The Vanishing Violinist

by Sara Hoskinson Frommer

  Almost as if he were drugged, Joan thought later, as she left the day care. Drugged. She felt silly not to have thought of it sooner.

  Of course, Camila had been drugged, and now she was coming out of it. What was the name of that drug she’d read about? The one they called the date-rape drug. The one that left young women wondering why they found themselves in the wrong place, missing time, sometimes naked, and often frightened, but too embarrassed to complain, because they thought they must have drunk too much and felt at least partly to blame for whatever had happened to them. Fred would know, she was sure.

  19

  Fred knew plenty of names for the drug he wanted Camila tested for: roofies, roach, rib, the forget pill, the date-rape drug, the love drug, Rohypnol. Easily bought in Mexico, among other countries, the powerful sedative could be dropped into a drink of almost anything, unbeknownst to the victim. The ultimate Mickey Finn, it didn’t so much knock the victim out as make her unable to resist or remember anything that was done to her. And it was cheap, which made it a favorite of penny-pinching students looking for a cheap drunk, or a more aggressive sort of good time.

  He sighed, and turned toward the hospital. He supposed it was bound to happen. Up to now, they’d had no problem with roofies in Oliver. But if the drug had made its way to this small college town, they could expect the rate of acquaintance rape to increase dramatically. Detection was a nightmare because of the amnesia the drug induced in the victims. Prevention lay in educating people, especially women, not to accept mixed drinks from anyone they didn’t trust completely, and not to leave a drink where anyone could drop something into it. But he didn’t expect college students to listen to him. The women would have to educate each other to be less trusting, and they’d probably start doing it only after enough of them had been victimized.

  Behind him, Bruce was chatting with Camila, who sounded closer to normal all the time. Whatever she’d been given didn’t seem to have done any major damage. She was lucky. If, as he suspected, she’d been kept drugged for days, and if someone had guessed wrong about the dose, she could have been in convulsions by now, or dead.

  Or maybe someone had guessed wrong. Maybe she’d been left for dead, but her system had fought the stuff off, and she’d come to and managed to escape.

  “Where are we going?” Camila asked loudly.

  Fred’s eyes met Bruce’s in the rearview mirror. “To the hospital,” he said, in as calm a voice as he could pull out of his own worries.

  “I’m not sick! I need to go home! I need to practice!”

  “That’s right,” Bruce said. “But something is wrong. You need to see a doctor first.”

  “Can he help me play the violin?”

  “Maybe,” Fred said. “It depends on what’s wrong.”

  “But this isn’t the way to the hospital. I visited Uwe in the hospital. It didn’t look anything like this.” Her little girl voice was back, and in the mirror her eyes were wild. “Where are you taking me?”

  Fred pulled over and turned off the motor. He turned around to face her. “Camila, what town do you think this is?”

  “What town?” She looked puzzled.

  “Do you see the tall buildings of downtown Indianapolis?”

  She looked around at the quiet residential street, with grassy front yards and modest houses. “No.” She grabbed Bruce’s hand.

  “Camila, this is Oliver, Indiana. It’s a little town south of Indianapolis. This is where Joan lives. I live here, too. I’m a detective in the police department, and I’m going to help find out what has happened to you. Somehow, you came from Indianapolis to Oliver. Do you remember how you came here?”

  “No.” Barely audible.

  “You told us you remembered a car.”

  She hesitated. “Yes.”

  “What do you remember about the car?”

  “It was fast. I like to drive fast, but not that fast.”

  “Why did you drive so fast, then?” Keep it gentle.

  “I didn’t.”

  “Who drove the car?”

  But again, she shook her head.

  “Was it late at night? Was it dark outside?”

  “No.”

  “Were you afraid?”

  “A little. It was too fast.”

  “Were you hungry?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t remember.”

  “Are you hungry now?”

  “A little.”

  “But I’m not driving too fast?” He smiled at her.

