The Silenced Women

by Frederick Weisel

  “Another witness told us that Elise seemed fearful lately,” Mahler said. “Did she say anything to you about something she was afraid of?”

  “No, but she wouldn’t want to worry me. I was never afraid someone would hurt her. I thought she’d hurt herself. When she was eleven, she cut herself. She bought penknives and cut her wrists. Sometimes too deep, and I’d find blood in the bathroom sink. When she was fourteen, we were arguing about something at the dinner table. She took a steak knife and jabbed half the blade into her thigh.” Durand’s voice cracked. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Do you remember anything else she said in that phone call?” Eden asked.

  “No. I should have written it down. Elise had a beautiful voice.” Durand looked at Mahler. “Did she say anything before she died? Did she speak to you?”

  The question caught Mahler off guard, so far was it from the reality of the victim’s homicide and discovery by the police. For an instant, he remembered leaning close to the dead woman on the park bench and imagining her voice. “No…no, she didn’t.”

  “Do you know where Elise was Monday night?” Mahler asked.

  “You mean that night?”

  “Yes, that night.”

  “No. I hadn’t spoken to her since that last call. On Sunday she sent me an email with a photo of a new dress.” Durand took out her phone and poked its screen. She turned it toward Mahler to reveal the victim in a pale blue dress. Elise Durand smiled at the camera.

  Eden pointed to the phone. “Did she send any photos of her friends?”

  “I can look. I don’t think so.”

  “Did she have a boyfriend?”

  Durand sighed. “My daughter never knew how to act with boys. She was…too friendly.”

  “Was she seeing anyone lately?”

  “She said this one boy liked her. According to Elise, he was rich and could buy her anything. I teased her, you know, and asked if they were serious. She said she didn’t think it would work out. There was something wrong with him.”

  Mahler nodded. “Something wrong?”

  “She never told me what it was exactly, but I thought, the way she spoke, it was drugs. Don’t ask me why. Something about him being different.”

  “What was his name?”

  “She didn’t say. She was always very private that way.”

  “Did she mention someone named Benjamin Thackrey?” Eden asked.

  “Is he the one who did this thing?”

  “We don’t know. We think whoever did this had friends. Did Elise ever mention this boy’s friends?”

  “As a matter of fact, she said he was always with his friends, and she didn’t appreciate that.”

  Mahler watched Durand. “Did she talk about a work project for a company called DivingBell?”

  “No, I’m sorry. It’s a funny name. I’d remember if she did.”

  Mahler waited a moment to see if Durand would say more. Then he said, “I believe that’s all the questions we have. If you think of anything else, please call us.”

  “Can you let me know when I can take my daughter home? I want to have her in Pennsylvania near me.”

  “Yes, ma’am. As soon as we can.”

  Durand leaned toward Mahler. “Elise wasn’t a bad girl. She tried hard to do the right thing.”

  “This wasn’t Elise’s fault, Ms. Durand,” Mahler told her. “We’re going to find who did this.”

  Carol Durand looked at Eden. “She missed her father. My husband, Sebastien, didn’t want a family. He gave Elise her name and books of poetry, and then he left. He hated a child’s noise—the crying. He was very sensitive to sounds. He liked only beautiful sounds in the house. He’d say, ‘Carol, chérie, can’t you take her outside?’ He wanted to be a composer, but he didn’t have the talent. He had other jobs, tending bar, pouring drinks, where he learned to be an alcoholic. He was a disappointed man. I disappointed him. Elise disappointed him. Everything disappointed him.”

  The room fell silent.

  Mahler stood to leave. “Thank you for speaking with us, Ms. Durand. We appreciate your taking the time.”

  “You look familiar, Mr. Mahler.” The woman looked up at him and smiled. “I think Elise mentioned you. Did you know her?”

  Mahler smiled back and shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t.”

  Durand reached across the table and took Mahler’s right hand in her own. “When I saw Elise just now, lying in that room, she looked so neat and still. Not at all hurt. I wanted to thank you for taking such good care of my daughter.”

