by Karen Hayes
“We aren’t sure she ran off,” Fran said.
“What do you mean?”
“Someone may have taken her out of here by force. She did not necessarily leave of her own accord.”
“I assume you’re talking about that boyfriend of hers. I thought she was done with him, that she was giving up that lifestyle.” The doctor shook her head. “It’s very critical, at the beginning, to keep the temptation of their drugs away from them, as that addictive desire remains strong for so long. So, he took her up there and they had a drug fest and she OD’d, is that what happened?”
“No, ma’am.”
“No? Then what?”
“We believe, Dr. Greenwood, that Abby was murdered.”
Dr. Greenwood’s face blanched. “Murdered?”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s why we’re investigating her last hours, to see who might have been the last person to see her alive.”
“Have you looked at the boyfriend? Some rock musician. I can get you his name if you need it.” She opened the folder in front of her and stated rifling the papers.
“The sheriff has already checked him out. While he remains a person of interest, we need to look at other possibilities as well.”
“Meaning someone from here.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, I will do my best to help you in any way I can,” the doctor promised. “But I don’t know anyone here who would have killed her, or even wanted to.”
“Another patient, perhaps, that she had been friends with?”
The doctor shook her head. “No. She hadn’t been here long enough to get to know any of the other patients very well. Besides, Deputy, no one else is missing.”
“Please, just call me Fran. If it was someone on your staff, they could have taken her, killed her, then come back. No one need be missing. So how about staff members. How large a staff do you have? Do you have a day staff and a night saff?”
The doctor nodded. “We’re a fairly small clinic, so our staff is not large. My brother and I run the place. We’re both psychiatrists and we are specialists in the psychological aspect of drug rehabil-itation. We have a medical doctor who administers the detox. Although we like to take a nutritional approach, rather than using replacement drugs, some of that is necessary in the initial detox process. We also have a nutritionist who prepares the health profile for every patient and initiates the menu development and vitamin supplementation. Each patient has different needs, and, if we are to release a person from his or her addiction, we need to tailor a program to meet each individual’s needs. We have two nurses on duty at all times, a few orderlies, and some volunteers who primarily help with the recreational aspect of rehabilitation.”
“Recreation?” Fran asked.
“Yes. Physical activity is a very important part of a patient’s rehabilitation. Our facility, as you may have seen, is quite small, but we have an indoor swimming pool and volley ball court. And a basketball hoop out back. We also take patients who are a little further along in their recovery, on supervised hikes, which is why I am familiar with your Pond. That’s one of the areas we use for our hikes.”
“Did Abby go on any of those hikes?”
“No. Abby had just been with us two weeks. She was barely off detox. She hadn’t started on any recreational activities yet.”
“So explain to me how you handle the psychological aspect. Do you have group sessions, where everyone talks about their experience?”
“You mean like in the 12-step programs? No, we don’t. I deal personally with all our female patients, one on one. No group meetings.”
“How were you coming along with Abbey, psychologically speaking? Were you making any progress there?”
“It’s too soon to tell, really. She was hiding a lot. But she had started to open up.”
“In what way.”
“I can’t go into that, Fran. Doctor/patient confidentiality, you know.”
“Dr. Greenwood, this is a murder investigation. I think Abby would want you to tell us everything you know that might help us catch her killer.”
“I don’t know…”
“I can get a court order if I have to.”
The doctor looked down at the folder in front of her, ran her fingers through her hair, and looked up at Fran. The deputy stared back, determination in her gaze.
“Okay,” Dr. Greenwood said. She looked through a few of the papers in front of her. “Abby was afraid,” she said.
“Of what?”
“I don’t know. We hadn’t gotten that far. As I said, she was hiding something, holding back. But it was a very real fear, a physical fear. I think there was a physical pain that she felt the drugs deadened, but it was more than that. I believe she was afraid of someone.”
“Her father, perhaps?” Fran was aware that the Reverend had disowned his daughter when she ran off ears before.
Lenore Greenwood shook her head. “No. At least I don’t think so. If she really was murdered, perhaps her fears were justified. Maybe the person she was afraid of was the one who killed her. And that just could be someone here.”
“Who?”
“Again, I don’t know. She hadn’t opened up that much to me yet. But the last time we spoke, Friday afternoon, she hinted that there was someone here she wished she didn’t have to have anything to do with, someone she wanted to avoid. I asked her who that person was and why she wanted to avoid him or her, but she wouldn’t tell me. She wouldn’t tell me because she was afraid.”
“Okay,” Fran told her, “here’s what I will need from you—a list of all your employees and your volunteers, with their contact information.”
The doctor sighed. “Fine,” she said. She reached for her phone and dialed a three-digit number. “Jill, I need you to print off a couple of lists for me, please; one of all of our staff members and another of all of our volunteers—with their contact information. Deputy Nielsen will pick them up when she leaves.”
