by John Verdon
Although he guessed she’d be somewhere in the large dead zone outside the immediate area of Wolf Lake, he tried calling her anyway.
He was surprised to hear her phone ringing seconds later right there in the suite. He looked around and spotted it on the small table next to the couch.
It wasn’t like Madeleine to go out without it, especially if she was driving. Had she been in such a hurry or so preoccupied that she forgot it? But that state of mind was hardly consistent with a sightseeing excursion.
He tried to construct a hypothesis that would explain these facts, as well as her secretive demeanor for the past forty-eight hours, but he couldn’t seem to apply the same logical analysis to Madeleine’s behavior as he could to a stranger’s.
He found himself pacing slowly around the room, a movement that often helped him organize his thoughts. It occurred to him to check for any calls or text messages she might have received before leaving. As he was trying to navigate through the functions of her phone, there was a knock at the door.
It was a louder-than-necessary knock of a type familiar to Gurney. He crossed the room, opened the door, and recognized the flat-faced, heavy-shouldered man standing in front of him as the Jimmy Hoffa look-alike from the press conference video. There was an American flag lapel pin on his ill-fitting sport jacket. He held up his state police credentials.
“Senior Investigator Fenton, BCI. Are you David Gurney?”
“Yes.” For a moment he had a terrible thought. “Has something happened to my wife?”
“I don’t know anything about your wife. Can I come in?”
Gurney nodded, his anxiety replaced by curiosity. He stepped back from the doorway.
Fenton entered with a cop’s watchfulness, glancing around to take everything in, moving to a position from which he could see into the bedroom alcove as well as the bathroom. His gaze lingered for a while on the Warren Harding portrait.
“Very nice,” he said in a sour way that implied the opposite. “The Presidential Suite.”
“What can I do for you?”
“You like being retired?”
“How do you know I’m retired?”
Fenton produced a smile that was less than friendly. “If someone took an aggressive interest in a major case of yours, showed up on your turf, spent time with a prime suspect, you’d get to know something about them, right?”
Gurney answered with his own question. “To have a prime suspect you must have a definable crime, right?”
“A definable crime. Nice term. Plus means, motive, and opportunity. Right out of the textbook.” The man walked over to the balcony door and stood with his back to Gurney. “That’s why I’m here. Somehow you got yourself pulled into this thing. So we’d like to fill you in on some facts, as a simple courtesy, since you clearly don’t know what it is you got yourself pulled into.”
“That’s very accommodating.”
“There’s nothing like the facts to get everyone on the same page. Simple courtesy.”
“Can’t argue with that. But since when do BCI senior investigators fill in outsiders as a simple courtesy?”
Fenton turned back from the window and gave Gurney an appraising look. “You’re not just any outsider, are you? You have a reputation. Big one. Very positive career history. Lot of success. So we figured you deserved the courtesy of being fully informed. Could save you time and trouble.” He flashed a cold smile.
“What kind of trouble will it save me?”
“The trouble that comes from being on the wrong side of a situation.”
“How do you know which side I’m on?”
“An educated guess.”
“Based on what?”
There was a tiny twitch at the corner of the man’s thin-lipped mouth. “Based on what we know from various sources. What I’m telling you is that this is a serious situation. Involving serious people with serious resources.” He paused. “Look, I’m trying to do you a favor here. Put our cards on the table. You got a problem with that?”
“No problem. Just curiosity.”
Fenton cocked his head speculatively, as though turning a difficult concept around in his mind. “Curiosity can be a problem when the stuff you don’t know is stuff you shouldn’t know.” He hesitated, his jaw muscles tensing. “If you knew even half the story, you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t be stepping into something over your head. You wouldn’t be sitting across a dinner table from Richard Hammond. You wouldn’t be anywhere near Wolf Lake.”
“But now that I’m here, you want to fill me in on the facts.”
“That’s what I’m saying.” But the distaste with which he said it hinted at some conflict in his mission. Perhaps a career-long antipathy for sharing information outside the boundaries of his law enforcement unit was colliding with an order to do exactly that.
“I’m listening.” Gurney sank down into one of the leather chairs by the hearth, gesturing toward another near it. “You want to have a seat?”
Fenton glanced around, selected instead the simplest wooden chair in the room, and brought it to a spot facing Gurney, but not too close. He perched on the edge of the seat as if it were a stool, his hands on his knees. His jaw muscles started moving again. He was staring down at the rug. Whatever was going on in his head narrowed the eyes that were already too small for his slab of a face.
He looked up, met Gurney’s inquisitive gaze, and cleared his throat. “Motive, means, opportunity. That what you want to hear about?”
“Good place to start.”
“Okay. Motive. Would twenty-nine million dollars qualify?”
Gurney frowned, said nothing.
Fenton flashed an ugly smile. “They didn’t tell you about that, huh? Little Dick and Jane. They neglected to mention Ethan Gall’s will?”
“Tell me about it.”
The ugly smile widened. “Ethan had a very simple will—especially for a guy with eighty-seven million dollars, give or take a few million for variations in investment values.” He paused, studying Gurney’s expression. “One third for the Gall New Life Foundation; one third for little brother Peyton; and one third—that’s twenty-nine million bucks—for Doctor Dick.”
