Scar Tissue

by Patricia Hale

  “Message on the machine. Sounds like a new case. Parents want to discuss the death of their child that was, they believe, wrongly labeled a suicide.”

  “They leave a name?”

  Katie nodded. “Lambert.”

  “As in Ashley Lambert?”

  She nodded.

  “Shit.”

  “That’s what I said. To the machine, not the client.”

  “I remember reading about that. When was it?”

  “A month ago? Maybe a little more.”

  I slipped a Backwoods Honey Berry from the pack in my bag and opened the window in the corner of my office. My addiction to the little cigars was Griff’s pet peeve. I kept the window screen-less for just this purpose. Scooting through the frame I sat on the grated floor of the fire escape, my legs dangling inside the office and lit up.

  “Google her,” I said to Katie motioning to the laptop on my desk. “See what you can find.”

  “This is dated May 20th,” Katie said. “Headline reads, Fensworth Student Jumps to Her Death. My God, look at her. She’s beautiful. What a waste.”

  I leaned inside and looked at a face right off a Cover Girl advertisement. Flawless skin and sculptured cheekbones gave way to a broad smile and straight white teeth. A blond ponytail all but swayed from the back of her head and feathered bangs accented huge blue eyes. Lithe and athletic, Ashley stood beside a hurdle on a Tartan track, a two-foot trophy in her hand.

  “Are you saying if she was a four instead of a ten it would be less tragic?”

  “Sounded that way, didn’t it?” Katie said. “I didn’t know I was that shallow.”

  I nodded toward the computer. “Keep reading.”

  “Twenty-one-year-old Ashley Lambert jumped to her death from the rooftop of the eighteen-story Bayside building. The high rise is located on the corner of Front St. and Canterbury Ave. in downtown Portland. Jesus,” Katie interjected shaking her head. “Ms. Lambert was a senior at the elite Fensworth College in southern Maine. She’d just completed an undergraduate degree in Behavioral Science with a minor in Philosophy and had been accepted to the prestigious Johns Hopkins Berman Institute, in pursuit of a masters degree in Bioethics. Along with her excellence in academics, Ms. Lambert was named Woman Outdoor Track Athlete of the Year for the third straight year. The Lambert family is requesting privacy at this time and asking that donations be made in Ashley’s name to the Berman Institute.”

  “May 20th, that’s roughly a week before graduation, why would a student, especially a student with this bright a future, kill herself? It doesn’t make sense. Look at her accomplishments.”

  “I can’t,” Katie said. “It makes me want to kill myself.”

  I shook my head. “Stop. This is tragic.”

  “I know,” she said. And from the message on the machine I’d say her parents feel the same way. They don’t get it.”

  The office’s outer door opened and a moment later Griff appeared in my doorway. “Sneaking a quick one?” he asked.

  I stubbed out what was left of my cigar on the fire escape leaving a gray smudge on the black iron grate and slid inside.

  “We got a call.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “Ashley Lambert’s parents.”

  “The jumper?”

  I nodded.

  “What do they need us for?”

  “They just left a message. Sounds like they’re either unhappy with the ME’s assessment of suicide or they accept it and want to know why.” I followed him into his office. “How’s Allie?”

  “She’s great. I told her about the house. She can’t wait to see it. Hopefully we’ll hear something today regarding the offer and I’ll take her out there tonight to look at it.”

  Katie stepped into the office with a mug of coffee for Griff and the Lamberts’ phone number. “Here you go,” she said. “They didn’t leave any information except their phone and a request for a call back.”

  “Thanks,” Griff said raising the mug and taking a sip. “If a Peggy Lawson calls, interrupt me.”

  “Will do,” she said and pulled the door closed behind her.

  I sank into the buttery brown leather armchair beside my desk. “Hey, we got so caught up in putting together the offer last night that I completely forgot to ask you what you meant when you said Peggy was leaving something out about the McKenzies.”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot too.” He settled into his desk chair and leaned forward with both hands wrapped around his coffee mug.

