A Memory of Demons

by Ambrose, David

  ‘That could be anybody!’

  The silence that followed made it clear that, as far as they were concerned, that ‘anybody’ could perfectly well be Tom.

  ‘We found a false moustache, dark glasses and a hat in the trunk of your car,’ Schenk said.

  ‘That wasn’t my car!’

  ‘The Mercedes? It’s in your name.’

  ‘Look,’ Tom said in desperation, ‘are you sure you’ve gone through Hunt’s home as well as his office?’

  ‘With a fine-tooth comb. There’s nothing out of order, no loose ends.’

  ‘There has to be something, somewhere. It’s not possible that anybody could have got a thing like this so perfectly right. There has to be a transfer deed, a receipt, records in a bank vault somewhere – something to prove that Hunt set this whole thing up.’

  ‘We’re working on it,Tom,’ Murray Schenk said uncomfortably. He wanted to believe this man whom he’d come to like, but it was hard when every day brought some new and damning revelation. ‘Meanwhile, if you want my advice, you should get yourself a good lawyer – now.’

  The first thing the lawyer checked out was the possibility of DNA evidence. But there was nothing on the human remains found in the house to identify the killer. There was only the circumstantial evidence, all of which pointed faultlessly to Tom. After that, the lawyer’s only suggestion was that Julia be hypnotized, in the hope that she might remember something of that day in the cellar – enough, perhaps, to corroborate her father’s story. It was by no means certain, he warned, that such testimony would be regarded by a court as unbiased or even admissable, but it was their best shot. It was obvious to Tom that the lawyer thought he had an unwinnable case and was merely going through the motions.

  Tom and Clare discussed the idea of involving Julia. She sat by Tom’s bed and held his hand. Not for a moment had she wavered in her belief in his innocence, but the strain showed in the dark shadows beneath her eyes and the lines etched at the sides of her mouth that had not been there two weeks ago.

  ‘If it’s our only shot, we have to take it,’ she said.

  But Tom had thought this through and made his mind up. ‘I’m not going to let it happen,’ he said firmly. ‘She’s come through this unscathed, and that’s the way she’s going to stay. If we make her relive the whole thing, who knows what the consequences might be?’

  ‘What about the consequences if we don’t?’

  ‘I’ll take my chances. I’m sorry, Clare. I’m sorry about everything. But we don’t have a choice.’

  PART FOUR

  ‘AFTERLIFE’

  56

  ‘So, even now, you still believe that your father is innocent?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  The old woman turns her gaze from the window, with its sweeping view of downtown Chicago Lakefront in the shimmering summer heat. Her eyes have something impenetrable in them. I am not sure whether it is sadness, or civilly concealed dislike, or perhaps mere vacancy.

  ‘Well, I suppose I have to say that such loyalty does you credit. I would have hoped for the same, had I ever needed it, and had they lived, from my own two children.’

  Suddenly there is less ambivalence in her gaze. Her eyes burn into me with open dislike. She does not want me here and regrets having agreed to see me.

  ‘Miss Freeman,’ she begins, and I realize she is about to tell me that the interview is over, ‘I don’t know what you expected from me, but I cannot help you. I am sorry for your sake, and for your sake alone, that your father has been in prison for thirteen years. Personally, I am content for him to stay there for the rest of his life, as I believe he is likely to. He killed my son; he killed at least seven young girls; and he almost killed you.’

  She must be close to eighty, but she has a steely self-possession and her mind is sharp. And she is very angry. I understand that, but it will make it hard for her to help me.

  ‘But Mrs Hunt,’ I say, preparing to repeat the argument I have put so many times and to so many people over the past few years, ‘if my father intended killing me, why did he save me from that fire the way he did?’

  She looks away dismissively, as though my question is unworthy of her time. ‘I do not understand the workings of the criminal mind,’ she says brusquely, ‘even less of the criminally insane mind. Nor was that an area of special interest to my son, so I am not surprised he failed to detect the madness in your father – until too late.’

