by Linda Ladd
Although obviously terrified, Mary Fern Murphy led Joseph to one of the long white sofas and they sank down on it together, very close, but she wasn’t going to wait any longer to hear the bad news. “All right, this has gone on long enough. I want to know right now what has happened to upset my husband like this. Please tell me. Now.”
So I just said it. “Your son was found dead last night at Lake of the Ozarks. It appears at this time that he hanged himself under the Grand Glaize Bridge. I’m very sorry, Mrs. Murphy.”
Her eyes went wide, blinked, and stayed closed for half a second, then opened and stared straight at me. She was ignoring her husband now, who was sobbing even louder against her shoulder. Then she seemed to relax, got a very calm look on her face, and said, “Which son?”
That surprised me for some reason, but I didn’t have to answer. Her husband finally spoke up, his words barely intelligible. “It’s Mikey, oh, God, Mary Fern, he finally did it. He killed himself.”
Bud and I watched her face turn the color of cold ashes, as if the blood had rushed down to her feet in a gush, but she didn’t burst into tears. She patted her husband’s back and tried to comfort him in that way, but her eyes, a very bright, unusual color of green, probably tinted by designer contact lenses, remained fixed on me. “Was he alone?”
Now that was a surprising remark, startling even. Bud thought so, too, I could see it in his face.
“Yes, ma’am. As far as we know.”
For a fleeting moment Mary Fern Murphy’s face took on a look that I could only describe as heartfelt relief, then she said, “I was afraid he’d made a death pact with a girlfriend. He tried to do that before. Once, that we know of.”
Bud said, “He’s tried this before?”
“That’s right. He and his girlfriend at the time.”
Whoa, now. I said, “Mrs. Murphy, we really need to interview you. Are you gonna feel up to it today? We need you to tell us about prior suicide attempts, and there are other questions we need answered before our investigation can proceed.”
Mary Fern had still not shed a single tear. I guess her husband was crying enough for both of them. She said, very politely, “I’d like a moment alone with my husband before we sit down with you. Would that be permissible?”
Permissible? That sounded more like something out of the mouth of a suspect. “Of course, ma’am. Take all the time you need.”
“Thank you. Why don’t the two of you go on into the kitchen and wait for us there? Fix yourselves something to drink, if you like. There are soft drinks in the fridge, and there are cookies under a glass dome on the center island. It’s down that hallway.” She pointed it out to us, still dry eyed and calm.
It appeared Mary Fern was quite the hostess, even when shocked and in mourning for the death of her child. We made ourselves scarce and entered the wide, bright, spacious kitchen, all done in black and white, a cooking area that Paula Deen herself would envy. Outside on our right, a long expanse of multipaned windows revealed a large kidney-shaped swimming pool with fake stone waterfalls and lots of flora and greenery, and a couple of hot tubs disguised as natural rock pools. About six or eight children of various ages were splashing and lazing about in the sun, the rest of the Murphy brood, I suspect.
Bud lowered his voice. “Did she take this really well, or is it just me?”
“I’m right there with you.”
“Maybe she’s a Steel Magnolia like we have down south?”
“Like in the movie?”
“Yeah. Bet she runs this place like a regular Nurse Ratched.”
“Bet she is Nurse Ratched.” I decided to be slightly more magnanimous. “Or maybe she’s just in shock and wants time to comfort her husband in private.”
“Somebody sure needs to.” Bud looked around the elaborate kitchen. “How about a Pepsi? I’m dying to open that double icebox. I’ve never seen one this big outside a restaurant.”
Yeah, Bud still calls them iceboxes, but so does my Aunt Helen. His remark brought a couple of horrific visions to mind concerning Mikey’s Kitchen of Horrors, so I followed him across the shiny black-and-white tiles to the giant refrigerator. He opened both doors and took out a couple of cans of Pepsi and handed one to me.
Popping the tab, I turned and looked through the windows at the pool. It was surrounded by more perfectly sodded grass with lots of cushioned lawn chairs and padded chaises sitting around. A bath house with red and white striped awnings sat at one end. The kiddos were having fun out there, all right. Seemed to be getting along fine with each other. How had Mikey Murphy fit in around here? What the hell was wrong with his mom? I had a feeling it wasn’t exactly a Bill Cosby/ Huxtable kinda family.
