by Ed Gorman
Molly didn't like the detective. She was too forward, too cold. Molly wanted a smile or two and a gentler manner-and deference. Yes, a little deference. It probably wasn't very nice to admit-Molly really didn't like thinking of herself as a snob-but shouldn't the detective be at least a little intimidated coming into the Stafford house?
"Somebody said they saw your daughter at the Econo-Nite Motel the other night." "Perky" was the best way to describe the detective. She was just tall enough to have passed the police exam, and probably just heavy enough. She was finely boned, with a childlike face, and sharp, sudden movements, as if energy were overwhelming her. She wore a wine-colored blazer, a red-checked blouse, a dark skirt and one-inch black heels. She looked like a sales clerk in a medium-priced department store.
"I wish I knew what you were talking about," Molly said.
"Phone tips. Motels. We're talking about my daughter here, Jenny. She's a very proper girl."
"I'm sure she is."
"She's not a prude or anything like that. But a motel-I really doubt it. And even if she was at a motel, I don't see what the significance would be. She's over twenty-one. If she chooses to go to a motel, it's her business."
"There was a murder in this motel."
"Now you're telling me she had something to do with a murder?"
"No, Mrs. Stafford, I'm not. I'm simply following up on a phone tip. Do you know what time your daughter got home the night before last?"
"I'd have to think about it, I guess."
"We're not accusing her of anything, Mrs. Stafford. We just have to check this out."
"Who was murdered?"
"A sales rep named Benedict."
"A sales rep? But Jenny doesn't hang out with people like that."
As soon as she spoke, she knew she'd put her thought the wrong way. A tiny smirk appeared in the corners of Detective Ryan's mouth. "People like that." That phrase had identified Molly as the snob the detective had probably suspected. And now had confirmed.
"As I said, we're just checking things out, Mrs. Stafford."
"They used my daughter's name?"
"Yes, they did, if you mean the tipster, Mrs. Stafford."
"Jenny Stafford? The daughter of Tom Stafford?"
"Yes, Mrs. Stafford. Jenny Stafford, the daughter of Tom Stafford."
"I just don't understand why anybody would make a phone call like that."
Detective Ryan shrugged. "There are two possibilities. One, it was a prank, somebody who knows your daughter and wanted to have a little fun."
"Fun?"
"Fun as they saw it. Not fun for the police, and not fun for you and your family."
"And what's the other possibility?"
"The other possibility is that the tipster was somebody who sincerely believed that he saw your daughter leaving the motel that night."
"If he was so sincere, why didn't he leave his name?"
"Tipsters rarely do. They don't want to get involved."
"He could've been wrong. Maybe it was just somebody who looked like Jenny."
"Very possibly, Mrs. Stafford. Eyewitnesses aren't all that reliable."
"See? You said it yourself. This must be a mistake."
"I'm sure it is, too, Mrs. Stafford. All I really need to know is where Jenny was the other night and what time she got in. And I would like to talk to her if I could." The detective reached inside her blazer and took out a standard business card. No fancy logo, no fancy script. Black type and white card. It identified her as a member of the Chicago PD, and listed her work phone and home phone. She set it in the middle of the table. "Tell her, I'd appreciate a call."
"I'm sure she was home by eleven." Molly said a little too quickly. "I just remembered."
"By eleven? You're sure?"
"Yes, positive." Molly wanted to clear the air. And she'd done it. Jenny hadn't come home until well into the night, but who was to know? Eileen would never tell. The only other person who knew was the cab driver who'd brought her home. And how would the police ever find out about him?
For the first time, the detective smiled. It was a coldly appraising smile. It was easy to see that she knew Molly was lying. She said again, "You're sure?"
"Oh, yes. Sure."
"Well, then, there we are."
"So you won't need to speak to Jenny?"
"Oh, just a quick phone call is all, Mrs. Stafford." She pointed to the business card that still sat between them on the table.
"But if I remember now. I don't see why you need to speak to Jenny."
"Just a formality," the detective said. "Just a quick call is all I need."
The cold smile remained on her lips all the way to the study door. "Just please be sure to have her call me."
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
A panty-sniffer would be nice, Priscilla Bowman was thinking. Or a junkie. Or just a plain old garden variety bisexual. Or even a kleptomaniac.
But no. Today was divorce day in her office. And divorced people tended to say the same things over and over, an endless monotonous repetition of he said-she said, he did-she did. Gay couples were no different. Yada yada yada.
At least, she was winding up her day. Only five minutes to go with Heather Tompkins. And then freedom.
