Daddy's Little Girl

  This is a journalist? I snapped the remote button and went to the table in the dining area where I had my laptop ready and waiting. I got online to my Website and began to write.

  “Robson Westerfield, the convicted murderer of fifteen-year-old Andrea Cavanaugh, has just been released from prison and is looking forward to roast beef and apple pie. The sanctification of this killer has just begun, and it will be made at the expense of his young victim and of Paulie Stroebel, a quiet, hardworking man who has had to overcome many difficulties.

  “He shouldn’t have to overcome this one.”

  Not bad for a beginning, I thought.

  19

  EVERY DAY Sing Sing Correctional Facility discharges prisoners who have completed serving their sentences or have been paroled. When they leave, they are given jeans, work boots, a jacket, and $40, and unless they are picked up by a family member or friend, they are driven to the bus station or issued a train ticket.

  The train station is the equivalent distance of four blocks from the prison. The discharged prisoner walks to the station and takes a train going either north or south.

  The train going south terminates in Manhattan. The one going north travels up New York as far as Buffalo.

  I reasoned that anyone getting out of Sing Sing at this time would almost certainly have known about Rob Westerfield.

  That was why early the next morning I dressed warmly, parked at the station, and walked toward the prison. There is constant activity at the gates. I had checked some statistics and knew there were about twenty-three hundred inmates housed there. Jeans, work boots, and a jacket are not particularly distinctive apparel. How would I be able to tell the difference between someone who might be an employee getting off duty and a newly released inmate? The answer is I couldn’t.

  Anticipating the problem, I had made a cardboard sign. I stood beside the gate and held it. It read: “Investigative journalist seeking information about just-released prisoner Robson Westerfield. Substantial payment.”

  Then it occurred to me that someone driving out of the prison in a car or taxi, or someone who did not want to be seen talking to me, might come forward if he could reach me by phone. At the last minute I added the number of my cell phone—917-555-1261—in large, easy-to-read numbers.

  It was a cold, windy morning. The first of November. All Saints Day. Since Mother died I’ve attended Mass only on days such as Christmas and Easter, when even fallen-away Catholics like me hear the bells of a nearby church and reluctantly make our way to it.

  I’m like a robot when I get there. I dutifully kneel and stand with the others, never sharing in the prayers. I like to sing, and I can feel throbbing in my throat when the congregation joins the choir. At Christmas it’s joyous music: “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” or “Away in a Manger.” At Easter the song is triumphant: “Jesus Christ Is Risen Today.” But my lips always stay closed. Let others sing in exultation.

  I used to be angry; now I am only weary. One way or another you’ve taken them all, O Lord. Are you finally satisfied? I know when I watch television and learn of whole families wiped out in bombings, or see them starving in refugee camps, I should be able to realize how much more I have, how much better off I am. I do grasp that intellectually, but it doesn’t help. Let’s make a deal, God. We’ll leave each other alone.

  I stood for two hours holding the sign. Most people passing in or out of the gates stared at it, curiosity in their eyes. A few of them spoke to me. A bulky man in his late forties, the earmuffs of his cap pulled down for warmth, snapped, “Lady, haven’t you got anything better to do with your time than investigate that creep?” He would only tell me that he worked in the prison, but he refused to give his name.

  I did notice, however, that some people, including those who looked like employees, studied the sign as though memorizing my phone number.

  At ten o’clock, chilled to the bone, I gave up and walked back to the parking lot at the train station. I was just at the driver’s door of my car when a man came up to me. He appeared to be about thirty, rawboned, with mean eyes and narrow lips. “Why are you picking on Westerfield?” he asked. “What’s he ever done to you?”

  He was wearing jeans, a jacket, and work boots. Had he just been released and followed me? I wondered. “Are you a friend of his?” I asked.

  “What do you care?”

