A Private Practice

By Linda Rettstatt

Someone is murdering men around the city of Pittsburgh. The victims have one thing in common—they’ve all been identified as perpetrators of domestic violence. Detectives Susan Wycoff and Frank Dillard are on the case. Their only clue—the letter carved into the bloodied palms of each of the victims.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Linda Rettstatt
• Release date: Sep 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463875735

Linda Rettstatt

Linda Rettstatt is a best-selling and award-winning author of Women’s Fiction and Mainstream Contemporary Romance. In March of 2012 her novel, LOVE, SAM, won the prestigious EPIC eBook Award for Mainstream Fiction. And in April, 2016, LADIES IN WAITING won the EPIC eBook Award for Contemporary Fiction. Rettstatt grew up in the small town of Brownsville in Southwestern Pennsylvania. After 20 years living and working in Mississippi, she has returned to the hills of PA to write and work as an editor.

Book preview

A Private Practice

* * *

Linda Rettstatt

A Private Practice

© 2018 Linda Rettstatt

2nd Edition, © 2022, Linda Rettstatt

Smashwords Edition

Cover design: SelfPubBookCovers.com/ACBookCovers

All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden.

This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.

Acknowledgements

I want to thank my beta readers: Carolyn Cutlip-Griffith, Ginger Tierney, and Louise Ferguson, for their generosity with their time and with their feedback on what was then a very rough draft. You ladies rock.

With thanks, also, to Sue Ann, for reading the short story version of A Private Practice and suggesting it would make a great novel. See how much I trust you?

Prologue

A dark-clad figure stepped out from behind the pillar. A hood shadowed the face. Slender and slight, it could have been a young boy. Far too young, or at least too scrawny, to take down a man of nearly six feet and two-hundred forty pounds. Inside the run-down house a TV blared and, from an upstairs open window, heated voices exchanged curses and threats.

The first blow struck between the shoulder blades, slicing through flesh and muscle, hitting on vertebrae. The man gasped in surprise and went to his knees. Blood spurted as the assailant slashed savagely until the man lay motionless on the rotting wood. Gloved hands turned the man’s palms upward, holding each one while using the tip of the knife to carve.

The figure leapt over the shaky railing of the porch and rounded the corner of the house, following a trail through the woods. The murderer moved between trees, first shedding the black hoodie. Plastic coverings were slipped off the boots. Finally, the gloves were removed, and all items rolled inside the hoodie. At the waiting vehicle, a trash bag was removed from the trunk and the evidence of the attack placed inside, with the exception of the hunting knife. That was soaked with alcohol and wiped clean, the rags then stuffed into the bag for disposal.

On the opposite side of the city, in a more affluent neighborhood, a Dumpster sat behind a closed dance studio. Stopping at a dark corner, the driver got out, removed the evidence from the trunk, and tossed it inside. It would be buried in a landfill by Monday.

Hyped up from adrenaline, the driver headed for the Liberty Tunnels. A kill always had this effect, gave a rush and made it impossible to sleep. A night drive helped bring down the heightened senses. The trick was to monitor speed, not risk getting stopped. Atop Mt. Washington, the figure, now clad only in dark jeans and a navy blue tee shirt, leaned on a railing, staring at the city lights. Pittsburgh was beautiful on a night like this. And, now—safer.

Chapter One

Susan Wycoff cinched the robe tightly and stared at the naked man in her bed. Powerful legs, a broad, muscled back, and one side of a handsome face shadowed by a dark beard. Both biceps ringed with tattoos. The mouth that had earlier given her reason to cry out, now slack with sleep. How did men do that? Just roll over and into a deep, satisfied sleep. Well, she’d answered her own question.

She dragged a hand through her damp hair. Steam from the shower hung in the bathroom, making the air thick to breathe. She turned off the light and tiptoed through the bedroom, the hardwood cool on the soles of her feet. She’d give him another half hour before she woke him and sent him on his way.

In the kitchen, she turned on the dim light over the sink and stared out into the night. Her stomach burned and a headache threatened. She needed to stop this. She was taking too many risks. The wrong man could bring an end to a career she’d worked hard to build. Hell, the wrong man could bring an end to everything. They were all wrong men, though, weren’t they? She had moved from being the victim of domestic violence to being the victim of her own stupidity. The notion that she was in charge, in control, was just that—a notion. Fiction. A psychiatrist would have a field day with her.

Her cell phone blared on the dinette table, and she grabbed for it before the sound could waken her guest. Wycoff.

Sorry to call this late, Suze. We got a situation.

She glanced at the half-open bedroom door and the man that now stirred and sat up. What do you have?

