Twelve Horses Rocking

By Victor C Bush

Synopsis
Twelve rocking horses, ranging from medieval charger to mythological unicorn provide the sole means to unravel the twisted mind of a psychotic killer.
When the killer discovers that Sam, a criminologist, is on his trail, he taunts her. Frustrated by her ineptitude at reading the real intent of his messages, he is over powered by the urge to set her straight. He assaults her and takes her hostage. Punished, tortured, she is left to die in the basement of an abandoned church.
Four more women are murdered.
Four more rocking horses are delivered.
Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, foretell the assassination of an important dignitary at an international women's equestrian event

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victor C Bush
• Release date: Oct 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9780994084729

Victor C Bush

I’ve been a potter, painter, board game inventor and served as a member and team artist on an archeologist dig, in Amman, Jordan. I’ve pulled weeds in a golf course (The only job I have ever quit!), dock worker, bus-boy, waiter, and ditch digger for a railway. I was also the first in my family to finish high school. While attending night school for nine years in pursuit of a Fine Arts degree, followed by graduate courses in administration, I simultaneously taught in both elementary and high schools which included working with adult and Aboriginal students in both English and French. These skills and experiences provide ample material that drive my imagination to weave intricate and gripping mystery novels.

Book preview

Synopsis

Twelve rocking horses, ranging from medieval charger to mythological unicorn provide the sole means to unravel the twisted mind of a psychotic killer.

When the killer discovers that Sam, a criminologist, is on his trail, he taunts her. Frustrated by her ineptitude at reading the real intent of his messages, he is over powered by the urge to set her straight. He assaults her and takes her hostage.  Punished, tortured, she is left to die in the basement of an abandoned church.

Four more women are murdered.

Four more rocking horses are delivered.

Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, foretell the assassination of an important dignitary at an international women's equestrian event.

Chapter 1

I looked up from my notes, closed the file folder, and resisted the temptation to raise my voice in spite of the microphone.  A class of one hundred and eighteen freshmen was a test of wills.  So I waited.

In about seven seconds they got the hint and I said softly into the mike:

There'll be a short-answer quiz next class -yes, on Friday, I added in response to the back row.  The unit on Crime and Criminality.  With particular emphasis on the sociopathic offender.  Which reminds me, by the way, according to the papers, two young women have been found raped and murdered.  I'm not an alarmist, I added, but be careful out there.  Especially you women.  I looked at my watch.  Five minutes remained and I had no intention of spending them listening to their groans.  I swept the folder into my laptop bag, snapped the clasps, then strode to the door.

Like Pavlov's experiments on classical conditioning they responded, herding to the exit.  I managed to reach to door before the crush and headed to the office I shared with a colleague.

Dr. Milland...

I stopped on the landing, turned and faced the young blond girl who had been trailing me.

Oh, hi, Debbie.

You know my name, she beamed.  She clutched her sociology text and several wire-bound notebooks to her chest with both arms.  When she spoke, she joggled up and down with adolescent excitement.  Spare me, I thought.

I like to get to know my students, at least in my seminar classes this was true enough.  The only reason I did know her name was because she sat in the first row in front of me when I lectured, and her boyfriend who was so smitten by her charms did nothing for the whole ninety minutes except draw elaborate Cupid's hearts enclosing her name.

Can I help you?

I hope so.  I keep getting the terms mixed up.  You know.  Sociopath and psychotic?  And psychopath?

Well, I said as we continued up the stairs, for starters, sociopath and psychopath are used interchangeably...

They mean the same thing?

Yes, that's right.  A psychotic is someone suffering from a psychosis -which is a severe mental disorder. 

Like schizophrenia?  She beamed gleefully and joggled some more.

Schizophrenia is a group of disorders -a psychosis characterized by a loss of contact with reality.  Or a distortion of reality.  On the other hand, a sociopath is a chronically antisocial individual.  He gets into trouble and never learns from his experiences.  But.  The sociopath hasn't lost touch with reality.  We stopped in front of my office, and I put my case on the floor so I could get the key out of my purse.

Does that mean, Dr. Milland, that a psychotic is insane and sociopath is normal?

I laughed.  "I'm not sure I'd call a sociopath normal, but yes, he wouldn't be classed as insane.  You're right.

