“One day, when I was tending him, he sprang onto my back and damn near strangled me before another AN pulled him off. But you know what? He turned out to be a good kid. Regression, the doctors called it. Some kind of trauma had reverted him to a nearly two-year-old state; he wouldn’t talk, eat, use the toilet, or dress himself. But once we started treating him like a two-year-old, we all got along great. I’d come in on Sundays, read him children’s books, play silly songs. With a little bit of time, treatment, and human kindness, Benji grew up again, right before our eyes. He started wearing clothes, using the toilet, eating with silverware, saying please and thank you. Two years later, he was doing so well, a member of our board got him enrolled in Boston Latin. He went to school during the day—and slept in his room here at night. You’d find him studying in the middle of complete chaos in the Day Room.
“Eventually Benji graduated, got a job, moved out on his own. None of that would’ve happened without this hospital.” Charlie shook his head sadly. “People think it’s a sign of accomplishment when a mental institute closes. Three thousand people used to receive treatment here. Do you really think it’s all gone away? Mental illness has just moved underground, into the homeless shelters and the city parks. Out of sight, out of mind for the taxpayers. It’s a crying shame.”
Charlie sighed, shook his head again. Another moment passed. He squared his shoulders, holding out his paper. “I drew a map of the old compound,” he told Sergeant Warren. “How it looked before they started tearing down the buildings. Don’t know if it helps your investigation or not, but it sounded like the grave is old. That being the case, thought you might like to put the crime scene in the proper context.”
Warren took the paper, glancing at its contents. “This is perfect, Charlie, very helpful. And I appreciate you taking the time to speak with us. You’re a true gentleman.”
Dodge took the man’s contact information. Things seemed to be wrapping up.
At the last minute, as the police officer was escorting Charlie back to the cruiser, the older man happened to look my way. In my eavesdropping mode, I had risen up, until my face was in the window, my ear tilted toward the open slit.
The moment Charlie spotted me, he did a little double-take.
“Excuse me, miss,” he called over. “Don’t I know you?”
Immediately, Detective Dodge stepped between us. “Just another person assisting with the investigation,” he murmured, directing the retired minister back to the police cruiser. Charlie turned away. I slumped down, quickly working the window back up. I didn’t recognize Charlie Marvin. So why would he think he knew me?
The police cruiser drove off.
But my heart continued to pound too hard in my chest.
They were both silent on the drive back to the North End: Annabelle staring out the side window, sliding the glass pendant back and forth on her necklace; Bobby staring out the windshield, drumming his fingers on the wheel.
Bobby thought he should say something. He tried out several lines in his head: Don’t worry. Things will seem better in the morning. Life goes on.
It sounded like the same bullshit people had fed him after the shooting, so he kept his mouth shut. Truth of the matter was, Annabelle’s life did suck, and he had a feeling things were only going to get worse. Particularly once she came face-to-face with Catherine Gagnon.
He’d first mentioned Annabelle’s name to Catherine out of sheer curiosity; Annabelle claimed to not know Catherine, what was Catherine’s impression? Catherine, it turned out, was as oblivious to Annabelle’s existence as Annabelle was to hers.
Yet both women had been targeted by predators who favored underground chambers. Both women shared a close physical resemblance. And both had resided near Boston in the early eighties.
Bobby continued to believe, had to believe, there was a connection.
Apparently, the higher-ups had agreed, because they’d okayed the Arizona expedition. Theory was, if they could get Catherine and Annabelle together in a room, something was bound to shake loose. The connecting factor. The common denominator. The startling revelation that would break the case wide open, making the BPD look like heroes and allowing everyone to resume sleeping at night.
Earlier, the idea had seemed a slam-dunk winner. Now Bobby was less certain. He had too many questions racing through his mind. Why had Annabelle’s family continued to run even after leaving Massachusetts? How had Annabelle become a target in Arlington, if the perpetrator was operating out of Boston State Mental in Mattapan? And why did a former lunatic-asylum volunteer, Charlie Marvin, also seem to recognize Annabelle, when according to her she’d never set foot on Boston State Mental grounds?
