The Broken Mother

by Thomas Fincham

  “It smells delicious,” she said, sniffing the bag.

  “I know we were supposed to go out for dinner tonight,” he said, “so I figured, why not have dinner here?”

  He opened the bag and pulled out several containers. She took the butter chicken with naan bread, while he took chickpea curry with rice.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He smiled back and sat down across from her.

  As they dug into their meals, Fisher felt grateful that Lance was with her.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Callaway opened the door to his two-bedroom apartment. His place was on the fourteenth floor of a high-rise building. The rent was far more than he could afford, but he was tired of staying at a hotel.

  While the hotel was cleaner than most places he had lived in, it was still small. His room barely fit a double bed, and it had no kitchen.

  Callaway was no cook, but there was only so long he could eat frozen dinners or have takeout each night. He had started watching cooking shows on TV. He could make pasta, rice, and homemade burgers.

  His culinary skills were nothing to crow about, but at least he was no longer relying on others to feed him. And yet, whether he had money or not, he was forever showing up at Joely’s restaurant to grab something to eat.

  That reminds me, he thought. I still have to look into what Dean’s doing in Milton.

  He sighed.

  After his encounter with Hope Parsons, he had completely forgotten about Joely’s case.

  He shut the door to his apartment and dropped his coat on the sofa. The space was far more than a single person needed, but Callaway hoped that would not be the case for long.

  He had set up the second bedroom for Nina. Patti was still debating whether to let her sleep over for the night.

  So far, he had given her no reason to be concerned.

  There was no alcohol in the apartment, no drugs of any kind, and he had promised not to give Nina any junk food—another reason why he had started teaching himself how to cook. He wanted his daughter to be fed properly. He had even gone out and bought fruits and vegetables.

  Callaway was a carnivore at heart, so the sight of fruits and vegetables made him gag.

  But if he did not set an example, how could he expect her to follow his instructions?

  The apartment was an upgrade in every sense of the word. It had running hot water, and the heat worked during the cold winter months. He once moved out of a place because the furnace had died and the landlord took four days to fix it. And this was in the middle of an extreme cold alert.

  On top of that, the apartment building was clean, and all the elevators worked. There were no roaches, bed bugs, or rodents. The latter was something Callaway could not tolerate. If he saw even one mouse in his apartment, he would grab all his belongings and never come back. Management could keep the remaining rent. He would rather lose the money than have one of those creepy crawlers get underneath his blankets while he slept.

  He shivered at the mere thought of a mouse in his bed.

  The apartment was sparingly furnished. It had a futon, a coffee table, a television, a queen-size bed for his room, and a single for Nina’s. He had already painted her room pink, and he had also covered the bed with pink bedsheets and pillows.

  He was not sure if she liked that color. In fact, there was still a lot he did not know about his daughter. What color she preferred. What foods she liked. What music she listened to.

  But he was willing to learn. He had missed out on so much of her childhood.

  He had been a selfish prick. He wanted to be free from responsibilities. Now his heart ached just being away from her for even a short time.

  In order to stay in touch with her, he had started texting her. Her replies were short but sweet. Patti did not want to give a nine-year-old a cell phone. She worried that Nina might go online without her supervision and that someone might try to lure her. She also worried about boys coercing girls into providing them with lurid photos of themselves. In order to alleviate Patti’s concern, Callaway had bought Nina a basic phone that could call and text but do nothing else. The texting required punching words into the numeric keyboard. Hence, the reason for the short and sweet replies.

  Callaway stared at all the pink in her room and frowned.

  Maybe I should have gone with a neutral tone, he thought. But then again, if Nina wants to repaint it, it’ll give us something to do as father and daughter.

  He went into the kitchen and pulled last night’s leftovers from the fridge—rice with black beans and ground meat. He put the food in the microwave and waited for it to heat up. From his shirt pocket, he pulled out the piece of paper Hope Parsons had given him.

  Callaway felt ashamed of the way he had reacted at the diner. Hope Parsons was not a serial killer, a mass murderer, or a terrorist.

  She was a mentally unstable woman whose condition had made her do a terrible act.

  The microwave beeped and he pulled out his piping hot dinner.

  He sat down on the futon.

  As he ate his meal, he could not help but think about Hope Parsons.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  The next morning, Fisher returned to the Milton PD and found Holt seated at his desk.

  “You’re here early,” she said.

  “I figured I would make up for leaving you last night,” he said.

  “It’s all right,” she said with a shrug. “It wasn’t all bad.”

  “I can tell it wasn’t.” He pointed to several Styrofoam containers in the trash bin next to her desk.

  She smiled. “Lance surprised me with takeout.”

  Holt smiled back. “I’m glad you had someone with you here.”

  Fisher sat down behind her desk. “How’s Nancy?”

  He shrugged. “She has her good days and her bad. Last night was a bad one.”

  “You can take the day off, you know,” Fisher offered. “I can work the case until you get back.”

