Beneath the Ashes

by Dea Poirier

  My heart pounds with excitement at the prospect of bringing in Munroe. We may not be able to hold him for long, but this’ll keep the hospital safe for a few days. And who knows what he’ll say once he realizes we have his ID card. After climbing into a Camden squad car, Sergeant Pelletier and I head to the rear of the hospital with David. He brings Dr. Munroe out back. We’ve at least got the decency to arrest him in the parking lot behind the building, instead of dragging him out of the hospital. Austin hangs back at my Mustang.

  Before we’re able to read him his rights, the back door flies open, and Vera barrels through the door. She’s got on a dress that hugs her thighs with a cardigan pulled over the top, secured to her throat. Rage simmers behind her eyes, and her long red nails look like talons as she puts her hands on her hips. Her eyes narrow on me, and her brows pinch together in the center.

  “What are you doing?” She snaps each word at me like they’re separate sentences.

  I take a step forward, ready to verbally put Vera in her place, but Sergeant Pelletier steps in before I can. He explains that we’re bringing in Dr. Munroe for questioning.

  “You can’t do this,” she seethes. “He didn’t kill anyone.” Her voice takes on a shrill quality, and I can tell that she’s on the verge of shrieking at us.

  “Actually, we can. You can continue to make a scene if you would like, but we’re taking him out of here for now,” I say, my words clipped.

  Sergeant Pelletier nods at me, indicating for me to get Dr. Munroe in the car. He’s positioned himself between me and Vera, which I realize is likely for the best. There’s a predatory look on Vera’s face that tells me she might be weighing her options, trying to determine if she should interfere. She starts berating Sergeant Pelletier, yelling that we can’t take a doctor who’s still on shift, as I slide into the car. I wait a few minutes for Vera to calm down, and then Sergeant Pelletier and I catch up before he heads to his squad car.

  Austin and I drive back to the station, a few minutes behind Sergeant Pelletier. When we spoke at the hospital, he tried to give me an out and have his officers do the questioning—but this is as much my case as it is theirs, and I intend on being involved with it every step of the way.

  The tires crunch as we turn into the parking lot. Sergeant Pelletier pulls Dr. Munroe out of the car in front of us. I drive in beside them, shut the car off, and follow them inside. This late the station is mostly abandoned. The scent of coffee hangs in the air, along with the tangy sweetness of doughnuts. As we walk back to the interrogation room, Sergeant Pelletier has already dropped off Dr. Munroe, and he waves me aside.

  “I need to talk to you for a minute,” he says.

  “I’ll grab us some coffee,” Austin offers, obviously understanding that the sergeant wants to speak to me alone.

  Once Austin is out of earshot, Sergeant Pelletier turns to face me fully. “Are you okay with Austin being in there for this? I don’t want her to interfere with the questioning.”

  I appreciate his concern. But Austin has no problem with sitting back while I take the lead, which is exactly what I need. “I’d like her to sit in with me. It’ll help teach her the questions to ask.” That’s the whole point of all this anyway, to get her trained up so that one day she could be a detective. If she doesn’t sit in on questionings, she’s not going to know how to conduct them. There’s plenty of shit you can learn about from books, but interrogating a suspect, that’s something you’ve got to sink your teeth into. There’s so much to be learned from body language and tells, things you can only learn by doing, seeing.

  He motions toward the interrogation room. “I’ll be behind the glass if you need me. The DA is coming here to watch part of it as well.” That strikes me as odd. It seems too early to involve the DA in this investigation. We’d barely have enough to hold him if he lawyered up right now and pushed the DNA test.

  “Do we really want to have her come all the way out here before we know more?”

  “She’s seen a lot about the case in the media. They’re really running with the story. It’s everywhere. There’s a lot of pressure to get this wrapped up.”

  “If there’s that much pressure, can’t they task someone with keeping an eye on these girls after they’re being released?” My tone is harsher than it needs to be. But considering how Vera’s acted so far, I feel like the hospital is complicit. If you ask me, it doesn’t seem like they give a damn about stopping the murders. Hell, I’m sure if Vera could get away with it, she wouldn’t help a damn bit. She barely helps as it is.

