Gone, But Not Forgotten

by Phillip Margolin

  “So, what brings you from Portland, Oregon to Albany?” Grimsbo asked as he handed Stewart his drink.

  “I work for a lawyer named Betsy Tannenbaum. She’s representing a prominent businessman who’s been charged with murder.”

  “So you told my secretary when you called. What’s that have to do with me?”

  “You used to work for the Hunter’s Point Police Department, didn’t you?”

  “I haven’t had anything to do with Hunter’s Point P.D. for nine years.”

  “I’m interested in discussing a case you worked on ten years ago. The rose killer.”

  Grimsbo had been raising his glass to his lips, but he stopped abruptly.

  “Why are you interested in the rose killer? He’s ancient history.”

  “Bear with me and I’ll explain in a minute.”

  Grimsbo shook his head. “That’s a hard case to forget.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Grimsbo tilted his head back and closed his eyes, as if he was trying to picture the events. He sipped his scotch.

  “We started getting reports of missing women. No signs of a struggle, nothing missing at the crime scenes, but there was always a rose and a note that said ‘Gone, But Not Forgotten’ left on the women’s pillows. Then a mother and her six-year-old daughter were murdered. The husband found the bodies. There was a rose and a note next to the woman.

  “A neighbor had seen a florist truck at the house of one of the victims, or maybe it was near the house. It’s been some time now, so I may not have my facts exactly right. Anyway, we figured out who the deliveryman was. It was a guy named Henry Waters. He had a sex offender record. Then an anonymous caller said he was talking to Waters at a bar and Waters told him he had a woman in his basement. Sure enough, we found one of the missing women.”

  Grimsbo shook his head. “Man, that was a sight. You wouldn’t believe what that bastard did to her. I wanted to kill him right there, and I would have, but fate took over and the son-of-a-bitch tried to escape. Another cop shot him and that was that.”

  “Was Peter Lake the husband who found the two bodies? The mother and daughter?”

  “Right. Lake.”

  “Are you satisfied that the deliveryman was the killer?”

  “Definitely. Hell, they found some of the roses and a note. And, of course, there was the body. Yeah, we got the right man.”

  “There was a task force assigned to investigate the case, wasn’t there?”

  Grimsbo nodded.

  “Was Nancy Gordon a member of the task force?”

  “Sure.”

  “Mr. Grimsbo …”

  “Frank.”

  “Frank, my client is Peter Lake. He moved to Portland about eight years ago and changed his name to Martin Darius. He’s a very successful developer. Very respected. About three months ago, women started disappearing in Portland. Roses and notes identical to those left in the Hunter’s Point case were found on the pillows of the missing women. About two weeks ago the bodies of the missing women and a man were found buried at a construction site owned by Martin Darius. Nancy Gordon told our district attorney that Darius—Lake—killed them.”

  Grimsbo shook his head. “Nancy always had a bee in her bonnet about Lake.”

  “But you don’t agree with her?”

  “No. Like I said, Waters was the killer. I have no doubt about that. Now, we did think Lake might be the killer for a while. There was circumstantial evidence pointing that way, and I even had bad feelings about the guy. But it was only circumstantial evidence and the case against Waters was solid.”

  “What about Lake leaving Hunters Point?”

  “Can’t blame him. If my wife and kid were brutally murdered, I wouldn’t want to be reminded of them every day. Leaving town, starting over—sounds like the smart thing to do.”

  “Did the other investigators agree that Lake was innocent?”

  “Everyone but Nancy.”

  “Was there any evidence that cleared Lake?”

  “Like what?”

  “Did he have an alibi for the time of any of the disappearances.”

  “I can’t recall anything like that. Of course, it’s been some time. Why don’t you check the file? I’m sure Hunter’s Point still has it.”

  “The files are missing.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “We don’t know.” Stewart paused. “What kind of a person is Gordon?”

  Grimsbo sipped his scotch and swiveled toward the window. It was comfortable in Grimsbo’s office, but there was a thin coating of snow on the ground outside the picture window and the leafless trees were swaying under the attack of a chill wind.

  “Nancy is a driven woman. That case got to all of us, but it affected her the most. It came right after she lost her fiancé. Another cop. Killed in the line of duty shortly before her wedding. Really tragic. I think that unbalanced her for a while. Then the women started disappearing and she submerged herself in the case.

  “Now I’m not saying she isn’t a fine detective. She is. But she lost her objectivity in that one case.”

  Stewart nodded and made some notes.

  “How many women disappeared in Hunter’s Point?”

  “Four.”

  “And one was found in Waters’s basement?”

  “Right.”

  “What happened to the other women?”

  “They were found in some old farmhouse out in the country, if I remember correctly. I wasn’t involved with that. Got stuck back at the station writing reports.”

  “How were they found?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Wasn’t Waters shot almost as soon as the body was found in the basement?”

  Grimsbo nodded.

  “So, who told you where the other women were?”

  Grimsbo paused, thinking. Then he shook his head.

  “You know, I honestly can’t remember. It could have been his mother. Waters was living with his mother. Or he might have written something down. I just don’t recall.”

