Don't Ever Forget (Adler and Dwyer)

by Matthew Farrell

  “So, you weren’t supposed to be part of this?”

  “No, but I was the first person Rebecca came to. When she told Hagen about me, he agreed I could help, but I think at that point he figured it was easier to keep tabs on me if I was part of this. I don’t think my involvement ever sat well with him.” He put the bowl down and grabbed a loaf of bread. “Rebecca knew all along that Hagen was going to kill James, but she justified being part of this with the fact that he had abducted those kids and killed them. She figured if a serial abductor’s death could give my mother a new shot at life, she was willing to go for it. I agreed. I guess she never realized how close she’d actually gotten to the old man. She had real feelings for him. It’s not her fault that she couldn’t go through with it. She tried to help him, and that son of a bitch killed her.”

  Cindy watched him as he scooped the tuna and spread it on the bread. She felt like she needed to talk about what had happened to Rebecca but knew that was something she’d have to reckon with later. She couldn’t let herself think about it now. “Hagen never talked to you directly? Not once?”

  “No. Everything was a text. Just like you guys.”

  “You know Trevor talked to him the other day.”

  David looked up. “Really? I didn’t know that.”

  Cindy nodded. “I think because of his wife and son. Trevor was screaming at him and pleading for Hagen to give them back. He was losing it. Maybe Hagen needed to reassure him his family is okay.”

  “Or maybe Trevor is Hagen.”

  Cindy opened the cabinet above the toaster and pulled out three mugs. She’d been thinking the same thing, but she didn’t want to show her hand.

  “How could Trevor be Hagen?” she said. “He didn’t even know about James being his father until I told him.”

  “We only know what we’ve told each other.” David put a second slice of bread on top of the tuna and transferred each sandwich to a plate. “None of us know the real truth. You realize that all of our interactions with Hagen are one-offs. We never hear from him as a group. We were all contacted by each other except for my sister, and she’s dead. I mean, let’s think about it. You could be Hagen. I could be Hagen. Trevor could be Hagen. Or Hagen really could be some guy on the outside. No one knows anything for sure. That’s the messed-up part in all this.”

  Cindy listened to what he said, watching to see if she could find any tells that would betray him. There was nothing she could see, so she decided to push.

  “How’s your book coming along?” she asked.

  David pushed a plate toward Cindy and took a bite of his sandwich. “Everything’s on hold until this is over. This is my priority right now. Has to be.”

  “True crime, right?”

  “How do you know?”

  “Google said you dabble in fiction and some true crime.” She continued to watch him. “This here is one hell of a true crime story, huh?”

  “It sure is.”

  “Could make some big money from it if it’s told right.”

  He dropped his sandwich and stared at her. “I’m not writing about this. Ever. This needs to be a secret we all keep with us for the rest of our lives. Understand? If my mother knew what happened to Rebecca? The liver transplant wouldn’t matter. That would kill her.”

  He looked serious, almost angry. Cindy nodded and grabbed her plate, sliding it toward her.

  “How do we get out of this?” she asked. “I mean, what’s the end game? Do you think we live, or do we all die with James?”

  “I don’t know.” David turned away and looked out the window above the sink. “I keep getting the feeling that we were never meant to get out of this alive in the first place. All those promises Hagen made might be bullshit. I’m starting to think everyone dies at the end.”

  60

  Susan stood in front of the Special Operations Response Team that had assembled two blocks from David Hill’s home in Tarrytown. The team’s massive black Humvee idled behind them, growling like a lion eager to hunt. The two teams of four men huddled around her, waiting for her final instructions, their matte-black tactical gear matching the vehicle they rode in, their bodies as armored as the truck itself. Bulletproof vests, helmets, goggles, gloves and kneepads, steel-toed boots, automatic weapons. They were ready for anything.

  Triston was back at the barracks preparing his troopers for the day shift in his regular role as sergeant. He’d offered to come and assist, but Susan had refused. He was already doing more than he should to help her. He didn’t need to be part of a raid that was solely her responsibility.

  Susan had worked with the SORT team before. They were usually reserved for things like counterterrorism operations, hostage rescue, barricaded suspects, and high-risk dignitary protection, but they were also known for their skills in potentially violent felony arrests, expertise that very well might be needed here. She had no idea what was going to happen once they came calling on David Hill and was very aware of how sideways these types of things could go. She’d have to be careful. For the twins as much as for herself.

  “Okay,” she began as she held up pictures of David and his two-story colonial, which sat on the corner of Lincoln Avenue and Embree Street. “Our suspect lives alone. No spouse. No kids. We’re not sure about a girlfriend. I’m going to need two men with me when I knock, and we’ll go in teams of two on the other three sides of the house. Radio communication at all times. Do not open fire unless he presents a danger. We have two missing people, and I need our guy alive so we can interview him. Preferably at the barracks and not in a hospital bed after surgery. I’ll knock and announce. If we get no response in five seconds, we’ll come in the front, and the team in the rear will go through the back door. At that point, we’ll have four of you inside with me, and the remaining four will each take one side of the house in case he tries to escape and run. According to his property map, he has no garage and no shed, so the property outside the house should be clear. Any questions?”

