“But Richard did?” The detective’s hands were off the table now, out of sight. She was leaning in slightly.
“Yes, Richard did.”
“Matthew, where is Richard right now?”
Matthew didn’t speak right away. His body was tense again, for the first time since he’d been brought into the interview room. He’d told himself that he was going to be entirely truthful, that it was time. No more lies, no more pretending. He wanted to tell the detective that he didn’t know where Richard was, but that wasn’t entirely true.
“He’s sleeping,” he finally said.
“Richard’s sleeping?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he sleeping, Matthew?”
Matthew could feel his face frowning. Be truthful, he told himself. “Um, I don’t know how to answer that question exactly. He’s asleep right now, and I can’t tell you any more than that.”
The door to the room opened, and in came the detective who’d come to Matthew’s house and interviewed him about Dustin Miller. He bent down and said something into Detective Shaheen’s ear that Matthew couldn’t hear. When he stood up again, he looked at Matthew, his eyes intense, and Matthew remembered his name—it was Martinez, and he was a Cambridge police detective.
Detective Shaheen stood and said, “We’ll be right back, okay, Matthew? Can we get you anything? Water? Coffee?”
“Water would be good.”
They left, and Matthew was alone, even though he knew the camera in the corner of the square room was watching him. He knew what they were talking about. He knew they wanted to pin everything on him, and that included what had happened to Michelle. But that wasn’t him—it was Richard—and they needed to understand that. His stomach started to hurt, and he knew that if he pressed against it he’d feel better, but they were watching and he didn’t want them to see that.
Some time later Detective Shaheen and Detective Martinez reentered the room, the man carrying a bottle of water. He pushed it across the table to Matthew as they both took seats.
“Hi, again,” the detective said. “You remember me?”
“Of course. Detective Martinez, right?” Matthew twisted the top off the water and took a long swig. It was lukewarm.
“Right. I’ve been told you waived your right to an attorney. Is that correct?”
“Yes. I don’t need an attorney right now. I just want to tell the truth.”
“I understand.” Detective Martinez was tall and rangy, and he made the molded plastic chair he was sitting on look small. “We have a lot of things to get to, Matthew, but for right now, I was wondering if you could tell me about what happened between you and Lloyd Harding today.”
“He broke into my house and attacked me. I was defending myself.”
“Why did he break into your house, you think?”
“Hen must have told him everything. This all started when they came over to our house for dinner.”
“What all started?”
Matthew took another long drink of his water. “Hen and Lloyd came to dinner. Just a neighborly thing. As you know, Hen spotted Dustin Miller’s fencing trophy that I’d left out in my office, and it made her suspicious. That’s why she called you. I should never have left that trophy out. It was arrogant of me, but I have to wonder if maybe, just a little bit, I wanted someone like Hen to come along and see it. That I wanted someone to know.”
“Matthew, I don’t want to interrupt, and I eventually want to hear all about Dustin Miller, but right now I’d like to hear more about Lloyd.”
“I didn’t mean to kill him—not that I don’t think he probably deserved it, in some way—but I didn’t mean to do it. He attacked me, and I defended myself.”
Matthew thought of the sound of the billy club as it hit the side of Lloyd’s head, then the way he had dropped to the floor, his legs giving way as though their tendons had been sliced.
“Why was he in your house?” Detective Martinez asked.
“He was probably trying to win Hen back, trying to find something on me. I don’t think he was planning on attacking me, because he was hiding. I found him because I heard him upstairs. He came out of one of the spare room closets and just attacked me. I hit him in the shoulder, and I thought that might be it, but he kept coming. So I hit him in the head.”
“Why did you wrap him up the way you did with the duct tape?”
Matthew was quiet, looked at the ceiling.
“You with us, Matthew?”
“I am. There was a lot of blood coming from his head, where I hit him, so that’s why I used the duct tape. At first it was just around his face, but then I figured why not cover his whole body? It looked better that way.”
“And after you did this you went directly to Henrietta Mazur’s art studio and threatened her?”
“That wasn’t me. That was Richard.”
“Richard’s your brother?”
“Right.”
“Do you want to know why I came out here to Dartford, Matthew, today? Hen called me, and one of the things she told me was that you’d mentioned a brother and that you were worried about him, and I think it kind of freaked her out. So I looked into it. There were police reports on both of your parents’ deaths, and both of those reports only mentioned you, Matthew. Neither mentioned a brother. Neither mentioned any siblings. I called the detective who investigated your father’s death—he’s retired now—and he remembered the case, only because he said he suspected that you had something to do with it, even though he could never prove it. I asked him if you were the only child, and he said that you were, that there had been a brother called Richard, but that Richard had died in infancy. It was a crib death, he said, sudden infant death syndrome. Is that the same Richard that you’re referring to, Matthew?”
“He didn’t die,” Matthew said, his chin closer to his chest.
“He didn’t die when he was an infant?”
Matthew didn’t immediately say anything.
Detective Shaheen said, “Tell Detective Martinez what you told me about Richard earlier, how he was responsible for Michelle Brine’s death.”