“Okay, officers. Please come back now. We’re ready to sit down and answer your questions. Feel free to bring your soft drinks with you.”
Mom was back. Cool as a cucumber, too. Dry-eyed. Wow, it took her a whole ten minutes to get over the shock. Something was just wrong with this picture, oh yeah, you betcha.
Frosty Pepsi cans in hand, we trailed her back to the family room and found that her husband had bucked up considerably during our mini-absence. He still looked a bit shell-shocked, but he wasn’t weeping and gnashing his teeth any more. He wasn’t saying anything, either. Probably under direct orders.
Mrs. Murphy took a seat beside him and gestured for us to sit across from them on the matching snowy sofa. We sat. I looked at Bud and gave him my famous, you-take-thereins-for-a-while look. So he took the reins for a while.
“I’m Detective Bud Davis, ma’am, and my partner’s name is Claire Morgan.”
“Claire Morgan? That name sounds vaguely familiar. Do you work on the governor’s detail?”
“No, ma’am. We’re both with the Canton County Sheriff’s Department. I’m quite certain we’ve never met,” I said, not wanting to talk about me and the miserable newspaper articles that everybody seemed to love to read about me.
“No, I suppose not.” Since you’re a peon, I finished for her. She looked back at Bud. Both her hands were entwined with her husband’s now. She was patting the back of his left hand. His hands were trembling. Hers were not. “You said that Mikey hanged himself. Are you absolutely positive that it’s a suicide?”
This woman was full of surprises and unexpected remarks when she wasn’t playing White House First Lady/hostess. Grieving Mom strikes again and shocks the cops.
Bud said, “As my partner said, it appears that way at this time, but it could turn out to be a homicide. We’ll know more when the medical examiner tells us how your son died.”
“I should think it would be a homicide,” Mikey’s mom said calmly. “He didn’t really have the guts to kill himself, or it would’ve happened a long time ago. Like I said, he’s tried before.”
Her husband stiffened and more tears erupted. Mom of the Year comforted him as much as she knew how.
“I’m afraid there’s something else,” I said. “We found a second body, not at the bridge with your son, but inside your son’s pizza restaurant. It was a young woman, one we haven’t been able to identify yet.”
“Oh, my God,” said mommy dearest. “I was afraid of that.”
“Do you know who the second victim might be?”
Dad looked up at that, but Mom was quick to do the talking. “You think this woman was murdered then?”
“It’s a possibility,” I said, but thought that was the understatement of the millennium.
“How was she killed? Can you tell us?”
“We’re not sure yet. The ME will make that determination, as well.”
“I see.”
Bud said, “Can you give us any information about your son’s female friends? Did he have a steady girlfriend?”
Dad struggled to speak and said weakly, “Not that we know of. You see, we’ve been estranged from Mikey for about six months.”
Mom said, “Mikey had lots of girlfriends, one after another. Many were absolute whores and weren’t welcome in this hou
se.”
Well, okey doke, don’t sprinkle Equal on it, lady. “Can you give us any names? It’s important that we identify the body and notify next of kin as soon as possible.”
“Are you asking us to go to the morgue and view this girl’s body?” That, of course, came from Ice Water in Her Veins.
Bud said, “No, ma’am. That’s not possible.”
“What do you mean?”
I didn’t want to get into that discussion and had decided to keep the details under wraps, anyway. The press was going to feast on this like the starving, gorging vultures they were. They weren’t going to know about the oven crime scene, though, no way, not in a million years. The chief was going to make some phone calls.
“We can’t really divulge the details of our case, ma’am. But it is important to know who your son was seeing, both his male friends and his girlfriends. Is there anything specific you can tell us?”
Dad sat up and spoke, almost eagerly this time. “I think he was dating a girl that went to Missouri State in Springfield. But I don’t know her name.”
“How did you know that, Joseph?” Mom didn’t like him knowing that, not at all.
“He called me at my office at the Capitol three or four months ago.”
“What did he want?”