  The men shook their heads. They’d already been briefed back at HQ. There were no questions.

  “Okay. Let’s move out.”

  Susan got into her car as the men climbed in and onto the Humvee. She drove behind the truck as they made their way toward the house at a slow fifteen miles per hour. The men hanging on the outside of the vehicle began fixing their goggles and tightening their helmets. It was showtime.

  The Humvee rolled to a stop, and the men hopped off and out, each team scurrying to their assigned positions. Susan hurried out of her car and ran to catch up to the two SORT officers who were already climbing the steps to the front door. The morning was still and cold. She could see her breath popping from her lips as she ran across the front yard, slipping on frozen dew. It was as if the neighborhood was waiting for them to make the first move. No one dared exit their homes until it was over, whatever it might’ve been. But they were all watching. Out their windows, through their curtains, and around their doors, all eyes were on her and the team. She could feel it.

  She pushed in front of the two officers who had already flanked the door on each side. One man held his M16 to his chest, calm, ready. The other had his gun hung over his shoulder as he held the iron battering ram with both hands. The intensity between the three of them was real. She could feel sweat dripping down her back despite the cold air. She carefully lifted her Beretta from its holster and held it at her side, pulling on the bottom of her bulletproof vest, taking one last breath.

  The trooper with the ram nodded. He was ready.

  The trooper with the M16 on the opposite side of the door also nodded. He was ready.

  Susan rapped her fist on the front door.

  “David Hill! New York State Police. Come out with your hands up! Now!”

  She silently counted.

  One . . . two . . .

  The trooper with the battering ram spread his legs and got into better position.

  three . . .

  The street was completely quiet.


  four . . .

  The trooper on the other side pushed off the wall and got into a low shooting position. Susan backed away.

  FIVE!

  The trooper with the ram swung around. In one motion, he faced the door and brought the massive piece of iron down hard on the brass knob, shattering it and most of the locking mechanism along with it. Splintered wood, slivers of brass, and tiny bits of screws exploded up and out onto the porch. He dropped the ram and slid his weapon off his shoulder, and the two men slipped inside.

  “State police!”

  “David Hill! Come out with your hands up!”

  Susan fell in behind them. As she crossed into the living room, she heard the back door explode as more voices filled the air.

  “David Hill! Come out with your hands up!”

  “State police! Come out slow!”

  She swept around the living room while the other two made their way into the dining room. The men who’d come through the back cleared the kitchen, walked down a short hallway, and headed upstairs in single file.

  “Clear!” she heard one of the troopers say as he rounded the corner, working from the dining room to the kitchen.

  “Checking the basement!”

  “Living room clear! Kitchen clear! Dining room clear!”

  She walked down the hall and could see another one of the men outside the window, stationed in the driveway, his head on a swivel.

  “Clear!”

  “Clear!”

  “Basement’s clear!”

  “Second floor clear!”

  She holstered her weapon and could hear the lead trooper who had been with her at the front door call the men in from the outside. The raid was over. David Hill wasn’t there.

  The house was crawling with troopers, forensics technicians, and a few lingering members of the SORT team, who were in the kitchen sketching the layout inside the house for their report. It was relatively quiet, considering the number of people milling about, but everyone had a job to do, and they were all focused on doing it.

  Susan had sent out a BOLO as soon as they left the bakery, when she and Triston were still in the Bronx. There had been no updates or sightings in the hours that followed. It seemed as though David Hill had vanished into thin air. Just like his sister. Just like Darville.

  John Chu made his way over to her, snapping off his gloves. He looked to be in his early thirties and was handsome in a boyish kind of way. “I think we’re about done here.”

  “Anything?”

  “Nothing from the search. No bloody knife in the closet or gun under the toilet. The house is a house. We took carpet and fabric samples, vacuumed for fibers and hair, dusted for prints. We’ll have the analysis back to you shortly.”

  “Make it a priority. Now I have three missing people, and I need something, John. Anything.”

  “I’m on it.”

  She watched him walk away, and her phone rang. She snatched it out of her pocket and looked at the screen. It was Triston calling from the barracks.

  Susan put a hand over her other ear and walked out of the house onto the porch. “Mel, what’s up?”

  “Guess who we just caught breaking in and snooping around Rebecca Hill’s apartment?”

  “You found David?”

  “No. It was Phillip Calib.”

  It took a moment to remember who that was. Then it clicked. “Darville’s primary doc?”

  “Yup. One of my men was on him, per your instructions. The guy drives to Rebecca Hill’s building, heads up to her apartment, breaks in, and starts rummaging through the place. My guy calls the White Plains PD because of jurisdiction, and the uniforms nab him in the middle of tearing through her closet. They got him down at their main headquarters on Lexington.”

  “Yeah, I know it.”

  “I told them you’d be down to have a chat with our doctor.”

  Susan hopped off the porch and made her way toward her car. “Thanks. I’m on my way.”

  “I know you are,” Triston replied. “Go get ’em.”