Stabbing in East Liberty. Same M.O. as the last one. I’m on my way.

Susan took down the address. I’ll be there in ten.

The job in Pittsburgh’s homicide division had been a lifesaver when she needed to relocate. She liked her partner, Frank Dillard. He was a seasoned veteran and a walking cliché of a cop with a belly that showed every donut he’d enjoyed while on duty. He was older, kind, and professional.

She glanced up at the man now standing naked in the doorway of her kitchen. She let her eyes slide down his muscled body with regret. I have to go. Work. You have to leave.

He stretched, showing off a sculpted abdomen and other impressive attributes. I’d like to shower first, if you don’t mind.

I do.

He shook his head. You have trust issues, you know that?

I know. We both leave in five minutes. She brushed past him.

She pulled clean underwear from a drawer and tugged on her jeans with a white shirt and jacket. Then she waited at the door while he retrieved his boots.

He moved forward as if to kiss her. She stepped back.

You comin’ by Leathers tonight? he asked.

Leathers was a popular biker bar in McKees Rocks, a suburb south and west of the city. She stared at him and shook her head. Probably not. She’d been to the bar three times in the past month, bringing home a different prize each time. It wasn’t good to keep hunting in the same field. It wasn’t good to be hunting at all, she reminded herself.

Too bad. This was fun. He walked to the door she held open, then turned. It’s only a little past midnight. How about if I come back in a few hours?

Not a good idea. She clipped her badge at her waist.

He was still tucking his tee shirt into tight-fitting jeans. You’re a piece of work. Do you even remember my name?

She didn’t. It had sounded angelic—that was a joke. Gabriel, maybe? Yes, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of her remembering. Do I need to?

Someday you’re going to pick up the wrong guy and things won’t end well.

Is that a threat? she asked, cocking her head, hand ready to reach for her glock.

Do I look stupid, Detective? Just an observation. He strode ahead of her out the front door. See you around. His bike roared away before she’d gotten her car door open.

Susan clutched the steering wheel for a moment to still the trembling in her hands. She’d been really stupid to let him see her badge and know she was a detective on the Pittsburgh police force. He was right—she was playing a very dangerous game. One that needed to end. But without the game, she had nothing. No one. And that was far more frightening to her.

* * *

Flashing blue lights cut a swath across the trees and reflected in the windows of the house at the end of Margaretta Street in Pittsburgh’s East End. Yellow police tape stretched the width of the top porch step of the battered Victorian. Dim light shone in the windows, some with pull shades half drawn, giving the house a sleepy, sad-eyed look.

Her partner met her at the base of the steps. That was fast.

I was awake, and I wasn’t busy. What do we have? She surveyed the scene.

White male, stabbed repeatedly.

Susan swung a long, slender denim-clad leg over the crime scene tape.

Frank cursed as he struggled to maintain balance while hefting his bulk over the barrier. Do we really need this damned tape? he asked the uniformed cop. What do we know?

Looks like someone really hated this guy. And check out his hands.

Dillard squatted and directed his flashlight to the victim’s right hand. The palm had a bloody ‘Z’ carved into it.

The uniform bent closer. Same thing’s on the other hand. Looks like Zorro rides again, he said with a laugh.

Dillard grunted as he pushed himself upright. What else?

Nothing. Just this guy, barely cold. I didn’t want to move the body until the coroner arrived, but I can count at least seven stab wounds to the back without rolling him. No footprints around the house. No weapon. No witnesses.

This is personal. Very personal. Susan studied the multiple stab wounds and the carvings on the man’s palms.

Frank nodded. I agree. Let’s go inside and start asking questions, but I’m sure nobody saw anything. If they’re not drugged up, they’re drunk, no doubt. Just look at this place.

The house showed years of neglect and still bore a coating of black dust from Pittsburgh’s long-defunct steel mill era. It was one of many such houses around the city, most in the less savory neighborhoods, that served as flop houses or crack houses.

Susan stepped around the crumpled body, carefully avoiding the pooling blood. Inside the dimly lit hallway, she was overcome by the stench of urine and God knew what else. She followed Dillard down the narrow hall.

Wycoff took the second door, knocking and calling out, Police. I need to ask you some questions.

The sound of the security chain sliding was followed by the release of a deadbolt. The door opened about three inches and a pair of bloodshot eyes peered out. I didn’t do nothin’. I didn’t see nothin’. And I didn’t hear nothin’, the man muttered.

Yeah, just like the three monkeys.

What monkeys?

Would you please open the door? Wycoff asked politely, brandishing her badge once again.

I already told you, I can’t help you.