“He just wanted to say hello and wish me a happy birthday, Mary Fern. For God’s sake, our son is dead. Don’t you get that?”
Amen, Joseph. But she apparently did not get it. She frowned at her presumptuous husband, then turned to me, “Joseph’s not himself.”
You think? Seemed everybody was stating the obvious, of late.
“I can see that you think I’m cold and unfeeling,” she said to me.
“No, ma’am. I don’t think that at all.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.
“Yes, you do, but you just don’t know what that boy’s put us through. We tried everything, every single thing we could to get him off drugs, out of the low-life crowd he associates with. Nothing worked. He’s just a bad seed. You’ve heard of that, haven’t you? A bad seed.”
“What sort of things was he into, ma’am?”
“Meth. Other drugs, too, of course, but meth was what did him in. He’s been to psychiatrist after psychiatrist, but nobody could get through to him.”
Now we’re talking. “Was he seeing a psychiatrist recently?”
Dad said, “Yes, he was under outpatient treatment at the Oak Haven. That’s a clinic here in Jefferson City. Martin Young runs the place. He’s quite a genius with these kids.”
That checked out with what Black had told me. “We’ll have to talk to your son’s doctors, of course. Maybe they can tell us who the female victim is.”
Dad said, “The girl he was dating was Asian. Chinese. I think. Maybe Korean. Mikey said so on the phone. Said she was little bitty, a lot shorter than him, and he isn’t very tall.”
“Did he say anything else that you can remember, Mr. Murphy?”
“I think he said something about her hair being really long, down to her knees, I think he said. Said she was teaching him to speak Mandarin Chinese. He ended the conversation by saying the Chinese word for good-bye. I don’t remember what it was.”
“I doubt if our other children will know anything about this,” Super Mom said. “I didn’t like them talking to him because he was such a terrible influence on their behavior, but sometimes they disobeyed and saw him anyway. They’d go over to that little pizza place of his and hang out. I’d ground them for it, but they did it anyway.”
“Yes, we’d like to talk to them, if possible.”
Mom said, “You’ll have to come back another day for that. They won’t take this as well as I am.”
Nobody would take it as well as you are, lady, not even a stranger who’d never heard of Mikey Murphy.
“Okay, we’ll call first and make sure it’s a convenient time. Thank you for your help. Again, we are both very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you for coming,” said Mary Fern. Ever heard the word wooden? That pretty much sums up her demeanor. Joseph just stared up at us, his eyes red, face patently miserable.
Outside on the front steps, double doors shut firmly behind us, Bud said, “I hope my momma likes me better than that. Mary Fern in there makes an ice cube look toasty.”
“I couldn’t agree more. No wonder the kid was suicidal.”
“Let’s get outta here.”
I was glad to oblige. I didn’t like either one of the Murphys much, and I had a hunch Mary Fern Murphy had a few secrets hidden behind that icy facade of hers. But I’d dig until I got them, even if I had to take a blowtorch to melt her out of her armor-coated iceberg.
EIGHT
Oak Haven Clinic was located in a heavily wooded area just outside Jeff City, quite isolated, quite exclusive, and yeah, most of the trees were oaks, thus the name, I guess. Maybe neighbors wanting a bunch of unstable, suicidal kids next door were hard to come by. Go figure. It all looked very upscale and classy, of course, as if to impress Richie Rich and his dad, Even Richier Rich and mom, Rich Bitch, who’d screwed up their children with money and neglect and big-time overindulgence. Not that I am opposed to wealthy people. I do have a fondness for Black, after all.
A low wall of tan stones worn smooth by rushing water edged the blacktop highway for several miles, marking the outer perimeter of the clinic’s property. No doubt the local creeks were all depleted now, no longer gurgling and splashing over pretty rocks anymore but flowing silently and morosely over a naked muddy bottom. Then we came upon the entrance, and oh, my, my, how impressive it was. A large brass plaque the size of a double front door announced in fancy flowing script that we had reached Oak Haven, and therefore should give thanks and bow from the waist. I listened for a blast of brass trumpets, but didn’t hear anything, so Bud and I passed uneventfully through the portals of heaven without even a minor kowtow to the shrink gods. We followed the double-wide blacktop road through a football-field-size meadow of high grass, or maybe it was just weeds, waving in the brisk breeze and giving off gold-green glints as the sun caught its swaying ripples. Five minutes later, we pulled up in the parking lot. It was filled to the brim with the likes of Beamers, Cadillacs, Lexuses, and Lincolns. Not a genuine Humvee was in sight, though. Black was not here.
