“Don’t tell Charlie that.”
“I won’t.”
I sighed, looked down at my half-eaten hamburger, and lost my appetite. “The dark hole just keeps getting darker and wider,” I said dolefully. “I should start going to church again. Can we talk about something else now? How are the Mets doing?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Wonderful,” I said sarcastically.
Riggins eyes appeared to light up slightly, though it was hard to tell. They were quite puffy and sunken under thick wispy eyebrows. “I have more news for you,” he said with a barely discernible tone of merriment.
“Donald, before I drop dead, I swear you’re going to tell me something positive that has nothing to do with murder, evidence of it, or someone out to kill me. Otherwise, I beg you—let me try and finish this hamburger.”
Riggins didn’t flinch. “In that big steamer trunk—before the feds got to search its compartments and secret drawers, guess what they found—or should I say, who they found?”
“Can’t wait until after I finish eating, can you?”
As usual, he ignored me. “They found a little boy, hog-tied, hands and feet bound, his mouth taped. It was Billy—the last boy to go missing. And he was very much alive, but better yet—he was unharmed.”
“Thank God! Finally, news worth waiting for.”
“He had been drugged, which probably explained why he slept through most of the ordeal and remembers little of it. By the way, do you know why he wasn’t harmed?”
“Knowing there is no depth to the evil that is Richard Norris, son of Richard Holcomb, I have an inkling. But tell me, and maybe I can finally put the haunting mental images of child abduction and abuse behind me.”
“Sorry, Nick, but that is going to take some time, and I speak from experience.”
“Go ahead anyway and confirm my worst imaginings.”
“After little Billy was found and questioned, he told the agents how Richard Norris cut him off with his SUV while he was riding his bike along the side of the road. As the boy remembers it, Norris grabbed him, then put a cloth in his mouth with a funny smell to it.”
“Chloroform.”
“You got it. Sweet smelling, he said. He was surprisingly quite calm and lucid with the agents, but I figure that was because he was drugged and unaware of what was happening to him. Tie me up, stick me in a box, and I’ll be ready for the loony bin. By the way, I also called the FBI in Syracuse this morning to see he was doing. Call it a miracle, but he’s doing fine.”
“Let’s just be thankful he wasn’t hurt.”
“But if you ask me, the real reason he wasn’t touched is because some miscreant ponied up a lot of money to be his first.”
“Dear God in heaven, I’m just grateful we got there in time.” I needed a moment to gather myself as my head was beginning to ache again. “And thank God, too, that Richard Norris is dead—may the bastard burn in hell. Now on a much happier note: Tell me…the boy’s mother and stepfather? They must have been thrilled to get him back, alive and well. Now that’s what I want to hear about the next time you call me.”
“It’s a reunion you made possible.”
“Nice of you to say, Don. I only hope God sees it that way, and maybe—just maybe, when my time comes—there might be a place in heaven for me yet. After all, I have two wonderful women—my mother, and my Eleanor, waiting for me—and I don’t want to disappoint them by not showing up.”
But why am I here?
This seems pleasant enough.
A real playground with boys in it.
A flowing river behind it.
Fenced in and safe.
I want to play, too.
But I can only smile and wave.
And why am I afraid?
Now I know why I’m here.
Lisa
In our efforts to obtain Mia’s psychiatric records, our goal was simple. Dr. Field’s session notes would open a window into what Mia and the alters saw and heard while trapped in the cabin and the underground rooms. It was our last hope at cracking the dark web of secrecy concealing the rich and powerful participants and co-conspirators whom Richard Norris bragged about.
Instead of cooperating and turning over her records, however, Dr. Field hired a top Manhattan law firm to oppose all demands and applications. She even moved to quash an FBI subpoena for the very same material.
In an affidavit that accompanied her attorney’s opposition papers, Dr. Field claimed that Mia was still suffering from multiple personality disorder, thereby rendering her incompetent and legally incapable of giving her consent, even at the age of eighteen. Fortunately, the judge hearing the case didn’t buy the argument and ordered the notes and records to be turned over immediately—a decision we celebrated, but not for long. The reason: There were no notes and records to speak of. Doctor Field had destroyed them, and lied about it.