  61

  The interrogation room at the White Plains Police Department was three times the size of their room at the Cortlandt barracks. This room looked similar to the ones portrayed in movies and television shows. It had the large steel table, two chairs on each side, the two-way mirror stretching across one wall, with video cameras mounted in the corners to record both sides of the table simultaneously. Susan looked at Dr. Phillip Calib through the glass. He was sitting at the table with his lawyer, his arms folded against his chest, calm but for his left knee bouncing ever so slightly. He’d been in the room for about forty minutes, waiting for her to arrive from the scene at David Hill’s house. From what the officers told her, he’d simply offered his hands for cuffs at Rebecca’s apartment, walked quietly to the patrol car waiting downstairs in the parking lot, and was silent through the prints and pics. He hadn’t asked for anything other than his lawyer.

  One of the arresting officers came into the observation room.

  “We’re ready when you are,” he said.

  Susan nodded. “Video and audio?”

  “As soon as you open the door, we’ll start recording both.”

  “Okay, let’s do it.”

  She walked out into the hall, gripped the knob on the interrogation room door, and turned. One deep breath, and she walked inside.

  Both men looked up when she came in. Dr. Calib’s eyes glazed over, and she knew he recognized her.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Investigator Susan Adler of the New York State Police, Troop K. Before we get started, I’m required to inform you that we are being recorded through audio and video. Please acknowledge that I’ve made you aware of these recordings and that we can proceed.”

  The attorney, an older pudgy man in what looked to be a pretty decent suit, brushed his curly gray hair back and cleared his throat. “My name is Randolph Brewer, and I represent Dr. Calib. I acknowledge the recording of audio and video.”

  He nudged Dr. Calib.

  “My name is Dr. Phillip Calib, and I acknowledge the recording.”

  Susan sat down and placed a file in front of her. “For the record, this is file number seven-nine-three-C. Both parties understand and have agreed that this is on the record and being recorded. I’m here at the White Plains Police Department representing an open case for the New York State Police involving the death of New York State Trooper Patrick Kincaid; the murder of Kimberly Stokes, a.k.a. Kim Kitten; the disappearance of Rebecca Hill; and the disappearance of James Darville. Dr. Calib was arrested for entering a crime scene, which was Rebecca Hill’s apartment in White Plains, New York.”

  She took an exaggerated breath.

  “Whew. Okay, now that that’s all done. Let’s get started with the good stuff.”

  Dr. Calib raised his hand and looked at her. “I can clear this up. It’s just a massive misunderstanding.”

  Brewer put a hand on his client’s forearm to shut him up.

  “What my client is saying is that we can explain his presence in Ms. Hill’s apartment, and you’ll see that although it may look suspicious on the surface, his explanation will allow you to see things as they truly are.”

  Susan opened her file and picked up her pen. “I’m all ears.”

  “We would like some assurances first.”

  “Such as?”

  Brewer cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “The reason my client was in that apartment in the first place is rather sensitive. We’d like to keep the episode from becoming public record. We also see no reason for charges to be filed. Let us just clear this up, and we can all be on our way.”

  Susan chuckled. “I’m not sure what to tell you. As you know, I have no control over what charges are filed. That’s the DA’s job.”

  “But you do have control over what charges are brought in the first place. I’d like to change the tenor of this interview from an arrested suspect to a cooperating subject and have the record of Dr. Calib’s arres
t and processing expunged from all documents and files pertaining to your case.”

  “Mr. Brewer,” Susan replied carefully, “whether this ends up being a misunderstanding or not, your client broke into an apartment that wasn’t his and rummaged through an area that had been marked as a crime scene. He broke through the police-barrier tape and damaged the apartment door lock to gain entry.”

  “I had a key,” Dr. Calib blurted. “She must’ve changed the locks since the last time I was there. I didn’t think I’d have to break the door.”

  Susan continued, focusing on the lawyer and ignoring the doctor. “Charges will be filed one way or the other. Whether it’s a felony or misdemeanor depends on his story and whether or not I believe him. I’m not agreeing to anything until I hear what happened.”

  There was silence in the room, each person looking at the other, waiting for someone to speak. Finally, Brewer fell back in his seat and nodded for his client to begin. Dr. Calib nodded in return and wiped away the hair that had fallen into his eyes.

  “Rebecca and I were having an affair,” he began. “Off and on for about a year now. At first it was nothing. I mean, she’s not the first nurse to bring a patient in for an exam. But there was something about her. She was smart and pretty, but I think most of all it was how caring she was. She didn’t treat James like he was a patient. She treated him like he was her father or uncle. There was something extraordinary about the way she looked after him, always making sure he was comfortable and knew what was happening. Even during his episodes when the dementia really kicked in, she was so understanding. I never saw her get frustrated. That was what was most attractive about her. We started flirting a little and then met for drinks one night. And then another night. And then it was dinner. And eventually I ended up at her place. Couple times I even made my way over to James’s house when she was there overnight.”

  “So you know where she lives and where James Darville lives, and now both of them are missing.”