Never Alone

by C. J. Carpenter

  “The depravity of it all?”

  “Yeah. Pretty much.”

  “Well, that’s good in a way.”

  “It is?” Megan asked.

  “Yeah. It means your heart hasn’t turned to stone. The day you walk into a crime scene and feel nothing—and I mean nothing, no anger, no disgust, no reaction whatsoever—well, that’s a very sad day. That’s the day to hand in your badge. At least that’s what I think.”

  “I guess so.” Megan placed the magazine back onto the coffee table. This time it made it to the top of the other outdated office subscriptions. “Can I see a copy of the calendar and the initials again?”

  Megan looked over the paperwork again just as a roomful of people flowed out of a corner office.

  “Hopefully Ms. Bell can shed some light on some of these dates and initials. I feel like I’m trying to put together a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle and the box came with nine hundred and ninety-nine pieces. And no picture on the cover.”

  Lauren Bell was the last person to exit the corner office. “Detectives?”

  Her waifish build and pale skin made her look about fifty even though they knew she was in her early forties. She had chestnut-colored hair pulled back into a tight bun. She was extremely thin, conservatively dressed in a black turtleneck and wool slacks. She had the same bereaved look on her face as Shannon’s other friends had, but hers had an air of annoyance mixed in.

  “Follow me.”

  Her military tone made Megan think she was about to scream “Drop and give me twenty!” but she figured when you’re working with the kinds of people Lauren Bell was—prisoners with psychological issues—you had to have balls of steel, even if Mother Nature didn’t give you a set of your own.

  They followed her into her office. Once she closed the door, she seemed less uptight. “Sorry. The last two hours have been rather stressful. Comes with the territory, I guess. Please have a seat.”

  “Ms. Bell, we’d like to ask you a few questions about Shannon McAllister,” Megan said.

  “However I can help. Absolutely.”

  “You were Shannon’s mentor for school?” Nappa asked.

  “Not so much mentor as field instructor. When Shannon first started the internship program, I was assigned to her,” she said.

  “She worked with psychologically challenged prisoners, is that correct?” Megan asked.

  “Not exactly. Shannon counseled people who live in a halfway house and are preparing to reenter the community through a work release program. While some of the counselors here deal with only mental illness, Shannon mainly dealt with clients who were dually diagnosed with both mental illness and substance abuse.”

  “You’re saying that these clients—mentally ill, substance-abusing ex-felons—leave to go to work every day and willingly return to what is effectively house arrest at night?” Megan asked.

  “Yes. They’re wards of the state until the time comes when they’re fully released, and then post-therapeutic and substance-abuse counseling are maintained. Each client is fitted with an electronic monitoring bracelet attached to their ankle. It tracks their location. If they deviate outside the accepted area, we’re alerted immediately.”

  “Uh-huh.” Megan’s sour response was noted by Lauren Bell.

  “Detective, the recidivism rate for the people in this program is extremely low.”

  “Can we get back to the internship program for a moment?” Nappa interrupted. “What exactly does it entail? What kind of interaction did Ms. McAllister have with her clients?”

  “For her internship she has individual sessions with six clients every week, what you would probably think of as one-on-one counseling. Once a week she leads a twelve-member group session. I would meet with Shannon one day a week for two hours. We discuss everything that came up for her that week: questions about the agency, clients, if she needed me to do a consult. Things like that.”

  “Did she ever mention any problems with any of her clients, maybe someone who had an issue with her? Possibly threatened her?”

  Lauren shook her head no. “She was extremely good at her work, and extremely committed to it. When I heard the news about Shannon, I immediately checked to see that all her clients were accounted for on that day, and they were. I checked with each of their bosses. They were on time to work, and all returned to the facility by the required six o’clock check-in. It’s a very tight program. It has to be.”

