It had become clear to Bobby within the first five minutes of meeting Walter Petracelli that Annabelle’s former neighbor didn’t hold the key to those answers. Perhaps Bobby would get luckier with Russell’s former boss, whom Bobby had first buzzed at seven this morning from outside Annabelle’s apartment. Seemed lately all he did was work his cell phone. Yet, still the demands on his time had D.D. operating behind his back. Reaching out to the ME in a thinly veiled attempt to bolster her own theory of the case … just thinking about it pissed him off all over again.
Bobby found the brass knocker, strategically located in the middle of a giant wreath of red berries. Three knocks and half a dozen berry droppings later, the door swung open.
Bobby’s first impression of Paul Schuepp: about two inches taller than Yoda and two years younger than dirt. The small, wizened former head of MIT’s mathematics department had sparse gray hair, an age-spotted scalp, and rheumy blue eyes that peered out from beneath bushy white eyebrows. Schuepp’s face was sinking down with the years, revealing red-rimmed eyelids, shaky jowls, and extra folds of skin flapping around his neck.
Schuepp stuck out a gnarled hand, catching Bobby’s arm in an unexpectedly firm grip. “Come in, come in. Good to see you, Detective. And this is …?”
Schuepp suddenly stopped, droopy eyes widening. “I’ll be damned. If you’re not the spitting image of your mother. Annabelle, isn’t it? All grown up. I’ll be damned. Please, please, come in. Now, this is an honor. I’m going to fetch us some coffee. Oh hell, it’s gotta be noon somewhere. I’m fetching us some scotch!”
Schuepp set off at a brisk shuffle, heading through the arched foyer into the formal living room. There, another arched doorway led into the dining room, where a right-hand turn took him into the kitchen.
Bobby and Annabelle followed the man through his house, Bobby taking in the heavy floral furniture, the delicate crocheted doilies, the eucalyptus swags gracing the tops of floor-length mauve drapes. He was hoping there was a Mrs. Schuepp somewhere, because life was too scary if Mr. Schuepp had done the decorating.
The kitchen was country-style, with oak cabinets and a massive oval walnut table. A lazy Susan in the middle of the table boasted sugar, salt, and a small pharmacy of drugs. Schuepp fiddled with the coffeemaker, then moved on to the pantry, where after much clinking of glass, he withdrew a bottle of Chivas Regal.
“Coffee’s probably gonna taste like crap,” he announced. “The missus passed away last year. Now, she could brew a cup of coffee. Personally,” he added, dropping the Chivas in the middle of the table, “I recommend the scotch.”
Annabelle was gazing at the man wide-eyed. He produced three glasses. When Annabelle and Bobby begged off, he shrugged, poured himself two fingers, and tossed it down. For a moment, Schuepp’s scalp turned bright red. He wheezed and started to cough, and Bobby had images of his interview subject suddenly dropping dead. But then the former professor recovered, thumping his shrunken chest.
“I’m not much of a drinker,” Schuepp told them. “Given the occasion, however, I could use a belt.”
“Do you know why we’re here?” Annabelle inquired softly.
“Let me ask you this, young lady: When did your dear father die?”
“Nearly ten years ago.”
“Made it that long? Good for him. Where?”
“Actually, we’d returned to Boston.”
“Really? Hmmm, interesting. And if you don’t mind me asking, how?”
“Hit by a taxicab while crossing the street.”
Schuepp arched a bushy white brow, nodding to himself. “And your mother?”
Annabelle hesitated. “Eighteen years ago. Kansas City.”
“How?”
“Overdosed. Booze mixed with painkillers. She, um, she’d developed a drinking problem along the way. I found her when I returned home from school.”
Bobby shot her a glance. She’d already volunteered more details for Schuepp than she’d ever given him.
“Collateral damage,” Schuepp observed matter-of-factly. “Makes some sense. Shall we?” He gestured toward the table. “Coffee’s ready, though I insist you should try the scotch.”
He returned to the kitchen, loading the coffeepot, cups, and creamer on a tray. Bobby took it from him without asking, mostly because he couldn’t picture a hundred-pound man lifting a ten-pound tray. Schuepp smiled his appreciation.
