I’d taken a turn someplace past the one to the Everglades to stop for something to eat, something to wake me up. There’d been only three other vehicles at the all-night diner, all delivery trucks. On the way back to the highway, I heard the mournful sound of a train whistle, but I didn’t see the railroad crossing or the train. Still, the whistle kept blowing, warning people that something big and fast and unforgiving was heading their way. Watch out, it said, watch out, watch out. Why couldn’t we have something like that in our lives, some warning sound to indicate that danger was barreling down on us, something to tell us to jump out of the way? Leon and Madison would be hearing the warning now. Rachel’s coming, Rachel’s coming, get out of the way.
By the time I’d turned in the rental car and spent four hours in the Miami airport, waiting to board my plane, I’d changed my focus. Finding Sally, that was done. It was over. Whether Leon would be better off knowing she was alive but wouldn’t return, that wasn’t the issue for me. Madison was the issue. Saving Madison was the issue. And in order to do that, I had to see if there was any way I could help her on the assumption that she had killed Bechman. As I boarded the plane, that was my new bottom line, no longer thinking about a series of mistakes a young girl had made, now thinking about her daughter and about the issues of malice, premeditation, and deliberation.
The detectives were trying to get the court to allow them to see the records of all the children Bechman had treated, to determine Madison’s mens rea, her guilty mind, trying to prove Madison was a bad seed, with a little help from Ms. Peach, it seemed. But even if Madison had committed the crime, it seems to me it would have been in a moment of uncontrollable frustration and rage, her doctor not understanding that the kid was already hanging on by a thread, that the droopy eyelid had polished off any remaining positive sense of self she had. The needle was filled with Botox and ready. She’d handed him the drawing. Had he merely put it down on the desk without really looking at it?
Mens rea holds the belief that people should be punished only when they understand that their actions will cause harm, when they are morally blameworthy. Did the detectives believe that Madison had researched Botox on her computer, as I had on mine, and that she fully understood what it could do if the needle were plunged into her doctor’s heart? Acting out of control was one thing. A cold-blooded, deliberate homicide was something else entirely. To accuse Madison of murder necessitated both the act, actus reus, and intent, mens rea. But how could we know what was in the mind of a child who didn’t speak?
What if Madison had been impaired in some way due to medication? Wouldn’t that change everything? Wasn’t that why the detectives wanted Bechman’s records, to see what, if anything, he’d given Madison and what the side effects might be, and to compare the effect of those drugs on his other patients, to see, for example, if several of the children taking dopamine blockers such as pimozide or risperidone to reduce tics suffered fits of violence?
Leon had said Madison hadn’t been taking any drugs. Had he told the detectives that as well? Had they, in fact, given up on getting the children’s records released?
Suppose Bechman had given Madison the drugs by injection? Madison didn’t speak. She couldn’t have gone home and told Leon. Would Bechman have bothered to call and tell him, a father who didn’t even show up with his child when she came for treatment, a father who seemed to be sleepwalking through life?
I unzipped my bag and pulled out the envelope Ms. Peach had given Leon, the envelope Sally wanted no part of. It was sealed, and I slit it open, pulling out the folded sheets, opening them on my lap. There were all Dr. Bechman’s notations, the first visit five and a half years ago, the mother and father both there, the doctor’s perceptive note about a stressful home environment, the parents “loosely connected,” in his words, the child wearing socks that didn’t match, a button undone at the back of her dress. Notes for the next visit were on the next line, the second visit just three days after the first. There were two visits before the diagnosis, chronic motor tic disorder, and three more before Sally’s disappearance, and then a note with a box drawn around it saying that the patient now declines to speak both at home and at the office.
The plane was finally boarding. I put away the notes, pulled out my ticket and walked to the end of the line, people queuing up even before the announcement to do so. Once seated, I took out the copy of Madison’s medical treatment again, reading the sometimes elaborate paragraphs now separated by whiteness, space to indicate the passage of time between appointments, to separate one visit from another. I checked the dates. The change in the way the notes were written happened after Ms. Peach had been hired, perhaps part of her overhaul of office procedures, her redecorating intruding into the patient files. The notes were easier to read this way. If the change had been the result of Ms. Peach’s suggestion, you had to give her that.
I read all the notes, the recommendation of an ear, nose and throat specialist, a child psychiatrist, relaxation exercises, biofeedback, increasing the amount of exercise Madison did, including the recommendation that she be taken swimming. But no drugs had been prescribed. Until the first and only Botox shot, there was no mention at all of medication.
Leon had to be with her for the first few years. She wouldn’t have been old enough to walk to the doctor’s office on her own, but the records didn’t say whether he was there or not, what he’d been told and what he hadn’t been told. Either way, there were no medications used at all until the Botox, and there was a note prior to the use of Botox that Leon had been “informed” and had signed the appropriate forms giving permission for the procedure.