You see, I went on, in regards to criminal behavior and the law, a sociopath is aware of his criminal behavior.  He just doesn't control himself.  Whereas a psychotic would not be considered responsible for his actions.  Under the law psychotics are treated quite differently because their perceptions of reality are so distorted.

Thanks, Dr. Milland.  This helps a lot.

Anytime, Debbie.  If there's anything else, you know my office hours.

She thanked me again and dashed off, almost knocking over the elderly custodian.  His stare was obvious as he watched the bunnies on her sweatshirt bobble as she struggled to regain her balance.  I thought of the murdered girls.

They seem to get younger every year, he said, shaking his head.  The bunnies?  I very nearly asked.

"Here, Miss.  Let me get that.  Before I could object, Bob had unhooked a bunch of keys from his belt and fished one out from the clump with a dirty finger, the yellow nail split and cracked.

I moved back a step; wise to the way he liked to rub up against me.

There you are Miss.  Have a nice day.  He pushed the door open for me.  I couldn't avoid brushing against him as I went in.

Thanks, Bob, you too.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw him touch the peak of his tweed cap.  I kicked the door shut with my heel, closed my eyes, and leaned back.  It had been a tough morning.  The afternoon, I hoped would make up for it.

When are you going to give in to that old Bugger and take him up on his offer?

I dropped my bag.

Damn it, Geoff, what the hell are you doing sneaking up on people?  And get your feet off my desk.  I left the bag where it fell and strode indignantly towards the desk to take my nameplate from him. He had rearranged the letters to spell DAMPS.  Only after threatening him with extreme bodily harm did he relinquish the H.  I restored the letters to read:  S.A.M.  PhD.

I wasn't sneaking.  I was waiting.

Well next time wait in the hall, like everyone else.  Who let you in anyway?  Bob?

He didn't answer.

Damn it, Geoff, I see more of you now than when we married.  What is it, I still know when something is eating you?

He put his feet on the floor, stood up and put his hands into his pockets and ambled over to me.  I was tall, but his six foot three frame towered over me.

I miss you Sam.  Thought I'd come by and see if you were free for lunch.  How about it?  My treat.  A smile crept across his boyish face and I couldn't refuse.

Sure.  Why not.  Give me a minute though, I want to fix my make-up.

I went to the washroom, wiped the seat with tissue, and peed.  Then after a washing of hands, an inspection of make-up, a fresh application of lipstick, I was ready for lunch with Geoff.  At the last second, I went back to the mirror to inspect my teeth.

Why was I so nervous, I asked myself?  This was lunch with my ex-husband.  Not a date.  Well, not in the real sense.  We'd been divorced a little over three years now.  Actually it was three years, two months, and twenty-three days.

My door was locked when I got back.  It's me, I said, knocking on the frosted window.  He opened the door and I went to the coat tree.  He retrieved his trench coat from where he had carelessly thrown over the leather club chair and draped it over his arm.  While I struggled into my suede jacket he stood at the door with my bag.

Ready?

"In a sec.  I better take these papers home- theses proposals from my graduate students, which I promised to return tomorrow.  I've had them a week, and I've yet to look at them.

He raised his eyebrows and nodded as if to say he understood how busy I was.  I took it as a challenge and said:

We've already conferrenced, I just have to go over them, maybe suggest additions in bibliography.

He nodded again, and I ignored his comment about how I worked better under pressure.

We left the university, headed towards Sherbrooke Street and walked west towards the Alcan Building.  The day was bright, the September sun straining, a final effort before autumn relentlessly tugged us into another bleak Montreal winter.  I was glad to have my jacket.  Geoff didn't seem to be bothered by the cool gusts.  The wind plucked at his reddish-blond hair and flapped the lapels of his jacket and with arms linked, like an old married couple, we walked silently for several blocks.  I had to take big steps to match his strides.

He seemed morose; his good-humored, jocular self had suddenly crumbled when we emerged from the soft glow of the dark wooded interior of the university into the brightly sunlit city, but I was content to walk along quietly, enjoying the day, and the illusion of old, better times.  I found myself squeezing his arm and leaning into him much the way I used to in a time that seemed so long ago.

I still loved him; that had never been the issue, and I knew he still loved me.  But the split had been inevitable.  My dogged pursuit in achieving first my master's degree then my Ph.D. had driven him more deeply into the bottle.  He had wanted a stay-at-home wife, a mother for his children, and a house in suburbia with two cars -a compact for his commuting and a SUV for the little woman.

