Fog of Dead Souls

by Jill Kelly

  He gave a little laugh. “I won’t interrogate you.”

  She shook her head again. “That’s not what I meant. You already know what happened. I don’t have to pretend it didn’t or pretend that I’m okay.”

  He sat back down with the tea and she joined him.

  “Are you married, Detective?”

  “Doug.”

  “You’re married to Doug?”

  “No,” he laughed. “My name is Doug. Please call me Doug.”

  “Doug.” She waited but he said nothing. “Are you married, Doug?”

  “Yes, but …” he paused. “It’s complicated.”

  She nodded and gave a little smile, but her eyes remained wary and dark. “A ‘yes, but’ is always complicated,” she said.

  “My wife lives in Montreal. She’s Canadian and moved home to take care of her mother and an aunt who are both in poor health. Is this too much information?”

  “No,” said Ellie. “Someone else’s complications are a relief.”

  “I haven’t seen Claire since she left. We … we’ve had our share of problems and it seemed better to go our own ways.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Ellie. “That’s hard.”

  “It was harder when she was still in Gettysburg.”

  “How long has she been gone?”

  “Four years.”

  “Oh,” Ellie said, and Hansen saw a small look of surprise come into her eyes.

  “Oh,” he repeated.

  They sat in silence for a moment. Then Hansen spoke again. “I have two daughters, Marie-Hélène and Jeanne. One in Philadelphia—she’s a teacher. One in Montreal—she works with computers. You don’t have kids?”

  Ellie shook her head. “Only students.”

  “Probably plenty,” Hansen said.

  “It is.”

  Hansen drank down his tea, which had grown cool in the cup. “Okay if I use your bathroom?”

  “Of course. It’s just to the left on the landing.”

  When he came back, she was washing the cups. He stood and watched her from the doorway. Her movements were neat and efficient, her long, slender fingers easy at their work.

  After she wiped her hands on a towel, she moved toward him to show him out. “Doug,” she said, and as though he was a teenager again, he felt thrilled at hearing her say his name. “Is it okay if I leave town? Okay to travel?”

  His heart sank but he smiled and said, “Sure, there’s no reason not to. Will you email me with a way to reach you in case I have news?” He handed her a business card.

  She smiled but the look in her eyes was bitter. “I have several of these already.”

  “Of course you do. Sorry. Force of habit.”

  “If I settle somewhere, I’ll let you know.” She moved down the four stairs to the door. “And I’ll make sure the college knows how to reach me.”

  He knew that would have to do even though it wasn’t enough. He, too, moved to the front door. Then he turned and said, “I forgot to ask you something. Your friend Arlen. Does he ever go by Jerry?”

  Ellie shook her head. “No, I’ve never heard him called that. Sandy calls him Arlie sometimes and I’ve heard him introduce himself as Al once or twice, but never Jerry. Why?”

  He saw a flash of hope in her eyes that he’d seen in other victims, a thin thread that might lead to understanding or forgetting. He shrugged. “Just a vague lead. Nothing substantial. Just trying to check out as many things as we can.”

  She nodded and he saw her shoulders slump with fatigue and strain. It was time to go, but he didn’t want to leave her. He touched her shoulder, keeping the pressure light. “It’s okay to stay in touch with me. If you think of anything about all this that might help, don’t hesitate to call me, day or night.”

  She nodded again and closed the door.

  The orange cat lay stretched across the bottom step. Hansen stepped over it and went on to his car. It was raining and he had a long drive ahead of him.

  24

  Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

  Jim Broadacre looked up from the draft of his sermon. “Hello, Al. Thought maybe you’d deserted us.”

  Al smiled and shook his head. He moved into the room and put down the cardboard carrier. It held two paper cups and a white paper bag.

  For a few minutes, the men drank the coffee and ate the donuts and exchanged pleasantries about the weather and ranching. Then a moment of silence fell and both men seemed to wait.

