by Nancy Geary
“Why would she have done that if you didn’t know her well?” the male cop asked. Detective Harper. He’d try to remember the name.
Bill felt stinging in his eyes. The last thing he needed right now were tears, but it was hard to avoid emotion and explain that he would have done anything for this woman he’d never met. He put his palms together and rested his lips on his fingertips, concentrating on the slight pain he experienced as he pressed his nails against his mouth. When he spoke, he felt the words stick in his throat. “She . . . she gave me the only things that have ever mattered to me in my life.”
The female detective seemed excited by his answer. “Foster and Avery?” she asked.
He nodded. She knew. “My wife and I adopted her twins at birth. And they are . . . were . . . are . . .” He couldn’t bear to articulate Foster’s fate.
“Foster died last January,” Carson announced as though it was the latest traffic update.
“We’re very sorry for your loss. It must have been devastating.”
Her tone sounded sincere, and he wondered if she was about to come over to him. There was something empathetic in her demeanor, plus she was attractive, and for a moment his mind flashed, imagining a kiss. But she stayed in her seat.
“How did you come to adopt them?”
“That question may call for privileged communication,” Carson offered.
“So what? Are you telling him not to answer?” Harper’s voice was hostile. He perched on the edge of his seat, looking as if he might spring at any moment. Bill had never known all the details of the Abernathy murder investigation, but there was clearly no love lost between this member of the Homicide Unit and his managing partner. Now Carson’s designer tie and the throat around which it knotted were in imminent danger.
“What are you hiding?” Lucy added.
“Young lady, I suggest—”
“‘Detective’ to you,” she responded.
Carson’s smile was devilish. “I like feistiness in a woman.”
Bill didn’t want a fight. In fact, part of him had the urge to tell the story of how he came to be a father, the one he’d never said aloud before, the events that had changed his life forever. “I’m sure we can provide you with what you want to know. Let’s just work together to figure out what we can disclose consistent with our ethical obligations.”
“I had represented Dr. Reese in the dissolution of her marriage in the midseventies,” Carson said, clearly wanting to control the release of information. “She approached me again approximately seventeen years ago. She was still unmarried but had become pregnant with twins. She wanted to place the babies privately immediately after birth, and asked me to help.”
“Who was the father?”
“She never said. She told me very little except that she’d arranged to take a leave from her medical studies, and planned to give birth at a hospital in New Mexico. She wanted the utmost discretion. She asked that I place her children with a good family.”
“Weren’t you legally required to give notification?”
Carson raised his eyebrows and scowled. Bill had seen that expression before—at depositions when Carson was just about to eviscerate a witness, at partners’ meetings as a prelude to his diatribe on productivity, and at associate evaluations, just before an announcement that a fifth year was fired. “There are thousands of children born each year—hundreds in Philadelphia alone—whose fathers are never identified. In some cases the mother doesn’t know who the man is, or it could be one of many; in others the gentlemen in question simply disappear or move on. The only unusual component of Morgan’s case was that she was Caucasian and affluent. But it is absolutely legal to adopt a child—or children—without paternal consent if consent can’t be obtained. Adequate legal notification and perfect paternal identification are two very different concepts.”
“So you approached Bill?” she asked, shifting the conversation.
“Carson and I are old friends,” Bill replied, although his voice sounded strange. Carson had hired him directly out of law school. He still remembered their interview at the Charles Hotel in Cambridge, the one at which all out-of-town firms took rooms when their partners came to recruit at Harvard Law School. He’d intended to do what Carson wanted, to go into domestic relations work, to accept a mentor relationship, and to be groomed as the heir apparent to Carson’s substantial portfolio of billings. But it hadn’t gone as planned. A corporate crisis was one thing—handling irate executives, lost stock value, heated mergers, and complex accounting issues—but the desolation and sorrow of divorce work were too much. He hadn’t wanted to hear one more pitiful wife calling for help, or the details of one more husband’s infidelities. When he’d changed departments, he’d never expected to deal with another matrimonial dissolution in his life. He’d certainly never expected to be a client himself.
