I got into my car and checked the list of names Wright had laboriously typed. He’d put on the silver car owners and folks who were on the Forrands’ list but who didn’t own a silver car. There were friends, and the minister. I added a name to the bottom. Mrs. Kimble, 15 Cypress Boulevard.
The friends were a motley collection with one thing in common: they’d known Jane all their lives. They confirmed much of Jessica’s narrative. Jane was talented, destined to leave Chaplin and do big things. Soap operas, movies, whatever she wanted. Then she’d met Pete. He’d been from Colorado, exotic by Chaplin standards, with enough money to buy a house on the second-nicest street in town. They’d hosted dinner parties, helped at local charity events. Everything roses. Until a few years ago. Everyone brushed aside the rumors. “Of course they didn’t hurt Cody. It was the CIPA. Only no one knew what that was. Poor Cody. Always at the hospital, but never crying. Such a trooper.” They seemed to forget Cody didn’t cry because he didn’t feel pain.
The minister said the Forrands were at church every Saturday morning. “Until they moved.” I asked if he’d heard the rumors of child abuse. “I didn’t credit them. Anna was fine, and if Cody got hurt, it was because he played hard.”
When I asked if he’d heard of Cody’s kidnapping, he said, “Everyone in Chaplin has. It’s that kind of place. People in each other’s back pockets. I’m glad he’s home, safe.” He moved a hymnal. “Some people don’t believe in evil. I’m not one of them. I’m sure you understand, in your line of work. We had a child go missing five years back. Killed.” Everyone I’d spoken to had mentioned Vicky Fitzgerald.
He had no idea who might bear the Forrands ill will. “Certainly there were some happy to see them knocked off their perches. The golden couple no more, but that was idle envy. Nothing more. Nothing active.”
When I asked about the snowstorm, he told me he’d been in church during the worst of it. “Discovered some drafts. We need to get that window fixed.” He pointed to a tall stained-glass window with a hole near St. Peter’s right foot. The service schedule confirmed his account, though I wondered if anyone had attended during the blizzard. Still, he wasn’t a spring chicken and it was difficult to imagine him in a Power Ranger mask. Plus, his car, a gray Escort, was a rundown vehicle that didn’t look like it could survive a blizzard.
It was just into the supper hour. I hesitated to make another visit. I could return tomorrow. Even as I decided, I turned the steering wheel toward Cypress Boulevard. The mailboxes had house numbers on them. Mrs. Kimball’s was a simple gray box. That meant that the mailbox shaped like a miniature house, down to its tiny shingles, had belonged to the Forrands. The real house behind it was huge, with a wraparound porch. Its windows were framed by white holiday lights. A mini turret at the top. Mrs. Kimble’s house was modest compared to the castle next door. Lights gleamed through her drawn curtains. The doorbell chimed the standard high-low note. The inner door swung open, and a woman peered at me through bifocals.
I introduced myself. She tilted her head like a robin, opened the outer glass door, and said, “Mind if I see your identification?”
I showed my badge and opened my wallet. Idyll didn’t have police identification cards, so I flashed her my license. “If you like, I can give you the number for the police station. You can call and give them my description.”
She reached for the phone. “What’s the number?” I recited it and she dialed. I heard someone answer, “Idyll Police Station.” She hung up. “Good enough for me.” She waved me inside. “What did you want to ask me about?”
“The Forrands, they used to be your neighbors.”
“I remember.” She led me into a living room with a burning fire. Fireplaces were big in Chaplin. She sat in a rocking chair. I took a seat in the overstuffed chair opposite. The chair felt like it was pushing me out of it.
“You heard about the kidnapping?” I asked.
“Of course. It knocked poor Suzy Longford’s engagement news down several notches. Poor Suzy.” She tsked and rocked. The floorboards creaked.
“Can you think of anyone who didn’t like the Forrands?”
“Enough to kidnap their child? No. And why take Cody? Anna, maybe. She’s a sweet girl. Bright.” She caught my look of surprise. “I’m not advocating kidnapping. I’m saying that of the two, you’d want Anna. Cody is a tornado.”