I wanted, and got, my Ph.D., an associate professorship and a lucrative sideline as a criminologist retained by several law enforcement agencies. 

Geoff was enlightened enough not to stand in the way of my goals, but he was too traditional to be able to avoid being overwhelmed by my single mindedness.  As I grew and opened my petals to the sun so to speak, nurtured and actualized by my goals, Geoff, to complete the metaphor, began to die and whither on the vine.

We stopped at the corner of Mountain and waited for the lights to change before crossing the busy intersection.  An electric hum preceded the green signal; he took my hand and said, Come on.  He'd always been protective of me, like an older brother watching out for his kid sister.  I liked that aspect of him, probably because I was reminded of how my brother had looked out for me when I was a child.  I looked up at him and for a brief second he was my brother, grim and stern, intent on protecting me. 

A horn sounded, startling me.  Like shattered glass the memory fell away, the pieces pricking, a thousand stabs bringing back the pain.  Close to thirty years had passed since he had disappeared. 

When we reached the opposite side, I looked at Geoff again; he seemed younger, more vibrant. He had lost all of the weight he had put on during the six years we were married and even through his tweed jacket I could feel the strength and hardness of a muscled body.  I thought back to that night when we had agreed to call it quits.

We were watching television, some dumb made for TV movie featuring Colombo unraveling yet another murder.  During a commercial Geoff got up to get himself another beer.  By now it had become pretty clear to me that our marriage was killing him by degrees.  But it wasn't marriage as such that was doing it; it was being married to me.  I followed him out to the kitchen and put my arms around him and said:

Geoff, it's not working.  His reaction, at the time, surprised me.  He looked at me with a slightly guilty expression and said, Yeah, I guess you're right.  I'll leave tomorrow.  That was it.  The next day he packed and was gone.  We never even had an argument.

We went through the atrium and into the restaurant.  There was a good crowd; the atmosphere crackled with the energy of busy, young executives trying to impress each other.

After checking our coats, we headed towards the rostrum where the maitre d' checked his list, melting into obsequium when he found Geoff's name.  Ah, oui, Monsieur London.  Table pour deux.  He snapped his fingers and a waiter in a too tight black vest materialized to show us to a table overlooking the atrium.

When we were finally seated, ensconced between a pillar and a pair of crimson-lipped blue hairs I said, Just dropped by to see if I was free for lunch, did you?

The waiter hovered and handed the beverage list to Geoff.  Perhaps Monsieur, -his Mediterranean accent made it come out mashoo- would like to order aperitifs?

No thank you, then to me, as he held out the plastic folder, unless you'd like something?

Thanks, no.  Oh- maybe a Perrier.  The waiter made a strained bow and slid away.

Geoff glanced impatiently at his menu and closed it abruptly.  Think I'll go with a salad.

Me too, I echoed.  He never did like eating a large mid-day meal, and I usually settled for a piece of fruit or yogurt.

My Perrier arrived on a small tray, and with a flourish, the green bottle, a glass with ice and a slice of lemon on the rim were placed on the table.  I sipped.  Geoff tapped the table, ran his finger along the inside of his collar, and shifted in his seat, first pulling his chair closer to the table then shifting it back trying to find that perfect spot.

Geoff, what's eating you?  I've never seen you so agitated.  He was coolness personified; nothing fazed him. But today, he was as nervous as a back-alley cat.

It's this case I'm working on.  It's really got me.  He continued to fidget.

What case? What are you talking about?  I put my glass down.

It's been in the papers, guess you haven't read about them.  The rapes. There's some psycho on the loose and it's got me pretty spooked.

What do you mean, a psycho?  That's not what I'd call a clinical term.

I know, I know.  He sat back to let the waiter place the salad in front of him and waited until he had finished serving me before continuing.

I know it's not a...clinical term -but whoever is doing -is raping these girls, he's not what I'd call normal, know what I mean?  He made quote marks in the air when he said normal.  "You know what I mean by normal."

Okay, I nodded. Tell me.  What is it about this case that has you so worked up?  Not such an unusual crime in a city of this size.

Not like these.  He shook his head and discarded his fork, tossing it on the plate.  Sam, I really need your help on this one.  As a professional...

Of course, Geoff.  You know that.

I need to know what makes this guy tick.  Maybe then I can get a line on him.  So far we've got two victims, Sam.  Both were raped, savagely.  Then strangled.

