Look Closely

by Laura Caldwell

  I felt a wave of sympathy for my father. If he had told Chief Manning the truth, then in the span of a month, he’d found out his wife was having an affair, become separated and endured the trauma of her death. But Manning hadn’t believed my father, because he made that notation after the interview wondering whether the abuse had been caused by William, Dan or the boyfriend. Was that why my father had been crying?

  I turned next to the interview with Dan. My brother was portrayed as quiet and aloof, telling Chief Manning that he had been out drinking beer with his friends, since he believed both parents would be gone from the house that night. He did not know where his mother had been intending to go, but he thought she might have been planning an evening with her boyfriend. Dan claimed not to know the identity of his mother’s male friend. He denied physical abuse in the family household. At the end of the report, Manning indicated his belief that Dan was withholding information and that his story appeared rehearsed. He also noted that Dan had been arrested one year prior on charges of battery with another student following an incident at a high-school bonfire.

  I tucked my legs under me on the couch. So Dan had added to Manning’s suspicion about domestic abuse. He’d been arrested for battery before.

  I flipped back to Manning’s notes and followed them down the pages, looking for the date of my own interview or that of my sister. I came first to Della’s. Della had said she was aware, of course, that the Sutters were separated, but she knew nothing about an extramarital affair on the part of Leah Sutter. On the night in question, she had left after making dinner for Leah, Caroline and Hailey Sutter. Leah had seemed happy and excited. She told Della that she had plans for the night and that Caroline was going to stay home and babysit Hailey.

  I continued to read Chief Manning’s notes. He hadn’t been able to interview Caroline or Hailey Sutter right away, he said, because Caroline was under the care of a doctor, who recommended that the interview be put off. In addition, my father had requested that I be spared unless it was absolutely necessary. A brief telephone interview was held with Caroline’s physician, Dr. Randall Wainer, a family practitioner in Woodland Dunes. He confirmed that Caroline was suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome and was being medicated.

  What had Caroline seen? What had she done?

  I had a mild memory of Dr. Wainer as a kind, older gentlemen who saw the Sutter family for colds and shots and ankle sprains. I wondered if he was still in Woodland Dunes, if maybe he could be convinced into telling me something about Caroline and what she had said during those few days after my mother’s death. On a whim, I went to the computer and logged on to the Internet, then began searching for Dr. Randall Wainer on the Web site of the American Medical Association. I found one physician with that name, but he lived in Newark and had graduated from medical school just a few years ago. The Dr. Wainer I remembered would be at least eighty by now, probably older.

  I ran an obituary search and found what I feared: Dr. Randall Wainer of Woodland Dunes, Michigan, had passed away in the early 1990s.

  Another idea occurred to me. I wouldn’t be able to speak to Dr. Wainer, but there were other doctors who had treated Caroline—those at the Crestwood Home in Connecticut. Maybe I shouldn’t leave for Chicago so fast. I was only a short drive from Connecticut. I pulled up the Crestwood Home Web site and copied down the address and phone number. I would call them tomorrow on Sunday and leave a message.

  It was almost midnight by the time I picked up the police records again, my eyes growing heavy. I decided to take them to my bedroom, and, after changing into a pair of old, worn pajamas, I plumped the pillows against my headboard and went back to reading.

  Chief Manning had finally been able to interview Caroline a few days after my mother’s death. He described the interview as very difficult, due to Caroline’s insistence on one-word answers. Like Dan, Caroline was accompanied by a criminal lawyer from my father’s law firm, and even her attorney had requested on a few occasions that she be more forthcoming, but Caroline remained withdrawn and quiet. Because of this, the interview took numerous hours and two sessions until Caroline became more cooperative. Eventually, she confirmed that her mother had been preparing to go out on the night in question, and Caroline had intended to babysit her younger sister, Hailey.

  According to Chief Manning, he believed Caroline’s version of the events up to this point, but when she was asked who my mother had been intending to see that night, her eyes turned downcast, and she withdrew again. She didn’t know, she said, and she refused to change her answer. When asked about her mother’s injury, she said Leah had been talking to her and Hailey at the top of the stairs when she had stumbled and fallen. When asked about her mother’s body positioning and exactly how she had moved leading up to the fall, Caroline’s answer changed subtly, causing Manning to doubt her description of the events. Caroline’s lawyer finally protested, calling the interrogation “police harassment,” and Caroline was allowed to leave.

  I leaned my head back against the headboard, letting the papers fall to my lap. The top of the stairs. According to Caroline, we’d both been standing there with my mom when she fell. I could envision the stairs clearly since I’d just visited the old house. I tried to put myself back there in my mind’s eye, before my mother staggered to the door holding her head, before that next morning. I forced my thoughts away from the sounds of the party above me and tried to dial my memory back. I had a spark of recollection of my mother in the powder-blue suit, dressed up for the night as I had rarely seen her. Her face was nervous and slightly flushed, her milky-brown eyes wide. She said something to Caroline and me, some explanation. Caroline gave a harsh laugh, like a dog’s bark, a foreign, ugly sound coming from my sister’s throat.

