Murder Is Forever, Volume 1

by James Patterson

  Gypsy looks at her mother. Dee Dee appears panic-stricken, as though her daughter is navigating a ledge thirty stories above street level.

  “Go ahead, now,” Dr. Ryan says. “Give it a shot.”

  Gypsy pivots one foot, then the next. Her slippers make a dragging sound on the floor as she shuffles 180 degrees. Her movements are stiff, unnatural, but she has little difficulty reversing direction. Dr. Ryan flashes a big smile.

  “Your legs look strong to me,” he says. “I don’t see any reason why you can’t walk.”

  “I told you why,” Dee Dee says. “I told you plenty of reasons why. Don’t forget, I been there since the beginning. I been through it all with her.”

  Gypsy sits back down, awkwardly, looking as though she’s been reprimanded. Dr. Ryan crosses his arms, leans back against a counter lined with canisters of cotton swabs and syringes.

  “I tell you what, Gypsy,” he says. “We’re going to try a brand-new test. You aren’t afraid of the dark, are you?”

  “No sir.”

  “What kind of test?” Dee Dee asks, suspicious.

  “It’s totally safe, and totally painless,” Dr. Ryan says, speaking directly to Gypsy. “We use it to check for nerve damage. All you have to do is keep your eyes on a small circle of light while it moves around a dark room. Any time the light vanishes, you clap your hands. Simple, right?”

  Gypsy nods.

  “I guess that’s okay,” Dee Dee says, trying to hide her scowl.

  “Very good,” Dr. Ryan says. “I just need to move you to the testing room at the end of the hall.”

  Dee Dee stands, picks up her purse.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Blancharde,” Dr. Ryan says. “You’ll have to sit this one out.”

  Her stare stops just short of a snarl.

  “I never sat out a thing in my girl’s life.”

  “I’m sorry, but the testing room will only accommodate a single patient. We won’t be long.”

  Dee Dee debates whether or not to walk out right then and there, but Gypsy, who has taken a liking to this new doctor, says: “Don’t worry about me, Mama. I’ll be fine.”

  Before Dee Dee can respond, Dr. Ryan is holding the door open, and Gypsy is wheeling herself into the hall.

  Chapter 7

  The testing room looks to Gypsy like any other doctor’s office. In fact, it is nearly identical to the one they just left: same table covered with the same brown paper, same posters on the walls, same canisters on the counter beside the sink.

  “Before we begin,” Dr. Ryan says, “I just need to ask you a few more questions.”

  “Okay,” Gypsy says, “but Mama’s the one who knows everything.”

  “Some questions only you can answer.”

  Gypsy blushes, fusses with her bandana.

  “On a scale of one to ten,” Dr. Ryan begins, “how much pain would you say you’re in right now?”

  “I don’t got no pain at all.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  Gypsy rolls her eyes.

  “Always,” she says. “Problem is, I can’t eat nothing but that chocolate drink with the vitamins in it. And sometimes a banana for dessert.”

  “Why not?”

  “Real food makes me throw up. ’Cause of my condition.”

  “What condition is that?”

  “You heard Mama. I got all kinds of conditions. It’s like I collect ’em.”

  “Okay, but what would you say is wrong with you?”

  Gypsy shrugs.

  “I guess I’m broken. All the way broken. Like all the little parts that make me up are rotting and I can’t do nothin’ about it except slow it down.”

  “What your mother called a chromosomal defect?”

  She nods.

  “I see. Do you have any trouble sleeping?”

  “Oh no. Mama gives me pills for that.”

  Dr. Ryan finds her near-toothless smile charming. There’s nothing at all self-conscious about this girl; she just wants to live.

  “Do you spend any time alone?” he asks.

  “You mean without Mama?”

  Dr. Ryan nods.

  “Sometimes at night,” Gypsy says. “Before bed.”

  “And what do you do then?”

  “I like to go on the computer. Facebook, mostly. I’ve got friends from all over. My goal is to have one in every state. That way, if I ever get to travel…”

  Her voice trails off as she considers the likelihood.

