by Dea Poirier
“Did anything about her appearance stick out at you? Did she look like she was ready to go out?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No, she was in her pajamas. She didn’t have any makeup on. Nothing that I would have expected to mean that she was going out. She knew she shouldn’t be going out anyway.” She sniffles and stares down at her hands.
“Why exactly shouldn’t she have been going out?”
“She just got out of the hospital.” Her eyes are wide as she says this, as if we should have known.
Before I can ask or say anything else, James chimes in. “Asha had her tonsils out about six weeks ago. Then she had some complications and was in the hospital for a week. She got out about a week and a half ago. But she was told that she needed to be careful about exposure to germs because her immune system is”—he stops and clears his throat—“I mean, was still on the weaker side.”
She was in the hospital as well? That’s the strongest lead we have so far on both of these women.
“Do you remember what doctor was treating her?”
“Doctor Munroe, I think,” Yvette says, the lines around her mouth deepening with her concentration.
An electric spark crackles up my spine. Both women saw Dr. Munroe? That’s something I plan to look into. But I need to dig deeper to see if there are any other patterns or if this doctor is it.
“Was Asha dating anyone?” I ask.
Both James and Yvette say no at the same time.
“Did she ever sneak out before that you’re aware of?” I ask.
Neither parent has a quick answer this time. Finally, Asha’s father speaks as he rubs at the back of his neck. “She was never caught sneaking out, but yes, we suspected it before,” James says.
“Why’s that?” I ask.
“There were times that we heard something strange outside the house, and we thought that it might have been her sneaking back in. But we never caught her in the act,” Yvette explains before she takes a slow sip of her tea. Steam rises from the cup when she sets it back down.
We finish up with Asha’s parents, going over the school she attended, her extracurricular activities, and the names of her friends and a couple of girls she had trouble with at the coffee shop she worked at. We gather her cell phone and her other devices and then head out of the home. Asha’s parents inform me that her best friend lives a few houses down. Before heading to the hospital, I want to speak to this friend.
We step out of the residence, and I survey the street until my eyes settle on the house Asha’s parents described. Tessa Parsons lives three houses down in a dutch colonial. The siding is a salmon color, making the teal shutters stand out. The colors are bold, eccentric, which really makes me wonder about the occupants.
Metalwork flowers are stuck among the snow-covered flower beds. And I’m not sure if the Parsons family is being optimistic about the upcoming spring or if they’ve left them out all winter. I climb the front steps and press the doorbell. It takes a few minutes for anyone to answer. The door cracks open, and a woman in her forties with a wide face and large brown eyes appraises me, then Austin.
“Is everything okay?” she stammers.
“I was hoping we could speak with your daughter, Tessa. Is she home?”
The woman cocks her head, her shoulder-length blonde hair swishing. “What did Tessa do?”
“Nothing, ma’am. I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but her friend Asha passed away,” I say as delicately as I can.
Her hand goes to her throat, her long bony fingers lingering there as her chestnut eyes take in my face. Her mouth drops open, and she stands there, her mouth gaping like a fish. Silence thickens around us before she finally says, “Oh my God. No, no one told us.” She stays silent, her eyes unfocused, before finally she seems to snap back to reality. She ushers us inside. “What happened to her?”
We follow her through the foyer and into the living room. It’s a mess. Laundry is in piles, strewed all over the furniture. We caught her in the middle of folding it. She clears away piles on the couch and indicates for us both to take a seat.
“We’re still investigating what happened to Asha, and we were hoping your daughter could help with some of the questions we have.”
“Could she be in trouble?” she asks, glancing toward the ceiling, where I imagine Tessa’s room is.
Why does she keep thinking that Tessa is in trouble? I feel like if Tessa had been in trouble with the police before, Austin would have mentioned it before we arrived.
“No, ma’am, we just want to ask her some questions about Asha,” Austin says from beside me, the first words she’s spoken.
“I’ll grab her.”
When she disappears, Austin and I share a look. Low voices filter down from upstairs, but they’re too quiet to make out what’s being said. A few minutes later, Tessa strolls into the room, and I get an inkling of why her mother thinks that she’s trouble. Tessa’s got short black hair, accompanied with black lipstick, thick eyeliner, and an assortment of facial piercings. She’s got on a Ramones T-shirt, the same shirt I’ve seen Noah wear on a few occasions. Tessa stands across from the couch, eyeing Austin and me with her arms crossed.
“Tessa, would you like to take a seat? I was hoping we could talk to you for a few minutes.”
I glance to her mother, unsure whether she told Tessa what happened to her friend. But the woman gives me a little shake of her head. She slips into the kitchen, far enough that her daughter won’t see her, but I’m sure she’ll be lingering close enough to hear our conversation.
“Tess, my name is Tess.”
“Sorry, Tess,” I say, hoping we can get past her teenage angst for just a few minutes so I can find out more about Asha.
“Why are you here?” she asks, looking at Austin.
“We’re here to talk to you about Asha. I don’t know if you heard, but she passed away last night. I’m very sorry.”
For a moment, she’s completely silent. Her jaw is slack, as if she’s grasping for words but they’re escaping her. The shock in her eyes is palpable, and in a flash, it’s replaced with pleading.