Geoff, I do read the papers, I said defensively, but the details about the two rapes were pretty scanty.

"Of course the details were scanty- I managed to play that part down.  But I tell you; the reporter is a hotshot just itching to report all the juicy bits.  Christ!  He wants it to be front-page news.  If he strikes again -and he will Sam- I'm afraid the words serial killer will be on the front page.  And you know what that means.  Panic."

I lost interest in my own food and shoved my plate out of the way.  Then you'd better fill me in from the beginning.  I'll need to know every fact, every piece of information you have.

I know that.  I know that!  But that's just it.  There isn't a hell of a lot.  I'm trying to prevent crime, but it's crime that provides the clues -the tools- to do my job.  Talk about Catch-22.  In order to get a line on him we need more information -read victims.  He wiped his face with his hand and rubbed his eyes.

What we've got, he sighed, is this.  Two dead girls.  In their early twenties.  One is twenty-three, the other twenty-one or twenty-two.  Both very pretty, both blonde.  One worked as a waitress part-time and the other worked as an exotic dancer, a stripper.  Both had their own apartments.

When did this happen?

The beginning of July and the second just a week ago.

You've checked their backgrounds?  Family.  Girl friends.... Boy friends.

"Of course.  You know that's standard procedure.  In a homicide the odds are that someone close -a friend, a relative- committed the crime.  But I've come up empty on that score.  According to their friends and families, there was nothing weird going on.  No crazy boyfriends.  No wild parties.  No drugs... At least nothing like that came out in the investigation so far. 

Boyfriends.  You questioned them?

They had boyfriends, sure.  They dated.  Nothing serious.  Nothing suspicious.  The boyfriends are in the clear.  Believe me they were turned inside out.  No.  That avenue is a dead end.

Okay.  So far we've got someone who seems to prefer young, blonde girls, presumably single and who live alone.  Nothing unusual there.  What else?

"Like I said, they were raped and strangled.  In the first case there didn't appear to be any sign of a struggle, suggesting that perhaps, that the assailant was known to the victim. 

The second girl put up a hell of a fight, judging from her injuries and the bruises on her face.  The bastard punched her up pretty good.  Her lips were badly cut and two of her front teeth were broken.  He pointed to his upper incisors.

He gets violent, if they resist.  So far typical.  Rape is a violent act by its very nature.  Rapists are selfish and aggressive and this guy gets mean unless he has his way!

I understand all of that.  So far he fits the classic pattern.

You said they were strangled.  How?

Actually he smothered the first one with her pillow.  The second was strangled. She was strangled so severely that her larynx was crushed.  This guy is strong too.

Anything else?  Like tissue samples under their nails.  Hair.

I'm getting to that.  Like I said, the guy is strong.  The bruising shows there was considerable pressure on her neck, so much so that it crushed the cartilage in her throat.  But she was a fighter, must've clawed his face raw.  Forensic tells us that he's white, with brown curly hair, probably tall, around six feet judging by how he might have been positioned over her when he killed her.  And of course that he's stronger than average.

We're getting a physical picture.  It doesn't narrow it down much, but it's a start.

Yeah, but I was hoping you'd get handle on his mental state.  That might be a lot more help.

Why do I think you're saving the best for last?  As soon as I said it, I regretted my choice of words.

Best?  I don't know, but certainly weird.  He paused and tapped the table with a forefinger then leaned towards me.  Sam.  After he killed them, he tidied up.  He...

He tidied up?  What do you mean he tidied up?

"I don't know how else to put it.  He tidied up.  In the first case he must've caught her reading in bed.  When we found her, she was propped against her pillows, holding a book in her hands.  The blankets were smoothed out, the radio was on low and the reading lamp on the night table was pulled close so she'd have enough light to read by.

"In the second, she had been doing her nails.  In bed, would you believe and the polish had spilt.  He beat her quite badly, and there was blood as well as nail polish on the bedclothes.  But after he killed her he did the same thing.  Propped her up against the head board and smoothed out the blankets.  He even put the cap back on the bottle of polish and left it on her dresser.

But the place was still a mess.  Like I said, she had put up a struggle.  Her nightie was ripped to hell and gone and her clock radio was broken.  The plastic was cracked but the clock was still working so we couldn't fix a time.

He put everything back in order there too?

Neat as a pin.  Well, you know what I mean.  Nothing appeared to be out of place or missing.