“My wife and I wanted children. I’d talked to Carson before about adoption. He knew the law. He’d explained what our options were. We’d been exploring an overseas placement when he came to me with the idea of taking Morgan’s twins. For my wife and me, it was the supreme gift.”
He and Faith had flown into Albuquerque late on a Thursday night. Neither of them had slept a wink in the $39-a-night airport Hilton where the air-conditioning was on despite the cool temperature, and the paper-thin walls kept them apprised of a gambler’s bad luck and worse temper on one side, and an adulterous affair on the other. Early the next morning, they’d started toward Los Alamos in a white rental car with two empty child seats in the back. It had been pitch-black, and Faith had fallen asleep with her head resting against the window. As he drove, a brilliant sunrise illuminated the huge sky and red earth. Gazing across miles of flatland sprinkled with cacti and low brush to mountains beyond, he’d known his life was about to be transformed.
“Did you have any contact with Morgan at that point?” Lucy’s voice drew him back to the conference room.
“No. She didn’t want to know the identity of the prospective parents,” Carson answered.
“She trusted Carson. We never met her,” Bill added.
They’d arrived four hours early—the designated time was three o’clock. He’d been startled when what appeared to be an adobe complex turned out to be a Catholic hospital: Our Lady of Grace Medical Center. Even the name seemed prescient. In a dubiously labeled “waiting room,” they’d done just that. It was cold; there was little light. There were no back issues of Parents magazine or People or Good Housekeeping or even Car and Driver to keep them occupied. Faith had jumped up and down to stay warm, while he’d paced the room. They’d barely spoken and never touched.
He’d had a glimmer that afternoon that somehow their marriage wouldn’t survive. He’d expected them to huddle together on the wooden bench, to talk about their future family. He’d been so excited that he would even have been content to hear about his wife’s plans for decorating the nurseries. Instead they were silent, lost in their own thoughts and different dreams. But his apprehension disappeared when an elderly Native American nun appeared, a wizened woman in a black habit, and handed them each a bundle: Foster to him and Avery to Faith, the sweetest blue-eyed babies he’d ever seen.
He’d grabbed the folder of medical files, and they’d gotten back in the car as fast as they could.
Bill now turned to look at his audience. Detective O’Malley seemed to be smiling, as if she’d read his mind and shared in his happy memory. “Although I had very much wanted to meet Morgan, the anonymity she requested appealed to my wife, too, so I kept my mouth shut,” he forced himself to add. “Everything went along accordingly. If you know of Foster’s death, you know it was difficult—challenging perhaps is a better word. And then she wrote to us. It was in April—this past April.”
“Why?”
“She’d managed to piece together that Foster and Avery were the babies she’d given up in New Mexico.”
“Do you know how?”
He shrugged at the hundred-thousan
d-dollar question. “I’ve wondered about that more times than you can imagine. The only thing I can come up with—really the only connection—is that David Ellery was Foster’s treating psychiatrist at the time of his suicide, and I suspect Ellery gave her information she shouldn’t have had. It had to come from somewhere.”
“Violating patient confidentiality,” Carson added.
That wasn’t all that prick of a man had violated. Bill couldn’t think about him without feeling his blood run hot. He’d given press conferences to cover his tracks before Foster’s autopsy was even completed. He hadn’t cared about Foster’s memory; he’d been desperate to protect his reputation and professional judgment. Bill had been so filled with rage that he’d wanted to kill. But being angry with the psychiatrist helped him get through the pain of his enormous loss. It was easier to think of Ellery’s evils than of life without Foster or of how he’d failed his son.
“Yes. I suppose that’s right. But I guess I can’t blame him,” he said, wanting to sound rational, calm. “I can’t blame anybody. We’d tried everything to help Foster. I’m not sure there was anything in the world anyone could do. What do they say—if someone really wants to kill himself, he will?”