They made it to the table, Bobby’s mind whirling, Annabelle looking paler by the second.
“You knew my father,” she stated.
“I had the honor to serve as head of the department of mathematics for nearly twenty years. Your father was there for five of them. Not nearly long enough, but he left his mark. He was into applied mathematics, you know, not pure mathematics. Had an excellent rapport with students, and a brilliant mind for strategy. I used to tell him he should give up teaching and work for the Department of Defense.”
“You were his boss?” Bobby clarified for the record.
“I hired him, based upon the glowing recommendation of my good friend Dr. Gregory Badington, at the University of Pennsylvania. It was the only way it could’ve been done, given the circumstances.”
“Wait a minute.” Bobby knew that name. “Gregory Badington from Philadelphia?”
“Yes, sir. Greg headed up Penn’s math program from ’72 to ’89, I believe. Passed away a few years back. Aneurysm. I pray I should be so lucky.” Schuepp nodded vigorously, without a trace of sarcasm.
“So Gregory Badington was Russell Granger’s former boss,” Bobby said slowly. “He recommended Russell for your program and at the same time he allowed Russell to move his family into Gregory’s home in Arlington. Now, why would Dr. Badington do that?”
“Greg did his graduate work at Harvard,” Schuepp filled in. “Never lost his love for Boston. When it became clear Russell’s family needed to leave Philadelphia, Gregory was only too happy to lend a helping hand.” The old professor turned to Annabelle. He pressed her palm between his own age-spotted digits. “How much did your father tell you, dear?”
“Nothing. He never wanted me to worry; then it was too late.”
“Until they discovered the grave in Mattapan,” Schuepp finished for her. “I saw it on the news, even debated calling the police myself once I read your name. I was fairly certain it couldn’t be your remains that were recovered. I was guessing it was that other young girl, the one from your street.”
“Dori Petracelli.”
“Yes, that’s right. She went missing a few weeks after you left. Nearly killed your father. For all his planning, Russell never saw that coming. What a terrible burden to bear. After that, I can imagine why he never told you a thing. What kind of father wants his daughter to discover he saved her life by sacrificing her best friend? Such terrible, terrible choices, for such terrible, terrible days.”
“Mr. Schuepp—” Annabelle started.
“Mr. Schuepp,” Bobby interrupted, fumbling with his pen now, frantic to get it all written down.
The wizened old man smiled. “Guess I’m not going to make my conference,” he said. He picked up the scotch, splashed it in his glass, and gulped it down.
And started his story from the beginning.
“Your father—Roger Grayson was how he was known back then—lost his parents when he was twelve. It’s not something he liked to talk about. I never heard the details from him, only from Greg, who picked up the tale from scuttlebutt around the department. It was a domestic violence case, I’m afraid. Russell, well, Roger, I guess—”
“Russell, call him Russell,” Annabelle spoke up. “That’s how I think of him.” Her lips twisted, she seemed to be trying out the words. “Roger Grayson. Roger, please don’t go.…” She frowned, grimaced, and stated more emphatically, “Russell.”
“Russell it is. So Russell’s mother tried to leave Russell’s father. The father didn’t take the news so well, returning to the house one night with a gun. He shot and killed them both. Russel
l was in the house that night. His younger brother, too.”
“Brother?” Annabelle exclaimed, bewildered.
Bobby’s pen paused over his notebook. “Two male Graysons?” He pictured the sketch again, the resemblance to the description they had of Annabelle’s father, and suddenly everything started to make sense.
Schuepp nodded. “Brother. You have an uncle, my dear, though I’m sure you’ve never heard of him.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“It’s what your father wanted. For good reason. After the shooting, Russell and his brother—Tommy—were fortunate to be admitted into the Milton Hershey School for disadvantaged children. Even back then, both boys showed great academic promise, and the Hershey boarding-school program was an excellent fit. Academic rigor in a lovely, pastoral setting.
“Your father did exceptionally well. Tommy, seven years your father’s junior, did not. From the beginning, there were signs of mental health issues. Rage/impulse control problems. ADHD. Reactive attachment disorder. I have an interest in the field; been working to develop a statistical model to assist evaluators examining young children. But that’s neither here nor there.”
Schuepp waved away his own conversational tangent with his hand, then continued more briskly. “Your father graduated early and was accepted at Penn. He was an incredibly gifted student, and Gregory took a shine to him. Under his guidance, Russell submatriculated into the master’s program and began to think seriously about pursuing his Ph.D. in mathematics. Along the way, he fell in love with a beautiful nursing student and halfway through his doctorate program, Russell married your mother.
“It was about this time that Tommy quit the Hershey school. With no other family, Tommy sought out your father. And not knowing what else to do, your father took him in. Not an ideal situation for a newly married man juggling a young wife and demanding studies, but these are the things families do.
“Tommy took a job as a dishwasher in a local restaurant. He worked as a bouncer at night and engaged in general mayhem during the day. Russell bailed him out of jail three times, for minor infractions involving brawling, drugs, alcohol. It was always the other guy’s fault, according to Tommy. The other guy started it.
“Finally, your mother sat Russell down one night and told him that she was scared. Twice she’d caught Tommy peeking into the bedroom when she was changing. And once when she was in the shower, she was pretty sure he’d entered the bathroom. When she called out his name, he’d panicked and run.
“That was enough for your father. He’d pulled himself up by his own bootstraps; Tommy could do the same. So Russell kicked out his younger brother. Just in time, apparently, because a few weeks later, your mother discovered she was pregnant.
“Tommy, unfortunately, never really went away. He’d arrive unannounced at odd hours. Sometimes Russell was there. Often he wasn’t. Your mother, Leslie—Lucy, as she was known back then—”
Bobby quickly scribbled down the name, while watching Annabelle’s lips form the word. Lucy. Lucy Grayson. He wondered what it was like for her to hear her mother’s real name for the first time, after all these years. But Schuepp was still talking, leaving little time for speculation.
“… became so concerned that she’d keep all the lights off and the TV volume down so it would seem like no one was home,” Schuepp was saying. “Except Tommy persisted in showing up, generally within ten minutes of her returning home from a shift at the hospital. Leslie, your mother, became convinced that he was following her.
“Russell confronted his brother, told him this foolishness had to stop. Tommy wasn’t invited into their lives anymore. If he showed up again, Russell was calling the cops.
“Shortly thereafter, dead and mutilated animals appeared outside their apartment building. Skinned cats. Decapitated squirrels. Russell was convinced it was Tommy. He consulted with the police. There wasn’t much they could do without proof. Russell installed a home security system, added chain locks, even mounted a high-powered motion-sensitive light outside the front door. Leslie agreed not to walk home alone from work anymore. Instead, Russell walked her each way.
“Gregory remembered one night finding Russell sitting in his office, staring at nothing. When Gregory knocked politely on the door, Russell told him, ‘He’s going to kill her. My father murdered my mother. Tommy will destroy my wife.’
“Gregory didn’t know what to say. Life continued, and a few months later, Leslie gave birth. Tommy had disappeared somewhere; Russell didn’t know where and didn’t care. He loved being a new father. Was crazy about every aspect of it. He and your mother settled in and had the honeymoon they’d never gotten before. Until—”
“Tommy came back,” Annabelle filled in quietly.
“You were eighteen months old,” Schuepp supplied. “Later, Russell learned the only reason Tommy had vanished was that he’d served time on assault charges. Minute he was released, he picked up just where he’d left off. Except he no longer cared about Leslie. He wanted you.
“First time, he confronted Russell and Leslie on the street. They were walking home from the park, you were in the stroller. It was broad daylight. The minute he saw Russell and Leslie, Tommy crossed the street and blocked their path. ‘How are you, good to see you, is this my new niece? Oh, she’s gorgeous.’ He snatched you up before Russell could move, cooing and cuddling. Russell tried to get you back. Tommy twisted away. He had a gleam in his eye, Russell said. He was terrified. He wasn’t sure if Tommy was going to kiss you or toss you in front of oncoming traffic.
“Naturally, Russell made nice. Leslie, too. Finally, they got you back, placed you in the carriage, resumed walking. But they were both terribly shaken.
“Next day, Russell changed the locks and personally paid for a new security system for the whole building. He went back to the police, where they ran a background on Tommy and learned of his criminal history. There still wasn’t anything they could do, though. After all, it’s not a crime to visit your niece. They noted Russell’s concern, made a record.
“Russell left the police station more frightened than when he’d arrived. He ended up talking to Greg about taking a leave of absence. He didn’t want to leave Leslie alone with the baby, not even for an hour. Greg talked him down. Russell had just received his doctorate. To take time off now would be disastrous for his career. Besides, your mother was no longer working, someone had to earn a living.
“So Russell agreed to continue working, while Leslie made arrangements for her parents to visit. Surely there would be safety in numbers.”
“Oh no,” Annabelle whispered. Her hand had come up, was covering her mouth. Bobby followed her train of thought. The grandparents she’d been told had died in a car accident. Somehow, he had a feeling the truth was going to be more devastating than a tragic fender bender.
Schuepp nodded sadly. “Oh yes. Your mother’s parents came. Took you for a walk. Never came home. A uniformed officer found them sitting on a park bench side by side. Both shot through the heart with a small-caliber pistol. You were toddling around the grounds all by yourself, clutching a brand-new teddy bear. Attached to its neck was a gift tag reading ‘Love, Uncle Tommy.’
“The police picked up Tommy immediately, questioned him about the shootings, but he denied all involvement. According to him, he’d stopped by the park, given you the bear, and chatted briefly with your grandparents. Everyone was fine when he left. The police searched his apartment but came up empty. Without the pistol, without any witnesses or other evidence, there wasn’t anything more the police could do. They suggested your father take out a restraining order. He said his mother had tried that.
“That afternoon, he went to Greg’s office and announced that he’d made his decision. He and his family were going to disappear. It was the only way, he said, to be safe.
“Once more Greg tried to be the voice of reason. What did Russell and Leslie know about life on the run? How would they get fake identities, new driver’s licenses, jobs? It wasn
’t as easy as in the movies.
“But Russell was adamant. When he looked at his brother, he saw his father. He had already lost enough to one man’s obsessive rage. He wasn’t going to lose anything more. And the more he talked, the more he brought Gregory around. It was Gregory’s idea that Russell and Leslie move to his home in Arlington. The deed was in Greg’s name, utilities, too. Surely it would be difficult for Tommy to trace Russell and Leslie to their new home in Massachusetts.
“Gregory also gave me a buzz, explaining the situation. It just so happened we had an opening in the department, so we worked out the details. Russell and your mother would move to Arlington, I would offer your father a job at MIT. Naturally, I had to enter your father into the payroll department under his real name, Roger Grayson. But I smoothed things over with the right people, and for all intents and purposes, your father became Russell Granger, married to Leslie Ann Granger, parents of an adorable daughter, Annabelle Granger. Only the paychecks and other financial records said otherwise.
“We thought we’d been so clever, but we hadn’t been smart enough.”
“Tommy found them,” Bobby said flatly. Annabelle wasn’t talking anymore. She sat shell-shocked, too stunned for words.
“That’s what Russell believed. There was a case in the news right as they moved to Arlington, the kidnapping of a young girl who could’ve been your older sister, Annabelle. Instantly Russell was nervous. He worried that Tommy was in the area, searching for Annabelle.”
“Catherine’s case,” Bobby filled in. “Another guy did it, Richard Umbrio. But the strong physical resemblance between Catherine and Annabelle would’ve spooked Russell, made him think the worst.” He glanced at Annabelle. “Even drive your father to masquerade as an FBI agent, so he could get to Catherine in the hospital, question her.”
“Tommy’s the one pictured in the sketch,” Annabelle murmured. “My father drew a picture of Tommy to see how Catherine would react.”
“Probably.”
She managed a crooked smile. “Told you there was a logical explanation.” But her face remained pale, drawn.