Sand City Murders (51 page)

“Elaine… on the sculpture at Spooky Park?”

“Yes. Was it Mortimer? Did he take such a risk? Or was it his accomplice? It would be far easier for Mortimer to go to the past and kill her there. And why make such an obvious statement? The lingering question is, who did Mrs Lovely see?”

I had no reply and paused awkwardly. “What can I do?”

“Very little I fear.”

“I could check alibis…”

“An alibi might be quite meaningless in this case.” Fynn lightened his tone, “You might begin by looking at people’s shoes, if you have not already done so.”

“That’s exactly what I told Durbin.”

Fynn hunched forward and looked me in the eye. “All joking aside, there is a way to find this accomplice, but you won’t like the idea, I promise.”

“If it will help… what is it?”

“The asylum.”

“What about it?”

“You must go there.”

“Why?”

“I believe you will find records of… what’s the word...? An inmate… a name you will know, and a name that Mortimer has known for a long time.”

“I’m not following you exactly.”

“He has recruited his proteges from such places in the past, and it seems likely he has done so in this present.”

“What records?”

“Old files? Is there a basement, perhaps?”

“I don’t know, Fynn…” I was hesitant.

“Yes, it’s asking a great deal from you, I realize… but this maybe your most expedient course. I think it’s rather important to find Mortimer’s accomplice.”

“Can’t you just jump out of here?”

“It may well come to that. Though it’s a great inconvenience at the moment, especially when I am wearing handcuffs, no?” Fynn gave me a tired look. “And of course, my compass has been taken… For now it seems best that I stay where I am. If Mortimer is close and watching, or his agent, then they must be feeling a certain satisfaction right now. This will put their guard down somewhat.” Fynn sat back in his chair. “And so… have you found Roxy?”

“He’s safe and sound.”

“Good... And this is important information.”

“Why?”

“Mortimer has been sloppy and this may save us.”

“You mean the whole mimicked timeline thing?”

“Yes.”

“I’m getting kind of tripped up on that. Why would he want to kill Clara and Debra again?”

“The answer is obvious: Why am I sitting in prison today?” Fynn smiled. “It is quite clear now that this timeline only mimics the first. Mortimer’s little joke, eh? He has arranged all this, just to have me arrested. He does have a flair for the dramatic.”

“I’m not sure I’m getting this.”

“It’s difficult, but I’ve had some time to spare on the matter. We have Roxy and his collar. We have the key and the car.”

I nodded.

“Well, you must then see that Mortimer back-jumped to a time
after
I fixed these killings.”

“Why’s that?”

“If he traveled back to arrive just a week before I was there, we would not be having this conversation. If he had been more careful, if he went back to a time
before
I fixed things, there would be no collar, no Roxy and no car in the garage… For us, this timeline would be difficult to recognize, eh?”

“The past changing the past, changing the present?”

“If you must put it that way… What’s vexing to me however is why he would make such a mistake. Is he ignorant or unaware of certain facts? Is there a reason why he cannot travel to
before
I did the fixing?”

“You’re asking the wrong guy.”

Fynn shook his head. “Another thing to contemplate in my lonely hours of confinement.”

“Sorry. What else can I do?”

“You must contact my colleague in Amsterdam to see what has changed there... about the murders. I was unable to get through.”

“Does it make a difference what happened over there?”

“Perhaps not, but I’d like to know what I’m dealing with. A year ago it was only by chance that the report of a missing girl came across my desk. During that first investigation, I came upon similar cases, but I took little notice at first. When the pattern became apparent, only then did I realize Mortimer was hunting for my wife.”

“In Holland?”

“Yes, we lived there for a good many years.” Fynn tapped the table. “Naturally, I would like to know if all this has happened again.”

“Okay, who do I call? What’s his name? What’s the number, or his email?”

“I have no pencil, no paper. Can you write it down?”

“I’ll remember,” I said, but took down the information anyhow. I paused a bit awkwardly. “I want something from you, Fynn.”

“You need but to ask.”