So that’s what Steckle had been talking about. Richard was the legatee whose name he wouldn’t disclose.
“Why would Gall leave Hammond that much? Were they that close?”
Fenton made a face between a leer and a sneer. “Maybe closer than anyone knew. But the main reason was to piss off Peyton. Peyton hated the fact that Doctor Dick was Ethan’s pet. The whole point was to threaten Peyton. Scare him into being a good boy.”
“How recent was this version of Ethan’s will?”
“Very recent. And the thing that puts the nail in Doctor Dick’s coffin is that he knew Ethan was about to change it again—give it all back to his little brother. Your dinner companion had a twenty-nine-million-dollar window of opportunity that was about to close. You think that might be a powerful motive for timely action?”
Gurney shrugged. “Maybe a little too powerful and a little too timely.”
Fenton stared at him. “Meaning what?”
“Seems too obvious and too neat. But the bigger question is, what action are you claiming it motivated?” When Fenton didn’t answer right away, Gurney went on. “If you’re claiming that Hammond killed Gall in order to grab that twenty-nine million before it disappeared, the real question is how did he kill him?”
Fenton looked like he had a mouthful of stomach acid. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the specifics. I’ll just say that Hammond developed some motivational techniques that go beyond anything normal, therapeutic, or ethical.”
“You’re saying that he persuaded Ethan Gall to commit suicide?”
“You find that hard to believe?”
“Very hard.”
“His goddamn ‘gay emergence therapy’ seemed like quite a stretch, too! Think about it.” Fenton’s eyes flashed with anger. “This is the same son of a bitch who inven
ted a so-called ‘therapy’ to make normal men believe they were gay!”
“So you figure if Hammond could convince a man he was gay, he could convince him to kill himself?” The logic of that struck Gurney as absurd.
“The technical term for what we’re talking about is ‘trance-induced suicide.’”
“Whose term is that?”
Fenton blinked, rubbed his hand across his mouth. He seemed to be considering how much more he ought to say. “The people we’ve consulted. Experts. Best in the world.”
If Fenton wanted to identify his experts, he’d volunteer their names. If he didn’t want to, there was no point in asking. Gurney sat back in his armchair and steepled his fingers thoughtfully under his chin. “Trance-induced suicide. Interesting. And this can be achieved through a single hypnotherapy session?”
“An intensive three-hour session with a follow-up session on the final day.”
“The final day?”
“The suicide day.”
“Where did that follow-up meeting occur?”
“With Mr. Gall, right here at Wolf Lake. With the other three, it was done by phone.”
“And of course you have a record of Hammond calling each of those three victims on—”
Fenton cut in. “On the day each one cut his wrists.” He paused, studying Gurney’s face. “You didn’t know any of this shit, right? You have no goddamn idea what you’re stumbling around in. Blind man in a minefield.” He shook his head. “Do you happen to know what subject the famous Doctor Hammond wrote his PhD thesis on?”
“Tell me.”
“Long title, but maybe you ought to memorize it. ‘Hypnotic Elements in the Mechanism of Fatality in Voodoo: How Witch Doctors Make Their Victims Die.’ That’s a pretty interesting area of expertise, wouldn’t you say?”
Fenton radiated the triumph of a poker player showing a full house, aces high. “Think about it, Gurney. This guy hypnotized four people. They all ended up with the same nightmare. They all talked to him on the last day of their lives. And they all cut their wrists in exactly the same way.”
He paused before adding, “Is this really a guy you want to be having dinner with?”
CHAPTER 24
Having written a doctoral thesis examining the psychological levers underlying the practice of voodoo was, at least, suggestive of a past academic interest. It was certainly a provocative coincidence and the sort of thing that would capture the imagination of a jury, but it was hardly, as the lawyers say, dispositive.
The will, however, was another matter. The will nailed down the first third of the motive-means-opportunity triad. The will was a big deal. So big a deal that Gurney felt he had to get to the bottom of it—the precise nature of the provision favoring Hammond to the tune of twenty-nine million dollars, as well as the reason that neither Jane nor Richard had seen fit to mention it—before he could put his mind to any other task.
He took out his phone, called Jack Hardwick, and left a message. “Tell me you didn’t know about the twenty-nine-million-dollar motive lurking in the middle of this case. Because if you knew about that little item and chose not to tell me, you and I have a serious problem. Call me ASAP.”
He considered calling Jane Hammond next, then decided a personal visit to the chalet, unannounced, to confront Jane and Richard together would be more revealing. He went to his duffle bag, found his notebook, tore out a blank page, and wrote a quick message to Madeleine:
“It’s almost 11:00 AM. I got back from Plattsburgh a while ago. Had a visit from Gilbert Fenton. Going over to the Hammonds’ place now to sort out a problem. I’ll have my phone with me—please call as soon as you get in.”
He placed the note next to her phone on the end table. He put on his ski jacket and was already heading for the door when he heard a key turning in the lock. The door swung open, and Madeleine entered the room, her thick wool ski hat pulled down over her forehead and ears, her down jacket zipped up to her chin. She looked cold and tense. She swung the door shut behind her and greeted him with a small “Hi.”
