by Dea Poirier
“Let me know if anything else pops up.”
“I will.”
As soon as I finish with Kenneth, I go straight for Austin’s desk. When she sees me walking over, she grabs her coat and starts to pull it on. A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. Austin is already starting to read me. That’s a good sign. Those are the instincts she needs to hone and build on if she wants to succeed in this line of work.
“Where are we headed?” she asks, her eyes gleaming, as if she can’t wait for whatever is next. God, I miss having that kind of enthusiasm. Now I know if I keep digging, it’s likely not answers I’m going to find but another horror and another question. Some investigations drag you down dark paths from which you’re unsure if you can ever return, if you can ever be the same after they’re done. I used to think I was making the world a better place, but now I’m not sure that’s even possible.
“We’re going back to the hospital,” I say. “Munroe has an alibi.” We stroll out of the station as I explain the conversation that I had with Vera. She’s just as surprised by the revelations as I was.
“What are we going to do at the hospital?” she asks.
“We’re going to talk to the director. He may know something. One of the guys who broke into my hotel room worked at that hospital. Every victim has been there before their death. There’s something there, and we’ve got to find it.”
I pull out of the station parking lot and turn right on Route 1, heading south toward the medical center. As we drive, the gray sky roils above us, threatening more storms, more snow. We’ve reached the final stretch of winter, when you can feel the coming spring in your gut. I’m not sure if it’s my desire for the oppressive cold to stop or if the season is actually starting to shift. Around us the pine trees are tipped with ice, like metal points attached to spears. Beneath the trees there’s a patchwork of ice, snow, and mud. I follow the curve of the road ahead, passing houses and small shops, until finally civilization is swallowed again by nature. When the trees give way again, it’s the opening to the hospital. I turn in.
A long, winding driveway curves through the trees toward the building. As we get closer, I make out a half moon of vans collected in one of the far parking lots. News vans. Word must have broken that the victims thus far have been connected to the hospital. That’s not a bit that we planned on releasing to the media. Someone talked. There aren’t many people in the Camden office. But I’m going to have to speak to Sergeant Pelletier about fixing this leak.
“What are they doing here?” Austin asks when she notices them.
“I’m sure someone told them there was a story here,” I say under my breath as I pull into a spot next to the administrative building.
“Vultures,” she says as she throws her door open.
Halfway to the building, I hear Vera’s shrill voice. “Get these goddamn cameras out of here!” she yells, her arms waving toward the camera crews. From the looks of it, none of them are recording right now. I close the distance between myself and the scene. Several members of the camera crew move toward me as I approach. A small woman in a red blazer steps in front of me with a microphone.
“Detective, what can you tell me about the rumors that several teens who have been found dead in Camden have connections to this hospital?”
“I cannot comment on an ongoing investigation. However, we want to urge the public if they have seen anything suspicious or know anything about the victims to please reach out to Camden PD with the information.”
I push past the row of reporters toward Vera. “Vera, can I talk to you for a few minutes?” I ask, my volume well over that of her tirade, when I approach.
Her fists are clenched at her sides, jaw locked and eyes shuttered, as she swivels to face me. She must have encountered the mass of media on her way back into the hospital after she left the Camden Police Department. I’m surprised she managed to make it back to the hospital before I did. It must have taken longer to catch up with Sergeant Pelletier than I realized. I glance to my left, noticing Austin is trailing behind me a few feet, as if trying to stay out of this woman’s warpath.
“Detective.” Vera practically hisses the word, all her composure from this morning melted away. I stride toward the building, not waiting for her. I know she’ll follow, if only to escape the cameras.
Her heels click after me. I wait for her just inside the door. Austin follows her, eyeing her carefully.
“You said—” Vera starts as soon as the door closes.
“I think your office would be a better location for this conversation,” I say, glancing down the hall at the gathered group of nurses staring at us.
“This is my hospital. We’ll have this conversation wherever I see fit,” she says snidely. I half expect her to slam her foot into the ground for emphasis. She doesn’t. Instead she glares.
“We can do that if you’d prefer,” I say calmly.
Her eyes bore into me, a withering stare I’m sure is meant to unhinge me. I’m not sure what effect it has on those here, but this woman doesn’t scare me. She’s an inconvenience, a soulless bitch, but not frightening.
“As I was saying, you said you were going to help keep this quiet,” she says a little too loudly.
The gathering crowd of gawkers thrums at the end of the hall. Though I don’t turn to look at them, the heat of their gazes crawls across my skin, making the flesh there burn.
“I said no such thing. Nor did Sergeant Pelletier. If proper security measures had been put in place—”
She cuts me off, her hand flying up so quickly I take a step back, thinking she intends to hit me.
“Vera, please,” a man says from the end of the hall as he strides toward us. His voice is familiar. I think this is Aidan, but I’m not certain. I spoke with Aidan last year while investigating a case back in Vinalhaven. The man has broad shoulders and short reddish-brown hair. And I’d guess he’s in his late forties or early fifties. His features are striking, with sharp cheekbones and a square jaw. A heavy brow shadows his eyes, the fluorescent light above making the effect even more arresting.