“She can’t be,” she says, and her jaw twitches, her eyes going glassy.
“I’m sorry, but she is.” This is the part I wish I could skip. Breaking the news to someone that a person not only died but was murdered—it’s enough to break my own heart sometimes. Because I know exactly how this feels. I know what it is to have a person ripped away from your life. There are words that can alter the paths of our lives, and I am well aware that every syllable I utter now could bring devastation. I want to give these people what it took me twenty years to get: closure.
“What happened?” Her voice cracks, and she clenches her fists at her sides. A single tear rolls down her cheek, and an echo of pain whispers through me—a memory of my own loss. Red creeps up her neck, turning her pale face splotchy.
“That’s what we were hoping you could help us find out.”
She’s silent for so long I have to wonder if she’s going to help. But then something on her face shifts. She stiffens, as if all the grief is leaching out of her, replaced with determination. “What do you want to know?”
“Did Asha tell you where she was headed last night?”
She shakes her head and crosses her arms. “No, where did she go?”
“It appears she met someone at the Millay Inn. Would you say that’s out of character for her?”
Her eyes bulge, not hiding an ounce of her surprise. “Um, yeah. As far as I know, she’s never been there. Why would she even go there?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.” I make note of her answer. “How long have you two been friends?”
“Since fifth grade. And we’ve dated on and off for a couple years.”
I arch an eyebrow at that. Asha’s parents didn’t say anything to that effect. Did they not know?
“I’m gay. She’s bi,” she explains. “Right now, we’ve been off for six months. She’s still
my best friend, though.” Her face crumples, and then she chokes out, “Was.”
I give her a minute to compose herself, but Austin clears her throat before I can jump back in. “To your knowledge, was she seeing anyone else? Someone she might have been inclined to meet at that motel?” Austin asks, putting it as delicately as possible.
“If she was, she didn’t tell me about it.” Tessa sniffles.
“Would she normally tell you something like that?” Austin asks.
“She’s never kept it from me before. We had no secrets. There was no jealousy if we weren’t together. I wasn’t going to trap her in a relationship with me if she wanted to see other people.” Her chin lifts with the words, a confidence held in them that is far beyond her years.
“Did you know anything about Asha sneaking out of the house at night?”
“Yeah, she snuck out sometimes.”
“And where would she go?”
“Usually over here. Sometimes we’d hit a concert or go smoke pot.”
I’m surprised she’s so forthcoming. Most teens wouldn’t readily give this kind of information—not to the cops, anyway.
“Would it be unusual for her to sneak out and not take you or tell you?”
Her eyes dart to the window, and I get the impression she’s going to lie or withhold something from me. It’s the first time she’s really looked away since she came down.
“I’m not sure. Maybe.”
“Is there anything else you can think of that might be of help to us?”
She opens her mouth like she’s going to say something, then clamps it shut before shaking her head. There’s a gleam in her eyes, like there’s more waiting to pour out of her. But something is holding her back. Is it loyalty to her friend? Or is she afraid that her mother might hear?
I slip her my card, hoping that if her mother isn’t listening, she’ll change her mind about bottling up whatever she’s withholding. “If you think of anything else, please call me. Anything you tell me will be between us.”
“I will,” she says before we say our goodbyes.
After speaking to Tess, the only similarities I’ve been able to find between the two victims are their ages, their appearances, and the fact that they were both in the hospital. As we climb back into my Mustang, I call Sergeant Pelletier and give him an update before our next stop—Pen Bay Medical Center.
On the way, Austin and I talk through the details on the case we have so far, the similarities. Both victims died at the same motel within two weeks of being released from the hospital; both had the same doctor. That’s a pretty clear sign to me what direction we should be heading. We pass through Camden proper, streets lined with colonial, Victorian, and cape cod–style homes. After a few miles, the pine trees give way to the medical center.
We reach the front desk, and I flash my badge and wait for the nurse to get David for me after I briefly tell her the reason for my visit. If this shit keeps up, it seems David and I are going to get real cozy. The idea makes my stomach turn. I’m sure he’d love that.
The loud clicking of stilettos on tile floor draws my attention. A tall, slender woman in a flowy blouse and a pencil skirt glides toward me on shoes I couldn’t even fathom walking in. She looks familiar with her sleek brown hair and slight features. I scrutinize her, trying to discern where I know her from, but it doesn’t come to me.
She offers me a thin smile as she approaches. “Detective Calderwood?”
I take a step toward her and nod.
“I’m Vera McConnel, the CEO of the hospital. Do you mind if we go have a chat in my office?” she asks, and my brows furrow. She doesn’t offer her hand, and I take note of that. I’m not welcome here, not wanted. Her words tell me it’s not so much a question, and my assumption is if I don’t go with her, I won’t be speaking with David anytime soon.
We weave through the stark white halls. It’s quiet on this side of the building, only the sound of our shoes echoing after us. Finally, we reach Vera’s austere office. The walls are institution gray, along with the desk. The only other color in the room is her black office chair and monitors. Most offices we passed were pretty well decorated, touches of personality, family, something. This room is as sterile as a surgical gallery. There isn’t a single picture or knickknack. It rubs me the wrong way. A separation between work and personal life is one thing; this is another.
