Night of Reunion: A Novel

by Michael Allegretto

  HELSTRUM FOUND INSANE

  Albany, NY—Christine Helstrum was found innocent by reason of insanity yesterday of the murders last August of Laura Whitaker and her two-year-old adopted son, Timothy. The jury deliberated only five hours before returning their verdict. The judge’s ruling on Helstrum is expected next week.

  Sarah scanned ahead until she found the item about Christine’s “sentencing.” She read what she already knew: Christine had been committed to the Wycroff State Mental Hospital. There was no photograph.

  Sarah rewound the spool, then asked the assistant librarian for the spool containing August of that year.

  She scanned microfilm for the next half hour before she found the first article about Christine Helstrum. There was an accompanying photograph. It showed Christine being led from a courtroom, where she’d been formally charged with murder. However, her face was mostly obscured—she’d raised her handcuffed hands just as the photographer had snapped the picture.

  Sarah had intended to search for a photograph and nothing more, but she found herself reading the article.

  In fact, in the weeks and months (and spools of microfilm) that followed the murder, there appeared a number of related articles. Several aspects of the murder had piqued the interest of both the newspaper and the public. For one thing, it was revealed that Christine Helstrum had been an abused child and that she had in turn abused her son and eventually killed him—that is, the Times was careful to say, allegedly killed him. For another, Christine had had little trouble gaining access to the files of the adoption agency, which enabled her to find her son and his adoptive parents. And for another, the murder of Laura Whitaker had been unusually brutal. Her autopsy revealed that she had been stabbed thirty-nine times in her face, neck, arms, chest, and abdomen and that she had received numerous “defensive wounds,” as the coroner described them—deep slashes across her forearms and the palms of her hands, received while trying to fend off her knife-wielding attacker.

  Sarah stopped reading. There was a bitter taste in her mouth, and her stomach felt queasy; for a moment she thought she might become physically ill.

  When Alex had described Laura’s murder to her, it had all been so overwhelming that she hadn’t really thought about the details. And later, she’d blocked all but the larger facts from her mind. But now, as she sat alone reading in the harsh and impersonal light of the viewing machine, she began to imagine what it must have been like for Laura.

  Sarah had nothing in her own life to compare with Laura’s experience. However, she remembered once as a child when she’d cut herself with a knife. She’d been playing in the backyard of her house near her mother’s flower garden, and she’d found an old, rusty steak knife that her mother used for digging up weeds. The knife was not sharp, its blade dulled by constant contact with dirt and small stones. But it was sharp enough to open a cut on the side of Sarah’s left thumb. She still carried the scar: a thin white horizontal line near the base of her thumbnail.

  She couldn’t remember exactly how she’d cut herself, but she remembered very well the aftereffects: the sharp pain that came not instantly but a measurable fraction of a second after the blade had opened her skin. She’d dropped the knife and cried out not only in pain but also at the horror of seeing the blood drip from her body and fall to the ground. She’d also seen a faint pink smear on the dirty, now evil-looking blade of the knife. Somehow that had been the most frightening thing of all—proof that there were things in the world that were evil and dangerous, things that could hide their true nature until they were close enough to harm you.

  She’d run screaming to the back door of her house, her thumb on fire from pain and her arm beginning to throb clear up to the elbow.

  Sarah looked at the tiny scar on her thumb, remembering how much it had hurt. She tried to compare that with the pain that Christine Helstrum had inflicted upon Laura Whitaker.

  Deep slashes in her hands and forearms.

  Sarah clamped her jaws, swallowed hard, and pushed back her chair with a screech. She stood and walked hurriedly to the drinking fountain.

  And stab wounds, she thought, nearly forty of them.

  She pressed her eyes closed and tried to push the images from her mind. Then she leaned over and drank from the fountain, letting the cool water wash the sour taste from her mouth. She returned to her seat and began scanning through weeks’ worth of news without reading, without wanting to.

