by James Halpin
When at last his eyes settled on Lauren and Wojcik in the waiting room corner, Richardson made a beeline in their direction.
“How is he?” he said too loudly, drawing a reproachful eye from the receptionist.
“He’s out of surgery,” Wojcik said. “The doctor says he’s going to be all right.”
“Thank God,” Richardson said. “I got here as soon as I could. What did they say?”
“He was shot in the stomach,” Lauren said. “It’s going to take a while, but the doctor said he should make a full recovery.”
Richardson gave Lauren a squeeze around the shoulders, the awkward gesture of a man who feels he needs to console a near-stranger. After a moment, he released his hold and Lauren fell back into her seat. After all the emotions she’d faced over the past few hours, she wasn’t much in the mood for keeping up appearances. She slid her phone out of her pocket and got back to texting.
Wojcik looked to Richardson.
“Listen, could I talk to you for a minute?” he asked. Alone, he didn’t need to say.
“Sure,” Richardson said. “Lauren, we’re going to go grab a cup of coffee. Do you want anything?”
“No thanks,” she said, not looking up.
The men walked down the white tiled floor to the vending machines. Wojcik pushed a dollar bill in the slot of the coffee dispenser to the sound of gears humming and pushed the button for French roast. No cream, no sugar.
“What are you having?” he asked.
“The same. Thanks,” Richardson said.
The steaming coffee trickled into the cheap paper cups with a spattering sound. Wojcik waited until both cups were full before speaking.
“I know this really isn’t the best time to bring this up, but you guys really screwed us on this case,” he said.
“Jesus,” Richardson said. “You’ve got that right. About the timing, anyway.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” Wojcik paused to collect his thoughts. “It’s just that we were closing in on them. We were about to get them. And trust me, I know Erik helped us connect it to Radcliffe ...”
“Helped you?” Richardson cut in. “Cracked the case for you, the way I see it.”
“You’re right. I’m not trying to minimize what he found. But when he went to Radcliffe’s office and confronted him … I know he was just trying to do his job, but he showed Radcliffe our hand,” Wojcik said.
“Well, Phil, you know we’re willing to work with you guys, to an extent. But we’ve got a different mission than you,” Richardson said.
“To sell papers?”
“To report the news. We’re trying to tell stories that matter to our readers, and we can’t always wait for the opportune time according to your timeline to break the story.”
“Spare me that bullshit,” Wojcik said. “I told Erik I would tip him off before the others. He had the story in the bag. Then he pulls this crap and flushes the case down the toilet.”
“I think that’s being a bit dramatic. You’ve already arrested Radcliffe,” Richardson said. “He’s done.”
“If he is, it won’t be because of what you guys pulled,” Wojcik said. “This is off the record, agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“When we searched Gillespie’s home we found equipment and videos. A lot of videos,” Wojcik said. “But so far he’s the only one we can recognize in them, aside from the victims. Radcliffe isn’t in them — or at least you can’t make him out. And when we took Radcliffe his house was clean. Not a single computer or a hard drive. Not even a goddamned Xbox. His office had a mahogany desk with a ring of dust around where the computer used to be. He knew we were coming and he got rid of it all.”
“Well, get out there and find it,” Richardson said, getting short. “Isn’t that what you’re paid to do, detective?”
“We’re trying,” Wojcik nodded. “But if we don’t we could be in trouble. Gillespie was our link to Radcliffe. And he isn’t talking anymore.”
* * *
The sun was just breaking over the mountains to the east, cutting through thick fog blanketing the forests and valley below, when Daly began stirring in his bed. The dim room flickered with the light from a muted television no one was watching. A cardiograph next to the bed beeped at regular intervals, assurance that life still pumped through Daly’s veins. By the window, Lauren sat slumped in a lightly padded chair that was clearly never intended to double as a bed. Her body twisted at odd angles through the night as she tried finding comfort where none was to be had.
Under the snow-white sheets, Daly’s arm raised slightly and his eyelids began to flutter. Slowly, he reached for the intravenous needle protruding from his arm, which registered in his mind only as a sharp pain in the crook of his elbow. Feeling the plastic catheter extending from his body, Daly slightly perked up, growing more aware of his surroundings. At once, he noticed an oppressive antiseptic hospital smell.
He glanced to the window and was relieved to see Lauren curled in the chair. She was safe and by his side. That was the most important thing.
But why was he here? He had no idea. He tried remembering the last thing he had done. All that came were fleeting images floating by like snippets of an old forgotten dream. Unsure of the reason for his current situation, Daly began giving himself a once-over. He leaned forward a bit to sit up in bed and unwittingly discovered the likely culprit: searing pain in his stomach. Tenderly, Daly lifted the sheet like a kid opening a squeaky door in a horror film. Underneath the hospital gown, he found a large gauze bandage covering the lower left side of his abdomen. After a moment’s hesitation, he decided to peel the tape away to get a look.
“Dad?” Lauren said, perking up in the chair. “Dad!”
She jumped up abruptly and wrapped her arms around Daly’s neck, squeezing tightly and pulling him toward her. He said nothing of the pain.
