A Question of Ghosts

by Cate Culpepper

  “Did you talk to me?” Becca looked unsettled but fascinated. “Jo, I don’t remember any of this.”

  “I’m not surprised, after what you’d been through.” Pam hooked her fingers in her belt and swept some broken glass slowly away from Becca’s feet with her boot. “I don’t know how they lost track of you long enough to let you escape to the porch, but you seemed pretty wretched. So I rummaged around in the backseat for one of the toys my dad kept back there, for little kids. I came up on the porch and handed you a baby doll. You wanted nothing to do with it, to say the least. You chucked it into the bushes.” Pam chuckled softly. “I understood. I never had much use for dolls myself. But we sat together for a bit.”

  “Is your father still alive?” Jo bit her lip, realizing her bluntness, but Pam just nodded.

  “Retired ten years now, healthy as a horse.”

  “Would it be possible to meet with him?”

  “You mean this afternoon?” Pam threw a sardonic glance at her partner.

  “Well, sometime soon. I have questions for him.”

  Becca’s cell chimed in her pocket and she pulled it out. “Rachel,” she mouthed. She flipped open the phone and stared at it. “Rachel? I’m fine. But you know…I can’t possibly sum up any of this at this time.” She handed the cell to Jo. “Here.”

  Jo took the phone and Becca walked over to Pam Emerson. She held out her hand and the officer took it.

  “Thank you, Pam, for being kind to me that night.” She smiled at Jo. “I’ll be waiting outside, okay? Please don’t be long.” She stepped carefully out of Jo’s ruined office.

  “You think she’s all right?” Pam asked.

  “Becca will be fine.” Jo hoped she told the truth. She lifted the cell and spoke tersely. “Dr. Perry? Joanne Call. You need to get me in to Western State Hospital to see John William Voakes. Today, preferably.”

  Chapter Nine

  Jo decided to let Becca answer the doorbell. She wanted to use her best digital recorder to interview Voakes, and it required careful calibration. She squinted into the dim light of the only standing lamp in the living room and adjusted settings until she realized the bell had rung for a third time.

  “Becca, would you please get the door?” Jo rolled her eyes. Her tone was inordinately sweet, even to her own ears. She’d bitten back her annoyance at the interruption and compensated by sounding like a cloying nanny cooing to a toddler. She supposed she still had an urge to shield Becca, given their morning, and she was capable of answering doorbells herself.

  She took the two stairs to the entry in one long stride and pulled open the door. Rachel Perry stood on the front porch, carrying a small bouquet of tulips, shading her eyes and looking toward the large cemetery across the street. The sun cast dappled shadows across her face. For a moment she resembled one of the still statues in that burial ground, dignified and ageless. She turned to Jo with a tentative smile.

  “Hello, Joanne.” She extended the flowers to Jo. “Fresh from my garden. Becca’s fond of these.”

  “Good afternoon, Rachel. Thank you.”

  “Becca said she wanted to say hello to an old friend in Lake View.” Rachel nodded toward the cemetery. She seemed curious, but refrained from questions. “She asked me to tell you to meet her there.”

  “Ah.” Jo frowned down at the flowers. It was past noon, and a good hour’s drive to Western State. “I hadn’t realized Becca had left the house. I was rather caught up in my…in any case. I’ll join her there.”

  Rachel nodded. She reached into the tasteful purse draped over her shoulder and drew out a crisp folded sheet of paper. “I knew you wanted this quickly.”

  Jo accepted the page with a rush of relief. She had asked Rachel to fax this reference to Western, but it would be good to have it in hand as well. “I appreciate this. I was going to have you fax a copy to my office, but…”

  “I’m so sorry to hear of the break-in, Joanne. It must have been a nasty shock for you both, walking in on that scene.”

  “Yes.” Jo scanned the letter quickly. “Police are looking into it.”

  “Do you think there’s any connection between what was done to your office and the work you’re doing with Becca?”

  Jo looked up sharply. The fine lines around Rachel’s eyes had deepened since she last saw her. Her worn features revealed concern, but not accusation. “That thought had occurred to me, yes. It could have been a random act, but the timing is suspicious.”