  Finally, Broadacre said, “I understand congratulations are in order.”

  Al smiled. “You heard.”

  The minister nodded but didn’t smile. “Word gets around.”

  They shared another silent moment.

  “Got an opinion?”

  Broadacre shook his head. “You’re a man in right relationship with his God, Al. You know that. I know that. I trust you to do what’s right for you and yours.”

  When Al only nodded, he went on. “Is something troubling you?”

  “No … yes … no. In part, I’ve come to ask your blessing on us.”

  “Ah … are you asking about a church wedding?”

  Al considered this for a moment. Then he said, “No, I don’t think that is what …”

  Broadacre waited and, when Al said nothing more, he spoke again. “Are you having second thoughts?”

  “No.” The response was immediate, firm. “I’ve wanted a wife again for too long and nobody here … Let’s just say that nobody here seemed right.”

  “Not even Gracie? I thought you two were serious.”

  “No, at least I wasn’t. I see that now.”

  “And this woman does seem right.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’d like to understand your attraction to this woman?”

  Al frowned. “No, I know all about that. Ellie’s intelligent and educated. She’s kind and thoughtful.”

  Broadacre smiled when he saw Al blush. “Sounds like she’ll make an excellent partner for you.”

  Al nodded. He said nothing more, but he made no move to leave.

  Broadacre waited and then said quietly, “What is it, Al?”

  Al looked out the window at the church parking lot.

  “What is it, Al?” Broadacre repeated. “Is it that she doesn’t share your Christian faith? Is it that you got married in some chapel in Arizona?”

  Al looked over at him. “No, not at all. We just wanted to do it and do it quickly. It was really fun. I felt like a kid again.”

  “Is this woman asking you to give up your faith?”

  “No, nothing like that. In fact, we haven’t talked about it at all, not since the three questions.”

  “Questions?”

  “When we were getting to know each other, we each asked each other three questions, things that were important to us. That was her idea—the three questions. In one of my questions, I asked her if she believed in God.”

  “And she said no.”

  “No, she said she believed in the Great Mystery. That she wasn’t sure what that was or how it was, but she knew something connected us all and worked in our lives.”

  “That sounds just like God,” Broadacre said, relieved. “Does she believe in Jesus?”

  “Only as a wonderful human being, a great teacher. Not as the Son of God.”

  “I’m not sure this is anything to worry about, Al. I suspect she’ll come to a different understanding after she’s come to services with you for a while. And, of course, I’d be happy to talk with her.”

  “That’s not going to happen, Jim. She’s made it clear she’s not interested in church. She doesn’t believe in organized religion, only in personal beliefs.”

  Broadacre sighed. “It’s too bad you didn’t have this conversation before you married her.”

  Al looked back at the minister. “We did, Jim. I knew this when I married her.”

  Broadacre frowned. “Excuse me, Al, but I’m not sure what you’re looking for here. You seem disturbed by your new
wife’s beliefs but you say you aren’t having second thoughts.”

  “I’m not disturbed by this, Jim. I’m satisfied that my wife has values and beliefs that are compatible with mine. You’re the one making it a problem.” He waited a moment and then stood up. He leaned over and threw his cup and napkin into the trash. “I shouldn’t have come,” he said. “I thank you for your time.”

  “No, Al, wait. I’ve misunderstood something here. Let’s talk some more.”

  But Al was already out the door.

  25

  Hansen put the photo of Ellie and the Gersteads on the refrigerator in his kitchen, using a kanji magnet that Jeanne had given him when she came back from her year in Japan. He didn’t care that he’d stolen the photo. He didn’t fool himself into thinking that he’d wanted a photo of Gerstead. He could have access at any time to the mug shot the Pittsburgh PD had taken when they tested Arlen’s DNA. All he had to do was ask Capriano. No, he wanted a little bit of Ellie in his house.

