Peter sprawls in the chair on the other side of my desk. "Are you sure, Nina? I mean, is it possible that the psychiatrist is jumping to conclusions?"
"I saw the same behaviors she did. And I jumped to the same conclusions." I look up at him. "A specialist found physical proof of penetration, Peter."
"Oh, Jesus." Peter clasps his hands between his knees, at a loss. "What can I do for you, Nina?"
"You've been doing it. Thanks." I smile at him. "Whose brain matter was it, in the car?"
Peter's eyes are soft on my face. "Who the hell cares? You shouldn't be thinking about that. You shouldn't even be here."
I am torn between confiding in him, and ruining his good impression of me. "But Peter," I admit quietly, "it's easier."
There is a long moment of silence. And then: "Best year," Peter dares.
I grab the lifeline. That's simple-I was promoted, and had Nathaniel, within months of each other.
"1996. Best victim?"
"Polly Purebred, from the Underdog cartoon." Peter glances up as our boss, Wally Moffett, comes into my office. "Hey, chief," he says to Wally, and then to me, "Best friend?" Peter gets up, heads for the door. "The answer is me. Whatever, whenever. Remember that."
"Good man," Wally says, as Peter leaves. Wally is the standard-issue district attorney: lean as a shark, with a full head of hair and a mouthful of capped movie-star teeth that could win him reelection all by themselves. He's also an excellent lawyer; he can cut to the heart before you realize the first incision has even been made. "Needless to say, this job is here when you're ready," Wally begins, "but I'll personally bar the door if you plan on coming back anytime soon."
"Thanks, Wally."
"I'm sorry as hell, Nina."
"Yeah." I glance down at my blotter. There's a calendar underneath it. No pictures of Nathaniel are on my desk-a long habit I kept from District.Court, when the scum of the earth would come in to plead their cases in my office. I didn't want them to know I had a family. I didn't want that to come back and haunt me.
"Can I ... can I try the case?"
The question is so small, it takes a moment to realize I've asked it. The pity in Wally's eyes makes me drop my own gaze to my lap. "You know you can't, Nina. Not that I'd rather have anyone else lock this sick fuck up. But no one in our office can do it. It's a conflict of interest."
I nod, but I still can't speak. I wanted that, I wanted it so badly.
"I've already called the district attorney's office in Portland. There's a guy up there who's good." Wally smiles crookedly. "Almost as good as you are, even. I told them what was going on, and that we might need to borrow Tom LaCroix."
There are tears in my eyes when I thank Wallace. For him to have gone out on a limb like this-before we even have a perp to prosecute- is extraordinary.
"We take care of our own," Wally assures me. "Whoever did this is going to pay."
It is a line I've used myself, to appease frantic parents. But I know, even as I say it, that there will be an equal cost extracted from their child. Still, because it is my job, and because I usually have no case without a testifying witness, I tell the parents I'd do anything to get that monster into jail. I tell the parents that in their shoes I'd do whatever it takes, including putting their children on the stand.
But now I'm the parent, and it is my child, and that changes everything.
One Saturday I took Nathaniel to my office, so that I could finish up some work. It was a ghost town-the Xerox machines sleeping like beasts, the computers blinking blind, the telephones quiet. Nathaniel occupied himself with the paper shredder while I reviewed files. "How come you named me Nathaniel?" he asked, out of the blue.
I checked off the name of a witness on a pad. "It means 'Gift from God.'"
The jaws of the paper shredder ground together. Nathaniel turned to me. "Did I come wrapped and everything?"
"You weren't quite that kind of a gift." As I watched, he turned off the shredder and began to play with the collection of toys I kept in the corner for children who had the misfortune of being brought to my office. "What name would you rather have?"
When I was pregnant, Caleb would end each day by saying good night to his baby with a different name: Vladimir, Grizelda, Cuth-bert. Keep this up, I had told him, and this baby's going to arrive with an identity crisis.
Nathaniel shrugged. "Maybe I could be Batman."
"Batman Frost," I repeated, completely serious. "It's got a nice ring to it."
"There are four Dylans in my school-Dylan S. and Dylan M. and Dylan D. and Dylan T-but there isn't another Batman."
