by Lisa Gardner
Finally, up ahead, lights blazing; the glass-and-steel monstrosity of police headquarters firing to life for another long night. Bobby punched End on his cell phone and prepared to get serious: Parking in Roxbury was no laughing matter. At first pass, the street-side spaces were filled. Bobby still didn’t turn into Central Parking—and not just because the police parking lot was a notorious spot for getting mugged. Like most of the detectives, he wanted to be properly positioned for a quick getaway should something unexpected occur. That meant parking as close to the building as possible.
Third time was the charm. A fellow officer pulled out, and Bobby ducked into the vacated space.
He already had his ID in hand as he trotted for the building. Six-oh-seven p.m. D.D. probably had the rest of the team in place by now, discussing strategy for the 3:33 a.m. rendezvous. Should they bring the original locket? Risk reprisals by producing a substitute?
They would attempt the handoff. Bobby had no doubt about that. It was too good an opportunity to flush their quarry into the open. Plus, D.D. didn’t have enough sense to be afraid.
Bobby cruised through security, swiped his ID through the reader, and hit the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time. He needed the exercise. It allowed him to work off the worst of his adrenaline and the buzz he was still feeling from kissing a woman he never should’ve kissed.
Don’t go there. Have a mission. Stay on task.
He’d just cleared the stairwell door, was debating sprinting down the long corridor toward the Homicide unit in a mad dash against himself, when the door directly across from him opened up and D.D. stuck her head out.
He jumped self-consciously. “The task-force meeting’s in there?” he asked in confusion, trying to figure out why they had moved.
D.D., however, was shaking her head. “Team’s meeting in thirty minutes. Eola’s parents just arrived. Join the party. Don’t say a word.”
Bobby’s brows shot up. He joined the party. He didn’t say a word.
Bobby had never been in this central conference room before. Much nicer digs than the glorified walk-in closets the Homicide suite had to offer. One glance, and Bobby understood the upscale room choice. The Eolas hadn’t just brought themselves, but their people, and their people’s people, to judge from the crowd.
It took him five minutes to sort it out. Across from him to his left sat a gentleman, age anywhere between eighty and a hundred, in a dark gray suit, with a sparse, horseshoe head of hair, parchment-thin skin, and a hooked patrician’s nose—Christopher Eola’s father, Christopher Senior. To his right sat a frail, liver-spotted female in navy-blue Chanel and golf-ball-size pearls. Christopher Eola’s mother, Pauline.
Next to her, another older gentleman in an expensive double-breasted suit, this time with thicker hair and a softer middle, the proverbial fat cat, otherwise known as the Eolas’ lawyer, John J. Barron. To his left, a younger, thinner copycat, the up-and-coming partner, Robert Anderson. Then the token female attorney, complete with her no-nonsense Brooks Brothers suit, sharply pulled-back hair, and angular wire-rim glasses, going by the name Helene Niaru. She sat next to the last female in the row, a young, strikingly beautiful woman who took copious notes and was never referred to by any name at all, the secretary.
Lot of billable hours, Bobby thought, for a son the Eolas supposedly hadn’t heard from in decades.
“I want the record to show how much I resent this meeting,” Eola Sr. was stating now, his voice shaky with age, but still containing the uncompromising note of someone accustomed to having his orders obeyed instantly. “I find it premature, not to mention highly irresponsible, to be pointing fingers at my son.”
“No one is pointing anything at anyone,” Detective Sinkus soothed. The Eolas had been his assignment, so he was running the show. “I assure you, this is a routine inquiry. Given the discovery in Mattapan, we’re naturally trying to learn as much as we can about all of the patients who resided at the Boston State Mental Hospital, including, but not limited to,” he added dryly, “your son.”
Eola Sr. quirked a thin gray eyebrow, still suspicious. His hunch-shouldered wife sniffed and dabbed at her eyes. Apparently, just thinking about her son had brought her to tears.
Bobby wondered where their daughter was, the one with whom Christopher had allegedly had an “inappropriate” relationship. Thirty years later, she was a middle-aged adult. Didn’t she have an opinion in all this?