“Where were you?” The sharpness in his own voice surprised him.
“I went out for a while.”
“Why didn’t you leave me a note?”
“I didn’t know where I’d be. I didn’t expect to be gone that long. The fog and the ice . . .” A visible shiver ran through her body. “I need to take a hot bath.”
“Where were you?”
She looked as though she were thinking about a difficult question, then answered. “Someplace that doesn’t really exist anymore.”
He stared at her.
“I went to the house where George and Maureen used to live. If I didn’t know what it was, I wouldn’t have recognized it. It was crushed by a tree. Must have been a long time ago. Moss, pine needles, things growing out of it.”
“So . . . what did you do?”
“Nothing. Everything was different. The dirt road . . . the old fence . . . everything seemed so much smaller and shabbier.”
“How did you find the house?”
“The GPS.”
“You remembered the address after all those years?”
“Just the name of the road. But there were only four or five houses.” She paused, looked forlorn. “Now there’s not much of anything.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“No.” Another sudden shiver shook her. She clasped her arms tightly to her body. “I’m chilled. I need a hot bath.”
The lost look on her face gave him a terrible feeling. Surely it was reflecting something real inside her, yet it was a look utterly alien to the Madeleine he knew. Or believed he knew.
She appeared to notice for the first time that he was wearing his ski jacket. “Where are you going?”
“To see the Hammonds, to get something straight.”
“You’re driving there?”
“Yes.”
“Be careful. The ice . . .”
“I know.”
“I have to get into that bath.” She turned and walked into the bathroom. He followed her to the door.
“Maddie, you borrowed one of the Jeeps, followed a GPS to some dirt road in the middle of nowhere, stared at an old wrecked house, saw no one, then drove back here in the fog, freezing to death. That’s it? That’s what you did this morning?”
“Are you interrogating me?”
That’s exactly what he was doing, he thought. It was a bad habit, triggered by worry.
She started closing the door. He stopped her with a question. “Does all this have something to do with that kid who drowned?”
“All what?”
“All this. This weirdness. This sightseeing trip. That dirt road.”
“David, I really do want to take my bath.”
“What’s the big secret? I asked you if it has something to do with the kid who drowned. How did he drown, anyway?”
“He fell through the ice.”
“You knew him?”
“Yes. There weren’t many kids up here my age, not in the winter, anyway.”
“Are any of them still here?”
“Thirty years later? I have no idea. I doubt I’d recognize any of them if they were.”
He caught himself nodding understandingly—another ingrained interrogation technique, designed to create the impression of agreement, even empathy. He stopped it immediately, embarrassed by the essential dishonesty of the gesture. Keeping his behavior as a detective and his behavior as a husband separate seemed to require endless vigilance. He tried one more question as she was easing the door shut.
“How did he fall through the ice?”
She held the door a few inches ajar. “He raced his motorcycle out onto the frozen lake. The ice cracked.”
“How old was he?”
“He told everyone he was sixteen. I heard later that he was barely fifteen.”
“Who was there when it happened?”
“Just his girlfriend.”
“How well did you know him?�
�
“Not that well.” A sad smile appeared and disappeared.
HER STORY LEFT HIM FEELING UNCOMFORTABLE AND DISTRACTED ON his drive to the chalet. Halfway there a large gray animal darted across the foggy road ahead of him. He jammed on the brakes as it bounded into the darkness of the pine woods and disappeared.
When he arrived it was Jane who came to the door. She greeted him with a high-anxiety smile. “David? Is something wrong?”
“May I come in?”
“Of course.” She stepped back, motioning him into the entry area.
“Is Richard here?”
“He’s talking a nap. Is there something I can help you with?”
“It might be better if I could speak to both of you.”
“If you feel it’s important.” She hesitated for a moment, then went to get Richard.
She returned a minute later and led Gurney to a seat by the hearth. She perched nervously on the arm of a nearby chair and tugged at a strand of hair by her ear. “Richard will be out in a moment. Has something come up?”
“A couple of questions.”
“Such as?”
Before Gurney could answer, Richard entered the room and took a chair. He smiled a bland therapist’s smile.
Gurney decided to get right to the point. “Fenton came to see me this morning. He told me something that surprised me.”
Jane frowned. “I wouldn’t trust anything that man said.”
Gurney addressed Hammond. “Fenton told me you’re in line for a huge inheritance.”
He showed no reaction.
“Is it true?” asked Gurney.
“Yes, it’s true.”
Anticipating the obvious question, Jane spoke up. “I didn’t mention it because I was afraid it would give you the wrong impression.”
“How?”
“You’re used to dealing with criminals—people who do terrible things for financial gain. I was afraid that Ethan’s will would convey the opposite of what it really meant.”
“The opposite?”
“Because of the crazy things Fenton has been saying, I was afraid you might see it as something Richard had hypnotized Ethan into doing—even though that’s impossible. It was totally Ethan’s idea—a nudge to Peyton to straighten out his life.”