by Gary Braver
Gray Matter
Gary Braver
For Kathleen, Nathan, and David
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank the following people for providing me with medical, forensic, and other technical information.
From Northeastern University: from the Department of Counseling and Applied Psychology, Carmen Armengol; from the Department of Psychology, Joanne Miller and Harry MacKay; from the Department of Sociology, Jack Levin.
For their very generous time and expert insights, a special thanks to James Stellar, Professor of Behavioral Neuroscience and Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences, and John F. McDevitt, Assistant Professor, the College of Criminal Justice, Northeastern University.
I am also grateful to Drs. Regis deSilva, Jason McCormick, David Urion, and Gary Fischer.
In addition, I am grateful to Dr. James Weiner, Associate Chief Medical Examiner of Massachusetts; Kenneth Halloran, Clerk Magistrate, Plymouth County, Massachusetts; Lt. Richard W. Sequin, Massachusetts State Police; Lt. Thomas J. Gelman and Chief John Ford, Bourne Police Department; Sgt. Peter Howell, Sandwich Police Department; and Dr. Carl M. Selavka, Director of the Massachusetts State Police Crime Lab.
Thanks also to Jean Hagen, Pamela and Malcolm Childers, Kemmer and Martha Anderson, George and Donna Megrichian, Alice Janjigian, and Kathryn Goodfellow.
I also want to thank Charles O’Neill and Barbara Shapiro for the brainstorms that made this a better story.
A very special thanks to my agent, Susan Crawford, my editor, Natalia Aponte, and my publisher, Tom Doherty, for their great support. You made this possible.
We should take care not to make the intellect our god; it has, of course, powerful muscles, but no personality.
—ALBERT EINSTEIN
PROLOGUE
THREE YEARS AGO
CAPE COD
“Mom, do clams have eyes?”
“I don’t think so, hon,” Jane replied, without glancing up from her magazine.
Her three-year-old daughter, Megan, was on her knees a few feet away, digging quahog shells out of the sandbar. Her back was to her, but Jane could see the impressive pile she had collected. If they were a smoking family, there would be big, white ashtrays in every room in the house. Megan had even found three intact quahogs, which sat underwater in her yellow pail. Jane’s husband, Keith, now asleep under an umbrella, would use the guts for bait. He liked to surf-cast for stripers and blues. And August was the season.
“You sure?”
Jane looked up from the magazine. The only other people within half a mile were a man with some kids on boogie boards skimming across the flats in the wavelets. Otherwise, the place was an open stretch of empty sandbar and beach under an outrageously clear blue sky. Except for some sailboats out at sea, the horizon made an unbroken azure arc across her field of vision.
“I’m pretty sure.”
The vastness was a wonderful relief from the claustrophobic clutter of their lives, which seemed to be spent in a series of boxes—house, cars, trains, and offices. And far from the horrors of the world that filled the pages of her magazine. One article told of a Pennsylvania teenager who had committed suicide because he was unhappy with his SAT scores.
God in heaven! How far from that they were, she thought.
The water was warm, and the tide was going out and exposing the huge flats of smooth featureless sandbar—featureless but for bright white shells.
“Well, I think this one’s different,” Megan declared. “It has eyes.”
“It has?”
Sagamore Beach. One of the best-kept secrets on the Cape. Not only were there no bridge traffic jams to contend with, but the beach was a strip of cozy postwar cottages that hugged grass-swollen dunes above the beach, stretching five miles from the White Cliffs east to the Cape Cod Canal. Not a motel, clam shack, or self-serve in sight. Just five miles of white beach with rarely more than a handful of people. The public beach, at the canal end, drew a crowd on weekends. But the rest of the strip was always wide open, and Jane loved it like that. It was their one concession to private living. They rented the same cottage for a week each year.
Even more special was how the beach was growing. While the rest of the Cape suffered perennial erosion, Sagamore Beach had become a natural shoring area for what washed down from the north. With every nor’easter, countless tons of sand washed up, expanding the bar and burying the ancient granite jetties that used to segment the beach.
