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B
OBBY WAS LATE
to the task-force meeting again. No baked goods this time, but the other officers were too busy listening to Detective Sinkus to care. As promised, Sinkus had met with George Robbards, the District 3 clerk who’d served in Mattapan from ’72 to ’98. Apparently, Robbards had a lot to say about their favorite suspect du jour, Christopher Eola.

“The body of the nurse was found gagged with a pillowcase that came from the hospital supply room. Coroner’s report indicated that she’d been worked over before death, which was from manual asphyxiation. Originally, the investigation focused on a former boyfriend of Lovell’s—they’d recently broken up—and a couple of key staff members who worked at the hospital. Theory was, no way a patient could’ve been missing that long without someone noticing. Plus, the most logical suspect pool for patients would’ve been the guys in maximum security, and according to the head administrator, most of them were too drugged up to pull off something this sophisticated.

“Boyfriend got ruled out early on—had an alibi for the time in question. Three male staff members were interviewed, but the only thing they volunteered was the name Christopher Eola. Seems every time a staff member was questioned about the patient population, they ended up saying, ‘Oh, our guys couldn’t have done something like that, well…except for Eola.’

“Lead detective was Moss Williams. He personally interviewed Mr. Eola four times. Later, he told Robbards that within the first five minutes of speaking to Eola, he knew the guy had done it. Didn’t know how, didn’t know if they could prove it, but said there was no doubt in his mind Eola had murdered Inge Lovell. Williams would stake his badge on it.

“Unfortunately, that plus a quarter would still only fetch you a cup of coffee. They never could build a case. No one saw anything, Eola wasn’t admitting anything, and they had no physical evidence. Best Williams could do was advise the staff to keep a much shorter leash on Eola.

“Shortly thereafter, Eola led some kind of patient revolt in the I-Building and finally earned himself a transfer to Bridgewater. Williams didn’t hear about it until nearly a year later, and it pissed him off. According to Robbards, Williams believed they could’ve used the Bridgewater transfer as a bargaining chip. Maybe make some kind of deal with Eola, so at least the Lovell family could have some closure. No dice, however. Boston State Mental, apparently, preferred to handle its problems on its own—and without public knowledge.”

Sinkus cleared his throat, setting down his report expectantly. Most of his fellow detectives around the room were frowning at him.

“I don’t get it,” McGahagin said. He seemed to have laid off the coffee today, his voice having lost its overcaffeinated edge, though his face still had the pallor of someone who was spending too much time under fluorescent lights. “Are we really thinking one of the patients from the hospital did this? I admit, examining the local loonies makes sense. But like you said, the patients with a history of violence were supposedly locked up. And even if one did get out, how’d he get off the grounds to kidnap not one, but six girls? Then get back on the grounds. And prepare a chamber and spend time down there. And no one saw a thing?”

“Maybe he wasn’t a patient anymore,” Sinkus said. “Robbards had one other interesting thing to report. In the early eighties, he started noticing a disturbing trend: missing pets. Lots and lots of missing pets. Now, in the suburbs when Fluffy and Fido disappear, you wonder about encroaching coyote populations. But no one believes there are any four-legged predators operating in inner-city Mattapan. Not even on a hundred acre site.”

“What are you thinking?” D.D. pressed.

Sinkus shrugged. “We all know certain killers start by preying on animals. And it always struck Robbards that the same year the hospital shut its doors for good, local animals suddenly seemed to become prey. It kind of makes you wonder. Where did all those patients who were treated at Boston State Mental go when the hospital closed? And were all of them magically sane?

“More and more, I’m thinking we’re looking for a
former
patient of Boston State Mental. And if you’re going to look at former patients, then Christopher Eola has to lead the list. By all accounts, he’s shrewd, resourceful, and has already gotten away with murdering Inge Lovell.”

“All right,” D.D. said, spreading her hands. “You convinced me. So where’s Mr. Eola these days?”

“Dunno. Left a message with the hospital superintendent at Bridgewater an hour ago. I’m waiting to hear back.”