The lawyer cleared his throat. “Naturally, my clients intend to cooperate. We’re here after all. Of course, the events of thirty years ago remain highly sensitive for everyone involved. I trust you will take that into consideration.”
“I will use only my nice voice,” Sinkus assured him. “Shall we?”
Grudging nods from the assembled suits. Sinkus started the recorder. They got to it.
“For the record, sir, can you please verify that Christopher Walker Eola is your son, born April sixteen, 1954, with the following Social Security number.” Sinkus rattled off the number. Eola Sr. grunted his grudging consent.
“And Christopher Walker Eola resided with you and your wife in your residence on Tremont Street during April of ’74?”
Another grumbled yes.
“Also in residence was your daughter, Natalie Jane Eola?”
At the mention of the daughter, hackles rose, nervous glances were exchanged.
“Yes,” said Eola Sr. finally, biting off the word and spitting it out.
Sinkus made a note. “Other people in the residence? Relatives, housekeepers, guests?”
Eola Sr. turned to his wife, who was apparently in charge of staff. Pauline stopped dabbing at her eyes long enough to dredge up four names—the cook, the housekeeper, Pauline’s personal secretary, and a full-time driver. Her words were whispery and hard to catch. Her chin rested close to her chest, as if her body had caved in on itself. Advanced osteoporosis, Bobby guessed. Not even big money could stave off age.
Sinkus moved the tape recorder closer to Mrs. Eola. Preliminaries established, he got down to business.
“It is our understanding that in 1974, you, Mr. Christopher Eola, and your wife, Mrs. Pauline Eola, admitted your son, Christopher Junior, to the Boston State Mental Hospital.”
“Correct,” Eola Sr. granted.
“Exact date, please?”
“April nineteen, 1974.”
Sinkus looked up. “Three days after Christopher’s twentieth birthday?”
“We had had a small party,” Mrs. Eola spoke up suddenly. “Nothing fancy. A few close friends. The cook made duck à l’orange, Christopher’s favorite. Afterwards, we had trifle. Christopher loved trifle.” Her voice sounded wistful and Bobby pegged her as the weak link. Mr. Eola was resentful—of the police, the interview, the unwanted memory of his son. But Mrs. Eola was mournful. If the stories were true, had she been forced to incarcerate one child to protect another? And even if you thought your child was a monster, did you still miss him, or at least the idea of who he could’ve been?
Sinkus turned ever so slightly in Mrs. Eola’s direction, bringing her more fully into the open line of his body, the encouraging contact of his gaze. “It sounds like a very nice party, Mrs. Eola.”
“Oh yes. Christopher had only been back home a few months from his travels. We wanted to do something special, both to mark his birthday and his homecoming. I invited his friends from school, many of our associates. It was a lovely evening.”
“His travels, Mrs. Eola?”
“Oh well, he went abroad, of course. He’d taken time off after high school to see the world, sow a few wild oats. Boys. You can’t expect them to settle down too quickly. They need to experience a few things first.” She smiled weakly, as if she realized how frivolous it sounded now. She picked up more briskly. “But he had returned around Christmas to start working on his college applications. Christopher had an interest in theater. But he didn’t think he was quite that talented. He thought maybe he’d pursue a degree in psychology instead.”
“After spending over a year on the road? Can you be more precise, Mrs. Eola? What countries did he visit, for how long?”
Mrs. Eola waved her hand in a fluttery, birdlike motion. “Oh, Europe. The usual sort of places. France, London, Vienna, Italy. He had an interest in Asia, but we didn’t feel it was safe back then. You know”—she leaned forward to confide—“given the war and all.”
Ah yes, the Vietnam conflict, which Christopher had conveniently managed to dodge. Conscientious objector, Daddy’s money, his college aspirations? The possibilities were endless.
“Did he travel alone? Or with friends?” Sinkus asked now.
“Oh, a little of both.” Another vague flutter of the hand.
Sinkus changed strategy. “Do you have any notes from that time? Maybe postcards Christopher sent you, even a line or two you might have entered in your diary—”
“Objection—” Barron started.