  She realized she was keeping an infirm woman, Becca’s close friend, standing on the front porch, and she flushed. “Rachel, excuse me. Please, come in.”

  “It’s all right, Joanne.” Rachel patted Jo’s arm. “I only stopped by to give you the release. Becca’s waiting for you, and I know you’re wanting to get started. Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help.”

  Rachel turned and made her way carefully down the steps to the sidewalk. She looked small and frail, but she offered Jo a friendly wave.

  “Rachel?” Jo remembered her promise to Becca. She set the tulips and the letter on the stoop and came down the steps slowly. “I brought up some painful memories for you the other night. I apologize if I was insensitive.” She blew out a breath. That had sounded okay to her. “I know you worry about Becca. I want you to know I’ll take every precaution to make sure she’s all right.”

  Rachel watched her face, reading her as if she were as adept with microexpressions as Jo, as she might well be. “I do worry about our friend, I admit it. But if my feet were held to the flames, I’d have to admit Becca is an intelligent and perfectly capable woman, and I trust her. And she trusts you, Joanne.”

  Rachel stepped closer, and her voice was soft but clear. “I hope I’m not saying this for the wrong reasons; because I’m tired, or not at my best, these days. But I’m going to allow myself to be completely selfish for a moment. If there is any—any explanation for the death of Becca’s parents other than Maddie Healy’s psychosis, I want you two to find it.” She paused. “I care for Becca very much, and I want to believe she can find some kind of peace with this. And I admit I would love to live, just one day, without feeling I failed her family. I’ll do anything I can to help you learn what happened that night.”

  Jo nodded. She watched Rachel walk to her car, her mind clicking through every nuance of her expressions. She was sure of it. Rachel was telling the truth.

  *

  The rolling hills of Lake View Cemetery were sparsely populated again today, at least by the living. Jo could hear distant rhythms of reggae from adjacent Volunteer Park, a vast, friendly montage of playing fields, museums, and stages. Seattle was gearing up for the weekend’s Gay Pride celebration, and the endless pre-parties were well underway.

  As expected, Becca waited for her in the friendly shadow of the Lady of the Rock. In spite of the distractions of her trashed office and the interview with Voakes, Jo experienced a moment of simple pleasure at the sight of her. Becca was sitting back on her hands in the lush grass, gazing up at the Lady’s strong face. Her own expression was thoughtful and calm.

  “Rachel provided a letter of reference.” Jo wished she had opened this conversation less abruptly, but Becca only smiled up at her.

  “Yeah, she thinks seeing Voakes won’t be a problem.” Becca extended one hand to Jo. After a brief silence, she said, “Um, catch a clue, please? I eat four pounds of chocolate every day.”

  “Oh.” Jo took Becca’s hand and pulled her gently to her feet. She rose gracefully, in spite of her claim of gluttony.

  Becca brushed grass from her hips and nodded at the Lady. “Do you ever wonder where she’s pointing?”

  Jo looked up at the statue’s extended right hand, the delicate fingers gesturing into the distance. She turned and peered over her shoulder in that direction. “It seems she’s pointing toward the cemetery’s restrooms.”

  Becca laughed. “Yes, I realize the restrooms lie over there. But this statue must have been cast a century ago, and f
ar away from here. I’ve always wondered what her sculptor wanted us to see.”

  Jo remembered the line from Derrida that Mitchell Healy had quoted the other night. “Another question of ghosts to be solved.”

  Becca smiled her understanding. “Can I show you something?”

  “You may.”

  They began walking north, away from the fading music from the park, until Becca nudged Jo slightly east.

  “I’d like to avoid that patch, if you don’t mind.”

  The distant field was dotted with life-sized memorial statues, and Jo understood. Becca led her down a winding path of smaller gravestones to a wide plain of recessed metal plates. She wondered if Scott and Madelyn Healy lay beneath this sad ground; Becca had never said where her parents were buried.

