The Criminal Mind

by Thomas Benigno

  I squeezed her hand. “Despite all our good intentions, and no matter how hard we work at it, we can’t save the world. It’s something we have to live with, but it doesn’t mean we have to stop trying.” Lauren patted her eyes with a napkin. “But you’re right,” I added. “As much as I wanted to see you again, there’s more to this dinner invitation that just catching up. If you must know, I could use your help.”

  “You said that you read about my new job, but I don’t think you know the half of it,” she answered. “I met with the head of the news division yesterday. They want me to produce a show similar to Dateline and 48 Hours, and they want me to do it for CNN.”

  “That’s great. So, you’ll also be in front of the camera?”

  “Probably. If they deem me camera-ready, so to speak.” Lauren made quote signs with her fingers.

  “Trust me. You’re camera-ready, and I mean that like a proud uncle. You either don’t know how beautiful you are, or you don’t care. Either way, that’s one of the traits that makes you so special.”

  “Okay now, that’s enough, Uncle Nick. I only told you by way of explaining why I may not be in a position to help you right now.”

  “I understand,” I said, while not the least bit convinced. I handed Lauren notes I had on all I had come to learn thus far about Mia and the recently discovered bodies. “I have a sneaking suspicion that the more you dig—and the more you find out about what happened to this young girl and others—as a true investigative journalist, you won’t be able to stay away.”

  As I entered my apartment after the dinner with Lauren, I reflexively glanced over at the couch where Eleanor would sip a glass of red wine before turning in. The two-bedroom penthouse high above the city had always provided the quiet seclusion we both loved; and she never looked more comfortable and at peace with herself than sitting there and drinking that glass of Merlot. Sometimes she would catch me staring at her and make a face as if to say: “What, you never saw me drink wine before?” And the answer I always thought to say but never did was: You look so content and happy. At least now, I haven’t failed you. As I stood in the entryway and sadly reminisced, that sinking feeling that came with the realization of irreversible loss returned. Then I heard my Moon River ringtone and pulled my cellphone out of my pocket. According to the area code, the call was coming from Franklin, Tennessee.

  A nurse was on the phone.

  Maureen had been physically assaulted in her apartment. She was in Rolling Hills Hospital, and in stable condition. That’s all the nurse could tell me. She had no idea what happened, nor could she comment on how badly Maureen was hurt. I asked her to pass along the message that I would be boarding the next flight to Nashville. Unfortunately, that next flight was not until 6:00 a.m.

  After I hung up, I immediately called Maureen’s cell, but got no answer. I kept trying until the calls went from busy, right to voicemail. When I called the hospital back, I was told that Maureen had not opened an account for a bedside phone.

  The next morning, I was in Tennessee and walking into Maureen’s hospital room just as breakfast was being served. I breathed a sigh of relief. She was awake in her bed and didn’t have any bruises or injuries that I could see.

  “I thought you were in New York.” She seemed surprised and happy to see me. She even lifted her head up.

  “I volunteer here and didn’t want to miss my shift.”

  She smiled weakly. “You’re funny…and I would laugh, except I was hit in the head, and I’m afraid it might hurt if I do.” She reached for my hand. “So…you’re back?”

  “Just to see how you’re doing. Then, I’m sorry, but I have to return to New York.”

  “It was so sweet of you to come. My God, that last-minute flight must have been expensive. You didn’t have to. I’m fine, really.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  “I have a concussion. It’s not serious. They ran tests. No internal swelling. Just a bump.”

  “Otherwise though, you’re okay?” I leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips.

  “Oh, yes. I don’t even think anything was taken. I guess I scared him away.”

  “Did you get a good look at him?”

  “I got no look at him—assuming it was a him. I heard movement and then got hit from behind.”

  “You look fine though. Really.”

  “Thank you, but Nick, can you do me a favor? The police were nice enough to bring me my purse. Can you take my keys and get me some clothes? I asked a girlfriend to do it, but she was too afraid to go in the apartment. I’m told the police dusted for fingerprints, but they’re done; so I figure it’s okay to go in now. They’re letting me go home soon and I’d love to have something fresh to wear.”

  “Of course. I came back to help in any way I can.”

  “And I’m so happy you did.” Maureen squeezed my hand.

  “And when you get released, you’re coming back home with me.”

  Maureen sighed with relief. “Thanks. I would like that.”

  I called a taxi from the hospital lobby to take me home. When I arrived, I didn’t even bother going into the house. I got in my car and drove to Maureen’s apartment on Main Street.

  Upon arriving at her building, I first checked the outside door and then her apartment door on the second floor to see if either the lock or the doorframe showed any sign of a forced entry. They didn’t. Once inside, I looked around—and not only was there no sign of a break-in, there was no indication that the police had been there.

  After I went into the kitchen and grabbed a garbage bag, I went about packing a few things on a list she had given me. As I continued to move about the apartment that consisted of merely a bedroom, living room and kitchen, the absence of any indication that the place had been burglarized began to concern me even more. Before I left, I made a point of checking the windows. They were all locked.