Matthew sighed. “Richard killed Michelle, and Richard went to Hen’s studio because he wanted to kill her, too. That’s all I can tell you about him. I wasn’t there.”
“I’m confused, Matthew,” Detective Martinez said. “If Richard went to Hen’s studio, then how was it that you ended up in there?”
“I don’t remember how I got there because that was all Richard. Then he went to sleep. I haven’t even talked to him. I don’t want to talk with him, frankly. I’d be perfectly happy if I never talked with him again.”
“Matthew, are you and Richard the same person?”
“No. I mean, we’re brothers, so we both survived our parents, and that means we have something in common. We’re survivors. But Richard takes after our dad. He thinks like our dad, and he thinks that Mom . . . that she had something to do with the way Dad acted. I don’t think that myself. Not at all.”
There was a quick knock on the door and it swung open. Both detectives turned their heads as an older man in a pin-striped suit entered, taking one step into the room but holding the door open behind him. “Maggie, Iggy, a moment?” he said.
They left the room, and Matthew was alone again. He had finished his water and was now squeezing the plastic bottle so that it made a crinkly sound. He was very tired all of a sudden, tired of talking and explaining. He knew that an endless stream of people was going to want to talk with him now. It was inevitable. So much was inevitable now. Police detectives and psychiatrists and lawyers. There would be no trial. He would make sure that there never was a trial. He’d confess to everything. He knew that confessing wouldn’t keep the stories out of the papers, though. He was going to be all over the news. “Popular History Teacher at Private School Convicted of String of Murders.” No, it would be worse than that. “Private School Teacher Hid His Insanity from the World.” That was the part that bothered him, that no on
e would really understand that he had no control over what Richard did. They’d think he was pretending, or that he knew, or that he could have stopped him. He would never really be able to explain it to them.
Richard spoke to him, then, for the first time since he’d been in the studio: I’ll explain it to them. I’ll give them what they want.
Matthew said nothing back. He didn’t want to get into a conversation with Richard, not right now.
Take a break, big bro. I can tell you’re exhausted. It would be nice to catch a little nap, wouldn’t it?
“I don’t want to talk with you anymore,” Matthew said, and when he realized he’d said it out loud he threw up all over the table.
Matthew wasn’t interviewed again that evening. He was officially charged by Detective Shaheen, told he could have a lawyer again; then he was allowed to clean up under supervision in the station bathroom. They took his clothes and gave him a green prison uniform that smelled of bleach, a pair of clean socks, and a used pair of sneakers without laces. In his holding cell in the basement level of the precinct, they brought him dinner—a microwaved hamburger with a side of mixed vegetables. He didn’t feel hungry, but after he took one bite of the rubbery burger, he found himself devouring the rest, almost like a dog bolting down its food. Afterward he felt nauseated and decided to lie down on the thin cot. He kicked his sneakers off and fell asleep without having to tell himself any stories.
After breakfast the following morning, a uniformed officer told him he had a visitor. He recognized Mira’s footsteps, the clack of her nice shoes, as she was brought down the short linoleum hallway. She turned and looked at him, her eyes puffy from crying, and the police officer took two steps backward but stayed in the hall.
“Oh, Bear,” she said, stepping toward the bars.
And then he was Bear, and he was crying.
Chapter 42
After two weeks at her parents’, and then three quick days back in Boston for Lloyd’s memorial service, then another two weeks at her best friend Charlotte’s house in Burlington, Vermont, Hen returned to West Dartford for the first time since Lloyd had been killed by Matthew Dolamore.
It was late November, the days now getting dark before five o’clock. All the bright colors of fall had coalesced into a hue that could only be described as rust. Dull, dead leaves were piled and strewn everywhere, and the few leaves that were still attached to trees had died as well, just waiting to be liberated by the next burst of cold wind. Hen pulled the Golf into her driveway at noon on a Thursday. The front yards of both her house and the Dolamores’ were covered in a thick mat of orange-brown needles. There was a For Sale sign in front of the Dolamore house. She was surprised, not that Mira was selling the house, but that it was already on the market. Maybe she needed money fast.
Walking from the car to her front door, carrying a mewling Vinegar in his carrier, she could smell chimney smoke in the air. There was an uncarved pumpkin on her front step, rotten and collapsing. She didn’t remember it being there—had Lloyd bought it?—but she didn’t entirely trust all of her memories from that surreal period during which she’d gotten to know Matthew. She unlocked the door and pushed it open, the door jamming briefly on the pile of mail that had accumulated in the foyer. She put the carrier on the floor and unlatched the top. Vinegar sprung out and raced toward the cat door that led to the basement. The house was cold inside, and Hen went immediately to the thermostat, raising the temperature till she heard water starting to move through the pipes. Not knowing what else to do, she gathered up all the mail—mostly catalogs and credit card solicitations—and brought the pile into the kitchen. On the counter was a bowl of apples that had sat untouched for the last month. They were still bright red, and she plucked one from the bowl, its flesh fairly firm. It’s been no time at all, she thought, and allowed herself to cry, briefly, before touring the rest of the house.
