Mirror Image

by Dennis Palumbo

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “People he got workin’ for him. You can get their bios off the Internet…” Again, that bitter, slurred laugh. “Yeah, Doc, even here in trailer-trash central, we know how to get online…”

  “People who work for him…?”

  “The execs, the people close to him. You don’t think they got to make him happy? Play his little puppet-master games? Go ask—what’s their names? I wrote ’em down…”

  I heard a flutter of paper on the other end of the line.

  “Here,” she said. “Peter and Sheila Clarkson. Bet they got a story.”

  It took me a moment to register the names. The young man and woman I’d met in Wingfield’s hotel suite.

  “You mean—”

  “Get a clue, will ya, Doc? They’re brother and sister.”

  Then she hung up.

  Chapter Forty-three

  Not five minutes after I got off the phone with Karen Wingfield, the tech returned to Sinclair’s office to report that she’d vanished. By the time the local cops in Tempe, Arizona, pulled up at the truckstop phone booth from which the call originated, it was empty, the receiver dangling from its cord. Like in the movies.

  “Poor girl,” Casey said. “What a life she’s led.”

  “Yes,” Sinclair said stiffly. “Tragic.”

  Adjusting his tie, the DA crossed the room in two long strides and sat behind his massive desk. He looked unhappy.

  “Nevertheless, we didn’t get much from her call. Other than allegations against Miles Wingfield, none of which, even if true, are actionable. More importantly, she told us nothing that sheds new light on Kevin’s murder.”

  “So what are we going to do?” Casey asked.

  “About what? About Wingfield? Nothing we can do. Assuming you believe the girl’s story.”

  “Don’t you?” I asked.

  “After twenty years in this job, I’ve seen pretty much everything people can do to each other. So do I think what Karen described is possible? Hell, yes. Every day we hear of another public figure whose private life sounds like some porn movie. Or horror movie. Or both.”

  “This isn’t a press conference,” I said evenly. “What’s your point?”

  Casey glanced nervously at her boss. But he just smiled.

  “My point, Doctor, is that whatever Miles Wingfield did or didn’t do, he isn’t the issue here.”

  “Bullshit.” I put my hands on the desk, facing him. “Wingfield’s a suspected molester. If Peter and Sheila Clarkson are siblings, it would indicate a repetitive pattern in his behavior. I happened to have met them, and they’re not minors, but maybe they were when they first encountered Wingfield. Which means, it’s likely they’ve been replaced by another pair. A younger brother and sister, who even now—”

  Biegler shouldered up to me, frowning. “How do you know all this? About these Clarksons—?”

  “I met with Wingfield the other day. At his hotel.” I gave him a thin smile. “Kind of an impromptu thing.”

  His eyes narrowed. “And you didn’t tell us about it?”

  “I’ve been busy.” I turned back to Sinclair. “You’ve got an obligation to check this out and you know it. Reasonable suspicion of current sexual abuse with minors. You can start by questioning the Clarksons.”

  “You’re serious,” Sinclair said. “Do you have any idea what you’re suggesting? How this would play in the press? While reeling from the tragic loss of his son, Wingfield learns that the police—instead of catching the killer—are looking into allegations that he sexually abused him. And his daughter! The mayor would have our skins.”

  “But based on what Karen said—”

  “What she said? You heard her. She sounds like some low-life slut. Wingfield’s people would have a field day. Karen’s an estranged child. A spiteful loser striking back at her father during his time of greatest pain.”

  “Maybe,” Casey said quietly but firmly. “But we have a duty to at least look into it.”

  “Fine. Do what you think best.” Sinclair’s smile was cool. “Bringing down a man like Wingfield would be quite a feather in your cap.”

  Casey bristled, and took a step toward the desk. “I resent that! Besides, coming from you—face it, you care more about Wingfield’s campaign support than—”

  Sinclair’s smile froze, a strangely unnerving effect on such a patrician face. If he ever did run for governor one day, I thought, this was what his campaign photo will probably look like.