  But they stopped beside a larger plot, a gathering of four plaques, all the same size, of the same cold brass and bearing identical dates of death. The Walmac family. Voakes had been fleeing their home when he was caught.

  “These graves were as popular an attraction as Bruce Lee’s, for a long time.” Becca spoke with the hushed tone reserved for the dead. “Being the victims of a notorious serial killer brings a little unwelcome fame.”

  They winded Jo, these stark, unexpected remnants of four lives lost to the insanity of John William Voakes. Two parents and two young children, obliterated in one night. Jo stared at the graves, gripped by horror and sympathy that felt visceral. She cursed herself for leaving her sunglasses on the table in the house. She must still be as shaken by the day’s events as Becca had been, though Becca seemed relatively centered, right now.

  “I took the clinical track in my graduate work. You focused on research.” Becca clasped her hands behind her, studying the plaques. “By personal history and professional training, I know more about the nuts and bolts of mental illness than you. The families my foster kids come from are rife with it. I’ve seen craziness up close before. It doesn’t scare me.”

  “Neither of us has anything to fear from Voakes.”

  Becca nodded. “That’s why I’m coming with you to see him.”

  Jo blew out a slow breath. “This isn’t just mental illness, Becca. This is being in the presence of a man who murdered eight people.”

  “And there’s a small possibility, no matter how faint or unlikely, that he murdered ten.” Becca paused. “I think my knowledge and experience could be helpful to you today. I also think I have the right to see the face of a man who might have killed my parents.”

  Jo tried hard to summon a logical response to either or both of these arguments, and a dimple appeared in Becca’s cheek.

  “I see we’re going to have to hold another session of Becca School. Class?” She took Jo’s hands, making it no easier for her to be logical. “Look, I love you wanting to look out for me. I really do. Marty and Khadijah can be protective, too. I don’t know what it is about me that brings out this…shepherd thing in you guys.”

  I can’t stand the thought of anything hurting you, Jo explained silently.

  “But my friends don’t get to infantilize me. I’m not five years old anymore.” Becca pressed her hands. “Watch my back, by all means. I appreciate it. But if you try to baby me, you’re only going to piss me off. Okay?”

  Jo summoned another sigh from the soles of her shoes. “Okay.”

  Becca lifted herself on her toes to kiss Jo’s cheek. “And stop looking so miserable. I can defend both of us with my mighty chobos better than you can with your spooky Spiricoms, anyway.”

  “That’s probably true.” Jo resisted the urge to touch her cheek. “Well. Rachel told me today that she trusts you, and she’s known you longer than I have. I guess I can do no less.”

  “She said that, huh?” Becca glanced over her shoulder, and her smile faded. “There’s something else you should see.” She took Jo’s hand, and they walked slowly down a small rise, beyond all that remained of a slaughtered family.

  The graves here were older, but without the antique quaintness of earlier decades. Jo placed these headstones in the mid-eighties, reasonably well kept, their epitaphs still readable as they passed. Becca didn’t have to point out the grave they were looking for. Jo saw the cut tulips resting on the sparse grass beneath the stone.

  Loren Mitchell Perry

  1968–1983

  Jo did the math swiftly. “Rachel’s son?”

  Becca nodded. “Rachel gave him my uncle’s name, to honor their friendship. Loren was a little older than me, I only met him a few times. I guess he turned into a pretty wild kid. He had problems with drugs. He was killed in a motorcycle accident when he was fifteen.”

  Jo looked at the wilting flowers Rachel had left on her son’s grave. “And his father?”

  “He left the picture early on. Rachel hardly mentions him. She raised Loren alone.” Becca folded her arms, as if cold. “She was devastated. My aunt and uncle were really worried about her. It took her years to come back from this.”

  “I can only imagine. I’m sorry she had to go through it.” The words came naturally to Jo, an encouraging development.

  “Rachel was strong when I needed her, when I was five years old. And she’d found herself by the time I needed her again, when I was sixteen.” Becca’s voice had been warm, but now it grew more halting. Jo kept her eyes on the grave, sensing Becca needed privacy for this. She was sensing now, with this woman.

