Free Kill Switch by Neal Baer

wanting to take the discussion any further. The silence between them seemed interminable. “Claire,” Curtin said uncomfortably. “Listen to me. I wouldn’t risk my life for any of these patients. So the last thing I would expect is for any student of mine to risk theirs.”
    Claire looked at him. He actually meant it. But that didn’t change what had happened. “Quimby is out there somewhere. And he’s dangerous. What should we do?”
    â€œYou need to tell the police,” Curtin replied immediately. “If this man is going around killing people, it’s our obligation to warn them he may strike again.”
    â€œWhat if I’m wrong? What if this is just some terrible coincidence?” Claire asked. “I can’t break confidentiality unless I’m absolutely sure.”
    â€œConfidentiality doesn’t protect a patient from assaulting his therapist,” Curtin said. “Quimby attacked you. He committed a crime. That’s more than enough reason to go to the police.”
    Claire was unfamiliar with the New York Police Department. “Do I just go to our local station?” she asked.
    â€œNo,” Curtin said. “Manhattan South Homicide will be handling the murder in Times Square. I’ll call Lieutenant Brian Wilkes and tell him you’re coming over. He runs the unit and we’re old friends.”
    Â 
    It was well into Sunday afternoon by the time Wilkes returned with Nick to the ratty precinct that housed Manhattan South Homicide. Having been up all night running from the Coney Island murder to the dead body near Times Square, Wilkes was ready to drop from lack of sleep. For Nick, the entire experience had been a massive adrenaline rush. Though he kept it to himself, Nick was happy for the first time in more than a year. He was out avenging murder victims, which he believed was doing God’s work. He was back in the game.
    But the rush faded the moment he entered the precinct. He always felt clammy there—summer or winter. The gray-blue paint was peeling off the water-stained walls, and the old maple chairs and desks felt sticky. As he walked past the front desk, he saw the suspicious looks, the enmity from cops who just a year ago would’ve slapped him on the back or traded jabs and jokes with him. Now they steered clear, but Nick could still feel their burning glares. As he and Wilkes headed up the stairs, Nick realized that in their minds he was still guilty.
    â€œGive ’em time, Nicky. They’ll come around,” Wilkes said to him.
    Nick could muster only a nod, though he wasn’t sure he believed they would ever come around.
    They were on the second floor of the building now, approaching the squad room. All Nick could think about was how his colleagues would receive him. He’d cut off contact with them nearly a year ago, sacrificing his friendships so the stench from his troubles wouldn’t waft onto them.
    Wilkes stopped at the door to the squad room, then exhaustedly gestured to Nick to open it. “Beauty before age,” he quipped.
    Nick dreaded going in. The desks were inches apart, and the overhead fluorescent lights were too bright. There was no place to get away from the judgmental stares of the other detectives.
    Nick breathed in as he opened the door ... and was blinded by a brilliant flash of light. He could only hear hearty voices shout, “Surprise!”
    He must have made a face, because somebody said, “Hey, don’t be so glad to see us.”
    â€œI can’t see a goddamned thing,” Nick said.
    But as the words came out, his vision returned. His colleagues, huge smiles on their faces, stood in front of him. Detective Tony Savarese, bald and wiry, wearing his usual blue blazer and red-and-blue-striped tie, held the digital Nikon the detectives used to photograph homicide scenes. A badly handwritten banner with the words
    WELCOME BACK, NICKY hung by paper clips and