“Not asking for the diary,” Sinkus clarified hurriedly. “Just want to get a more detailed picture of Christopher’s global adventures. Dates, locations, people. When you get a chance.”
Meaning it could provide a list of places where Christopher might have gone to hide after leaving Bridgewater in ’78. Why hide out in a seedy hotel in the U.S. if you could run to Paris instead?
Mr. Eola grunted his consent. Sinkus moved on.
“So Christopher finished high school, did some traveling, then returned home to work on his college applications—”
“Target universities?” Bobby spoke up. He got a warning glance from Sinkus, but ignored the look. He had his reasons.
“Oh, the usual.” Once again, Mrs. Eola was vague. “Harvard, Yale, Princeton. He wanted to stay on the East Coast, not go too far from home. Though, come to think of it, he also applied at MIT. Funny choice, that one. MIT for fine arts? Well, one never knew with Christopher.”
Sinkus resumed the reins of the interview: “Was it nice to have him back?”
“Oh yes,” Mrs. Eola gushed. Eola Sr. shot her a look. She clammed up.
“Look,” Eola Sr. said impatiently. “I know what you’re trying to ask. Why don’t we just cut to the chase? We committed our son. We personally drove our only boy to a mental hospital. What kind of parents do such a thing?”
“All right, Mr. Eola. What kind of parents do such a thing?”
Eola Sr. had his chin up, his skin looking as if it had been stretched too thin over his skeletal face. “This account cannot leave this room.”
For the first time, Sinkus faltered. “Now, Mr. Eola—”
“I mean it. Turn the recorder off right now, young man, or I won’t say another word.”
Sinkus darted a look at D.D. Slowly, she nodded. “Turn it off. Let’s hear what Mr. Eola has to say.”
Sinkus reached forward, snapped off the recorder. As if on cue, the legal secretary set down her pen and folded her hands in her lap.
“You have to understand,” Mr. Eola started. “It wasn’t entirely his fault. That girl, the Belgian. She ruined him. If we had understood the situation sooner, been quicker to act…”
“What situation, sir? How did you fail to act?” Sinkus’s voice stayed patient, respectful. Eola was going to give them what they wanted. All in due time.
“An au pair. We hired her when Christopher was nine and Natalie three. We’d had a wonderful woman up until that point, but she left to start a family of her own. We returned to the same agency, and they recommended Gabrielle to us. Given our previous experience, we didn’t think twice. Surely one well-trained au pair was as good as another.
“Gabrielle was younger than we had expected. Twenty-one, fresh out of school. She was a different personality—more festive, more…giggly.” He made a face. Clearly, giggly was not a compliment. “Sometimes, I thought she was too informal with the children. But she was energetic, had a sense of adventure the children seemed to appreciate. Christopher, in particular, was smitten with her.
“When Christopher turned twelve, there was an incident at his school. He was slightly built for his age, more sensitively inclined. Some of the boys started to…take exception. They singled Christopher out. Started picking on him. One day, things went a little too far. Blows were exchanged. Christopher didn’t come out on the winning side.”
Eola Sr.’s lips twisted in distaste. Bobby couldn’t decide if the man was appalled by the thought of violence or that his son had been incapable of dealing with it.
Mrs. Eola was back to dabbing her eyes.
“Naturally,” Eola Sr. picked up briskly, “the appropriate actions were taken and the offending parties punished. But Christopher…He grew withdrawn. Had problems sleeping. Became…secretive. Around this time, I happened to catch Gabrielle leaving Christopher’s room in the early morning hours. When I asked, she said she heard him crying and had gone to check on him. I confess, I didn’t pursue the matter.
“It was the housekeeper who finally spoke to my wife. According to the housekeeper, the bedding in Gabrielle’s room went undisturbed for long periods of time. Whereas the sheets in Christopher’s room now required frequent changing. The linens were often stained. You can fill in the rest.”
Sinkus’s eyes had grown a little wide, but he caught himself. “Actually, sir, I’m going to need you to fill in the rest.”
Eola Sr. sighed heavily. “Fine. Our au pair was engaged in sexual relations with our twelve-year-old son. Are you happy? Is that clear enough now?”
