“Hattie Beauregard,” Isaiah replied without missing a beat. He’d rejoined the team, his cooler of evidence now safely locked in Tucker’s car. “She was born in southern Georgia to James Beauregard and his second wife, Augusta. His first wife, Beulah Rae, died under suspicious circumstances when their bedroom caught fire. Augusta brought three boys with her into the marriage, the sons of her previous husband, Duke Forrest, who by the way, died in a hunting accident. Between Beauregard and Augusta, they had nine children that lived, five that didn’t.”
“Let me guess,” Tucker drawled. “They died under suspicious circumstances.”
Isaiah gave the barest nod. “Let’s just say that Jerry Springer would have a heyday if this family ever made it to his stage. Two of Beauregard’s boys are in prison for armed robbery, another for murder. One of the girls is serving time for ditching her newborn daughter in a garbage can. Another’s in jail for poisoning dogs and cats in her neighborhood. You might’ve seen that one on the news. It was local.”
He took a breath. “Besides the name Joyce Parrish, Hattie’s got a string of aliases from state to state, not just in Georgia, plus charges from forgery to petty theft. She’s done jail time twice, nothing serious. I’ve tracked the newspaper stories about her as far north as Montana, and all the way to New York. She hasn’t strayed out of the country yet, but I wouldn’t put it past her now that she knows we’re onto her.”
“When’d you have time to do this?” Tate asked, hoping this wasn’t another sign of Isaiah’s superior psychic abilities.
“Easy,” Isaiah shot back at him. “I know some guys in the Bureau. You ought to try it, Tate. The FBI can be helpful.”
“Pretty gutsy, don’t you think? To demand an FBI escort for her daughter’s phony last wish?” Ky added.
“And look at this.” Eden slid an old newspaper clipping across the coffee table they’d gathered around while still sequestered in the waiting room. “Isaiah’s friends at the Bureau also found this in Hattie’s place. Apparently, she likes to keep mementoes.”
Tate lifted the clipping to his nose. The yellowed article had been mounted on black cardstock. It was a black and white picture of a younger Joyce Parrish and her daughter in front of a Salvation Army Christmas Tree with the headline: “Devoted Mother of Dying Daughter Demands Personal Visit From Macy’s Santa.”
While Tate scrutinized Joyce’s nervy face, Eden slid several other clippings to his side of the table. All mounted on black cardstock, every last clipping disclosed a photo of Joyce with a brash headline about some noble deed she’d done for her daughter or something she’d demanded be done for Winslow.
The shot of her at a Baptist Church spring bazaar to raise money for cancer awareness spotlighted Winslow sitting in a wheelchair, her legs covered with a blanket. Tate peered closer. Damn, Winslow looked like she was maybe ten-years-old in that shot, but she was so skinny and her eyes were sunken. How long had this been going on?
There were more. From the Louisiana State Housing office to a Social Security office in Idaho, all showed Joyce making a public statement of how hard life was for a poor single mother with a cancer-stricken daughter. One audacious headline read “Don’t You Guys Get it?”
At every state Joyce stopped in, she’d used her daughter’s illness to draw attention to her plight. In one shot, she looked like quite the harried single mother. Her hair was longer then, disheveled, and Winslow was maybe three or four, hanging onto her mother’s neck and staring at the camera with those too-big-for-her-face eyes. She was a scrawny kid even then.
In a more recent shot, Hattie had turned into Joyce with short spikes of silver-tipped black hair and that same predatory sneer. Winslow was older and walking, at least on her feet. But the camera caught her looking away while Joyce glared into the lens. The caption? “Caretakers Are People Too!”
“So she’s a scam artist and she’s used her daughter to do what? Get rich?” Tate asked.
Tucker shook his head. “See Tate, that’s why I want you on my team. I like you. You’re a straight shooter, one of those what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of guys. You’re not devious like Parrish, so you can’t relate to her. The scary thing is that she’s not after the money or the state housing she’s been living in for years.”
“Then what does she want?” Tate asked, baffled. Just spit it out.
Tucker leaned forward, his elbows to his knees. “Have you ever heard of Munchausen Syndrome?”
