The Broken Mother

by Thomas Fincham

  Nikki nodded, but her eyes told Fisher that she still blamed herself for not going into work.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Callaway walked up the steps to his office, feeling a mixture of emotions. On the one hand, he was happy to see his daughter excited about winning first prize. On the other hand, he was sad that he had to resort to blackmail to achieve that.

  Why do I always feel guilty when I try to do good? he thought.

  Callaway had done a lot of bad over the years, and each time he did, his conscience took a beating.

  Even then, he kept doing them.

  So, what was the point of even having a conscience when I don’t listen to it?

  He knew the answer all too well.

  Callaway had a good heart and a strong moral compass, but he was weak when it came to certain vices: gambling, drinking, and womanizing.

  They had gotten him in so much trouble that he always vowed never to do them again.

  But he always did.

  He had stopped lying to himself, knowing he was not going to honor his resolution.

  He knew how easy it was for him to succumb to his vices, which was why he was now focusing all his attention on his work, his daughter, and his renewed relationship with his ex-wife.

  Patti was the anchor that was keeping him steady. If he was not with her now, he would be battling one tide after another, and those tides would ultimately be his undoing.

  He reached the landing and was about to unlock the door to his office when his cell phone buzzed.

  The caller ID was blocked.

  He answered anyway.

  A female voice asked, “Lee Callaway?”

  “Speaking,” he replied.

  “I would like to hire you for a job, Mr. Callaway.”

  “Okay.”

  “When can I meet you?” she asked.

  “I’m free now.”

  “Do you know a good place where we can talk in private?”

  Callaway thought about his office, but he hated bringing his clients over. The place was not presentable. Plus, he wanted to know more about this client before he told her where he worked.

  He did not want to repeat what had happened with the husband this morning.

  Callaway gave the name of a diner around the corner.

  Before he could ask her name, she hung up.

  He put the phone away.

  A smile crossed his face.

  I’ve got a new case!

  The work he was doing for Joely was coming out of his pocket.

  Right now, he could use a case that paid money.

  Feeling excited, he walked down the block and entered the diner. The place was relatively empty at this time of day. He found a seat in the corner and sat down.

  The waitress came over and he ordered their special for lunch.

  He figured he might as well eat something before the client arrived.

  No point waiting on an empty stomach.

  His meal came and he dove into it.

  He was halfway through his lunch when he felt someone move past him and sit across from him.

  Callaway froze.

  He had a piece of meat in his mouth, and he was not sure whether to chew it or spit it out.

  “Mr. Callaway,” the woman said.

  She had soft skin, blue eyes, and brownish hair, the latter of which was partially covered by a hat. She had not aged one bit from the last time he had seen her photo on the news. She was tiny compared to him. Even so, he felt a little frightened by her.

  “By the look on your face,” she said, “I can tell you know who I am.”

  Callaway chewed slowly and then swallowed.

  “I do,” he said. “You’re Hope Parsons.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Hope Parsons was the woman who had drowned her only child in Erie Lake, which was about thirty miles from Milton. Noah Parsons was eight at the time of the incident. Hope was charged and given an eight-year sentence for the crime. She spent half of her time at a mental institute, and the other half at a correctional facility.

  Hope had suffered from schizophrenia her entire life, a condition that ran in her family. Her father had killed himself with a shotgun, and one of her uncles had jumped in front of a speeding train.

  Hope was under medical supervision when the incident had occurred. According to her doctors, she was not a threat to herself or others. Therapy, along with medication, was allowing her to function normally. She had not had a relapse in quite some time. There was even belief that if she continued to make progress, she might be able to go back to work as a dental hygienist.

  No one expected her to have a severe psychotic episode, one in which she would end up killing her son.

  If you asked any of her friends and family members, Noah was the apple of her eye. The boy could do no wrong. She doted on him. And when they found out she had ended his life, they were shocked.

  For a very long time, Hope could not understand why they would not let her see her son. She would call out for him, expecting him to come running to her like he did when he was alive. It was only after years of treatment that she began to realize what she had done, and that Noah was never coming back.

  There were those who believed she got away with murder. She was aware, even partially, of her actions. She knew that what she was doing was wrong. But mental health advocates argued that it was not her but her condition that led her to do it. Losing Noah was her punishment, and any further punishment would benefit no one.

  Like many in Milton, Callaway had followed her story with great interest. He was torn between giving her a harsher sentence and one with leniency. On one hand, she had killed a child, someone she was supposed to protect as a parent. On the other hand, he was aware that mental illness was real and devastating, crippling even the strongest and most powerful individuals in society. He also knew the stigma that came with mental illness. Most people did not talk about it, and those who did were forever labeled as crazy or unstable.

