“I’m Fran Manz, and we need to talk. In person.”
As Mia sat in the window seat of her adoptive mother’s tenth-floor apartment, gazing down on Park Avenue, she thought to herself: Could the flowerbeds separating the lanes of traffic be more beautiful? Madeline, one of her alters, loved flowers, but hated heights, while Marion, another alter, couldn’t care less about flowers, but loved money and wearing expensive clothes.
Mia chose to think of her alters as friends and wondered if they thought of her in the same way. What was in it for them anyway—a temporary life they had little control of? One moment they’re here, and then in another, they’re gone. Mia knew that she owed them a debt she had no possible way of repaying. She asked Dr. Field to tell her alters how grateful she was for their sacrifices—for the suffering they endured so that she could live on without going completely mad. But according to the doctor, each time an alter did surface, they ignored all questions and talked incessantly until they virtually disappeared.
All things considered, Mia never understood why Melanie—an alter who became hysterical at the slightest provocation—existed at all. Somewhat claustrophobic, she hated going outside for fear something would fall from the sky and strike her dead. As a result, she disliked all birds.
Lisa was Mia’s favorite alter—kind, confident, and brave. Lisa handled herself with grace, poise, and intellectual bravado. If Mia could have melted away and morphed forever into Lisa’s consciousness, she gladly would have.
Then there was the alter whose name Mia could never remember––the alter who got her into the most trouble in the secure and safe world she found herself living in after…
Perhaps it was the byproduct of a slow healing process, but as Mia got older, she gradually began to remember more. Images, like a short reel of movie clips, would surface in the darkness behind her closed eyes. They would come in small doses, like underdeveloped photos—each recollection ending with a box cover slamming shut with Mia trapped inside. It was as if her subconscious was helping her slowly build an emotional resistance to the horror she had suffered—like a spiral staircase she had to climb in order to rid herself of the emotional baggage the cruelty of her captors saddled her with. Maybe it was the beginning of the end for her alters—their cue that it was time to reconcile, time to begin the difficult task of shedding her paralyzing fears and surviving alone without her protectors. Maybe this was their way of slowly saying goodbye with each painful remembrance.
But could there be closure and permanent healing without Mia and the world knowing the truth about what happened to her, and why she survived when so many little boys vanished without a trace?
I missed Maureen and wanted her with me, but the more the investigation moved along—and the more I came to know—the less I wanted her anywhere near Cartersville.
Just before I went to bed that night, I answered a call from an unknown number. It was Maureen.
“I see you bought a new phone, but didn’t keep your number,” I said.
“I need a fresh start, so why not?”
Despite the assault and the loss of her cellphone, Maureen was still upbeat. It was one of her qualities that I admired the most. Optimism didn’t exactly run in my family, nor did I pass it down. I thought of Maureen’s son overseas and wondered how much he was like her. I then reminded her to send him her new contact information. She responded that she already did.
Since I wanted to see her, even if it was a virtual visit, I called her back on FaceTime. Once she popped onto the screen, I noticed that she was lying under satin sheets with her head on a fluffy pillow.
“I’m glad to see you’re still at Charlotte’s,” I said.
“She’s a dreamboat, Nick. She even bought me a present—a blouse. It feels expensive.”
“My daughter is rich, Maureen. Her salary, plus bonuses at the hedge fund she manages, would make your head spin. Regardless, if Charlotte bought you something, it means she likes you, and nothing could make me happier.”
“She told me that since her boyfriend is out of town, she enjoys the company.”
“That’s not it at all. I know my daughter. She is fiercely independent. She invited you over because she wants to get to know you.”
“Are you sure it’s not just because she felt sorry for me––being alone in New York and all?”
“I am sorry about that. Really, I am. And how are you feeling?”
“Oh, just fine. My headaches are almost all gone. Pretty soon it will be like it never happened. When I think about it though, I do get afraid. So, despite how nice your penthouse is, I’m glad I’m here with Charlotte.”
“Good then. About the headaches…Charlotte can get you to a doctor.”
“No. Not necessary. I’m fine. Forget I said anything.”
“Okay, but just let her know if they continue.”
“That’s sweet of you, and with Charlotte, I couldn’t ask for a better caretaker. There’s a strong resemblance between you two, you know.”
“Now I know you’re going to need to see a doctor. Charlotte is all her mother, inside and out.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Maureen took a breath, and I sensed the conversation was about to veer a bit. “Nick…I…I hope I’m not talking out of turn, but I think Charlotte really misses her.”
A lump formed in my throat. I miss you, too, El. “Then I’m sure you’re a real comfort to her by being there,” I answered.
It was sweet of Maureen to bring up Eleanor and to be concerned about Charlotte. Maybe it was the mother in her, or maybe she just wanted to get me talking more about my past. Or maybe she just wanted to keep me talking, period. “I know so little about you,” she added. “You don’t talk or act like I would expect a rich man would. And how you care about me brings me to tears.”