In way of explanation to the court, her lawyer wrote: “We regret to inform Your Honor that the material in question caught fire in the process of being transported to a storage facility.” When the judge demanded further clarification, more spurious details were provided. Seems that Dr. Field had temporarily stacked the papers on a patio table while cooking steaks on a nearby barbeque. When the grill was left unattended, a spark ignited, and the notes and records were burned to a crisp. Curiously, the fire department was never called.
One bright spot: The no-nonsense judge ordered Dr. Field to submit to an FBI Q&A on the content of the destroyed notes and records. Since lying to the FBI is a felony, the question and answer session—more like an interrogation—wouldn’t prove to be without its worthwhile moments.
But it wasn’t until June of 2019— after a year of litigation and further delay tactics by her attorneys—that Dr. Field finally complied. Though the FBI had no problem with her request to have the Q&A in her office, retired agent Riggins persuaded them otherwise. Paul, who only a month earlier had finally recovered completely from his injuries, wanted the cagey doctor to feel the intimidating atmosphere of the FBI’s sterile interrogation room after she walked into the confines of 26 Federal Plaza. But what all of us really wanted was to watch and listen behind the feds’ one-way mirror installed for exactly that purpose.
With a weak scowl on her face, Dr. Field took a seat in one of two plastic cafeteria type chairs on each side of a small metallic table. Since she hated lawyers—starting with her ex-husband—she didn’t want or need one to accompany her. Besides, the FBI made it clear that she was not a person of interest in any alleged criminal activity, and that the subject of the inquiry was the content of the lost notes and records—nothing more.
Conducting the Q&A were two midcareer agents in their forties: —tall, milky-white, clean-cut men with dark hair—like two stereotypical FBI handbook cutouts of old. They were polished and good-looking, which—in addition to their pleasant manner—seemed to have a relaxing effect on Dr. Field. One did all the talking, while the other just stood nearby and looked on. Although Dr. Field’s initial scowl was replaced with a less off-putting smirk, I remained skeptical about our chances of getting anything of value out of her. After all, she had already—and literally—cooked the books to hide what was ever in those notes and records. And as she was quite the professional at posing questions herself, I could only assume that she was just as crafty at answering them.
When the agents began by asking how Mia came to be adopted by Beatrice Langley—a softball question, to be sure—Dr. Field appeared circumspect, and said that Beatrice had a social worker friend who ‘started the ball rolling’ some time before Mia’s birth mother passed away. “The mother was a drug addict,” she added brashly. “And her live-in boyfriend, whom Mia called ‘Uncle Greg’ was an addict, as well as a dealer. Mia’s mother was found dead from a fatal overdose around the same time that Uncle Greg disappeared.”
As we huddled behind t
he one-way mirror, Riggins whispered: “Untrustworthy drug addicts become quite disposable in a criminal enterprise.”
“Maybe someday justice will truly be served, and Uncle Greg will turn up in a wooden box of his own,” I whispered back.
Though I was certain that Riggins heard me, he didn’t react. He seemed to be studying Dr. Field. “You know, for a gal who hired a high-priced law firm to go to battle in court, she seems rather complacent…even chatty,” he said.
“Maybe she just feels comfortable with the agents,” I answered.
“No,” Paul joined in. “It’s something else.” He looked down at his phone. “Jasmine just texted me. One hour ago, Beatrice Langley was found dead in her apartment—an empty bottle of Ambien by her bed.”
“Holy shit! What about Mia?” I asked. “Is she alright?”
“She doesn’t know yet,” Paul said. “She’s at Great Adventure with her senior class.”
I then came to understand the reason behind Dr. Field’s air of cooperation. With Beatrice Langley dead, there was no one left to protect—and no reason to risk felony prosecution by lying to the FBI.