  Callaway had relatives with mental illness, and he saw first-hand how they and their families were destroyed by the condition that afflicted them.

  There were times he thought he was losing his grasp on reality, always around the time when he was extremely stressed. At those moments, he tended to drink more and even dabble in drugs, which inevitably affected his mental state and made him think he was going nuts.

  Even though he was never quick to judge, he could not shake the feeling that the woman sitting across from him was a child killer. She was tried by her peers and found guilty.

  So, what does she want from me? he thought.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Callaway looked around the diner, wondering if they knew who she was. If they did, they must be wondering what he was doing with someone like her.

  He shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

  He then saw a butter knife on her side of the table. A previous customer must have left it behind. Callaway had paid little attention to it when he had sat down. Right now, though, he could not help but stare at the knife as light reflected off its edges.

  “Mr. Callaway,” Hope Parsons said, snapping him out of his thoughts.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  “Are you afraid me?”

  He swallowed. “Should I be?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t go around stabbing people with knives.”

  No, you don’t, he thought. You only drown defenseless children.

  He grimaced at the way he was acting. Hope Parsons was small compared to him. If she tried to lunge at him with the knife, he was more than capable of defending himself. Plus, he was surrounded by other people. Surely, someone would come to his aid.

  She reached over and lifted the butter knife.

  His back tensed as he braced himself for what was about to happen.

  Instead of attacking him, Hope Parsons placed the knife on the table next to his.

  “Is that better?” she asked.

  “Um… uh…” he stammered. He c
leared his throat. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Parsons?”

  “After what happened, I’m no longer Mrs.,” she said. “Call me Hope.”

  “All right, but you didn’t answer my question. Why did you call me?”

  “I told you. I want to hire you.”

  His eyes narrowed. “For what?”

  “I can tell that you know what I’ve done in the past.”

  “I am aware of it.”

  “Okay, so you also know I suffer from a debilitating condition.”

  “I do.”

  “You must also know I was seeking medical help for my condition at the time, when…” She paused. “When it happened.”

  “I read it in the newspapers, yes.”

  “What you don’t know is that even before that, there were times I fell into a deep dark hole—a hole I did not know how to get out of.”

  “Are you referring to depression?”

  “Yes. On top of being a schizophrenic, I am also manic depressive.”

  Callaway was not sure where Hope was going with this, but he said, “All right.”

  “What I’m trying to say, and perhaps I’m doing a terrible job at it, is that during those dark moments, I thought about killing myself.”

  Maybe you should have, he thought. It might have spared what happened to your son.

  She stared at him. He felt as if she was reading his mind.

  She then said, “Do you know why I never killed myself?”

  She was waiting for his answer, so he said, “Why didn’t you?”

  “Because of Noah.”

  He fell silent.

  She said, “He was my light at the end of the tunnel. Whenever I thought of him, I felt like there was hope in my life.” She then chuckled. “I know it sounds silly that my name is Hope, but in truth, I’ve always been hopeless.”

  “What are you getting at?” he said.

  “I would never harm my son, Mr. Callaway. He was my reason to live.”

  He paused and studied her.

  “What do you want to hire me to do?”

  “To find out what happened that day when Noah was taken from me.”

  He sat up straight in his chair. He looked around the diner once more. When his eyes caught the front door, he knew it would be easy for him to get up and leave.

  “I can tell you are uncomfortable with my presence,” Hope said.

  He tried to say something but then decided against it.

  She smiled. “I don’t blame you. I would be too if I was in your place.”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t take your case on. You were tried and convicted by a jury.”

  Her face hardened. “I did not kill my son,” Hope said, her voice hard as steel.

  “I’m sorry,” Callaway said again.

  Hope went silent. A long moment passed before she said, “Before you judge me, maybe you should confront your own prejudices.”

  He blinked. “What prejudices?”

  “You think I’m unhinged, and that I would harm you and myself, just like I harmed my son. I suppose I am crazy, but I am no murderer. When and if you are ready to hear my side of the story, you can find me here.” She stuck her hand in her pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. She placed the paper before him, and he picked it up.

  “Camden Mental Health Facility?” he asked.

  “Do you know where it is?”

  “I do.”

  “I don’t have a cell phone, but you can reach me at that number.”

  He stared at the paper in his hand but said nothing.

  Hope stood up. “Mr. Callaway, you’re the only person who can help me. You’re my last resort. If what I’ve read about you is true, then I know you will not turn me away. I have suffered knowing that Noah is gone. I don’t want to continue suffering.”

  Hope Parsons walked out of the diner.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Holt was at his desk. He had spent the better part of an hour trying to gather more information on the homicides at Emily’s Place.

  There was still so much they did not know, which meant there was still so much they had to do.

