The rains have passed from the Bay Area, and the nights are cool and clear. The lights from the city wash out the stars, obscuring all but the brightest to the naked eye. There is still a police cruiser patrolling down near the Berkley Pier, and no runners dare set foot on it at night. Even the transients are absent from the park and its numerous benches. The restaurant nearby has suffered a slight drop in business, yet also has seen the number of curious people increase. The human fascination with pain and suffering. No matter what, they will slow to a crawl on the freeway to view the carnage left from an automobile accident. The thrills for the weak of heart and stomach, what passes for them as the life threatening thrills do for the more daring. The cruiser slows momentarily and the officers inside peer out into the darkness. Nearby a buoy sounds, its mournful cry the only sound above the waves.
Allowing for the fact that the Berkley Pier was no longer convenient for her, she walks through the brightly lit shops of the Embarcadero. The water is flowing in the fountain in John Herman Plaza, and she stares at the strange structure, all hard angles and straight lines, water splashing gracefully from it. A young woman sits at the edge, talking on a cell phone. She breathes deeply and walks out into the plaza, hand gripped on the knife in her pocket. Number three, you see. Two will not be found for a little while seeing as she will not be missed. She was a transient, and was now tucked in an ice chest sitting on a ship docked in Sausalito. Her body should show up at the fish market in a day, though. That should cause quite a stir. Movement from the edge of her vision. The woman on the cell phone is standing, walking away. She slips from the shadows and falls in step behind her. Number three, how many more will it take to get his attention?
*****
Dr. Amelia Rinaldi kisses her daughter goodbye as she leaves her in the care of the daycare center Mrs. Fouts runs from her home. She is working today, something she only does part time now. She hurries to the car and slides into the passenger seat, glancing at her husband as she closes the door. The leather is buttery soft against the nylons she is wearing and she brushes a loose strand of hair back from her eyes. They operate a small practice across the bay in Larkspur, which is why he always takes the ferry. Today though, Dr. Antonio Rinaldi will drive north, his wife beside him. She has been asked to help with a psychiatric evaluation of a prisoner in San Quentin. She had accepted the offer gracefully when he had denied it, unwilling to walk into such a place. When they reached Larkspur, he would leave the car with her as he went into the office. It was an amicable arrangement.
*****
Emily was sitting at a makeshift desk in the dispensary when she heard her name being called. Looking across the room, she saw one of the nurses beckoning her over to the phone. Sighing, she closed her notes and rose form her chair. She nodded her thanks to the plump nurse and took the receiver. Her eyes close briefly and a silent obscenity escapes her lips. Another victim, this one found in the fountain in John Herman Plaza by a tourist this morning. She opened her eyes and thanked her caller for the information, promising to come by when she returned to the city that evening. The receiver is replaced with a heavy thunk and she slowly turns to look out the barred windows. Nothing but the light seeping in can be seen through them, but still she tries. Before she can return to her makeshift desk, she hears another voice call her. The staff psychiatrist is smiling at her, a lithe and shapely woman standing next to him. Dr. Amelia Rinaldi composes a smile on her face and steps to greet the visitor.
"Amelia, may I introduce Dr. Alexandra Fell to you. She is a visiting medical doctor, from Italy." she sees him glance slightly to the woman, hoping he has his information correct. Obviously, he has been elected tour guide for an unannounced visitor. Emily Amelia extended a hand to the woman. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Doctor. I am Dr. Amelia Rinaldi."
The smile and voice are cultured, and her accent comes through cleanly. "The pleasure is all mine, Dottore. Am I correct to presume that your husband is the famed Antonio Rinaldi?"
"Yes. May I ask, what part of Italy are you from?"
"Florence."
Emily Amelia smiled, the accent had betrayed her early on, but she did not lie to disguise her roots. Across the room, she hears her phone buzzing against the table, working its way across her notes form its vibrations. A swift smile and a slight bob of the head, looking appropriately embarrassed. "If you'll excuse me, Dottore." the woman's eyes show slight surprise at the use of her native Italian. Emily Amelia turns away from them and heads to her desk, plucking the phone and flipping it open. At least this phone call is good news.
*****
The presence of one more murderer within the walls of the old prison passes unnoticed. The walls are stained with blood and souls, so the addition of another is not of consequence. She stands in the late afternoon sun, watching as a sleek Jaguar pulls out the front gates, past the guard towers and roars up the road. She follows its passage down the road until it is hidden from her sight. Walking with a cultured step, she unlocks her own car and gets inside. The Mercury starts with a nice roar and achieves a steady thrumming of power as it idles. Placing it in gear and releasing the brake, she pulls from the visitors parking lot, taking the same road to the gates and passing beneath the guard towers. She will die before she is ever locked away in a place like this. Neither here nor in Italy, she will not become caged.
*****
The lights are low in the office of Dr. Antonio Rinaldi as his wife steps in through the door. She smiles at the soft music coming over the speakers on the shelf behind his desk. He sits in his leather chair, lids half closed as his left hand traces the tempo in the air before him. She watches him in the rare moment of solitude, knowing that he is very far from the present. She wishes not to disturb him, but he summoned her here, thankfully freeing her from the dreadful prison. As she sits on the couch beneath the windows, she wonders how he endured so many years of being caged. Caged, in a dungeon, as if he were nothing more than a beast. So she didn't see him through the eyes of the common perception, that was the problem of being just alike. You understood what the others feared because you were what they feared too. The music stops and she looks up, meeting that terribly red gaze, the one that can see straight to your soul. Neither doctor rises, and they let the moment grow heavy.
"Tell me of your day, sweet Emily." His office is the only place outside of their home where he will use her name, and she his. One must keep up their public image of being someone who they are not. She indulges him, telling him the details, trivial and otherwise, of the profile. Agreeing that the inmate would be safer, for his sake and that of others, in a mental institution. She falters briefly as she comes to the introductions with Dr. Fell. His eyes light, she notices, at the name. Not strange, considering that he himself was once known as Dr. Fell. The coincidences trickle through Emily's mind as she speaks. Fell. Florence. A doctor, nonetheless. If the good doctor seated behind his desk sees the same he does not show it. She finishes her description and falls silent, the echoes of the Goldberg Variations playing in her memory palace. He rises from his chair, straightening his suit jacket and steps forward, extending a hand to her. Rising, she takes the outstretched hand, blushing as he bows his head and raises it to his lips. The slightest brush against them as the pointed tongue slips in and out moments before his lips meet her hand. The touch leaves the essence of sandalwood and lavender on them as he straightens.
"As I cautioned before, with the case you are undertaking to aid the police, I will caution again with Dr. Alexandra Fell. Be very, very careful with this one."
*****