The agent then moved on to ‘forbidden ground’ and asked Dr. Field about her conversations with the alters.
“All my conversations were with Mia,” she answered abruptly. “The alters are creations of Mia’s subconscious mind. They’re multiple personalities, but they are all Mia’s personalities. If you want me to distinguish one from the other, I won’t be able to, especially since I don’t have my notes to turn to.”
“Just tell us what they told you about Mia and Cartersville.” The agent spoke firmly.
Dr. Field huffed. “Richard Norris was a dangerous, cold blooded killer—.”
“Tell us something we don’t know,” he interrupted.
Suddenly uncomfortable in her chair, she adjusted her seating position. “Mia is as beautiful on the inside as she is on the outside, which makes this so difficult for me.” Dr. Field apparently had her own rehearsed answers.
“I’m sure,” he remarked sarcastically. “I’m sure you thought she was extraordinary, just like the amount of money you were getting paid for your sessions with her. What was it, seven-hundred-and-fifty a clip? A little high, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but it wasn’t just about the money.”
“Of course not. It was also about horrible crimes against children and reporting what you learned about them—only to your friend, Beatrice, and no one else.”
“I resent that.”
“You can resent it all you want, and you can resent this, too: I want to hear it all, Doctor. You didn’t walk in here as a person of interest, but I can’t say how you’re going to walk out.”
“You’re being rude.”
“That’s the least of it. You’re here under a court order—and may I remind you that lying to an FBI agent is a felony punishable by incarceration in a federal prison? Martha Stewart did a year for lying about a stock trade. How much time do you think you’ll do for lying about the murder of little boys? Now, are you going to tell us what you know—or do I place you under arrest for withholding evidence?” The agent was bluffing about the arrest, but doing such a good job of it, he had me convinced.
Dr. Field put her hand on her chest, and whether it was a by-product of grief over Beatrice’s death, I couldn’t be sure, but she leaned forward and began to cry. Though the agent was unaffected by her tears, he did hand her a tissue and give her a moment to gather herself. “Beatrice wanted to help Mia, but she also wanted to keep secret her husband’s activity in Cartersville,” she said woefully.
“What activity?”
“The worst kind. I’m not sure exactly what Beatrice knew, but be assured of this: She loved Mia very much—but she also cared deeply about protecting her family name.”
“You also kept a few secrets, too, Doctor.”
“Those were past acts––what Mia said happened before I started treating her. I’m not the FBI, and I’ll swear to anyone who asks that I had no reason to believe that crimes were continuing. Therefore, I had no obligation to report anything to anyone, even the authorities.”
“No reason—except maybe the exercise of decency and the use of your common sense.”
“You’re not making this easy.”
“It wasn’t easy for those boys found in that well, either,” the agent snapped back.
While Paul and I glanced at each other in recollection of the horror we shared, Dr. Field thought for a moment. “I was never told anything about a well, but I was told about a playground.”
“I’m sorry, did you say…playground?”
“According to Mia, it’s where the boys were chosen.”
“Doctor, I’m paying close attention—and I’m still not following.”
“Mount Seneca Seminary in Cartersville. It started as a school for young men who wanted to become priests, but years later, it became an orphanage, and then a group home.”
“I know, but where does a playground fit into all this?”
“The little ones…this is so hard to hear, no less tell…the little ones—boys five, six, seven, and eight years old—would play in a playground along the Oswego River—on the seminary grounds. Understand that…back then…the record keeping on these children was poor. Corrupt is more like it. I have no doubt that many files on birth and placement were intentionally destroyed—so that when certain boys went missing, they went missing without a trace.”
“What do Mia and the alters have to do with this?”
“Mia was the lure.”
“The lure?”
“She’s now a beautiful young woman. She was a beautiful little girl back then too.” The doctor choked on her words, then took a breath to compose herself. “Little Mia, petite and adorable, would be brought over to a fence that encircled the playground, whether it was by Richard Norris or somebody else. Don’t ask me who, because even Mia didn’t know. Once at the fence, she was told…no…ordered…to wave to the little boys. When one would run over to the fence to talk to her…sadly…that boy would be sized up and taken.”
