by Lisa Mancini
“What about Sydney? Was she a virgin? Did the coroner check for that?” asked Freya.
“Hmmm, let me see, I’ll read the autopsy report again,” said Ramirez as she turned to her computer. She tapped away for a few seconds and then her eyes got big.
“OMG as my daughter says, we have a note here by the coroner that Sydney’s hymen was not intact and there was scar tissue surrounding her vaginal opening.”
Freya jumped out of her chair. “Well, can we do something with that? Can we go to her parents and bring them in on this? I mean, if I had a 12 year old girl who was raped at a party,” said Freya in air quotes, “I’d want to know so I could kick the guy’s ass who raped her, you know?”
“I like the way you think Barrett. Have you ever thought of working in law enforcement? You’re a natural.” She stood up and faced Freya. “Let’s visit Ms. Sander’s parents. I’ll call first just to let them know we’re on the way. Grab your jacket, come on!” said Ramirez as she rushed out the door with Freya following behind.
Freya and Ramirez walked quickly to the parking lot behind the police station. Freya got in the Dodge Charger on the passenger side. The last time she rode in a police vehicle was after her friend Heather Lind had been murdered. She’d ridden with then Deputy Mott to her dorm. Suddenly becoming sad at the thought of her dead friend, she decided to change the subject.
“What’s your daughter’s name?”
Ramirez smiled. “Marisol. There are many different meanings attributed to the name, like sun or sea and even solitude, but I just like the way it sounds,” said the detective.
Freya smiled. “My mother named me Freya after the Norse goddess of love and fertility. It took her forever to get pregnant after my brother Jake came along. She wanted something unique too,” said Freya fondly.
“My dad made me read Joseph Conrad as a kid because he wrote, Freya of the Seven Isles. It’s a novella and has the distinction of having a woman as the lead character. It’s a romance but I had a hard time following it. Conrad is not easy for a fourteen year old,” said Freya.
“I like Danielle Steele myself,” said Ramirez. “It’s not too deep and there’s usually a happy ending.”
They parked in the driveway at Sydney Sander’s house. It was a large Georgian colonial with a paneled front door and five shuttered windows adorning the top front face of the house. Made of brick, it was two stories high and had a huge front yard bordered by a formal garden.
Both of Sydney’s parents were cardiologists at Mercy Regional. Neither had returned to work yet. Ramirez rang the doorbell. A petite dark haired woman answered the door. You didn’t have to be a psychic to know that she was Sydney’s mom. Bleary eyed and emitting sadness only seen at funerals or wakes, Dr. Marsha Sanders invited them inside.
She led them to a massive room taking up almost the entire right side of the home, combining a dining room, game room, and old-fashioned living room. It was decorated in the Georgian colonial style, very lovely and very classy. Freya always marveled at how the extreme rich lived with their expensive furniture and their antiques on display.
As elaborate as it was though, the home felt like a tomb. And Freya wanted this meeting over as soon as possible. She felt the weight of pent-up tension as she entered the overly decorated room and sat on the silk covered divan. She and Ramirez remained silent until both Drs. Sanders took their seat across from them on a matching divan.
Dr. Marsha Sanders spoke first. “Detective, do you have any new information?” she asked in a shaky voice.
Ramirez referred to the note in the autopsy report.
“Were you aware that your daughter was technically not a virgin?”
Both parents looked at each other. Again, Sydney’s mom did the talking. “Yes, we are aware of that notation,” she said icily. “Are you asking us if our daughter was promiscuous?” she asked, her voice rising.
“No ma’am,” said Ramirez. “It’s actually the opposite. We have reason to suspect that your daughter was sexually assaulted back in July at a party. Did either of you notice any change in Sydney beginning in middle to late July?”
The tension in the room peaked. Freya sat still and said nothing. Both Drs. Sanders again looked at each other. They knew. Or, they suspected something had happened. Freya waited. Finally, Dr. Marsha Sanders spoke and her words were chilling.
