The Criminal Mind

by Thomas Benigno

  “That’s right, sir,” the driver responded.

  “Where are we going now?” Charlie asked.

  “We’re going to see a psychiatrist,” I answered. “We have an appointment.”

  “This should be fun,” Charlie said sarcastically.

  “Let’s see what she is willing to tell us—without a waiver,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t hold my breath,” Charlie answered.

  Dr. Field’s office was located in a four-story mixed-use building that housed a restaurant on the ground floor. After we entered the lobby through a separate doorway, a man sitting behind a counter in a security uniform took my name and directed us to the elevator. We took it to the third floor, where it opened into a waiting room that looked like it hadn’t been updated since Ronald Reagan was president. Even the magazines were several years old, and the dust on the bookcases behind an empty reception desk was visible from across the room. But no sooner did I sit down and Charlie wheel up next to me, than a door opened up inside the wall of books and Dr. Field entered. She was in her mid-fifties, wearing a pantsuit and a loose-fitting vest that she habitually tugged on in an apparent attempt to hide her obesity. Her manner was less than welcoming. “Who are you two gentlemen, anyway?” she asked, and then paused for a moment to take in the sight of Charlie in his wheelchair. I do believe she tempered her remarks thereafter as a result.

  I stood and extended my hand. “My name is Nick Mannino, and this is Mr. Charlie Malone.”

  “I don’t shake hands,” she said abruptly. “And Mr. Mannino—are you here for a session or not? Because I checked with Beatrice, and she hasn’t the foggiest idea of who you are.”

  “I’m sorry for any misunderstanding, but we do need to speak to you—provided of course, your answers do not compromise the delicate doctor-patient privilege.” I had no idea why I was speaking sarcastically. I either didn’t like the doctor’s manner, or for some reason I just didn’t like her. Either way, this was not an appropriate way for a PI to begin asking questions, especially of someone who could rightfully hide behind the cloak of legal confidentiality. But I wasn’t a PI. I was a retired lawyer flying by the seat of my pants as a private investigator, just as I did the last time I teamed up with Paul. Evidently, in my six-year layover, I had grown quite rusty at the task. Even Charlie’s expression conveyed his disappointment in me.

  As for Dr. Field, she wasn’t letting up. “So, what you’re saying is that you dropped Beatrice’s name just to get me to clear this hour for you.”

  “Yes, and no. Actually, this is about Beatrice. Her adopted daughter, Mia, is your patient. I assume that Beatrice is not.”

  “Beatrice is my friend.” Dr. Field’s emphasis on the word ‘friend’ was a sign that we shouldn’t expect her to be breaching any unwritten oaths of personal loyalty. I also didn’t expect professionalism to rule the day either. While Charlie was as cool as a cucumber, I was using every ounce of self-control I could to contain my resentment of a doctor who probably listened for years to atrocities against children, all the while indifferent to whether it was continuing or not.

  “I’m not asking you to talk about anything that would make you feel uncomfortable, and nothing that Beatrice wouldn’t have to answer to if she were subpoenaed herself.”

  The doctor’s eyes widened, as did Charlie’s. I questioned the wisdom of raising the specter of a subpoena at this early stage. It was a gamble, and one that I hoped would result in getting Dr. Field to talk, though there was a good chance it would backfire and I’d immediately be shown the door. But since honoring subpoenas, or bringing motions to quash them, have a way of producing large legal bills (not to mention the lost billable hours when doctors are called away to testify), Dr. Field relented and asked us to step into her private office.

  Once inside, the décor changed to ‘contemporary minimalist,’ and was a bit too sterile for my taste. I like wood, and since there was very little of it, I sat on her circa 1980s couch instead of one of her thinly designed Art Deco guest chairs.

  Charlie, to his credit, let me do the talking, but no sooner did we settle in than Dr. Field tried to turn the tables on us. “I knew your name sounded familiar,” she said, as she walked behind her desk and plopped down in a plump leather chair. “You’re the guy who caught the Jones Beach killer.” She pointed at me with her upturned hand.