  Lt. Biegler cleared his throat uncomfortably. Casey, meanwhile, was looking down at the carpet.

  “Would you like to finish that thought, Ms. Walters?” Sinclair sat forward, hands clasped on his desk blotter.

  Without looking up, Casey shook her head.

  Sinclair then turned to me. “Doctor, thanks for your help. I’m sorry Karen Wingfield’s call didn’t offer more insight into the case. But make no mistake, the prime goal here is catching Kevin’s killer.”

  A deliberate pause. “And, of course, stopping him before he kills again. Which seems his intention. I understand the manikin he left bore quite a resemblance to you.”

  “After a bad night, maybe.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Even so, perhaps you should reconsider accepting police protection. Dan.”

  “Thanks but no thanks. Lee.”

  We stared at each other for what seemed like forever. Then Sinclair waved his hand in mock surrender, and reached for the phone.

  “Okay, people. I need the use of the hall.”

  As Biegler, Casey and I started to file out of the room, Sinclair called from his desk.

  “Not you, Casey. I’d like a word. In private.”

  She caught my wary look, but instantly glanced away. Then, without another word, she went back into Sinclair’s office and shut the door.

  ***

  An hour later, at least one mystery was solved.

  Noah had been missing for quite a while now, and ever since Casey told me her suspicions about him I figured I’d better get hold of him before the cops started thinking along those same lines. Playing dress-up with a manikin and sticking a kitchen skewer in its chest had “crazy” written all over it. Dangerously crazy.

  So I grabbed a cab outside the Federal building and went down to the waterfront bar, where I found a pissed-off Charlene scrubbing pigeon droppings off the outside deck. The chill from the river frosted the air.

  “You wasted a trip, Doc.”

  She was down on all fours, revealing a wide expanse of back as she wrestled with a large wash bucket. Turns out she’d finally heard from Noah, who’d crashed the night before at an old girlfriend’s place and needed a ride back.

  “Can you believe that asshole?” she said, face red and tear-streaked. Her hands were covered with soap foam, and every time she slapped the scrub brush on the wood slats the deck shook. “Says he slept on the couch, but…”

  I crouched next to her. “Well, at least he’s alive.”

  “For now.” She sniffed loudly, before attacking the gray-white stains again with the brush. The muscles on her beefy forearms bulged like ropes. “But not for long.”

  “Look, Noah screwed up. Everybody does. Maybe you—”

  Charlene stopped and pointed the dripping brush in my direction. “You want some of what he’s gonna get? Huh? Then shut the hell up.”

  She went back to work, cursing under her breath. “Men! You all stick together. Like sink hair.”

  I knew enough to get out of there, but not before promising I’d call later to make sure Noah was all right.

  I thought I heard her laugh in disbelief as I headed out of the bar.

  ***

  By the time I got back to my room at the Hyatt, a brilliant sunset was painting the low-slung clouds over the Point. Cold light glazed the silver and glass skyline.

  I ordered up a steak and an Iron City and spent the next several hours poring over the material Sam Weiss had provided me about Wingfield’s life
in Banford, and the rise of his biotech company.

  Plus, I’d finally managed to get a duplicate package of Kevin’s medical records since first entering the system years before as Kevin Merrick. This included three public psychiatric facilities, as well as a board-and-care home run by the Sisters of Charity.

  Also, the police had returned my own files to me, and I spent some time trying to organize these. I paid particular attention to my notes of the peer review meeting at Ten Oaks at which I’d first presented Kevin’s case.

  At the top of my notes was the roster of participants: Bert Garman, of course, running the meeting; Brooks Riley; Nancy Mendors; an older, semi-retired psychologist who sometimes nodded off right in the middle of discussions; two young interns who were there accumulating educational hours toward licensure, and me.

  I stared at my own hastily-scribbled notes, sipping my beer in the lonely ambiance of the hotel room.

  Was there something there, between the lines? Something I’d missed? Or nothing at all?…

  Just after eleven, I got a call from Noah. I could hear the raucous sounds of a bar crowd in the background.