“What happened when Morgan did contact you?”
Bill stared into her eyes, wishing the others would leave the room. “As I said, we got a letter. Morgan wanted to meet Avery. She wanted to explain herself.” He poured himself some water and took a long sip. The cool liquid soothed his dry throat. “The adoption issue—or rather its disclosure—had been a source of bitter debate between my wife and me. She had been adamant that we not tell the children they were adopted, but I had eventually prevailed upon her to tell them the truth. I’d always thought secrecy was a mistake. I think she acquiesced in part because we had no information to give them about their biological parents. She felt protected by that. There would be no one for them to search for. So we’d told them at Christmastime. It was very difficult, more so than I’d expected, especially for Foster. In retrospect . . .” He couldn’t bring himself to finish his sentence.
Since the afternoon he’d discovered Foster’s body, he’d been asking himself why he’d been so persistent about telling his children that they weren’t genetically his. What did it matter? They were a family. He adored them. But deep inside he’d known they were living a lie. He’d convinced himself that revealing the truth would make no difference. And he’d prayed it would help his marriage. He and Marissa were seriously involved by then. Her active mind, her ambition, her youthful body had made him feel alive, and yet he’d felt desperate at the thought of losing his family. Maybe, just maybe, telling the kids the truth would draw them all closer, would activate some sort of spark with his wife in their shared ordeal. They would need to come together as a unit. Her apprehension, her fear, was his fault, or so he’d told himself. Her dreams had always been caught up in the children, even more so than his. He’d certainly never encouraged her to focus on anything else. But he’d been wrong about the value of the truth—horribly and irrevocably wrong. And Faith had thrown that in his face, blaming him every single day since.
By the time they’d received Morgan’s letter, he’d wanted to hurt her as badly as he’d been hurt. If she felt threatened, so be it. He didn’t care. He needed to lash out at someone, something. He’d lost his son. She should lose her daughter, too.
None of it was particularly rational or noble. Now that he’d made a fresh start, he knew that. Marissa had helped him realize that. Maybe someday Faith would forgive him as he’d forgiven himself.
“You have to understand that learning of Morgan’s existence came at a particularly bad time for us, although I suppose no time would have been good. We . . . we . . . had decided to separate.”
“Faith’s mentally unbalanced,” Carson announced, as if he were practicing how the phrase would sound to a judge.
“But still,” Lucy said, “listing you as a reference on her job application preceded her letter to you about your children. I don’t understand that.” Her tone seemed genuinely baffled, not accusatory. He appreciated her mild manner.
Carson glared at her. “I know what you’re thinking, Detective. It was I who gave Bill’s name to Morgan and advised her to list him on her application.” He swiveled his chair to face the table. “Morgan was a remarkable woman but she lacked ordinary friends. She was too busy, too driven. With all the tremendous work she was doing—much of which involved children—there wasn’t time. She wanted this job and she was a perfect candidate. What difference did it make that she couldn’t produce some ridiculous woman to claim she was a marvelous hostess, wore understated couture, and shot a round of golf below eighty on a bad day? This absurd notion of well-roundedness—I’ve never understood it. Did anyone fault Sir Isaac Newton for being single-minded? The dilettante will be the demise of our society, mark my words.”
“Thanks for the social commentary, but you still haven’t told us how Bill managed to be the reference,” Harper interrupted.
“That’s my point. You’re not criticized for your quest. As a detective, you’re allowed to ‘Stick to the facts, Mac.’ Nobody faults you for not also being able to roast a rosemary chicken. Dr. Reese wanted me to be her reference. I wasn’t actively representing her. Our professional relationship had been courteous. She needed help, and I would have been honored to provide it. But even I can accept that some people aren’t the best acquaintances to show off if you are seeking political office, and the directorship of the Wilder Center was just that. I was flattered, but she was naive about the liability I might be to her quest. I’ve caused my share of controversy. So I told her to list Bill instead. I could give him whatever information he’d need.”