When I got to the last page, I was surprised to find a note written the day Bechman had been killed. Often doctors take notes while they talk to you, ask you questions about your health, your habits, your complaints if any. But Madison didn’t talk. So he must have stopped after examining her to make his notes before attempting to give her the shot.
Is that when she drew the picture, when he told her he wanted to give her Botox on the other side, that he was willing to take the chance that both her eyelids would droop and make her feel like a total freak?
Notes the last day. And then nothing, of course.
I put the pages back inside the envelope and closed my eyes, thinking of the drawing. Would that seal Madison’s mens rea? A threat would surely show intent, would surely demonstrate malice, premeditation and deliberation, wouldn’t it?
And no meds. I’d been hoping for something that would lead to a lesser charge, but it wasn’t there. I’d looked up the side effects of Botox, hoping that might explain Madison’s actions, and to my surprise, dysphasia, the inability to speak or understand words, was at the top of the list. But Madison could understand words without any difficulty, and no one, not her father, her former doctor, the throat specialist, the child psychiatrist, none of them thought that Madison couldn’t speak, only that she wouldn’t speak.
None of the other side effects could mitigate mens rea; nausea, neck pain, an asymmetry if the Botox were injected into the wrong muscle, ptosis or drooping of the upper eyelid, the side effect we know Madison had, bruising at the injection site, headache, upper respiratory infection and, of course, the intended effect of Botox, paralysis of the muscles in the area of the injection.
How could anyone think an extremely bright twelve-year-old couldn’t figure out what Botox could do to the human heart, her own paralyzed for so long?
Homicide was at an all-time low in the city, but still, no one liked the idea of a murderer on the loose, even one who was only twelve. The cops weren’t going to let this go. They were going to keep at it, no matter what it took. Well, so would I.
I closed my eyes and must have fallen asleep because the next thing I remember was the sound of the landing gear descending, then clicking into position, and the announcement alerting passengers to fasten their seat belts and return their trays to the upright position. The envelope with Madison’s medical records was
still on my tray. I tucked it into my tote bag, zipping it closed, then waited for the plane to land, taxi up to the terminal and let us go on our way.
I was walking toward the exit where the taxis lined up when my phone rang, the number familiar but only vaguely so.
“Alexander.”
“Rachel? It’s Charles Abele. I’ve been trying you at home and when you didn’t return my call…”
I wasn’t sure if I’d lost the signal or if Charles had temporarily lost his voice. I reached the door and stepped outside, but still I heard nothing.
“Charles?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t…”
“What happened?”
A cabdriver opened the rear door for me but I stood on the sidewalk, not wanting to lose the signal.
“It’s Celia,” he said. “She’s dead.”
“Oh my god. How?”
“They’re saying it was suicide, but it can’t be. It just can’t. She never would have left JoAnn.”
“Where are you?” I asked.
“At home.”
I got into the cab and gave the driver his address.
“I’m at the airport. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
CHAPTER 27
“Where’s JoAnn?” I asked when Charles opened the door.
But he just stepped aside to let me pass. I did, walking over and sitting on the sofa, waiting for him to sit down and tell me more.
For a moment, he just stood in the doorway, his face pale, his hands shaking. I went into the kitchen and got some water for him. When I came back into the living room, he was sitting on one of the chairs that faced the couch, his mouth moving as if he might be biting the inside of his cheek.
“They said she was despondent over Bechman’s death,” talking too loud. “They said that’s why she did it, that she couldn’t cope. That’s not Celia.” Shaking his head, his hands curled into fists now. “If there was one thing Celia could do, she could cope.”
“How did it happen?”
“She went out the window.”
“And where was JoAnn?”
“Asleep in her bed.” Shaking his head again. “Even supposing it were true, that she just couldn’t live without that bastard, she never would have left JoAnn unprotected like that. Never.”
“When did it happen, Charles?”
“Thursday night.”
The night I left for Florida.
“Eleven forty-five,” he said.
“How do they know the exact time? Broken watch?” Thinking unless there was a witness, they wouldn’t know. There’d be a range of time during which it probably had happened.
“The woman on the ground floor in the back, Ida Berman, she actually heard Celia land. Can you imagine?” He squeezed his eyes shut. “It seems she hit the outdoor table. Ida looked out the window, then called the police right away.”
“So JoAnn, she was taken care of, she didn’t wake up to find herself alone?”
He shook his head. “No. She was still asleep when the detectives got there.”
“When did you hear?”
“Around two. Ida told the police that JoAnn was with me a lot. The ex, she called me. She didn’t know my name but they found it in Celia’s address book and called. They didn’t tell me what had happened at first. They asked me to come down to the precinct. I had no idea what it was about. ‘At this hour?’ I asked the detective, and he said, ‘It’s important, sir, it’s about JoAnn.’”
“So you did, you went?”
“They said there was an open bottle of wine on the coffee table and one glass but the glass was unused, and they didn’t find any alcohol in her system. That’s what they said. ‘Her system.’”