"Come on.  Let's get out of here.  We'll go to my place.  I bent down to get my purse.  The maitre d' appeared as if by magic.

Problème monsieur?

Non, non.  Madame est pressée.  L'addition s'il vous plaît.

Oui monsieur.  A l'instant.  He snapped his fingers and our waiter appeared with the check.  While Geoff went to pay the bill, I rummaged in my bag for a tip and left what my father called folding money.  The line at the cash was long, and I had time to fetch our coats before Geoff paid the bill.

In spite of the six plus inches difference in our height, he almost had to work to keep up to me.  I was charged.  The thought of a puzzle in need of a solution energized me.  It gave me a chance to put theories to a practical test.  That's why I hired myself out to police departments.  I liked teaching, lecturing, giving conferences, but I loved a challenge -matching wits.

It was a short walk to my place on Aylmer Street, and in about fifteen minutes we were climbing the stone steps to my condo-apartment.  I put my jacket in the closet, askew on a hanger, and while Geoff hung his coat carefully, I got paper and pencil from my study and joined him at the kitchen table.

Shall I make coffee?  He asked.

Uh, what?  Oh yes, please.  You know where everything is.

I divided a page into columns, one for each of the victims and another for their assailant.

I didn't quite finish,  he said, measuring the grounds.  You got hot and wanted to leave.  There's still something else."

Oh?

Yes.  Let me get it.  He went to the vestibule and came back with a small, brown paper bag he retrieved from his trench coat.

He put the bag on the table, unrolled the top, and pulled out two objects which looked like Christmas tree ornaments.

Rocking horses?

Rocking horses, Sam.  He left one with each girl.

You're kidding.  Rocking horses.

See what I mean?

Jesus, yes.  We got a problem, Geoff.  This guy, to use your word, is a psycho.

What do you mean?

Off the top of my head, I'd say, number one, he wants to get caught.  That's why he leaves a memento.  And number two, the memento tells me he thinks he's too smart for us -for the authorities.  That's why he's leaving clues.  I'd say we are going to see quite a few more victims before he's caught.

Christ, I was afraid of that.  He got up, hitched his pants, and poured the coffee.  I had a set of mugs decorated with the faces from a deck of playing cards.  He used the king and handed me the queen of hearts; I'd have given him the Jack.

Like they say, it's going to get a lot worse before it gets better.  He leaned back against the counter, his feet crossed at the ankle.  One of his loafers was missing a tassel, but they gleamed.

I know this isn't much to go on, but can you tell me anything about him?

Like I said, Geoff, this is hardly better than a wild guess, but the horse tells me he has an identity problem.  And sticking my neck out even further, I'd guess he's impotent.  He can't get off unless he hurts his victims.  The horse, or horses.... they're symbols of mastery.  Of dominance.  And that's what rape is about.  Dominance.  It's a violent aggressive act.  He uses sex to degrade and abuse his victims.  And assert himself.  He's weak.  Raping woman makes him feel strong.  Superior.  I picked up one of the horses for a closer study.

This one.  It's a charger.  Something a knight out of the Middle Ages would ride.  I'll bet you found this one at the scene of the first one, right?

He nodded.

And there's no rider.  Why?  Because in his mind he denies his own existence.  He can't face who he is -that's why he wants to get caught.

Christ, if he hates himself so much, why doesn't he stop?

Hah!  That's it, isn't it?  A psycho, as you call him, but sociopath would be more accurate. He's not insane, Geoff, he's a sociopath, highly impulsive, aggressive and anti-social.

There's nothing impulsive about systematically raping and killing innocent girls.

"No.  That's true.  But add that to a personality that doesn't know or feel guilt and you've got a whopper of a problem.

No, I'd peg him as a sociopath, with some schizophrenia thrown in for good measure.

Schizophrenia, eh?  Judging from the horses I'd say his delusion is one where he sees himself as some sort of conqueror.

That's as good a guess as any.  Pretty hard to tell just from these.

What do you make of the other one?

I don't know. I turned it every which way inspecting it carefully then put it back on the table.  Geoff gave it a nudge with his forefinger and set it in motion.

Looks to me like he might be enjoying what he's doing.

"What makes you say that?  I asked.

"The bright colours.  Happy colours.  Looks like a circus or carnival horse.  He sees himself -I don't know- as flamboyant.

Interesting supposition.  I picked it up again.  It too, was riderless.

