Don't Ever Forget (Adler and Dwyer)

by Matthew Farrell

  Dr. Calib’s private office was simple: a metal desk with an oak top, a computer, a bookcase full of patient binders, and a corkboard that filled the wall behind the desk. Papers and graphs and articles and pictures were pinned onto the board. A small collection of dumbbells was stacked like a pyramid in the corner against the same wall. Susan sat down in one of the two chairs in front of the desk and waited. She scanned the pictures on the corkboard, searching for a photograph of Darville or Rebecca, but she couldn’t see any from where she sat.

  She reached into her pocket for her phone, then checked her voice mail and email to ensure neither the barracks nor the family needed her. She flipped through her social media feeds and scrolled through picture-perfect lives she knew were mostly fantasy. People posted the good and hid the bad. She knew this, but there she was, scrolling and liking, scrolling and liking. It passed the time.

  The noise from the examination area suddenly grew louder, and Susan turned in her seat to find Dr. Calib walking through his office door. He was carrying a file and made his way to the cabinets, where he opened the middle drawer and slid it inside.

  “Sorry to bust in like this, unannounced,” Susan began. “I just need a few minutes.”

  Dr. Calib nodded. “Yes, well, we wouldn’t want to have to do this the hard way, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Any news on James?”

  “We’re working on it. I’d like to ask you some follow-up questions about Mr. Darville’s nurse, Rebecca Hill.”

  He took a seat behind his desk. “I saw what happened on the news. So tragic. I’m praying that James is okay, although if Rebecca’s dead . . .” He looked up at her. “I’m not sure how I can be of help.”

  “I understand you were personal friends with Rebecca.”

  She’d decided to take an assumed-fact position to see how he reacted. Sometimes stating something in a tone that was factual disarmed a subject and made them feel more comfortable sharing information they might’ve otherwise kept to themselves. She watched as he briefly looked away.

  “If I recall, I told you I only met her a couple of times when she came in with James. That hardly constitutes being personal friends.”

  “Did you ever see Rebecca outside of Mr. Darville’s appointments?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Ever talk on the phone?”

  “Maybe. I can’t remember.” He paused, then snapped his fingers. “Wait, I do remember something. She called me once when James slipped and fell in the bathroom. It was a short conversation. She told me what happened, and I told her to call 911.”

  “You guys ever talk personally? Just to chat?”

  “No. Where are you getting this?”

  Susan took out the copies of Rebecca’s address book. The page with Dr. Calib’s number was on top, highlighted in yellow. She pushed the sheet of paper across the desk.

  “This is a page from Rebecca Hill’s personal address book. You’re the only doctor in it. Not Mr. Darville’s physical therapist. Not his neurologist. Just you. And you’re listed as Phillip Calib, not Dr. Calib. Sounds personal to me.”

  Dr. Calib took the sheet. While he was studying it, Susan was studying him. His chest began to rise slightly. His cheeks and neck turned a very light shade of red. His right hand squeezed a pen he was holding.

  “I have no idea why my number’s in her address book,” he replied, handing the page back. His voice was steady. Smooth. “I guess after calling me, she kept it on record. I was his primary physician, after all.”

  “But this is your personal cell number. Not the office line.”

  “Correct.”

  “Seems strange that Rebecca never had Dr. Solanso’s number in her book. She was dealing with him long before you.”

  “Maybe she never needed him after hours, and after we spoke, she kept mine. I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “If that was the case, wouldn’t it make more sense to keep your number on her phone instead of in the book?”

  “Sure. Did you check her phone? Is it on there?”

  “We’re waiting on records and access.” Susan leaned forward in her seat and lowered her voice for effect. “Look, I don’t want to mislead you. You’re not in trouble. If you knew Rebecca, I don’t care. I just want to know if you can help with other information that can point us toward finding Mr. Darville. He’s my priority right now. Maybe she told you something that could end up breaking the case. Whether you knew Rebecca Hill personally or not is no concern of mine.”

  “I’m glad you don’t care,” Dr. Calib said. “But I’m telling you the truth. I didn’t know Rebecca Hill outside of this facility and in the capacity of meeting her a couple of times with our mutual patient. Don’t you think if I could help you find James, I would tell you everything?”

  “I would certainly hope so.” Susan returned the copied pages back to her bag and stood from her seat. She made her way toward the door and stopped. “Do me a favor. Stand up and walk in front of your desk.”

  “Why?”

  “I need to see something.”

  Dr. Calib got up from his seat and stood in front of the two chairs that faced his desk. Susan studied his height and overall frame. It was hard to tell if he matched the man she’d seen on the trooper’s dashcam. Possibly too short. She couldn’t be 100 percent sure.

  “Last chance,” she said. “For the record. Did you know Rebecca Hill outside of this office?”

  Dr. Calib shook his head. “No.”

  “Did you ever speak to her on the phone in a personal matter not regarding Mr. Darville?”

  “No.”

  “Then we’re good. Thank you for your time.”

  She turned and left without another word. There was one thing she was now certain of in this case full of uncertainty.

  For whatever reason, Phillip Calib was lying.