* * *
Fran called at precisely 2:45. She told Harve the gist of what she had learned from Dr. Greenwood and about the lists she’d requested of the staff and volunteers at the clinic. “And,” she said, “I asked the receptionist to mark the names of those that were there late Friday afternoon. Five of the volunteers were there from three until eight Friday. I have those names and their contact infor-mation. Would you like me o ad you those names?”
“Yes. Read ’em to me,” Harve said, and pulled out his pad and ball point pen. But he didn’t write anything down. “Fran,” he said, “that last name you gave me? What did you say the hours were he volunteered on Friday afternoon?” He listened for a moment. “Thank you. I think we have our murder solved. Call the Portland Police Bureau and have them get a warrant for his arrest… Yes, that last name. I’m on my way. I’ll meet you at the PPB head-quarters as fast as I can get there. Oh, and Fran, Vince said your car needs a new fuel pump. I believe the Hodges boy is off to the city to pick it up. So the loaner is yours until it gets fixed, some-time tomorrow, I’m thinking.”
Harve shut off his phone and turned to the two women. “Ladies,” he said, “I owe you an apology. You may well be right about Don Sargent. It turns out he’s a volunteer at the Greenwood Clinic and was there Friday from three to eight. Dr. Greenwood told Fran that Abby was afraid of someone at the clinic, although she didn’t know who it was that Abby was afraid of. My guess is that person was our friend the former prison warden. So, good work, ladies. I am now off to Portland.”
Louise high-fived Copper. “Are we good or are we good?”
“Harve may think Sargent killed Abby, but I’m not sure he buys our suggestion that he also murdered Agatha and Ruby,” Copper said. “So our work may not be done yet.”
Louise rubbed her hands together and typed a few keystrokes on her laptop. “Okay, let’s check out our good friend the warden a little more.”
* * *
.
The road from Misty Valley to Portland was not as winding as the
road from Misty Valley to Pleasant View, so Sheriff Harve Blodgett was able to make good time. He made it to the PPB’s Central Precinct in one hour and forty-three minutes, a record for him. Fran was waiting for him there with Homicide Detective Evan Jones, who had the desired warrant in hand. Detective Jones had not obtained the warrant easily. Only after Harve had talked to the judge himself for a good fifteen minutes (Harve was extremely grateful for blue-tooth technology that enabled him to drive at high speeds and still carry on a phone conversation) was the warrant granted.
“I assumed you’d want to come with us,” Jones said, “or we would have just gone ahead with the arrest.”
“Thanks,” Harve said. “I appreciate that. This man may have killed three members of my community. I definitely want to be there when he is arrested.”
They buzzed Don Sargent’s apartment and Harve said he had a few more questions to ask him about Ruby and, apologizing for not calling in advance, wondered if he might come up. Sargent released the door latch and Harve, Fran, Detective Jones and a couple of uniforms entered and went up the one fight to Sargent’s apartment.
The former warden was surprised to see more than just Harve standing there when he opened his door. Jones produced his badge, told the older man he had a warrant for his arrest on suspicion of the murder of Abigail Taylor and read him his Miranda rights. He had the two uniforms handcuff him and take him down to their patrol car. It was all over in the space of not much more than a minute. Sargent didn’t even have time to protest his innocence.
That came later, in the interrogation room at PPB headquarters. Since Abby’s death was assumed to have taken place in Portland, that was out of Sheriff Blodgett’s jurisdiction. But since the body was found within his jurisdiction, and since the other two killings had also taken place within his jurisdiction (although the warrant was only for Abby’s murder), Harve was allowed to join Evan Jones in questioning Don Sargent, while Fran left to drive back to Pleasant View, promising to stop it at the Book Nook to update Copper on the way.
“I don’t know what this is all about,” Sargent said. “I don’t know any Abigail Taylor.”
Jones referred to the file in front of him. “She was incarcerated in the Coffee Creek Correctional Facility ten years ago for drug possession. I believe you were the warden there at the time. She was released following some emergency surgery that was scheduled after she attempted to abort a pregnancy that had occurred while she was incarcerated.”
“Oh, yes, I do recall that. But that was a long time ago. And the girl refused to name the father. I don’t think we ever did find out who it was. And, anyway, why would I have any desire to kill her? I haven’t seen the girl since she was released. I don’t know that I’d even recognize her if I saw her.”
“Two weeks ago, she enrolled in the drug rehab program at the Green-wood Clinic,” Harve said, “where you work as a volunteer.”
“I do volunteer there,” Sargent admitted, “a couple of times a week. But I don’t get to know all the patients there. I didn’t know Ms. Taylor was there. As I said, I doubt I’d recognize her. A lot of prisoners went through Coffee Creek when I was warden.”
“Well, it seems she recognized you,” Jones said. “And she was afraid of you. She told Dr. Lenore Greenwood that.” It was just a little stretch, not quite a blatant lie.
“I don’t know why she would have been afraid of me.”
“Perhaps because you were the man who impregnated her,” the sheriff said.
“And why would you assume that?”