“Don’t you start with me, Aidan,” she spits. Her eyes settle on me again, shuddering with rage. Her fists ball at her sides. “Get out of this hospital.”
I place a hand on one of my hips and set my stance wide, hoping that my body language communicates that I don’t plan to move. If she wants to throw me out, she can try it. But instead, she walks down the hall, like she’s on a tear. Aidan doesn’t follow; instead he glances at me and Austin.
Nurse Jordan heads down the hall in my direction, cowering out of the way when Vera sweeps past. Her bright-green scrubs are far too cheery. She’s got her hair tucked away from her face. The nurse’s eyes are wide, her cheeks flushed pink. I should be relieved that Vera is gone, but I’m more concerned about what she’s going to do now.
“You both okay?” Jordan asks.
“Don’t worry about us.”
“She’s been like that the past few months.” She shakes her head. “Let me know if you need me to answer any more questions.”
I thank her before turning my attention back to Aidan. “Do you have a few minutes?” I ask.
He nods. “Come on. We can go talk in my office.”
To my surprise Aidan’s office is on the other side of the hospital. I’d imagined that it’d be right next to Vera’s. Aidan’s space is the polar opposite of his wife’s. His walls are painted a hunter green, and Red Sox memorabilia hang on the walls along with stuffed pheasant and ducks. Like most of the men in Maine, he’s clearly a hunter. His desk looks ornate, with carved legs, curled edges, and wood a shade of brown that looks like rich chocolate. I can imagine easily that some historical documents have been signed on its surface. And behind the desk he has several pictures of him and Vera on their wedding day.
“Lovely pictures,” I say, gesturing toward them.
He follows my gaze, and a shadow darkens his face. Sadness hangs on the edges of his smile. “Was the best day
of my life. I never thought I could love anyone the way I love that woman.” His accent is thick in his voice.
The words make my own recent heartbreak bubble to the surface. But I can’t let it. I grit my teeth as emotion threatens to crush me. My stomach sours under the weight of the turmoil, and I suck in a sharp breath through my nose.
“Where are you from originally?” I ask to distract myself.
“Georgia, the Atlanta area. That’s where Vera and I met.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right. She told me about that when I spoke with her the first time.”
“She did? I’m surprised she talked about me.”
“Why’s that?” I ask. Shouldn’t a wife talk about her husband? But I recall the scorn in her voice as she spoke of him. He must know about that. Does he also know about the affair? That knowledge burns in the back of my mind. And I want to tell him. Because I know what it’s like to be lied to. I would want to know.
He speaks again, pulling me from my train of thought. “She barely even talks to me anymore. I’m surprised she had anything to say about me.” He sighs and finally takes his eyes off the pictures to turn around. The leather chair behind his desk hisses as he takes a seat. I want to ask, but I can tell by his face that he’s not done speaking yet. It’s just taking him a while to get the words out. And I realize I can’t tell him. It isn’t my place. “For the past few months, she’s been distant. She blows up at all the nurses.” He shakes his head. “I just keep waiting for the divorce papers. I know they’re coming.”
“I’m very sorry,” I say, because I have no idea what else would help. But I’ve heard just about enough of his marital problems. I need to circle back to the case; otherwise I’ll say something I shouldn’t. “So this all started before the first homicide, then?”
He nods. “Yes, a few months ago.”
There are several questions I’m going to have to ask about his wife. Vera has given me a bad feeling since this all started. Do I think she did the killing? It’s not likely, but something in my gut tells me to keep going.
“Would you characterize your wife as a violent person?” I ask.
He looks up from the desk, his eyes wide. “Well, I . . . I . . .” He seems lost, words escaping him. “I’m not sure I know the answer to that question anymore. With how she’s acted lately, I can’t say that I would put it past her.”
“Has she ever tried to assault you?”
“She’s thrown things at me. But hit me? No. Never enough to do any real damage.”
“That can still be considered assault, Mr. McConnel,” I clarify. So many people think that women aren’t capable of abuse. But they are. Emotional and physical. “Have you ever feared for your life around her?”
He lets out a low chuckle and shakes his head. “No, nothing like that.”
“Does your wife have access to firearms?”
His eyes go wide at my words. “Well, yes. Most people who live here have guns.”
That fact I do know. It’s very common in Maine. But if she has violent tendencies and she’s been unstable, I would want him to take that into consideration.
“I would recommend that you give removing them from your home or securing them some thought.” Silence thickens between us for a beat, and I consider what I’ve got to ask next carefully. “Has your wife made you aware of our investigation into the homicides of three former patients from this hospital?”
He shakes his head. “She didn’t, no. But David told me about them.” He motions toward the window. “It’s also all over the news.”
They may be going through a rough patch right now, but it still seems odd to me that she wouldn’t mention the homicides to her husband, especially considering he’s the director of the hospital.
I rise from the chair, Austin standing beside me. “Please think about securing your weapons.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t need to do that. I know the old Vera is in there somewhere. Detective, I just want my wife back.”
“Well, for your sake, I hope you find her. Do you know of an employee by the name of Gary Ventura?” I ask.
