"If you don’t know what a witch is, how do you know you’re not one?"
"Very funny, Max," Lindsay growled, but she wasn't laughing.
I should have known better than to joke with her on a Tuesday—the day from hell for all Toronto detectives.
But she brought up the subject, and I was just parroting the judge's line from The Crucible, a film I watched on TV the night before.
She waves a file folder in my face.
"Do you know what it's like to deal with two hundred hysterical, adolescent girls?"
"No," I deadpan. "I never had that problem when I was in high school."
"Go ahead—keep it up—why not? I think this bloody day's cursed."
"If you're referring to Tuesdays, you're probably not far off the mark. The day was named after Mars, the Roman god of war—unless, of course, you consider the Old Norse god Tyr, who was actually his equivalent."
Her forehead turns to flint and her jaw juts out.
"Just saying," I mumble and retreat behind my desk.
She flops down wearily on the leather chair in front of me. She's too beautiful for a cop—not to mention being past forty and looking like she's twenty-five—on her good days, that is.
"What are you staring at? I know I look like hell."
That's not what I was thinking. Truth is, I was contemplating asking her out and the probability of getting turned down again.
Why I keep trying, I have no idea—well, that isn't true—actually, I do.
I've been crushing on her ever since I first worked with her two years ago. I saw something vulnerable behind her tough bravado, but it quickly disappeared the moment I asked for a date.
"Earth to Max," she smirks, "I haven't got all day."
"Sorry, Lindsay—I was lost in my thoughts."
"You seem to do that a lot."
Only around you, Girl, I muse to myself.
"So, what do you think's going on?"
"Well, let's see." I say, opening the file. "The girls are complaining of cramps, headaches, burning sensations and Tourette type outbursts."
"Right," she grimaces.
"You're probably looking for me to say Conversion Disorder, but I doubt it."
“Yeah, I don’t think so,” she growls, “and anyway, what the hell is, ’Conversion Disorder'?"
"Mass hysteria,” I say flatly, knowing it might trigger her.
She throws up her hands in frustration as I figured she would.
"Well, that’s a typical male response, but still, if it isn't hysteria, then what the hell else could it be? The medical investigators have ruled out environmental causes—saving the school a lot of lawsuits, I might add."
"I think it's an ancient affliction, curable no doubt, with a few doses of Midol."
“So you think this all comes down to menstrual cycles?” She challenges.
"All it would take is a half dozen girls hitting their period at the same time—and six cases being multiplied into an outbreak in the mind of a panicky school nurse."
She shrugs, too beat to fight today.
"I wish I shared your optimism," she sighs.
"Well, what other possible explanation could suffice?"
"How about what I said at the outset—witchcraft?"
I stare hard at her. "You're back to that? You've got to be kidding."
"I wish I were.”
I hoped she was because anything metaphysical gives me heartburn, not to mention nightmares…
And I’d rather dream of Lindsay tonight than battle demons in my sleep.
