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Turner hesitated. He did not like to be interrupted, and usually people avoided that mistake. Something, though, in the man's manner told him not to get aggressive. Besides, he was a cop. Turner swallowed. "Yes." Larson nodded and reached inside his gray jacket. Unlike his own custom-made Armani jacket, Turner thought, the detective's must have come from J.C. Penney's. Certainly, on a police salary, he couldn't afford much better than that. The difference between the two of them reassured Turner a little. Larson's hand emerged from his jacket with a small notepad. He thumbed through it, then stopped at a page, which he tapped several times. "'July 12, 1992,'" he read. "'Barbara Turner admitted to St. Luke's Hospital with two broken fingers and severe facial lacerations, caused by a fall on the stairs. Released July 14. "'March 3, 1997, Barbara Turner admitted to Marshall with a broken nose and a two-inch gash on her right cheek that required eleven stitches. Injuries were sustained when she fell from a stepladder while painting a bedroom wall. Released the following morning. "'December 23, 2002, Barbara Turner admitted to Easton Medical Center with a badly broken left wrist and a compound fracture of her right arm caused by a fall on the stairs. Released December 24, 2002, just in time for Christmas. "'August 12'" (Larson's eyes rose briefly), "the incident last week when you slapped her just 'a few times' -- 'Barbara Turner admitted to St. Luke's with two black eyes and a badly damaged leg. Fell off a stepladder again. Released the following day.'" Detective Larson put the notepad away and smiled. "It was nice thinking to take your wife to different hospitals," he said. "Spread the wealth around, a bit, eh? Don't let any one hospital see your handiwork too often and get suspicious." Turner frowned. "What the hell is this?" Turner watched the bigger man move to the windows as if he hadn't heard and draw the curtains, eclipsing the crimson sunset outside. "Mr. Turner, have you ever considered advising your wife to avoid stairs and ladders? She appears to be accident prone." "Now look --" "From my experience," Larson said, cutting him off again, "for each time a battered wife is admitted to the hospital, there are at least a dozen less serious beatings. Usually the husband doesn't want to call attention to himself and concentrates on inflicting pain where it won't show: on the back and stomach, sometimes the sides." He raised his eyebrow again. "How about it, Mr. Turner, are you a kidney man? Is that where you like to concentrate your attentions?" Turner licked his lips, which were dry. Why had Larson closed the curtains? Why was he looking at him that way? Turner raised his glass and took a drink. A big one. "Is that what she says?" he asked. "Among other things." Something wasn't right. Despite his shock and growing fear, Turner remembered movies and TV shows he had seen. "Wait a minute. Shouldn't there be two of you here in cases like this? Isn't it customary to have a partner?" "Is that how it works, Mr. Turner?" Turner opened his mouth, then closed it. The fact was, he didn't know how it worked. This was a long way from being president of a life insurance company. He knew how things worked there, all right, but matters of police procedure were another matter. "Let me tell you something, Mr. Turner," Larson said. "Ever since I was a boy and saw my father slap and bash my mother around whenever things didn't please him, I've had a hobby." He waved his finger, correcting himself. "No, let's be more accurate. It's been a 'cause,' Mr. Turner. As a law enforcement official, I have access to a network on chronic cases of abuse. I've been following your wife's situation for some time. I once even disguised myself as a hospital orderly and approached her. She lied very convincingly then. But now she can barely walk. Did you see her pull herself up those stairs, Mr. Turner? Did you know that this time, you almost broke her leg and that the doctor wanted to operate, put a pin in her bone? Did you?" This was crazy. Was this man a rogue cop or something? Turner opened his mouth only to find that Detective Larson was approaching. Larson stopped less than a foot away. Bigger and taller, he smiled down at Turner as if savoring a secret joke. "Answer some questions, if you will, Mr. Turner. There's something I've often wondered about." Turner cleared his throat. "Sure. If I can." The man made him feel uneasy despite himself. And yet this was his house! He told himself that the taxes on it alone would pay Larson's salary, but it didn't help. Larson nodded and his gaze seemed to turn inward. "Can you tell me why men like to abuse women? Is it some lack in their character, some darkness or engrained flaw in their sex? Take my mother, for example. She raised six kids and was always loving and supportive of my father. So why did he like to frighten her so much and why did he beat her? Why did he go out of his way to pick fights only he could win?" What's wrong with this man? Turner thought. Why does he ask these questions?
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