Love Gone Mad (36 page)

“How ’bout you, Doc? As a shrink, you see good and evil all the time, like I do. Is there any hope for us crazy sons of bitches?”

Grayson leans his tall frame forward and sets his forearms on his thighs as a wave of crushing fatigue plows through him. He peers at Mulvaney and says, “I wonder about humanity … I wonder and worry.”

“Ya don’t think kindness and love’ll save us, Doc?”

Grayson smiles weakly and says, “Chief, I don’t fucking know.”

“Fair enough,” Mulvaney says with a nod. He clasps his hands together. “Tell me somethin’, Doc. How’d you know to come here?”

“To tell you the truth, Chief, I never knew that Dr. Douglas and Megan moved to Eastport. I thought they still lived in Trumbull, and I tracked Wilson there with the GPS.”

“I got it, Doc. But the pastor’s car was left in Trumbull. The tracking unit inside the bumper was useless. So how’d you know to get over here?”

“I never trusted Wilson—ever.”

“So you had the monitoring bracelet on the guy and the GPS in the car.”

“Right.”

“But once he dumped the car in Trumbull, how’d ya know he’d come here?”

“I tracked him.”

“How’d ya do that?”

“I didn’t think we had enough safeguards. Whenever Wilson went on a pass, I insisted on examining his day pack before he brought it back to the ward. I told the pastor we didn’t want inmates bringing in contraband. So while I had the thing, I had a lightweight GPS unit sewn into the lining. It weighs only a few ounces. Once the car’s tracking device deactivated, I logged on to the Web site for the unit in the backpack.”

“Clever,” Mulvaney says. “Triple redundancy.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, Doc, ya saved some lives today.”

“But two innocent people are dead. The system failed completely.”

“But
you
succeeded.”

“If you want to call it success, Chief. It’s a stain on the legal and psychiatric communities, and the Department of Corrections, too. We all failed, if you ask me.”

“I’m not askin’, Doc. I’m just sayin’ you’re a hero. You saved the life of the guy who saved
my
life. And his wife’s life. Probably the kids’, too.”

Grayson wonders how it all came to this. Then he looks into Mulvaney’s eyes. “Hey, Chief, you weren’t at Wilson’s trial, were you?”

“Na, I gotta run a police force.”

“I still think about what he said on the stand.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“The DA asked Wilson if he wanted the jury to understand his version of the truth … about Adrian and Megan, and the little girl, Marlee … you know, Wilson’s crazy belief that she’s Adrian’s kid.”

“Yeah?”

“And Conrad said the jury didn’t matter, that nothing matters.”

“And?”

“He said, ‘You can even kill me. It doesn’t matter. My soul is dead.’” Grayson looks at Mulvaney. “He called it soul murder.”

Mulvaney gets up and sets a huge paw on Grayson’s shoulder. “Yeah, well, now the bastard’s dead … and may his dead soul rest in peace.”

“I
t’s great to see ya lookin’ so good,” Mulvaney says as he dumps a third teaspoonful of sugar into his coffee, adds cream, and stirs the brew. He and Adrian sit in a vinyl booth across a Formica-topped table at Rory’s, a roadhouse known best for its huge fire-grilled burgers—juicy half pounders made of ground chuck and sirloin, served with a heaping batch of french fries. The place is thronged by a clamorous lunchtime crowd. Patrons are bellied up three deep at the bar, talking, laughing, guzzling mugs of draft beer. Some people chomp burgers at the bar, while others down a liquid lunch. The clatter of cutlery, dishes, kitchen noise, and the hum of conversation fill the air.

“I know it isn’t Starbucks,” Mulvaney says with a shrug, “but the food’s good. I come here all the time. Oh, and the tab’s on me today.”

“Thanks, Patty. Who needs Starbucks?” Adrian is aware that once again, when he’s with Mulvaney, he feels enveloped in a protective shield—and it’s not because the big guy’s a police chief. It’s a father-son kind of thing, and Adrian senses it’s just as gratifying for the chief as it is for him. Mulvaney has no kids, and each has become for the other what was never to be had, or was lost early in life.

Mulvaney sips his coffee. “So tell me, when ya getting back to crackin’ chests?”

“Tomorrow. Four weeks is enough time off, and I’m ready. The arm feels like new, and I’ve been exercising it.”

“Ya gonna save some more lives, huh?”

“I’m gonna try.”

Adrian pauses and looks at Mulvaney’s ruddy complexion. “You’re looking good, Patty. How’s the diet?”