  I persist. ‘That doesn’t answer the question, Mrs Hunt. If my father had been considered criminally insane, he could never have stood trial.’

  Her eyes flash once again in my direction. ‘But he did stand trial, and he was found guilty.’

  ‘I am questioning that verdict.’

  She gives an impatient sigh, a short, sharp exhalation of breath that warns me I am running out of time.

  ‘This is pointless,’ she says, making a flicking motion with one hand, as though removing some fleck of dust from her lap. She sits rigid, in a straight-backed chair, wearing a long black dress with a ruffled high collar that looks too hot for this weather, except that the room is air-conditioned to the point almost of chilliness. I wonder if she always wears black, in memory of her dead children. I wonder if she ever goes out. Something about her makes me doubt it. Something about her makes me think of Miss Havisham in Great Expectations, although the apartment is spacious and filled with light. She also reminds me, with her silvery hair cut severely short, of one of those despotic ballet teachers you see in films, tapping her cane on the floor of the rehearsal room to terrorize her pupils.

  ‘Before the trial,’ I begin again, trying to sound as though I have more to say that is deserving of her attention, ‘my father’s lawyers wanted me to be hypnotized to recall that day. He refused to allow it. His reason was to protect me, even though he knew I would corroborate his version of what happened.’

  This time she blows a puff of air out through her nose. It is a meticulously calibrated snort of contempt.

  ‘Are you seriously suggesting that any court would accept the evidence of a child, based upon hypnotic trance?’

  ‘No. I realize now it wouldn’t have helped my father’s defence. The judge would have thrown it out of court.’

  ‘Besides, you may well have recalled a version of events inimical to your father’s plea of innocence – which would certainly explain his consideration for your welfare.’

  This last is said with an acid sarcasm that leaves me in no doubt that I have failed with this woman. When we began our conversation she was merely an opponent; now she is an enemy.

  I cannot give up. I must try to go on.

  ‘Except that when I volunteered later to be hypnotized, when I was old enough to make the decision for myself, I remembered everything that went on that day. Your son was killed by some kind of paranormal manifestation of Melanie Hagan and all those other girls he had murdered—’

  ‘I will not listen to this!’ She hits the arm of her chair with the flat of her hand.

  ‘It’s the truth. And I’m going to prove it.’

  I am losing my temper, just as she is. It will not help. I must control myself. I think for a moment that she is going to get to her feet, but she just swivels in her chair to face me squarely.

  ‘Let me give you some advice, Miss Freeman.’ She makes it sound more like an ultimatum. ‘Drop this obsession and get on with your life. You are an attractive young woman. How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-three.’

  ‘You have your life ahead of you. Your own life. Live it.’

  She glares at me, wanting some sign, some acknowledgement, that her message has struck home. I drop my eyes and look at my hands, loosely clasped in front of me.

  ‘Mrs Hunt,’ I say, keeping my voice level, my manner respectful and polite, but also trying to make her understand that I am not going to go away and let this matter drop, ‘a year after your daughter died, her best friend Naomi Chase also died. I’ve read the public records:
it was a particularly vicious sexual crime.’

  Now she is on her feet, even before I have reached the end of my sentence. For some reason, with this mention of Naomi I have finally crossed the line.

  ‘Are you suggesting, Miss Freeman, that there was some connection between those events?’

  I stay seated and look up at her. Her whole face is drawn back into a mask of withering disdain.

  ‘Don’t tell me it has never crossed your mind, Mrs Hunt.’

  Her eyes narrow, becoming black pinpoints of fury. I think she is about to strike me, but she holds back.

  ‘Get out, Miss Freeman. Get out of my house. Now!’

  There is no more I can say. I get up and start for the door, leaving behind me a silence so charged that I am waiting for an explosion. Or a blow. Or something sharp plunged deep between my shoulder blades.