  Story time. “You must remember. It was about four years ago, and it was all over the news.”

  “Four years ago, I’d just left the law practice. I was not at my best.”

  “Oh, right, but still, it was a major story. McKenzie’s kid went missing. Around a year old, I think. The kid just vanished.”

  “Oh shit, yeah. Now I remember, vaguely.”

  “They never figured out what happened to him.”

  “Him? A little boy?”

  Griff nodded. “Jonathan as I remember.”

  I looked at him. “Seriously? Jonathan?”

  “Mmm.”

  “That’s why you freaked out when I said I heard someone call for Jon last night.”

  “Mmm.”

  “So, it is the same family?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Griff, say something more than ‘mmm,’ will you?”

  “What’d you want me to say?”

  “Tell me about it. I don’t remember the details.”

  “The case stretched on forever. McKenzie is a Portland cop, so obviously the investigation was a large-scale operation, top priority, feds, search dogs, the whole nine yards. They interviewed and re-interviewed everyone within a hundred miles.”

  “A hundred miles?”

  “Okay, I’m exaggerating, but the point is they went above and beyond, meticulous scrutiny of every detail, neighbor, babysitter, delivery people, anyone and everyone the parents had even the slightest affiliation with. They put both parents and every relative through hell. Interrogated them for hours and in some cases, days. In the end, they found absolutely nothing. The kid vanished. You remember any of this?”

  “Yeah, I do now, pretty creepy.”

  “Ah uh.”

  “So why do you think Peggy held that back?”

  “You said it yourself. It’s creepy. No real estate agent wants to volunteer creepy neighbor stuff when they’re trying to sell a house.”

  “Thought they were obligated to disclose information?”

  “About the house, not about the neighbors.”

  I thought for a minute. “The fact that the neighbors lost their kid doesn’t change my mind about wanting the house. Is that cold?”

  “If you’re cold, I’m frigid ‘cause nothing is going to stop me from getting that place for us.”

  I walked around the desk, wrapped my arms around his shoulders and nuzzled into his neck. “There’s nothing frigid about you, baby.”

  “I’m imagining us slipping into the hot tub after a dip in the pool.”

  “There’s no pool.”

  “There will be. We just need a couple of cases to cover it.”

  “Speaking of which.” I stretched one arm onto my desk and picked up the Lambert’s phone number that Katie had left.

  He kissed my hand and slipped the paper from my fingers. “Time to get to work.”

  THREE

  The Lamberts’ address was in Cape Elizabeth, a twelve-mile peninsula stretching into open-ocean and marking the entrance of Casco Bay. It’s one of southern Maine’s most prestigious towns, ranking in wealth alongside Ogunquit and Kennebunkport (think Bush compound). It’s also the lucky guardian of Fort Williams, a recreational park along the southern seacoast. A sub-post during World War II, the park has now become a favorite of dog walkers, kite fliers and family outings. The crumbling rock lookout stations once used to protect the harbor have been turned over to the imaginations of visiting children. Ducking in and out of darkened tunnels
, they crouch in the bird’s nest, no longer fighting off enemy ships, but each other, with plastic ray guns instead of M1 Carbines. (Progress? You decide.) Fort Williams is also home to the Portland Headlight, one of the most photographed lighthouses in the world and at the top of the list along with Acadia National Park as places to visit in Maine.

  Griff slowed and turned right onto Cousins Ave. We watched mailboxes until we came to #57. He pulled tight to the curb and cut the engine. The house was modest compared to many of its neighbors, but the ocean view I glimpsed through the trees put it easily in the million-dollar range and then some. I think the style is called English Tudor, a combination of stonework and decorative timber with gables and parapets that had me wavering between impressed and leery. It might be inviting when sunlight warmed the iron-grated windows, but under today’s gunmetal sky it stood dark and ominous.

  “You told them we were coming, right?” I asked as we got out of the car.

  “Yeah, Mr. Lambert said one o’clock.” Griff glanced at his watch. “We’re right on time. Why?”

  “No lights.”

  “Not everyone’s afraid of the dark, Callahan.”

  I planted a soft right against his shoulder. He caught it and gave it a twist, spinning me into him. “I missed you at breakfast this morning,” he said.

  “I wanted you to have time alone with Allie. Anyway, when we move into the house we’ll have breakfast together every day.”

  “Can’t happen soon enough.” He snuck a kiss and we sauntered up the Lamberts’ driveway side by side.

  Griff had been talking about living together for over a year and brought up the M word with some frequency. The closest I’ve been able to get is to agree to share a house with him. Though he’s never met my parents (and never will) he’s heard enough about my childhood to understand why I shy away. It’s my good fortune that he’s a patient man.

  The door opened before we’d made it onto the threshold, indicating Mr. Lambert had been waiting for us. I imagined him peering out from behind the darkened windows, his eyes roaming up and down the street, watching.

  “Mr. Lambert?” Griff stepped onto the cement step at the door and extended his hand. “I’m Griff Cole.”

  The men shook and then Griff turned to me. “My partner, Britt Callahan.”

  I started to reach for Mr. Lambert’s hand but let mine fall back to my side when he didn’t offer his own. He simply nodded in my direction, turned and led us inside. (Strike one.)

  We followed him across a tiled entry, a massive chandelier hung overhead. The house was dark inside despite its many windows. Heavy velvet drapes didn’t give daylight a chance. A banister of deep cherry corralled a wide staircase to our right and stretched the full length of the second-floor hallway above. Greg Lambert stopped in front of a set of French doors and in one motion opened both towards us. We stepped onto a brick patio. Despite the gray day the landscaped garden in front of us was breathtaking and must be spectacular in sunshine. A woman knelt beside one of the many wood-enclosed, raised flowerbeds. Her face hid beneath a wide brimmed straw hat while her gloved hands trimmed back leaves with an artist’s touch. The contrast between the home’s somber interior and this outdoor garden was like stepping through a time warp.

  “They’re here,” Mr. Lambert said.

  Without looking up, the woman rose to her feet. She walked toward us, her arm outstretched. This time I was on the receiving end.

  “I’m Britt,” I said taking her hand in both of mine.

  She was extremely thin, almost waiflike. Strands of blond hair had slipped from the bun beneath her hat and framed a face that had not only been sheltered from the sun, but from the harsher things in life. It was a face accustomed to money and what it provided. But as much as her flawless skin radiated wealth, her eyes radiated pain. I wondered if her grief commenced with the death of her daughter or if it went part and parcel with a husband who so far, seemed as devoid of warmth as the house they lived in.

  “I know who you are,” she said. “I do my research.”

  Not sure how to respond to that, I turned to Griff. He was looking from one Lambert to the other fighting off a grin. He has a tendency to be amused by weirdoes, while I get plain annoyed.

  A woman in black yoga pants and a striped tee shirt stepped out of the house and approached us with lithe grace. “Can I bring you some coffee? Iced tea, perhaps?” she asked.

  The resemblance between the two women was unmistakable, but their demeanors were polar opposites. This woman floated while Mrs. Lambert’s every movement was weighted and slow, to the point of looking painful.

  “I’ll have tea,” I told her.

  “Coffee for the rest of us,” Mr. Lambert said.

  “Thank you, Carole,” Mrs. Lambert’s voice was little more than a whisper. The woman disappeared inside the house. “Carole’s my sister. She’s been coming over to help me since, since…” she let the rest of the sentence drop.

  “Have a seat.” Mr. Lambert gestured us toward a group of cushioned rattan chairs perfectly arranged around a circular marble table.

  “Call me Greg,” he said as we sat. “My wife is Guinevere.”

  I nodded toward Guinevere hoping to catch her eye, but she didn’t look up. She was studying the flower she held in her hand, a columbine. A flower frequently linked to birds. Its name is derived from the Latin word columba, a reference to doves. (Sometimes I surprise myself with the tidbits of wisdom lodged in my brain. The species connection to the afterlife didn’t escape me either.)

  “Is Carole your only sibling?” I asked hoping to draw Guinevere out with a little small talk to start.

  She raised her eyes, appraising me like a new piece of jewelry. “I have a step-brother. We’re estranged.”

  So much for chitchat. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. There’s no animosity. He lived with his mother. Paternal genes are all we have in common.”

  Carole returned and set a small round tray of coffee, tea and cookies in the middle of the table. Greg watched her, tilting his head to one side and folding his arms across his chest. Annoyed, his body said. When she’d finished, he spoke.

  “I don’t believe my daughter jumped. She wouldn’t have done that. I told the police, but they dismissed me. Evidently, they knew my daughter better than I did.”

  “What’s your feeling on that, Mrs. Lambert?” I asked. Parents don’t always share perspectives on their children.

  When she looked at me, her eyes were moist. She cradled the columbine in her palm. “Call me Gwen.”

  I nodded.

  “Ashley was a good girl. She worked very hard at everything she did.”

  “She was the best, always. She made sure of it,” Greg chimed in.

  Or else you did, I thought.

  “It would have gone against her nature to jump off that building. It just wasn’t her way,” Gwen added.

  “Her way?” Greg squinted at his wife, his face twisted in disgust as though studying an insect on flypaper. “What the hell does that mean?” He stood and walked around the circumference of our seating arrangement and then came back and took his chair again. “My girl did as she was told. And only what she was told.”

  “It’s not always easy to tell a senior in college what to do,” I said. “At some point, they start making their own choices even if some are ones their parents might not like.”

  “Not my girl.” Greg shook his head.

  I couldn’t help but notice he kept referring to Ashley as my girl not our girl as though he’d created her, given birth and raised her singlehandedly. I didn’t like him. My assessment of Gwen was still up in the air, but she was wrapped so tight I couldn’t get a glimpse inside.

  “She was a star athlete at the top of her class and a week from graduation,” Greg continued. “She’d been accepted at Johns Hopkins Berman Institute for Bioethics. And you’re telling me that’s a kid who makes bad decisions? I don’t think so, Ms. Callahan.”

  “Mr. Lamb
ert - Greg,” Griff spoke up. “I have a daughter. I can’t imagine what you must be going through dealing with all this. What is it you think we can do for you?”

  “I told the police and the medical examiner that my daughter wouldn’t take her own life. Cops shook their heads, said it wasn’t their call to make. The medical examiner said it presented as a cut and dried suicide.”

  “And what do you say, Mr. Lambert?”

  “My daughter was murdered.”

  I glanced at Gwen. “Do you agree, Mrs. Lambert?”

  She raised her eyes, glanced at her husband and then to me. “I’m not convinced, but I do agree that suicide doesn’t fit with who my daughter was.”

  Griff kept his focus on Greg. “What makes you think someone would have killed your daughter? Did she have enemies that you’re aware of?”

  “No, no enemies that I know of, but her jumping makes no sense. She had everything going for her and absolutely no reason to end her life. She would never have done that to me.”

  Strike two. The selfish bastard assumed his daughter’s tragic death had more to do with him than whatever had driven her to that fateful state of mind. “Suicide is about what’s going on within the person themselves,” I said trying not to let my voice betray my disgust. “I doubt Ashley was consciously doing anything to you at the moment she jumped. If she jumped.”

  “She knew the goals we’d set,” he said dismissing my remark. “And she had every intention of attaining them.”

  “Goals?” I asked.

  “Johns Hopkins, her PhD, an Olympic gold medal.”

  “Had she been accepted to compete in the Olympics?” Griff asked.

  “It was in the works,” he said annunciating each word as though we were hard of hearing.

  “Did you let the medical examiner know how you felt?”

  “Of course, I did.”

  “And was an autopsy performed?”

  Greg Lambert glanced at his wife. She looked away. Touchy subject, I gathered.

  “Useless,” he said. “They found nothing.” He turned to Gwen. “Go get my checkbook.”