Oak Haven Clinic itself wasn’t nearly as large as I expected it to be, actually the place looked like some kind of eighteenth-century dairy farm run by Quakers, with lots of long outbuildings built exactly alike: two-story, bleached pine siding, identical multipaned windows, and red shingled roofs. There was a giant flower garden out in front of the main building, sporting a twelve-foot-high tinkling fountain, designed in the shape of two entwined fish. The sculptor had to be a Pisces, bet on it. I wondered what a couple of cozy fish symbolized at this kind of institution. The only thing that came to mind was the newspaper-wrapped fish that Tony Soprano and his ilk left on their victims as dire warnings. Maybe Bud and I should take heed. Or at least throw some pennies in the fountain for good luck.
“Bet it costs beaucoup dollars to lay yourself down before these guys and spill your guts,” Bud said, as I pulled into a parking space at the main building and killed the motor.
“Ah, yeah, you can count on that, all right, but nothing’s too good for our less-than-sane crème de la crème aristocrats hereabouts.”
“Young crazies, you mean?”
“Pretty much. And this is in-house therapy, too. That means all the little tykes live here together, like one big happy nuts-zoid family.”
“Sounds like fun in the sun. Bet the inmates here are happier than Mary Fern’s kids. She probably feeds them broken glass for dinner.” Bud had not gotten over Mom’s reaction to news of poor Mikey’s demise. Neither had I. She made the Evil Queen in Sleeping Beauty look like Mother Teresa.
I said, “If I had to hazard a guess, the woman’s messed up in the head. I wonder if Black knows her well enough to certify her. I’ll ask him when he gets back from New York.”
I removed the keys, and we sat a moment in silence, looking the place over. Four buildings were in sight, all connected by canopied sidewalks. We could see a big gymnasium in the distance and what looked like a swimming pool/tennis court complex.
Bud said, “Okay, Claire, let’s not mess around in here. Let’s get down and dirty with Mikey’s doctor. You do the talking ’cause you’re probably gettin’ pretty good at cuttin’ through shrink mumbo jumbo, spending all your time with you know who.”
“Thanks. But Black doesn’t discuss his patients with me. You know, all those pesky confidentiality standards. He’s so honorable.”
“Yeah? That’s where warrants come in. Let’s hope this guy won’t mind sharing his thoughts.”
“He probably won’t mind after he hears about the oven thing.” Yet again, that was a sobering thought.
We got out and walked across the tarmac to the front entrance. It was canopied, too, probably for the arrival and departure of ambulances and straitjackets. It was eerily quiet, as if all the teens were in padded cells while their shrinks smoked cigars, drank martinis in the break room, and pretended to be Sigmund Freud’s interns. The entrance doors were painted this odd chartreuse color and made out of metal. Not exactly a welcoming sight. There was a doorbell located just right of the door. It had a sign screwed to the wall above it which read: PLEASE RING BELL. Now that seemed like a no-brainer to me, but hey, they were used to parents who had their maids and/or flunkies press doorbells for them. There was a surveillance camera pointed down at us, so Bud looked up and gave a big toothy grin and a friendly wave. I gave a friendly wave with my badge held up for emphasis and to get things off on the right foot.
Two seconds later, an elderly woman, who wore her meringue-white hair in those tight curls that women in their seventies seemed prone to do, swung open the door. She was dressed in a green-and-navy blue plaid blazer and long black skirt. Yes, it is hot summertime, but the living isn’t always easy. And yes, she looked dumb as a stump in her winter clothing. Not to mention, hot as hell. Bud gave me a questioning glance, and then we felt the wave of frigid air blasting out the door and understood the woman’s plight. Hell, the patients here must hail from Antarctica. Or maybe they raised penguins as pets.