  When I returned to the hospital, I handed Maureen some fresh clothes to wear. While she was in the bathroom changing, a short, stocky, clean-shaven man in his 50s with gray crew-cut hair came into the room. He introduced himself as Detective McCormick. I introduced myself as “Maureen’s ride home.”

  When she exited the bathroom, she smiled at the detective and shook his hand. She seemed to be walking well and appeared to have her energy back.

  “I just wanted to fill in you and the Mrs.,” he said.

  “I’m not a Mrs.,” Maureen countered. “I’m divorced.” She then gestured in my direction. “This is my good friend, Nick.”

  “We’ve met,” I added.

  McCormick spoke plainly. “I’m glad to see that other than a nasty bump on your head, you seem to be doing fine.”

  “Let’s hope she stays that way,” I said. “With a concussion, it’s hard to tell.”

  “True. Very true,” he answered. “It is hard to tell.” I wasn’t sure if the detective was being sarcastic, insensitive, or just blunt. He then turned to Maureen. “There was no damage to your doors or windows. Did anyone else have a key to your apartment?” The detective looked at me. “Your ex-husband? Any of your children?”

  “My son is in the military and overseas,” she answered. “No one has a key to my apartment but me.”

  “We’ll have the fingerprint results in a week or two, but I have a feeling we’re not going to find anything there either,” he said. “Do you have any medical history that might have caused you to just pass out, fall and hit your head?” He seemed to be expressing sympathy while asking what could have been interpreted as an obnoxious question.

  “No,” Maureen responded. “And that’s not what happened. I felt a blow to my head caused by something hitting it, like a hard object. I passed out right after.”

  “Did you hear anything unusual before you passed out?”

  “Uhm, no.”

  “Your neighbor, the widow on the top fl
oor, found you because your door was left open.”

  “There you have it. I never leave my door open,” Maureen said. “And I clearly remember being home for about a minute or two before I was struck. And I also remember locking the door behind me after I came in, like I always do.”

  “Well then,” he added, while shrugging his shoulders. “Please let me know if there’s anything else you recall, whether you think it’s important or not. Can I reach you at your apartment, if I need to?” He handed Maureen his card.

  “I’m not going right home,” she said. “I’m staying with a friend tonight.” Maureen glanced at me.

  McCormick took notice. “Do you want to give me the address of where you’re staying, in case I have to get in touch with you?” he asked.

  “You can call her on her cell,” I interrupted. This detective was fishing, as if trying to piece together a love triangle that had gone bad. Either way, in the age of cellphones, his request for her address seemed a bit peculiar.

  Maureen glanced over at me. “Yes, just call and we can talk then,” she said. “No one wants to know who broke into my apartment and knocked me unconscious more than I do.”

  I eyeballed McCormick and smiled. “I’d also like to know.”

  After Detective McCormick left, the head nurse came in and Maureen signed her release papers. She took home instructions for post-hospital care and received an appointment for a follow-up visit with the attending physician.As we were about to leave, she looked around the room. “My cellphone…I thought I left it on the table by the bed.”

  “You think someone took it?” I asked.

  “Everyone was so nice,” she said. “I certainly hope not.”

  “Are you sure you had it with you when you were taken to the hospital? I tried calling you a few times yesterday, but there was no answer.”

  “Positive.”

  “Since I’ve been here, I haven’t seen it. I’m sorry, Maureen, but are you sure you had it with you? You suffered a concussion, after all.”

  “I know, but I’m sure I had it.”

  “Then someone must have taken it…but why?”

  If it were nighttime, outdoor lights would have illuminated the entire perimeter of the stately colonial that Eleanor and I had called home for over six years.

  A stickler for security, I installed an alarm system immediately after we closed on the house, along with cameras around the periphery, which meant that every exterior movement would be recorded and saved on a DVR for at least 30 days. Installing a house alarm in Franklin, though not unheard of, was rare. But cameras? Aside from famous country western singers, many of whom made their homes in and around Nashville, Eleanor and I were the only people we knew of who had them. After all, this was not New York. Franklin, Tennessee was considered one of the safest communities in the country.

  Jump to 2018, and I’m coasting up the long driveway to my home atop two acres—not with Eleanor, but with Maureen—and with her assault less than 24 hours old, all I could think about was keeping her safe.

  I didn’t have to ask myself why I cared for Maureen, although her similarities to Eleanor were few, and her differences many. Maureen was no heiress. She lived paycheck-to-paycheck. My mom and stepdad lived that way their entire lives. As for Maureen’s ethnicity, I never asked. I would have guessed Irish or Scottish, although her eyes had an oval shape that seemed more Eastern European than Celtic. But what did it matter? I cared about her, and I was determined to protect her as long as she would let me.

  “As usual, your house looks beautiful,” she said as she gazed up at it through the windshield.

  “With the perimeter lights, cameras, and alarm, you’ll be safe here,” I said.

  “I sometimes wonder if you’re expecting a Russian attack,” she said, jokingly. “I know you didn’t do all this for me.”

  I chuckled. The Russians were about the only people I wasn’t afraid of. “Being a retired criminal defense attorney from New York might explain it, I suppose.”

