Cast in Stone

by G. M. Ford

  He rummaged through the sheaf of torn photos he was still clutching in his left hand and came up with a relatively whole copy. He studied it carefully. "I suppose it does look kind of like her." "Her name is Terra Hasu," I prompted. "Yeah. When I was a kid, her family lived way the kell out in the woods up behind Diablo." "Where did she go to school?" I asked. "They had their own Christian school down in Hamilton." I waited. He picked up the thread. They were real isolated. They didn't have much to do with anybody outside the church. There were all these wild rumors." "What rumors?"

  "Oh, God. Cannibalism. Demon worship. Kiddie Porn. You name it, they were supposed to be involved in it. You listen to these folks, you believe half the valley was linked up in a half-mile daisy-chain cluster fuck." He pointed an upturned palm back the way we'd come. "You saw those people back there. That's how they are. They don't have enough to do. They spend their time making up things about people." "Okay. So?"

  "So about my junior year in high school, Terra started showing up once in a while at school things. Everybody noticed her right away. You know, it's a small town. All those weird rumors. Besides that, her clothes and everything were so weird."

  "Weird how?"

  "Like old and out of date. Hand-me-downs. The kind of things kids notice right away." "And are none too kind about." "You know it." "What year was that?"

  "Seventy-eight, seventy-nine. Right in there some-

  place."*

  "So she started showing up at school functions."

  "Yeah, and . . . you know . . . word started to get around."

  "About the girl?"

  "Yeah." He walked around scratching and stretching like a hitter about to enter the batter's box. "What word?" "You know."

  "What?" I pressed. "She was easy? What?" "Not exactly." "What then?"

  "That she was one of them. That she was wild. I guess that's the word." "Wild how?"

  He looked at me hard. I gave him my best man-of-the-world look. "Listen, Mr.—"

  "Waterman," I said, sticking out a hand. "Leo Waterman."

  He reluctantly shook it. Surveying the street again,

  he released my hand and pushed his deep into his pockets.

  "You know, it doesn't look like my prospects in the next election are going to be any too damn good. I can live with that. What I do have going for me, though, is my family. I've got a hell of a wife and three nice kids. If I do talk to you, this is the end of it. When you walk away from here, as far as I'm concerned, this conversation never happened. No depositions. No nothing. You understand me?"

  "I understand," I assured him.

  "Easy wasn't the right word." he said. "Easy says you could like . . . you know . . . come on to her and she'd . . . come across."

  I waited him out. Nearly a minute passed before he spoke again.

  "It wasn't anything like that. She did the choosing. She just sort of decided who it was she wanted, and that was it."

  "Uhhuh."

  "I'm not the only one here in town either. There were others. It's just not something . . . you know . . . anybody's gonna talk about."

  Out on the highway, an eighteen-wheeler splattered the air with his jake brake. We listened as the roar rolled up over the hills.

  "She wasn't like the other girls," he said.

  "How so?"

  Another long pause.

  "Terra knew what you really wanted. It was like she could read way down in your mind, down into those things that you feel bad for even thinking about. With her it was more like"—he searched for a word— "theater. And she knew exactly what part you really wanted to play."

  There didn't seem to be anything to say, so I didn't.

  "Then the shit hit the fan." He took a deep breath.

  "You've got to understand that from here on it's just small-town rumor. Nobody knows anything for sure." "Okay."

  "One of the first things I did when Marvin hired me was to try to poke my nose into the case, but it was all sealed up by order of the Skagit District Court. They do that when there's juveniles involved."

  "It's a good policy."

  He collected his thoughts.

  "She killed him."

  "She who killed him who?"

  "Her mother, Claire. That part is on record. She killed her husband, Wayne. Some say she mutilated, him too, but that's just rumor again. What's for sure is that the wife killed him. The poor woman had a long history of mental problems. She's been in and out of Northern State all of her life. I guess she just snapped."

  "Did she go to jail?"

