The Criminal Mind

by Thomas Benigno

  “Let’s just say, she knows,” he answered sheepishly.

  Seconds later, Charlie called Mia from his cellphone, and in less than half-an-hour, she was sitting right across from us. She was exactly as I pictured—a lovely, petite, teenage girl. After approaching and shaking my hand, she looked around at the cafeteria filled with veterans, mostly men, eating their lunches in wheelchairs, some with crutches by their sides.

  With a face filled with empathy, she sat down. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Mannino. I’m Mia Langley.” She spoke with confident politeness.

  “Nice to meet you, too. And how are you doing today?”

  “I’m fine, thank you, and how are you doing?”

  “I’m good,” I answered. “Charlie tells me that you wanted to meet me.”

  “I read in the paper about that boy found in the box. Charlie said that you might be able to find out what happened to him.”

  “He did, did he?” I looked over at Charlie, who instantly raised his eyebrows in an expression of fake apology.

  “And he said that if I wanted to, I could speak to you directly” she continued.

  “I see,” I answered, none too happy about the direction the conversation was taking. “I’m sorry you had to read about that, Mia.” I thought again. “By the way, how do you know that it was a boy found in that box? From what I understand, there were only bones and a book inside.”

  “It was a boy, Mr. Mannino. I just know it. And that box—it’s the same type of box that I was put in as a child. The very same.”

  Mia then went on to tell us a bit more than we ever expected, or wanted to hear.

  Disturbed by Mia’s story, once I got back to my apartment, I immediately called Paul Tarantino.

  A Secret Service agent in the President’s detail from George Bush Sr. until Junior’s first term, Paul was one of the very best private investigators money could buy. More like a high-priced fixer, in 2010, he proved invaluable in the hunt and capture of the Jones Beach serial killer. With his contacts in government and law enforcement—along with the assistance of Jasmine, his crack computer hacker—he was able to accomplish what the police and the FBI failed to. In the end, we both risked our lives and brought to a violent conclusion the serial killings of young women on Long Island—all prostitutes plying their trade in and around New York City and God knows where else.

  Though Paul was a stranger to me when we met, I paid him handsomely and added a huge bonus if he was successful in finding the killer––an offer he ultimately refused. Paul didn’t need any additional incentive, and with his expertise in criminal investigations, no one is more adept at finding a missing person than he is.

  Six times since 2010 I hired Paul to find missing children, and six times he succeeded. Success, however, doesn’t always guarantee that the child will be found alive and well, as I sadly discovered. I left him a voicemail stating that I would be in need of his services, and added that this investigation might be the most disturbing he’d ever conduct.

  He called me back in less than two minutes. “Going soft, Nick?”

  “Maybe I’m just getting old,” I answered.

  “You’re not that old. Stop hiding behind your sixty-plus years and that dye job of yours.”

  “My brown hair is a genetic aberration. Put up serious money and I’ll prove it to you.”

  “I prefer you use your money for more worthwhile ventures. Now, why’d you call me? What’s so disturbing?”

  “I heard the most horrible story. At first, I couldn’t listen. Funny thing, even with our history, I wasn’t ready.”

  “The last time we worked together, we were in a basement torture chamber.” He was referring to the Jones Beach killer’s underground bunker. “Maybe you are going soft.”

  “No. It’s probably because I’ve been languishing in the real world for a change and the nightmares are finally behind me. And I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “Nick, there’s nothing you’re going to tell me that I haven’t already heard or seen.”

  “I don’t know about that. Apparently, this young girl, now 18, was repeatedly kept in a locked wooden box when she was little.”

  “Repeatedly? Was she someone’s prisoner? Was she kidnapped for a long period of time?”

  “Actually, no. It’s complicated.”

  “It always is, but that doesn’t answer the question of how someone did this to her and got away with it many times over.”

  “It may be more than just one person who’s responsible. For that reason and others, I’m afraid this particular investigation is going to be exceedingly difficult.”

  “They’re all difficult.”

  “Not like this. I have a sinking feeling that we’re not just dealing with a sick criminal or two, but an entire enterprise.”

  “And when exactly did all this supposedly happen?”

  “It happened when she was six or seven years old. She lived in Manhattan at the time, and still does. As far as being kept in a box and the abuse she suffered, that happened somewhere in Upstate New York, in or near a town called Cartersville.”

  “And how do you know all this?

  “First, from one of the veterans at the center who knows her. His name is Charlie Malone. Then, from the young girl herself…and her witnesses, you might say.”

  “Witnesses?”

  “Yeah, alters.”

  “Alters? You mean like other personalities? Nick, what the hell are you involved in now? Are you telling me that we’ve got witnesses who aren’t really witnesses?”

  “Maybe. And Paul…with this one, I have a suspicion that the small-town police force up there isn’t going to be of much help, if they’re not already part of the problem.”

  I just had to see my son and daughter while in New York. Both had late night meetings, however, so I didn’t press them right away for a get together.