  “I do recall you saying something about that, though you’re not big on detail,” she said cutely.

  “I suppose you can always Google whatever else you want to know about me.” I was feeling awkward and showing it. I should have expected this to happen as I developed stronger feelings for her—recent events notwithstanding.

  She took my hand. “Nick, I’m not going to Google you,” she said with gentle seriousness. “Did you Google me?”

  “Of course not.” I sounded defensive, probably because I regretted bringing the subject up in the first place.

  “Whatever you want me to know about you, you’ll tell me,” she said. “Whatever you don’t want me to know, I’m sure I’ll eventually find out anyway.” She laughed and kissed me twice on the cheek.

  If it were ever possible for me to forget about Eleanor, those two kisses and that laugh would have done it for me.

  After spending the afternoon nestled together in the den, Maureen and I ordered dinner from a local pizzeria. I insisted on cleaning up. I wanted Maureen to rest. At 9:00 p.m., she thanked me profusely “for everything,” gave me quite the passionate kiss, and then went to bed in the guest bedroom we often shared when she slept over. The master bedroom was never an option. I couldn’t even bring myself to show it to her and was grateful that she never asked me to. She even claimed that she had never slept better than in the guest bedroom’s four-post canopy bed that faced east and the early morning sun.

  Since I wasn’t nearly as tired, I went back into the den to sort through the mail that had accumulated over the last couple of days in my absence. Searching for the letter opener, I heard my Moon River ring tone again. It was my son, John, and he wasn’t happy.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me, Dad.”

  “You got my voicemail.”

  “I got it, alright. You come to New York then leave without seeing Charlotte and me, not to mention Sofia, who’s always asking about you.”

  “That was not by choice. I planned to see all of you, but a friend of mine down here had some trouble and I had to take the next plane out.”

  “Well, is he okay?”

  “It’s Maureen, and she was struck on the head by a burglar, but she seems to be doing fine.”

  “Holy crap. Where are you now?”

  “I’m in the den. Maureen is sleeping in a guestroom upstairs. I couldn’t let her go back home just yet.”

  “I can understand that.” John was sounding more agreeable by the second.

  “Looks like she’s going to be okay though. It doesn’t seem to be a bad concussion, or the hospital wouldn’t have released her.”

  “Let me know if I can help.”

  “That’s very nice of you, but we’re good for now. I’ll be back in New York very soon. I have some business there.”

  “What do you mean by very soon?”

  “A day or two. I just have to figure out what to do with Maureen. I don’t want her going back to her apartment. If she’s up to it, I may take her with me.”

  “Really? And how well do you even know this woman?”

  “Well, we’ve been seeing each other for a few months now. So, I know her fairly well, I suppose.”

  “What’s a few?”

  “Six.”

  “Six isn’t a few, Dad. Listen, just call me when you get back to New York, and if you bring Maureen, I want to meet her. I’m sure Charlotte does too—and I don’t have to tell you how pissed she is.”

  “Both of you should know better. I would never leave without seeing you if I didn’t have to. I miss you guys, and you know how fond I am of Sofia. Apologize for me.”

  “We miss you too, and maybe, just maybe, your son and daughter will get to meet this mystery woman.”

  Though I had a greater and more significant mystery weighing on me—like that of buried children in Upstate Ne
w York—I answered cheerfully. “Sooner than you think. I promise. And give my best to Sofia.”

  After having fallen asleep in the den while watching The Godfather for the umpteenth time, I woke up the following morning at 8:00 a.m.—thoughts swirling around in my head about misbegotten men and unfulfilled dreams.

  I must have grabbed the blanket I kept on the arm of the sofa and covered myself, because I awoke hot and uncomfortable. After a quick shower, I brewed coffee in the Cuisinart and waited until about 11:00 a.m. before I went to check on Maureen. I knocked on her door and asked if she would like some eggs for breakfast. She sounded groggy and unsure of how to answer. “Oh, that would be great. Yes. My God, I can’t believe I slept this late.”

  “Rest is good for you. Come down when you’re ready and I’ll start breakfast.”

  “That’s wonderful. And you’re wonderful!” Maureen shouted back.

  I knew I had to get right back to New York, and waited for Maureen to finish her breakfast before I broached the subject with her. When I did, I saw instant disappointment on her face, and even worse—fear.

  “You don’t have to go back to your apartment,” I added. “I didn’t mean to suggest that. You can stay here…as long as you like. You can look after things for me.”

  “You mean I’ll be alone in this big house.” She looked around and shrugged her shoulders, then thought again. “I’m sorry. I’ll be fine.” She stared down at her empty plate, avoiding eye contact. And the longer she did, the worse I felt.

  I got up from the table. “The hell with staying here. Come with me.”

  She looked up, but her sad expression remained. “I can’t, Nick. And wouldn’t the plane fare be expensive on such short notice?”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ve got points. It won’t cost me anything.” I was lying and hoping to avoid further talk about the fare.

  “I don’t believe you and I can’t let you do that. I can’t go. I just can’t. I have my job here.”

  “Under the circumstances, I’m sure your boss will understand.”