  "Oh, no," he said. "She went all the way over the edge. Sat right there in court and told the judge her old man needed killing. Calm as could be. Not the slightest hint of remorse. They sent her down to Western State. Social Services took the little kids."

  "Terra?"

  "That's the part everybody remembers." "What's that?"

  "The competency hearing over in Sedro Woolley." "What about it?"

  "Terra went bonkers. The bailiffs had to carry her out both days. Took three of them." "You were there?"

  "Yeah. I was there. Hell, half of the valley was there. It was during Christmas break. She just went nuts. Screaming about how they hadn't done anything wrong. About how she'd get her momma out no matter how long it took. Big old picture of her being

  carried out of court was on the front page both days. It was big-time news for around here."

  "What happened to her after that?"

  He shrugged. "I don't know. I thought maybe they'd thrown her in the can for contempt or something, but she was just gone." He folded his arms over his vest. "What with Wayne Hasu dead and the mom off to the bin, the whole thing just sort of blew over. There was a lot of talk. A bunch of folks moved out of the area. It wasn't the kind of thing folks wanted to hear about anyway. Once they had somebody to blame, they just swept it under the rug."

  He kept his gaze high on the scarred slopes to the south. I had a feeling. "And you never saw her again?"

  He plucked a small purple flower from the ground and twirled it in his big fingers.

  "I didn't see her again until nineteen eighty-nine," he said. "The year I came back here with Judy. She walked right into the station during my shift, big as life. Fine clothes, jewelry. New car. Had her nose fixed and everything."

  I cocked an eyebrow. He shrugged.

  "Just like that, huh?" I said.

  "Just like that."

  "Did she say anything about where she'd been all that time?" "Nope."

  I sensed that I'd somehow touched a nerve. "You still see her?"

  He scraped a handful of pebbles from the street, shaking them in his hand as he walked backward. He began throwing the stones, one at a time, at the side of the building.

  "When was the last time you saw her?"

  He gave a walleyed look, like a dog caught messing the carpet.

  "She was here a couple of weeks ago. Looking real fine. Blond this time," he said, suddenly refusing to meet my eyes. "I told Judy I had to take a prisoner to Seattle. We—" He stopped. "I'm not proud of this. Maybe I'm just weak, but once she sets the hook in you, she doesn't let go. She's showed up every year or so, ever since eighty-nine. Every time, I tell myself it's the last time." He shrugged again. "It's a strong drive."

  "I understand," I said. "It's been a major player in most of the real shitty decisions I've made in my life."

  We moseyed back up the slope, turning onto Main Street, which, except for an old man sliding along behind a walker, was now deserted. For the first time, he noticed the still-open door of the cruiser.

  "My boy's waiting," he said. "We were gonna—"

  "Thanks for the help."

  He cast me a sideways glance. "You know, even after all this, if she was to walk through the door tomorrow night, or next month, I'll probably do it again," he said quietly.

  "I know."

  26

  You look terrible"

  "Thanks, I needed that."

  "You know better than to dri
nk with those guys," Duvall said.

  "I guess I needed a refresher course."

  The bell on the microwave startled me as it announced my coffee. Rebecca retrieved the cup and slid it over the breakfast bar at me.

  "I've been thinking about what you told me. About that girl and her background and all."

  "And?"

  "I was struck by how the whole story is the perfect recipe for creating a sociopath. It's like her whole history was cast in stone from the very beginning. You take a regular kid, you isolate her from normal human beings, you subject her to years of mental and sexual abuse, and what you get is somebody who's prepared to do whatever it takes to survive."

  "You think she's just a poor waif trying to survive?"

  "A poor waif, no. Just trying to survive, yes."

  "Come on. She's killed at least two people. She's been directly responsible for the death of at least one other. She's ripped off in excess of a couple of million dollars that I know of, and you say the poor thing is just trying to survive."

  "Some people need more than others. Look at her life, for gosh sakes, Leo. This is a very needy person."