  I was startled away from the memory by a sudden pounding, like someone falling, which came from directly above me. The neighbors’ party. I squeezed my eyes shut, but I couldn’t bring it back, and I felt taxed by the effort. I would read the rest of the records tomorrow.

  I pulled a pillow over my head to block out the sounds of the city, but it didn’t matter. All I could hear was Caroline’s coarse, ugly laugh over and over.

  18

  I took a shorter run than usual on Sunday morning. The city was relatively quiet, since many people had already started their summer sojourns to the Hamptons, and the rest of the population was sleeping off their hangovers. But still, the ever-present smoky exhaust, along with the stale-beer smell from the alleys, made me claustrophobic today. Instead of taking my usual jogging path, replete with packs of cars and people, I ran down side streets to Washington Square Park and did small loops around it.

  The run didn’t calm me the way it normally did. I was overly aware of the couples who shared the Sunday Times on benches and the three girlfriends who walked with paper coffee cups, laughing about their evening escapades.

  After a quick shower, I dressed in light khaki pants and a white T-shirt. Gathering the police records and my cell phone, I left the apartment. I simply couldn’t spend another hour in there. I should enjoy the city, even if I did it by myself.

  At my local coffee shop, I bought the Times, a large latte and a cranberry scone. I managed to score one of the outdoor metal tables and settled myself there, making sure to keep my back to the wall. That feeling of being watched had made me cautious.

  I nibbled the scone and sipped the coffee. I tried to read the paper first, focusing on the business section and the book reviews, but my thoughts strayed to the police records. I was nervous to read the summary of my own interview with Chief Manning. I had a prickling of fear that I might not like what I found.

  But it was no use being fearful of a piece of paper, so I put the Times aside and lifted the stack of records from my bag, locating Chief Manning’s notes first. Once again, I followed them as he recorded every step he took on the case and the date he performed the action. Along the way, he continued to make indications that he strongly suspected abuse and that he was intent on
finding Leah Sutter’s boyfriend. However, despite pleas in the local news for this man to come forward, no one had admitted to dating Leah Sutter. According to Chief Manning, this made him even more suspicious about the involvement of the boyfriend. I couldn’t blame him. Why wouldn’t the person show himself and help the police? An affair was tricky information, something that could destroy whole families, but it wasn’t akin to murder.

  I kept reading Chief Manning’s notes until I found one that stopped me—“Interview with Hailey Sutter, daughter, age 7, May 24.” I took a sip of my coffee. I crumbled some of the scone between my fingers. Finally, I thumbed back through the rest of the documents until I found the typed report. Manning wrote:

  Hailey Sutter is a seven year old Caucasian female. She appeared with her father and John Matchman, a criminal lawyer with Mr. Sutter’s law firm in Chicago. She was cooperative and forthcoming with her answers and speaks in the manner of a child her age. However, she had little, if any, recollection of the night in question, except to say that her mother just slipped and fell down the stairs. She recalls events from earlier that day in detail, including attending riding lessons with a friend named Patsy. (Her father volunteered that this child is Patricia Nawden, also of Woodland Dunes). She also remembers that the Sutter housekeeper, Della Castaneda, retrieved her and Patsy from the stable and drove Patsy home, and then transported Hai ley to the Sutter house. She could not identify the time (confirm this with Ms. Castaneda). Hailey could also recall Ms. Castaneda preparing a snack when they arrived home. She then states that she played in her room for the next few hours. The child insists that she recalls nothing after this point, except when asked what happened to her mother, she states simply, “Mama fell down the stairs,” and “She just slipped,” but could not elaborate any further. She does not yet seem to grasp that her mother is gone, but this is not uncommon in deaths of parents of young children.

  And that was it. Nothing more. Nothing illuminating really. Just a little recollection about riding with Patsy and a statement that my mother had fallen.

  I set the records on the table and took a bite of my scone, not really tasting it. I felt disappointed somehow. It was odd that I would have remembered so little, especially if I’d been with my mom when she died. Had I been a good liar, trained already by my father to tell falsities to cover for the family? The thought was repugnant, but there it was, and after the half truths I discovered lately on my father’s behalf, it seemed horribly plausible.

  The crowd going in and out of the coffee shop had increased. There was too much traffic around my table now to be relaxing, but I was determined to get through the rest of the records. I pushed the scone away and began skimming the notes and other interviews, looking for anything of importance. It seemed that Manning had canvased the community, asking for any information on the identity of Mrs. Sutter’s male friend. A few people claimed to have seen Leah on the beach with a dark haired man, but no one knew his name. One of the witnesses suggested that it “must have been a summer person.”

  I continued skimming Chief Manning’s notes. Near the end, he wrote, Mr. William Sutter called in for additional interrogation. May 31.

  I scrambled until I found the typed summary of the second interview with my father. It was brief.