  September and October passed before her in a black-and-white blur. Sarah occasionally stopped the rush of words, but only long enough to ensure that she didn’t miss the one thing she sought. She inadvertently picked up news of the trial.

  Christine’s defense attorney had tried to portray her as a victim of her past, the only daughter of a mentally disturbed mother and an alcoholic father, both of whom abused her—mentally, physically, and sexually.

  Sarah tried to imagine the anguish Alex must have felt during the trial. For several weeks attorneys and expert witnesses in psychiatry argued in open court about who truly was the victim, turning the trial into a media event. Alex was not even allowed the privilege of mourning in private. Not only did he have to testify and describe the awful scene he’d found at his home and relate the dying words of his wife, but each day he had to sit in the courtroom barely more than an arm’s length away from the woman who had destroyed his family.

  Bad turned to worse when Christine took the stand. Almost immediately she was screaming obscenities at the judge and the jury and at Alex Whitaker. She swore she’d get even with him for “murdering her son” if it was the last thing she ever did.

  There was a photograph.

  It showed Christine Helstrum being forcibly led from the courtroom by a pair of hulking marshals. Her eyes were wide with hatred, and her mouth was open in mid-curse.

  As Sarah stared at that face, she felt a knot of fear tighten in her stomach. She stood up abruptly, nearly knocking over her chair. Then she hurried from the library, the spool of microfilm still in the viewing machine, the face of Christine Helstrum still glaring from the screen. It was a familiar face, one she’d seen that very morning in her shop—the face of Mrs. Green.

  Sarah stood in the reception area at Thomas Jefferson High School and waited for Alex. She was too upset to sit.

  She’d also been too upset to drive, at least safely. In the few miles between the public library and here she’d run through two stop signs. The second time, she’d barely avoided a collision with a pickup truck. She’d left the car in a Faculty Only parking area, rushed into the school building and then into the first office she’d seen, and demanded that Alex be paged immediately. It was an emergency, she’d said.

  The secretary, Miss Horst—a plain-looking young woman with dark-framed glasses and long bleached-blond hair—had eyed her suspiciously before she’d paged Alex to the reception area. She was still keeping a wary eye on Sarah when Alex came through the door.

  “Sarah?”

  “Alex,” she said, hurrying to him, “thank God you’re all right.”

  “What? What’s wrong? They said it was an emergency.”

  “It’s Christine. She’s here.”

  “What?”

  “She’s here in Colorado Springs. I was afraid she may have tried to get to you before I could warn you. We’ve got to call the police.”

  “Sarah, what’s—”

  He stopped, glancing over her shoulder toward Miss Horst. Then he took Sarah by the arm and led her into the hallway. It was deserted except for two rows of gray metal locker doors, one on either side of the wide linoleum floor. Each row was broken at regular intervals by classroom doors, which threatened to erupt at any moment with noisy students.

  “What’s going on?” Alex asked. “What happened?”

  Sarah took a deep breath. “I know this sounds crazy, but Christine came in my shop this morning.”

  Alex opened his mouth to speak, but Sarah rushed ahead.

  “I didn’t know it was her
at first. She was just a strange woman who called herself Mrs. Green. But she was very strange—the way she acted, the things she said. And when she was leaving, I realized that from behind she looked like the woman you’d mistaken for Christine at the Broadmoor.”

  Alex searched her face.

  “Did she do anything? What did she say?”

  “It wasn’t that, it was more a feeling I had about her. So I went to the library and looked through back issues of The New York Times until I found a photo of her. Alex, it was her in my shop.”

  Alex’s expression had changed to fear.

  “What exactly did she look like? The woman in your shop.”

  “She was taller than me, a few inches at least, maybe five feet seven or eight. And heavy looking, not fat exactly. Thick. I’d say a hundred and fifty. Her hair was brown and hung straight, almost to her shoulders.”

  “What about her face?”