“It’s a special clam.”
According to the article, the boy had been an excellent student—straight As, his teachers reported. “What’s that, honey?”
“I said, this one’s special. It’s big and has eyes.”
Jane glanced over her shoulder. Megan looked so cute in her pink twopiece and floppy pink hat. She was digging away with her hands now. Someplace behind them, a bunch of seagulls squawked over a dead fish.
Because of prevailing currents, the beach was a dumping ground of all sorts of “surf kills,” as Keith called them. Some mornings they’d wake up to find stripers and small sharks washed up with the night tide. About ten years ago, a forty-foot humpback whale was deposited in a storm down near the canal. Nobody was sure if it had beached itself or died at sea, but the Coast Guard had to come and haul it out to deep waters, because after four days the stench was unbearable.
“Guess I was wrong,” Jane said.
Apparently the pressure of college entrance exams caused the poor kid to underperform. His parents found him hanging in the garage. The sad irony was that his test scores could have gotten him into most colleges in the country.
“Does that mean they could see?”
The piece went on to argue that the growing number of student suicides can be linked to the pressure of standardized tests such as the SATs and AP exams.
“I didn’t think they could,” Jane said, half-consciously.
“We live in a stratified society, characterized by a tremendous and growing gap between the rich and poor, the successful and unsuccessful,” one educator lamented. “Not only do these kids equate SAT scores with IQs, but they see them as a forecast of how they’ll do in life …”
“I think this one is blind.”
“That’s too bad,” Jane said.
She yawned, as some child psychologist commented how the use of standardized tests was getting out of hand; how some top preschools even require admission tests for four-year-olds; how U.S. parents spend a billion each year for SAT prep courses.
Jane felt herself grow sleepy.
“And it’s bigger,” Megan continued.
Jane folded the magazine across her lap and closed her eyes. “That’ll make Daddy happy.”
“I think it has a nose, too.”
“Uh-huh.” Jane raised her face to the sun. The gentle lapping of the wavelets made an irresistible lullaby that seemed to be in cadence with her own heartbeat. In a matter of moments, she felt herself fade into the warm sac of sunlight encasing her body.
“AND TEETH!”
Jane’s eyes snapped open.
Megan was standing just inches away. Jane let out a hectoring scream.
In Megan’s hand was a human skull.
1
THE PRESENT
HAWTHORNE, MASSACHUSETTS
Dylan was in the middle of the chorus of “Bloody Mary” when Rachel Whitman turned into the lot of the Dells Country Club. Martin, Dylan’s father, loved show tunes and Dylan had learned many by heart.
“‘Now ain’t that too damn bad?’”
“Darn,” Rachel said and pulled into the shade of a huge European elm, trying to shake the sense of grief that had gripped her for the last several days. “Too darn bad.”
“But the song says damn, Mom.”
/> “I know, but damn is not a polite word for six-year-old boys.”
“How come?”
“It just isn’t.” She was not in the mood to argue.
“There’s Mrs. M’Phearson Jagger,” announced Dylan.
There was a time when she found the way he said things adorable—sweet baby-talk artifacts that she’d let go by. But the specialist had said that they had to work at this together, even if it meant correcting him every time.
“You have to keep after him. He has to hear the rules in action so they’ll sink in.”
“Jag-WHAR,” she corrected. “And it’s Mrs. MacPhearson’s Jaguar.” She emphasized the s.
“Jag-WHAR, but I like Jagger better. ‘Now, ain’t that too damn bad?’” he sang.
Rachel parked next to the green Jaguar alongside of the clubhouse, a sprawling and elegant white structure that appeared to glow against the emerald fairways that rolled away to the sea.