“The mental illness? Sure. I’ve heard of it.” I think.
Whereas Tucker had leaned into the fight, Eden leaned back and crossed her ankles. “Munchausen Syndrome is a mental illness where a person deliberately exaggerates symptoms of an illness they may or may not have. Often, they hurt themselves on purpose, maybe alter their urine to produce specific test results, or they contaminate their blood by…” She shrugged, “…eating certain toxic plants, maybe taking drugs. They shop from doctor to doctor and clinic to clinic to get the diagnosis and/or drugs they want. Some are only into non-traditional or non-FDA approved drugs because they’re easier to get. Some just want the hard-core narcotics. Others just want the attention.”
“I get it. They’re hypochondriacs.” That term he understood.
“No, Tate. This is different. Hypochondriacs suffer from anxiety. They worry obsessively about their health or about a specific condition they may or may not have. They’re constantly examining themselves for the slightest deviation from what they consider to be normal. But they don’t treat themselves, Tate. People with Munchausen Syndrome actively treat and hurt themselves in pursuit of the medical treatment they think they need. They undergo unnecessary surgeries. They seek out medications, and often, they attempt suicide.”
“Why?” He had to ask.
Tucker tapped his index finger to his head. “It’s a mental defect, Tate. They want attention.”
“Not necessarily, Boss,” Ky interceded. “Munchausen Syndrome is more along the lines of an obsessive-compulsive disorder where these people can’t control their impulses. It’s a real mental condition.”
“Which brings me to Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy,” Eden said. “MSBP.”
Tate rolled his neck at this field trip into psychobabble land. Dr. Keegan. That was who he needed to hear from, the sooner the better.
Eden kept going. “I believe Joyce Parrish is suffering with MSBP. It can lead directly to child or elderly abuse.”
That perked his ears up.
“It’s different from Munchausen Syndrome in that the caretaker, more often than not the mother of a disabled child, makes up symptoms or childhood illnesses for her healthy child where there are none. I’ve read cases where mothers have inflicted physical harm on their child to get the medical treatment they wanted. They’ve wrapped their kids in plastic to raise their temps, they’ve over-medicated them, and worse.” Eden shook her head. “I can’t imagine how any mother could hurt an infant so vulnerable as my Kyler. It boggles my mind. He’s so cute.”
Ky snorted. “He’s a fat little pig, is what he is.”
“Kyler’s a baby beast,” Tucker interjected.
“That’s because he’s built like his father. All muscle,” Eden added. Tate couldn’t miss the genuine affection in Eden and Ky’s banter, the way his face softened at the mention of his son or wife. The way Tucker watched them like he was Kyler’s proud grandfather.
Tate shook it off and refocused on the problem at hand. He’d given Joyce the benefit of the doubt, thinking she might’ve reached the end of her compassion after dealing with Winslow’s cancer for so long. He’d even empathized with her. “You think that explains why Joyce, umm, Hattie, poisoned Winslow?” he asked, his elbows on his knees and his steepled fingers to his lips. Eden’s hypothetical didn’t quite sit right.
“I think it’s possible, yes. Think about it. You mentioned Winslow felt fine Friday night, good enough to take a swing at you when you startled her, and good enough to climb that water tower ladder twice in one day
. But come Saturday morning, she was violently ill. Why was that?”
That was just this morning. “I don’t know, but today when I was at the house, I thought I might be watching her die. So you think what? That Joyce gave her something to perk her up Friday to get her through the prom date, then something else to make her sick this morning?”
Eden skipped a beat before she nodded. “It’s possible. We now know that Joyce, or Hattie, came from a large, strict family where it’s possible she was abused. If she was, she’s carried that twisted role of parenting into her adulthood. In her mind, she’s in control now, so she’s quick to exercise that control in the only way she can—on Winslow.”
Tate pushed back from the table, not buying that excuse. “She doesn’t act like she’s been bullied or hurt.” She was an evil, conniving bitch. That was the only Joyce/Hattie he’d seen.