  Of course nothing happens. Nor did I expect it would. All the same, it is a long walk to the elevator, and I am as much relieved as I am disappointed to find myself on the street minutes later.

  57

  I walk by the water’s edge. There is a strange stillness in the air, as though nature is holding its breath, waiting mischievously to release the storm that must come soon.

  The more I think about it, the more sure I am that Brendan Hunt’s mother is hiding something, or at least suspects something that she prefers to leave hidden. What convinces me is the way she reacted to my linking the death of her daughter with that of Naomi Chase. She had not been surprised by the connection, simply angry and alarmed that I had spotted it. In all the months and years I have spent finding out everything I could about Brendan Hunt, nothing stood out as suspiciously as the coincidence of the deaths of those two girls when he was a boy.

  I am on my way to see Warren and Samantha Chase, Naomi’s parents. They answered my original letter sympathetically, agreeing to meet with me, and they were helpful on the phone when I called to make arrangements. I check again their address against the street map I have bought. I calculate that I have time to walk, which means I can save money on a cab. But I must walk slowly; I do not want to arrive on their doorstep flushed and perspiring from the heat.

  This is my first visit to Chicago. It is a beautiful city, the tall buildings at its centre glittering like a massive jewel box thrown open to the sun. I wish I had the time to look around and get to know it properly. Perhaps some day I will. Perhaps some day I will have time for many things – such as living my own life, as Mrs Hunt so self-interestedly advised me to do.

  Yet my father has given me the same advice more than once. I have had to promise him that I will not spend my life trying to clear his name. But of course I will, if I have to. Each time I see him, caged behind that glass partition, I know I have no choice. He has become not so much old in prison as a man without age. His skin is drawn tight over his bones, and his hair is grey and cropped short. He exercises a great deal, because there is so little else to do. He is fifty-seven years old, and has that lean, hardened look that I have come to know is the mark of a ‘lifer’.

  The Chases live in a large prairie-style house on a wide tree-lined avenue. I can see, from what little I have read about the city’s architecture, the influence of Frank Lloyd Wright. There is great wealth in this city, and I know that the Chase family, like the Hunts, have enjoyed their share of it.

  A maid opens the door, Puerto Rican I would guess. She smiles pleasantly and asks me to follow her. I am taken into an open living space, one side of which seems to be all glass and looks onto an enclosed garden with rocky waterfalls and rich green ferns, broken here and there by slashes of bright colour. Warren Chase stands waiting for me. He is tall, casually dressed with a natural elegance. I take his outstretched hand.

  ‘Thank you again for agreeing to see me.’

  ‘Not at all. You’re very welcome.’ He must be in his seventies, and has the air of a retired academic more than the aerospace executive I know he was. ‘My wife will join us in a moment,’ he says. ‘Please sit down.’

  But he has seen my gaze wander over to the display of family photographs nearby. I know they have two children apart from Naomi, an older son and younger daughter, both now with children of their own. He picks up their pictures one by one to show me, telling me their names. In addition there are at least half a dozen pictures of Naomi, from her first steps to one that must have been taken not long before she died. This one is of the whole family on their boat out on the lake. Her best friend Cassie Hunt is in it too. Warren Chase does not comment on these pictures; he knows I recognize the girls.

  When we turn back to the room I see that Mrs Chase has joined us silently. She is a delicate, pretty woman, slightly birdlike in her movements and with a quick smile that lights up her face. Both she and her husband, I can already see, have that quality of reaching out, of giving their whole attention to whoever they are talking to. At least that is how they make me feel. It is a special sort of kindness, maybe one that comes from having suffered a tragedy in your life that has made you more sensitive to the pain and needs of others.

  The maid is setting a tray of tea and small things to eat on a low table. Mrs Chase sits next to me and serves.

  ‘Your letter touched us both deeply, Miss Freeman,’ she says. ‘We don’t know much about your father’s case, only what you’ve told us, but he’s a fortunate man to have a daughter like you working for him.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I murmur. It always embarrasses me to be paid compliments for doing something I have no choice about. How could any child not do the same? I am not special.