  “I’m sure you’ll understand that we’ll have to check on that ourselves,” Megan added, even though they’d confirmed Shannon had an evening class the night before she was murdered, well past the time her clients were required to return. Megan wasn’t up for a discussion about the efficiency of the program. She switched gears. “Did you and Shannon socialize outside of work?”

  “We’d become friends. Once or twice a month we’d go out for drinks. She’d come over to my apartment and babysit my son once in a while.” She leaned on her desk and rubbed the back of her neck. “I haven’t told him yet—my son—about Shannon. I guess I can’t believe this has happened. I’m in classic denial.”

  “The last time you saw Ms. McAllister was …?” Nappa asked.

  “We had drinks about two weeks ago, and I was due to see her for the supervisory session”—she paused—“the day she was …”

  “What did you talk about the last time you saw her?” Megan asked.

  “You know, that was the thing—Shannon is one of those people who nine times out of ten is upbeat and positive and just full of energy.”

  “But not that night,” Nappa confirmed.

  “That night she was in a small funk. Nothing heavy, she just seemed to have a lot on her mind. I think she knew she was spreading herself too thin between classes, homework, her clients, and some of the volunteer work she’d been doing.”

  “Where was she doing the volunteer work?” Nappa asked.

  “I know she’d put in some hours at the ASPCA, walking dogs, I think. And I believe she was helping a friend out at some clinic, but I’m not sure. For a blood drive or flu shots—I know it was something medical, but I can’t remember what exactly.”

  Megan handed her the photocopy of Shannon’s datebook and had her review the initials. “Do you know what some of these initials and dates could be?”

  Lauren donned a pair of tortoiseshell-framed reading glasses. “You have no idea how many times I tried to get her to organize herself better. I even bought her one of those Franklin planners—baby steps before using the calendar on her cell phone. I doubt she ever took it out of the box.” She opened her own planner to double-­check the entries. “Okay, obviously, I’m LB, this is the two-hour meeting we had weekly.” She indicated with her pen. “Now, GS has to be ‘group session.’ They were every Tuesday night from six o’clock to eight.” She opened a folder on her desk. Megan was able to see McAllister handwritten on the tab.

  Lauren corresponded the papers in the folder with the Xeroxed copy of Shannon’s calendar. “No. None of her clients have these initials.” She handed Megan back the paper.

  “Do you know if she was seeing anyone? Did she mention anyone special in her life?”

  “Shannon and I were colleague-oriented friends, not girlfriend types. We talked about work and everything associated with work. But to answer your question, I can’t imagine she was seeing anyone. And if she was, she wasn’t able to see him often with how busy her schedule was.”

  “Let me ask you something. When you heard about her murder, what was your first thought? By that, I mean did anyone in particular come to mind that you thought may have done this?” Megan asked.

  Lauren bit the side of her lip, staring at both detectives. She was teetering on a confession.

  “Ms. Bell, we already know,” Nappa said.

  A long sigh was followed by an apology. “I’m sorry. Shannon told me about Professor Ba
uer when I confided in her that my husband had left me and our son for one of his students. He taught an ethics class in Queens.” She cocked an eyebrow. “Some ethics, huh? Well, anyway, I think Shannon felt a huge amount of guilt and probably shame for what she’d gotten into. She said she didn’t want to do to another woman what Carl and his student had done to me.” She sat back in her chair. “Shannon was like that. She took responsibility for her choices. What made her go out with a married man? It was probably due to her youth, and inexperience. But more importantly, what made her end it? Her character.”

  “So, Professor Bauer’s was the first name that popped into your mind when you heard the news?” Megan asked.

  “His was the only name that came into my head when I heard the news.”

  twenty-four

  “We’ve checked his alibi more than once. There’s no way it’s Bauer,” Nappa said.

  “I know. I know it’s not him.” Megan stretched her neck while the elevator from Dr. Bell’s office was about to open on the lobby floor. Megan’s cell went off. “McGinn.” It was Palumbo on the other end.