Yes, he’d tried to make her fit the compassionate mold because she had cared for her critically ill child into that child’s adult years. It made logical sense that the only caretaker would be worn out, discouraged, and sick of her station in life. Who wouldn’t be bitter by then? Caretakers were the invisible victims tasked to endure a thankless job, often with no relief in sight and no acknowledgement that they suffered too.
But that assessment didn’t gel. The Joyce he’d seen was a mean-spirited woman who’d gone out of her way to kick a two-pound dog, then emotionally abused her child worse than the dog. No. Something uglier than MSBP was at work here.
Eden nodded, her lips pursed. “You know as well as I do that battered children tend to cover for their parents out of an innate sense of loyalty. Kids are like that. They love unconditionally. Isn’t that what Winslow’s been doing?”
“That’s because she’s kind and pure and—” He couldn’t go on, not with her maybe dying a few doors away. What was taking that doctor so long?
“You’re right, but she’s been in an abusive situation for years, whether she recognized it or not. From everything I can pick up from Winslow’s mind, she’s not like her mother, but she has problems, Tate. It’s called learned helplessness. Unless they’ve got a strong personality, sick people are vulnerable to coercion, real and implied. They’re too sick and too weak to understand how to defend themselves. They end up just going with the flow.”
“You’re talking torture,” Tate hissed.
“Yes, but let’s get back to Hattie. If what I believe happened to her during her childhood, her belief system is warped. In her mind, she sees herself as disgusting, foul, stupid, and ugly. Given that patterning, how can she see anyone else differently?”
Tate stared at Eden, waiting for her to answer the rhetorical question.
She leaned toward him. “It’s simple, Tate. She can’t. No woman who sees herself as unlovable could. Her perspective is warped. Her normal is a scary world where everyone else is as disgusting as she believes she is. They have to be, otherwise she’s the one who’s wrong, and I’m sorry, but this kind of person isn’t able to accept blame, criticism, or defeat. She craves the power that attention provides like a drug, so she can’t afford to be wrong. Worse, there’s almost no way to treat someone with MSBP because they’ll never admit they need help in the first place. Why would they when they’re the only one in their world who’s right?
Tate brushed a hand over his head, unconvinced. There was no gray to morality in his mind. People made decisions. They needed to be held accountable for what they did and who they hurt. The end.
The corners of Eden’s mouth curled as if she’d read his mind. “We know now that Joyce Parrish is an accomplished liar and a con artist, especially if she persuaded medical professionals to prescribe the quantity of drugs we found at her house.”
“She could’ve gotten them on the streets for all we know,” Tucker muttered.
“It’s like this,” Ky added. “Hattie can’t accept love because she can’t comprehend how someone like her is worthy of it. If anyone told her they loved her, which I’m willing to bet Winslow did as a child, that person lost her respect the instant they revealed what she believes is their fatal flaw.”
“The minute Winslow told her mother that she loved her,” Tate translated, “she became a target?”
Eden nodded. “Possibly. Or something as insignificant as Winslow telling her mom that she looked good. It’s hard to know precisely what sets people with MSBP off.”
Tate didn’t care. “She tried to kill Winslow.” You can’t whitewash that.
“You bet,” Tucker agreed, “and it’s our job to apprehend her and hold her accountable to the fullest extent of the law.”
“Which brings me to another point,” Eden said. “Why didn’t we arrest Hattie this evening when we had the chance? We should have. We had all the evidence we needed.”
“Because we had to get Winslow to a doctor,” Tate declared.
“And because Hattie expected Tate to come through Bly’s front door,” Isaiah said. He’d been quiet through most of the discussion. “In fact, she was prepared for it. She couldn’t wait.”
“Dr. who?” Tucker asked.
“Dr. Bly. That’s where Tate found Winslow. He’s one of the guys who’s been treating her.”
“You know that for sure?” Tucker asked. “Because I’ve got to tell you, I’ve been kicking myself for not calling in backup—”
“If you had, they would’ve been blown to bits, Boss. That house is wired to blow.”
Tucker’s brows arched. “With what?”
“According to the guys there now…”
That got Tucker out of his chair. “You called more of your friends—who by the way are FBI agents—without telling me?”