  He nods. “We’re trying to work with them to get a better system in place. But Mrs. McConnel is resistant. With hospital confidentiality, they see some problems with putting tails on patients who are released.”

  Frustration ripples through me, and I clench my fists against it. “I’m sure if they made it clear to the patients why officers needed to keep an eye on them, they would agree to have our assistance.”

  “Believe me, I know.”

  “They should be doing everything in their power to keep their patients safe.”

  He nods again. “That they should. But if he’s our guy, we don’t need to worry about it. We can put a stop to it now.” He glances toward the interrogation room. “Get in there and see what you can find out.”

  Austin stands outside the door holding two mugs of coffee. I appraise them. One is a Patriots mug; the other has a picture of a squad of officers from a comedy TV show. “Which do you want?” she asks.

  I reach toward the squad cup.

  “It’s clean, I promise. I wasn’t sure how you take it, though.”

  “Black is fine, thanks,” I say as I wrap my hand around the mug, the warmth bleeding into my palm through the ceramic. Though I normally take it with cream, the coffee in the station is watery enough without it. “You ready?” I motion toward the door.

  Her eyes gleam. “I thought you two were going to lock me out of the questioning,” she says, glancing toward Sergeant Pelletier’s office.

  “Nope. You’re sitting in.”

  Footsteps behind us draw my attention before we can head into the interrogation room. I turn to find Clint standing behind me. He glances between Austin and me. “I called the hospital like you asked,” he says, looking down at a legal pad in his hands.

  “What’d you find out?” Austin asks.

  “They don’t have any employees currently named Trystan. They did have one a year or so ago, but he moved out of state. They’re not sure where he went.”

  “Thank you, Clint.”

  “Let me know if you need anything else,” he says before he turns.

  “What do you make of the name?” Austin asks.

  “I don’t know if she was mistaken or if we have the wrong guy. But we’ve got to talk to Dr. Munroe to find out,” I say. It’s easy enough to mix up names. It’s also possible Dr. Munroe could have used a fake name. I turn my attention back to the interrogation. There’s only one way to find out what his level of involvement was.

  I throw open the door, and Austin trails in after me. Dr. Munroe leans back in his chair, his hair slicked back from the slope of his forehead. Under any other circumstances, Dr. Munroe would be a gorgeous specimen of a man, but with that charm, his demeanor, he may as well have sociopath tattooed on his forehead. He glances up at me through his lashes and smiles, the kind of grin that has no place in an interrogation room. Like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

  Austin catches my eye as she takes a seat. She worries her bottom lip with her teeth. It tells me that she’s not entirely comfortable with this. But she’ll get used to it; she’ll have to. I was nervous during my first interrogations too. I sit in the metal chair across from Dr. Munroe. When my gaze settles on him, he raises a brow at me in a gesture that almost looks like a challenge.

  “So, Dr. Munroe, do you know why you’re here?” I ask before taking a sip of my coffee.

  “Please, call me Ian.” He smiles. “And yes, I would imagine it’s because
you think I killed those girls.”

  It strikes me as odd that he would bring this up so willingly—especially so early in the conversation. “Yes, you see, I’m having some trouble with the details. So I was hoping you could help me fill in some of the blanks. You worked with all three patients. All died shortly after leaving your care. You were noted to have had two of the patients stay longer than needed given their conditions. And one nurse has informed me that you frequently gave female patients exams that they didn’t need.”

  “To be fair, a nurse is not a doctor. What exams a patient does or does not need is really my call.”

  I note that he does not dispute any of the other facts. “Yes, that it is. But can you explain to me why a patient in the hospital for a tonsillectomy would need a pelvic exam?” The last time I asked him about the pelvic exams, he denied them. Now it seems like he’s admitting they did happen.

  His brows come together, and he cocks his head slightly. “I didn’t give any of them a pelvic exam. Did you see that in their charts?”