  40

  Cindy came up from the basement and found Trevor sitting at the desk in the dining room. She watched as he placed a red folder in the bottom drawer of the desk and locked it. She knocked on the wall just as he was slipping the key into his pocket.

  “Still no progress,” she said. “I can’t get him to remember anything. No matter how many times I show him the pictures of the kids, there’s no spark. He just stares at them like he’s seeing them for the first time.”

  “Keep trying.”

  “I will, but I’m starting to think this is hopeless.” She nodded toward the drawer she’d just seen him lock. “What’re you up to?”

  “I’m doing some research,” he replied, his back to her. “On David. I need to know who I’m dealing with from here on out. I need to know who I can trust.”

  “Have you looked me up already?”

  “Your story checks out. So far.”

  She walked farther into the dining room. “What’d you find?”

  Trevor turned around in his seat. “Did you know David is a writer?”

  Cindy shook her head. “I don’t know anything about any of you.”

  “He writes for a couple of tech websites. Reviews for software and new products. He’s also been trying to get a book published for a while now. He has a website and a few social media profiles that talk about his writing. Thrillers and true crime. And every once in a while, he posts short stories or excerpts of books he’s working on. His last short story was posted on his website over the summer, but he took it down about a month ago. I found it through a link from a fan who’d retweeted it. You know what it was about?”

  Cindy swallowed the lump in her throat. The house was suddenly so very quiet. “What?”

  “It’s about a group of people being forced to carry out a kidnapping and murder in exchange for members of their families, who’d been abducted and tortured, being freed. You know what it was called?”

  Cindy’s stomach turned.

  “‘The Spider and the Flies.’”

  “David’s the spider?” Cindy asked.

  Trevor nodded. “An
d I’m pretty sure we’re the flies.”

  41

  When Susan walked onto the investigators’ floor, Sergeant Triston was sitting at her partner’s old desk, waiting for her. Most of the troopers were out on patrol. Investigator Christopher Ringer and his partner, Bill Bailey, sat on the opposite side of the floor working intently, heads down, silent. They looked up when she walked in, each nodding a hello.

  “Hey, guys,” she said. “Things look serious over there.”

  “Drive-by earlier this morning on the border of Pleasantville and Chappaqua,” Ringer replied. He was in his early forties, kind of a plump build, big but not all that muscular. He’d played lacrosse in college and was recruited to the state police right after graduation, but the years on the job were catching up with him, and he had the gut and gray hair to show for it. He was married with three kids. An excellent cop.

  Susan dropped her bag in her desk. “A drive-by? Wow. Never thought I’d see that in those neighborhoods.”

  Bill shook his head. He was a few years younger, late thirties, a wife but no kids. He’d recently been promoted to investigator and came up from Manhattan. He still had the youthful exuberance in his eyes that all new investigators had on their first assignment. Susan knew that would fade over time, and his dark-black hair would soon start to disappear or turn a lighter shade. It happened to them all. “Went down right off the exit ramp of the Saw Mill,” he said. “We’ve been up since four.”

  “Any suspects?”

  “No suspects. No witnesses,” Ringer replied. “Flying blind.”

  Susan chuckled. “Welcome to the club.”

  She sat at her desk, and before she could say anything to Triston, he was standing with a large file in his hand.

  “We got some results back,” he said. “Forensics was able to get some hair fibers from Rebecca Hill’s car. They matched some of it to Darville and some to Rebecca.”

  “That makes sense. We already know Rebecca Hill was at Darville’s house as his nurse, and he was in her car for his doctor appointments. There would be transference. We need to know if we get any matches that aren’t from either of them.”

  “They did. In the driver’s seat. They’re running analysis on those. Hopefully our lady driver has a record, and we can match something up.”

  “What else?”

  “Emily already told you she couldn’t pull a clean print from that locket you found. Forensics couldn’t get anything from the car either. We’re still a few days away from DNA coming back from the two teeth. Judge finally signed off on all the warrants. We got one for Darville’s medical records, one for his phone records, one for Rebecca Hill’s phone records, and one for her employment records from Phelps and the staffing place. They’ve all been served, so we should start receiving the information soon.”

  “Good. Maybe I can find something in there to figure out why his primary doctor is lying to me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I saw him this morning. Dr. Calib. I found his name in Rebecca’s personal address book, and when I asked him about it, he denied knowing her outside the office, but I could tell he was lying.”

  “He’s a white male. Height and weight?”

  “Fits, but I can’t be absolutely sure.”

  “I’ll put in a formal request with Crosby to see if we can get a unit on him for a little while. Few days, maybe. See if that’ll take us anywhere.”

  “And I’ll run a background check on him.”

  “Sounds good.” Triston tapped her laptop. “Check your email. Surveillance footage from the lake is in.”

  Susan pulled her chair closer to her desk and found the email. She clicked on the link to where the footage had been uploaded and sat back.

  The time stamp on the video read 3:13 in the morning. It was footage from the marina’s parking lot. The area was completely deserted from the angle the camera showed, but the lights in the lot were functional, which made it easy to pick out details in the feed.