  “Now, Gypsy,” Dr. Ryan says, “I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to be completely honest with me. Can you do that?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Do you ever act differently when you’re alone in your room?”

  “Differently how?”

  “Than you would when you’re with your mother. For example, do you ever get up and walk around?”

  Gypsy’s response comes fast: “I can’t walk.”

  “But we just saw you walk.”

  “That was baby steps.”

  “If you can take baby steps, then you can take real steps.”

  Gypsy looks confused, maybe hurt.

  “You think I wouldn’t tell my mama if I could walk?”

  “No, I’m not saying that. But maybe you wouldn’t want to disappoint her?”

  “Mama wants me to walk. She wants it more than anything.”

  Gypsy is rattled now, as if she suspects Dr. Ryan of leading her gently toward betrayal. He decides to dial it back.

  “Of course she does,” he says. “So why don’t you surprise her?”

  “Surprise her?”

  “I want you to practice walking, every night in your room. Just a little at a time until you get the hang of it. And then, when you’re ready, you walk out to breakfast like it’s the most natural thing in the world.”

  Gypsy nods, smiles: she likes having a goal.

  “Perfect,” Dr. Ryan says. “Now for the test.”

  He shuts off the overhead, takes a pen light from his jacket pocket. Gypsy follows its tiny beam around the far wall. She claps hard any time it disappears. She wants Dr. Ryan to know she is trying.

  * * *

  They return to the original office, find Dee Dee pacing the floor.

  “Well?” she asks.

  “Inconclusive,” Dr. Ryan says. “If you don’t have her records, I’ll have to order a new battery of tests.”

  “Your going to make her go through all that again?” Dee Dee says. “I told you, I got it all memorized, down to the last decimal point.”

  “I’m sorry, but we need to have the results of her tests on record.”

  “You want to torture the girl over some paperwork?”

  “Of course I don’t want to,” Dr. Ryan says. “The question is, do you?”

  Dee Dee feels her face flush with heat.

  “Come on, Gypsy. We’re going.”

  They’re halfway down the hall when Dr. Ryan hears Dee Dee say: “That man doesn’t have the slightest idea what he’s talking about.”

  Chapter 8

  There is once again a small crowd gathered around Pastor Mike on the Blancharde lawn. The pastor has let his salt-and-pepper beard grow out; the worry lines on his forehead appear a little deeper, a little more jagged. Aleah and her mother stand nearby, along with Detectives Slater and Draper, and a Channel 4 news crew. Neighbors hold small, white candles in their cupped palms. There’s a strong threat of rain in the air. Pastor Mike speaks without a microphone or podium.

  “Like all of you, I am shocked and saddened by the sudden passing of Dee Dee Blancharde, a new and vital member of our community. Make no mistake: this is not simply a loss, it is a theft. A brutal and merciless theft. Dee Dee was stolen from us, just as all of the beautiful possibilities life represents were stolen from her. She is with God now, and I trust that everyone here is praying for her soul. To ease her passage, the First Methodist Church of Springfield will cover the full cost of her funeral.”

  There’s a chorus of soft ap
plause while he wipes his forehead with handkerchief. The night is unseasonably hot, and the moisture adds a tropical feel.

  “As you all know, Dee Dee’s daughter, Gypsy Rose Blancharde, has been missing since the night of her mother’s murder. The circumstances of her disappearance remain unclear, and as the search for Gypsy is a police matter, I will turn this over to Detective Brian Slater, lead investigator on the case. But before I do, I would like to make a personal plea: Gypsy, a sweet and innocent girl, was born into this world already suffering from a greater share of ailments than most of us will experience in our lifetimes. She is sick and frail and in desperate need of her medication. I implore you to cooperate fully with the police in their investigation. If you know anything—anything at all—that might help find her, please don’t hesitate to share that information with Detective Slater.”

  He turns from the crowd and looks directly into the nearest camera.