  John had to prepare for oral argument in the United States Court of Appeals, while Charlotte and key members of her staff were wining and dining a super-rich investment type in the hope of gaining his business. I suppose everyone has his or her own journey. I don’t doubt that my Charlotte will retire young and filthy rich (even richer than she is now), while John will keep working until his head hits the desk for the last time. My predictions—as far as my children are concerned—have been wrong before, and I suspect will be wrong again.

  While in Manhattan, I stayed, as I always did, at my apartment on 51st Street and Second Avenue, a two-bedroom penthouse with spectacular views of the city.

  Though I had planned on going right to bed, after my phone call with Paul, I just couldn’t get Mia out of my mind. The next morning, I rented a car and drove out to Long Island to see him. His offices were still in the same village where Eleanor and I once had a home and raised our kids.

  I hadn’t been back to Garden City since recuperating from my serial killer injuries, and then selling the house on Hillcrest Place. When I entered Paul’s suite of offices, they were exactly as I remembered—file boxes in the corners of every room. Jasmine, the computer genius, was at her desk in her own neatly kept private office.

  In her mid-30s and as fit as Broadway dancer, with skin a glowing shade of terracotta, Jasmine was a woman of very few words. But when she did speak, it was to parse out pearls of invaluable information no one else could find.

  A strapping figure in his custom fitted suit, at six-feet-two, Paul greeted me with a firm handshake as I walked past the reception area. “You look good,” he said loudly, and then gave me a warm hug. “A hell of a lot better than the last time I saw you.”

  “Serial killers have that effect on people. And hospital beds aren’t meant to be flattering.”

  “How’s the leg?” he asked, as we walked toward his corner office.

  “I can’t seem to completely shake the limp that everyone else seems oblivi
ous to but me.”

  “What limp?”

  “Thanks, but it comes and goes. And I know you’re full of shit, anyway.”

  “I don’t see a limp. You want me to lie?” Paul was a good liar.

  “Let’s talk about Mia, the young girl I called you about.” I entered his office and sat down. Paul leaned against the wall. “We’re going to have to be very careful with this one.” My tone was ominous.

  “You make me laugh,” he said, as he walked around his desk. “We almost got killed last time, and now we have to be careful?”

  “Laugh all you want, but this is no laughing matter.”

  “Nick, this is very sketchy stuff…alternate personalities? C’mon, and this whole thing about the box—”

  “Now listen. There’s more. They found a kid’s bones in a wooden crate just outside Cartersville—the same town Mia said she was taken to. She also said she was put in a box exactly like the one they found the bones in. As far as I’m concerned, this changes everything. We’ve got to get up there and see what we can find out. This poor girl still has the scars on her arms from the lit cigarettes.”

  Paul just stared at me blankly.

  “Listen, I know we have a whole lot here to substantiate,” I added. “But this teenager, Mia…she may be unusual, but she’s very bright. And she believes the abductions are still taking place. And you know what? I think she may be right.”

  I was pleased when Paul immediately brought Jasmine up to speed on the purpose of my visit. Paul’s confidence in her was not lost on me. She knew how to hack and tap technological sources in ways that were impenetrable to almost anyone else. Without Jasmine’s help, Long Island’s Jones Beach killer would still be murdering young prostitutes.

  After I left Paul’s office, I couldn’t resist. I drove up to Hillcrest Place and passed by the home that Eleanor and I raised our children in—our house on the hill that abutted the Garden City Country Club and golf course. I had purchased it in 1985 as a show-off gesture to my in-laws, even though I used a portion of my Uncle Rocco’s inheritance to do it.

  And it hadn’t changed a lick since I sold it back in 2010.

  I pulled over and parked. Memories of my life with Eleanor came flooding back, putting me in a melancholy trance, while the reel of a blurry home movie I directed and wished I could do over, ran in my head. Consumed by my work, I ignored my wife on bad days, and on good ones took her for granted, giving back little to nothing in return. In a futile attempt to console her, I once overheard my daughter, Charlotte, say to her mother: “Dad loves you in his own way.” The truth is, I loved Eleanor in every way. I just had a hard time showing it.

  After a few minutes that seemed like hours, my trip down the crooked path of memory lane took a turn when my cellphone jolted me back to reality, and another old friend was returning my call.

  Back in 2010, when the bones of four prostitutes were found stuffed inside burlap bags and left to rot along the South Shore Beaches of Long Island, Lauren Callucci’s sense of hearth and home had been irreversibly altered. Her sister was one of the dead.

  With the help of a seasoned yet semi-retired criminal defense attorney (yours truly), and a former White House Secret Service agent turned private investigator (Paul Tarantino), the truth behind her sister’s disappearance was unearthed, and eventually, so was the identity of the killer.

  In the end, Lauren lost a lot more than just the sister she loved. Though both were victims of child abuse, one had turned to drugs and a life of prostitution, while the other became a reporter for Long Island’s largest newspaper and then a CNN foreign correspondent. But even after the Jones Beach killer was eventually brought to justice, Lauren’s psychological and emotional damage remained. The truth (cloaked in the identity of the killer) was one grim reaper, and the connection Lauren and I had made was regrettably destroyed by it.