“Agatha Lafferty—you remember her, don’t you, the only person to visit Ruby Stone when she was in prison?—and her daughter-in-law were in Portland a few weeks ago and ran into Abby. They invited her to have lunch with them. Agatha got Abby to tell her story. She was very angry about that story and, when you showed up at the Book Nook’s Grand Opening the other week, I’m thinking Agatha threatened to disclose that information to the authorities, so you killed her. Then, since you had likely also abused Ruby when she was an inmate in the penitentiary, you killed her. Abby showing up at the clinic where you volunteered was another stroke of luck for you, and you also killed her.”
Sargent gave a scoffing laugh. “And you can prove this, of course, with all of the others involved now dead.”
“Not all,” Harve said. “Agatha’s daughter-in-law, Louise Lafferty, was with her in Portland when Abby spilled the beans. You didn’t kill her.”
“You have no proof of any of this! It’s all just conjecture. I had a very good record during my time as both a guard and as warden at the women’s facility at Oregon State Penitentiary, Coffee Creek, and Columbia River.” Sargent was red in the face.
“Except when you were considered a person of interest in the death of your ex-wife and disappearance of your daughter,” Harve reminded him.
“I was never charged with that. Never! I was in Canada when it happened.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so! And the police at the time were unable to prove otherwise. You, too, will be unable to prove otherwise. I know the law. And I know my rights. I want to call my attorney.”
“Be that as it may, if you made a habit of sexually abusing female prisoners, I’m sure we’ll find that Ruby and Abby weren’t the only ones,” Evan Jones told him. “I have one of my assistants looking into that at this moment.” That was just another little stretch. Jones didn’t even know about Copper and Louise and what they were doing.
* * *
It wasn’t really a lie at all. Jones may not have had any of his people checking that out, but Louise was, at that very moment, finding a third case since the sheriff left, of female prisoners claiming to have been raped by Warden Don Sargent. All three cases had been dismissed for lack of evidence, the judge con-cluding that the women had made such charges because the warden had taken away a few of their privileges due to some minor infractions on their part.
“The sheriff will be pleased when we tell him this,” Louise said. “No way can Sargent get out of it this time. And the three women we found probably aren’t the only ones.”
“Well, I don’t know,” Copper said. “The judge did throw those cases out. And I’m sure there are a lot of women who make up such stories. In fact I read about such a case just the other day—and it had happened at Coffee Creek. A woman had falsely accused a guard of molesting her multiple times. He could have lost his job if she hadn’t confessed.”
“Copper, whose side are you on?”
“On the side of justice, of course. And I think it highly likely that we have identified our killer. But it’s not really evidence. I think we need to find a little more. For example, Sargent is not from here. Did he know about The Pond? I know it’s a popular hiking area up there, but not everyone in the world is aware of it. Whoever dumped Abby’s body did it at night, so they had to be really familiar with the area.”
“We could ask Celine? She might know if he went hiking up that way much.”
Copper shook her head. “Celine’s in Boston. She’s about to become a grandmother, if she hasn’t already.”
“Let’s call the sheriff and tell him, anyway,” Louise said. “Then I have to really be getting home so I can fix Brandon his dinner. Can you come over later? In fact, why don’t you come over for dinner? We can let Brandon know what’s going on. After all, his mother was the first victim.”
“Do you really think Sargent was responsible for all three killings?”
“I’m positive. So call the sheriff.”
Copper pulled out her phone, pushed the number that would speed-dial the sheriff and told him what they had found. As Copper had suspected, Harve wasn’t sure those cases would do any good, since they had been dismissed, but he said that since they were each several years apart, there may have been something to them. He would talk to Detective Jones about it. Sargent, he said, wasn’t saying anything more until is lawyer got there.
After Copper had ended the call, she turned to Louise and s
aid, “Sargent’s lawyered up, so he isn’t saying anything right now. But look, I don’t think you should cook dinner tonight. I think we should all go out to eat—to celebrate our solving the case and your—or your husband’s, rather—new wealth. You can even buy.”
Louise laughed. “You’ve got it!” She picked up her phone and called Brandon at the clinic. He was just about to leave. She told him that she and Copper had solved the murders and to meet them at the Rainy Day in fifteen minutes. “I’m in the mood for greasy cheeseburgers and onion rings,” she said. “And we’ll tell you how we found out who murdered your mother and Ruby and Abby… Yes, the same person killed all three. Well, we’re pretty sure about that, anyway.”
TWENTY-FOUR
SHERIFF HARVEY BLODGETT AND DETECTIVE EVAN Jones talked about the accusations of sexual abuse that had been made against Don Sargent in the past while they sat in Jones’s office and waited for their suspect’s attorney to arrive. Jones wondered if the attorney was the same one he’d used in the three abuse cases Louise had uncovered.
“Can you check out the murder of his wife?” the sheriff asked.
“Let’s see,” Jones said, as he punched a few keys on his computer keyboard. “I’m sure there’ll be a file on him, even though he’s retired. Hmmm. This is very interesting.”
“Don’t keep it to yourself,” Harve said.
“There were more than three women who claimed he raped them in prison. Quite a few more, as a matter of fact.” He paged through the file. “What was the name of the attorney he called?”