  “And if there is somebody out there who has Gypsy, I beg you to release her to the authorities at once so that she can receive the medical attention she needs to survive. Her mortal life is at stake, but so is your soul. Saving her is the only way to save yourself.”

  He moves aside, gestures to Detective Slater with a slight bow of his head.

  “God be with you, Pastor Mike,” an onlooker calls out.

  “Amen,” others murmur.

  Detective Slater, perspiring wildly in his checkered blazer, steps forward.

  “Thank you all for coming,” he begins. “I’ll make my comments brief so that we can all get back to the work of finding Gypsy. Here is what we know: Gypsy was last seen at her doctor’s office at four p.m. on the day she disappeared. She was last heard from in a Facebook message at nine p.m. that evening. I’m sure you’re all familiar with the content of that message by now. We can’t at this time say whether or not Gypsy sent the message of her own free will, or even if she sent it at all: it is of course possible that her account was hacked. What we do know with some measure of certainty is that no one has heard from her since.

  “We have checked with Gypsy’s medical team, and all of her prescriptions and supplies—including wheelchairs, oxygen tanks, and inhalers—are accounted for at the home. We are asking pharmacists and doctors in the area and across the country to report any attempts to buy relevant medicines without a prescription. At different times in her life, Gypsy has been diagnosed with asthma, muscular dystrophy, leukemia, and various autoimmune disorders.

  “We are asking you, the public, to be vigilant. If you see something out of the ordinary, let us know. Meanwhile, we are organizing searches of local parks and open spaces. If you would like to participate, please sign up with my partner, Detective Emily Draper.”

  Draper, standing at the front of the crowd, waves her clipboard in the air.

  “At this time,” Slater continues, “we have far more questions than answers. As Pastor Mike noted, we’re asking anyone with information to come forward immediately. Time is critical in any missing persons investigation, but, given Gypsy’s health, it is particularly crucial in this case.”

  He reads out a hotline number and a URL, then hands the floor back to Pastor Mike. The rain begins to fall in fat, warm drops. Pastor Mike leads the group in prayer. Slater and Draper hang back, scanning for anyone who looks out of place, anyone who seems overly anxious, anyone who seems to be enjoying the spectacle.

  When the event is over, Slater heads back to his car while Draper remains, collecting signatures. Slater is opening the driver-side door when he hears a voice calling after him. He turns to look, sees Aleah jogging up the sidewalk. The rain is pouring down now.

  “Detective Slater,” she says, “there’s something I have to tell you.”

  She’s drenched and doesn’t seem to care. Slater feels irritated at having to stand in the rain any longer than necessary, but the girl’s tone is urgent, and he can’t afford to miss a potential lead.

  “Why don’t you tell me in the car?” he says.

  Slater pops the locks, and Aleah climbs into the passenger’s seat. He gives her a moment to compose herself. The windows fog over as the water on their skin and clothes turns to steam. Slater studies her out of the corner of his eye. She isn’t an adult yet, but she isn’t a kid, either. A difficult age. His own daughter, who disappeared from his life when her mother took her to Seattle over a decade ago, would be just a year or two younger.

  “I’m getting your car all wet,” Aleah says.

  “That’s all right,” Slater tells her. “It’s not really my car.”

  Aleah’s smile is nervous, uncertain; she’s clearly never talked to a cop before.

  “What’s your name?” Slater asks.

  She dries her forehead on her sleeve, takes a deep breath.

  “Aleah,” she says. “Aleah Martin.”

  “You were friends with Gypsy?”

  She nods.

  “I think I was her only friend. I live across the street.”

  Slater remembers her now—or at least her name.

  “You called 911?”

  “My mother did. That Facebook message was meant for me.”

  Slater senses that whatever she has to say will be important, maybe game changing. He struggles to keep his voice even, calm.

  “What is it you wanted to tell me?” he asks.

  She hesitates, then blurts it out so fast that Slater isn’t sure he’s understood:

  “Gypsy was seeing someone,” she says.

  “Gypsy?”

  It seems incredible: the girl couldn’t walk, and she could hardly breathe without tubes in her nose.