That night she crawled into the bed she’d shared with Lloyd and lay on her back. The full weight of his death, the enormity of his absence, pressed down on her. She didn’t really know whether the marriage could have been saved had he lived, but that didn’t seem to matter anymore. His affair seemed quaint now, unimportant. What was so painful was that she could never speak to him again, that they would never relive what they had gone through together. He was gone, and when she really comprehended that fact her whole body hurt. Yes, she was depressed—a feeling she easily recognized—but she also thought that the depression was mostly the result of grief and trauma, and that her brain was working okay. She’d need to find a therapist—she knew that—but she wasn’t too worried that the recent events would trigger a depressive episode or a suicidal one. She felt sane.
She slept through the night, much deeper than she thought she would, and when light flooded in through the bedroom window, she pulled herself up out of a complicated dream that involved Matthew. She never dreamed these days about Lloyd, but she dreamed constantly of Matthew. In the dreams he was always coming to find her, and she was always asking him if they’d released him from the hospital. No, he’d say. That’s my brother in the hospital. You have us confused.
Maybe because of the dream, or maybe because of waking up in her old house, Hen called Detective Martinez and asked him if there was anything new in the case.
“He’s not going anywhere,” he said. “He’s going to be hospitalized for a very long time, and there’s never going to be a trial. You won’t have to testify.”
“Is that a good thing?” she asked. “Maybe I want to testify.”
“You really don’t, Hen. Matthew Dolamore is where he should be right now.”
“I know he is.”
“Where are you calling from?” he asked.
“Home,” Hen said. “I’m back in the house on Sycamore Street. Spent my first night here last night.”
“How’d it go?”
“Not bad. Had a couple of nightmares, but I have those anywhere I sleep.”
“So you’re going to stay?”
“I am,” Hen said. “I’m going back to the studio today to see how that feels, but, yes, I want to stay, Iggy.”
“Good for you,” he said.
Hen ate an apple for breakfast, then stepped onto the porch to see what the day felt like. It was in the midforties, the sky a patchwork of thin clouds. Back in the house, she pulled on a thick wool turtleneck, then her old jean jacket, the one with the frayed collar that she’d been wearing the last time she went to her studio. She was grabbing her sketchbook when Vinegar emerged from the basement. She scooped him up and held him for a moment. He meowed at her—his protest meow—and she replied that it was just the two of them now, but they were home.
It was a school day and Sycamore Street was quiet, most of the driveways empty of cars. Walking toward the studio, however, she felt eyes on her, neighbors peering through curtains, wondering if that really could be that poor woman whose husband had been killed by the now infamous psychopath. Whether she was being watched or not, she still felt the eyes on her. It was going to be the hardest part of coming back to this town, but it wouldn’t last forever. Nothing lasted forever.
After buying coffee at the Starbucks two blocks past Black Brick, Hen doubled back and let herself into the basement level of the studios. The lights were on, which meant that someone else was down here, a comforting thought even though she didn’t necessarily want any social interaction. When she got to the door of her studio, she tried it first but it was locked, and she used the key the police had returned to her and entered, turning on the lights. She quickly scanned the room for anything out of the ordinary, but it looked exactly the same as when she’d left it last. She went toward the chair she’d been sitting on when Matthew/Richard had her trapped, when she thought she was going to die in this room, and touched it, dropping her sketchbook onto its fraying seat. She had already decided that the first half of her day was going to be spent clearing out some of the junk from the studio. It would be symbolic, in a way, but she also wanted
to do some physical work, to move a little bit, before settling back into artwork. She flicked through the pile of CDs by her player and finally decided to listen to Exile in Guyville. She set the volume low, then went to the back of the studio, where there was a stack of boxes that had been sitting there since she’d moved in to Black Brick over the summer. Some of the boxes went all the way back to college, and she’d been meaning to go through them, to throw away what she could, and to put what she wanted to save into one of the new Tupperware boxes she’d bought for her old artwork.
She pulled the top box off the stack and onto the floor, then sat down next to it and started to sort. Most of what was in the box were failed prints, either too dark or too light, or simply images that didn’t work. She recognized the pieces as being from a few years ago, back when she lived in Cambridge. Some were worth keeping, but most she put into a pile that would go into the large recycling bin on the ground-level floor of the studio.
At the bottom of the box there was a sheet that had clearly been pulled from one of her sketchbooks. She turned it over and there was the sketch she’d made of Dustin Miller, a few months before he’d been killed by Matthew Dolamore. In the sketch he sat on the edge of his bed in his apartment, his chin raised, his eyes humorless and arrogant. She’d done it the only time she’d been to his apartment. It was during a week in which Lloyd had traveled down to Fort Myers with two high school friends to attend some Red Sox spring training games. Two nights that week she’d walked to the Village Inn, sitting at one of the booths with her sketchbook, sipping at a bourbon sour, and drawing people at the bar.
Dustin had approached her during her first night there and asked to look at her drawings. He was younger than her, and so ridiculously handsome that she didn’t particularly find him attractive. But she let him look at some of her sketches and buy her drinks. In retrospect, she was already manic at that point and immensely flattered that he had approached her. He radiated a kind of green aura of energy, and when he sat across from her at the booth she could feel that energy pricking at her skin.
Before She Knew Him Page 27