“I knew something had happened but not that. She wanted to cut her hair. I walked in on her one night and she had the scissors ready to cut off her long black hair. When I asked her why, she told me. Do you know what she said?” Crying now, Dr. Sanders grabbed her husband’s hand for support.
“She said, ‘Mom, I don’t want to be pretty on the outside if I’m ugly on the inside.’
“I didn’t know what that meant and I never asked! I didn’t want to know. Sydney was an extremely independent child but also very dramatic. I mean, she was a teen-age beauty queen. I figured it was some sort of adolescent self-made drama. I never asked…..”
Dr. Marsha Sanders dissolved into tears. The interview over, Detective Ramirez stood and walked with Sydney to the front door. Ramirez handed her business card to the housekeeper, Dalisay, who walked them out.
“Please give this to Dr. Sanders, Dalisay. Let them know they can call me anytime.”
“Wait, detective, I think I may know something,” said the little woman whispering softly. She walked them to the end of the driveway.
“Last month a boy showed up here looking for Miss Sydney. He wouldn’t give a name so I told her a boy wanted to speak with her but it wasn’t Mr. Logan. Well, Miss Sydney rushed down the stairs and when she saw who it was, she got the weirdest look on her face. I never saw that look before. Then, she slammed the door in his face. She ran back upstairs and didn’t even come down to dinner and I made her favorite that night – chicken adobo.”
Freya’s heart beat faster and even Ramirez seemed excited by the news.
“Could you identify this young man if you saw him again?” asked Ramirez.
“Oh yes! I’ll never forget that face. He was so stuck-up and rude. I will never forget that face!” she repeated.
“Great, I want you to come down to the police station tomorrow to file a report, can you do that?” asked Ramirez. “And here is a card for you, call me day or night. Thank you.”
Freya and Detective Ramirez drove back to police headquarters. Both were excited at the prospect of an actual witness. Freya’s cell suddenly buzzed. It was a text from her boyfriend, Erik.
Grandfather died-going to Montreal-will call tonight.
What grandfather? Men! She’d been dating Erik for a year now and she still didn’t know much about him.
“What’s up?” asked Ramirez.
Freya filled her in. Ramirez snorted a laugh.
“My husband was the same way, that’s one of the reasons we divorced eventually. Sorry,” she said noticing Freya’s expression. “But, if you don’t have good communication, you can’t have a long lasting relationship. There, that’s my 34 year old wisdom,” finished the detective as she pulled into the parking lot. Freya said good-bye and walked to where she’d parked her vehicle. She texted Erik back.
Travel safely. Talk to you soon.
She got into her red Ford Escape and drove home.
CHAPTER SEVEN
After arriving home, Freya started on dinner. Her new home on Moon Brook Drive was her castle. She was very proud of the Dutch colonial she’d purchased a few months back. With her job at the paper, she made enough to cover her mortgage payments. The down payment came from a generous gift from the late Judge Maurice Pringle.
Grateful to her for reuniting him with a long-lost relative before his death, he bequeathed her the grand sum of $250,000. Freya invested most of it for her future, but kept enough for a down payment in case she wanted to buy a home. Freya thought the time was right to live on her own. Jake, engaged now and planning a wedding to his longtime girlfriend Lorna Boudreaux, solidified her decision.
Dexter was her torbie cat that she picked up at the local animal shelter recently. Her last cat had passed away a couple years back and she now felt ready for a new feline friend. Her brother wanted her to get a dog, a big one for protection. But dogs are more work than cats. Cats were independent and cleaner too. No walks and they could be left home alone during the day. Maybe she’d get a dog someday, but not now. For now, it was just her and Dexter.
“Dexter, I’m home!” she sang out.
And within seconds, the cat appeared. He jumped from his cat tree that sat in front of her back window. Dexter loved to watch the birds. He was an indoor cat so Freya reasoned that the kitchen window was his form of TV. Birds, squirrels, chipmunks, raccoons, weasels and even foxes, came down out of the woods behind Freya’s house. And Dexter observed them all.