“Did Mia know what she was doing?”
“Not at first. This began when she was only six or seven. Once she realized…even at that age…that something terrible was going on, not only did she refuse to wave—she wouldn’t even face the playground. That’s when she would get stuck with a pin—or I should I say…one of the alters got stuck with a pin.”
“Did you say…pin?” The agent was taken aback.
“Yes, or a lit cigarette or cigar. If she still refused, she got stuck twice more, or burned. And then, if she still failed to cooperate, she would get put in the box.”
“The box?”
“It’s where they put the boys before and after doing whatever they would do to them. Mia may have been hurt…I mean abused…also. She wouldn’t say. Even her alters wouldn’t say. After all, they were created to protect her. But alters or not…surviving that horror is a testament to what an extraordinary young woman she is.”
“How often did Mia act as the lure?”
“Every other month for about four years, until she was adopted by Beatrice.”
“And what ever happened to Uncle Greg?”
“He just disappeared.”
“Mia’s adoption also occurred right after Beatrice’s husband, Reginald, died as well. Could this be a coincidence? Beatrice had to know about Mia’s abuse. So, c’mon. She adopted Mia to keep her quiet, and then got Mia therapy sessions to find out what she knew about her dead husband’s Upstate visits.”
“Mia was a child. Beatrice was her mother. She had a right to know—to help Mia. As for Beatrice’s true intentions? Only she can answer that.” Dr. Field dabbed her eyes again with a tissue.
“And I assume you told Mia not to discuss these awful childhood experien
ces with anyone but you?”
“For her own protection, any psychiatrist would. You have to believe me when I tell you that Beatrice came to love Mia. She always took great care of her. She saved Mia…and Mia saved her.” Dr. Field’s voice cracked. “With Mia turning eighteen, and the court battles over the subpoenas, Beatrice knew the truth would come out about her husband. And that’s something she could never live with. But there was a mountain of goodness in that woman, and if anyone has any doubt, all they have to do is read her will. She left a fifty-million-dollar estate, and to show you the kind of woman she was or…wanted to be…one-half is going to the National Center for Missing and Abused Children, and the other half is going to Mia. As for her apartment, she left it to me under the condition that Mia be allowed to live there as long as she wants to.”
As the agent pressed on—asking Dr. Field what the alters saw and heard concerning Richard Norris, Reginald Langley, and anyone else—he got the same answer: “It was so long ago that Mia and the alters talked about Cartersville, I just can’t remember.”
I suppose Dr. Field didn’t need a lawyer, after all. She knew how to answer without answering, and without revealing a single thing that would incriminate her or anyone else. With her office located in Downtown Manhattan, I had no doubt that Beatrice Langley wasn’t the only high-priced client the doctor was looking to protect. And although the Cartersville kidnapping and murder enterprise had come to an end—with many wealthy and powerful men scared out of their wits for fear of being discovered—it was hard not to feel like we had only done half our job. But evil minds don’t stay idle for too long, and when they do eventually burrow out of their tunnel, cave, or bunker—and they will—Paul, Riggins, and now the FBI, will be there to meet them. As for me, I’ll gladly sacrifice every penny I have, and more, if given the opportunity to shut them down somewhere else again.
As I left the Federal Building, I couldn’t stop thinking about Beatrice Langley—the sad life she led and her ill-conceived attempts at love in a world she was irreversibly anchored to since birth—a world far too powerful and cruel to allow her the happiness she longed for without paying the ultimate price. I thought about her attempts at absolution before and after her death. But absolution without penance is no absolution at all. And considering the number of little boys who continued to be abused, tortured and killed while she and Dr. Field remained silent—good tidings in a will or not, Beatrice Langley might just be spending eternity in a furnace, or well—or buried box of her own.
The Criminal Mind Page 27