“I heard you suspected abuse?”
She laughed, mid-rock. The chair’s legs pointed upward as she cackled. “Dear me.” She came back down, the rockers creaking. “People made such a fuss. Yes, I worried about him. He was always being whisked to the doctor’s with some truly worrisome injuries. I taught first and second grades; I’ve seen abused children. His parents didn’t seem the type, but Cody did run them ragged, and they were having difficulties. Money problems. First the landscapers stopped coming, and then pieces of furniture went missing. Jane smiled and said she’d decided that they didn’t fit the rooms. She was selling them. Trying to keep their heads above water. Then he lost his job, and there was no way they could keep up the mortgage payments.”
“Why did he lose his job?”
She laced her fingers together over her middle and said, “I don’t know.” True? I thought not, but I didn’t push.
“I’ve heard they were quite the couple. Maybe others were envious?”
She smiled. “Of course they were. We haven’t seen much of them since they moved, but word is they’ve come down in the world.” I thought of the Forrands’ small house, with its holes in the hall, and its reek of urine. They certainly had.
“I’m guessing the abuse allegations didn’t make their lives easier,” I said.
She fixed me a look. “I never filed a report. I may have asked more questions than others did, but I realized his injuries were self-inflicted the day I saw Cody hitting his arm against a tree. He kept yelling, “Hiya!” and hitting it, over and over. Jane had to pull him away. She rolled up his sleeve and his arm, it was swollen and blue with a massive bruise. I remember she asked him, ‘Why didn’t you stop?’ and he said, ‘Because I wasn’t finished.’ He was only three and a half years old.”
The fire popped. We both looked to it, the flames eating the wood.
“I can’t imagine who would take Cody Forrand,” she said. “It must have been a stranger. We had a little girl go missing. Back in ’92, Vicky Fitzgerald. Some man grabbed her, raped her, and killed her.” She looked at the flames, lost in thought.
“It seems likely that whoever took Cody knew him.”
She stared at the fire. “Why? He’s a very sick boy.”
“Can you think of anyone who might’ve taken him? Someone who—”
“No,” she said, cutting me off. “It must’ve been a stranger who took Cody. Someone with no idea of his condition. Maybe that’s why he let him go.”
“The kidnapper?”
She nodded. “Maybe he realized Cody was broken. Decided to return him.”
“Like an unwanted gift.”
Her lips flattened into a thin, hard line. “Something like that.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Friday afternoon. Billy delivered me a stack of newspaper articles. He’d really done his homework on the Chaplin kidnapping. The first article was from the Hartford Courant. On September 25, 1992, it was the front-page story.
Six-Year-Old Girl Missing
Connecticut State Police are searching for six-year-old Victoria Fitzgerald, who went missing from her Chaplin home’s front yard yesterday afternoon. Her mother reported her missing. Victoria has blond hair, brown eyes, is 42 inches tall, and weighs 48 pounds, according to reports. State Police search-and-rescue crews, K-9 teams, and volunteers are looking for the girl.
A photo of a smiling Vicky accompanied the story. She had a dimple in her right cheek. On the third day after her disappearance, the Courant ran the following story:
Search Continues for Missing Chaplin Girl
Victoria Fitzgerald’s disappearance has stun
ned the 1,950 residents of Chaplin. Since she went missing Thursday, 100 volunteers have assisted the police, Fire Department, and sheriff’s deputies to search the woods and fields near her Laurel Street home. Many neighbors have assisted in the search for Victoria. Mr. Peter Forrand, a Chaplin resident, donated food to searchers and had co-workers from as far as Boston post flyers of the missing girl. Dogs and helicopters have also been deployed in the search for the six-year-old. The trees of Chaplin are wrapped with flyers featuring Victoria’s picture. A special mass will be said this afternoon at Our Lady of Lourdes Church.