MEOW!
“Okay, okay, here’s your dinner,” she said as she poured a half a cup of Rachel Ray’s dry food into a blue cat dish with the name Dexter on it. He circled her legs almost tripping her and eventually settled down to his dinner. Freya returned to making her own.
An hour later and dishes washed; Freya sat down in front of her computer and attempted to finish her paper for psychology class. A junior at Claremont College, her major was journalism but her minor was psychology. Her paper called, Rape Culture on American Campuses was almost finished. She just needed a strong emotional conclusion. But writers block inhibited that. It was unusual for her not to have any ideas. After all, she was a writer, wasn’t she? What was her problem? Then she knew what she had to do. Ask Rothstein.
Dr. Rose Rothstein was Freya’s former professor at Claremont. She’d taken a leave of absence due to her lung cancer diagnosis last summer. Freya didn’t have any classes with her this semester but she kept in touch with the woman and she had become a close friend and a mentor. Freya texted her. Rothstein texted back.
Stop by. I’m free.
Freya locked up and drove over to Rothstein’s house. Freya knocked and her professor answered the door in a faded Ramones t-shirt and leggings. They hugged and Freya took a seat on Rothstein’s overstuffed leather couch overlooking the back garden. The women made small talk and then Freya got down to business.
“I’m stumped. I’m finishing an important paper on the rape culture on college campuses and I can’t seem to finish the thing. I’d like to end on an emotional or personal note but I can’t this time.”
Rothstein was silent as she considered what Freya had told her. Then, she said with her normal deadpan expression, “you’ve never been raped, that’s why.”
Freya was about to remind her about her almost rape last year but Rothstein stopped her.
“I know, I know, you were almost raped, but it’s not the same thing. Try using the point of view of someone who has been raped. It’s not always about you.”
Freya was surprised and a little hurt that she would say that. Yes, it was not always about her but since Rothstein was diagnosed with lung cancer, her personality had changed a bit. That happened, Freya knew from her research into cancer patients that their personality changed. Many are mad at getting sick, others get very depressed, and some even get angry at the living or the healthy. Rothstein had gone through all of that, Freya had observed. She decided to follow the advice of Taylor Swift and shake it off. Not wanting a confrontation with her friend, she changed the subject.
“So, what are your plans for next semester? Are you coming back part-time?”
Rothstein arched her back, reminding Freya of her cat Dexter. Rothstein smiled then, a rare sight for the woman. She was not known to smile often.
“Yes, I’m coming back next semester. I’ll just be teaching one class and I can’t wait. My treatments have gone well and my doctor signed off on it this week.
The women talked for another hour and Freya left for home. As much as her mentor enjoyed the visit, she tired easily these days and Freya could see the fatigue in her eyes. Driving home, she reflected on what Rothstein had said. Freya should talk to some rape survivors. Then she got an idea. Call Ramirez. She might be able to point Freya in the right direction. Liking that idea, Freya drove home and went straight to bed.
The next day, Freya went to her morning classes and then straight over to the police station to see Detective Ramirez. The woman was in her office when Freya walked in. She explained what she needed and Ramirez told her to sit down, she’d be glad to help.
“I thought it would be a stronger paper if I added the feelings of someone who has actually gone through it. But I don’t know anyone who has been raped.”
“You’d be surprised. One out of four women in this country has been sexually assaulted so you probably do know someone. They just never told you. There is a support group in the nearby town of Castleton. I can give you the address. It’s very hush-hush, but I’ll let them know you’re coming. It meets every Thursday night.” Ramirez gave her the address. Freya thanked her and left.
Freya drove to the Beacon, the local paper she worked at weekdays. She pulled into the parking lot and walked into the back entrance. Making her way to her desk, she immediately checked her messages. Nothing from Erik, he never called or texted last night.