Isaiah shrugged. “Isn’t that what you pay me for, to take care of business while you’re breaking speed limits to get Winslow to safety?”
“Yeah, well…” Tucker’s hand skated over his head, raking at his scalp. “So what’d our guys find?”
“The same thing McVeigh used, fertilizer and fuel.”
Tucker bumped the heel of his hand to his forehead. “Shit, that bitch is as crazy as he was. She could’ve turned that whole neighborhood into a smoking hole. All those people!”
Exactly. Tate glanced at his boss, for the first time thankful he worked with psychics who could see through doors, walls, and lies. And him. Maybe this crazy Deuces Wild team would work after all.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Dr. Keegan finally cracked the door and signaled Tucker to join him in the hall, but Tucker had the good sense to wave Keegan in, and Tate was damned glad he did. Now was not the time to keep anything concerning Winslow from him.
Keegan took a seat at the coffee table, his wrists to his knees. “Miss Parrish is breathing on her own now, and—”
“When wasn’t she?” Tate growled.
Keegan spared him a tired, impatient scowl from beneath deeply furrowed brows. “She had a reaction to one of the chelating agents we gave her to sequester the arsenic away from her blood proteins. That’s all I meant when I said she wasn’t breathing. She took a bad turn, but she’s better now. That woman’s suffering from arsenic poisoning on top of whatever else is in her system.”
Keegan didn’t seem worried about HIPAA restraints. Maybe because they were FBI? “We’ve given her three units of blood, induced vomiting, and began a bowel cleanse to intercept and clear what poisons we can, but she’s very sick. The quicker we find out precisely what we’re dealing with, the sooner she’ll feel better. Understood?”
“Thanks,” Tate offered like a lame ass. He deserved that blatant chastisement. But arsenic? He hadn’t seen that in Joyce’s house of horrors. “Are you sure it was arsenic?”
The doctor’s right brow spiked in that superior way the profession had when talking to non-medical personnel. “Positive. At first, I thought maybe DMSO. It also smells like garlic. That garlicky scent is a classic indicator, plus her teeth show signs of prolonged vomiting, another indicator.”
“What’s DMSO?” Ky
asked.
“Dimethyl sulfoxide. Some alternative medicine types used it to treat cancer in the past, hell, maybe they still are, but I didn’t see that on the list of everything you guys brought in.”
“She was ill this morning,” Tate offered.
“Well, she’s damned sick now.” Keegan drummed his fingertips on the tabletop. “I ruled out DMSO, but I’m sure it’s arsenic. That explains her hair loss too. Her stomach pains. Hell, it explains most of her symptoms.” He leveled a stern eye to Isaiah. “The meds in those prescription bottles you shared don’t match the labels. Where’d you get them?”
Isaiah stiffened in his chair. “You’re kidding me? Every last one of them came out of the Parrish home.”
Keegan’s gaze dropped to his shoes as he shook his head. “Never mind. It’s not your fault. We see this all the time. People think they can disguise their illicit drugs in leftover prescription bottles. They forge new labels. They lie. They cheat. They trade prescription meds for something stronger, or just for something else they want. You guys want to tell me what’s going on with Miss Parrish?”
Tucker cleared his throat. “We suspect she’s been poisoned over a long period, maybe most of her life. We’re investigating, but—”
That earned Tucker one pissed off ER doctor. “Who the fuck did that to her?”
Tate was beginning to like this guy.
“At the moment, her mother’s our only person of interest,” Tucker answered honestly, “but we’re too early in the investigation to know for sure.”
“Nail her ass, will you?” Keegan’s smacked the coffee table, then pointed to the ER cubicle he’d just come from. “Do you have any idea what that poor girl’s been through? What she’s going through right now?”
Tate nodded. “Yes, sir, I do. I’m the one who found her and—”
“God bless you, sir,” Keegan bit out. The man seemed as emotionally involved with Winslow as Tate. “We see too much of this kind of abuse these days. Babies. Children. The elderly. Jesus Christ, what’s this world coming to?”
Joker Joker (The Deuces Wild Series Book 2) Page 18