  “Did any of the survivors positively i.d. Waters as the killer?”

  “They may have. Like I said, I didn’t question any of them. They were pretty messed up, if I remember. Barely alive. Tortured. They went right to the hospital.”

  “Can you think of any reason why Nancy Gordon wouldn’t tell our d.a. there were survivors?”

  “She didn’t?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Hell, I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her?”

  “We can’t. She’s disappeared.”

  “What?” Grimsbo looked alarmed.

  “Gordon showed up at the home of Alan Page, our d.a., late one night and told him about the Hunter’s Point case. Then she checked into a motel. When Page called her the next morning, she was gone. Her clothing was still in the room, but she wasn’t there.”

  “Have they looked for her?” Grimsbo asked anxiously.

  “Oh, yeah. She’s Page’s whole case. He lost the bail hearing when he couldn’t produce her.”

  “I don’t know what to say. Did she return to Hunter’s Point?”

  “No. They thought she was on vacation. She never told anyone she was coming to Portland, and they haven’t heard from her.”

  “Jesus, I hope nothing serious happened. Maybe she took off somewhere. Didn’t you say Hunter’s Point P.D. thought she was on vacation?”

  “If she was going on vacation she wouldn’t leave her clothes and makeup.”

  “Yeah.” Grimsbo looked solemn. He shook his head. Stewart watched Grimsbo. The security chief was very upset.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Stewart? I’m afraid I have some work to do,” Grimsbo asked.

  “No, you’ve been a big help.” Stewart laid his and Betsy’s business cards on Grimsbo’s desk. “If you remember anything about the case that might help our client, please call me.”

  “I will.”

  “Oh, there is one other thing. I want to ta
lk with all the members of the Hunter’s Point task force. Do you know where I can find Glen Michaels and Wayne Turner?”

  “I haven’t heard from Michaels in years, but Wayne will be easy to find in about two weeks.”

  “Oh?”

  “All you gotta do is turn on your TV. He’s Senator Colby’s administrative assistant. He should be sitting right next to him during the confirmation hearings.”

  Stewart scribbled this information into his notebook, thanked Grimsbo and left. As soon as the door closed behind Stewart, Grimsbo went back to his desk and dialed a Washington, D.C. phone number. Wayne Turner answered on the first ring.

  CHAPTER 15

  One

  Reggie Stewart eased himself into a seat across the desk from Dr. Pedro Escalante. The cardiologist had put on weight over the past ten years. His curly black hair was mostly gray. He was still cheerful with patients, but his good humor was not second nature to him anymore.

  They were meeting in the cardiologist’s office in the Wayside Clinic. A diploma from Brown University and another from Tufts Medical School hung on one wall. Beneath the diplomas was a child’s crayon drawing of a stick-figure girl standing next to a yellow flower that was almost as tall as she was. A rainbow stretched from one side of the picture to the other.

  “That your daughter?” Stewart asked. A photograph of Gloria Escalante holding a little girl on her lap stood on one corner of the doctor’s desk. Stewart figured the child for the artist and asked about her as a way of easing into a conversation that was certain to evoke painful memories.

  “Our adopted daughter,” Escalante replied sadly. “Gloria lost the ability to conceive after her ordeal.”

  Stewart nodded because he could not think of a single thing to say.

  “I’m afraid you’ve wasted your trip, if it was made solely to talk to my wife. We have tried our best to put the past behind us.”

  “I appreciate why Mrs. Escalante wouldn’t want to talk to me, but this is literally a matter of life and death. We have the death penalty in Oregon and there’s no doubt that my client will receive it, if he’s convicted.”

  Dr. Escalante’s features hardened. “Mr. Stewart, if your client treated those women the way my wife was treated, the death penalty would be insufficient punishment.”

  “You knew my client as Peter Lake, Dr. Escalante. His wife and daughter were killed by Henry Waters. He suffered the same anguish you suffered. We’re talking about a frame-up of the worst kind, and your wife may have information that can prove an innocent man is being prosecuted.”

  Escalante looked down at his desk. “Our position is firm, Mr. Stewart. My wife will not discuss what happened to her with anyone. It has taken ten years to put the past behind her and we are going to keep it behind her. However, I may be of some help to you. There are answers to questions I may be able to give you.”

  “Any help will be appreciated.”

  “I don’t want you to think her hard, Mr. Stewart. We did consider your request for an interview most seriously, but it would be too much for Gloria. She is very strong. Very strong. Otherwise she would not have survived. But as strong as she is, it is only within the past few years that she has been anything like the woman she used to be. Since your call, the nightmares have returned.”

  “Believe me, I would never subject your wife to …”

  “No, no. I understand why you’re here. I don’t blame you. I just want you to understand why I can’t permit her to relive what happened.”

  “Dr. Escalante, the main reason I wanted to talk to your wife was to find out if she saw the face of the man who kidnapped her.”

  “If that’s why you came, I’m afraid I must disappoint you. She was taken from behind. Chloroform was used. During her captivity, she was forced to wear a leather hood with no eyelets whenever … whenever her captor … when he came.”

  “She never saw his face?”

  “Never.”