  “Charlene said I hadda check in with you. What are you, my parole officer?”

  I laughed. “Noah, you shiftless bastard. You know what you’re doing to that poor woman?”

  “Hey, Danny. News flash: I’m crazy. I’ve been known to shoot the breeze with Satan and his minions. On the plus side, I eat pussy like a champ. She’s gotta take the good with the bad.”

  “Okay, but listen. I got enough on my mind without worrying about you wigging out on me. Just stay cool.”

  “No problem. Like the man says, I don’t want the cheese, I just want out of the trap. Later, amigo.”

  As he hung up, the phone rang again. Casey.

  “I was just going to call you,” I said. “What happened with Sinclair?”

  “Nothing. He’s got his dick in a twist because I’m seeing you. He’ll get over it. But I’ll be in the dog-house for a while, filing motions and cataloguing old cases. Paralegal shit-work to take me down a peg.”

  “Damn, I’m sorry about that.”

  I could almost see her shrug on her end of the line. “Hey, that’s life in the big city. But I’ve got real news. I wanted to tell you before it came out. They just arrested your shrink friend Nancy for Brooks Riley’s murder.”

  I’d guessed this was coming, but still it took me by surprise. “That’s just crazy, and you know it.”

  “Maybe not. She had an affair with Riley, which she never told us about, and which he suddenly ended. She has no alibi for the time of the shooting, except for claiming to be in the ladies room—alone—during the patient riot. A ‘riot’ she could easily arrange. As a staff clinician, she had daily contact with both patients. That’s two out of three right there: motive and opportunity.”

  “I’ve got a feeling I’m gonna hear number three.”

  “Right. The means. When the cops tossed her place, they found a gun. Smith & Wesson 22. Classic chick weapon.”

  “She’s a single woman, living alone. Keeping a gun for protection. The city’s full of them. Besides, wasn’t Riley killed with a .38?”

  “Yes, but it’s the kind of evidence that sways a jury. Any decent prosecutor could make the case that she had a familiarity with firearms. So she gets hold of a .38 and shoots the bastard who broke her heart. I could sell that.”

  I bet she could.

  “Listen,” I said, “thanks for letting me know. I’ll try to get in touch with her again. Speaking of which, Noah Frye’s turned up. He’s down at his club right now.”

  “So what? I still like him for Kevin’s murder. Schizo with history of violence turns on therapist-buddy, kills wrong guy by mistake. I could sell that one, too.”

  “Maybe. But you’d be wrong.”

  “There’s always a first time.”

  The assurance in her voice made me smile.

  “Now, go,” she said. “Call your old girlfriend. See if I care.” Her laugh had just the right edge.

  We said good-bye, and I tried Nancy Mendors, at home and at the clinic. I left messages at both, including the phone number of Ralph Puzzini, the criminal attorney.

  I couldn’t sleep, so I just lay there looking up at the ceiling. For some reason, I kept re-playing that phone call with Karen Wingfield in my head.

  Something about that call…

  Then, abruptly, I found myself sitting up, staring out the hotel window blackened by the remorseless night.

  There was only one thing to do.

  Chapter Forty-four

  Clouds of mist rose from the trees lining the Pennsylvania turnpike, serrated by shafts of sunlight. The chill frosted the windows of my rental car. It was just after dawn, and I was heading southeast into Somerset County. On my way to Banford.

  I’d called Angie Villanova late the night before, to start the bureaucratic process going that would get me access to Somerset County records. She’d made all the expected noises, but within an hour she came through.

  I made a few other calls, the last to a rental car agency, and got on the road before the sun came up.

  Now, just outside town, I found a drive-through and got two cups of coffee. I downed one, then sipped the other as I drove with one hand over a sloping hill, at whose apex was a sign indicating the Banford city limits.

  A patchwork of farms, open fields and truck stops lay under a chiaroscuro sky, narrowing into what appeared to be the main business district. Faded, gray-bricked buildings, trimmed with paint-flecked wood, shared real estate with new chain stores, mini-malls, and a sprawling Chevy dealership that seemed to be the backbone of the economy.