“Of course, I care about you.” I thought again. If I needed to worry about her in bucolic Franklin, Tennessee, maybe I should be just as worried about her in New York City. “You shouldn’t be alone in my apartment, either. Why not just stay with Charlotte? I’m sure she’d love to have you until I get back. And when you go out, be careful. Don’t go out alone if you don’t have to.”
“I love you for worrying, but you’re worrying too much. Besides, Charlotte has to go to work. She has a very demanding position. And Nick, I also don’t want to stay cooped up until she comes home either.”
“I’m sorry. I know it seems like I’m being overprotective, but you can’t blame me considering.”
“You’re the sweetest, but I have an idea that may make you feel better, and me as well. Since we both have iPhones, we can share our locations. This way you’ll know where I am at all times.”
“Really? Well, I like that, and yes, it would make me feel better.” As Maureen proceeded to walk me through the app, a map popped up on my phone with her location on it—Charlotte’s address. “I like this,” I said. “And you know what? I feel closer to you already.”
“Great, now you can stop worrying about me.”
“I’m worried about you because I care about you. And by the way, I don’t act like a rich man because I don’t feel like one, and never will.” Despite our many months together, I had ducked almost all discussions about my past. Since Maureen didn’t like to talk about hers either, we kept it to a minimum. But it seemed like the right time to open up more, especially while apart. And so, I did—sordid history and all. Holding the screen image of her pretty face in my hand and watching her reaction while I gave the Cliff Notes version of my life was the best I could do at the moment.
In response, she appeared unfazed, told me she missed me, and asked if I knew when I would be returning.
“Not yet. I hope soon, but I can’t say for sure,” I answered. “Meanwhile, stay in New York, at least until we can figure out what went on in Franklin. And Maureen…”
“Yes.”
“I miss you, too.”
“Someone wants you back in Tennessee really bad, and enough to knock your girlfriend on the head to get you there,” Paul opined, while the four of us were having breakfast at a local coffee shop. Having known and worked with Paul for almost eight years, I was no longer shocked or amazed at how glib he could be about otherwise delicate topics.
“What in the world are you talking about?” I asked.
“Someone knew you were seeing her, which means you were followed, and I bet on more than one occasion,” Paul said.
“You’re speculating,” I answered.
“It was obvious you cared enough about this waitress to fly back to Tennessee the moment you heard she was hurt,” Paul added.
“I don’t like the sound of this,” Charlie interrupted. “If what Paul says is true, someone down South knew that for this woman, you would drop everything in New York and hurry back.”
“You’re both reaching. Besides, she wasn’t hurt that bad,” I answered.
“That may be where they slipped up,” Paul said. “She wasn’t hurt badly enough to keep you both there.”
Charlie was hanging on every word, and though Lauren couldn’t help but listen, her eyes were glued to her cellphone. “Hey guys, sorry to interrupt,” she said. “I just got an email from the process server I hired to serve Dr. Field with Mia’s doctor/patient waiver.”
“This should be interesting,” Charlie said dubiously.
“Oh yeah,” Lauren responded. “The doctor took one look at the papers and started screaming like a crazy woman, crumpled them up, and shoved the process server out the door.”
“I have a feeling it’s not the service of the waiver that upset her the most,” I said. “It’s the prospect of revealing information about Mia that her friend, Beatrice Langley, doesn’t want her to.” I turned to Paul. “With all these missing kids…any chance we could get the FBI involved?”
“I’ll ask Riggins,” he said. “But what we really need is proof we can count on that actual crimes were committed up here, and a whole lot more than a children’s book that may or may not connect Reginald Langley to a buried little boy. By the way, Nick, speaking of Riggins, he’s got more information for you on your girlfriend’s assault.”
“Why does it bother me when you call Maureen ‘my girlfriend’?” I sounded obnoxious, and didn’t care.
“Probably because we’re old friends, and I knew Eleanor,” Paul said plainly. “I also know more than anyone how much you loved her.”
“You can be a glib son of a bitch sometimes, you know that.”
“You’re only realizing that now?”
I took a breath and sighed. “So, now be glib when I want you to. What is it that Riggins wants to tell me, which I’m sure he told to you already?”
“While in Franklin, he paid a visit to Maureen’s landlord. Retired or not, he flashed his FBI ID, then asked the landlord to accompany him to Maureen’s apartment.”
“You mean the landlord had a key?” I asked.
“This is Tennessee, not New York,” Paul responded. “In Tennessee, you don’t worry about your landlord stealing your stuff or walking in at odd hours.”
“I don’t give my key to nobody,” Charlie said.
I let Charlie think what he would. At the Veterans’ Center, the front office had keys to all of the apartments.
“So, did the landlord let Riggins in? I asked Paul.
“Not really. When they got to Maureen’s apartment door, the landlord pulled out his key ring, and what do you know? Maureen’s was missing.”
As a senior board member of USadoptions.com, Fran Manz worked mostly from her home in Garden City South, Long Island, which is why she suggested that Jasmine meet her at a small Italian eatery called Caffe Barocco only a few blocks away.