  “I know you can, but I need to be working as well.”

  She understood. The pain of losing a child—even an adopted one—was hard for Holt. In fact, his sorrow had turned to anger. He ended up going all the way to Ukraine, the boy’s birth country, to seek justice. He wanted to find the boy’s birth parents and ask them why they did not get him the help he needed. The boy was ill when he was brought to the States. Had someone told Holt he had cancer, Holt would have gotten him the best treatment money could buy.

  “Is Nancy by herself right now?” Fisher asked, concerned.

  Holt shook his head. “I dropped her off at her mother’s. In times like this, her mother is a great support for us.”

  “You’re the only guy I know who speaks positively of his mother-in-law.”

  “Did you know her mother didn’t approve of me when we first started dating?”

  “Really?” Fisher said, surprised. The way Holt was devoted to Nancy, Fisher figured his mother-in-law would be thrilled to have him as a son-in-law.

  “She thought I was a brute,” Holt said.

  “You look like a brute.”

  He laughed. “I thought her mother was a busybody. In fact, we both hated each other.”

  “How did you come to a truce?”

  “I realized I was judging her without actually knowing the motive behind her behavior.”

  “So, you used your detective skills?”

  “Sure did. I found out she was afraid I might hurt Nancy. Physically we are opposites, and our temperaments are on other ends of the spectrum. I can be loud and aggressive, while Nancy is quiet and passive. The moment I was able to convince my mother-in-law that I only wanted to make her daughter happy, she stopped interfering in our lives.”

  Fisher was impressed. “You should write a book on how to have a successful marriage. You guys have been through a lot, and you have stuck together. I will be the first in line to buy a copy.”

  “You and McConnell thinking of getting married?” Holt asked with a grin.

&
nbsp; Her eyes narrowed. “Slow down, big guy. I never said I want to marry Lance.”

  “But you’re considering it.”

  She opened her mouth but then shut it. Lance checked all the boxes for the type of spouse she was looking for. He understood the responsibility of her job, he cared about her, and he was not needy like some of her previous boyfriends. But marriage was the furthest thing from her mind right now. She was still relatively young. Her maternal instincts had not kicked in yet. Plus, she had her eyes set on becoming captain one day. She would take it slow with Lance. If things progressed the way they were, who knew what lay ahead for them as a couple.

  Holt leaned closer to his laptop and squinted at the screen. “What do we have here?” he said to himself.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He clicked the mouse a few times and then the printer whirred to life. “You mind grabbing that and telling me?”

  Fisher walked over and picked up the sheets of paper the printer had spat out.

  “It’s the ballistics report on the bullets found at the crime scene,” she said.

  “Did they identify the weapon?” he asked.

  “It was a Smith and Wesson 9mm.”

  Holt grunted dismissively. “That’s one of the most common handguns used by criminals. It could belong to just about anyone.”

  “It might have even been purchased on the black market,” Fisher added.

  “And that means we may never be able to trace the bullets to the owner of the gun.”

  “Not quite,” she said, walking over to her desk. She then began typing on her laptop.

  “What’re you doing?” Holt asked, curious.

  “I’m looking at all the people we’ve interviewed so far. I want to know if any one of them own a Smith and Wesson 9mm.”

  “Okay, but what’s the odds any of them would use a weapon registered in their name to commit three murders?”

  “I know it’s not the best plan, but it’s all I’ve got right now,” she said, staring at her computer screen.

  He crossed his arms over his chest and waited for her.

  A moment later, she said, “James Riley has a license for a hunting rifle.”

  “I remember seeing a photo on Emily Riley’s desk. It was of her and her husband dressed in camouflage gear.”

  “I saw it too. And neither Rob Giles nor Steve Hughley have a weapon registered in their names.”

  Holt sighed. “I guess we’ve hit a dead end.”

  “Not quite,” Fisher said, still focused on her computer screen.

  “You found something?”

  “I have.”

  “What?” Holt asked, jumping off his chair.

  “There is someone else who owns a Smith and Wesson 9mm.”

  “Are you going to tell me who?” he asked eagerly.

  She grabbed her jacket. “I’ll tell you on the drive over.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Camden Mental Health Facility had a brown brick exterior with windows that were painted white. The facility had a beautiful garden by the front, which was surrounded by a lawn that had recently been mowed.

  Callaway could smell the grass as he sat on a bench facing the building’s entrance. The first thing he had done this morning was dial the telephone number Hope Parsons had given him. The number was the main line at the facility. He left a message and then waited for a response. It took almost an hour before Hope Parsons called him back.

  Callaway had decided he would not judge Hope Parsons. She had committed a terrible crime, but she had already paid her debt to society by serving out the sentence given to her.

  The least Callaway could do was hear her out.

  He was checking his watch again when he spotted her coming out of the main doors.

  She was wearing a patterned dress, and she had a shawl over her shoulders. She looked tiny and fragile, not like someone who had killed her child.