With one swift move, her foot caught the door and swept it open, sending the man stumbling backwards. There, that’s better. A man was stabbed right outside your front window. Did you see or hear anything?

I been sleepin’ in front of the TV. Didn’t see or hear nothin’, like I said. You want to come in and look around? Been a while since I had a lady in here. He leered, scanning her from head to toe. His smile revealed stubs of yellow and brown teeth, and his lower lip bore a tobacco stain. A trail of amber dribble streaked the front of his frayed wife-beater.

Ignoring his comment, she took one step further inside the open door and scanned the one-room apartment. Gray, stained sheets covered a sleeper sofa that sat open in the center of the room. The air was thick with the sour odor of perspiration, cigarette smoke, and stale whiskey. A tattered blind pulled low on the window blocked any view of the front porch. One floor lamp covered by a ripped shade teetered precariously on its base next to the worn sofa. A hot plate and microwave sat on a counter beside a gritty sink in the far corner, where a small refrigerator hummed a death rattle.

What’s your name?

Albert, but you can call me Al. He gave her a snaggle-toothed grin.

Last name?

Dickenson. He teetered toward her, and Susan leaned back to escape the hot, putrid breath.

How long have you lived here?

You taking the census?

She glared at him.

Almost twenty years. It ain’t much, but it’s home. You like what I’ve done with the place? He swept his hand around the room to draw her attention to the magazine centerfolds taped to the dingy walls."

Ever consider paint? She pulled a business card from her pocket. Here’s my number, in case you suddenly remember something, she said, handing him the card and backing into the hall. The thought of what may be crawling around in the walls sent a fresh shiver rolling up her spine.

The door closed and the lock snapped behind her.

Frank met her back in the hall. Let me guess. He didn’t see or hear a thing. First room is vacant. Shall we see what’s behind door number three? He wrapped on the peeling wood frame and announced himself.

A small voice called out, Just a minute.

The lock clicked and the door opened, a safety chain in place to prevent entry. An old woman in a worn faded pink quilted housecoat and dirty pink slippers blinked at the detectives.

Ma’am, I’m Detective Dillard and this is Detective Wycoff. We’re investigating a homicide, and we’d like to ask you a few questions. He flashed his badge for verification.

You mean a murder?

Yes. On the porch a short while ago.

Oh, my. Who was it? I hope it wasn’t Dave. He gets my groceries for me. It wasn’t Dave, was it?

We don’t know, ma’am. Would it be alright if we come inside for a moment?

The woman eyed them suspiciously, then closed the door. The chain slid and the door reopened.

Ma’am, what’s your name? Dillard asked.

Mary Callahan. Who did you say you are again?

I’m Detective Frank Dillard.

I used to know Dillards. They lived in Stanton Heights. Did you ever live in Stanton Heights?

No, ma’am. A man was stabbed right outside the front door a little while ago. Did you hear or see anything unusual?

No. Well…I’m not sure. Albert, next door, keeps his TV up so loud, I can barely hear myself think sometimes. I just pound on the wall over there, and he turns it down. I went to do that, right over there by the window, and I thought I saw a shadow of someone pass by. Just seemed kinda strange since there’s nothin’ down at this end of the porch.

What time was that? Wycoff asked.

Oh, I don’t know. My clock’s broke. But it sounded like the Late Show was coming on. You know the music is so loud. So, it must’ve been about 11:30. The woman gave Wycoff an appraising look. It must be hard to be such a pretty young woman and be a police officer, the old woman said with a sweet smile.

What? Oh, yes. I mean, no. Wycoff scanned the sparse apartment, noticing the bed in one corner with the dipping mattress, the tiny TV on the nightstand, and the empty Meals-on-Wheels containers stacked on the small dinette table—a feast for roaches. Could you make out the figure you saw? Was it a man or a woman?

Now, that I can’t say. It was dark and I just saw a shadow. I wasn’t even sure I saw anything. These old eyes play tricks on me sometimes. Cataracts. So, you don’t know if that was Dave? Oh, I hope it wasn’t Dave. I don’t know what I’d do without his help.

Dillard asked, What does Dave look like?

Well, he’s about your height, but much thinner and younger. He has a mustache and dark hair. Wears it too long, if you ask me.

Conscious of his girth, Dillard pulled his jacket close across his middle. I’m pretty sure the man out there isn’t Dave. We may have more questions later, Mrs. Callahan. Thank you.

You’re welcome. You both be careful out there, now, she said as they stepped back into the hall.

Susan turned back to her. Mrs. Callahan, how long have you lived here?

"Oh, I’ve lived here for over thirty years, honey.