Thinnes compared the unburned spots with his recollection of the room when he’d been in it last. Only the wastebasket mark was out of place. He didn’t recall seeing a wastebasket and said so.
“That might not mean anything. People move things around.”
“No!” Thinnes shook his head. “She wanted to talk to me—urgently. It’s no coincidence she burned up. She knew something, maybe about her ex’s death, and she was torched to keep her from telling us.”
“It’s going to be hard to prove unless the autopsy turns up something, because this all has the feel of an accidental fire.”
“Wastebaskets just don’t spontaneously combust.”
“You mean spontaneously ignite. No. But people frequently drop lit cigarettes in them.”
“She didn’t smoke.”
“She might have had a visitor who did. And she didn’t have a battery in her smoke detector.”
“The killer probably took it out.”
“Try proving that.”
“Maybe the ME’ll find something. I’m sure as hell going to tell him to look at everything.”
Oster put down the phone when Thinnes came into the squad room and asked, “You all right? You look like hell.”
“Yeah.” Thinnes had showered and changed clothes, but he could still smell the morgue—the odors of meat and bleach.
“Murder?” Oster asked. He was referring to Linda Koslowski, from whose autopsy Thinnes had just returned.
Thinnes nodded. “Unofficially, smoke inhalation, but the fire was suspicious origin. The ME’s waiting on tox results before he goes out on a limb. You heard anything about funeral arrangements?”
“Guy from the funeral home said no wake, private burial.”
“Whose turn is it?”
“Mine, I guess.”
“You got a problem with that?”
“Nah. Better a funeral than an autopsy.”
Linda Koslowski had been in the ground a week when they got the tox report back. She’d had alcohol in her system consistent with a single drink, and enough benzodiazepine to render her unconscious. Since she hadn’t had a prescription or any history of mental problems and the fire didn’t have a logical natural cause, and given the message she’d left Thinnes, the ME ruled it homicide.
“Just for kicks,” Oster told Thinnes when they’d both read the report, “let’s ask the ME to test Wiley and Terry Koslowski for benzodiazepines.”
“Just for kicks, let’s try to get permission to test Ronzani and Mrs. Morgan, too.”
Fifty-Seven
Dr. Martin Morgan looked like shit, Thinnes decided. Either he was really devastated by his wife’s death or he’d killed her and was suffering remorse. Maybe both. When he showed up at the Area for the reinterview Thinnes requested, Oster showed him to a chair in the upstairs conference room and got him water. Then Oster took a chair against the wall and took notes while Thinnes asked the doctor questions.
“My attorney advised me not to talk to you,” Morgan said when they were all settled, “but a mutual friend told me I don’t have anything to worry about unless I killed Helen. I didn’t kill her. What do you want to know?”
“What mutual friend?”
“Jack Caleb.”
“How well do you know Dr. Caleb?”
“Well enough to know he’s a friend in need.”
Interesting answer, Thinnes thought. One he knew to be right from personal experience. “How well does he know you?”
“He’s not my therapist, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Your wife take tranquilizers?”
“Not to my knowledge. But it seems my knowledge of what she did is limited.”
“You had her pretty heavily insured, didn’t you?”
“We were both adequately insured.” Thinnes waited. “I’ll have to pay for child care and hire a full time housekeeper, possibly a part-time chauffeur. And we no longer have Helen’s income, though my expenses haven’t diminished.”
“You haven’t been very informative about her whereabouts the week she died, Doctor.”
“My wife and I were living under the same roof, but we hadn’t been living together for some time.”
“Then why did you just recently file for divorce?”
“Inertia, I suppose. Or self-delusion. I’d only recently received proof that she’d been unfaithful.”
“How’s that?”
“When my daughter made a reference to ‘Mommy’s boyfriend,’ I felt I had to face up to things. I hired a private investigator, one with a reputation for discretion, and asked him to get me proof one way or another. A week later he called back with results—he said he had pictures. I told him to forward them to my attorney, who filed for me.”
“But she was still living with you.”
“As I’ve already said.”
“Why?”
“We both stayed for the same reason. Neither of us wanted to appear to be abandoning our children. We both wanted custody.”
Enough to kill for? Thinnes wondered, but he wasn’t ready to ask that yet. “Who was your wife getting it on with?”
“I don’t know.”
“C’mon, Doctor.”
“It didn’t matter. If it hadn’t been him, it would’ve been someone else. She didn’t care enough about him to ask me for a divorce. She liked the perks of being a doctor’s wife. She didn’t throw him in my face. I realized she wasn’t trying to hurt me; she just didn’t care. And the more I thought about it, the more I came to see I didn’t care either. It was a relief to know we had an excuse to end it.”
“But if she was having it both ways, why would she agree to end it?”
“She didn’t. She wanted full custody of the children and most of my income. I’m telling you the truth because I believe it always comes out. In any case, you’d learn it when you talk to Helen’s attorney.”