For a moment, Rachel stared through the windshield at the dappled sunlight playing across the gold-lacquered hood. Sitting in her big shiny Maxima, dressed in her white DKNY sundress and Movado watch and Ferragamo sandals, her sculpted raven hair and discreet black glasses, she would, to the casual observer, appear to be a woman who had it all—a woman blessed by fortune, a woman of rare privilege, a woman who saw nothing but endless blue skies above her head. And Rachel Whitman did have it all—health, a successful marriage, money, a beautiful new home in one of the flossiest North Shore suburbs, and an adorable little boy. Or almost all …
It wasn’t as if they’d found a dysfunctional kidney. Just a setback that they would make the best of.
“Mom, do I have to go?”
Dylan looked up at her with those gorgeous green eyes. So full of depth.
“But you like DellKids.”
“Yeah, but I don’t like her. I don’t wanna go.” His mouth began to quiver as he fought back tears.
“Who?”
He looked out his window and took a couple deep breaths to control himself.
“You mean Miss Jean?” Rachel asked. Miss Jean was one of the day-care counselors. Her yellow VW Bug was parked nearby.
“No, Lucinda. I don’t like her.” His eyes began to fill up.
“Lucinda MacPhearson?”
“I hate her. She’s mean.”
Lucinda was Sheila’s seven-year-old daughter—and one of the twelve kids in DellKids, a day-care center located in a separate wing of the clubhouse. Since school let out last week, Dylan was attending it full-time now. Because the waiting list for full club membership was years long, Rachel and Martin had purchased a social membership which allowed them dining, pool, and tennis privileges, as well as DellKids. That was fine with Rachel who didn’t play golf.
“How is she mean?”
Dylan didn’t answer nor did he have to. Rachel knew and felt the heat of irritation rise. Lucinda was a very bright child, but she was bossy and a knowit-all. Like an intolerant schoolmarm, she would hold forth with Dylan and the other kids on operating computer games or fashioning Play-Doh. Dylan was too proud to admit how the little brat had humiliated him.
“Do you want to tell me what she said?” It crossed her mind to speak to Sheila, though it would be awkward since Sheila had sold them their house and sponsored their Dells membership.
But Dylan didn’t respond. Something out the window had caught his attention. “What’s that man doing?” he asked.
One of the waiters, a big kid in his teens, was standing half-hidden behind a tree outside the kitchen and staring through field glasses at a girl sunning herself on a poolside lounge chair. While Rachel watched, the boy suddenly slapped himself in the face.
For a moment Rachel thought she was seeing things. But he did it again—he slapped himself in the face. Then again and again—all the while peering through the field glasses at the girl by the pool.
“Why he hitted himself?”
But Rachel didn’t have an answer. Nor did she correct Dylan. Nor was she sure if she should do something. She thought about getting out of the car and approaching him, but then what? “Gee, young man, you really shouldn’t be whacking your face like that.” What if he suddenly turned on her? The kid clearly looked disturbed.
And yet, there was something bizarrely purposeful in his behavior—the way he kept studying the girl between slaps, as if waiting for a reaction from her. Or maybe punishing himself for Peeping Tom thoughts. “I don’t know,” Rachel muttered and got out.
The sound of the closing doors alerted the kid. He shot them a look as they moved toward the clubhouse, then disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Rachel and Dylan wondering what that was all about.
“Is he a crazy man, Mom?”
“I don’t know, but I think we better get inside before we’re late.”
She hustled Dylan to their entrance, hoping that the waiter would be confined to the kitchen and not wander into the day-care center.
“You know what I think?” he said as they moved inside. “I think he a dummy.”
“Don’t use that word.”
Sheila was at their usual table beside the one-way windows through which they could watch their kids. The playroom was a large colorful open area with small tables and chairs scattered about, computer terminals, plants, books, posters, cages with turtles, and a huge brown rabbit. It had been carefully designed for a bright nurturing atmosphere. Miss Jean, like her assistant, was a former elementary-school teacher who had been hired full-time by the club. Together they made of DellKids an enlightened center for members’ children. And three years ago it was awarded full day-care licensing by the state.
Rachel watched through the window as Jean gathered the children around one of the several computers. While she explained the particular program, the kids listened. All but Dylan, that is. He was making faces at another boy to get him to laugh. A couple of times Miss Jean had to ask Dylan to stop his antics and listen up. After a few minutes, they broke up into groups of twos and, thankfully, he was teamed up with a sweet little girl named Shannon.
The boy from out back stepped through the kitchen door carrying a tray of food for people at another table. “I see we’ve got a new waiter,” Rachel said.
“Oh, that’s just Brendan LaMotte,” Sheila said. “His grandfather used to be the club plumber and got him a job as a caddy, but they moved him inside because they needed an extra body.”
Brendan was a large sullen-looking kid, probably from one of the local high schools. “Is he … okay?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he seems rather weird. As we were coming in, he was out back slapping himself in the face.”
“What?”
Rachel described the scene with the girl and field glasses.
“Hormones,” Sheila said with a dismissive gesture. “Actually he’s kind of a sad case. His parents were killed in a car accident a few years ago, and he’s living alone with his grandfather. He’s a little strange, but he’s perfectly harmless. So, how’s Martin’s new business venture doing?”
Rachel took the invitation to change the subject. “Fine, but I hardly ever see him.” Over the last two years, Martin’s recruitment business had expanded phenomenally, moving out of a cramped office in Hanover to a fancy suite just off Memorial Drive in Cambridge.
Out of the corner of her eye, Rachel saw Brendan approach their table. He was a tall, somewhat pudgy kid with a pimply round face, a shiny black ponytail, and intense black eyes.
“Hey, Brendan. How you doing?” Sheila chortled, trying to warm him up.
“F-fine,” he said curtly.
“Do you know Mrs. Whitman? She’s a recent member.”
He glanced at Rachel with those laser eyes. “I know who she is.”
Something about his wording sent an unpleasant ripple through Rachel.
“I’ll have the usual,” Sheila said.
“Whole wheat English m-muffin, split, toasted medium-well, a half-pad of margarine, fruit cup—no m
araschino cherries—decaf hazelnut with skim milk, small glass of vanilla-flavored soy milk.” His slight stuttering disappeared as he rattled all that off, while the braces on his teeth flashed, adding to his robotic delivery.
Sheila smiled. “You got it.”
He turned to Rachel. “You?”
His manner was so blunt and his expression so intense that Rachel was momentarily thrown off. “I’ll have a cappuccino and a bagel, please.”
He made an impatient sigh. “We have p-plain, sesame, raisin, poppy seed, sunflower seed, salt, egg, sun-dried tomato, onion, garlic, four-grain, and everything which includes garlic, onion, poppy and sesame seeds, and salt but not the other ingredients.” It was like being addressed by a machine.
“Raisin.”
“Cream cheese?”
“Yes, please, on the side.”
“Regular or fat-free, which is thirty calories for two tablespoons versus a hundred for regular, and five milligrams of cholesterol, but of course you get the xanthan and carob-bean gums plus potassium sorbate and sodium tripolyphosphate and all the artificial flavors and colors. Suit yourself.”
Rachel began to smile, thinking that he was joking—that he was doing some kind of Jim-Carrey-waiter-from-hell routine the way he rattled that off with edgy rote. But nothing in his expression said he was playacting. His face remained impassive, the only thing moving was his mouth and that bizarre tic: While he spoke his left eyelid kept flickering as if trying to ward off a gnat. Rachel also noticed that he had no order pad or pen to record the orders.
She preferred the fat-free but didn’t want to set him off. “I’ll have the regular.”
“Toasted?”
“Yes.”
“Light, dark, or medium?”
She did not dare question the options. “Medium.”
“Orange juice?”
“Yes, please.”
“It’s fresh squeezed, not from concentrate, but it’s Stop and Shop not Tropicana premium. You still want it?”