“Marge keeps an eagle eye on me, but to tell ya the truth, I gotta splurge now and then. That’s why I come here—for the burgers. A little fat once in a blue moon won’t kill me, right? If she ever asks what I order, tell her it’s tuna on whole wheat,” Mulvaney says with a wink.

Adrian nods, knowing Mulvaney loves this little conspiratorial exchange.

“How’re Megan and the kids?”

“Between dealing with Marlee’s trauma, nursing me, and taking care of Philip, Megan’s been busy. She’s getting back to work next week … part-time. We’ve arranged for someone to care for Philip since Erin’s gone back to work, too.”

“Ah, modern married life,” Mulvaney says. “Marge and I’ll never understand this day-care crap.”

“It’s a different world now, Patty.”

“Yeah, I’m just an old fart.”

“But you’re
my
old fart, and it’s always good to be with you, Patty.”

The waitress, standing at another table, spies Mulvaney, smiles and nods. He gives her a wave. It’s obvious Mulvaney visits quite often for his lunchtime splurges.

“So like I said, Adrian, Grayson’s testifying at the Public Health Commission. He’s pushin’ for some reforms in the Mental Hygiene Laws.”

“Maybe something good’ll come out of all this.”

“I hope so. We don’t wanna see another situation like Wilson’s.”

Mulvaney’s cell phone goes off. He looks at the screen and puts it to his ear.

“What’s up, Ed?”

His eyebrows rise and he says, “Who’s the vic?” Listening again, his eyes widen. “Really?
Here
? In Eastport?” He shoots a glance at Adrian; Mulvaney’s eyes seem to say,
Wait until you hear this …

Adrian feels his muscles tighten.
Vic? What the hell’s going on? A murder?

Mulvaney listens intently, shakes his head, and says, “Conrad Wilson? Jesus!” His index finger rises, a clear signal that something’s up—something relating to Adrian and Megan.

Adrian’s entire body tenses.
Conrad Wilson? Vic? What the hell’s going on?

“No kiddin’?” Mulvaney says. He listens again, glances at Adrian, and shakes his head. “Son of a bitch,” Patty says. “That bastard leaves a wake of destruction wherever he goes.”

A jangling sensation rips through Adrian. Through the lunch-time crowd, he hears his pulse pounding in his ears. His face feels hot and his throat constricts.

Conrad Wilson? The bastard’s dead. What the hell’s going on?

“Twenty-two Middle Brook Road, got it,” Mulvaney says. “You call the ME yet?”

There’s a pause as Mulvaney listens again, shakes his head and sighs.

“All right. I’m sure Doc Sandler’ll be there soon.”

Mulvaney listens for a moment and then says, “About ten minutes.” He nods and says, “No kiddin’.” He’s about to close the phone but adds, “Listen, Ed, do me a favor. Call Dr. John Grayson at Whitehall Institute in Ansonia.”

Mulvaney snaps the cell phone shut. “Lunch is over, Adrian,” he says. “It’s police business.” He pushes away from the table and says, “Actually, you might wanna come along and see for yourself.”

“Why?” Adrian’s stomach gurgles, and it isn’t because he’s hungry.

“I’ll tell you in the car.”

“Hello, Chief,” the pert, ponytailed waitress says with her pad and pencil at the ready. “What’ll it be, a burger, medium rare with fries, extra pickles, then apple pie à la mode?”

“Not today, Cheryl,” Mulvaney says, standing. He drops two dollar bills onto the table, grabs his coat, and says, “Let’s go Adrian.”

T
wenty-two Middle Brook Road is a modest brick house set back from the leafy, sycamore-lined sidewalk. Unlike other dwellings on the street, no bikes or toys are scattered about the lawn. Nothing signals that kids live there. Two police cruisers are parked in front of the place; one has its lights flashing. Neighbors—mostly women with young kids and strollers—stand on the sidewalk. Adrian sees two police officers talking at the open front door.

As Adrian and Mulvaney get out of the chief’s car, a green Buick Regal parks in front of them. A distinguished-looking older man with a shock of wavy white hair gets out of the car; he’s carrying a leather satchel. “That’s the ME,” says Mulvaney.

“How ya doin’, Harry?”

“Fine, Patrick. And you?” They shake hands.

“I’m great. Harry, this is Dr. Adrian Douglas. Adrian, Dr. Harry Sandler, medical examiner.”

“You’re a cardiovascular surgeon at Eastport General, right?” Sandler says as they shake hands. “You operated on my brother-in-law, Steve Burnham.”

“I remember him,” Adrian says. “He’s a professor of economics at Yale.”

“That’s right, and he’s doing great, thanks to you.”

“Give him my regards,” Adrian says.

They walk into the house through the open front door.