  She laughed. “You’re not driving at all!”

  “You’re right. I’m going to drive you to the hospital now. But it won’t be the big one in Indianapolis. It’s just a little hospital in this little town. And your parents will come here, too, to this little hospital. They were so worried about you.”

  Fred could see the wheels turning.

  “It takes a long time to fly here from Brazil,” she said. “How long do I have to wait for them?” Time to tell her.

  “Not long, Camila. You’ve been missing for several days.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. One spilled down her right cheek, and Bruce wiped it with his finger.

  “What day is today?”

  “This is Thursday,” Bruce said.

  “But I was supposed to play on Wednesday! I missed my concert!”

  “It’s all right. They understand. They will let you play last. They said so.”

  Tears spilled from both eyes, and she shook her head. “No, they will never believe me. I have lost the competition.” Shoulders slumped, she wept without sound.

  “They’ll believe me!” Fred said, and started the motor.

  At the hospital, she hung back, unwilling to get out of the car. “I’m not sick. Take me home. I need to practice.”

  Fred and Bruce exchanged glances. Would they have to keep going through it over and over?

  “I wonder whether your family is here yet,” Bruce said.

  “They’re really coming?” She looked back and forth to them.

  “They’re really coming,” Fred said. “You two stay here, while I ask whether they’ve arrived.” And warn the hospital what’s going on.

  Halfway to the entrance, he heard a scream behind him. He spun around and saw his rear passenger door fly open.

  Camila stumbled out of the car and launched herself at a tall, dark, well-muscled young man running toward her from a Lincoln that had pulled up behind Fred’s Chevy. Her brother? No, the boyfriend. Fred had forgotten he would be there, too. Bruce followed Camila out of the car, but the dark young man reached her first.

  “Camila!” Catching her before she could fall, the young man picked her up and swung her around in a bear hug and planted a most unbrotherly kiss on her mouth. Rapid Portuguese poured from him. Camila’s words came more slowly, but her smiles and tears flowed freely.

  A uniformed driver held the door while a well-tailored, silver-haired man who had to be Camila’s father helped her youthful mother, dressed in an immaculate linen suit and carrying a neat flight bag, from the car. Tipping his cap, the driver closed the door and returned to his seat. These people didn’t look as if they could possibly have been sitting on a plane all the way from Rio de Janeiro, even in the relative comfort of first class. Fred felt rumpled.

  He gave them a few moments together, and then went forward, holding out his badge rather than his hand, and hoping their English was better than his Portuguese.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Pereira? I am Detective Lieutenant Lundquist, of the Oliver Police Department. We found your daughter here in Oliver.”

  They nodded, and both began talking.

  Fred held up his hands. “I’m sorry. I don’t speak Portuguese.”

  Camila translated. “My mother says thank you. My father asks what have you done to catch these bad men?”

  From the intensity with which he’d spat the words out, Fred would have given odds that he hadn’t put it that way.

  “The Indianapolis police have been hand
ling the case. My first step is to get medical attention for your daughter.”

  “Yes, she must see a doctor,” said the boyfriend. “She is—not right.”

  Camila took his hand and smiled up at him. “This is my boyfriend, Hodrigo Machado—no, you say Rodrigo. And this is Bruce Graham, a violinist in the competition.”

  No one bothered to translate, but her father bristled and her mother looked worried.

  “Why is he here?” Rodrigo asked angrily. “The Indianapolis police told us about this man. They think he took your violin.”

  “Oh no!” Camila said. “Bruce is my friend. He would never do such a thing.”

  This time Rodrigo translated.

  “I think I’d better leave,” Bruce said. He bowed slightly to the parents. “Good-bye, Camila. I’ll be at Joan’s house later today, if you need me for anything.” And he ran off toward the park.

  Camila’s father erupted.

  “He says, why do you let him go?” Rodrigo asked Fred. “He will complain to his good friend, the Brazilian ambassador, if the police do not soon punish the man who did this to his daughter.” Clearly, he had said much more.