  We have an instinctive reaction to step back when people get too close to us, when they are literally “in our faces.” My back was against the side of the car, and this guy was crowding me. From the corner of my eye I was relieved to see a van pulling into the parking area. The thought rushed through my head that at least if I needed help there was someone around.

  “I want to get in my car, and you’re in my way,” I said.

  “Rob Westerfield was a model prisoner. We all looked up to him. He set a great example for the rest of us. Now, how much are you going to pay me for that information?”

  “Let him pay you.” I turned and shouldered the guy away from me, pushed the remote to release the lock, and yanked the door open.

  He did not try to stop me, but before I could close the door again, he said, “Let me give you a little free advice. Burn your sign.”

  20

  WHEN I GOT BACK to the Hilmer apartment, I began to peruse the old newspapers Mother had kept. They were a godsend in my research on the life of Rob West-erfield. In several of them I found a mention of the two prep schools he had attended. The first one, Arbinger Preparatory School, in Massachusetts, is one of the toniest in the country. Interestingly, he stayed there only a year and a half before switching to Carrington in Rhode Island.

  I didn’t know anything about Carrington and looked it up on the Internet. The Website of Carrington Academy made it sound like a country estate where learning, sports, and friendship intertwined to create a sort of paradise. But behind the glowing description of all that it had to offer, the nitty-gritty became obvious: It was a school for “students who haven’t realized their academic or social potential,” for “students who may have difficulty adjusting to disciplined study.”

  In other words, it was a place for kids with a behavior problem.

  Before I placed an inquiry on my Website, looking for information about Rob Westerfield’s school days, from fellow students or former Carrington employees, I decided to see both places for myself. I phoned the schools and explained that I was a journalist writing a book on Robson Westerfield who had been a student there. In both cases I reached the president’s office. At Arbinger I was immediately referred to Craig Parshall in the media relations office.

  Mr. Parshall told me it was school policy that students, former or present, were never discussed with the press.

  I took a stab. “Isn’t it a fact that you gave an interview to Jake Bern concerning Robson Westerfield?”

  There was a long pause, and I knew I was right.

  “There was an interview granted,” Parshall said, his voice stiff and condescending. Then he added, “If the family of a present student or a former student grants permission for an interview, we would within reason honor that request. You must understand, Ms. Cavanaugh, that our pupils come from distinguished families, including the sons of presidents and royalty. There are times when it is appropriate to allow carefully monitored media access.”

  “And of course that publicity enhances the name and reputation of the school,” I said. “On the other hand, if every day on a Website the fact that the convicted murderer of a fifteen-year-old girl had been rubbing shoulders with some of those distinguished students, they and their families might not be too happy. And other families might think twice about sending their sons and heirs to you. Isn’t that right, Mr. Parshall?”

  I didn’t give him a chance to answer. “In fact, it might serve the school much better to be cooperative. Don’t you agree?”

  When, after a long moment of silence, Parshall responded, he clearly was not a happy man. “Miss Cavanaugh, I will grant your request
for an interview. I will, however, warn you that the only information released to you will be the dates Robson Westerfield was a student here and the fact that he requested and received a transfer.”

  “Oh, I don’t expect you to admit that you booted him out,” I said scornfully. “But I’m sure you managed to find a little more than that to tell Mr. Bern.”

  We agreed that I would be in his office at eleven the next morning.

  Arbinger is about forty miles north of Boston. I found the town on the map and figured out the best route to take and how much time I’d need.

  Then I called Carrington Academy, and this time was passed through to Jane Bostrom, director of admissions. She acknowledged that Jake Bern had been granted an interview at the request of the Westerfield family, and added that without the family’s permission she could not grant me an interview.

  “Ms. Bostrom, Carrington is a kind of prep school of last resort,” I pointed out firmly. “I want to be fair to its reputation, but the reason for its existence is to accept and try to straighten out problem kids. Right?”

