The Wrong Man (30 page)

21

A Series of Possible Missteps

T
he more Scott read, the more terrified he became.

Immediately the following morning, after the less-than-satisfactory meeting with Sally and Hope, like any proper academician he had immersed himself in a study of the phenomenon represented by Michael O’Connell. Descending upon his local library, he started researching compulsive and obsessive behaviors. Books, magazines, and newspapers crowded his desk in a corner of the reading room. An oppressive, heavy quiet filled the space, and Scott suddenly felt that he could barely breathe.

He looked up in near panic, his heart moving quickly as if it were close to bursting.

What he had absorbed that morning was a litany of despair.

Death had surrounded him. Over and over, he had read about this woman here, and that woman there, young, middle-aged, even elderly, who had been the object of some man’s driven obsession. They had all suffered. Most had been killed. Even the survivors had been crippled.

It seemed to make no difference where the women were located. North or South, in the United States or abroad. Some were young, students like Ashley. Others were older. Rich, poor, educated, or impoverished, it was all irrelevant. Some had once been married to their stalkers. Some had been coworkers. Some had been classmates. Some had been lovers. All had tried all sorts of techniques, had turned to the law, turned to their families, friends, any possible source of help, to try to extricate themselves from the unwanted, relentlessly obsessive attention. He read
undaunted desire.

All had found it useless to seek help.

They were shot, stabbed, beaten. Some managed to live. Many did not.

Sometimes children died alongside them. Sometimes coworkers or neighbors died, the collateral damage of rage.

Scott reeled under the onslaught of information. It made him dizzy as he began to see the trap Ashley was in. On page after page, in every book and article, the single common denominator was
love.

Of course, he understood, it wasn’t real love. It was something wildly perverse, emanating from the darkest part of a man’s imagination and heart. It was something that deserved a spot in forensic psychiatric texts, not Hallmark cards. But the sort of love that he read about seemed to have found a foothold in each case, and this scared him even more.

Scott started to grab book after book filled with story after story, and tragedy after tragedy, searching for the one that would tell him what to do. His eyes raced over the words; he flipped pages in rapid succession, haphazardly tossing one book down and seizing another, driven by mounting anxiety, all the time searching for the one that would tell him the answer. As a historian, an academic, he believed that the answer was written somewhere, a paragraph on some page. He lived in a world of reason, of structured argument. Something in his world had to be able to help.

The more he insisted this to himself, the more he knew how fruitless his search was destined to be.

Scott rose, pushing back so hard from the desk that the heavy oaken library chair crashed back on the floor, sending a noise like a shot through the quiet space. He could suddenly feel the eyes of everyone in the room burning into his back, but he stumbled away from the table, as if he’d been wounded, dizzy, clutching at his chest. In that moment all he could do was panic. He gestured wildly at all the research, his throat closing, turned, abandoning all the papers. He ran, right through the card catalogs, past the reference desk and the librarians who watched him, shocked, never having seen a man thrust into so much fear by the printed word. One tried to call after him, but Scott could hear nothing as he burst out beneath an overcast sky, the air less chilled than his heart, knowing only that he had to get Ashley out of the path she was on, and do it quickly. He had no idea precisely how to achieve this, but he knew he had to act, and as fast as he could.

Sally, too, started that day filled with decisions she thought were eminently
reasonable.

It seemed to her that the first order of business was to really measure what sort of individual her daughter had brought into their lives. That he was clever with a computer and had tampered with each of their lives seemed clear. She dismissed the instinct to take all the bits and pieces of information to the police, mostly because she wasn’t yet sure that they would do any more than hear her complaint, and because she might jeopardize the integrity of her lawyer-client relations by doing so. Involving the police, she thought, would be a poor idea, right then.

What troubled her was that O’Connell, assuming he had pulled these things off, which she wasn’t 100 percent sure was true, seemed to have an instinct for subtlety that was dangerous. He seemed to know how to hurt someone in ways that weren’t defined by a blow or a gunshot, but by something more elusive, and this scared her. That he knew how to make their lives miserable was a danger that truly made her pause.

Still, she reminded herself, O’Connell wasn’t really their match.

Or, more accurately, he wasn’t a match for her. Scott, she was unsure of. Years of working in the polite society of a small liberal arts college had taken away the edgy toughness that she had been attracted to when they were first married. Back then, he’d been a veteran when it was unpopular to be one, and he’d approached learning and school with a tough-mindedness she’d found compelling. After he’d received his doctorate, and they were married and had Ashley and she had already decided to go to law school herself, she’d been aware that he was growing softer, somehow. As if the impending arrival of middle age affected not only his waistline, but his attitude as well.

“All right, Mr. O’Connell,” she said out loud. “You’ve screwed with the wrong family. Now a little surprise or two for you.”

She turned away and threw herself into her chair and reached for her phone. She had found the number she wanted in her Rolodex, and she dialed it rapidly. She was even patient when she was put on hold by a secretary. When she heard the voice come on the line, she felt reassured.

“Murphy here. What can I do for you, Counselor?”

“Hello, Matthew. I’ve got a problem.”

“Well, Ms. Freeman-Richards, that’s absolutely the only reason in the entire world that folks call this number. Why else talk to a private investigator? So, what’s it to be on this occasion? A divorce case up there in that nice little city of yours? Something that has turned a tiny bit nastier than folks intended, perhaps?”