  “Alex, I know it was her. The photo was of her staring right at the camera as she was being led from the courtroom. It was the same woman.”

  Alex licked his lips, his face pale. Then he gave a start and grabbed Sarah’s arm.

  “Brian,” he said. “What if she’s found his school?”

  “I never considered … all I thought about were her threats to you.”

  “We’d better call the school.”

  Sarah followed him back into the office. She fought a growing sense of panic as she pictured Brian, small and helpless, playing outside in the school yard, unaware that the woman approaching him was a threat to his life.

  17

  SARAH DROVE BRIAN HOME in the Jeep, and Alex followed in the Toyota.

  Before they’d gone to get Brian, Alex had phoned the school and said they were coming—a family emergency, he’d said—and that under no circumstances was Brian’s teacher to allow him to leave with anyone before they got there. Alex had left the matter of his own afternoon classes in the hands of Miss Horst. Then he and Sarah had hurried out of the office. He’d driven as fast as the traffic and the lights would allow, with Sarah beside him, neither of them speaking. They’d gotten Brian out of class with the briefest of explanations; then the three of them had driven back to Jefferson High to get Sarah’s car. Brian hadn’t questioned any of this, seemingly knowing that adults often act in unknowable ways.

  Now Sarah pulled into their driveway, letting Brian operate the remote garage-door opener. After the cars were parked and they’d all three gone inside, Sarah saw that Brian went upstairs to his room to play and Alex phoned the police.

  Forty-five minutes later he was showing two uniformed policemen into the living room. They were not the same two who’d come before. One was overweight, red faced, and well into his fifties. His name tag read “Bauer.” The other one, “Eastly,” was a young black man.

  Eastly nodded at Sarah, and Bauer sat on the couch. He opened a large black folder, clicked open a pen, and began writing at the top of a form.

  “What’s your name, please?” he said without looking up.

  “Sarah—”

  “Alex Whitaker,” Alex said.

  Alex stood in the middle of the room, his face pale and anxious looking. He was framed from behind by the large, brightly decorated Christmas tree.

  Officer Bauer looked up at him, then turned to Sarah, who sat at the opposite end of the couch.

  “I understand that you were the one threatened?”

  “Yes. That is, I’m the one she approached.”

  “And your name?”

  “Sarah Whitaker.”

  Bauer wrote it down. Alex fidgeted.

  “And the name of the woman who threatened you?”

  “Well, she said her name was—”

  “Her name is Christine Helstrum,” Alex said, then spread his hands. “Look, Officer, this woman is an escaped murderer. Four years ago in Albany, New York, she murdered my wife and … my first wife and our son. We just learned last week that she escaped from a mental hospital there. When they put her away, she swore revenge on me, and now she’s here in Colorado Springs.”

  “Where did you see her?”

  “I didn’t see her. My wife did.”

  Bauer turned to Sarah, his pen poised.

  “Would you describe her, please?”

  Alex sighed in exasperation and began to pace the floor as Sarah described Christine and how she’d come into her shop this morning.

  “Although she called herself ‘Mrs. Green,’” she said.

  Bauer wrote it down. “Are you certain that she’s the same woman who threatened your husband?”

  “Yes. I mean, I wasn’t at the time. But afterward, I saw a photograph of her in the newspaper, and I was certain.”

  “Do you have the photograph?”

  “No.” Sarah described her visit to the library.

  “And you’re certain it’s the same woman?”

  “Yes.” Sarah frowned, trying to recall the face of Mrs. Green in her shop and the face of Christine Helstrum on the view screen. “Fairly certain,” she said.

  Bauer nodded.

  “I’m absolutely certain,” Alex said.

  Bauer glanced at him, then looked at Sarah.

  “Exactly how did this woman threaten you?”

  “Well … She didn’t exactly threaten me. Not in so many words.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She asked to make an appointment.”

  “An appointment?”

  “To get her hair cut and colored.”

  Bauer wrote it down. “Did she say anything else?”