Bobby blew out a puff of air, rubbed at the back of his neck. He wondered when he was going to start to develop some answers instead of a longer list of questions. He wondered how he was going to squeeze approximately twelve hours’ worth of phone calls into the approximately two hours he had before the next task-force meeting.
He wondered, once again, if he should say something reassuring to the subdued woman sitting beside him.
No answers yet. He kept driving, hands upon the wheel.
Night had descended, end of day prodding the city to life. Route 93 streamed ahead of them, a long ribbon of glowing red brake lights coiling to an island of glittering skyscrapers. People commented that the Boston cityscape was particularly beautiful at night. Bobby’d spent his whole life living in the city and his whole career driving around it. Frankly, he didn’t get it. Tall buildings were tall buildings. Mostly, this time of night, he wanted to be home.
“You ever lose someone close?” Annabelle spoke up abruptly. “A family member, friend?”
After the long silence, her question startled him into an honest answer. “My mother and brother. Long time back.”
“Oh, I’m sorry … I didn’t mean … That’s sad.”
“No, no, no, they’re still alive. It’s not what you think. My mother walked out when I was six or seven. My brother made it about eight more years, then followed suit.”
“They just left?”
“My father had a drinking problem.”
“Oh.”
Bobby shrugged philosophically. “Back in those days, the choices were pretty much flee the scene or dig your own grave. To give my mother and brother credit, they didn’t have a death wish.”
“But you stayed.”
“I was too young,” he said matter-of-factly. “Didn’t have long enough legs.”
She blinked her eyes, looking troubled. “And your father now?”
“Has been sober for nearly ten years. Been a rough road for him, but he’s holding course.”
“That’s great.”
“I’m proud of him.” He glanced over at her for the first time, making eye contact, holding it for the fraction of an instant driving would allow. He wasn’t sure why he said this, but it felt important to get it out: “I’m not so great with booze myself. I understand how hard my father has to fight.”
“Oh,” she said again.
He nodded at that. Oh summarized his life quite nicely these days. He’d killed a man, gotten involved with the victim’s widow, realized he was an alcoholic, confronted a serial killer, and derailed his policing career all in the course of two years. Oh was pretty much the only summary he had left.
“Do you still miss your family?” Annabelle was asking now. “Do you think about them all the time? I honestly hadn’t thought of Dori in twenty-five years. Now I wonder if I’ll ever get her out of my head.”
“I don’t think about them the way I used to. I can go weeks, maybe even a month or two, not thinking of them at all. But then something will happen—you know, like the Red Sox winning the World Series—and I’ll find myself wondering, What is George doing right now? Is he cheering in some bar in Florida, going nuts for the home team? Or when he left us, did he leave the Red Sox, too? Maybe he only roots for the Marlins these days. I don’t know.
“And then my mind will go
nuts for a few days. I’ll find myself staring in the mirror, wondering if George has the same wrinkles around his eyes that I’m getting. Or maybe he’s a plump insurance salesman with the beer gut and double chin. I haven’t seen him since he was eighteen years old. I can’t even picture him as a man. That gets to me sometimes. Makes me feel like he’s dead.”
“Do you call him?”
“I’ve left messages.”
“He doesn’t return your calls?” She sounded skeptical.
“Not so far.”
“And your mom?”
“Ditto.”
“Why? That doesn’t make any sense. It’s not your fault your father was a drunk. Why do they blame you?”
He had to smile. “You’re a kind person.”
She scowled back. “I am not.”
That just made his smile grow. But then he sighed. It felt strange, but not bad, to be talking about his family. He had been thinking about them more and more since the shooting. And leaving more messages.
“So, I went to this shrink a couple years ago,” he said. “Department orders. I’d been involved in a critical incident—”
“You killed Jimmy Gagnon,” Annabelle said matter-of-factly.