  It wasn’t in the chart; that was information from Nurse Jordan. Though if he did give an exam that wasn’t needed, I’m sure he wouldn’t have listed it in the chart. “A nurse informed me.”

  He leans toward the table, his eyes leveling with mine. “You can’t just take their word over mine. Some of them just don’t like me.”

  “And why is that?” I ask. I’ve got the sense from Dr. Munroe that he likes to talk, and I’m going to exploit that for as long as I can.

  “They’re always making up complaints about me. It never makes any sense. They just don’t like that I’m not from here. Mainers only trust Mainers.”

  He’s not wrong there. Just like people from Vinalhaven don’t trust mainlanders. Having a bunch of people at the hospital dislike him doesn’t make him automatically guilty of murder.

  “Dr. Munroe, did you see Melanie, Asha, or Jessica outside of the hospital after they were released?”

  He leans back and crosses his arms, which is the first sign of combativeness he’s shown. Before now, he’s seemed relaxed, open. Crossing his arms, though, that shows me that we’re going down a path that he doesn’t want to follow.

  “I could have seen them at a grocery store or something. We live in the same town, for Christ’s sake. It’s not like I sought them out. I see many of my patients after they’re released.”

  “Where do you do your grocery shopping?” I ask.

  He glances away, his shoulders tight, as if he didn’t expect me to ask any follow-up questions, like I’d swallow a spoonful of his bullshit and agree that it was honey. “It depends on what I need.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Austin turn to look at me. It’s clear from the expression on Munroe’s face that he’s noticed this too. He clears his throat. He finally uncrosses his arms and leans forward, muscular arms propped on the table. “Sometimes Hannaford Supermarket, Megunticook Market; usually Market Basket.”

  “I see. I’ll take a look at those, then, to see if you might have run into any of the victims there,” I bluff. I have no desire to look at grocery store security tapes. I’m sure that he or someone else coaxed these girls to a motel, and that had to be done at a location that wasn’t the hospital, but I don’t believe that it was a grocery store either. How many teenagers are really doing the grocery shopping alone? No, whoever is after these girls would want them away from their parents.

  “Can you tell me where you were the evening of February twenty-first?” I ask.

  “I was at work.”

  “And can anyone verify that?”

  His mouth twitches. “I’m sure the nurses can verify that I was there and that my key card was swiped to enter the building at the start of my shift.”

  “What can corroborate that you were there the entire shift and did not leave the premises?”

  “If I left the premises, I’d have to scan my card to come back.”

  “So you scan your card every time you leave and return to the hospital?” I ask.

  His eyes tighten, his glare so sharp I’m sure it could cut paper. “No, not every time. Sometimes I walk in behind another doctor.”

  “I see. I could ask David for the security footage.”

  “The cameras on the back door aren’t working. I usually use that door.”

  How convenient. Why has he been concerning himself about which security cameras are and are not working? “Again, are there any staff members who could give you an alibi for February twenty-fifth or twenty-sixth?”

  For a long moment, he’s silent, as if weighing his options. His lips press together, and I half expect him to start chewing them. “I don’t think anyone could vouch for me during those times. I was sleeping.” This old song and dance again?

  We go around in circles, Dr. Munroe trying to tell me that someone let him in or that he followed someone into the building. No matter what I say, he’s got an instant answer. But I can’t help but notice the red creeping up from his collar, the sweat beaded on his forehead.

  “Like I said,” he says for what has to be the fifth time. “One of the nurses let me into the bunk room.”

  I ask, “And who was that, exactly?” I hold my pen against my notepad, as if dying to write down this mysterious person’s name. But we both know he’s lying. The air is thick with it. His fists clench on top of the table, his knuckles going white. No one saw him go in there, because he wasn’t in there. His key card points to him being at the motel, so if he wasn’t out murdering these girls, he’s got to give more to go on. Right now, every sign is indicating he did this. But what I can’t come up with is motive. Sure, this guy seems like a dick who hunts pussy like it’s going out of style, but I’m sure plenty of women are more than happy to be his prey.