  “A lot of people are responsible for catching the Jones Beach killer,” I said, trying to hide my discomfort. “I was just someone dumb enough to confront him who wound up getting a couple of knife wounds to show for it.”

  “That’s a lot of bull,” Charlie interrupted. “He went in to save his friend.”

  I waved Charlie off. “Regardless, we’re here because we’re investigating cases of missing children in Upstate New York.”

  Dr. Field’s demeanor softened. “Fine. If I can help you regarding missing children, I will. Of course I will, but I want you to know I’m not crazy about subpoenas. My ex-husband was a lawyer, and I don’t need or want to contribute any more to that ugly profession than I have to. So, ask me what you will. I’m just not sure how much I can help you. My sessions with Mia are, of course, confidential.”

  “I understand and respect that,” I said. “So, let me ask you this: Can you tell us how Mia came to be adopted by Beatrice Langley?”

  Lauren had given us plenty of information on it, but I was certain that Dr. Field had a more complete version to tell. Besides, this seemed like a safe question to start with, since it gave Dr. Field an opportunity to put Beatrice in a positive light.

  “See…this I can answer, and it’s also a matter of record, though those records, too, are confidential.” As Dr. Field spoke, with head back, elbow on the arm of her chair and pen dangling in her hand, I suspected that Charlie and I were about to get a whitewashed version of the adoption backstory. But that was fine with me. At least we got her talking. We could then take our openings as we found them. And as she continued, eyes rolled back and looking in all directions but ours, you would think she was theorizing on a landmark event in history to a class of college seniors. “I can help you with this because I know Beatrice wouldn’t mind, and neither would Mia. You see, Beatrice started out as Mia’s foster mom,” she said definitively. “It was a supervisor-friend of hers at Social Services who started the adoption ball rolling after Mia’s mother passed away. Mia’s birth name was Mia Archer. She was named after her mother, who was an actress—and who also had a terrible drug problem, courtesy of her drug dealer boyfriend. His name was Greg, and all I can safely tell you about him was that Mia called him ‘Uncle Greg.’ He would often conduct his drug business out of their crappy apartment off 10th Avenue. When a neighbor reported both him and Mia’s mother to the Bureau of Child Welfare, Mia was removed from the home.”

  “Did this ‘Uncle Greg’ hurt Mia in any way?” I asked.

  “I can’t speak to whether he did or not without Mia’s permission.”

  “Then what you’re saying is that he did hurt her,” Charlie said curtly.

  “I already answered that question the only way I can,” Dr. Field responded.

  “Please tell us whatever else you can, Dr. Field.” I was hoping politeness would work better than sarcasm and anger.

  “Regretfully, shortly after the adoption was finalized, Mia’s mother overdosed. The police showed up to question old ‘Uncle Greg,’ but he was nowhere to be found.”

  “Did Beatrice have any second thoughts about adopting the daughter of a drug addict, considering her husband’s high-level position in government?”

  Dr. Field adjusted her sitting position. She seemed to be suddenly uncomfortable in her chair. This was a question she was not expecting and as soon as I asked it, I was sorry I did. It was just too in-your-face. “It’s common knowledge that Beatrice and Reginald didn’t get along during their marriage. You could ask anyone that knew them. It’s no secr
et. Besides, he died before Mia came into the picture. He never even met her. He was driving back from a deer hunting trip—at least that’s where he told Beatrice he was going—when his car careened off the road. He passed away in the hospital shortly thereafter. Funny thing, though he didn’t own any rifles, deer hunting was something he did year-round. Peculiar if you ask me. Then again, so was he. He had told Beatrice that he used a friend’s rifles once he got there. He said he preferred it that way because he didn’t like traveling with weapons. He also told Beatrice that the site of the hunting ground was somewhere just south of Albany. When she asked him why he insisted on driving instead of flying up, he brushed her off with different excuses—like the drive wasn’t that long…he enjoyed the scenery…and the fares were too pricey on such short notice.”

