“Of course.”
Jackson left, closing the door behind her.
Max pulled out her iPad and immediately brought up the notes C. J. had prepared. Jackson had said the activities director had been fired three years ago.
Bingo.
Three years ago was the time the local politician had been outed as a sex addict. She sent a quick note to C. J. to pull the contact information of the reporter who’d written the piece, but Max didn’t know if she would cooperate and give her a name. Sometimes reporters helped each other out, but if it was a potentially juicy story, they were far less likely to talk.
Max went over to the file cabinet. It had a simple lock on it, one that Max easily picked with a small tool she kept in her purse. She’d never forget learning to pick locks with one of her old boyfriends who’d been helping her research her second book. That had been fun—and more than a little bit dangerous.
There were no patient records in the cabinet, but Max hadn’t been expecting to hit the jackpot and get immediate access to Adam Bachman’s files. But there were employment files.
As fast as she could, she scanned the folders. Quickly, she determined that the bottom drawer was for former staff and that Nanette Jackson was extremely organized. They were sorted by year of termination, then alphabetical order. There were several employees who resigned three years ago, but only one activities director who was fired.
She typed the woman’s name and last known address into her tablet, but didn’t have time to pull up anything more because she heard faint heels outside the door.
As quietly as possible she closed the cabinet, then crossed the room and stared at Jackson’s wall of diplomas and certifications.
Jackson walked in. “Ms. Revere, my assistant says they’ve already wrapped up. If you can come this way?”
“Thank you.”
She followed Jackson down the stairs to the main gathering room. The three doctors were talking together. Jackson said, “Thank you, Doctors, for giving me a minute of your time. This is Maxine Revere, whose employee may become a client of ours.”
Max put out her hand. “Hello, Dr. Abrams?” she said to the oldest in the group.
“Yes,” he smiled warmly. Her snap judgment was that he was the grandfatherly type, though he was only in his fifties. He had a soft handshake, dry and too hot, and wore an expensive, tailored suit, without the jacket and tie. “Very good to meet you, Ms. Revere. When Nanette said you were wanting to meet us, I feared you’d be writing an exposé. I should hope we haven’t been brought to your attention for anything but our fine services.”
He was much sharper than he looked. He spoke cordially and softly, but his eyes were intelligent.
“No, Doctor, I’m simply here as a potential patron.”
“Very good. I hope the facility meets with your approval?”
“It’s very clean, very organized, and I read about your success rates.”
“My father, he’s retired now, believed in treating the whole person. Too often society puts Band-Aids on the problem without curing the ailment, so to speak.”
“I agree,” she said. Abrams sounded like a true believer.
The young female—not more than thirty—introduced herself. “Rachel Schakowsky,” she said.
Her handshake was cold, her hands small and narrow. Schakowsky herself was petite and very pretty.
“Doctor Schakowsky, good to meet you.”
“Nanette told us your employee is battling a recurring addition. It’s most likely I would be working with her. I specialize in stress-related addictions and stress management. We’ve found through extensive research and clinical studies that many stress-related addictions stem from early childhood feelings of failure. There is a lot of pressure on young people today to do well in school, perform well on tests, be the best athlete. High achievers often turn to drugs and alcohol to cope with the pressure.”
There was a lot of truth to that, Max thought. She’d never turned to drugs, but she drank more than she should when she was working a particularly difficult case. Especially when it involved missing persons. She was self-aware enough to understand her obsession about missing persons cases came directly from her own past.
“I’m sure you would be qualified to help Riley,” Max said. She turned to Doctor Duvall. “Doctor Duvall.”
“Yes,” he said. He, too, extended his hand and Max took it. Duvall was in his forties, attractive, with small glasses and intelligent blue eyes. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Revere. I read one of your books a while back.” He was soft-spoken, the kind of person that you had to really pay attention to because their words could be lost. The kind of voice that always sounded like it harbored a secret.
“Ms. Jackson said you’ve written extensively about early childhood phobia. Sounds intriguing.”