“You’re going to be all right,” she assured him. “The doctor said ...”
“What happened?” Daly cut in. “I can’t remember anything.”
Lauren froze for a moment, at first unsure if her father was making a joke and then mortified at the possibility that he might not be.
“You don’t remember?” Lauren asked. “They said you were on a story. You went up to Vincent Gillespie’s house and ...”
“Gillespie,” Daly said, as if in a trance. Lauren could see there was no comprehension in his eyes.
The door swung open and a doctor strode in, glasses perched high on a narrow nose protruding from an olive face. The ends of her jet-black hair had brown highlights that stood in stark contrast to the shimmering green eyes that flashed behind the spectacles. She wore the requisite white overcoat with a stethoscope around her neck, but her youthful age and beaming smile gave her a more casual air than most emergency room doctors. She was short but confident, smart but not condescending.
She immediately extended a hand to Lauren.
“Hi. I’m Dr. Maria Torres,” she said.
Lauren turned to her with a pleading look in her eyes.
“Something’s wrong,” she blurted, on the verge of tears. “He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t know why he’s here.”
“Memory loss?” Dr. Torres looked at Daly.
“I can’t remember what happened,” Daly said. His voice was confused, but there was no panic in it.
“Do you know your name?” the doctor asked.
“Erik Daly.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a reporter with the Wilkes-Barre Observer.”
“Who’s she?” Torres said, gesturing to Lauren.
“Lauren. My daughter.”
“What year is it?”
“What year is it?” Daly parroted, looking dazed.
Dr. Torres nodded and went over to the cardiograph, reading the results before opening Daly’s c
hart. She scribbled a few notes, checked her watch and entered the time, and then returned the chart.
“How did I get here?” Daly asked. “Can you tell me how I got here?”
“You suffered a gunshot wound, but you’re going to be okay. The bullet missed your vital organs and we’ve stopped the internal bleeding. As long as we can fight off infection, you should be fine,” Dr. Torres said, turning to Lauren. “As far as the memory loss goes — I’d like to do some tests, but I don’t think it’s anything to be too concerned about.”
“He just keeps repeating the same thing,” Lauren said.
“It’s called perseveration,” Dr. Torres said. “It’s common in cases of transient global amnesia. We’ll run some tests to exclude anything else as being the cause of the memory loss, but he doesn’t have any trouble understanding words or any paralysis, which would indicate something more serious. If it’s transient global amnesia, it should clear up within a day.”
Seeing Lauren relax, Dr. Torres excused herself and left them alone once more in the recovery room. Lauren immediately moved to the edge of the bed and sat next to her father, putting her arm around him and holding tight.
“I’m going to be fine,” Daly reassured her, despite not feeling reassured himself.
The last thing Daly wanted to do was spend the day in the hospital being poked and prodded. He felt fine and was anxious to get back to work and learn more about what had happened — and what was going to happen next. But he recognized that Lauren was terrified and wouldn’t rest easy until she had some definitive answers.
He lay back in bed and tried to get comfortable, turning up the volume on one of the network morning shows that was light on news and heavy on health tips and entertainment promotions. He held Lauren tight against his side, watching the television without interest as he tried to remember what had happened. Over the next few hours, the details of the past few weeks flitted back into his head like snapshots, revealing individual scenes from his own life without context. When he eventually regained control of his mind and memories, Daly comprehended for the first time how close he’d come to losing Lauren. He’d been so caught up in chasing the story that he hadn’t bothered to think about what she’d been through. She was just a girl trying to decide who to take to the prom and where to go to college. A typical teenage life. But because of his actions, her mother was dead. Her house was reduced to ashes. Her father was in a hospital bed.
The thoughts turned to anger in Daly’s mind. Anger at himself for his stubbornness. For his thoughtlessness. For his selfishness.
The anger melded to guilt, and Daly found himself wondering how long it had been since his last drink. Too long, he thought.
Hopefully, I’ll be out of here by tonight, he thought.
“Dad?” Lauren pulled him from his thoughts. “Is everything going to be okay? I mean with your work?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?” he asked.
“Well, when you were … out … your boss was here with that cop. When they went to get coffee I could hear a little of what they were saying. The cop sounded mad. At you,” Lauren said.
“Well, I suppose he might be a little mad at me right now. He probably thinks I was getting in the way,” Daly said.
“But won’t you get in trouble?”
“Nah,” Daly said, as casually as he could manage. “John’s a good editor. He knows I was just doing my job. Sometimes that means not doing what the police would like. They’ve got their job and we’ve got ours.”
Daly gave Lauren a squeeze and a peck on the forehead.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, changing the subject. “I don’t want to stand in the way of your dreams. It will be tough, but we can take out some loans and make it work, I think. So if you really want to go to Stanford, it’s your call.”
Lauren turned her eyes from the television screen and pulled her head away from her father’s shoulder to take his face in. Her eyes were saucers, beaming like a kid on Christmas morning — but just for a moment. Then it was Daly’s turn to get a peck on the forehead, and Lauren returned her head to its spot against his chest.