Victoria was last seen playing in her front yard. She’d returned from school, eaten a snack, and gone outside. Mrs. Woods, Victoria’s first-grade teacher, described her as “sunny and smiling, a joy to teach.” Victoria’s parents are divorced, and her mother has primary custody. Both parents appeared on TV, pleading for her safety. Each has agreed to take a polygraph test. Police will not report the test results, because they are an investigative tool.
So they were eyeing the parents, hard enough to ask them to take a poly. Not that the test proved a damn thing. Polygraphs can be beaten, or wrong. That’s why they’re inadmissible in many states.
As the days dragged, it seemed clear from the articles that suspicions had focused on the father. He’d divorced Vicky’s mom a year earlier. The custody battle had been contentious. She had primary custody, and he could only see his daughter one weekend a month on supervised visits. That was damning. Was he a hitter? A drunk?
The next article was darker but not surprising.
Body of Child Discovered in Chaplin Woods
The body of a child found in Chaplin Woods appears to be that of missing six-year-old Victoria Fitzgerald. Investigators have not positively identified the body as that of the missing girl yet, but they state that it was found two miles from where she was last seen on September 25. The corpse was found in an area not included during the searches for the missing child. Chaplin Police, when asked about this omission, said the case was still active and that they were unable to comment.
State police have indicated that, pending a coroner’s determination, it appears the child was murdered. There have been no arrests at this time. Fitzgerald’s family has been notified of the discovery.
State officer Stephen Whittaker insists the parents were cooperating with investigators and federal agents by opening their homes to searches and by taking polygraph tests. The results of those tests are not being released at this time.
Most of the reporters backed off the parents as suspects once it was released that Vicky had been sexually assaulted, strangled to death, and dumped in the woods. The police began looking at people with criminal records of sexual misconduct. A week later, they hauled in Gerald Biggs, a thirty-six-year-old plumber from Hampton. He had a record for public indecency. He admitted, while in custody, that he fantasized about young girls and had followed some home from school in his truck. Cops got a warrant. Searched his home. In his living room they found blond hairs and a rope. The weave of the rope matched the abrasion patterns on Vicky’s neck.
On October 4, 1992, the Hartford Courant ran this:
Alleged Killer of Local Girl Commits Suicide in Cell.
Gerald Biggs hanged himself.
Gerald Biggs was a plumber. Mrs. Forrand said she’d let a plumber in their house, and he’d looked at the kids’ twin beds. If Sammy, the raccoon, had been in the room, he’d have seen enough to restage it. What were the odds on two pedophile plumbers being the bad guys here?
Billy peeked around my door. “Any help?” he asked.
“How did you get so much so fast?” I asked.
He colored. “I think the librarian has a crush on me.” Billy attracted women like sugar did ants. “She remembered the case. So did I, once I looked at the articles. Poor girl.”
“Peter Forrand’s name appeared in some articles.”
“Small world, huh?” Billy said. That right there was why Billy would never be a detective. He saw that coincidence and thought “huh,” whereas a guy like Wright would see it and think, “How likely is that?”
I decided to run it by Wright, but he disappointed me.
“Mr. Forrand mentioned the case, more than once. He had young kids at the time. Probably scared him. He obviously hasn’t forgotten it.”
“You don’t think it’s hinky?”
“Hinky?” He barked a laugh. “How? Everyone in Chaplin knew about it, and half our suspects are from there. Besides, he searched with you. How could he have had a hand in Cody’s kidnapping?”
“What if he arranged it?” I asked. “You’ve seen their place. They’re living close to the bone. Maybe he thought if they got rid of Cody, things would get better.”
“Well, if he hired someone, he didn’t get his money’s worth. Cody was returned.”
“It might explain why he’s been less than willing for us to interview Cody.”
“I’d say reluctant, not unwilling.” He appraised me. “You really are a suspicious bastard, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Have we heard any word on the plumber?”
“Nah. We had Mrs. Forrand go through the yellow pages, see if any of the business names seemed familiar. She picked half a dozen but admitted she wasn’t sure if any of them were the right one.”