“How did you think you could get away with that?”
“How? We did! If the poor woman hadn’t been murdered, she’d be taking the job. She had dozens of glowing professional references. I knew the nominating committee was unlikely to ever check personal ones. And if they did, I could have coached him. As he’s just told you, she had given him his greatest gift. What higher accolade can a man have for a woman?”
“Did you ever tell Avery about Morgan?”
He’d been listening in a fog. He’d heard his name mentioned, but had felt as though he’d disappeared. Now the detective’s question brought him back to the room. They wanted to know what his daughter knew about the situation.
“Yes. Yes, I did. We did,” he stammered. “Although it was against my wife’s wishes. But I felt it was the right thing to do. My daughter’s a grown woman. She’s nearly in college. I wanted her to have a choice.”
He’d fully expected some sort of reaction from Avery when he’d disclosed Morgan’s letter. Throughout her adolescence, she’d had her share of temper tantrums over issues of far less importance than the identity of her biological mother. But she’d listened calmly, almost without affect, and hadn’t asked a single question, or at least not at first. He’d wondered whether she’d heard him correctly, and he’d even gone so far as to repeat himself.
“Do you know whether they were in contact?”
“I don’t. I gave Avery the information we had and left the decision up to her. By that point Morgan’s name had been all over the papers in connection with the Wilder Center. Information was easy to come by. I also told Avery that if there was anything she wanted or needed to discuss with me, I would try my best to answer. She hasn’t raised the issue since. But I can’t tell you what conversations she might have had with Faith.”
“Are you aware that she’s a beneficiary of Morgan’s life insurance?”
“Life insurance?” He shook his head. “I was not. But I expect paper-work would have gone to our house in Gladwyne. I haven’t been back. Faith forwards only the bills, and even those arrive late.”
“Does your daughter have any history of mental illness?” Harper asked.
“How in hell’s name is that relevant?” Leedes said before Bill could respond.
/> “I know what you’re thinking, Detective, given Foster’s . . . situation. But I can assure you that Avery is different. She’s outspoken and strong-willed. She seems quite sure of herself and has never had a problem getting what she wants. I’ve never seen signs of anything like depression.”
“Is she right- or left-handed?”
The question startled him. “Right-. Right-handed.”
“And where is she now?”
“Avery is at an all-girls preparatory school in Maryland. A place called Garrison Forest. She’s taking her final exams in the next several days. I imagine with all that has happened in the past six months, she’ll be quite happy to be home for the summer.”
“How can we reach her?”
“As I said, she’ll be here in a week. I can arrange something with you once she’s here.”
“And Bill will be present at any interview. She is a minor,” Carson instructed.
He shook his head. “I can be there if she wants me to be. It’s up to her. As I said, I’m done treating her as a child.”
“Do you know whether she’s aware of Morgan’s death?” This time, O’Malley asked the question. Her voice was a pleasant change from the aggressive tone Harper had taken to fire his barrage of inquiries.
“I haven’t told her. But I suspect Faith will have by now, no doubt with some degree of relief. Nobody wants a tragedy to strike, but I’m sure my wife wasn’t too disappointed to learn that the source of her fears had been destroyed.”
Jack and Lucy were silent on the way down in the elevator. Bill’s parting comments implied that Faith Herbert had joined the crowd of celebrators over Morgan’s death, but it was no doubt a comment born of complicated emotions. The man was obviously distraught over the loss of his son, and no one ended a marriage feeling nothing.
A bell rang, the elevator stopped, and a fat woman carrying two full shopping bags waddled on at the fourth floor. She smiled as she awkwardly pushed her way in and struggled to turn around. Lucy moved closer to the wall and focused on the illuminated buttons to avoid staring at the several black hairs that protruded from a large mole on the woman’s ear.