“Mrs. McConnel,” I say as we follow her into the office. I take a seat, and Austin sits next to me. “We’re investigating a death; the decedent was a patient at this hospital. I’m sure you heard that another previous patient, Melanie Thomlinson, was found dead a few days ago.”
She grimaces, and her eyes darken. “Yeah, my husband, Aidan, the director of the hospital, told me about it.” She puts an emphasis on the word husband, like it’s a word she’s not happy with. But I can’t tell if it’s just having a husband that bothers her or if it’s the one she’s got.
“How long have you been CEO here?” I ask, glancing again at the unadorned office.
“Three years, right after we moved here from Georgia,” she explains. “My husband and I grew up there.” She puts the same strange emphasis on the word husband.
I decide it’s probably best to avoid asking more questions that might lead her to talk about her husband. “Why did you want to speak to me?” I ask, since she’s not coming out with it.
“I want to make sure that the information about both of these girls being patients here stays out of the media. I don’t need that kind of attention on my facility,” she says as she leans back in the office chair, her hands folded on top of the desk.
Austin and I glance at each other. I’m so taken aback by what she’s said that I need a long moment to process it.
“I want to be sure that I understand correctly—your concern isn’t for your patients but keeping your facility out of the media in connection with these homicides?”
“I am concerned about our current patients. What happens to patients after they leave this facility, that’s not my problem. It’s tragic, really.” She waves a hand through the air as if dismissing the notion. Her words don’t hold even an ounce of feeling. “But it’s not the fault of anyone here that they died. I can’t have that negatively impact our brand.”
Frustration ripples through me, and my fingernails cut half moons into my palms as I fight the desire to strangle her. How can she be so callous? “I can’t promise that the connection between them and the hospital will stay out of the media. There were reporters all over the motel; someone could have followed us here. I wouldn’t put it past them,” I say, then straighten up in my seat. “Now can we discuss the patients?”
She inclines her head, as if graciously giving me leeway to continue.
“What can you tell me about Asha Weber?” I ask. If she’s going to haul me into her office, she’s going to answer some questions.
Her eyes tighten, and she stiffens in her chair. After a few moments, she turns her attention to her computer and begins to type. I wait for her to scroll and click several times, but as she remains silent, her mouth a thin line, my patience begins to run short.
When she doesn’t speak, I ask, “How long was she here?” I assume maybe if I’m more specific in my questioning, I’ll get an answer.
Her eyes narrow on the screen. “She was here a little over a week. I’m not sure what she was being treated for,” she says, not bothering to look up any of the details for me. “But the last doctor she saw was Doctor Munroe.”
That confirms it. Dr. Munroe really did see both patients before their deaths, then. “I’d like to speak to Dr. Munroe today,” I say, pulling out my notepad to scribble down the very little I have so far.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she says, giving me an icy look.
I raise a brow at that. “You don’t think it’s a good idea for me to ask the doctor questions about the second patient who has died after leaving this hospital in under a week?” Is she aware of details and t
rying to cover them up?
She shifts in her seat. “No, I don’t.”
I open my mouth to argue that point. But she’s made her stance pretty clear. If she won’t allow me to see Dr. Munroe, I’ll move on to other questioning.
“Have all of your staff had background checks performed?”
She crosses her arms. “That’d be a question for the HR department. But I expect no, not all.”
“As long as patients are dying after leaving this hospital, that’s where your concern should be,” I say, my voice firm, frustration seeping into every word. How she could care about her bottom line and not the people being murdered outside is beyond me.
Vera leans back in her chair and swivels left to right, her elbows propped on the armrests, her fingers steepled against one another over her lap. “From where I’m sitting, it doesn’t look to me like you have a real reason to be looking inside this hospital. Law enforcement traipsing all over this facility, drawing media attention that we don’t need—it all reflects poorly on us. These two girls both being patients at this hospital means less than nothing. Do you have any idea how many patients walk through our doors that are not murdered? It’s the only piece of evidence you have, so you’re grasping at straws, aren’t you?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose as frustration roars inside me. She can’t be serious. I’ve heard that CEOs are ruthless, but this is something else.
“You realize this could be construed as obstruction of justice, correct?”
She lets out a low, humorless laugh. “Do I need to get the hospital lawyer in here?” Her hand twitches toward the phone, and I know my bluff isn’t going to work. I’d need actual evidence of some wrongdoing to pursue obstruction charges against her. At best, she’s being a nuisance; at worst, I could seek a court order to force her to comply with the investigation. Doing so would bring plenty of unwanted attention to this hospital—though it would also cost me time. Time I don’t have. Before I threaten her with that course of action, I want to try again.
“It may not be a coincidence that those victims were patients at this hospital. You could have a budding serial killer in this building. I’m not going to drop this investigation because it might look bad for your hospital. I need to talk to the nurses that treated her, and then Dr. Munroe. Either you can point me in the right direction, or I may be forced to inform the media that patients here are dying and the hospital is not cooperating with the investigation.”