Thinnes wondered if the doctor was brain dead, or was such a clever killer they’d never nail him. As if mind reading, Morgan said, “I know the police always suspect the husband, usually with good reason. But I didn’t kill my wife and I don’t want you to let her killer get away because you’ve made up your mind that I did it and stopped looking for anyone else.” He looked at his watch. “I have to pick up my children at school. I’ll ask my attorney to turn over the private investigator’s file to you. I trust that you’ll safeguard my wife’s privacy unless you have to divulge something to prosecute her killer?”
Thinnes nodded. “Do you have any objections to our interviewing your daughter?”
He could see the wheels turning as Morgan thought about that. Finally the doctor said, “Not if Dr. Caleb is present during the interview.”
“Why him?”
“He won’t let you hurt her.” Morgan stood up. “I have to go. You can call me if you have any other questions.”
“There is one thing, Doctor,” Thinnes said. “We think there might be something the ME missed on autopsy. We’d like permission to disinter your wife’s body.”
Morgan looked stunned. He stared at Thinnes for something like fifteen seconds, then blinked. “If you think it would help your investigation, go ahead.” He nodded to Oster and walked out, closing the door quietly behind him.
Neither of them spoke for a few minutes, then Thinnes said, “That was too easy.”
“We gonna interview the daughter?”
“Only as a last resort.”
“There’s something he’s not telling us.”
“There’s always something they don’t tell us, Carl. We’ll just have to find out whether it’s relevant to the wife’s death.”
Fifty-Eight
They were sitting in the squad room later, when Oster said, “It’s gonna be two weeks before we get any results back on those tox tests. What do we do in the meantime?”
“We could have another go at Sister Serena,” Thinnes said.
“Let’s call over and find out if she’s coherent first.”
�
�And if we can see her, let’s take Dr. Caleb along to interpret in case she’s still spouting gibberish.”
On the way to the hospital, in the car, they pumped Caleb for information.
“One of the most ubiquitous symptoms,” Caleb said, “is auditory hallucinations. Even though the individual may know they’re not real, they sound real to him. Many of the disorder’s other manifestations—the disordered thought, delusions, and paranoia—may be perfectly logical responses to phenomena the sufferer experiences but no one else even perceives.”
“What causes it?” Oster asked.
“There probably isn’t any one thing—head trauma, structural anomalies in the brain, and neurochemical dysfunction. Schizophrenias might be a more accurate term for the syndrome. Some cases, but not all, respond to antipsychotic medications. Sometimes victims have spontaneous remissions. Bottom line is, it’s terra incognita.”
“Can it be cured?” Thinnes asked. That was the bottom line for him.
“The most recent data indicate that early intervention, particularly with the newer drugs, can limit the severity of episodes and improve prognosis.”
“I take it that’s a not really,” Oster said.
“It can usually be managed. But there’s something else to consider—not all the symptoms are due to the primary disorder. Many suffer from depression and anxiety because of the devastating way the disease interferes with their pursuit of a normal life.”
“I never thought of it,” Thinnes said, “but I guess it would be pretty depressing to hear voices or forget your own name.”
“Don’t confuse psychosis with retardation or memory loss,” Caleb said. “Some schizophrenics have poor retention, but many have excellent recall.”
There was a long silence while they digested it all, then Caleb added. “One of the most terrifying aspect of madness is that you’re never quite sure of its boundaries. Once you’re convinced that you’re crazy, you never completely trust yourself again.”
The doctor who’d agreed to talk to them about Serena’s condition didn’t look old enough to buy booze. She was hazel-eyed and naturally blond with perfect teeth and a Cover Girl complexion. She was wearing nurses shoes, and had a white lab coat over her street clothes. A little brass badge on her lapel announced that she was Lucinda Tambourine, M.D. She shook hands firmly with all three of them. “A few ground rules, gentlemen. You can have forty-five minutes with her—tops. She’s not responsible for anything she did during a psychotic episode, so no third degree. If you need to ask her anything incriminating, you’ll have to wait for her lawyer. And if she starts perseverating—repeating words or phrases, or running them together, it means she’s getting tired or stressed—you’ll have to stop.”
Thinnes held his hands up like a patrol officer stopping traffic. “We’re just here to get some details. She’s already copped for the charge. She can’t get in any deeper.”
“I thought you said she’s better,” Oster remarked.
“Relatively speaking. She’s still fairly detached, and probably still hearing voices—though she may not admit to it—and there’s some loosening of associations. But she’s not actively psychotic. Are you familiar with her background?”
“No,” Thinnes said. “When she pled guilty, we didn’t bother to follow up.” He didn’t explain why. Since mental patients don’t get time off for good behavior, and fewer doctors were willing to risk a lawsuit by certifying someone safe to let out, mentally ill offenders actually spent more time locked up than those who were sane and guilty. Thinnes didn’t care. Cecci was off the streets.
“It may be difficult to believe,” Dr. Tambourine said, “but she was once a promising biblical scholar, and she has an IQ of a hundred eighty. She was very close to getting her master’s when she had her first break—probably stress induced. Back then, unfortunately, the only antipsychotic they had was Thorazine. It’s so sad. If she were to have her first episode today, she might be able to lead a normal life.”
Maria Cecci was waiting for them in a cozy room without windows that reminded Thinnes of Caleb’s office. It was like a living room without a coffee table—it had comfortable seating and lots of Kleenex boxes. Serena was sitting quietly on one of the couches.