  The same age as my daughter, Charlotte, when Lauren left New York in 2010 to take the job overseas, it saddened me to see her leave. I wanted to help her—mentor her back to psychological health—whatever the cost. But when she escaped to the Middle East and a land of sand, bombs, and artillery fire, all I could do was hope that in the pursuit of a greater purpose, she would find some inner peace––some resolution.

  When in the spring of 2018, I heard she was back in New York, I reached out to her. Only this time, unlike 2010, it was I who was seeking her help.

  Framed caricatures of actors, agents, producers, directors––all part of the Broadway community—filled every square inch of available wall space throughout Sardi’s Midtown Manhattan restaurant. Central to the Theater District, it is one of the most famous dining establishments in the world. Eleanor and I had eaten there often, and I was pleased to find that the well-groomed maître d’ remembered me as soon as I walked in. When he asked if Eleanor would be joining me, I told him no, and why. Genuinely saddened, he grabbed my hand and arm in a sympathetic embrace. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “She was a lovely woman. I will pray for her.” Consequently, that hollow empty feeling that I thought I had successfully kept under quarantine returned. I should have known better. Returning to New York had its own memories. As the maître d’ escorted me to a table in the corner (a favorite of mine), I tried in vain to shake off images in my head of Eleanor walking in beside me, sitting down, looking at the menu, and ordering the apple pie with vanilla ice cream for dessert.

  “I’m here on business,” I told him. “I also see that the person I’m meeting has just walked in.” I waved to get Lauren’s attention.

  When I last saw her, she was twenty-eight years old and carrying more emotional baggage than anyone should ever have to. Eight years later, she looked even younger. Gone were the faded jeans, the T-shirt and the dowdy, pugnacious look. Well-dressed in a blouse and skirt, she was also wearing makeup—the first time I had ever seen her do so.

  She greeted me with a big smile and a warm hug. Standing before me was a Lauren I had never seen before.

  “So glad you could come. It’s great to see you,” I said. “When I heard you were overseas and in Aleppo, I was worried about you.”

  “I was worried about me too,” she said as we both sat down.

  “Is it as bad as I’ve seen on the news?” I asked.

  “Worse.”

  “So why did you stay so long?”

  Lauren looked away. Then she looked back at me. “After my sister’s murder, there was nothing left for me here in New York. I had to get away to a place where my reporting could make a difference—do a hell of a lot more good than it was doing here—and in the process maybe find some meaning to this life.”

  “There will always be meaning to your life. That’s because of the extraordinary woman you are. Don’t ever forget that.”

  “Thank you, but some us have to search and find it on our own terms. In Kabul, and then in Syria, I understood what it was like to live in a country at war—to be entirely at its mercy, to have no control over your life—and how insignificant that can make you feel. You think you matter, and then you don’t. I also understand now why soldiers get drawn to the field of battle, even seduced by it. Life is so much simpler when bullets are flying past your ears and bombs are dropping from the sky, and your only goal is to stay alive. It’s an odd confluence of feelings.”

  I patted her hand. “The important thing is that you’re back home and in one piece.”

  “Never thought I would appreciate New York so much,” she said. “So many bad memories, you would think I would never want to come back.”

  “Time to make some new ones. What are you, thirty-four?”

  “Thirty-six this year.”

  “The greater part of your life is still ahead of you. And from what I read on CNN’s website, you’re back in investigative journalism––your first love. Am I right?”

  “Why do I sense you’re going somewhere with this?”


  “I’m just so very happy for you.”

  “Thank you,” she said with amusing hesitancy in her voice.

  “You heard about Eleanor?”

  “While overseas, I read The New York Times every day. I was so hungry for stateside news. I even read the obituaries. I’m sorry, Nick…truly sorry about Eleanor.”

  “Thank you. I’m just beginning to learn how to live past the sadness. I was depressed…I don’t know…for many months after she passed. That was the hardest—that hollow feeling of hopelessness.”

  I then remembered that Lauren became uncomfortable when the conversation got too personal, so it came as no surprise to me when she changed the subject. “And your son and daughter?”

  “They’re good, very good. Thanks for asking. I’m having dinner with them tomorrow.”

  “Glad to hear it,” she said with a broad smile. “Now tell me…what else is on your mind?”

  I told her about Mia.

  “In Manhattan, young women go missing on a regular basis in numbers that would be considered shocking––mostly prostitutes and runaways,” she said. “Many of them are eventually accounted for, but yes, cases of missing children north of New York City and Westchester County are always coming across the Associated Press wire.”

  “I’ve also got Paul Tarantino on it,” I said.

  She didn’t seem surprised. She remembered him from 2010. Not that Paul was hard to forget.

  Since I didn’t want Lauren to think that Mia was the only reason I had asked her to dinner, I changed the subject, and before I knew it, we got so caught up in conversation that the restaurant nearly emptied out, and only a handful of non-theatergoers remained.

  As Lauren went on to tell it, her time in Aleppo, Syria, was especially disturbing. While leaving the country, she even tried to sneak a little girl out in the hope of saving her and someday reuniting her with her mother—but the Syrian government’s armed forces were unyielding and yanked the child from her arms at the airport in Damascus.