  “I know this young man, and I have no reason to suspect him,” Fred said carefully. “He’s not going anywhere. Right now, the most important thing is for Camila to be seen by a doctor. Please come with me.” He waited for the translation, and then turned his back and led the way up the steps.

  They followed. He hadn’t been sure they would. For the moment, at least, concern for their daughter was winning over the desire for vengeance. He hoped it would last, especially when the doctor brought out the rape kit. Time to involve a woman officer.

  Jill Root came willingly.

  “If you need me,” she said when he called her from the car, but when she arrived a few minutes later, she thanked him. “I know I asked to work on Kyle’s case, but we keep running into brick walls. I need to do something.” Her eyes glistened.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d be on duty this afternoon.”

  “I’ll go over to Snarr’s tonight, Lieutenant. It’s not as if I were his wife. We hadn’t even announced our engagement. I’m all torn up, but I don’t have any official right to stand at his parents’ side. I need to work.”

  When he introduced her, relief was visible on the face of Camila’s mother. Had she worried that he would watch the exam? Or did she not trust the young male doctor? Whatever her concern, Root’s presence seemed to ease her tension. She stroked the shoulder of Camila’s hospital gown as if to reassure herself that her daughter was alive and safe, and spoke quietly to her.

  Fred had already told the resident what he suspected, and why.

  The young doctor had nodded. “It’s possible. That drug is a benzodiazepine, and her behavior and responses are consistent with benzodiazepines. We’ve had a fair amount of experience with other benzos, usually with people who get addicted to them. We’ll test for them here right away, to be sure we shouldn’t be looking for something else, but we’ll have to send up to the IU Med Center to narrow it down to a specific drug. They take their sweet time when it’s not an emergency.”

  Fred’s jaw clenched. “Possible rape isn’t an emergency?”

  “Not a medical emergency. She’s in no danger at the moment, and whatever she was given seems to be wearing off.”

  Fred knew it was true. “If we’re right, can you give me any idea when she received the drug?”

  “Not really. I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never seen a case of it before. We can ask the Med Center about that, too, but it depends on whether she had one dose or several—you say she’s been missing for several days. If the first dose hadn’t worn off by the time she got a second dose, that would make a difference in her response to the second, and so on. If there were more, it might take longer for her to get back to normal. I don’t know the half-life of Rohypnol, if that’s what it turns out to be, and I can’t check it in the PDR because it’s not legal here.”

  “The longer it takes, the less likely we are to pick up on whatever trail there is. Her dad’s threatening us with the Brazilian ambassador.”

  “I’ll do what I can, Lieutenant, but considering her improvement, you’ll have more luck with the Med Center than I will, even if I find physical indications of rape.”

  “We’ll want the clothing she was wearing. We asked them to send clean clothes down with her mother.”

  “The nurse put it in a paper sack. She’ll give it to you.”

  In the waiting room, Camila’s father was pacing and talking nonstop to her boyfriend, who seemed to be trying to calm him. They broke off when Fred entered the room.

  “I’ve spoken with the doctor, Mr. Pereira. He thinks your daughter was drugged. He will test her blood here, and I will have a police officer carry a sample of her blood to a laboratory in Indianapolis that can test it in more detail.” Fred waited for the translation. “Now I need your help.”

  Both men stared. Apparently the father understood a little English, after all.

  “Will you please come with me to the police station? I need information from you for our official investigation.” He hoped his formality would have the right ring for a Brazilian banker. Apparently it did, and they were soon following him in their chauffeured car. Most of the information he expected them to provide was already on his desk, courtesy of the Indianapolis police, but he wanted to defuse this angry father by demonstrating conscientious attention to the daughter’s case.

  For the moment, he left Mr. Pereira and Rodrigo with sober Detective Terry, who methodically spelled Moacir, Isadora, and Camila Pereira aloud as he entered their names and addresses—local and home—into the computer.