  As the digital stamp moved to 3:14, Rebecca’s car—the Honda Civic—came into the frame, driving slowly, circling once, then maneuvering up to the highest point of the lot, by a thicket of trees that ended at the edge of a small cliff. The Civic’s headlights went out, and the car sat idling. When the digital clock on the feed moved to 3:18, another car came into view, and Susan pulled her laptop closer to get a better look.

  The car appeared to be a Jeep Grand Cherokee, but she couldn’t tell what color, only that it was dark. Could’ve been black or blue. Maybe a deep red. Possibly a dark gray. It pulled in behind the parked Civic, and as soon as it came to a stop, the Civic’s driver’s-side door opened, and the woman from the dashcam video stepped out and ran toward the Jeep. She was wearing a sweatshirt, and this time her hood was up, covering her face, but Susan knew it was the same woman.

  The Jeep’s driver got out, dressed in a similar outfit, face hidden, hood up. He, too, appeared to be one of the people from the dashcam, judging from height, weight, and the way he moved. They both got behind the Civic and began pushing it toward the edge of the cliff until the car tipped and splashed down into the water below. They watched for a moment; then they ran back to the Jeep and drove away.

  Susan restarted the footage and concentrated on the Jeep’s driver, but again, the high angle of the camera only provided small bits of the driver’s face. She could see that the person was Caucasian, but there were no other discernable features. She was witnessing the body dump but was no further along in solving the crime than if the footage didn’t exist at all. She restarted it a third time and kept studying.

  “This proves they didn’t dump the old man in the lake,” Susan said. “They just ditch the car and go.”

  Triston nodded. “Which means he could still be alive.”

  She paused the video and pointed to the screen. “They put tape over the license plate on the Jeep in case there were cameras.”

  “Smart.”

  “We get any surveillance from the dock or the restaurant?”

  “Still working through some video from the restaurant,” Triston replied. “The dock didn’t have anything that showed our guys.”

  Susan shut off the video and rose from her chair. “Let’s go talk to LT about getting that tail on Dr. Calib.”

  “Let me find out what kind of car he drives first.”

  Susan’s cell phone rang, and she fished it out of her pocket while Triston broke away and began to head back toward his desk. “This is Susan Adler.”

  “Hey, it’s Emily Nestor.”

  “Hey. You got something for me?”

  “Yeah, the autopsy’s done, but I’m still working on the report.”

  “Find anything important I should know about up front?”

  “Oh yeah. That’s why I’m calling.”

  “What’d you get?”

  “The woman you found in the trunk of that Civic is not Rebecca Hill. And at this point, I don’t know who the hell she is.”

  42

  James opened his eyes and saw the woman standing over him. She was smiling, and for a moment he didn’t know where he was. He scanned the room and found the faint familiarity of the basement return. His bed. The television that always played the same movie. The sofa he never sat on because he was trapped in his god-awful wheelchair. The hallway with the one step that led to the hurricane doors. The three windows he couldn’t see out of. The shadows the ghosts lived in.

  “Cindy,” he muttered, his voice rough and phlegmy.

  “That’s right. What’s your name?”

  “James. My name is James Darville.”

  “Very good. I’m glad to see you’re with us again.”

  James tried to sit up in his wheelchair. His lower back ached, and his neck was stiff. His head throbbed. “What happened?” he asked.

  “You had a spell, but I think the fog has cleared some.”

  “My body hurts. And my head.”

  “You took a tumble and hit your face on the floor. B
ut you’re okay now.”

  James reached up and touched his face. He could feel that the area around his eye and left cheek was swollen. Pain shot through him when he pushed against the swelling.

  “You don’t remember falling?” Cindy asked, watching him.

  James shook his head.

  “You’ll be fine.”

  “If you say so.”

  Cindy was holding something in her hand.

  “What’s that?” James asked.

  She walked closer and showed him. It was a ticket stub, yellowed and aged. “I got this from the photo album. It’s a ticket from a school play you directed. Our Town. You did it with the students from the drama club you taught back in Beaverdale. Do you remember where that is?”

  James closed his eyes and tried to remember. Nothing came.

  “It’s in Pennsylvania. You taught English there. Forest Hills Middle School. And you volunteered to lead their first drama club. You helped produce and direct Our Town.”

  “Were you there?”

  “Everyone was so excited. It was the first time the kids had a drama club at the middle school level. You were insistent on it, and the principal finally relented. A bunch of the students signed up right away, and you had actors and stagehands and lighting people and even a small special effects group. The kids just wanted to be part of it because it was new. And you were the head of it all.”

  “Was it any good? Did we pull it off?”

  “You pulled it off,” Cindy replied. “And it was good. It was the talk of the school. You got your picture in the local newspaper and everything. As soon as the weekend was over, the kids started brainstorming about what they wanted to put on next. You changed lives. All the time.”

  James knew he was supposed to feel melancholy or pride or happiness or triumph. Instead, all he could feel was bitterness. Anger. “You take these little memories and try and join them together to build a legacy. They’re supposed to tell you what kind of a person you are and what kind of a life you built, but I can’t remember any of it. You tell me what happened, but you might as well be reading me a story out of a book. It’s like I don’t exist except for right in this moment, and then this moment becomes the past, and I can’t remember it. Why is this happening to me?”