  “Heroin was pretty cool in this town in the nineties.” Becca’s posture was elaborately casual. “Though most of my friends had the sense to avoid it. Not so with brains, here.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what I was thinking, what possessed me. I’d always been such a good little dweeb. But smack is unforgiving stuff. I shot up once, with an impossibly cute girl whose name I can’t even remember now. Then I shot up a second time, alone. I was in trouble very quickly.”

  Jo grasped the seriousness of the trouble Becca had flirted with at the tender age of sixteen. Seattle was shamed by a sad history of loss stemming from the periodic, intense romances its youth held with chemicals. Heroin had been the go-to hit for the wealthier set in the nineties, just as meth was the fix sought by street kids in the past decade. The casualties could be gruesome. “Rachel helped you with this addiction?”

  Becca knelt and pulled a small weed from the base of Loren Perry’s headstone. “You know Mitchell and Patricia put me in counseling with Rachel after my parents died. They insisted I see her again when I was sixteen, when they realized my…problem. Khadijah and Marty flat-out finked on me to my aunt and uncle. You can imagine how tickled I was about that at the time, but they did the right thing. They may have saved my life.”

  She looked up at Jo. “Rachel did excellent work with me. Not just with kicking, with the loss of my parents, the phobia, everything. I meant it the other night, when I said I consider her one of the best psychiatrists in the city.” She gestured at the headstone. “And she did this work four years after the death of her son, who also struggled with drugs. I was about the same age Loren was when he died. It couldn’t have been easy for her.”

  “No, I’m sure it wasn’t.” Becca’s fine fingers smoothed the grass at the head of the grave, and Jo missed the friendly warmth of her hand in her own. “Rachel told me she supports us fully in this study, Becca. She still has your back.”

  Becca looked up at her over her shoulder, and the sun sparkled off her smile in a way that made Jo wish for her sunglasses again. “I know she does. As I have before bragged, I have excellent taste in friends.” She held out her hand and Jo took it easily, as if she had been helping Becca rise for a lifetime. “So, amiga. Let’s go visit a serial killer.”

  Chapter Ten

  Becca kept giving the queen’s wave out the window of Jo’s Bentley, the small, curved-palm salutation that Elizabeth bestowed upon the British masses. Jo eyed her wryly from behind the wheel after Becca blessed their third pedestrian.

  “I can’t help it. I climbed ten rungs up the socio-economic ladder the moment I s
tepped into this thing.” Becca stroked the butter-soft leather of her seat. “This isn’t a car; it’s a royal chariot. Can we drive by Marty and Khadijah’s place? I just want to wave at them before we peel off and leave them in our dust.”

  She’d hoped to coax a smile from Jo and it worked, if only briefly, a slight lifting of one corner of her sensual lips. Becca still worried about what the morning had cost Jo, the shock of seeing her prized possessions destroyed.

  “They’d only want to come with us.” Jo’s mirrored shades shifted toward the rearview mirror as they merged onto I-5. “Which probably wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

  “You think so?” Becca was surprised. “Are you getting fond of my buddies?”

  “I like them both, yes. But even more, I’ve always liked the idea of a clan. A family of strong women having our backs, in your words, as we confront a killer. It’s a pity Rachel’s letter only introduced us, and we couldn’t get an entire Amazon tribe through Western’s doors.”

  So the woman who abhorred crowds secretly longed for a clan of her own. Becca almost remarked on Jo’s growing ability to talk openly about her heart, but she stopped herself in time. She hoped such personal revelations would become normal conversation between them, not worth special note. “I think that’s why the Amazon tribe in Xena appealed to so many lesbians, right? Partnered or not, we’re still searching for a clan, that extended family. That notion has always drawn me, too.”

  That slight smile crossed Jo’s face again, and she reached for the dash and clicked a recessed button. A moment later a rich trickle of music filled the posh interior of the Bentley, and Becca grinned. “Oh, you’re kidding. Perfect.”

  The iconic theme music from Xena: Warrior Princess was a more than fitting soundtrack for the day’s quest, and its familiarity filled Becca with a chiming comfort.