  Fred took Sergeant Ketcham to one side and handed him the IPD faxes from his desk. “I want all the details on the missing violin. It’s a Stradivarius, worth who knows how much. Camila couldn’t tell the IPD much about the insurance when it disappeared, either because she was too stressed out or because she didn’t know. Let’s hope her father has that information. And we need to pump them both about anything she told them before she disappeared—any leads to finding the violin, any men she was interested in and might have left with. I’d like to separate the father from the boyfriend for that, but the boyfriend’s acting as interpreter.”

  “My Spanish might be close enough to his Portuguese. For that matter, I’d expect a Brazilian banker to speak Spanish.”

  “I didn’t know you could.” More of Johnny Ketcham’s hidden talents.

  Ketcham’s eyes smiled behind his wire rims. “It doesn’t come up much. I take it you think the girl’s on the up and up?”

  “I do now. Somebody doped her and confined her, at the very least. I’ll get a picture of her as she looks now. I want that circulated in town along with the publicity shot that’s closer to how she looked when she disappeared. She’s been unaccounted for since the daylight hours on Monday, and she herself has some vague memories of riding in a car. Someone may remember seeing her. Hit the campus first.”

  “You’re thinking students?”

  “Maybe.”

  Or maybe someone who already knew more about her than what was on the news when her violin was stolen. Somebody with a connection to Oliver. He didn’t much want to think about the young men with Oliver connections who knew her.

  How coincidental was it that squeaky clean Bruce Graham, the IPD’s prime suspect because he’d hung around Camila and had been on the scene when the violin disappeared, just happened to be in the park when Camila appeared? Joan and Rebecca would hate it if it turned out to be Bruce, but if Bruce had drugged and hidden Camila to increase his own chances of winning the competition, say, or abducted her because he had the hots for her, Rebecca would be better off without him. It had probably been easy for Bruce to persuade Joan to bring him down last night, and wouldn’t have been hard for him to rent a car before that, except for working it into his schedule. Maybe if his schedule hadn’t been so tight, Camila would still have been do
ped up. But he and Joan had been together all last night.

  Uwe Frech no longer had a performance schedule, and he’d been in Oliver on Wednesday. Even with his bum hand, Uwe probably could have driven her down. And he’d been hurting for money and disappointed at losing his chance at the competition. Had he taken it out on Camila?

  And then there was Andrew, obviously taken by Camila the day he met her. Andrew, who was dumbfounded to see her in his mother’s house, and who sped off on his bike after stammering only a few words to her. Andrew, who could have borrowed his mother’s car without her knowledge while she was at work. Andrew, an Oliver College student who worked in a biology lab.

  Andrew, the thoroughly decent kid whose mother Fred was going to marry. He knew he ought to let Warren Altschuler know the rest of it. Let the IPD handle this case and clear Andrew, whose innocence he didn’t doubt for a minute. But he knew he wouldn’t. The least he could do for Joan was investigate it himself, and risk being called down later for not declaring his conflict of interest.

  20

  Leaving Camila’s men in the capable hands of Ketcham and Terry, Fred took his camera back to the hospital. The odors that met his nose when he opened the emergency room door evoked Kyle Pruitt’s death watch.

  What kind of clod am I? I shouldn’t have left Root here again.

  But she was coming toward him with a smile on her face. “Good news, Lieutenant. The doctor says there’s no sign of rape. They’re giving her some meds anyway, just in case, but they don’t think it happened. She wasn’t tied up—no marks. But you’re right that she was drugged with some kind of benzodiazepine. Could be roofies.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “Better, I think. She didn’t fall apart during the exam, and she sounds more adult all the time, if that makes sense. The only thing that sounds like a rape victim is that she’s getting intense about feeling filthy. She wants to shower and shampoo her hair before anybody else sees her, especially the people up in Indy. But the ER’s not set up for that, and they don’t want to admit her just to take a shower.”