  Mahler looked down at the spot where the woman held his hand. He felt her squeeze his fingers. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry for your loss, Ms. Durand.” He gently pulled away.

  For a moment, the woman’s hand hung suspended in the air, and Mahler wondered if he should reach out to hold it again. But she slowly settled back in her chair, and he watched her recede into herself once more.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  (i)

  (THURSDAY, 12:08 P.M.)

  A balding, red-faced man stood behind the table in the interview room. The visitor, who wore a wrinkled shirt and baggy corduroys, held a large envelope in one hand.

  Coyle peered at the name tag pasted on the man’s chest. “Rushton Tyndale?”

  “Rushton Allan Tyndale,” the man said. “37 Rolling Oak Crescent, Santa Rosa.”

  Coyle sat at the table and waved Tyndale into a chair opposite him. He covered his mouth to mask a yawn. Except for a nap on the sofa in the break room, he’d been awake for two days.

  “At the outset, you ought to be aware of my legal status,” Tyndale said. “I’m not, strictly speaking, a native of your country. Born in Dorking, south of London. Studied maths at Oxford. Got into electronics, of all things. Washed up on your shores in the nineties to work in the chip business—semiconductor, not potato. In any case, I was naturalized in 2003, so for better or for worse, I’m subject to the laws and regulations of this municipality and nation.”

  Coyle struggled with Tyndale’s accent. He took a deep breath to wake himself. “I understand, Mr. Tyndale, you have some information regarding the murder of Elise Durand?”

  “That’s correct. I would like, Inspector Coyle, to make a clean breast of it. Full disclosure.”

  “We’re not called inspectors in this country—wait a minute. What did you say? Full disclosure? This information involves yourself?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “In what way?”

  Tyndale raised one hand. “I’m not entirely familiar with your protocol. But I’ve seen the Law & Order once or twice, so I know you and I are meant to start with a kind of informal to-and-fro, a sort of rough bargaining.”

  “We don’t actually—”

  Tyndale raised his hand again. “However, before you book me, I’d like to make one request—that I be allowed to serve my sentence in a facility as close to Santa Rosa as possible. My wife doesn’t drive, you see, and it would be a hardship on her if she were to have to travel great distances to visit me.”

  “That’s not really a matter—”

  “And I have something to trade.” Tyndale tapped the envelope on the table in front of him.

  “How about if we start with the…clean breast?”

  Tyndale nodded gravely. “I’m a photographer. Hobbyist, not professional. Although, mind you, I have sold a number of snaps here and there.” He winked at Coyle.

  “My passion is birds. I’ve been a birder since I was a lad. Here, I like Angel Island and Goat Rock. Terns and finches. Taken over my life in some ways. My wife complains I spend more time at it than anything else.”

  “What exactly did you—”

  “Yes, quite right,” Tyndale said. “Terrible habit of waffling. Long and short of it is, I’ve been entering your Spring Lake Par
k before the official hours of admittance. Well before, truth be told. I climb over a fence on Channel Drive, at three or four most mornings. I have a seasonal pass, of course, so it’s not a matter of avoiding the fee. The issue is really the timing, if that’s not to put too fine a point on the matter.”

  Tyndale looked at his hands. “The thing is, the best time for sightings is just at dawn. If I wait until the park opening, I can miss the shy ones, the ones that hide in the reeds and bushes. By setting up my camera in the dark, I can shoot at first light.”

  “Mr. Tyndale,” Coyle said, “is your disclosure that you’ve been entering the park before the gates open?”

  “That is the bare fact, yes.”

  Coyle sat back in his seat. “All right. As much as that’s a violation of the park regulations, it’s not a matter for city law enforcement. You can speak to the Sonoma County Parks Department. I believe you pay a fine.”

  “Really?” Tyndale blinked. “The posted warnings are worded quite sternly and would lead one to believe—”

  “But what exactly does this have to do with the murder of Elise Durand?”