  An investigation was like peeling an onion. The more layers you peeled, the closer you got to the truth, even if the search made your eyes water—just like an onion did—or worse, corrode your soul.

  Why someone would go into a place of refuge and murder three women in cold blood was beyond comprehension. Was it a sadistic serial killer or a person with a vendetta? The first step to answering these questions was to find a motive. Without a motive, they would not be able to narrow it down to a suspect.

  The phone on his desk rang. He answered, and after a moment, he hung up with a frown.

  It was his wife, Nancy. She was not feeling well. Nancy suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder which had turned into a full-blown depression. After enduring several miscarriages, with the last pregnancy reaching the third trimester, Nancy had all but given up on being a mother.

  They had decided to adopt a boy from Ukraine. The boy did not live past the first year of his arrival to America, dying of a rare form of cancer. Holt was devastated. He had seen his wife suffer so much from her miscarriages that he thought a child in the house would cure her melancholy. Instead, the boy’s demise exacerbated her condition.

  Nancy stopped functioning as a normal person. There were times when Holt would literally lift her off the bed because she had no willpower to do it on her own. When she stopped eating, he had to spoon-feed her. Seeing her crumble before his eyes tore him apart.

  With the help of family and friends—and a lot of therapy—Holt was grateful to see her back to her old self. But that did not mean they were out of the woods. Anything could trigger her depression.

  He knew the reason Nancy was not feeling well was because the anniversary of their adopted son’s death was approaching. The thought of losing him in such a way was weighing on her.

  Holt looked over at Fisher and found that she was staring at him. “Go be with Nancy,” she said.

  He hesitated. “We have a lot of work—”

  “She needs you more right now,” she said, interrupting him.

  “What about the investigation?”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  He shook his head. “I asked you to join me in this investigation. I’m not leaving.”

  Fisher smiled. “You asked me to come so that you could lean on me at times like this. As your partner, I order you to go.”

  “I can’t abandon you.”

  “You’re not abandoning me. You are taking care of more important things.”

  He hated to leave her alone. Fisher had been through her own trauma. Plus, the investigation was not even twenty-four hours old. The longer they took to find the killer, the colder the tracks would become.

  “Greg,” she said, “go home.”

  He smiled and nodded. “You should go home too,” he said.

  “I will,” she replied.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Fisher watched as Holt disappeared into the elevator. She then looked around. The homicide division was empty at this late hour. Desks were vacant, and in some areas of the floor, the lights had been turned off.

  I should listen to Holt and head home, she thought. But she knew she would not.

  She was glad to be back at work. She had to keep busy or else she would ruminate on the events that occurred in Lockport.

  She turned her attention back on the computer screen. She wanted to pull up the history behind Emily’s Place. What she found astounded her.

  The building for Emily’s Place used to be a convenience store. It was purchased by Emily Riley, with the down payment coming from her own pocket. The rest of the money came from donations and fundraisers.

  There were marathons, food drives, even auctions to raise the funds needed to renovate the building and hire employees.

  Fisher could see that Emily’s Place was a passion project for Emily. In all the photos online, Emily
could be seen smiling in front of the center.

  “It was my dream to help others,” Emily said in one article, “and this center will help every woman, regardless of where she came from and what her situation is.” Emily went on to speak of her daughters and how she hoped the center would be an example for them to follow their dreams. She then thanked her husband for his love and support in helping her make her dream a reality.

  Fisher felt a knot in her stomach. She could not imagine what Emily’s family must be going through right now. They never thought the center, which was supposed to be a beacon of hope, would turn into a terrifying nightmare.

  Maybe what happened will shed more light on violence against women, Fisher thought.

  She was beginning to believe the deaths were targeted. Why else would someone kill three people at one location? The center held no valuables, so robbery was out of the question. The center was not used for illegal activities, so they could cross out that the murders were gang or drug-related.

  Someone wanted these women gone, and they wanted to make an example of them. It was pure luck that Nikki Jones had not gone to work. She would have surely met the same fate as her colleagues.

  Fisher shivered at the thought of how precarious life was. One minute you were alive and the world was your oyster, and the next minute you were dead and nothing more than decomposing matter.

  Why am I thinking about life and death? she thought. As a homicide detective, she dealt with mortality on a daily basis.

  The answer was simple: she had suffered a loss. And what happened at Emily’s Place was a reminder to cherish each opportunity one had on this earth.

  She suddenly felt lonely.

  She decided to pack up and leave the station when she saw Lance come out of the elevator.

  He approached with a smile on his face. Her heart instantly skipped a beat at the sight of him.

  He placed a plastic bag on the desk. A sweet and savory aroma filled her nostrils.

  “I brought Indian food,” he said. “Your favorite.”