  “What’s the status on the sketch of the stitch?” Megan looked over at Nappa shaking her head, “Well, just keep going until—” She stopped midstride. “You’re fucking kidding me. We’ll be right there.”

  “What?”

  “No luck on the stitch. Palumbo wants us back at the station immediately. Get this, there’s some detective from out of town that has information regarding the McAllister case,” Megan said as if she’d finished running a 10k.

  “Holy shit.”

  _____

  As soon as they got into the station house, Megan and Nappa rushed into the conference room. Palumbo and Rasmussen were seated, taking notes from the detective.

  Palumbo stood when they entered and made the introductions. “Detective McGinn, Detective Nappa, this is Detective Gold.”

  Megan recognized the demeanor. The man was on the job. He had as grim a countenance as Megan and Nappa carried since the case started. He was dressed in blue jeans, new white sneakers, and a thin crewneck sweatshirt.

  They shook hands and then Detective Gold showed his identification. Judging by his white hair and smoker’s deep wrinkles, Megan could tell he’d been on the job a while and assumed he was near retirement.

  Rasmussen, in his low-pitched tone said, “Detective, if you wouldn’t mind repeating your information to Detectives McGinn and Nappa.”

  “Of course. My wife and I are here on vacation. I work on the force in upstate New York. Elmira, to be exact.” He rubbed the stubble on his cheeks. “Well, we’ve been here two days, and I’ve been following the news on the McAllister case. I damn near fell over when I saw the paper this morning. It must have been nearly ten, maybe twelve or more years ago. We had a case. Erin Quinlan. She was a nursing student, a freshman. One semester in and she was found murdered at her family’s summer home. The timeline we came up with, we figured she’d been killed on the last day before winter break. When I read about the …” He paused, embarrassed to say this in front of a woman. “About her privates being sewn shut, well, I was dumbstruck.”

  “And you think your case has a connection to our victim?” Megan asked.

  “Let me tell you a few things about your case.” He held up each digit on his right hand as he listed the information on the Quinlan case. “Not one print was found. The scene completely stripped clean. She was placed on her side, neatly. And by that, I mean positioned, like a child sleeping.” He paused, not for drama’s sake, but his gut knew the piece of information he was about to share was right on the money. “Your vic had a piece of jewelry inserted inside her before she was sewn up.”

  All four detectives stared at Detective Gold, knowing full well the papers hadn’t broken that news about the case.

  “Quinlan had a ring, specifically a nurse’s graduation ring, inside her.”

  Megan whispered, “Jesus.”

  “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “Wait. I’m confused about something. We checked all the databases for any similar case and came up with nothing. Why didn’t the Quinlan case show up?”

  “We didn’t add that particular information to the files because we were afraid it would leak out. It’s a small town. News like this would have created total hysteria.”

  Megan sighed. “Well, ours had a gold wedding band.”

  “Did you make a connection with the ring?” Nappa asked.

  “It came from Saint Joseph’s Nursing School,” Gold said.

  “Was that the school your vic attended?” Megan asked.

  “Yep, but the ring was not hers, and it was old, very old. We checked with the school and they said the design wasn’t familiar to them. There are about ten Saint Joseph’s just in the Northeast alone, not including the rest of the country. Gave us nothing.”

  “Saint Joseph’s is in Elmira?” Nappa asked.

  “One of them,” Detective Gold confirmed.

  “Any more murders similar to the Quinlan case take place after that?” Megan asked.

  Detective Gold shook his head no. “We added it to the cold cases, but I think it’s safe to say where the scumbag is living now.”

  “We’re going to need your files, see everything you have,” Megan said.

  “No problem.” He pulled out his cell.

  She glanced over at Palumbo and Rasmussen. “Help him with anything he needs.”

  Megan jerked to a stop. “Wait, Detective Gold, I assume you have photos of the ring that was removed from your vic?”

  “Of course, and it’s in lock-up with the cold case file. Why do you ask?”