Finnegan walked past, Mr. Evans behind him. Mr. Evans’s right eye was swollen nearly shut. Uh-oh. Looks like Mr. Gallagher hadn’t taken the news of the affair well. An hour and a half later, Finnegan found me working on the stupid inventory form Mrs. Dunsmore insisted I finish before I left for “vacation” on Monday. One day, with my family, in lieu of Christmas. Some vacation.
“What’s got you trying to out cuss Dix?” Finnegan asked.
“Inventory form. I have to explain the purpose of each piece of equipment.”
“Seriously?” he asked. I growled. “Okay, point taken. I’ve got good news. The Sweet Dreams break-in is all but closed. I’ve got Klein and Billy looking for one Zachary Gabriel, former lover of our David Evans.”
“Fantastic. Do I have to explain how a Taser works on this fucking sheet?”
“Easy, Chief. You know you could just crib from last year’s form?”
“What?” I looked up so fast my head nearly snapped off my neck.
“The form. Why not just pull last year’s? Lady Du must have it filed somewhere.”
Unsavory words erupted from my mouth. Why hadn’t she told me I could just copy last year’s answers? Why wasn’t she filling out this damned form? I threw a pen at my plant. It missed by several inches.
“Maybe now you’ve solved the break-in, you can find who tagged my car,” I said.
Finnegan flinched. “We’re working on it.”
“Uh-huh.”
“We are.” Defensive? He ought to be. It had been a goddamn week. I bet if Chief Stoughton’s car had been vandalized, these asses would’ve solved the case by now. I stalked to the file cabinet to see if I could find last year’s form. Finnegan exited my office without another word. Finally using his brain. Sure enough, there was a copy of last year’s inventory report and the year before that and the year before that. I slapped all three down on my desk. Kneaded my brow, and got to work. After an hour, I decided to call it a night. I gathered my coat, hat, and gloves. The station was lively, given the hour.
“Did you hear about Sweet Dreams? It was one of the gay guy’s boyfriends that destroyed the place. I thought when gay men raged out they redecorated.” Snickers and laughter.
Two men’s relationship had just exploded. Hilarious.
At the front, Officer Burns spoke to the dispatcher, his elbows on the counter. “Did you see his shiner? Guess someone wasn’t happy about being the other man.” He chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
Burns straightened and said, “Oh, nothing, Chief.”
“That’s what I thought. You want to gossip about active cases, do it at another station.” The dispatcher inhaled a sharp bre
ath. I shot him a look and stormed out the door. Then recalled I’d parked in the back. Damn it.
At home, I ate leftover Indian that wasn’t better the second day. One of the kitchen cabinet handles had come loose. The shallow brass handles often scraped my knuckles. My eyes drifted to the peeling linoleum floor. The house needed a makeover. Badly. I’d begun repairs. Taken down wallpaper. Painted the guest bedroom. I hadn’t made more progress. Why?
Because you were thinking about leaving.
“No, I wasn’t.” I shook my head. “I wasn’t.”
Because everyone knew I was gay? I wouldn’t cut and run. Couldn’t cut and run. Hadn’t been in the job a year yet. And who’d have me? The news would follow me to whatever new town I settled in. The gay police chief.
“I wasn’t,” I whispered. The peeling linoleum told another story.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Jerry looked like he’d sucked a lemon. “I can’t believe you called her about your car,” he said.
I set the keys to the station wagon on his cluttered counter. “Who?”
“Mrs. Dunsmore.” He rubbed his chin. It made a raspy sound against his calloused hand.
“What? I didn’t.”
“Yeah, well, she must like you.”
“Like me? She can’t stand me.”
“Could’ve fooled me. C’mon.” He snatched my keys from the small board behind him. Around the corner, half hidden by an ice cream truck, was my car. The driver’s door glinted in the sun. Graffiti gone. Seal restored. “I thought—”
“Thought what?” He was spoiling for a fight.
He’d told me he couldn’t do the seal. That had been before Mrs. Dunsmore had called. No wonder he was grumpy.
“It looks great.”
“Damn well better. I also topped up your oil and replaced a frayed fan belt.”
“Thanks. Oh, the radio knob on the wagon is broken. It’s on the dash.”
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