  I liked the fact that she leveled with me. “There are a lot of reasons why kids have problems, Ms. Cavanaugh. The majority of those reasons have to do with the family. They’re kids of divorce, kids with high-powered parents who don’t have time for them, kids who are loners or the butt of jokes by their peers. It doesn’t mean they’re not capable academically or socially. It just means that they’re overwhelmed and need help.”

  “Help that sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you simply can’t give?”

  “I can give you a list of our graduates who went on to become very successful.”

  “I can name one who succeeded at the very first murder he committed—or at least the very first he is known to have committed.” Then I added, “I don’t want to do a hatchet job on Carrington. I want to find out what I can about what Rob Westerfield was up to in his teenage years before he murdered my sister. If you gave a lot of information to Jake Bern, and he can extrapolate the good stuff and leave out the rest, I want the same kind of access.”

  Since I’d be at Arbinger tomorrow, which was Friday, I made an appointment with Ms. Bostrom at Carrington for Monday morning. I debated about spending some time before the meetings tomorrow and Monday in the neighborhood of the schools. From what I could tell, they both were located in small towns. That had to mean there were places where the kids would congregate, such as a pizza parlor or fastfood joint. Sitting around the local off-campus hangout had worked for me when I did an earlier follow-up article on a kid who tried to kill his parents.

  I hadn’t run into Mrs. Hilmer in a couple of days, but in the late afternoon she phoned. “Ellie, this is a suggestion more than an invitation. I had one of my urges to cook today and ended up with a roast chicken in the oven. If you don’t have plans, would you like to come over for dinner? But please don’t say yes if you’d rather just be quiet.”

  I hadn’t bothered to go to the grocery that morning and knew that my at-home choices were an American cheese sandwich or an American cheese sandwich. And I also remembered that Mrs. Hilmer was a good cook.

  “What time?” I asked.

  “Oh, about seven.”

  “I’ll not only be there, I’ll be early.”

  “Wonderful.”

  As I hung up I realized that Mrs. Hilmer must think of me as something of a loner. She’s partially right, of course. But despite my interior core of isolation, or maybe even because of it, I am a reasonably outgoing person. I enjoy being with people, and after a busy day at the newspaper, I often get together with friends. When I worked late, I’d end up having pasta or a hamburger with whoever was around. There were always two or three of us there who weren’t rushing home to the spouse or significant other after wrapping up a story or finishing a column.

  I was one of the regulars in that group, and so was Pete. As I washed my face, brushed my hair, and twisted it back up, I wondered when he’d let me know which job he’d taken. I was sure that even if the paper wasn’t sold immediately, he wouldn’t stay at it much longer. The fact that the family was trying to sell it would be enough to make him move on. Where would he end up? Houston? L.A.? Whichever, chances were that our paths wouldn’t cross much after the move.

  It was a suddenly disquieting thought.

  The cozy apartment consisted of a large living room with a galley kitchen at one end and a mediumsized bedroom. The bath was off the short hallway between them. I had set up my computer and printer on the table in the dining area near the kitchen. I’m not a neat worker, and as I was about to put on my coat, I looked around as if with Mrs. Hilmer’s eyes.

  The newspapers I’d been going through were scattered on the floor in an arc around the chair I’d been sitting in. The decorative fruit bowl and brass candlesticks that had been primly centered on the colonial table were shoved together on the buffet. My appointment book lay open on one side of the computer, and my pen was tossed on top of it. The bulky bound copy of the thick trial transcript, complete with vivid yellow markers, was next to the printer.

  Suppose for some reason Mrs. Hilmer walked back with me and saw this mess, I thought. How would she react? I was pretty sure I knew the answer to that question, since there was absolutely nothing out of place in her home.

  I bent down, scooped up the papers, and straightened them into something of an orderly pile. Then, on further consideration, I dug out the big duffel bag in which I always carried them and dropped them into it.

  The trial transcript followed. I reasoned that the notebook, my pen, and the laptop and printer weren’t too asthetically offensive. I moved the fruit bowl and candlesticks back to their decorative positions on the table. I had started to put the duffel bag in the closet when it dawned on me that if the apartment were to catch on fire, I would lose all this material. I dismissed that notion as improbable but nonetheless decided to take the bag with me. I don’t know why I did that, but I did. Call it a hunch, one of those feelings you just get, as my grandmother used to say.

  It was still cold outside, but at least the wind had died down. Even so, the walk from the apartment to the house seemed pretty long. Mrs. Hilmer had told me that after her husband died she had an attached garage added to the house because she didn’t want to have to walk back and forth from the old one. Now the old garage beneath the apartment was empty except for gardening supplies and lawn furniture.

  Walking to the house in the dark silence, I could well understand why she hadn’t wanted to make the trip at night alone.

  “Don’t think I’m moving in here as well as in the apartment,” I told Mrs. Hilmer when she opened the door and spotted the duffel bag. “It’s just become my constant companion.”

  Over a glass of sherry I explained what was in it, then a thought occurred to me. Mrs. Hilmer had lived in Oldham for nearly fifty years. She was active in the parish and in the town activities—meaning she knew everyone. There were local people mentioned in those newspaper stories whose names meant nothing to me, but they would surely be familiar to her.

  “I wonder if you’d consider going through these papers with me,” I asked her. “There are people quoted whom I’d love to talk to, assuming they’re still around. For example, some friends of Andrea’s from school, neighbors at that time of Will Nebels, some of the guys Rob Westerfield hung around with. I’m sure most of Andrea’s classmates are married, and probably a lot of them have moved away. I wonder if it would upset you to read through these old articles and maybe make a list of the people who talked to reporters who are still around here. I’m hoping, of course, that they may have known something that didn’t come out at the time.”

  “I can tell you about one of them off the top of my head,” Mrs. Hilmer said. “Joan Lashley. Her parents retired, but she married Leo St. Martin. She lives in Garrison.”

  Joan Lashley was the girl with whom Andrea had been doing homework that last night! Garrison was near Cold Spring, only a fifteen-minute drive from here.
It was obvious that Mrs. Hilmer was going to be a treasure trove of information about people I might want to see.

  While we were having coffee, I opened the duffel bag and put some of the newspapers on the table. I saw the look of pain that came over Mrs. Hilmer’s face when she picked up the first one. The headline read, “Fifteen-Year-Old Bludgeoned to Death.” Andrea’s picture filled the front page. She was wearing her band uniform: a red jacket with brass buttons and a matching short skirt. Her hair was falling around her shoulders, and she was smiling. She looked happy and vibrant and young.

  That picture had been taken at the first game of the season in late September. A few weeks later Rob Westerfield first met her when she was bowling with friends at the sports center in town. It was the next week that she went for the drive in his car and he was stopped by the state trooper for speeding.

  “Mrs. Hilmer, I warn you,” I said. “It’s not easy going through this material, so if you think it would be too much for you—”

  She interrupted me. “No, Ellie, I want to do it.”

  “Okay.” I took out the rest of the newspapers. The trial transcript was still in the duffel bag. I took it out. “This makes pretty unpleasant reading.”

  “Leave it with me,” she said firmly.

  * * *

  MRS. HILMER INSISTED on lending me a small flashlight for my return to the apartment, and I must say I was glad to have it. The night had continued to clear, and now a sliver of the moon was visible. I guess I was getting fanciful, but I could only think of those Halloween images of black cats sitting on crescent moons, grinning as though they were reveling in some secret knowledge.

  I’d left on only a small night-light in the stairwell—again my conscious effort to be considerate of my hostess, this time by not running up her electricity bill. As I walked up the stairs, I suddenly was not sure if it was the best idea to be so frugal. The staircase was dark and shadowed, and it creaked under my steps. I suddenly became acutely aware that Andrea was murdered in a garage very similar to this one. They both originally had been barns. The old hayloft here is now the apartment, but the feeling of the structures is similar.