  He stood up as she approached him.

  She gave him a smile. “I didn’t think I would hear from you, Mr. Callaway.”

  “I want to apologize for my reaction yesterday,” he said.

  “No need to apologize,” she said. “I’m used to people reacting the way you did.”

  “Please have a seat,” he said.

  She sat down next to him.

  There was an awkward moment of silence before he asked, “How long have you been at the facility?” He made sure to avoid using the word “mental.”

  “I was transferred here last year,” Hope replied, staring at the building. “And before you ask, it’s not a prison. I’m not a threat to anyone anymore. I’m allowed to leave the facility for a few hours each day. I’ve done my time at the psych ward. They examined me thoroughly to see whether I was actually suffering from schizophrenia or just faking it.”

  “Faking it?” he said, confused.

  “Even though there were medical records about my condition prior to what happened that day, the authorities wanted to confirm for themselves that I was indeed not of sound mind.” She turned away. “I sometimes wish I was… normal, so I could remember what truly happened that day.”

  “Is that why you would like to hire me?”

  “Yes. I want to know the truth.”

  Callaway was about to say something when he noticed her hand. “You still wear your wedding ring?”

  She blushed. “I know I should take it off. I’m no longer a married woman. Ian has a new wife…”

  “Ian?”

  “My husband—or I should say, ex-husband.” Her face turned beet red. “I keep telling myself my life is different now, that Noah is gone and so is Ian, but…” She paused to collect herself. “But I miss the way things were before. I miss my family.”

  Callaway’s heart went out to her. He could sense her pain.

  Hope chuckled. “Did you know Ian’s new wife has a restraining order against me?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I showed up at his house unannounced, and I started talking to his oldest daughter. She was playing in the yard. She turns six this year. Ian’s wife saw us and freaked out. She thought I would harm her like I had harmed…”

  Hope fell silent.

  Callaway understood.

  “Right before you left the diner, you said I’m the only person who can help you. What did you mean by that?” he asked.

  “I’ve contacted the police, the advocacy for the wrongfully convicted, even other private investigators, but no one wants to take my case on.”

  She removed an envelope from underneath her shawl and placed it next to him. “My parents have been sending me money over the years. It’s three thousand dollars. I know it’s not a lot for what I’m asking you to do, but it’s all I’ve managed to save so far.”

  Callaway squinted at the clear, blue sky. “I’m not sure what I’ll be able to find. What happened to your son was eight years ago. You are better off using that money for something else.”

  “No,” Hope said in a steely voice. “This is important to me. Once I am allowed to leave here permanently, I hope to get a job again as a dental hygienist. I promise I will pay you more, however more you require, to finish your job.”

  Callaway frowned. A part of him was not even sure why he was here. He had read every detail about Hope’s case in the newspapers.

  He sighed. “What can you tell me about that day?”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “I guess… everything.”

  Hope was about to say something when a man wearing a white uniform came out of the building and began walking towards them.

  “I have to go,” she said. “It’s time for my medication.”

  She pushed the envelope toward him.

  He pushed the envelope back. “We’ll discuss money later. I have a lot of questions for you.”

  “Can I meet you later?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  Hope smiled at Callaway and went to meet the man.

  What am I getting mysel
f into? he wondered as he watched Hope and the man enter the Institute.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Holt and Fisher found Earl Munchin at his apartment. Munchin was dressed in his pajamas when they knocked on his door.

  “What’s this about?” Munchin asked, confused. “I told you guys I don’t know what happened at Emily’s Place.”

  Fisher pointed a finger at him. “You weren’t entirely truthful with us, Earl.”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “You didn’t tell us you owned a gun.”

  “Why is that important?”

  “It’s the same type of gun used to kill the victims.”

  Munchin swallowed and looked at Holt. Holt’s hand was on his holster. Munchin quickly put his hands up as if to surrender. “I don’t have the gun anymore. I swear.”

  Fisher moved closer until her face was inches from his. “What do you mean you don’t have it anymore?”

  “It… it was stolen.”

  “Stolen?”

  “Yes.”

  “How convenient.”

  “I’m telling the truth.”

  “When?”

  “About a month ago.”

  “How?”

  “At a rally.”

  “Where was this rally?”

  “Outside the state legislature.”

  Fisher’s eyes narrowed. “You took a weapon to the state legislature?”

  “I had a permit for it, and we were protesting outside.”

  “What were you protesting?”

  “We wanted equal rights as women.”

  Fisher turned to Holt. He was just as confused as her.

  “What do you mean equal rights?” she asked Munchin.

  “When it comes to the care of children, men don’t have the same rights as women.”

  Fisher was ready to give Earl Munchin a piece of her mind. She wanted to tell him that it was women who were primarily in charge of raising children. They bore children and were automatically responsible for them. Men, on the other hand, could get up and leave if they didn’t feel like being a parent. Statistically, there were far more men abandoning their children than women.