  “Are you sure he was going deer hunting?” Charlie asked. “Better yet, was Beatrice sure he was going deer hunting?”

  “Yes. I even heard him say so myself when I was visiting once. It was during the month of May if I recall correctly. I was looking out the front window on to Park Avenue and admiring the flowers on the medium. Come to think of it, I also remember hearing Reginald say that he was a terrible shot.”

  “And you specifically remember him saying he was going deer hunting in the month of May?” Charlie asked.

  “Yes. It was May, definitely.”

  Charlie wasn’t done. “Dr. Field, are you aware that the New York State Department of Environmental Conservation only allows deer hunting in this state from late September to late January?” Charlie apparently knew a lot more about New York State’s environmental conservation laws than I did, which wasn’t saying much. I had never hunted in my life, though I did recall a cousin of mine from Staten Island once remark that the price of a good deer kill was freezing his nuts off in the process.

  “No,” she answered. “But that might explain things.”

  “How so?” Charlie asked.

  “Considering that the location of Reginald’s fatal car crash was just ten miles south of Cortland, on Route 81—though he wasn’t lying about going Upstate—he seemed to be about his exact destination.”

  “If he were coming from a hunting ground near Albany, he would have been on Route 87, not 81, which leads down from Cartersville and Syracuse,” Charlie added.

  Without being asked, Dr. Field also stated that she and Beatrice Langley had been friends since their teenage years, when they attended the same private high school for girls in Connecticut. As a result, Beatrice would always confide in her, she said, like “close friends do.”

  “So, what’s the explanation for Reginald being on 81 then?” Charlie had his suspicions, but nevertheless pressed Dr. Field for an answer.

  And Charlie got one, but not the one he expected.

  “Reginald was having an affair, plain and simple. At least that’s what Beatrice thought. The so-called ‘deer hunter’ was cheating on her with another woman. Beatrice was convinced of this and refused to accept any other explanation. As far as she was concerned, the marriage had become one of mere political convenience.”

  “I don’t buy it,” Charlie said under his breath.

  “That must’ve been hard on her,” I spoke up, hoping my expression of sympathy would override Charlie’s cynicism, while keeping Dr. Field chatty and engaged. There was no doubt that Dr. Field knew much more than she let on, and it wasn’t merely the issuance of a subpoena that she feared. It was the truth. Fortunately, she wasn’t finished with passing along what she believed we would assume was harmless information about an affair. But as she continued to talk—not as up-to-date on the news coming out of Cartersville as we were—she couldn’t have been more wrong. “Beatrice’s suspicions about an affair escalated one morning when she went to the dry cleaner and picked up one of Reginald’s dinner jackets that he had worn on his last so-called ‘hunting trip.’ Seems the presser had removed a receipt from one of the pockets and stapled it to the plastic wrap. It was a receipt from Toys ‘R’ Us for the purchase of several children’s books. Once Beatrice found it, not only did she suspect that her husband was having an affair, but that he had a second family as well.”

  “What were the names of the books?” Charlie asked.

  I looked at him as if to say: Why would that possibly matter? And Charlie continued to prove himself smarter than I gave him credit for.

  “Let me look,” Dr. Field answered matter-of-factly. “I still have the receipt. Beatrice gave it to me to hold eons ago, should she one day get up enough nerve to file for divorce.” Dr. Field pulled a cash register tape that was about eight inches long out of the recesses of her bottom desk drawer and read it out loud. “Oh look…there’s a couple of my daughter’s old favorites here.” She read off the titles light heartedly. “Freddy Spaghetti, Love You Forever, Dumbo, and lastly…Christmas Moon.”

  Christmas Moon was, in fact, a popular children’s book that had been published in 2005. Was it a coincidence that Reginald Langley, who was lying about his Upstate hunting trips, also purchased a copy of the same children’s book that was found buried along with the bones of a little boy? Was it also a coincidence that Mia, who was also placed in a box of the same type, happened to be adopted by his widow?