  “Well … no.”

  “Look, Officer,” Alex said, stopping his pacing in front of Bauer, “she didn’t have to say anything. The fact that she’s here is threat enough.”

  Bauer nodded understandingly. “Do you know why this woman”—he looked at his report—“Christine Helstrum, or Mrs. Green, would approach your wife in this manner?”

  “No, I …” He spread his arms and shook his head. “Hell, no, she’s insane. Who knows what she’s going to do?”

  Bauer nodded again, then turned to Sarah.

  “When she left, did you see if she was with anyone?”

  “No, I didn’t see.”

  “Did you see her get into a car?”

  “No.”

  “Was there a cab waiting for her?”

  “I didn’t see her after she left the shop, Officer. I’m sorry, I didn’t even think to look.”

  Bauer smiled briefly. “It’s not your fault. Did she leave you a phone number? An address?”

  “No.”

  Bauer wrote some more. “Is there anything else you’d like to add?”

  Sarah shook her head, then looked over at Alex, whose pacing had taken him near the doorway. Officer Eastly stood quietly behind him.

  “Okay, then,” Bauer said.

  “So what are you going to do?” Alex asked, approaching the couch.

  Bauer clicked shut his pen and slipped it in his shirt pocket. Then he carefully closed his folder and stood, grunting slightly from the effort.

  “We’ll turn this information over to the detective squad. I’m sure they’ll want to come out here and talk to you.”

  “Is that all?” Alex seemed astonished.

  “We’ll keep an eye out during our patrol of this area for the woman you’ve described.” He looked at Sarah. “The same goes for the area around your shop.”

  “And that’s all?” Alex asked.

  “That’s all we can do for now,” Bauer said. “The detectives will be in charge of this, and whatever more is done will be up to them.”

  “But this woman threatened my life.” There was a note of pleading in Alex’s voice.

  “Four years ago,” Bauer said. “Yes, I included that in my report. All I can tell you for now is that if you see this woman again call us immediately.”

  “Right,” Alex said, and stalked from the room.

  Sarah showed Officers Bauer and Eastly to the door, then went lo
oking for Alex. She found him in the family room, standing at the window, staring out at the snowy backyard. Sarah thought it ironic that their roles had somehow become reversed. Earlier she’d been in a panic and had run to Alex not only to warn him but also to get his protection. After the police had been brought in, she felt more calm than before. However, it was obvious that Alex felt more upset. Now it was her turn to assure him that he was protected.

  She touched him from behind, and he gave a start. Then he relaxed, and she put her arms around him, resting her head on his back.

  “They’re doing all they can,” she said, meaning the police. “For now, anyway.”

  “It’s not enough,” he said quickly, firmly. “I’ve been thinking about …”

  “About what?”

  He hesitated. “About … buying a gun.”

  “No, Alex.”

  She let go of him and stood at his side, looking up at his profile. He stared straight ahead, frowning at the window, at the empty backyard.

  “I won’t have a gun in our house,” Sarah said evenly.

  Alex said nothing.

  “It’s too dangerous. With Brian in the house and—”

  “Dangerous?” He turned his head to face her. “How dangerous do you think Christine Helstrum is?”

  “The police are—”

  “The police,” Alex spat. Then he closed his eyes for a moment and sighed. Sarah thought that he looked exhausted. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know the police are doing what they can. But the thought that she may be here, that she may have found us, is almost too much to bear.”

  Sarah took a breath before she spoke.

  “Maybe it wasn’t her.”

  “What? But this morning …”

  “I know,” she said. “I was positive after seeing that old photo. But just a while ago, when that policeman asked me if I was certain … I don’t know. This woman, Mrs. Green, was very strange, and she made me think of Christine, and so I was in a weird frame of mind when I went to the library.” She touched his arm. “I don’t know now, Alex. The photo of Christine looked like Mrs. Green, I suppose, but … I don’t know.”

  “I’m hungry.”