D.D. considered the matter. “Pay her a personal visit. This isn’t the first time I’ve heard Eola’s name today.”

D.D. launched into a brief summary of her and Bobby’s conversation with Charlie Marvin. She shared the minister’s concerns about Eola, as well as about former staff member Adam Schmidt. Then, taking a very deep breath, D.D. mentioned the appearance of Annabelle Granger.

The task force went from stunned silence to full uproar in under ten seconds.

“Whoa! Whoa, whoa, whoa!” McGahagin’s rasping voice finally cut through the clatter. “You’re telling us we have a witness?”

“Mmm, too strong a word. Bobby?” D.D. turned to him neatly, her gaze perfectly steady, as if she weren’t dumping a load of shit in his lap. He gave her a tighter, thanks-a-lot-Teach smile of his own, then scrambled to boil down three days of covert activities into three salient points for the task force’s consideration.

One, Annabelle Granger was still alive and the remains found with her engraved locket most likely belonged to her childhood friend, Dori Petracelli.

Two, this narrowed their time line to the fall of ’82, where they had evidence an unidentified white male subject was stalking seven-year-old Annabelle, then possibly kidnapped Dori as a substitute after the Granger family fled to Florida.

Three, there was the highly messy, disturbing, niggling little detail that Annabelle Granger happened to be the spitting image of another young girl, Catherine Gagnon, who was kidnapped and held in an underground pit in 1980, two years before Dori Petracelli vanished. Catherine’s abductor, Richard Umbrio, had been imprisoned by the beginning of ’82, however, meaning he couldn’t have been involved in Annabelle’s case.

Bobby stopped talking. His fellow officers stared at him.

“Yep,” he said briskly. “That’s about what I think, as well.”

Detective Tony Rock spoke first. “Holy shit,” he declared. He looked worse tonight than he had last night. The long hours, or the situation with his mother?

“Another astute observation.”

McGahagin turned on D.D. “Were you ever going to tell us about this?”

Score one for McGahagin.

“I thought it was important to verify Annabelle’s story first,” D.D. replied steadily, “given its rather perplexing impact on our investigation. She herself couldn’t provide any supporting documentation. Instead, Detective Dodge has spent the past twenty-four hours substantiating the details. I’m willing to believe her now. Unfortunately, I still don’t know what any of this means.”

“We can add to the profile of our suspect,” Sinkus spoke up. “We’re definitely looking for a predator who’s methodical and ritualized in his approach. He doesn’t just abduct his victims—he stalks them first.”

“Who might be in some way connected to Richard Umbrio,” another detective thought out loud. “Can we interview Umbrio?”

“Dead,” Bobby volunteered, but didn’t elaborate.

“But you said he was imprisoned.”

“At Walpole.”

“So maybe they still have his personal effects. Including correspondence?”

“Worth a try.”

“What about Catherine Gagnon? Any connection between her and Annabelle Granger?”

“Not that we’ve determined,” Bobby said. “But we’ve set up a meeting between the two women for tomorrow afternoon. Perhaps once they see each other in person…” He shrugged.

A couple of the task-force members were studying him now. Detectives had a relentless memory for details, such as that two years ago Officer Dodge had been involved in a fatal shooting involving a man named Jimmy Gagnon. Surely the last name wasn’t just a coincidence.

But they didn’t ask and he didn’t tell.

“Charlie Marvin spotted Annabelle at the Boston State Mental site,” D.D. was saying now. “Said he thought she looked familiar. I caught up with him after Annabelle left and tried to press him for details. Maybe he’d seen her or someone who looked like her in Mattapan. He was vague, though. Just thought for a moment he recognized her from somewhere, one of those passing things. I don’t know if there’s something more significant there or not. Annabelle would’ve been just a child when Boston State Mental closed, so an actual connection between her and the site…”

“Not probable,” Sinkus filled in for her.

“No, I don’t think so.”

The task-force room fell silent.

“So where are we?” McGahagin prodded, trying to wrap things up.