  "Thank you, Dr. Brothers. The bad news is that none of this gets me any closer to finding her."

  Rebecca checked her face in the small mirror, loaded her briefcase with paperwork, and picked up her keys.

  "I thought this was your day off," I said. "So many meetings, so little time. Lock up for me, will you?" "No problema," I said.

  She pulled her black raincoat from the hook behind the door.

  "What's on your plate this afternoon?" "I've got a five o'clock with my client." "You better take a nap before you go." "That's the plan." "See you later."

  The door closed behind her and then suddenly opened again. She stuck her head back in. "Where's the mother?"

  "If she's still alive, she's probably still in Western State. They tend to get retentive about folks who cut other folks into pieces."

  "If her mother's still alive, that's where to look."

  "How do you figure?"

  "Trust me, Leo. She won't be far from her mother. People who suffer together have strong connections."

  Five minutes into my report, Marge walked out onto her private terrace, seeking cover amid the jungle of potted plants. The breeze off Elliot Bay fanned my note cards onto my shoes. I kept talking as I picked them up. She stood on the concrete, just outside the sliding door, her arms now folded tight over an ivory silk blouse.

  "You're sure?" she said when I finished.

  "I'm sure."

  "What if this person was lying?"

  "He wasn't. He had no reason to lie. He saw her a little over two weeks ago. At least three weeks after she was supposed to be dead."

  "We should call the police."

  "There's a bunch of problems with that."

  "Such as?"

  "First off, Nicky's death is officially an accident, and the cops are never real anxious to be wrong." Marge started to object. I raised my voice. "Also, she's probably not wanted for anything."

  Marge Sundstrom came charging back into the room, waving her arms.

  "How can that—that pig not be wanted for anything? She murdered my son."

  "I know," I said. "Listen to me, Marge—" She stopped pacing. "This woman is good at this. Early on, she got lucky. The old lady was an easy mark. She was a quick study, though. She learned from the experience. You've gotta give her that. What better place to find the vulnerable than at support groups? There's a kind of twisted brilliance there. There's no telling how many times she's run that little number, either. I'm bettin' a bunch. Over the past fifteen years, she's turned herself into a sophisticated woman of the world who doesn't have any trouble fooling other professionals. She's gotten this far by being smart, by being ruthless, and by being careful."

  "But we have a witness."

  "That's the other problem," I said. "First of all, it's my word against his. He'd have to be out of his mind to spill his guts to the police. He's got a wife and family. If I were in his position, I'd stonewall the hell out of it. You've got to understand, Marge, the people she leaves behind have been"—I struggled for a word—"compromised, I guess is the word. They've done things they'd never have done if it hadn't been for her."

  "What bush is it that you're working so hard at beating around here, Leo? What are you trying so hard not to tell me?"

  I took a deep breath. "You remember when we started this, you cracked once that 'a woman's best friend is a man's imagination'?"

  "I remember."

  "She's an artist with that imagination. I think she's learned how to push all the buttons She knows how to get people to cross the line, over into a place all their instincts told them to stay out of. Once she gets them over there, they're not about to be telling folks about it."

  She thought it over.

  "Not Nicky," she said.

  I retied my lace on my left sneaker.

  "I want her," she said. "I want to wipe that smug look off her little face. I want to see her behind bars."

  "Me too."

  "What do we do?"

  "We follow the mother."

  "What you're asking is definitely illegal, probably unethical, and perhaps immoral. Why should I do that for you, Leo? Give me a reason."

  I did my best. I told her everything, from Heck's suspicion that Allison hadn't been on board, all the way up to Chief Gardner. Saasha Kennedy was a good listener. You get that way after a few years as a crisis intervention specialist for the state of Washington. We'd met last year in a downtown hotel, where she'd been trying to talk a jumper in off a fourteenth-floor ledge. Later I'd enlisted her help with a particularly precocious young woman I was supposed to be guarding. While she still harbored serious doubts about me, she and Rebecca had become fast friends. We'd doubled to a couple of dinners and movies with Kennedy and Robert Dolan, her significant other.