If he hadn’t seen it happen all the time for court appearances, Thinnes wouldn’t have believed the change in her since he’d seen her last. She’d traded her army surplus clothes for an attractive dress, and she was clean and well groomed.
Thinnes walked over and said, “Maria, do you remember Detective Oster and me? It was hard not to think of her as Sister Serena, hard to call her by her real name.
She glanced at him, then stared at her lap and said, “No.” She kept her hands still, not clasped, but one cupped in the other. “We’ve met?”
“We arrested you last March.”
She seemed to drift away, then come back without moving. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember. I was crazy last March.”
Thinnes let it go. “This is Dr. Caleb. He’s a psychiatrist.”
She nodded without looking up.
“Do you mind if we sit down?” Caleb asked.
She shrugged. She didn’t say yes or no. They sat.
“Would you tell us about the Conflagration Church, Maria?” Thinnes said.
“It was like the voices I hear in my head—not real, but life-like.” They waited; she finally said, “But I was raised Catholic.” There was another long pause, then: “I guess I needed something…And Brother John had a way—he was so sure! He just dragged you along…And he took me in and gave me a job.”
She paused again. She seemed drugged or so depressed it was an effort to talk. Thinnes wondered if he thought of depression because she really seemed depressed or because Caleb had planted the idea in his mind.
Serena added, “Not many will hire the mentally handicapped. He had big plans. Brother John. He was gonna start a revolution. Huh! Malcom X was right. Revolution is like a forest fire, it burns everything in its path. John was gonna give the world a new savior.” She shook her head. “Deep down all religions are the same. They promise you salvation if you’ll just let them do your thinking for you. But you get to do the time…”
Right on! Thinnes thought. He said, “Did John tell you the name of this savior?”
“No. I mean, I think he’s just the Wizard of Oz.”
Thinnes made a note to ask Caleb, later, what that was about. He said, “Ron Hughes told us how you and the others ambushed Officers Banks and Nolan.”
“I must have, if you say so. But I don’t remember. I’d been off my medication for a month by then.”
“Why did they kill Banks?”
She looked away. “I don’t know.” Normal reaction this time. Guilt? Remorse?
Oster asked, “Did they set anything else on fire besides the police car?”
“Not that I know.”
Thinnes asked, “What happened after the police car burned?”
She glanced at him, then looked away, shaking her head.
“Were they setting fires for profit?” Oster demanded.
She didn’t seem to have heard.
“Maria,” Thinnes said, “did Brian Fahey talk about retaliating against the police before the morning he killed Officer Banks?”
“He said he’d get even.”
“When? And did he say how?”
She shook her head. “Nobody believed him that I recall. But I don’t recall like I used to. I wasn’t myself or I would have told him what Dear Abby said.”
Caleb spoke for the first time since they’d sat down. “What did she say?”
“ ‘People who fight fire with fire end up with ashes.’ ”
Fifty-Nine
Friday. The overnight low had been seventy degrees and most of the forecasts were promising ninety. Oster came into the squad room looking like he should be going out—to the nearest emergency room. Thinnes couldn’t avoid asking, “You feeling okay, Carl?”
“Yeah.”
&nb
sp; “Oster,” the sergeant called. “You got a request to call a Mrs. Sophie Renzi, ASAP.” He gave Oster the number.
Oster said, “Thanks, Sarge.” To Thinnes he said, “If you’re goin’ downstairs, bring me back something cold, will you?”
When Thinnes returned, he put a can of Diet Sprite in front of Oster.
“What the hell is this?”
“All that was left.” It was getting hard to keep the machine stocked with anything cold. “I’ll give it to Swann, if you don’t want it.”
Oster grabbed the can and popped the top. He took a long swallow, as Thinnes sat down, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Mrs. Renzi—she’s my contact in the Catholic Ladies Bingo Society and Gossip Club—thinks she’s run down Ronzani’s sister.” Thinnes waited. “Seems that a Maria Ronzani, just off the boat, fell into the arms—make that hands—of one Eduardo Limardi, thought by Mrs. Renzi to have been connected.”
“That wouldn’t be a relative of our car salesman?”
“His father. Anyway, the Ronzanis were married in a civil ceremony because—among other things—Ed senior was divorced from his first wife.”
“Which would explain Mrs. Limardi’s reluctance to introduce her new husband to her family.”
“Exactly. Eventually Ed senior made his bones and the Limardis had two kids, a girl who died in a fire when she was ten or eleven and young Eddie. His old man came to the predictable bad end when the lad was eight or nine.”
“You got all this while I was downstairs getting drinks?”
“You were gone half an hour, and Mrs. Renzi’s a fast talker. But wait, it gets better. Mrs. Limardi remarried, this time in the church. And the guy she marries was Franco Ori.”
“She’s not the Mrs. Ori who owns our crime scene?”
“The very same.”
“Making Maggot Man Limardi’s cousin.”
“How’s that for a coincidence?”
“I don’t believe in coincidences.” Thinnes wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “So, did Mrs. Ori have any other kids?”
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