It was a small restaurant with a short wraparound bar, specialty wines, and a separate intimate dining room with a closed door for privacy. When Jasmine arrived, it was inside that room where she found Fran, seated and waiting. Five-foot-eight, and with a girth as wide as a middle linebacker, at eighty-three-years old, Fran was quite the imposing figure.
“You are one very pretty young woman,” Fran announced, as Jasmine sat down across from her.
“Thank you,” Jasmine answered. She had been told this before.
Since the door to the private dining room was still open, a waiter popped in and asked for their drink order.
“They have the best salads,” Fran said.
“I might have some pasta…maybe some lasagna,” Jasmine responded.
“Yeah, right.” Fran chuckled, turning to the waiter. “Bring us two glasses of red wine and two of my favorite salads.” She turned to Jasmine. “Unless you want white?”
“No, red is fine.” Food and wine were not what Jasmine came for anyway.
The waiter nodded, returned quickly with the two glasses of red, and then hurried off.
“I checked you out,” Fran said, as she got up from the table and closed the door.
“What do you mean?” Jasmine asked coolly.
“According to my caller ID, you called me the other day from Garden City, so I figured this place would work for you.”
“It’s…fine,” Jasmine said curiously.
“I didn’t want to be seen coming or going from your office, just in case it’s being watched.”
“I doubt that, but this place is just fine. Not a problem.”
Fran sat down and held a sly smile for a moment. “Not a problem, you say,” Fran uttered. “When I was your age, we would just say ‘okay,’ or ‘that’s fine,’ but today, ‘not a problem’ is the adage. Thank God, it’s not a problem––one less thing to worry about.” Fran was mimicking someone much younger. “But I guess in your line of work, all you deal with is problems––huge and ugly ones.”
“Were you a Philosophy major in college?” Jasmine asked drolly.
“No, I was an English major, but I might as well have been a Philosophy major with all the existential nonsense we had to read.”
“I was actually kidding, Fran. I would have figured you for a math or science nerd. Something about you––your carefulness, the uncompromising sense I get about you.” Jasmine was serious, but at the same time she was trying to charm as well as disarm her lunch companion, whom she was beginning to feel a bit uncertain about.
Fran saw right through it and shook her off. “Like I said—you’ll like the salads here.”
Jasmine half smiled, and then got down to business. “Okay, you got me here in this private dining room with the door closed, while you know my office is investigating missing children in Cartersville, New York. So, tell me, Fran…There’s a group home for boys there, but no records I can find on any boys being adopted. Is there something you know that could help us?”
“I know plenty,” Fran said in a deadpan manner. “I was there during the scandal that nearly shut the place down for good. I even helped with the cover-up.”
Jasmine had an incomprehensible poker face. Whether she was at her computer, either hacking into state secrets or culling from the laptop of a child molester who’s been uploading images that would make a grown man shudder, her expression never wavered.
I have tried many times to crack her silent and serious shell, but to no avail. Considering how often I had financed her agency’s investigations—and consequently paid her salary with bonuses—you’d think she would at least pretend to be friendly. Not a chance. Thus, it was in character that the sum total of Jasmine’s reaction to Fran’s revelation was merely to take another sip of red wine.
“It was a school when I worked there,” Fran began. Keenly aware of the history of the orphanage/group home and its predecessor, the Mount Seneca Seminary, even Jasmine was surprised by Fran’s next remark. “I was a nun then, you know.”
In keeping with Jasmine�
��s cool demeanor, she responded: “Now a nun…I would not have taken you for.”
“Yeah, I know. I feel nothing like one today…and haven’t for a long time,” Fran said with a cynical air. “And I suppose I didn’t feel much like one back then either, especially toward the end. ‘Impure thoughts,’ you might say. Who could blame me? I was young—all these college boys at the seminary. Some were damn good-looking, too. Go figure. Celibacy? What a crock! And as for that scandal that eventually brought the whole place to its knees—it was a small wonder no one got arrested.”
“It was the 1950s. Priests don’t even get arrested today. They sure as hell didn’t get arrested back then,” Jasmine said indignantly.
“Priests? I’m referring to the attack. I saw that boy in the infirmary. The school administration burned his clothes afterward, including his underwear. Especially his underwear.”
“Attack? What attack? I’m talking about the affair between the student and the priest.”
“The affair? That boy was underage, and that priest was a predator, plain and simple.”
“Sorry, but this isn’t making much sense to me. Sure, priests have molested young boys before—but so violently that clothes had to be burned? And a seminary student?”
“Seminary student is not a disqualifier,” Fran said curtly. “Let me help you along here.” Fran paused. Another revelation was in the offing. “Remember: This was the Mount Seneca Seminary at the time—a combined high school and college for young men wanting to be priests. Therefore, you had young boys in the same building, studying along with young men just under the age of twenty-one on the verge of graduating college. Their classes were on different floors, as were their dorm rooms—but they were still housed in one building, just the same.”
Jasmine was on the edge of her seat and chomping at the bit to get a word in. “Which explains how a fifteen-year-old high school sophomore could have been attacked by an older boy of college age. Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
The Criminal Mind Page 12