  “Can you have your people email it over to Detective Rasmussen?”

  Everyone knew Rasmussen was more tech savvy than Palumbo, so this was no insult to him.

  “Absolutely, but why?”

  “I have an idea.” Megan motioned to Rasmussen, “Give him your email address and then bring your laptop into the conference room.” Megan looked in Palumbo’s direction. “You’re good here?”

  “No problem.”

  Nappa followed Megan into the conference room, soon trailed by Rasmussen, laptop in tow.

  “Clue me in, McGinn.” Nappa was anxious to hear of another possible break in the case.

  She sat on the conference room table, dangling her legs and smacking her boots together in excitement. “Let’s see if we can bait him.”

  “Bait him?” Nappa asked.

  “What if we put a picture of that very ring,” Megan pointed toward Detective Gold at Palumbo’s desk, “the ring he found in his vic’s case up on Craigslist or eBay? He said the ring is very old. The unsub may want it back.” Megan climbed off the table. “Look, so far we can’t match either piece of jewelry to either vic, so this jewelry means something very special to the piece of shit who’s doing this. He won’t want anyone else to have what was his.”

  Rasmussen’s grin was silent applause to Megan’s idea.

  Nappa began nodding with as much enthusiasm as Megan displayed moments earlier. “I’m following. I’m following.”

  “Rasmussen, do you have any accounts on either sites?”

  He leaned his head to the side. “I don’t buy used.”

  Megan raised her hands. “Sorry, didn’t mean to offend. I want every detail of that ring from Gold’s file, every ounce of description, and add the photo. Make sure your user name has a religious tone to it. The unsub put the ad in The Catholic Times, so there’s our angle.”

  “Then what?” Nappa asked.

  “Then we wait.”

  _____

  It took some time for Gold’s people to unearth the cold case file, but they eventually forwarded all the information.

  Megan and Nappa thanked Detective Gold personally before he left.

  Detective Gold said his goodbye
s, adding, “I wish you better luck than what I had on this one. It haunts me every day.”

  We’re going to need it, Megan thought.

  twenty-five

  The phone rang as Megan prepared her best Dr. Hannibal Lecter impersonation. She was hoping the noise of the Park Avenue traffic wouldn’t drown out her voice.

  “Clarice Snowden,” the woman answered.

  “Good evening, Clarice, have the lambs stopped screaming?” She followed it with a sinister laugh.

  “You know the next time I see you you’re going to owe me money for that comment, right?” Clarice Snowden worked in the CITU, the Computer Investigations Technical Unit. She spent her days monitoring bank accounts of millionaires, identifying pyramid schemes, anything with a financial edge that could be considered a felony using a computer.

  “What do you charge now for Silence of the Lambs jokes?”

  “One dollar, but since you added that bad laugh, I’m charging you two. Bring cash the next time you visit my office.”

  “Which brings me to the reason for my call,” Megan said.

  “Anything for you, my dear.”

  “Can I come in really early tomorrow morning to drop a laptop off to you? I think it could be important.”

  “You know I’m here by six.”

  “Well, I won’t be there that early.”

  “I’ll see you when you get here, and bring two dollars.”

  Megan made the fast, slurping-type sound that Hannibal Lecter made to Clarice Starling in the movie after he told her about eating one of his victim’s liver with fava beans and a nice Chianti.

  “I just bumped you up to three dollars.”

  “See you tomorrow.” Megan grinned as she hung up.

  _____

  Megan had better odds of winning the lottery than getting a full night’s sleep that evening. Every hour on the hour, she double-checked the bolt on the door, even though she knew she’d locked it immediately upon arriving home. The few moments of sleep she was able to get were plagued by nightmares. The image of her swimming laps and then a man’s hand holding her head down underwater awakened her more than once. After the third nightmare, it became futile to attempt more sleep. She got up, made some coffee, and sat curled up on the couch staring at the text she’d received.