“Thanks, Dad,” she said.
“What?” Daly asked, perplexed. “You don’t still want to go to Stanford?”
“I do,” Lauren said. “It’s just … well, it’s just like you to say I can go to California while you’re laid up in a hospital bed.”
CHAPTER 24
Monday, June 3, 2019
9:05 a.m.
The Luzerne County Courthouse towers over the banks of the Susquehanna River, serving as a domed cathedral to the law for well over a century. Its high sandstone walls are adorned with cherubic images espousing justice and paintings of forefathers now long dead. Through its halls, the most petty of thieves and the most heinous mass murderers have made the long march to the third-floor courtrooms where judges in black robes sealed their fates from their dark wooden benches.
In the basement, Daly made his way through the security checkpoint, waiting his turn through the metal detector along with the mass of defendants and their family members arriving at court for the day. Most of them were well acquainted with the procedure.
It was the day Daly had been anticipating for over a year: the opening of Dr. Radcliffe’s trial. But rather than feeling the usual adrenaline rush that came with covering a high-profile case, Daly wore a glum expression as he sullenly picked up his wallet and cellphone from the X-ray machine’s conveyor belt.
He’d fought to stay on the case after Gillespie’s death, but Richardson had been adamant that there could still be a conflict of interest. Then Wojcik had shown up at the newsroom one morning and slapped a subpoena on the desk, ending all debate on the matter.
So rather than coming to cover one of the most sensational cases to ever wind up in the storied courthouse, he was scheduled to appear as a witness.
Although he was off the story, he had been closely following the case, reading about developments and picking Talmadge’s brain for details she didn’t include in her articles. He had a pretty good idea of what to expect in court, and that knowledge did not help his dour mood.
In the morning paper, Talmadge had a front-page preview story about the case. It didn’t mention Daly by name, but anyone who knew anything about the case knew what was what.
WILKES-BARRE — The criminal homicide trial against a Kingston psychiatrist accused of manipulating four teens into committing suicide is set to begin today.
Marvin G. Radcliffe, 57, is charged with causing suicide as criminal homicide, involuntary manslaughter and criminal conspiracy in the deaths of four youths who died last year.
Radcliffe’s alleged accomplice in the crimes, substitute teacher Vincent P. Gillespie, 28, was killed in a shootout with police in April 2018.
Prosecutors allege the two men were producing child pornography involving the four victims. In an effort to avoid detection, the men created a white-noise app called Soma that contained subliminal messages urging the youths to commit suicide, according to prosecutors.
In addition, Radcliffe, who was also counseling the teens, coaxed them into suicide during sessions, according to prosecutors.
Both men were initially charged with producing child pornography, but prosecutors dropped that charge against Radcliffe after Gillespie’s death. Prosecutors say they believe Radcliffe destroyed his computers and other evidence, and that Gillespie had been their link to connecting him with that offense.
“Unfortunately, these suspects were tipped off about their impending arrests ahead of time,” District Attorney Robert Phillips said. “Despite that setback, my office is committed to ensuring that these victims get justice, and that Dr. Marvin Radcliffe will be held accountable to the fullest extent of the law.”
The deaths began with the Feb. 10, 2018, hanging death of 16-year-old Kingston resident Justin Gonzalez, but
the case did not make news until Kimberly Foster killed herself on March 22, 2018.
Foster, a 15-year-old cheerleader at Hanover Area High School, fatally shot herself in a live web video that went viral.
A week later, Emma Nguyen, a 16-year-old junior at Coughlin High School in Wilkes-Barre, committed suicide by jumping off the Market Street Bridge.
The final death connected to the case was that of David Kowalski, a 17-year-old Nanticoke boy who shot himself at home on April 5, 2018.
The trial is expected to last the week.
The article incensed Daly — and he hadn’t even bothered to look at the Other Paper’s version, which no doubt identified him as an Observer reporter, if not by name. There was no mention of the fact that Radcliffe could still spend decades in prison. In fact, a conviction on the remaining charges would still be tantamount to a life sentence for a man of Radcliffe’s age. To Daly, it was a transparent attempt by the DA to set up a scapegoat in case he couldn’t bring home a tough, high-profile trial. But the media, ever-quick to spotlight drama, had eaten it up without even pausing to question the DA’s motivation for making such a statement.
Daly thought about taking the elevator, then thought better of it. The long climb to the third floor would give him a bit of exercise before a long day in court and cut back on the chances of him running into someone he didn’t want to see — such as Jennifer Talmadge or Robert Phillips.
Daly reached the top of the worn stone staircase and encountered dozens of defendants conversing with attorneys outside the courtrooms. Every chair and stretch of railing on the interior balconies surrounding a vast rotunda seemed to be occupied. From the balconies, the defendants could look down to see people scurrying up the stairs from the first floor or look up to see stained glass windows and intricate murals painted onto the dome above. Most of them occupied themselves by pecking at their cellphones and hushing crying babies.
As Daly rounded the bend to Courtroom Four, he could see Phil Wojcik was among the people gathered around waiting for opening statements to begin.