“So she hadn’t had too much to drink?”
“She hadn’t had anything to drink.”
“And they don’t think it was an accident, that she fell?”
“No, they said it was deliberate, not an accident.”
“Was there a note?”
He nodded.
Why hadn’t he mentioned it right away? “What did it say?” I asked, leaning closer, talking softly.
He shook his head.
“They didn’t show it to you?” Wondering how I might get to see it.
“No, they did. It was addressed to me.”
I waited, watching his face.
“It said ‘Dear Charles, Please take care of JoAnn. Celia.’”
“So they’re sure, because of the note? It was definitely her handwriting?”
He looked surprised at my question, then he nodded. “It’s her handwriting. There’s no doubt about it. And the door was double-locked.”
“I guess she took it pretty hard.”
“Bechman’s death?”
I nodded.
“She…” But then Charles just shook his head. “They asked me a bunch of questions and then they gave me JoAnn,” he said.
“Because of the note?”
“No. She didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“They weren’t married, of course, so it would have been awkward for Eric to have his name on the birth certificate.”
“You’re saying that your name is there?”
He nodded. “I’m the father of record. As far as the law is concerned, she’s my daughter. As far as I’m concerned, that’s true as well.”
He stood and walked over to the windows, his back to me. “She wouldn’t have written it like that.”
“Like what?” Trying to keep up as he leaped from one thing to another.
“I had this nickname for her, you know, something just between the two of us. She would have used it. She never called herself Celia to me. I hated the name and so did she.”
“Even after everything? Even after Bechman, the split, JoAnn, even so?”
He turned and walked over to his desk, opening the top right-hand drawer, prime space being used for whatever it was he wanted to show me. He picked up a sheaf of notes held together by a paper clip, came over to the couch and handed it to me. I read the top one.
Charlie,
Many, many thanks for your offer. You’re as stand-up as they come.
Betty
“Betty?”
“It was from when we decided to get married. I’d told her I’d always wanted to marry a Betty and she’d said, ‘Then that’s what you should do.’”
I began to look through the rest of the notes, some on pale cream notepaper, some on scraps of paper torn off a paper bag or written in the white space around a crossword puzzle. She always called him Charlie. She always signed the notes Betty.
“You told the police this?”
“I did.”
“You showed them these?”
He nodded.
“And?”
“One of the detectives put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Mr. Abele,’ he said, ‘no one wants to believe that someone they,’ he hesitated, you know, because we were divorced. Then he said, ‘someone they were fond of would do a thing like this.’”
“So they don’t think this means anything?”
Charles shrugged. “The detective said that people don’t act like themselves at a time like this, when they’re so desperate. They act out of character. He said I should understand that when someone is this despondent, enough to want to end their life, they do things to cut off their feelings for the people they’re leaving behind. If they didn’t do that, he told me, they wouldn’t be able to…” He just lifted one hand, twisting it so that the palm faced up, then dropped it again. “They said she had no plans.”
“No plans?”
“‘No investment in the future,’ one detective said. He had her appointment calendar in his hand. He said there were no dates with friends, no dental appointments, no theater tickets. They said there wasn’t much food in the house, that the yogurt was out of date, that the hamper was full. The detective said these were signs of depression. But there could be reasonable explanations for all those things, cou
ldn’t there?”
“Then you don’t agree with the detective? You think she was coerced,” wondering who but not how. How someone had gotten her to write the note, probably dictated, with JoAnn asleep in the next room was a no-brainer.
He nodded. “What I want, the reason I called, I want to hire you. I have to know who did this to Celia.”
“Me, too,” I said, “because whoever did this to her also murdered Eric Bechman.”
CHAPTER 28
I could hear Dashiell barking as I climbed the stairs to Madison’s apartment, and then the door opened and he came barreling out at me, his whole body wiggling with delight. Madison and Leon were both standing in the doorway waiting. Something about it was like coming home after being away a long, long time. Except that it wasn’t home and what I’d come to tell them was going to break their hearts.
And then something happened. I followed Dashiell into the apartment. Leon asked me to sit and asked if I wanted anything to eat. I heard myself telling him no, that I hadn’t slept at all, that I needed to take Dashiell and go right home, my voice sounding as if it were coming not from me but from someone else, someone standing across the room.
Madison took a step back, a step away from me. Was it because I wasn’t staying or because Dashiell would be leaving? I opened my bag, gave her back the heart-shaped glasses, telling her I wore them all the time, thanking her, but she just put them down on the coffee table.
“We’ve had a great time with Dashiell,” Leon said, as if that was all there’d been to it. He looked at Madison, then back at me. Was he waiting for her to tell me more? “We were at the dog run yesterday and the day before,” he said, picking up a pile of contact sheets from his desk and handing them to me. “Take these with you,” he said. “After you sleep, or whenever, see if there are any you’d like to have.”
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