His brows furrow, his face a mask. “I can’t say that I know him.”
“He was apparently a worker here at the hospital. He broke in to my hotel room, assaulted me, and ordered me to drop the homicide investigations and rule them suicides.”
He sits up straighter in his chair, and his eyes go wide. “Are you okay?”
I nod. “I’m fine. But it really makes me wonder why an employee of this hospital would show up at my hotel and tell me to drop the investigation. Especially since all the victims have been patients here.”
“So you think that whoever is killing these girls works here?”
“It’s a very distinct possibility,” I say. Though I would say it’s more than that: it’s not so much a possibility but a certainty at this point. “Your wife doesn’t seem to have any interest in helping us resolve this situation. Her concern is for the reputation of the hospital, not for the possible loss of life. So I ask that you please keep an eye open. If any employees are leaving the building at odd hours, not using their key cards to enter the building, please have David monitor it. Also, if there’s anyone on staff who’s trying to get access to patients who shouldn’t have it, that would be another red flag.”
He opens up a drawer in his desk and takes out a legal pad. I watch him write down everything that I’ve said. “I’ll speak to David right away so we can start keeping an eye on this. I’m sorry that my wife hasn’t been more helpful with this. But I can assure you I’ll do everything in my power to help,” he says before standing up and offering his hand to me.
I take his hand. “Thank you.”
“No, Detective, thank you for speaking with me and letting me know about all this. I had no idea.”
Austin and I finish up with Aidan and head back to the station. Snow falls gently from the rolling gray clouds as we walk to my Mustang. After a short drive through the empty streets, we roll to a stop in the Camden PD parking lot. Once inside, Austin walks to her desk, and I continue to my borrowed station. I jiggle the mouse and wait for the screen to pop back to life. I type Vera’s name into a search engine, then scroll through the pages of results about her.
This is Vera’s first job as a hospital CEO. Before this, she had high-ranking management positions at several different hospitals throughout the South. Her last was a hospital in Atlanta. I try a few cursory searches to see if there were any murders near the hospital while she worked there. But there are too many results, too many murders around that time, and well after she left. It’d be impossible to tie her to any of these.
Next, I search for Dr. Munroe, but there’s not a single blemish on his record. He’s only worked at small hospitals, none of which had any suspicious deaths near them. But I keep digging. I have to.
CHAPTER 12
With an extra-large coffee clutched in my hand, I head inside Camden PD. When I open the door, the scent of doughnuts is heavy in the air, the tang and the sugar coating my mouth. I take a sip of my coffee, breathing in the aroma, hoping to drown it out. It only works for a few seconds.
It’s Monday morning, and after Vera’s stunt yesterday, Munroe is off the suspect list. The investigation has hit a roadblock. And I’m not sure where else to go. We’ve got no evidence from the scene that wasn’t tainted by ashes and nothing on the victims that points us in any direction, and I don’t even know where they’re meeting up with this killer before going to a motel. Though I’ve been searching, reviewing the interviews Zane and Blake did with Jessica’s family, I can’t find anything solid that ties these victims together outside of the hospital.
Melanie and Jessica were both outdoorsy and liked to spend time in Bald Mountain Preserve on their ATVs. But thus far, Asha didn’t seem to have that kind of lifestyle. These girls weren’t friends that I can tell, not even on social media. They didn’t spend time together at school. Their parents never saw them together. The only things b
inding them are death and time in that hospital. But there are too many people in that hospital who interacted with each of these girls. Two of the junior officers have been working to see if any current employees have a criminal record, but no one has been flagged.
Inside the station, I walk by a receptionist’s desk and weave through the bull pen. I nod at Austin as I pass her desk, then Zane, Blake, Sasha, and Clint. My temporary station is at the far corner of the room, close to Sergeant Pelletier’s office. As I set down my coffee and take off my jacket, his voice cuts across the pen.
“Calderwood, in here, please,” he yells in a way that reminds me vaguely of a principal. I haven’t done anything wrong, but for some reason, my stomach shifts with unease.
I stride toward his office, gripping my coffee tighter than I need to. Sergeant Pelletier is hunched behind his desk, a blue button-up clashing with a split pea–colored tie. It makes me wonder if he got dressed in a rush. His face is flushed, stained by a spiderweb of red; it even manages to color the fleshy little ball at the end of his nose. He’s got a strange look on his face, one I haven’t seen before. He glances down at the desk in front of him, where his breakfast is laid out.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as I step inside and take a seat.
“Wrong?” he asks, then glances at his breakfast again. “They put too many jalapeños in my burrito. It’s kicking me in the face like I’m eating a damn firecracker.”
“Oh” is all I can manage to say.
“In about twenty minutes, Tegan Hartley is going to drop in to see you,” he says as he glances at his watch.
I don’t have any idea who that is. I haven’t heard the name before. “And she is?”
“She claims to be a friend of Jessica and Asha,” he explains.
“Where did you get her information from?” I ask. So far I haven’t found any overlapping friends between Jessica and Asha. It just seems strange if she was a friend to both victims that no one mentioned her.
“She called into the station and said she wanted to speak to an officer working on the case in person.”