He smiled self-deprecatingly and said, “It’s an interest of mine, understanding how the fears from our youth shape who we become. Why some children, even with similar backgrounds and upbringing, have darker fears than others.”
Max thanked them for their time, then followed Jackson to the front door. Riley was already there holding a manila envelope. “Paperwork,” Riley told her.
Jackson said, “If you have any questions, please call me. I hope you choose Greenhaven, but it’s most important that you find a facility where you feel comfortable and protected.”
“It’s a real nice place,” Riley said. She glanced at Max as if maybe she shouldn’t have said anything.
“I concur,” Max said. “Thank you for your time and the tour. I’ll be in touch soon.”
They walked back to the car and Max smiled as she slipped into the passenger seat.
“You have something,” Riley said as she turned the ignition. “What?”
“A potentially disgruntled employee. And if she lives where she did three years ago, we’ll be meeting her this afternoon.”
Chapter Thirteen
C. J. always came through. An hour later he sent Max the name, current address, and occupation of Janice Brody, the former Greenhaven staff member who’d been fired three years ago. She was a second grade teacher in nearby New Haven. School was out and Max was able to convince her to meet at a Starbucks near her home.
While they were waiting for Janice, Riley said, “How’d you find out who was fired?”
“Remember when Nanette Jackson told us about the activities director being fired three years ago? That gave me a place to look. Then, I found a way to be left alone in her office.” Getting the information wasn’t the hard part; convincing Janice Brody to talk would be. And there still was no proof that Bachman had been at Greenhaven.
“Nothing might come from the lead,” Max continued. “Our job isn’t always a straight path. But this one, I feel good about. What did you learn?”
“Nothing,” Riley said, obviously disappointed.
“Yes, you did. You observed, right? What did you see?”
Riley sipped her iced mocha. “It was clean. Well-maintained. Quiet.”
“Why do you think it was so quiet?”
“I don’t know. Maybe everyone was inside. I only saw maybe fifteen or twenty people total, and several of them were staff.”
Riley snapped her fingers. “Oh! Betty, the counselor who showed me around, said if I went there, I would have my own bathroom because they didn’t have to double up yet. If they have a one hundred and eighty inpatient capacity, that means they had less than ninety staying there now.”
“Good deduction. Does that tell us anything about the place?”
“Maybe it’s struggling?”
“Could be. It might mean that they’ll take in anyone, because they need people. Or the leaks have kept people away. I plan to ask Brody about it.” She’d agreed to meet, but that didn’t mean she’d talk—or even that she knew anything.
“Good job, Riley,” Max continued. “You found Greenhaven. That’s a major win.”
“But we don’t even know if Bachman really
stayed there.”
“My gut tells me he did. I don’t think Janice Brody would have agreed to meet with us if he hadn’t. I think she was expecting the call.” Maybe not from a reporter, but from someone, like the police.
Janice Brody was fifteen minutes late, and she sat down and apologized. “I wasn’t sure I should come,” she explained.
Janice was girl-next-door cute with dimples and an engaging smile, which showed through her obvious nerves. Though she was older than Max, she looked Riley’s age. She glanced from Riley to Max. “I don’t know how I can help you.”
Max was looking for confirmation, so she immediately got to the point. “I have a source who tells me that Adam Bachman was a patient of Greenhaven while you worked there. Of course Greenhaven will neither confirm nor deny.”
Her eyes widened. “I can’t. I can’t talk about anything there. They’ll sue me. I don’t really know anything.”
Bingo. Max’s gut won this time.
“I’m not asking for on-the-record confirmation. I won’t repeat your name.”
She glanced again at Riley, then looked at Max. “I really can’t say anything. You don’t understand. I made a mistake three years ago and they nearly destroyed me. I said something to my roommate, who talked to a reporter. That tabloid didn’t even mention my name, but I got burned all the same.”
Max turned to Riley. “Give us a minute alone.”