  “I’m done talking. I want a lawyer,” he says, crossing his arms.

  I put my pen down and shove up from the seat, Austin rising as I do. When we leave the room, Sergeant Pelletier approaches the door. “I’ve got this,” he says. “Take the night off. I’m going to get his lawyer in here and see what we can work out.”

  “I’d really like to help with that.”

  “No, really, go. Actually, take a long weekend. You and Austin have been working this all hours. I’ll take it from here. I’ll call you if we get anywhere with it. Maybe if we keep him locked up, he’ll start to feel more like talking. If he does, I’ll call you in.”

  If that’s how he wants to play this, I’ve got to let him do it. Frustration ripples through me. I hate feeling like my case is being taken from me. But at the same time, I can’t help the relief I feel that we might have our guy. I say my goodbyes to Austin before heading out of the station. With my stuff in hand, I walk to my Mustang and drive back down Route 1 toward Rockport. From there, I can take the ferry to Vinalhaven. Gray mist rolls in from the bay, crawling across the twisting road in front of me like blood seeping from a wound. My mind spirals back to what the reporter said to me, her words leaching into my mind as I drive. Noah’s father is dead, and he didn’t tell me. Is it true? I need to find out. And that’s exactly what I intend to do.

  After I pull onto the ferry, I climb onto the deck, letting the cold air envelop me. I retrieve my phone from my jacket as the boat begins to chug across the bay. My hands trembling, I open Google and tap on the bar. Carefully, I type in Theo Washington Died and hit enter with my thumb. The connection is spotty on the water; the wheel spins and spins as it tries to pull up the results. I hold my breath as the page starts to load, and there it is, page after page of news results.

  Theo Washington, Founder of Raynor Energies, Has Passed Away

  Former Owner of Raynor Energies Dead from Cancer

  Ding Dong, the Coal Baron Is Dead

  I scroll through, my eyes poring over the results. I tap on the first one. My heart tightens in my chest, as if someone is gripping it hard. A war of emotions rages inside me.

  After a two-year fight with thyroid cancer, the founder of Raynor Energies
, Theodore Isiah Washington, has succumbed to his illness surrounded by family. He is survived by his wife of 39 years, Celia Elizabeth (Grover) Washington, and his sons, Graham Washington, Noah Washington, Lucas Washington, and Cameron Washington.

  I shoot him a text, knowing I can’t call him yet because I’ve only got a bar of service.

  How are you doing?

  The ferry is approaching the island, the small mass growing out of the cloud of mist. Vinalhaven is a tiny island in the middle of Penobscot Bay. It’s got about twenty-four miles of land total, or at least that’s what they proudly told us while I was in school. I was unfortunate enough to grow up on an island my ancestors founded, none of their descendants brave enough to leave the heap of land they were spawned on, just like the lobsters that sustain most of the economy now. The town is a cluster of old, sprawling homes atop the rocky island and thousands upon thousands of pine trees. It’s beautiful in its own way, but I’m far too jaded by this place, the town that took my sister from me.

  Fog parts ahead of us, displaying the outstretched arms of the marina. This time of year it’s packed to the gills with boats. Many of the tourists who summer on the island leave the boats here all winter, where they bob along, covered just like the furniture in the houses the tourists also abandon. They’re like flocks of moths, fluttering around whatever place is the warmest.

  The ferry docks, and I climb back into my Mustang before pulling it off the boat. I turn right down Main Street, then follow it through the arteries of the island toward the small downtown, past the police department I worked for last year, the bakery, the post office, a few restaurants, a hotel, and several more small restaurants, and finally reach my rental. By the time I unlock the door, I’ve got a reply from Noah.

  Everything’s fine. How’s your case?

  Fine?

  I unlock the door and shove inside, cold sweeping into the stale house with me. With my teeth, I peel off my gloves, and then I dial his number as confusion assaults me. Does he not know? The phone rings several times before he picks up.