  Hansen lived in a townhouse condo a few blocks from the center of town. He and his wife had had a lovely old farmhouse with a couple of acres out toward the highway, but after she left, he couldn’t bear to go on living there alone. And he wanted Claire to know it was over, so he sold the place before the economy tanked and he made good money for them both. He sent her half in a check that was accompanied by a terse note. “Proceeds from our life together.”

  He realized later that might have seemed like a bitter gesture, but he wasn’t sure how to undo it. He wasn’t bitter, but he didn’t love her anymore. He hadn’t loved her for years, maybe not all that much even to begin with. She was a beautiful woman and her Montreal accent was exotic and sexy. It had been a matter of pride for him that such a beautiful woman would marry him. He had been the envy of his buddies on the force who had married hometown girls. And it was true, Claire had style and a kind of grace that pulled people—men—toward her.

  Hansen didn’t regret the marriage. Their partnership had worked for quite a few years, and he loved his daughters more than anything. But once the girls were grown, he realized that none of these women needed him. With Jeanne and Marie-Hélène, that was as it should be. They needed to move on, make independent lives, find their own husbands to rely on. But with Claire … well, he wanted a woman who needed him around, who asked his advice, who was happy to see him. And that wasn’t Claire, not even from the beginning. It was probably time to file the papers he’d had in his drawer for months.

  He sighed and pulled out the Richardson file he’d made for himself and read through everything again. He made notes on his discussion with Capriano. He was convinced Richardson had had a double life and that somewhere there was evidence of it. But how to find it?

  Two hours and three beers later, he called Capriano.

  “Don’t you know this is my day off, Hansen?”

  “Detectives don’t get days off.” Hansen could hear a game in the background.

  “Don’t tell that to my wife.” Capriano paused briefly. “Okay, what’s up?”

  “Do you guys have access to a profiler?” He heard Capriano inhale and then let out a long sigh.

  “Yeah. There isn’t one on staff that I can just go to, but there is somebody the department uses. You want to try to profile the second guy?”

  “Well, that would be a help, but I’m actually thinking of a profile on Joel Richardson.” Capriano said nothing, so after a minute, Hansen went on. “As far as we can tell, Richardson is guilty of a sex crime. Clearly, we can’t prosecute a dead man. But maybe a profile would help us crack his double life, and that might lead us to the second man.”

  Again Capriano said nothing, but this time Hansen stayed quiet. He knew the value of space and quiet for thinking.

  “Yeah, okay,” Capriano said finally. “I could run this by my lieutenant. We’re stalled in the case and it’s the kind of open file that he hates. Maybe he’ll kick loose a few bucks for the profiler.”

  “That would be great. Maybe we can find something that way. Thanks.”

  “You got it. Anything else?”

  “Yeah, just one thing. Would you send me a copy of Gerstead’s mug shot? I’m still convinced he’s in on this although I don’t know how. Something’s not right about that guy.”

  “Sure, I’ll email you the photo on Monday morning. That soon enough?”

  “Yeah, okay. Thanks a lot.”

  26

  Four weeks after Gettysburg, Ellie was paralyzed by inactivity and indecision. A week after her conversation with the dean, a revised contract had come in the mail, offering her 80 percent of her salary through September plus several thousand dollars in travel funds from the Dean’s Special Account. The contract was accompanied by a stamped return envelope “for her convenience” and a handwritten note from the president, offering her sympathy and her encouragement to go to France or to Africa for the remainder of the school year. “We’ll look forward to seeing you next August,” she wrote.

  Sandy had at first been appalled by the school’s stance. She shared Ellie’s anger and disgust at what she called “saving their own asses first.” But after the contract arrived, Sandy’s stance shifted and she urged Ellie to take the money and run.

  “It’s been four years since you were in France. You’re always talking about the need to go, to refresh your slang, your knowledge of the culture. You always have a good time there. Now, money isn’t an object, so go.”

  “But I’ll be running away.”

  “So what? You’ve got nothing to prove to any of these people.”