“You have to fix it so Alyson and Emma don’t die. It’s not fair. They’re innocent in all this. They were trying to save the dogs, save Roxy even. None of this would have happened if…” I stopped myself. Fynn stared at me rather sullenly. He took my meaning and we both knew he bore some responsibility for the kennel murders, if not indirectly at least. As he had said himself, he could have taken the little dog anywhere, anyplace, anytime… but he didn’t, he took him here. His gambit to draw out his nemesis… and the result was the brutal slaying of two very brave women.

“Yes, I can now see that bringing Roxy to the present was a terrible mistake. These girls should not have died, and they won’t… not on my account. This will be rectified, I promise you, Patrick.”

“How?”

“I’ll find a way… I just need a bit of time.”

“Okay,” I muttered.

“At this point you should have no caution. You must find physical evidence and show it to Durbin at whatever the cost.”

“I doubt he’ll believe me.”

“He cannot argue with hard physical evidence.”

“I guess not,” I said, but wondered what Durbin would think if he was faced with the idea of time travel. I’m sure he’d just laugh.

“I must say, this has all been rather cleverly planned. I did not foresee this circumstance at all. My own arrest? No… I’ve been taken by surprise and I feel a bit foolish about it.”

“Nobody’s perfect.” My doubts and paranoia came rushing to the fore. “There is no Mortimer… there’s no agent. You just made this all up.”

“What? Patrick, how can you say this?”

“I’m sorry. I have to… for my own sanity.”

“I see. So you are having a crisis of faith?”

“I guess.”

“Very well... I suppose you should go.”

“What?”

“If I cannot rely on your help, I will have to alter my plans, that’s all.”

“How can you say that?”

“I bear no grudge. I understand your predicament and obviously I’ve asked too much from you.”

“What’s this, a guilt trip?”

“Not at all. I’ve greatly enjoyed our time together.”

“I want to help you Fynn, really I do.”

“No. I’ll do this alone now, and in my own way.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“Not at all… but please, one final question: What about the Policeman’s Ball?”

“I think it’s been cancelled... considering…”

“There’s nothing to be done?”

“It would be a very tough sell.”

“Yes, I suppose it would.”

“What makes it so important?”

“I was quite sure Mortimer would attend, that’s all. And… I thought about Cinderella.”

“Cinderella? Why?”

“I will leave you with that question to ponder.” Fynn smiled. All his other emotions seemed to evaporate. I saw no anger now, no frustration. He seemed almost buoyant and hopeful. I was a little less so, especially when I realized I had to take the bus back to Sand City.

***

Leave it to a county judge to have the worst possible timing in the world. The decision on Saint Alban’s was due tomorrow, just days before the summer season officially started. Just what Sand City needed to make it a banner tourist year: a media spotlight on our abandoned insane asylum. It also coincided with the
Chronicle’s
deadline. Unintentional or not, it should be noted that the judge is a long time resident of Oldham. The ruling would either clear the way for the state to take over, or grant the land to the sole surviving Higgins descendent, Cecil Higgins, who still lived in town.
Wait. Cecil?
From down the end of the bar at Partners? There would be appeals no doubt. And all this had an impact on the federal case pending with the Pequot tribe.

The whole matter was in legal limbo thanks to a convoluted and not so certain history. First, it was difficult to verify the idea that any native Americans could lay claim to the land. There was no real evidence of any long term occupation, archeologically speaking. At best, the area was used as a summer encampment. Documents from colonial days were just as sparse. It was generally claimed that the land was deeded to Joshua Higgins in the 17th century. A claim many had contested without success. And so through the years, the Higgins’ family had de facto ownership of the land.

Two centuries later, it was leased to Dr Julius Valenti and the construction of the Saint Alban’s Sanatorium began in earnest. Important to note, the land was never sold to Valenti, and whether the Higgins family still had a clear title to the place remained in doubt. I spoke to Kevin Marchand from the Historical Society about it all, and it was a very long phone conversation; I remember, because I got a crick in my neck. The whole place went into receivership in the early sixties and the state took over a decade later.

“Right around the time Dr Valenti disappeared,” Kevin said.

“Disappeared, like died?”