“Down here, Chief,” Harwood says, pointing to a stairwell.

Through an arched entrance to the living room, Adrian sees a police officer and a dark-haired woman in her forties. She sits on a sofa, elbows on her knees, head buried in her hands. Sobbing, she never looks up. The place is furnished in Early American style, very colonial looking. Curled up asleep on a rocking chair is an orange tabby housecat.

“That the older sister?” Mulvaney asks Harwood.

“You got it, Chief. She decided to come home for lunch to check things out.”

Adrian follows Harwood, Mulvaney, and Sandler down a narrow wooden stairway to an unfinished basement. A bare light-bulb illuminates the gray cinder-block walls and rough cement floor. A furnace and water heater are located on one side of the room. A sump pump is in the corner.

Adrian estimates the basement ceiling’s about eight feet high. Wooden floor planks above are supported by thick, rough-hewn joists. Cast-iron and copper pipes crisscross the ceiling, along with rubber-coated wires intertwined among them. Aluminum air ducts sprout from the furnace, pierce the basement ceiling and lead to different rooms of the house. It’s forced-air heating. A dark crawl space is behind the furnace.

A repulsive odor permeates the dimly lit basement. Adrian thinks it’s the stench of excrement, urine, dust, and mold mixed with damp masonry. Actually, he thinks, it’s the reek of abject misery. It catches at the back of his throat. Mulvaney pulls out a handkerchief and covers his nose. Harwood gags. Sandler has no reaction.

Hanging from an overhead pipe by a thick, braided rope is the limp, nightgown-clad body of Nicole DuPont. Her bare feet droop downward in death, her toes only inches from the basement floor. Her feet are purple and swollen. Body fluids have leaked downward and collected in her lower limbs. Her roped neck is arched and stretched at an obscene angle. Her nose is angled up; the nostrils look like dark ovoid caves. Purple bruising permeates the neck skin beneath the rope. Her face is bluish, with lividly swollen lips and protruding tongue. Her eyes are vacant, bulging, partly rolled up into her head. A short wooden stool lies off to the side.

“A horrible death,” murmurs Sandler. “She knocked the stool over. It was too short a fall to break the neck, so she just dangled and was strangled to death. It took awhile,” he mutters. “The cyanotic face and feces are a giveaway. It’s like she was garroted from behind … slowly.”

Sandler reaches out and touches Nicole’s wrist. “Cold as ice. She’s been dead for a while,” he says. “It takes time for the feet to swell … maybe five or six hours. Must’ve hung herself early this morning.”

“After the sister left for work,” Mulvaney says.

“That’s the way most suicides go … when the victim’s alone,” Sandler says.

Harwood heads for the stairs.

The body sways after Sandler’s touch. Adrian recalls Nicole at the competency hearing and trial, her passion, her confidence, her incredible vitality, and her knowledge—medical and legal—and her potent sensuality. Now she’s limp, lifeless—extinguished.

My God! Adrian thinks. What could have gone so wrong that she now hangs like a gutted animal in a slaughterhouse? Flaccid, swaying at a rope’s end in a dank basement. Life’s so strange, so fucking crazy.

In the dull glow of the sixty-watt bulb, Adrian regards Nicole’s diaphanous nightgown, the silky down on her arms, the painted toenails, and the chalky pale—now ghostly—cast of her skin. Though he’s seen many dead bodies—in hospitals, operating rooms, morgues, and the dissection room in medical school—Adrian’s never seen a suicide victim. It hits him like a fist in the chest.

Two more cops tramp down the stairway. One turns back and retches at the stench. The other covers his nose, turns away, and heads upstairs.

“Eastport cops aren’t used to this,” Mulvaney says. “They shoulda served in New Haven.”

“When the forensic unit gets here, we’ll take her down and process the body,” Sandler says.

“Chief,” calls Harwood from atop the stairs. “The note’s upstairs. It’s printed out and it’s on the computer. Her sister found it, then found the body downstairs.”

They stomp up the stairs. Nearing the study, Adrian sees John Grayson enter the house. He has that dark stubble; his eyes are red, bleary. From his haggard, ashen look, it’s clear that Harwood told Grayson about Nicole DuPont’s suicide.

“Sorry about this,” Mulvaney says to Grayson.

Grayson nods.

“The body’s in the basement,” Mulvaney says. “You wanna see it?”

Grayson shakes his head. He sees Adrian. They shake hands silently.

“I’ve been worried about her,” Grayson says. “She took medical leave from Whitehall two weeks ago, seemed really depressed. It got so bad, she left her place in Hamden and moved in here with her sister.”