Riley opened her mouth, then closed it and left. Max had assessed Janice immediately and she was nervous and scared—that wasn’t an act. The more people who were witness to her comments, the greater the risk.
Max waited until Riley had left the coffee shop before she leaned forward and said, “I’ve been working on a report about Adam Bachman and the likelihood that he had someone else who helped him commit the crimes he’s been charged with. I know he was at Greenhaven the second semester of his sophomore year at college—that was seven years ago. I’ve already put a time line together on his life, and this is the only blind spot I have. Adam was born and raised in Hartford and went to college in Boston, but a source tells me he has a friend from New Haven. He may have met this friend at Greenhaven.” She paused. “This friend may have been involved in the murders with Adam.”
“I haven’t been following the trial,” she said, but didn’t look Max in the eye.
“But you know who he is.”
“I can’t say anything.” Her voice cracked.
“Then don’t. Nod if Adam Bachman was a patient at Greenhaven seven years ago.”
She hesitated, then she nodded.
Max knew it. She knew it in her gut, but this confirmed it. “Did he have a friend there, taller, bigger than Adam, who had tattoos on his arms?”
“I don’t know. He never participated in group projects, and I was in charge of group activities.”
“Is that unusual?”
“Not really. We had a lot of people there with social anxiety—extreme cases, where they couldn’t leave their house, couldn’t talk to people without stuttering, even one girl who would faint in public if someone asked her a question as simple as ‘How’s your day going?’ Everyone had a different treatment plan.” She paused, frowned as if realizing how easy it was to talk. “I’ve already said too much.”
“Who was his doctor?”
“I’m not sure—I didn’t keep track of that. But—”
She stopped, looked down.
“I have no intention of revealing your name to anyone. As far as I’m concerned, you are a confidential source. I’ve never revealed the name of any of my sources.”
She said quietly, “I was friends with a counselor, Anna Hudson. She worked with Adam, and left because of him. I don’t know why. She never came back, never returned my calls. I was worried about her, but no one would talk about why she left. I had a warning in my file for asking too many questions. They don’t say that’s what it is, but that’s what it was. I tracked down Anna’s mother, who only told me that she moved out of state and wanted nothing to do with anyone from Greenhaven, and to never call again.”
“How do you know that she left because of Adam Bachman?”
“The day before she quit, we had lunch together by the fountain. It was the first real spring day. Adam walked by and she got all tense. I asked her what was wrong. She said she couldn’t talk about it, but that she thought Adam had far worse problems than mysophobia.”
“Mysophobia?”
“Basically, fear of germs. You know, excessive hand washing, cleanliness, fear of dirt, et cetera.”
“He still has it to a degree, but he worked at a bar for several years.”
“He wouldn’t have been able to do that seven years ago, if he was a true mysophobe.”
“Anna thought he was misdiagnosed?”
“No, he was obsessively neat—but she thought that he had other things going on. She didn’t go into specifics, other than he had said something that disturbed her. The next day, I saw her running across the courtyard and into the main building. I thought someone was chasing her. I turned and looked. But Adam Bachman was standing there, in the doorway of the activities building, just watching her. She left without saying good-bye, and like I said, I didn’t see her again.
“The only reason I remember this,” she continued, “is because I saw the news reports about Adam Bachman when he was arrested. Anna came to mind, and I hadn’t thought of her in years.”
“Do you have any idea where Anna is now?”
She shook her head. “All I know is that her mom lived in Stamford when I contacted her.”
Max tried to get Janice to tell her more about Greenhaven, but it was clear she wouldn’t talk about anything else. “I wouldn’t have even told you about Anna, except I’ve always wondered where she went, how she’s doing. If she’s okay.”
“Tell me more about Anna. How old was she? Do you know where she went to college?”
“She’s my age, maybe a year or two older. She went to Southern Connecticut—I only remember that because she started working at Greenhaven as part of their internship program when she graduated. She then left to work at a hospital somewhere, but budget cuts got rid of the substance abuse program, so she came back to Greenhaven the year I started there.”
“Which was?”
“Ten years ago. She has an older brother, but I don’t know anything about him. I don’t think they were close.”
Max asked a few more questions, but Janice had nothing else that helped and was getting shorter with her responses. Max reiterated that no one would know that Janice had said anything, then Max thanked her and left. She glanced back once and saw Janice staring at her hands on the table. Bad memories? Worries? Did she think that something had happened to Anna after she’d quit Greenhaven?
Riley was in the car, upset.
“Why did you kick me out?”
“Because she wasn’t going to talk with you there.”
“What did I do?”
“Nothing—but she was reluctant, and sometimes reluctant witnesses need coddling.” Max then said, “You know, Riley, you have to stop questioning me. I know what I’m doing. If you have doubts, write them up and send them after you’ve thought about it. I want to listen to your concerns and ideas, but I can’t have you questioning my every decision. Sometimes I don’t even know exactly what my game plan is, but I follow my instincts. This time, I sensed that Janice was nervous because two people were asking her questions—even though you were silent. It made her squeamish. So I booted you. It wasn’t personal, so stop thinking that it was.”
Riley didn’t say anything. She backed out the car and headed toward the city.
Max would have felt sorry for her, but Riley was going to have to learn, and the sooner the better.
She pulled out her cell phone and called C. J.
“I have a person I need you to find. Anna Hudson. She’s between the ages of thirty-five and forty. Seven years ago she worked at Greenhaven as a counselor. Her mother lived in Stamford
at that time. She left the state shortly thereafter.”
C. J. didn’t say anything.
“What?” she asked.
“Do you have anything else?”
“She graduated from Southern Connecticut State University, has an older brother, interned at Greenhaven the year after she graduated, then worked for a hospital—likely in Connecticut—in a substance abuse program, which was cut because of budget problems ten years ago, when she went back to Greenhaven.”
“That’s marginally better. I’ll see what I can do.”
“I need it quickly.”
“Of course you do,” he muttered, then hung up on her.
While C. J. was the best in the research department, he was also temperamental. But she smiled.
Riley said, “Well?”
“This is good. I’m going to figure out how and when Adam Bachman met his partner, and I will find him. My gut tells me that Anna Hudson is the key.”
Chapter Fourteen
From Monday morning when Max interviewed Adam Bachman until now, Thursday afternoon, the accused had physically changed.
She and the other spectators had just been let into the courtroom after lunch for the defense’s closing statement. There was a sense of excitement, almost—the jury knew that the case was almost over, the reporters were chatty, the witnesses relieved. But Max was antsy. She had nothing more than her original theories. She wanted so desperately to learn what happened to the Palazzolos, that the closing statements seemed anticlimatic.
She had some clues, but wasn’t much further along than she’d been on Monday.
Max watched Bachman be led into the courtroom by a corrections officer. He wasn’t cuffed or chained—he’d been a model prisoner and restraints would be seen as prejudicial to the jury.
But he seemed smaller, as if he’d lost weight in only three days. She wanted to talk to him again, but when she’d crossed Charlene’s path in the hall that morning and broached the idea, the A.D.A. intentionally ignored her and walked away.
Max watched the members of the jury listening to each side sum up its case. They were impassive, as they’d been during most of the testimony. Had she been on the jury, she would have voted to convict based on the evidence, though perhaps that wasn’t fair because she hadn’t been here yesterday during the defense testimony. She’d read Ace’s notes, which were far less detailed than hers would have been, but from the important points, the defense seemed to be relying on the lack of physical evidence. Nothing tied Bachman to the victims except for the victims’ personal effects in his apartment. Everything else was circumstantial, including the fact that he had no alibi at the time of each disappearance. To Max, that might not have been conclusive, but Ava Raines’s testimony and that of the police officer who arrested him in Ava’s car with Ava in the trunk had sealed his fate. Without him taking the stand to explain something other than what the prosecution said, the prosecution argument that Ava would have been his sixth victim was allowed to stand unanswered.
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