“No, like disappeared mysteriously… without a trace.”

“When was this? Early sixties…”

“What happened?”

Kevin told me they did lobotomies there in the 1950s and 60s, some kind of drug trials too— but that was all urban myth stuff. There was no hard evidence of anything other than rest, relaxation, convalescing, and standard medical practices.

“What was it like in the nineteen seventies?”

“A rehab, I think, one of the first of its kind, drugs and alcohol. Closed it up for good in the nineteen eighties; it spent its last days as a home for wayward kids, bad boys who had no place left to go. Kind of like a juvee with a thin veneer of psychology laid over top. A place for troubled youths, inner city kids, orphans… that kind of thing.”

“Didn’t know that.”

“You should talk to Eleanor, her family own the place for a good number of years.”

“Really?”

There was absolutely nothing on the web about Saint Alban’s. Like it had been erased from history. Nothing on Dr Julius Valenti either.

***

“Patrick, I must say you’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time in the morgue. I heard you creaking around upstairs all day,” Eleanor scolded.

“It’s for a story.”

“Well, it better be a good story. What’s it about?”

“Saint Alban’s.”

“Good god, Patrick, best to leave that in the past. Nobody wants to hear about Saint Alban’s.”

“Chamblis thinks he can convert it into a hotel.”

“And you agree with him?”

“First time for everything.”

“I don’t want you working on this, Patrick. It’s a terrible idea for a story. Why would we want to dredge all this up in the middle of the tourist season?”

“El, I have to… it’s on the county court calendar for tomorrow. There’s going to be a ruling.”

“Fine…”

“Why? Anything I should know?”

“Well first of all, it never was an asylum,” Eleanor said with an uncharacteristic vehemence. “I don’t know why you insist on using that word. It was a hospital, a convalescent home, a sanatorium. Back in the day, people would go there to recover from illness. A good number of patients had tuberculosis, or polio. It’s not like we were locked away against our will.”

“Who are we talking about?”

“The patients.”

“You said
we
.”

“You have to understand, Patrick… things were different back then. Different morals, different standards of behavior… I’ll tell you one thing, that’s when I started smoking these damn things.” Eleanor angrily snubbed out her cigarette.

“You were there?”

“For a very brief stay…” she looked over her glasses with a fierce expression.

“Were you sick?”

“It was during the war, I wasn’t much more than a girl. I spent about a month there recovering from a breakdown, that’s all.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t think I want to talk about it.”

“Sorry.”

She looked at me for a long moment, then continued, “If you must know, I had a brother… he was killed in action overseas. We were very close and I took it rather badly.” She glanced at me again. “That’s pretty much the whole story. But I don’t want you saying anything to anyone— alright?”

“Absolutely.” I paused awkwardly. “Um, I was talking to Kevin about the place. He said your family owned Saint Alban’s.”

“Owned it? Is that what Kevin said? Well, that’s somewhat of an exaggeration… My grandfather’s sister married into the family. I wouldn’t exactly say she owned the place.”

“Right.”

“Patrick, do the story on the court ruling and that’s all. I really don’t want to hear anything else about it, thank you.”

After Eleanor left the office, I tried my best to contact Fynn’s colleague in the Amsterdam Police Department, not with any success though. I fired off a carefully worded email as well, and could only hope I’d get a response. A reply came much sooner than I expected. My email dinged within seconds:
unable to deliver message, address invalid.

***

“Hey Joey, can you give me a ride.”

“Where to?”

“Saint Alban’s?”

“Cool,” he said but couldn’t quite manage a grin.

“Where’s your car?”

“You mean my mom’s Prius?”

“Well yeah, I guess.”

“She’s in Fairhaven, shopping.”

“How did you get to work today?”

“Bike.”

“Oh.”

“Where’s your Saab?”

“Hmm, gave it to the cops.”

“The cops?”

“Long story.” I chuckled nervously. “Alright then, let’s take a bike ride.”

“To Saint Alban’s?”

“Yup...” I paused. “We might need a locksmith though.”

“Where are we going to find a locksmith?” He looked at me sullenly.