  Paul was right. We needed to get up to Cartersville—and fast.

  Near the conclusion of our meeting with Dr. Field, Charlie took a bold step. “And what about Mia and Upstate New York?” he asked.

  Dr. Field was adamant. “That’s confidential, and I do not have Mia’s consent to discuss that with you.”

  “And if you did?” Charlie asked.

  “That would be different,” she said. “But Mia can’t give that consent while she is still a minor. You will need Beatrice’s permission.”

  “Mia turned eighteen in December,” I said, careful not to sound adversarial.

  “Then if she is of sound mind, and she puts her consent in writing, perhaps that would change things.” Dr. Field rose from her chair. “Now one of you please write me a check for my time, as I have other appointments to attend to.”

  “And how much is that, Doctor?” I asked.

  “Seven-hundred-and-fifty dollars,” she answered.

  “That’s pretty steep. Isn’t the going-rate much less?”

  “That’s Mia’s rate, and since you used Beatrice Langley’s name to get this urgent appointment, that’s my rate to you.”

  I wrote a check to cash and handed it to her. “I suppose I should be grateful that my ailments are only physical,” I said wryly. “What is your usual rate, anyway?”

  “Three-hundred-and-seventy-five an hour.”

  “So, Mia pays double?” Charlie asked.

  “Her mother does and that’s because Mia is a special case.”

  “I’ll bet,” Charlie uttered under his breath.

  “And you’ve been having sessions with her since she was what, seven?” I was guessing wrong on purpose. “Isn’t that when she was adopted?”

  “Try age ten. And we had two—sometimes three—sessions per week,” she answered stoically.

  Charlie could contain himself no longer. “That’s eight years, which means we’re talking between five-hundred-thousand and a million in fees. Yeah, I would say she was special, all right.”

  The doctor’s response was deadpan. “Goodbye, gentlemen.”

  This place is so different from the city.

  Less people.

  Lots of trees.

  No traffic.

  Mia wishes her mom were here. I can feel it.

  Uncle Greg is driving, though he’s nobody’s uncle.

  I don’t know why we’ve come here.

  Such a long trip.

  The height of the mountains passing by us scares me.

  I heard Uncle Greg say something about cash and lots of it.

  Maybe that’s what these packages
are for.

  Melanie

  The flight time was less than forty minutes. Since I wanted Charlie to be comfortable, and there was no first class, the only upgrade was a seat with extra legroom—not exactly one Charlie would appreciate. When we boarded the plane and the attendant saw him in his wheelchair and wearing Marine fatigues, however, she placed us both in the first row after moving two paid passengers, whether they liked it or not. I only wished Charlie would have said “thank you,” so that I wouldn’t have had to say it twice. I was also grateful for the short flight, because Charlie didn’t stop talking the entire time we were in the air.

  Paul had already booked us into the Red Mill Inn when we arrived. Though located in Cartersville, it was not my first choice. I was hoping to keep the purpose of our visit secret for as long as possible, and would have preferred a major hotel where we would have been taken for just a couple of businessmen—no questions asked. When I confronted Paul about it in the hotel lobby, he posed a question that had its own answer: “What major hotel?” There was none.

  From the outside, The Red Mill Inn looked more like a big barn than a mill (not that I had seen many mills in my life). The rooms were large, clean, and had a fresh look and feel to them, as if recently renovated. The staff was exceedingly nice, but they wore their curiosity like a signpost. And who could blame them? Two casually dressed men and a disabled Vietnam veteran in a wheelchair were not exactly everyday visitors.

  With a population of less than eight thousand that encompassed a mere 3.2 miles, Cartersville is a town within the county of Onondaga, New York, and is also considered part of the Syracuse metropolitan area a mere eighteen miles away. These stats were delivered by Paul minutes after Charlie and I arrived. “It’s located right on the Seneca River,” he added. “It runs right through it and is a tributary of the Oswego River.” When I asked him why I needed to know all this, he simply answered: “When you come to a place for an investigation, it’s important to know its geography.”