Heather was the spoiled daughter of inherited wealth, three generations of strapping Irishmen who'd cheated their way into dominant position on the docks of Chicago. Not that this background sullied Heather. She'd been sent to private school in Switzerland, and to Brown back here in the states. She was bright, polished, and relentlessly sexual. At age twenty-two-after an admittedly wild time as a single in LA-she'd married staid New England banking money and begun producing a brood of good-looking but intellectually dull children. She always said to Priscilla, and without a smidge of humility, they got my looks and their father's brains. And father's brains were largely the problem here. At thirty-five, (this being Heather's version), he'd become an old man. The only exercise he ever got, she once claimed, was passing gas after every meal. She also said that he'd flunked his bar exam four times before finally passing, which should have told her something. Because of his father's connections, the son had been made a partner in a most prestigious Gold Coast law firm, but he was never given anything more important than low-level trust funds to handle. He had lost interest in sex, in going out for fun weekends, and in bringing home all the neat surprise gifts he once lavished upon his "wifey" (as he always called her).
With all the money involved, with all the high society involved, you'd think this would be at least mildly titillating to Priscilla. But it wasn't. Because divorces, whether they involved the milkman or the governor of the state, were all pretty much the same. Cotton sheets from Penney's or silk sheets from Neiman Marcus, the tale was drearily similar.
Sex might be the thing Heather liked most, but talking uninterrupted came in a close second. She had spent her hour today reporting on one of her many infidelities, this at the country club the other night where she'd "done" a man and he'd "done" her in the back seat of his van while Don The Drone (as she frequently referred to her husband) was at the bar discussing the recent layoffs at J. P. Morgan and what they portended for the market in general. Like many men, Heather was of the mind that as long as there was no penetration, no actual sexual act had been committed.
Now she was winding down for the session, talking about her forthcoming high school reunion. She was trying to think of some way of keeping her husband at home. She'd have a lot more fun going by herself. They both understood what she meant by fun. What she wanted, in bringing up the subject of her going alone to the reunion, was Priscilla's approval. That was the big difference between going to confession and going to a shrink. Sometimes the shrink approved of you committing a sin.
But Priscilla didn't approve. All she said was, "You're the one who has to make that decision. Heather."
"Well, maybe I wouldn't be making decisions like this if he was a better husband."
"Maybe. Again, I can't deci
de for you."
"You don't approve, do you?"
"I'm not here to approve or disapprove."
"You know, that's such bullshit. I mean, I'm sorry for being so blunt. But it really is so much bullshit. You always say that, that you're not here to approve or disapprove, but I can always tell when you like something and when you don't."
And then the time was up, Priscilla's small gold Bulova wristwatch chiming the hour discreetly.
"I hate that damned thing," Heather said.
"My watch?"
"Yes, your watch. I mean, if it's going to ring, it should ring. But it just make that tiny little noise. It's irritating is what it is. I'm sorry."
"No reason to be sorry."
"I'm starting my period."
"Really?" Priscilla said drolly. "I hadn't noticed." And then felt guilty. True, Heather was a lousy wife. But her husband was an equally lousy mate. She shouldn't be so judgmental when it came to Heather. Girls just want to have fun.
At the open door, Heather apologized three times and then gave Priscilla a Hollywood-style air kiss. "I'll be a lot nicer next week." Then she was gone.
***
In Priscilla's office, the phone rang. She prayed it wasn't an emergency, somebody with a slashed wrist, or a compulsion to jump off a tall building or swallow forty-seven Prozacs.
She went in and picked up. Glenda, her secretary-receptionist, would be gone by now. She didn't blame her. Glenda had three kids and tried very hard to be a good mother. She rarely got to leave at the appointed hour and frequently had to stay very late, letting her husband get the kids at the sitter and start dinner at home.
She picked up, and a familiar voice said, "She's all over the news."
"I noticed that."
"Every cop in Chicago is looking for her."
"Yes," Priscilla said. "Poor Jenny."
"Oh, yes," the voice responded. "Poor Jenny. Isn't it just terrible?"
"You're really enjoying this, aren't you?"
"Aren't you?"
Patricia smiled. "Yes; yes, I guess I am."
CHAPTER THIRTY
In the restaurant booth behind them, a woman who looked as if she would soon be a guest on one of the trashier talk shows ("My Hubby was Humpin' my Stepdaughter And Within-holdin' Hisself From Me!") was chastising her son for not eating all his food. "You don't eat that food, John Henry, Momma's gonna take you out to the car and slap you so hard your mouth'll start bleedin'." That had been the first threat. The second one had gone: "You know what yer gonna make yer Momma do, John Henry? Yer gonna make your Momma take you out to the car and use that switchblade Daddy keeps in the glove compartment." The latest, just now, ran: "John Henry, you're lucky I don't pour gasoline all over your arm and light it."
Jenny laughed. She had a nice, soft laugh and it was nice to hear it. "I think she should at least drown him."
"Or disembowel him."
"Or draw and quarter him."
"Or hang him."
"Or crucify him."
"You just got to teach these kids today a lesson," he said. Then, "Where's a social worker when you really need one?"
"God, don't mention social workers to my father. He hates I them."
"Well, I'm not crazy about a lot of them," he said. "I had to work with some of them back in my cop days. Most of them were lazy and sanctimonious and didn't know what they were doing. The day I gave up was when a social worker recommended returning an eight-year-old girl to the same stepfather who'd been molesting her for two years. The social worker had interviewed the father twice and thought she'd 'changed' him."