“I see you’ve been busy on the Internet.”
“Were you sleeping with Catherine Gagnon?”
“I see you’ve been talking to D.D.”
“So you were involved with her?” Annabelle sounded genuinely surprised. Apparently she’d just been fishing, and he’d stupidly taken the bait.
“I have never so much as kissed Catherine Gagnon,” he said firmly.
“But the lawsuit—”
“Was ultimately dropped.”
“Only after the shoot-out in the hotel—”
“Dropped is dropped.”
“Sergeant Warren obviously hates her,” Annabelle said.
“D.D. will always hate her.”
“Are you sleeping with D.D.?”
“So,” he said loudly, “I did my job and shot an armed man holding his wife and child at gunpoint. And the department sent me to a shrink. And you know that old saw that shrinks only want to talk about your mother? It’s true. All the woman did was ask about my mother.”
“All right,” Annabelle said, “let’s talk about your mother.”
“Exactly, one soul-baring moment at a time here. It was interesting. The longer my mother and brother stayed away, the more, on some level, I’d internalized things as being my fault. The shrink, however, raised some good points. My mother, brother, and I shared a pretty traumatic time in our lives. I felt guilty they’d had to run away. Maybe they felt guilty for leaving me behind.”
Annabelle nodded, jingled her necklace again. “Makes some sense. So what are you supposed to do?”
“God give me the strength to change the things I can change, the courage to let go of the things I need to let go, and the wisdom to know the difference. My mother and my brother are two of those things I can’t change, so I gotta let go.” Their exit was coming up. He put on the blinker, worked on getting over.
She frowned at him. “What about the shooting? How are you supposed to handle that?”
“Sleep eight hours a day, eat healthy, drink plenty of water, and engage in moderate amounts of exercise.”
“And that works?”
“Dunno. First night, I went to a bar, drank until I nearly passed out. Let’s just say I’m still a work in progress.”
She finally smiled. “Me, too,” she said softly. “Me, too.”
She didn’t speak again until he parked in front of her building. When she did, her voice had lost its edge. She simply sounded tired. Her hand went to the door latch.
“When do we leave in the morning?” she asked.
“I’ll pick you up at ten.”
“All right.”
“Pack for one night. We’ll handle the arrangements. Oh, and Annabelle—to board the plane you’re going to need valid photo ID.”
“Not a problem.”
He arched a brow but didn’t press. “It won’t be so bad,” he found himself saying. “Don’t let the news articles fool you. Catherine’s a woman, same as any other. And we’re just going to talk.”
“Yeah, I guess.” Annabelle popped open the door, stepped out onto the curb. At the last moment, however, she turned back toward him.
“In the beginning,” she said softly, “when I saw myself declared dead in the paper, I was relieved. Dead meant I could relax. Dead meant I didn’t have to worry about some mysterious boogeyman chasing me anymore. Dead left me feeling a little giddy.”
She paused, took a deep breath, then looked him in the eye. “But it’s not like that, is it? You, Sergeant Warren, and I aren’t the only ones who know it wasn’t my body in that grave. Dori’s killer also knows he abducted my best friend in my place. He knows I’m still alive.”
“Annabelle, it’s been twenty-five years …”
“I’m not a helpless little girl anymore,” she filled in.
“No, you’re not. Plus, we don’t know if the perpetrator is active these days. The chamber was abandoned. Meaning he could’ve been incarcerated for another crime, or here’s a thought, maybe he did the world a favor and dropped dead. We don’t know yet. We don’t.”
“Maybe he didn’t stop. Maybe he moved. My family kept running. Maybe it was because someone kept chasing.”
Bobby didn’t have an answer for that one. At this point, anything was possible.
Annabelle shut the door. He rolled down the window, so he could monitor the situation while she went to work inserting the keys. Maybe he was getting a little paranoid, too, because his gaze kept scouring up and down the street, checking every shadow, making sure nothing moved.