Sally could picture Matthew Murphy at his desk. His office was in a nondescript and slightly bedraggled old building in Springfield, a couple of blocks away from the federal courthouse, on the edge of a pretty run-down area. Murphy, she assumed, liked the anonymity that the place gave him. Nothing flashy and attention-grabbing for him.

“No, not a divorce, Matthew.”

She could have called some considerably more upscale investigators. But Murphy had a far more checkered background, and a no-nonsense attitude that she thought might come in handy. Also, hiring someone from outside her own city was less likely to create any gossip in the county courthouse.

“Something else, then, Counselor? Perhaps something more, shall I say,
tricky
?”

He was, she thought, able to read much in the few words she’d spoken.

“How are your connections in the Boston area?” she asked.

“I still have some friends there.”

“What sort of friends?”

He laughed before replying, “Well, some friends on both sides of the great divide, Counselor. Some not-so-nice types always looking for an easy score, and some of the guys looking to arrest them.”

Murphy had been a state police homicide detective for twenty years before taking early retirement, and subsequently opening his own office. Rumors suggested that the severance package he’d received was part of an agreement to keep quiet about some activities of a Worcester narcotics squad that he’d taken an interest in while investigating a couple of drug-related murders. A questionable arena, Sally knew, if only by reputation, and Murphy had retired with a watch and ceremony, when the alternative might have been an indictment of his own or maybe even a bad night ending up at the end of some Latin King gang member’s semiautomatic.

“Can you look into something in the Boston area for me?”

“I’m pretty busy with a couple of other cases. What sort of something?”

Sally took a deep breath. “A personal matter. It involves a member of my family.”

He hesitated before saying, “Well, Counselor, that explains why you called an old warhorse down here, instead of one of those young, slick ex-FBI or -military-CID guys up there in the more rarefied atmosphere where you keep your practice. So, what exactly is it that you want me to, ah, do?”

“My daughter had gotten involved with a young man in Boston.”

“And you don’t like him much?”

“That’s putting it mildly. He keeps telling her he loves her. Won’t leave her alone. Pulled some computer crap that got her fired from her job. Screwed up her graduate-school work. Maybe more. Probably tailing her around. Maybe made some trouble for me, my ex, and a friend of mine, as well. More computer stuff.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“Got into my accounts. Made some anonymous complaints. Generally speaking, screwed a lot of stuff up.”

Sally thought that she was minimizing the damage that O’Connell had probably done.

“So, he’s got some skills, this, what do you want to call him? Ex-boyfriend?”

“That’s good enough. Although it appears that they only had one date.”

“He did all this because of, what? A one-night stand?”

“Seems that way.”

Murphy hesitated, and Sally’s confidence was slightly shaken.

“Okay. I get it. Any way you slice it, sounds like this guy is a bad dude.”

“Do you have any experience in this sort of case? An obsessive type.”

Matthew Murphy was quiet once again. His silence made her feel increasingly uneasy.

“Yeah, Counselor, I do,” he said slowly. “Ran into a couple of guys more or less like the guy you’re describing to me. Back when I was in homicide.”

This was a word that made her throat go dry.

Hope’s mother had just come in from raking leaves when her phone rang. As was her custom, she reached for the receiver with a twinge of uncertainty.

“Hello, dear,” Catherine Frazier said. “This is a surprise. It’s been weeks and weeks since we spoke last.”

“Hello, Mother,” Hope said a little guiltily. “I’ve been busy with school and the team, and time has slipped away. How are you?”

“Why, just fine. Settling in and getting ready for winter. The locals all think we’re in for a long one.”

Hope took a single deep breath. Her relationship with her mother was marred by an underlying tension. While outwardly civil, it was as if it were constantly being tightened, like a knot holding a wind-filled sail, as the gusts around them increased. Catherine Frazier was a lifelong Vermonter, liberal almost to a fault in her political views—save one; the most important one to her daughter. She was a stalwart in the local Catholic church in the small town of Putney, which was adjacent to the more upscale, ex-hippie-populated, whole-wheat-and-granola town of Brattleboro—a woman who had survived the early death of her husband, never thinking about remarrying, who now enjoyed living at the edge of the woods alone. She still harbored considerable doubts about her daughter’s relationship with Sally. She kept these to herself, living in a state that welcomed civil unions between women, but prayed fervently on Sunday mornings for some sort of understanding that had eluded her year in and year out, which had hardened the connections between them. Sometimes, in past years, she had bought up these feelings in the confessional, but she had grown tired of saying Hail Marys and Our Fathers because they rarely made her feel any more comfortable.

Hope thought her failure to be
normal
and to provide grandchildren was somehow at the root of the tension, which grew in volume both when they did talk and when they didn’t, for the real subject that they should have addressed was never raised between them.

“I need a favor,” Hope said.

“Anything, dear,” Catherine replied.

Hope knew that this was a lie. There were more than a few favors that she might have asked for from her mother that might not have been granted.

“It has to do with Ashley. She needs to get out of Boston for a while.”

“But what could possibly be the matter? She’s not ill, is she? There hasn’t been an accident?”

“No, not precisely, but…”

“Does she need money? I have lots of money and I’d be glad to help out.”

“No, Mother. Let me explain.”

“But what about her graduate studies?”

“Those can be put on hold.”

“Dear, this is very confusing. What is the problem?”

Hope took a deep breath and blurted out, “It’s a man.”