Just then, the noise of a sharp slap overwhelmed all the other sounds in the family restaurant. The sound sickened both Coffey and Jenny. John Henry started to cry but Momma said, "You cry, and you get another one, y'hear me?" John Henry quit crying.
She loomed over their booth a few seconds later. Momma did, a chunky, unkempt woman with wild, graying hair and a soiled pink running suit so tight it show every ounce of excess flesh the woman carried. But it was the eyes that got Coffey. They should have been crazed, angry eyes. Instead, they were ineffably sad eyes, eyes that revealed that she had been raised just as brutally as she was now raising John Henry. Coffey didn't quite hate her anymore. He just wished there were some way of getting John Henry away from her.
She stuffed John Henry's arms into a tiny denim jacket-he couldn't have been more than two years old-and then yanked him savagely down the aisle, toward the front of the restaurant and the cash register.
When he looked over at Jenny, he saw that she was watching the John Henry episode with tears in her eyes.
"I'm sorry," Coffey said, "that kind of stuff can really get you down."
She shook her head. "It's not just that. It's memories of being in the psychiatric hospital. Some of the patients there. They were pretty sad."
Then she told him about Quinlan, her doctor, and how he'd fallen in love with her and pursued her romantically all the time she was hospitalized. When she told her parents, they thought she was just confusing professional concern for seduction.
"I've never met anybody like him," she said as they sat quietly, listening to the sounds of the restaurant winding down for the night, busboys loading up rubber tubs with dirty dishes, waitresses wiping down booths and tables, the cashier ringing up the last sales of the day. "First of all, he's one of the most handsome men I've ever seen. Sort of an Ivy League version of Warren Beatty. His charisma is really sexual as much as anything else and women fall in love with him instantly. Second of all, he's one of the smoothest talkers I've ever heard. He can tell you very strange things and make them seem perfectly reasonable and sensible. He has that gift. And third of all, he's a very sympathetic listener. When he focuses on you, you feel completely flattered. And when he tries to help you with a problem you're struggling with, he offers you a little advice, and everything seems to be fine. At the time, anyway. He just seems so wise and-profound. There's no other way to say it."
"Sounds like he should run for President."
"This is all before you get to know him very well."
"I see "
"After you get to know him is a very different matter. He spends a good share of the day talking on the phone to his stockbroker, and the other part seducing all the pretty young things who come into the hospital. It's sort of an initiation rite, having a thing."
"You sound cynical."
"I am," she said, her voice steel. "Very cynical. I walked past his office one day and saw him making out with the one of the other patients."
She stared down at her cup. She'd passed on the last round of coffee the waitress offered. Too much coffee gave her gas and indigestion.
"I wouldn't sleep with him. As I said, I found him very appealing and seductive but I immediately felt that there was something wrong with all the women sleeping with him."
"He could be reported to the medical board and lose his license."
"I don't think so. He's very well connected. He's a good personal friend of the governor, for instance. He runs his place like a private domain. Plus, he's been very successful in treating criminally-insane patients. He's an important man."
"So Quinlan gave up on seducing you?"
She stared at her empty coffee cup for a silent time, then said slowly, "He could have drugged me. But that wouldn't have been good for his ego. He needed to feel he'd conquered me." She smiled. "He told people that I wouldn't sleep with him because I was insane. I'd made the mistake of telling him that I was hearing voices from time to time."
"Voices in your head?"
"Yes."
Coffey thought of what his shrink friend had said about Jenny being a multiple. But how this multiple seemed artificially imposed somehow, like brainwashing.
"Any other symptoms?" he said.
"Symptoms?"
"Sounds like you were having a psychotic episode of some kind."
"I think he was putting something in my water or something like that."
"Possibly." He didn't want to tell her what Hal thought. Not yet, anyway. "So when did you leave the hospital?"
"After I'd been there ten months, I couldn't take it anymore. I started having blackouts."
"Blackouts?"
"You know how you get sometimes when you drink too much and can't quite remember the night before?"
"Uh-huh."
"Well, that was happening to me. And also these really terrible nightmares."
"What about?"
She hesitated. "About killing people."
"Anybody in particular?"
"A lot of people. People I loved, that was the strange thing."
"Your mother and father?"
"Yes, I'm ashamed to say."
"And David Foster?"
"Oh, yes, he was in there, too."
"So then you decided to leave."
She nodded. "Yes, my folks thought that I should stay. Quinlan insisted I wasn't 'complete' yet. But I finally pushed hard enough that my parents took me out of there and brought me back home."
She checked her wristwatch. "My mother is very worried about me these days. I really should call her."
"I'll be right here."
"I really appreciate all this, Coffey. I really do."
While she went off to call her mother, Coffey sat there and went through the conversation he'd had with Hal Ford about multiple personalities. He then thought for some time about Linda Fleming and how Ford thought she'd been "artificially imposed" on Jenny.
And then he thought about the dead man in the Econo-Nite Motel. Could you brainwash somebody into becoming a killer? The old answer was no.
Coffey wondered what the new, up-to-date answer was.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE