It’s so terrible. But…” I swallow. “How can I help you, Detective?”
“Well,” he says, “I’m just wondering when the last time you saw Amber was?”
I shake my head. “At her postop appointment. It was probably a few weeks ago.”
“And you haven’t seen her since then?”
“No…”
This entire line of questioning is making me very uneasy. Why is he asking me this?
“Where were you two nights ago, Dr. Davis?”
I frown. “Two nights ago?”
“If you could give me an idea what you did that night…”
I glare at him. “Are you going to all of Amber Swanson’s doctors and questioning them this way?”
Detective Barber watches me for a moment with his dark, shrewd eyes that are much younger than the lines on his face. It’s making me incredibly uncomfortable but Idon’t look away. Finally, he leans in closer.
“Here’s the thing, Dr. Davis,” he says. “When we found Amber, both her hands had been severed.”
He knows. Oh God, he knows who I am. He doesn’t even have to say it—there’s only one reason he could possibly be sniffing around me after a revelation like that.
My father had an M.O. All of the bodies of his victims that were found were missing their hands. He severed them and preserved the bones in a chest in our basement. That was why they called him the Handyman. Partially because he had been claiming the basement was his workshop, but also because of the missing hands.
Barber is old enough that he was probably already a cop when my father was apprehended. He probably remembers it, although I’m sure there are databases that would have flagged it even if he didn’t.
“Aaron Nierling is in prison,” I say carefully. “This has absolutely nothing to do with me.”
Barber tilts his head to the side. “Well, he’s your father. So I’d say it has a little something to do with you.”
I feel my face getting hot, but I’m careful not to react. That’s what he wants.
“If you want to question me further,” I say, “it will have to be with my attorney. I’m sure you know as well as I do how ridiculous this is.”
The detective just stares at me. It’s like we’re having a staring contest. I was always very good at those.
“Dr. Davis,” he finally says, “a young woman has been mutilated and murdered. If you think there’s anything about this I’m not taking seriously, you are very mistaken.”
With those words, he gets up out of his seat with a grunt. He reaches deep into his coat pocket, and for one horrible moment, I’m certain he’s going to pull a weapon on me and tell me to put my hands on my head. But instead, he pulls out a business card. He places it on my desk.
“If you think of any information that might help us,” he says, “call me. Anytime, Doctor.”
I nod. “I’ll do that.”
I watch him amble out of my office, and it isn’t until he closes the door behind him that I feel like I can breathe normally again. But my head is still buzzing. Because there’s one other thing I remembered. One thing I wouldn’t dare say to this detective, but it’s hard not to think about it.
I pull my phone out of my pocket. I go to a search engine and type in the name Amber Swanson.
Yes, Aaron Nierling had an MO. But he also had atype. Women in their twenties, with dark hair and blue eyes. Almost always.
The search engine finds several Amber Swansons, but I know who I’m looking for. It’s been several weeks, but I remember her face. There’s just one detail I’m not certain about. But when I find a picture of her, it jogs my memory.