Or then again, maybe it just means that the guy's unhappy.

How so?  He swirled the contents of the mug and drained it.

Circus.  Carnival.  Fantasy.  It might represent a state of mind that he feels he can't ever possibly achieve.

Jesus.  How can you get so much out these... these toys.  And if there's any truth in what you're seeing,  do you think he's consciously telling us?

It doesn't matter.  The subconscious mind speaks loudly and clearly.

"Well, whatever he's saying, it's depressed the hell out of me.

I told Ouellette, you remember Emile?

I nodded.  Both he and Geoff had started on the force together, and had been partners way back in the beginning.  Geoff had moved up through the ranks quickly enough, but Emile had skyrocketed.

I told him not to put me in charge of this.  I wanted to stay where I was.  I liked it in burglary.

You know, I said, breaking and entering is just another form of rape.

Maybe so.  But... I didn't have to deal with crazies.

How is Emile, anyway ? And Georgette and the five kids.

Seven.

Seven?

The last two were twins.  Said he was going to  become a Protestant.  He wouldn't be able to afford the grocery bills if he stayed a Catholic.

A little late for that, I said.

He claims they both come from hardy peasant stock.  Georgette has seven or eight brothers and sisters, and Emile comes from a family of eleven I think.  It's in the genes.

Tell him he  can stay a Catholic but should keep his jeans buttoned.  Seven kids.  And twins.  I shuddered.

And as for Emile, he said, he'll be director someday- and not too far in the future either. He's knows the politics and he's smart enough to play the game.  Said he didn't trust anyone else to handle this business.  By rights it should have gone to homicide, but no, Ouellette's got to corral me!  Shit.  He shook his head and refilled his cup.

Know what he said?  If anyone can crack this case it would be me.    I know I'm good; I also know my limitations.

Come on, Geoff.  Don't put yourself down.

Oh, I'm not, I'm not.  But Ouellette's cagey enough to figure I'd get you in on it somehow.  Like I said, he's a smart bastard.  Figures if it works out, we both get credit.  And if it doesn't, he's not left holding the bag.  On the other hand, If he went through channels, you might get asked officially.  Doing it this way doesn't leave him out in the cold if I screw up. 

He grimaced, and added, Just as well.  Keeps the publicity down.  And if I have to do the job, I don't want any fanfare, thank you.

He only half finished the second cup, spilled the rest into the sink and rinsed the mug, leaving it in the sink.  He shuffled away from the counter and looked at his watch.  Guess I'll be going.  You've got papers to read, and I've taken more of your time than I deserve.  Besides, I want to pick up a couple of shirts at The Bay.

Could you stay for dinner?  Lunch was a bust, and my papers won't run away.

He looked at his watch again.  Still eat at six?

On the dot.

I could get my shopping done and come back.  That way it'll give you some time to yourself.  Whatever.

We were on thin ice, and I didn't want the surface to crack.  I understood the sacrifice he made in asking for my help.  Take it slow I told myself.

I'm sure we can find a way to kill a couple of hours.  I got up and went to the sink, picked up his mug and put it in the dishwasher.  I was standing beside him and I placed my hand on his cheek.

I'd like you to stay, Geoff.  Really.  I do miss you.... but if you'd rather..

No, Sam.  It's not that.  He took my hand and held against his chest.

Is it really what you want, Sam?  You're not playing doctor, are you?

I laughed.  That's exactly what I had in mind.

What I meant was..

No, Geoff, I'm not feeling sorry for you, please don't think that.  I put my face against him and added.  Actually I'm feeling sorry for myself.

He linked his long arms behind me and I had to lean back to look into his face.  Deep lines were etched around his eyes.

"I don't want us to spoil anything, Sam.  I think a hell of a lot of you, and I don't want to risk losing a friend.

I know.  I guess I feel guilty for messing up your life.  But don't get me wrong.  I'm not asking you to stay out of guilt.

You've nothing to feel guilty about.  It couldn't have been fun living with  someone who  preferred drink to you.

I wasn't there for you when you needed me.  I was too wrapped up with my school work.  But in the last couple of years, I've had a lot of time to think.  Maybe you drank because of me.

Oh hell!  That's bullshit!.

Well you stopped drinking right after the divorce.

"Coincidence.  The divorce woke me up.  And as you know I love being a cop, so when Emile told me I'd be washed out if I didn't get a handle on my life, I