  “How can you say that? The school thinks I colluded with Joel, that I participated in his … his games, that I brought this … experience on myself.”

  “Your friends don’t think that. I don’t think that. We know you. And we want you to be safe and heal from this. I don’t think you can do that with the media buzzing around.”

  Ellie couldn’t argue this last point. The media had been relentless. That morning a woman reporter had thrust a small tape recorder in her face as she was pumping gas into her car. The woman’s voice was shrill, impatient. “Tell us what it was like, Ellie, waking up in that hotel room.” The woman had followed her into the convenience store, barking questions. “Do you still have bruises? Did you kill your lover?” The other customers stared. Ellie had pushed to the head of the line, thrown $40 down on the counter, and hurried out. The harassment was also keeping her from going to AA meetings. Her sponsor had advised her to stay away from meetings as it would interfere with the anonymity of others. Ellie felt relieved. She didn’t want to disrupt the meetings and she couldn’t sit still anyway. She wasn’t worried about her sobriety. She had no interest in drinking and she was taking the Valium as prescribed.

  “So, will you make plans and go?” Sandy’s voice was still there on the phone. “I really think it would be best. It would give you some space to be yourself. I can’t imagine anyone in France will care about this.”

  “You seem awfully insistent about this, Sandy. Is the dean pressuring you to pressure me?”

  “No, honey. No one at school is pressuring me to do anything. They’re just concerned about you, the way I am, the way Arlen is. We want you to be okay and we aren’t sure that being here right now is the best thing for you.”

  “All right,” Ellie heard herself saying. “All right, I’ll look into it. I’ll make some calls.”

  “Good,” said Sandy. “Shall I come by tonight? Need anything from the store?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve still got lots of food from Sunday.” She didn’t tell Sandy that all she was really interested in was ice cream, that she didn’t have much appetite for anything else. Ice cream made her feel safe somehow, more relaxed, and she made sure she had a freezer full. She knew she was gaining weight—so much ice cream, so much sleeping, so little exercise. But she didn’t care. Being thin and healthy and attractive hadn’t saved her from Joel’s cruelty. He had used her with no more thought than those people who tra
ined dogs to fight and kill using small dogs or cats as bait.

  She had no way to think about Joel and what had happened. Her therapist had tried to convince her that what Joel had done wasn’t personal, wasn’t about her as Ellie, just about her as a generic woman, but Ellie couldn’t buy it. She had spent a lot of time with Joel, laughing, talking, kissing, touching each other in the most private of places. Had he faked all that? Had she misread his ways with her?

  Sometimes there are no signs, the trauma counselor had said. Many psychopaths are highly intelligent, know how to charm and adapt. They aren’t ordinary people with a mental illness. They are extraordinary people with an extraordinary illness. She urged Ellie to stop blaming herself, to blame Joel and the second man. She urged her to grieve for herself, to cry, to shout and be angry, but Ellie found it difficult to do those things. She felt like she was faking it, trying to please the counselor, not healing herself. And on some level, she realized that staying numb from all the feelings around Gettysburg meant she didn’t have to feel the fear that was underneath it all.

  Maybe going away would help, she decided. Maybe getting away from places where she’d been with Joel would make a difference. It was worth a try.

  27

  Ellie didn’t go back out to the ranch while the last of the painting was being done. She talked to Al on the phone each day the rest of the week and he talked of coming into town to spend the night with her, but then one of the horses took sick, so he stayed at the ranch and her move got postponed. Ellie was relieved—being on her own gave her more space to breathe, more space to figure out what she was going to do.

  She still didn’t feel ready to move to the ranch. Moving there meant telling Al everything. She couldn’t be his wife, his everyday partner, and keep this big secret. She felt guilty having married him. She’d wanted the safety of someone to be with, to hold her in the night. She’d wanted a way to stop running. Al had held out his hand and she had taken it. She needed to find the courage to be honest if they were going to have a life together.