  “Quite right, Inspector. To the point. Tuesday last, I was in the park before dawn. Over the fence on Channel Drive as usual and found a spot near the Discovery Center to set up my cameras. I was after a pine siskin. Do you know it? Small bird, streaky brown body, bright yellow markings on the wings. Winter bird, not common here. Often mistaken for a house finch, but as I’m sure you’re aware, the adult siskin has a slenderer bill and—”

  “Mr. Tyndale.” Coyle raised his arms in frustration.

  “Yes, yes, of course. Important to stay on track. The thing is, I took some photos you fellows might be interested in.” He opened the envelope, removed a dozen eight-by-ten prints, and slid them across the table to Coyle. “I shoot an appalling number of pictures, no matter how hard I try not to. These digitals seem to encourage excess. Half the time, I don’t even bother reviewing them until I’m back home. I took this series before it was light. Just setting up the camera, not even looking in the viewfinder.”

  Tyndale pointed to the left edge of the top photograph. “I intended to shoot the northern side of the hill just there. I’d seen a siskin in the manzanita the night before, and I was hoping to be ready for it at daybreak. But when I set the camera on its stand, it must have been pointing at the bench where you found that poor woman. This morning, when poking around the early frames, I saw these chaps off in the background, and I thought they might jolly well be something the authorities would want to see.”

  Coyle stared at the prints. The pictures were dim and grainy but showed three individuals carrying a large object. In successive photos, the figures climbed down the hill to the bench, where they placed the object, visible in the final photo as a body wrapped in a blanket.

  Coyle realized he had stopped breathing. He looked up to Tyndale.

  “I can tell by your expression what you’re thinking,” Tyndale said quickly. “Why didn’t the bloody man just use the 70 millimeter lens at F/2.8? The other lens was in his kit, after all. Fair point, indeed. But, if you’ll allow me, I think I can make a case for the 300 at F/5.6. I was anticipating the lighter sky behind the hill and above the trees—”

  Coyle held one of the photos in front of Tyndale. “Mr. Tyndale, did you, in fact, see these individuals in the park?”

  “No, no, Inspector. You misunderstand. The motor on the Nikon D4 shoots eleven frames per second, on a wireless remote shutter release. I assure you, my attentions were on the position of the stand and preparing my lens case. I was otherwise employed.”

  “And they didn’t see you?”

  “Good Lord, I hope not. What a diabolical idea.”

  “Did you post these images online? Have you shared them with the press?”

  “No and no. I came directly here.”

  Coyle pushed back his chair and stood. “We’ll need the original memory card.”

  “Quite right. Time is, as they say, of the essence.” Tyndale reached into the envelope and handed Coyle the memory card. “Perhaps your lab boys can find something I missed in the images.”

  “Thanks for your help,” Coyle said as he ran out of the room.

  “If it’s not too much trouble,” Tyndale called after him, “might I ask that you put in a good word with the Parks Department on my behalf? First offense. Best intentions. The quality of mercy. That sort of thing—”

  (ii)

  (THURSDAY, 1:00 P.M.)

  Mahler stood by bracing himself against the side of the toilet stall. His throat ached from vomiting. He kicked the flusher and leaned against the metal wall. The upstairs men’s restroom at the police station was silent, and he knew he was alone. He breathed deeply, eyes closed. His equilibrium stopped swimming. For now, he was done being sick.

  This was a predictable stage in his headache: high dosages of pain medication, leading to nausea and vomiting.

  Mahler pushed open the stall door and walked slowly to the sink. He found the can of Coca-Cola he’d left on the counter. He took a mouthful, rinsed, and spat it out. Then he drank the rest of the can.

  In the mirror he saw his ghostly, pale skin and, under his eyes, the black circles that Kate noticed. Dilated blood vessels just beneath the skin caused the darkness. “Raccoon eyes,” migraine sufferers called them.