Sinkus let the remark past. “Once you made the discovery, Mr. Eola…”
“Oh, we fired her. Then took out a restraining order against her and had her deported. All under advice of legal counsel, of course.”
“And Christopher?”
“He was a child,” Eola Sr. said impatiently. “He’d been seduced and poorly used by some Belgian twit. Naturally, he was devastated. He yelled at me, raged at his mother, locked himself in his room for days on end. He thought he was Romeo and we had banished his Juliet. He was twelve, for Christ’s sake. What did he know?”
“I called a doctor,” Mrs. Eola volunteered in her whispery voice. “Our pediatrician. He had me bring Christopher in for an exam. But there was nothing physically wrong with Christopher. Gabrielle hadn’t hurt him, she’d just…” Mrs. Eola made a helpless little shrug. “Our doctor said time was the best cure. So we took Christopher home and waited.”
“And what did Christopher do?”
“He sulked,” Eola Sr. said dismissively. “He isolated himself in his room, refused to speak with us, dine with us. It went on for weeks. But then he seemed to come around.”
“He resumed going to school,” Mrs. Eola said. “He joined us for meals, did his homework. If anything, he seemed to have matured from the experience. He started wearing suits, was unfailingly polite. Our friends said he seemed to have turned into a little man overnight. He was charming really. He brought me flowers, spent endless time with his little sister. Natalie idolized him, you know. When he retreated into his room, I think it hurt her most of all. For a while, the household seemed very…smooth.”
“For a while,” Sinkus repeated.
Mrs. Eola sighed and fell silent again, the mournful expression back on her face. Eola Sr. took up the narrative, his voice brisk, unemotional.
“Our housekeeper started complaining about the condition of Christopher’s room. No matter what she did, his bed seemed to stink. Something was wrong in there, she said. Something was wrong with him. She wanted permission to not clean his room.
“Naturally, I denied her. I told her she was being foolish. Three days later, I happened to be home when I heard her scream. I ran into Christopher’s room to find her standing next to the upended mattress. She had finally identified the source of the odor—there, between the box spring and the top mattress, were half a dozen dead squirrels. Christopher had…skinned them. Disemboweled them. Cut off their heads.
“I confronted him the moment he got home from school. He apologized immediately. He had on
ly been ‘practicing,’ he told me. His science class was due to dissect a frog at the end of the semester. He was worried he’d be too squeamish, maybe faint at the sight of blood. And he was concerned that if he betrayed weakness in front of his classmates, he might once again become a target for bullies.”
Eola Sr. shrugged. “I believed him. His logic, his fears, made sense. My son could be quite convincing. On his own, he retrieved the carcasses from his room and buried them in the garden. I considered the matter closed. Except…”
“Except…?”
“Except the household was never quite right again. Maria, our housekeeper, started having little accidents. She’d turn and suddenly there would be a broom across her path, tripping her. Once, after finishing off the last of the bleach, she opened a second bottle, dumped it in, and immediately became overwhelmed by the fumes. She made it out just in time. It turned out someone had dumped out the bleach in the new bottle and replaced it with ammonia. Maria quit shortly thereafter. She insisted our house was haunted. But I heard her mutter under her breath that the ghost was named Christopher.”
“She thought he was trying to harm her?”
“She believed he was trying to kill her,” Eola Sr. corrected bluntly. “Perhaps he’d learned she was the one who’d betrayed his relationship with Gabrielle. Perhaps he wanted revenge. I don’t really know. Christopher was polite. Christopher was cooperative. He went to school. He got good grades. He did everything we asked of him. But even…” Eola Sr. took a deep breath. “Not even I liked being around my own son anymore.”
“What happened in April of ’74?” Sinkus asked gently.
“Christopher went away,” Eola Sr. answered softly. “And for almost two years, it was as if a dark cloud had lifted from our home. Our daughter seemed less anxious. The cook whistled in the kitchen. We all walked with a lighter step. And no one said anything, because what could you say? We never saw Christopher doing anything wrong. After the squirrel incident and Maria’s departure, there were no more little accidents, or strange smells, or anything the least bit suspicious. But the house was better with Christopher gone. Happier.