Figures, she thought. But, there was an email from Duke. He was still in Boston but would be back Saturday night. Did she want to meet at his house for burgers? And with Erik gone, she was a free woman, wasn’t she? She emailed him back one word –YES.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Freya spent her morning in class. But as soon as her last class ended, she drove as quickly as she could to her office at the Beacon. She had a lead. Last night someone called the anonymous tip line and said they knew who had taken Hannah Baker. The person wouldn’t give their name but the call was traced to a Lake Bomoseen residence. A mild day for early November, Freya decided to drive out there. The police already disregarded the tip as a waste of time but Freya had a hunch it would pay off.
She drove to the lake passing through the town of Castleton, located to the west of Agatha Falls. The town was settled in 1770 and by 1777; the town consisted of seventeen families. The railroad arrived in 1854 and the late 1800’s saw tourism expand around Lake Bomoseen.
Castleton was famous for its mile-long Main Street with an assortment of Federal and Greek Revival style houses and public buildings, many by builder and architect, Thomas Royal Dake. Many tours took visitors by the Castleton Federated Church to show off the lovely carved pulpit believed by many to be Dake’s masterpiece.
Freya arrived at the house by the lake and walked down the path leading to a red wooden door. The little summer rental looked vacant until she saw a face in the window looking back at her. It was an older woman. She seemed shocked to see someone at her back door. Freya wasn’t surprised. There weren’t many people on the lake this late in the year. Winter was coming. Only a fool would live on the lake during a New England winter, thought Freya.
The lake effect as it was known, caused lake-effect snow that was produced when a cold air mass moved over a warmer body of water, like a lake. The air picked up the water vapor from the lake, rose up through the colder air high above it, froze it, and deposited it on the shore. This was a phenomenon seen quite often by those living in New England.
“Hello, can I speak with you? My name is Freya Barrett. I understand that you left a tip with the tip line regarding Hannah Baker’s disappearance.”
The woman looked petrified now. Good job, Freya. How can I fix this? Think.
“Hi, I’m sorry to bother you but can I come in? It’s really chilly out here,” she said, pulling her coat around her. The woman relented and opened the door wider for Freya to enter. She walked into a small but cozy kitchen that smelled of baked apples.
“Do I smell apples baking? Mmm, that’s a great sm
ell.”
The woman smiled then and offered Freya a seat. She went back to the stove, poured two cups of tea, and handed one to Freya.
“I don’t get too many visitors out here. What you said before, I never called any tip line. But I think I know who did, follow me.”
Freya followed the woman into a small bedroom off from a tiny dining room. In the bed, lay an even older woman, wizened and very pale. She appeared to be asleep but her eyes fluttered open as they entered her room.
“Ma, get up, there’s someone here to see you.”
Ma? How old is this woman?
“What! Who’s here to see me? Is it Myrtle?” she asked in a surprisingly loud voice.
“No Ma, it’s a girl. Did you call a tip line?”
The old woman in the bed shut her eyes for a moment giving Freya the impression she was falling asleep. But, she opened them again and said, “Yes! I did. I saw that girl on the TV. Hannah, she was next door. I just know it.”
Her daughter rolled her eyes. She motioned to Freya to follow her out into the hallway.
“My mother is senile. She didn’t see anything.”
Freya nodded as if understanding. But her hunch told her that this woman knew something and her hunches were never wrong.
“Well, as long as I am here, let me hear what she has to say. I won’t take long, okay?”
The woman shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’ll be in the TV room watching Jeopardy if you need me.”
She walked off leaving Freya alone with the old woman. Freya pulled a chair over beside the bed. She sat down and before she could speak, the woman began a litany of grievances about her daughter. Apparently, they were leaving in a couple days to head back to Indiana, where they resided during the fall and winter months. Laverne, her daughter, was a widow and her children had all grown up and moved on. So, it was just her and her daughter. Maude, as she was called, had diabetes and a great deal of trouble walking, so she spent most of her time in bed either watching TV or looking out the window. She would be ninety-five in December.