  William Sutter presents the same as the last time interviewed. That is to say he is an attractive, well-dressed gentleman who appears distraught by his estranged wife’s death. Mr. Sutter reiterates that a fall was the cause of death and not any domestic abuse on the part of himself or his son. Mr. Sutter continues to disavow any knowledge of the identity of his wife’s companion. The witness appears credible in his assertions. This interviewer is inclined to close this case in order to bring an end to the suffering Leah Sutter’s death has caused this family and the community.

  I read it over once more. Strange how short it was and how abruptly Manning had decided to believe my father. It also seemed peculiar that he would refer to suffering on the part of the Sutters or the community. Wasn’t it the job of the police to find who had caused the pain, not just to sweep a case under the rug so it couldn’t show its ugliness anymore? Maybe I was expecting too much. When I had read police reports in the past, they were usually authored by the Manhattan authorities who couldn’t give a damn how much suffering their investigations caused. But Woodland Dunes was a small community after all. Maybe things played out differently in such places. Still, the thought that someone may have hurt my mother—whether my father, my brother or someone else—and gone unpunished, angered me. It must have angered whoever wrote that letter to me, too.

  I read again the summary of my father’s last interrogation, trying to discern any other information that could have led to Manning’s change of mind. After all, why should he believe my father’s version of Leah falling down the stairs when he supposedly wasn’t there that night? I was about to put the summary back in the stack, when two small typed annotations at the bottom caught my eye: D: 6/3/82. T:6/3/82.

  I knew from reviewing documents at work that this meant the interview was both dictated and typed on June 3, 1982, three days after it took place.

  I reviewed the dates of the other interviews. Without fail, Manning had dictated every summary on the day the interview was conducted. On a few occasions, the summary was actually typed a day or two later, but Manning, himself, had performed his dictation with immediacy. So why had it taken him three days to dictate William Sutter’s last interview?

  It was possible that Manning had simply come to believe my father and had, therefore, lost interest in the case. He might have been put on some other project. Or maybe he’d made up his mind, closed the file, and then remembered to go back and document his thought process. But really, there wasn’t much there in terms of his thoughts. Just a short summary of an interview and a conclusion that the case would be closed.

  I moved back to his handwritten notes to see if there was anything else. After the note about my father’s second interview on May 31, Manning hadn’t made any notes at all for two days. This was also odd, since he’d made numerous comments every day since the death. There was only one left after my father’s last interview. It said simply, Death Accidental. Case closed.

  Had I been off base in looking for some other reason for my mother’s death? After reading the records, I didn’t think so. This quick labeling of the death as “accidental” seemed abrupt, dubious. And my brother and sister had seemingly disappeared soon after I’d received the anonymous letter. Matt had believed that Caroline’s disappearance was somehow connected to a call from our father.

  Which reminded me, I’d promised Matt I would contact him after I had spoken to my dad, and yet I’d been putting it off, not wanting to admit that I’d realized my father was lying. I gathered the police records and left the newspaper on the table for the next person. Heading back to my apartment, I realized that Matt’s wasn’t the only phone call I needed to make. I had the number for Crestwood Home, as well.

  I called Crestwood Home, telling the receptionist I was looking for information about my sister, Caroline Sutter. But I didn’t expect to learn anything that day. It was Sunday, after all. Yet within twenty minutes, I received a return phone call.

  “Dr. Adler will see you today,” the woman said, “this afternoon in fact, if you can make the trip to Connecticut.”

  “Dr. Adler?” I asked.

  “Yes, he’ll speak with you about your sister. Can you get here today?”

  “Today,” I repeated, not sure whether to be thrilled or wary. Finally, I recovered. I got directions and grabbed my car keys.

  It took me no time to drive to Holly Knolls, Connecticut. Following the directions I received, I turned off the highway and glanced at my odometer. Thirty miles since I had left Manhattan. It would have been sixty or so miles from Long Island, which meant that during part of her stay at Crestwood Home, Caroline had been only sixty miles from where my father and I had lived in Manhasset. I’d never had any concept of what h
ad happened to Caroline after we’d left Woodland Dunes, but my father had known. That was clear now. He would have paid Caroline’s bills, probably spoken to Caroline’s doctor. Had he visited her, leaving me at home with one of the nannies? Why had he kept Caroline away?

  I slowed the car and turned right by a small, tasteful sign that read Crestwood Home. I pulled into the parking lot and turned off the ignition.

  Crestwood was a Victorian home made of large brown stones, with two turrets on either side like mountain peaks. On the vivid green front lawn, a few men played croquet, while a woman sat in a chair watching them, her hands flat on her knees. If I hadn’t known better, I might have thought it was a private club.

  I got out of the car and walked the pebbled path to the front doors. Inside, the place was like a hotel lobby, decorated with soothing Monetesque oil paintings and thick gray carpeting, which blocked out any sound. I gave the receptionist my name and took a seat in an upholstered, high-backed chair.

  After a minute, the woman rose from her seat and called to me, “Dr. Adler will see you now. Third door on your right.” She pointed down the center hallway that led away from the reception area.