The outer door opened. Annabelle turned, waved, stepped into the brightly lit space. He watched her pull the door shut firmly behind her, then go to work on the inner sanctum. Then that door was also opened and closed and he caught one last glimpse of her back as she headed up the stairs.
Bobby was late to the task-force meeting again. No baked goods this time, but the other officers were too busy listening to Detective Sinkus to care. As promised, Sinkus had met with George Robbards, the District 3 clerk who’d served in Mattapan from ’72 to ’98. Apparently, Robbards had a lot to say about their favorite suspect du jour, Christopher Eola.
“The body of the nurse was found gagged with a pillowcase that came from the hospital supply room. Coroner’s report indicated that she’d been worked over before death, which was from manual asphyxiation. Originally, the investigation focused on a former boyfriend of Lovell’s—they’d recently broken up—and a couple of key staff members who worked at the hospital. Theory was, no way a patient could’ve been missing that long without someone noticing. Plus, the most logical suspect pool for patients would’ve been the guys in maximum security, and according to the head administrator, most of them were too drugged up to pull off something this sophisticated.
“Boyfriend got ruled out early on—had an alibi for the time in question. Three male staff members were interviewed, but the only thing they volunteered was the name Christopher Eola. Seems every time a staff member was questioned about the patient population, they ended up saying, ‘Oh, our guys couldn’t have done something like that, well … except for Eola.’
“Lead detective was Moss Williams. He personally interviewed Mr. Eola four times. Later, he told Robbards that within the first five minutes of speaking to Eola, he knew the guy had done it. Didn’t know how, didn’t know if they could prove it, but said there was no doubt in his mind Eola had murdered Inge Lovell. Williams would stake his badge on it.
“Unfortunately, that plus a quarter would still only fetch you a cup of coffee. They never could build a case. No one saw anything, Eola wasn’t admitting anything, and they had no physical evidence. Best Williams could do was advise the staff to keep a much shorter leash on Eola.
“Shortly thereafter, Eola led some kind of patient revolt i
n the I-Building and finally earned himself a transfer to Bridgewater. Williams didn’t hear about it until nearly a year later, and it pissed him off. According to Robbards, Williams believed they could’ve used the Bridgewater transfer as a bargaining chip. Maybe make some kind of deal with Eola, so at least the Lovell family could have some closure. No dice, however. Boston State Mental, apparently, preferred to handle its problems on its own—and without public knowledge.”
Sinkus cleared his throat, setting down his report expectantly. Most of his fellow detectives around the room were frowning at him.
“I don’t get it,” McGahagin said. He seemed to have laid off the coffee today, his voice having lost its overcaffeinated edge, though his face still had the pallor of someone who was spending too much time under fluorescent lights. “Are we really thinking one of the patients from the hospital did this? I admit, examining the local loonies makes sense. But like you said, the patients with a history of violence were supposedly locked up. And even if one did get out, how’d he get off the grounds to kidnap not one, but six girls? Then get back on the grounds. And prepare a chamber and spend time down there. And no one saw a thing?”
“Maybe he wasn’t a patient anymore,” Sinkus said. “Robbards had one other interesting thing to report. In the early eighties, he started noticing a disturbing trend: missing pets. Lots and lots of missing pets. Now, in the suburbs when Fluffy and Fido disappear, you wonder about encroaching coyote populations. But no one believes there are any four-legged predators operating in inner-city Mattapan. Not even on a hundred acre site.”
“What are you thinking?” D.D. pressed.
Sinkus shrugged. “We all know certain killers start by preying on animals. And it always struck Robbards that the same year the hospital shut its doors for good, local animals suddenly seemed to become prey. It kind of makes you wonder. Where did all those patients who were treated at Boston State Mental go when the hospital closed? And were all of them magically sane?
“More and more, I’m thinking we’re looking for a former patient of Boston State Mental. And if you’re going to look at former patients, then Christopher Eola has to lead the list. By all accounts, he’s shrewd, resourceful, and has already gotten away with murdering Inge Lovell.”