  "You're telling me the truth?" she said when I'd finished. "This isn't one of your more creative ruses?" "Swear."

  "Are you at home?" she asked. "Yeah."

  "I'll call you back. I'm working out of my apartment today. I'll have to annex the files by modem. I don't have a dedicated line, so I'll have to hang up and call you back."

  "I'll be here."

  I tried Rebecca. Still in a meeting. I went into the bedroom and changed into a pair of gray stonewashed Levis, a burgundy short-sleeved shirt, and my black high-top Nikes.

  The phone rang. Kennedy.

  "I could only get parts of this. Most of the file is permanently sealed by court order."

  "I know."

  "Claire Ellen Hasu was involuntarily committed to Western State Hospital in Steilacoom in July of nineteen eighty. Uncontested."

  "What's uncontested mean in this context?"

  "It means that although there were serious criminal considerations, all parties agreed that she wasn't fit to stand trial."

  "Okay."

  "Diagnosed as schizophrenic. Partially disassociated. Sometimes unresponsive. Intermittently violent. Security required full-time for staff safety."

  "What's all that mean?" I asked.

  "It means that sometimes she could appear to be just as normal as pie, but basically she was crazy as a shithouse rat."

  "Okay."

  "Transferred to Evergreen Psychiatric, in Olympia, in eighty-two. Evergreen is private. Prognosis is unchanged."

  "Whoa, wait a minute. How does somebodv who

  disassembles her spouse get transferred to a private facility?"

  "It's common—if the family has means and the facility meets state requirements for security, the state is more than happy to get out from under the financial burden. Eager, even. Transferred again in eighty-five to Northbay Convalescent in Bellingham. Ditto to Seattle in eighty-nine." , "This woman needs a travel agent, not a doctor."

  "Some experimentation is typical of patients with plenty of money and a poor prognosis. The family wants to feel it's tried everything. They're lo
oking for the miracle cure. They're willing to try anything."

  More pages turned. "This history, though, is excessive even for the well-heeled. If you read her treatment history, she's followed every new treatment trend around the state for the past fifteen years. Truly amazing tenacity."

  "This woman gives up on nothing," I said.

  "Transferred to Hampton Psychiatric in Longview in December nineteen ninety-two. Hampton is quite well respected. They've been around for fifty years."

  "What does that kind of care cost?" v

  "It's a substantial commitment."

  "How substantial?"

  "Well—let's just take nursing. We'll forget about overhead, administration, security, medication, all those little details. Just round-the-clock nursing."

  "Round-the-clock?"

  "The patient is on heavy meds and is a high security risk. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year."

  "How much an hour?"

  "At least twenty-five bucks an hour. Minimum."

  I could hear her pushing buttons. "So, twenty-five bucks, times twenty-four hours, times three hundred sixtv-five days is—six hundred bucks a day—times

  three hundred sixty-five is two hundred nineteen thousand dollars. Now add twenty percent for benefits, and we get—"

  "I get the idea," I interrupted.

  "A little over two hundred sixty-three thousand. Just for the nursing. As I said, it's quite unusual for the family to be that flush."

  "I'll bet."

  "Now, Hampton was a semiprivate facility, so you can divide the total cost by about four, but when you factor in the other expenses, it's going to push the figure up. Especially the kind of psychoactive meds she's on now. The meds alone are probably fifty thousand a year."

  "Explain," I said.

  "You have to understand how far the treatment of schizophrenia has come in the past twenty-five years. It wasn't that long ago; in the sixties, they kept zapping you with electricity until you became docile. Heck, as late as the mid-seventies treatment still consisted of a straitjacket and a padded room. If you gave them a hard time, they wrapped you in wet rubber sheets until the shaking calmed you down."

  "What do they do now?"