  The Banford Civic Center was a small cluster of low-roofed buildings fronted by a weathered statue of some Greek goddess holding a scroll. I parked in the lot beside the only two other cars, both Chevy’s.

  I made my way past the shuttered windows of the mayor’s office and the city council, and followed the wall signs to a door marked “Records.” It looked closed, but was unlocked, and I went in. I was expected.

  A tall, gangly kid in his early twenties glanced up sourly from behind a counter.

  “You the guy from Pittsburgh PD?” He peered at me over the top of rimless glasses.

  I nodded, and showed him some ID. He sniffed a few times while scanning it, then handed it back.

  “I’m here early, ya know,” he said, irritably. “As a favor, one jurisdiction to another. My boss called it professional courtesy. I call it a pain in the ass.”

  “Well, I appreciate it.” I smiled. “I hope you had time for some breakfast.”

  “Not even.” He grimaced. “Just forced down some Sanka and hauled ass over here.”

  “So you’re here alone?”

  He gave me a suspicious glance. “Why you askin’?”

  “Just curious. I saw two cars in the lot.”

  “Oh. The old Impala belongs to the cleaning lady.” He craned his neck, called into the rooms behind him. “Hey, Claire! You in there?”

  “No, I’m out dancin’ with Fred Astaire,” came a throaty voice, followed a moment later by a dour, red-faced woman in her late fifties, pushing a soggy mop through the open door. She wore men’s overalls and a Steelers cap.

  The clerk frowned. “Don’t come bringin’ that thing in here now. I got business with this guy. Official business.”

  Claire looked us both over with a blood-shot eye. “Like I give a shit. You called me, remember, Eddie?”

  The clerk, Eddie, turned his back to Claire and made a big show of knotting his tie. Over his shoulder, Claire gave him the finger and shuffled back inside, dragging the mop behind her.

  Eddie indicated the stacks of files and ledgers on the counter between us. “Boss said I hadda pull some old files for you. Man, I ate dust for an hour.” He gave a cough.

  I nodded. “The child abuse allegations against Miles Wingfield. Police reports, court records. I’ll take anything you have.”


  “That’s just it, mister. We don’t got nothin’.”

  I frowned. “You mean the records are sealed?”

  “I mean, they don’t exist,” he said. “I pulled everything we had for the years you wanted. Every police report, every family court case. There ain’t nothin’.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “’Fraid not. Seems there was a fire about five years back in the old Records room, just two blocks over behind the VFW Hall. Lost nearly half the stuff stored there. I mean, sure, now they’re transferrin’ what’s left into the computer, but what’s gone is gone, right?”

  I barely hid my frustration. He shrugged.

  “Sorry you made the trip all the way down here for nothin’.” He didn’t seem that sorry.

  “Listen,” I said, “any chance some related material might be here? The Wingfield children were ultimately sent to foster homes. Is that information here?”

  “Oh, man, you’re shittin’ me.” He looked crestfallen. “That stuff’s in a whole different section. I mean, I didn’t know I was supposed to pull those files…”

  “That’s okay.” I smiled. “I’ll wait.”

  Eddie glared at me a long moment, then, sniffing noisily again, he turned and disappeared into the back.

  I figured he’d need a while, so I went back outside for some air. The morning sun shone bright and cool, but already the mists were evaporating from the surrounding hills. I saw a few cars pulling into spaces. Merchants unlocking their doors, pulling up their window blinds.

  I heard a noise and turned to find Claire backing out of a door into the alley behind me. She was twisting dirty water from the mop into an old bucket. Then, as if sensing my presence, she looked up. I walked over to her.

  “You know, Eddie’s got shit for brains,” she said without preamble. “Plus, he’s only been in Banford a couple o’ years. Family moved here from Virginia or somewheres.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meanin’, he don’t even remember the Wingfield mess. But I do. It was a helluva scandal, him bein’ a big-shot at the bank and all.”