  “What about the other women? Did any of them see him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you know where I can find Ann Hazelton or Samantha Reardon?”

  “Ann Hazelton committed suicide six months after she was freed. Reardon was in a mental hospital for some time. She had a complete breakdown. Simon Reardon, Samantha’s husband, divorced her,” Escalante said with obvious distaste. “He moved away years ago. He’s a neurosurgeon. You can probably locate him through the American Medical Association. He might know where Mrs. Reardon is living.”

  “That’s very helpful,” Stewart said as he wrote the information in his notebook.

  “You could ask the other investigator. He may have located her.”

  “Pardon?”

  “There was another investigator. I wouldn’t let him speak to Gloria either. He came during the summer.”

  “The disappearances didn’t start until August.”

  “No, this would have been May, early June. Somewhere in there.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “He was a big man. I thought he might have played football or boxed, because he had a broken nose.”

  “That doesn’t sound like anyone from the d.a.’s office. But they wouldn’t have been involved that early. Do you remember his name or where he was from?”

  “He was from Portland and I have his card.” The doctor opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a white business card. “Samuel Oberhurst,” he said, handing the card to Stewart. The card had Oberhurst’s name and a phone number, but no address. The number was the one Betsy had given him.

  “Dr. Escalante, what happened to your wife and the other women after they were kidnapped?”

  Escalante took a deep breath. Stewart could see his pain even after all these years.

  “My wife told me that there were three women with her. They were kept in an old farmhouse. She isn’t clear where the house was situated, because she was unconscious when he brought her there and she was in shock when she left. Almost dead from starvation. It was a miracle.”

  Escalante paused. He ran his tongue across his lips and breathed deeply, again.

  “The women were kept naked in stalls. They were chained at the ankles. Whenever he would come, he was masked and he would make them put on the hoods. Then he … he would torture them.” Escalante closed his eyes and shook his head, as if trying to clear it of images too painful to behold. “I have never asked her to tell me what he did, but I have seen my wife’s medical records.”

  Escalante paused again.

  “I don’t need that information, Doctor. It’s not necessary.”

  “Thank you.”

  “The important thing is the identification. If your wife can remember anything about her captor that would help us to prove he was not Peter Lake.”

  “I understand. I’ll ask her, but I’m certain she won’t be able to help you.”

  Dr. Escalante shook hands with Stewart and showed him out. Then he returned to his office and picked up the photograph of his wife and child.

  Two

  Betsy had a trial scheduled to start Friday in a divorce case and she was putting the file in her attaché case to bring home when Ann told her Reggie Stewart was on the line.

  “How was your trip?” Betsy asked.

  “Just fine, but I’m not accomplishing much. There’s something weird about this business and it’s getting weirder by the minute.”

  “Go on.”

  “I can’t put my finger on what’s wrong, but I know I’m getting the runaround about the case when no one should have any reason to lie to me.”

  “What are they lying about?”

  “That’s just it. I have no idea. But I know something’s up.”

  “Tell me what you’ve learned so far,” Betsy said, and Stewart recounted his conversations with Frank Grimsbo and Dr. Escalante.

  “After I left Escalante, I spent some time at the public library going over newspaper accounts of the case. I figured there would be interviews with the victims,
the cops. Nothing. John O’Malley, the chief of police, was the mayor’s spokesman. He said Waters did it. Case closed. The surviving women were hospitalized immediately. Reardon was institutionalized. Escalante wouldn’t talk to reporters. Ditto Hazelton. A few weeks of this and interest fades. On to other stories. But you read the news reports and you read O’Malley’s statements, and you still don’t know what happened to those women.

  “Then I talked to Roy Lenzer, a detective with Hunter’s Point P.D. He’s the guy who’s trying to run down the case files for Page. He knows Gordon is missing. He searched her house for the files. No luck. Someone carted off all of the files in the case. I mean, we’re talking a full shelf of case reports, photographs. But why? Why take a shelf-load of paper in a ten-year-old case? What was in those files?”

  “Reg, did Oberhurst visit the police?”

  “I asked Lenzer about that. Gave Grimsbo a call, too. As far as I can tell, Oberhurst never talked to anyone after he talked to Dr. Escalante. Which doesn’t make sense. If he was investigating the case for Lisa Darius, the police would be his first stop.”

  “Not necessarily,” Betsy said. Then she told her investigator about her meetings with Gary Telford.

  “I have a very bad feeling about this, Reg. Let me run something by you. Say you’re an unscrupulous investigator. An ex-con who works on the edge. Someone who’s not averse to a little blackmail. The wife of a prominent businessman hires you because she thinks her husband is having an affair. She also gives you a scrapbook containing clippings about an old murder case.

  “Let’s suppose that this crooked p.i. flies to Hunter’s Point and talks to Dr. Escalante. He’s no help, but he does tell the investigator enough information so he can track down Samantha Reardon, the only other surviving victim. What if Oberhurst found Reardon and she positively identified Peter Lake as the man who kidnapped and tortured her?”

  “And Oberhurst returned to Portland and what?” Stewart said. “Blackmailed a serial killer? You’d have to be nuts.”

  “Who’s the John Doe, Reg?”