  “Well, she had someone, sort of,” Aleah says. “She called him her ‘Secret Sam.’ They met on a Christian dating site. I don’t know which one.”

  “Do you know his real name?”

  She shakes her head.

  “I never asked. To be honest, I thought she was making him up. But now…”

  She wipes away a tear with the heel of her palm.

  “I’m sorry,” she says.

  Slater rests a hand on her shoulder.

  “You have nothing to be sorry about,” he says. “You were her friend, and you’ve given us our first real lead.”

  “But maybe if I’d said something before…Before Dee Dee was killed. Before Gypsy…”

  “Listen to me,” Slater says, a little more forcefully than he’d intended. “You couldn’t have predicted this. No one could have. You understand?”

  “I guess,” she says.

  Slater, not sure what more to say, takes her phone number and thanks her again. He sits for a while, watching her jog back to her house, then starts the car.

  He’ll have to get forensics to stop dragging their feet on Gypsy’s computer.

  Chapter 9

  “All right,” Slater says, “let’s review.”

  He’s standing in front of an old-fashioned chalkboard in a conference room at headquarters. Draper is there, as well as the two detectives assigned to monitor the Gypsy Rose hotline: Detective Denny Smith, who is on desk duty following an excessive force charge, and Detective Lane Schaub, who has been in plainclothes for even less time than Draper. They sit on metal folding chairs, laptops open on their knees.

  “First, we’ve got the missing money,” Slater says.

  He writes $4,000 in yellow chalk in the top left corner of the board, then turns back to the group.

  “That safe still bothers me,” he says. “Only someone close to her would’ve had access.”

  “Would she really have given the combination to her kid?” Smith asks.

  “Probably not, but we found it written in a notebook at the bottom of Dee Dee’s underwear drawer. Gypsy might have known where to look.”

  “So…you think the girl had an accomplice instead of a kidnapper?” Schaub asks.

  “I’m just floating ideas,” Slater says.

  “No way she did it herself,” Smith says. “Mommy had three hundred pounds on her.”

  �
��Maybe she paid someone,” Schaub offers.

  “Four thousand is a little short for murder,” Draper says. “On top of which, Gypsy would have needed that money to live.”

  “If the money was even stolen,” Smith says. “For all we know, Dee Dee spent it herself. Which would explain why you found the safe open: no need to lock it if there’s nothing inside.”

  “You’re right,” Slater agrees. “We don’t know anything for sure. All we have are hints. The money’s gone, the meds are all accounted for. What scenario allows both those things to be true? No matter how many times I play it out, I keep coming back to Gypsy.”

  “I don’t know, Brian,” Draper says. “By all accounts, the girl’s a little slow. It’s hard to see her as a mastermind.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. But maybe she set something in motion without realizing it. Socially, she grew up in a very small world. She probably doesn’t have a strong grasp of boundaries. Chances are she’s been lonely her whole life. Maybe she was blowing off steam online and said too much to the wrong person.”

  “Like her Secret Sam,” Schaub says.

  “He’s a possibility.”

  “If he even exists,” Smith says.

  “But no one we talked to described Gypsy as angry,” Draper says. “If anything, they describe her as surprisingly happy.”

  “She and her mother were together every minute of every day. You ever spend that much time with someone and not want to kill them?”

  “Thanks, partner,” Draper chides.

  “Don’t worry,” Smith says. “That’s his divorce talking.”

  “Everyone swears Dee Dee and Gypsy were soul mates…like they lived for each other,” Schaub says.

  “I wonder,” Slater says. “I watched that Anne-Marie footage a dozen times. There was something staged about it, like they were performing a mother-daughter skit for the thousandth time.”

  “The TV people probably gave them a script to work from,” Draper says.

  “Yeah, but it’s more than that. There was something simmering. You can see little glimpses of it when they think the camera isn’t on them. Gypsy looks checked out, which is understandable, but there’s something forced about Dee Dee…like she’s trying too hard to disguise her own rage.”