“Tracking down Christopher Eola,” Detective Sinkus offered.

“Finishing our report on missing girls,” D.D. added, with a pointed look back at McGahagin. “And,” her voice grew conciliatory, more thoughtful, “honing in on the time line of 1980 through ’82. We know the mental hospital closed in 1980. We know, thanks to Detective Sinkus, that animals began disappearing in Mattapan—which is an interesting little sidebar. We also know that at least one perpetrator, Richard Umbrio, had come up with the idea of imprisoning a girl in an underground pit. And we know that by the fall of ’82, a man was stalking a girl in Arlington and that her best friend disappeared shortly thereafter twenty-five miles away in Lawrence. We have some reason to believe all these events are related, if only by their proximity in time, so let’s get that nailed down.

“Sinkus, you’re on Christopher Eola—from the moment he left Boston State Mental, where did he go, what did he do? Where is he now? McGahagin, your team can finish the comprehensive list of missing girls. I want you to focus on all names from the early eighties, summarize the details from each case file, start looking for any connections—and I mean
any—
between the missing girls. How many names do you have?”

“Thirteen.”

“All right, start digging. See if you can tie any of those missing girls to Mattapan, Christopher Eola, Richard Umbrio, or Annabelle Granger. I want to know if any of the families remember their daughters receiving anonymous gifts before they disappeared, about any incidents of Peeping Toms in the neighborhood, that sort of thing. Let’s assume Annabelle’s case gives us an MO, and see if any of the others fit the pattern.

“As for the Catherine Gagnon connection—Bobby and I will be flying to Arizona tomorrow to meet with her in person. Which gives Bobby exactly”—she glanced at her watch—“twelve more hours to uncover all relevant connections between Richard, Catherine, and Annabelle. All right, people, that’s a wrap.”

D.D. pushed out of her chair. Belatedly, the rest of them followed suit.

Bobby followed D.D. out of the room. He didn’t speak until they were in the relative privacy of her office.

“Nice ambush,” he commented.

“You handled it okay.” D.D. had never been one to apologize. Even now, she mostly appeared impatient. “What?”

“Started thinking about something this evening.”

“Good for you. Bobby, I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I would sell my soul for a shower. Instead, I’m five minutes from meeting with the deputy superintendent, where I get to convince him we’ve made significant progress in an investigation when I think we honestly understand less today than we did yesterday. Don’t talk dirty to me. I’m too fucking tired.”

He made a motion with his fingers—the world’s tiniest violin playing in sympathy.

She sat down heavily and scowled at him. “What?”

“According to Annabelle Granger, her whole family fled in the middle of the afternoon, taking with them only five suitcases. So what happened to the house?”

D.D. blinked at him. “I don’t know. What happened to the house?”

“Exactly. I’ve spent two hours poring over newspaper stories from the end of ’82 through ’83. Think of it: an entire house, fully furnished, suddenly abandoned in the middle of a neighborhood. You’d think someone would notice. But I can’t find any reports in the news or the police files.”

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking the house wasn’t abandoned. I’m thinking someone, maybe Russell Granger, returned to wrap up loose ends.”

D.D. perked up. “For no one to notice, he would’ve had to do it fairly quickly,” she mused.

“Yeah, within a matter of weeks, I’m guessing.”

“Meaning right around the time Dori Petracelli disappeared.”

“Seems about right.”

“You check storage units, real estate records?”

“So far, no storage units or real estate transactions under the name Russell Granger.”

“Then who owned Annabelle’s house in Arlington?”

“According to property records, Gregory Badington.”

“Who’s Gregory Badington?”

Bobby shrugged. “Dunno. Name’s listed as deceased. I’m working on identifying next of kin.”

D.D. scowled. “So Russell didn’t own the house. Maybe he rented. But still, you’re right. Furniture, clothes, stuff. All of that had to be taken care of somehow by someone.” D.D. picked up a pencil, bounced the eraser off the top of her desk. “Do you have a Social Security number for Mr. Granger? What about a license?”