  ‘How did your meeting with Judith Hunt go?’ Warren Chase asks.

  I describe it briefly. He nods thoughtfully, as though it is pretty much what he expected.

  ‘Judith has increasingly withdrawn from the world over the years. We used to be good friends, but now we hardly see each other. After Cassie’s death her marriage broke up, and she went through a long, bad time. She pulled out of it eventually, but she was a changed woman. One understands, of course. Then Brendan’s death . . . that was the final straw.’

  I do not mention the possibility of a link between the two girls’ deaths, not yet. Instead, we speak of how I went about discovering everything there was to know about Brendan Hunt, and tracking down everyone I could find who ever knew him. ‘I’ve only read the official reports of Cassie Hunt’s death,’ I say, ‘plus what I found in the newspaper libraries. I wondered if there was anything you might know of that hadn’t been published.’

  They exchange a look. I think perhaps I have touched on something that has remained unspoken between them. Warren Chase answers my question guardedly, choosing his words with care.

  ‘Brendan was the last person to see his sister alive. According to him he tried to save her but it seems he didn’t have the strength.’

  According? It seems?

  ‘Did you ever suspect there might have been more to it?’ I ask.

  Again their eyes connect before Warren Chase continues.

  ‘We used to hear hair-raising tales from Naomi about the things they got up to and the fights between them. We just dismissed it at the time as the usual brother-sister rivalry. But then, after what happened . . .’

  He parts his hands slightly to suggest an open question, and possibly an open mind. I notice the way his wife is still looking at him, confirming the suspicions my questions are beginning to arouse.

  I ask, ‘Was Brendan Hunt ever questioned about his sister’s death?’

  ‘Only briefly,’ Warren Chase says, ‘just to establish the facts as he recalled them. The coroner’s verdict was accidental death.’

  I let a silence hang between us for a moment before I ask my next question. ‘About your daughter’s murder,’ I say, ‘I understand there was never any suspect in the case.’

  ‘The police never came up with a serious lead,’ he says. ‘Their best guess was some kind of itinerant killer, who was probably miles away by the next morning.’

  ‘Ther
e were no fingerprints in the house other than family and friends?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘But those fingerprints included some of Brendan Hunt’s.’

  ‘It was my sister’s house,’ Samantha Chase says. ‘Brendan was in and out of there as frequently as anyone.’

  ‘What about DNA?’

  Warren Chase makes another of those vague gestures with his hands and shoulders that speaks volumes of regret about what might have been, if only. ‘It happened a good fifteen years before DNA typing became possible,’ he says.

  ‘But there must have been . . . traces.’ It is as delicate and neutral a word as I can find for what I mean. I have read reports of the case, and what was done to their child does not bear thinking about. ‘If anything has been preserved,’ I say, ‘they could still run tests now.’

  Samantha Chase looks down as though to get away from this thought. Her husband frowns and seems momentarily at a loss, perhaps embarrassed and even angered by what he has to tell me. ‘It’s beyond my comprehension, but apparently nothing whatever was kept. I asked about it in the eighties, when I first read about DNA profiling. I couldn’t believe it when they told me. I mean, all right, nobody can anticipate what technological breakthroughs might occur in ten or fifteen years, you can’t be prepared for everything. But you’d think in the case of an unsolved crime . . .’

  He shakes his head and leaves the sentence, though not the sense of it, unfinished.

  ‘So nobody,’ I say after a moment, ‘absolutely nobody ever connected Brendan Hunt with your daughter’s murder.’

  ‘The question didn’t arise. It crossed nobody’s mind. He was a child, for heaven’s sakes.’

  There is disbelief in his voice, though whether in response to the idea of a child committing murder, or to the fact that nobody contemplated such a possibility at the time, I do not know.

  ‘I have a feeling it might have crossed his mother’s mind,’ I say, ‘though she would never admit it, even to herself.’