  As bad as it was, this was not the longest or worst headache. Once, when he lived with Kate, a migraine had lasted two weeks. In the last few days, he hated the smallest things she did: the wordless tune she sang to herself while she dressed, the ritual searching for keys at the bottom of her purse, tapping of her toothbrush on the sink’s edge, the Hank Williams ringtone on her cell. Listening to it from under the ice pack on his forehead, he wanted every molecule of her body somewhere far away.

  Mahler turned on the water and cupped his hands in the hot stream. He splashed his face and slowly massaged his eyes.

  A year earlier, a migraine had started at night while he lay in bed. He had seen an aura, the bright, sparkling lights of a migraine scotoma, as he had Tuesday night in the interview room with Dorothy Knolls. But that time, a year ago, as he blinked and watched the lights swell and fade, he had seen something else, a figure in the darkest corner of his room—crouched, wings folded, head raised to stare at him—an angel.

  The restroom door opened. Chief Truro walked in, wearing his Class A uniform, with dark shirt, black tie, and navy jacket. Seeing Mahler, he stopped, still holding the door. “I was looking for you.”

  Mahler felt the chief taking him in, seeing him bent over the sink, his face dripping with water. He straightened, letting the water fall onto his shirt, and faced Truro. “Tell me something, Chief. Do you believe in an afterlife? Do you think we’re spirits?”

  “Lieutenant Mahler…Eddie, you can’t go on like this. You need to go home.”

  “You must believe in something, don’t you? Or do we just end up underground, buried with animal bones—mixed with birds, mice, and cats—stranded forever between the tree roots and the dirt?”

  “You can’t lead a team this way. The investigation’s getting away from you. You’re no longer able to protect your own officers. We got lucky with Frames. The city’s out there waiting for the other goddamned shoe to drop.”

  “The problem is, there’s so much counter-evidence in our work. What kind of God permits the things we see?”

  “A story’s going around that you and Rivas pulled your weapons on a motorist in front of police headquarters. Social media’ll get hold of that. You’re not doing yourself any favors.”

  For the first time, Mahler looked at Truro. “We had cause to think the car might be the suspect’s.” He looked away again. “I want to believe. Sometimes I think I do.”

  “I’ve seen your file, Eddie. You’ve handled tough cases. The Macias thing where the father cut his children’s t
hroats. The drive-by shooting that killed the little girl on the west side, where you tracked down the shooter in Arizona. I want to help you preserve the way you’ll be remembered as a police officer, Eddie. People in this department respect you. You need to think about your reputation, what you’ll be left with.”

  No matter what else happened, Mahler thought, what he’d be left with was a dead girl talking to him whenever he was alone.

  “I’ve come to let you go, Eddie. Effective immediately. Officially, it’ll be retirement. I’m bringing in Tony Call from Gang Crimes to head VCI. Interim basis at first, see how he works out. I’ve already written the press release.”

  The words jolted Mahler. He wanted to launch himself on Truro and tear at this uniform. But he put both hands on the edge of the sink and felt his weariness. Then he yanked a string of paper towels from the dispenser and wiped his face. “We have photos of the killers.”

  “What? Who are they? Can you ID them?”

  “We don’t have an ID yet, but we will.” Mahler tossed his paper towels in the trash. Looking at himself in the mirror, he smoothed down his hair.

  “And when were you going to let me know? I’ve got a press briefing at three.”

  “The photos just came in from a witness in the park. The lab’s trying to find a way of getting more detail in the images. I’ll let you know when we know.”

  “A witness? You have a witness?”

  “Not exactly. I’ll put it all in a report.” Mahler walked up to Truro and waited for him to move out of the doorway.

  “This doesn’t change anything,” Truro said. “You’re still finished. You’re no longer leading this investigation.”

  “Really? We could have another homicide any time, and you want to have a new guy getting up to speed?” Mahler stepped around Truro. “This time, it’ll be on you, Truro, not me.”