Fog of Dead Souls

by Jill Kelly

  “I’m looking for Detective Doug Hansen. It’s urgent. I’ve been calling his number but he must not be on duty.”

  “He’s not. Can I help you?”

  “I don’t have a home number. Can you give it to me?”

  “I can’t do that, ma’am. We don’t give out personal information on our officers.”

  “Perhaps you could call him for me. He’ll want to know I’m here. I’m Ellie McKay. He knows me.” Ellie tried to keep the desperation out of her voice, to sound calm and sane.

  The officer shook his head. “Sorry, I can’t do that. But I can let you speak to another detective. In fact, Detective Hansen’s partner is on duty. Would you like to speak to him?”

  Ellie felt like she would cry. “Okay,” she said. “Okay.”

  “Why don’t you have a seat over there?” he said, motioning to a cushioned bench that ran along the wall across from the counter. “I’ll call him and ask him to come right down.”

  Ellie nodded, found a tissue in her purse for her nose and eyes, and sat down on the bench. Ten awful minutes crawled by, and she felt she would jump out of her skin.

  Finally the door opened and Skopowlski stood in front of her, extending his hand. “Dr. McKay, what can I do for you?”

  The man was only vaguely familiar and Ellie realized she could probably not have picked him out of a crowd. All of her attention had been on Hansen during that week the year before, and Skopowlski had never come to see her in Pittsburgh when Hansen did.

  She stood up now and shook his hand. “I’m looking for Doug … Detective Hansen. I’ve been trying to reach him on his cell phone but he’s not answering.”

  Skopowlski nodded. “Is this about your case? The Pittsburgh police are handling that now.”

  “Yes … no. I … I need to see Doug, to talk with him. It’s about the case, but it’s also personal. He and I …” Ellie didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to tell the partner something he wasn’t supposed to know.

  “If it’s about the case, perhaps I can help you.” Skopowlski’s expression was neutral, professional.

  “No, I would rather talk with Doug.” Ellie could feel the tears starting again.

  “I’m sorry, Dr. McKay. Doug isn’t available. He’s not actually here in town. He’s in Canada with his family.”

  “Is he coming back soon? It’s important that I talk to him.”

  “No, he’s not. As a matter of fact, he’s on medical leave.”

  “Is he all right? What’s happened?”

  Skopowlski frowned. “He was shot during a mugging in Montreal. He’s recuperating from surgery.” Skopowlski paused. “So, I’m really the only person who can help you.”

  Skopowlski led Ellie to an office at the back of the room where she told him about finding the gold cords in her bedroom, about packing up and getting out of there. She felt him soften a little toward her. She suspected he disapproved of her relationship with Doug, whatever he knew of it, but he was nothing but courteous when he heard what had happened.

  Skopowlski called Capriano and he interviewed Ellie as well on speaker phone. But she had nothing more to say other than what she had told Skopowlski. She hadn’t seen anyone lurking about, hadn’t felt she was being watched or followed. No one had a key to her apartment except the landlord and Sandy Gerstead.

  “What about the Gerstead boy, the one who house-sat for you?” asked Capriano.

  “I had the locks changed after Arlen died. Sandy and I both did. It just seemed the safest thing to do.”

  “Is there a hide-a-key on the property?”

  “Not for my door. The spare I have is in my desk at school.”

  “Was there a window open?” Skopowlski broke in.

  “No,” said Ellie. “It was cold that morning and everything was closed and locked. And it would take a ladder to get to the second story anyway.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not much of a deterrent,” said Skopowlski. Somehow his comment made her feel stupid.

  “Dr. McKay, we’ll need your permission to search your apartment. I’d like to see if he left us, or rather you, any other calling cards. Are you headed back to Greensburg tonight?”

  Ellie paused. She looked at Skopowlski, whose expression was noncommittal.

  “Dr. McKay, are you there?” Capriano spoke again.

  “Yes, no, I’m not sure when I’ll be back. I can’t … I just can’t be there now.”

  Capriano sighed. “Okay. Can you call your landlord and give him a heads-up that we’ll be coming out tonight?”

  Ellie exhaled in relief. She had been afraid that he would insist. “Yes, I can do that.”

  “And can you stay in Gettysburg tonight? Can I reach you by phone there?”

  Ellie agreed to that too and gave him her cell number.

  As soon as Capriano was off the line, Skopowlski stood up from the table and Ellie felt dismissed.

  “I took your number down and I’ll be in touch from this end, if anything happens.” Skopowlski moved out into the squad room, leading the way.

  “Okay,” said Ellie. “Tell me, do you know where Doug is? I’d like to send flowers.”

  The detective moved over to his desk and checked a note pad and wrote something down. “This is the number I have for him.”

  Ellie thanked him and then there seemed nothing more to say and she left. Skopowlski did not walk her out.

  She took one of the main streets heading north out of town and drove until she came to a twenty-four-hour restaurant. She ordered soup and a grilled cheese sandwich, but when it came, she found she had little appetite for it and she ate a few bites of soup and half the sandwich and let the rest grow cold. As she paid her bill, she asked if there were a motel nearby.

  “Days Inn up a few blocks,” said the cashier, so she drove up the road and checked in for the night. She busied herself with unpacking her toothbrush and taking a long hot shower and getting into her pajamas but then there was nothing more to do. She turned on the TV for company, but she found the noise too irritating, so she turned it off and sat in silence on the bed.

  She was deeply anxious despite the Valium she had taken after her shower. The terror she had felt on seeing the cords was gone, and for some reason, she did not believe she had been followed, either to Sandy’s to drop off the cats or out of town. There was no sense of that. But she did not understand what this man wanted with her. He’d had a chance to kill her in Gettysburg and he hadn’t done it. Well, maybe Joel had stopped him. Maybe Joel had still been in charge. Why now? Why had he come now? And what did he want?

  She felt terribly, achingly alone. Even though her romance with Hansen had not survived Paris, she had counted on him being there. He was no longer her lover, but he was surely her friend and he was a good detective. She had felt safe with him still concerned about the case, safe in a way she didn’t with Capriano or Skopowlski. And now he was in trouble.

  She went out to the car and got the road atlas she always carried in the back seat. Montreal wasn’t too far to drive. It would give her something to do, somewhere to go. And who knows? Maybe she and Doug could reconnect.

  The phone rang a long time with no answering machine pick-up. She redialed and this time a voice heavy with Québécois inflexion answered. Ellie spoke in French, asking for Hansen.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman said, still in English, “Monsieur Hansen cannot use the telephone.”

  “I know that,” said Ellie, trying her French again. “I want to see how he is doing.”

  “Are you a relative?”

  “Yes,” she said without hesitation. “I’m his sister.”

  “Then I’ll let you speak to his wife.” And the woman put the phone down.

  “This is Claire Hansen,” a deep, throaty, and equally accented voice came on the line. “Who is this? My husband doesn’t have a sister. ”

  “I’m sorry. I just wanted to get some information. My name is Ellen McKay. Dr. Ellen McKay. I’m a friend of Doug’s from Pen
nsylvania. I’m calling to find out how he is.”

  There was a long pause. Then the woman sighed. “Doug seems to be doing okay. The operation went well but his recovery may be slow.”

  Ellie wasn’t sure what to say next. “His partner told me he was mugged. Did they catch the man?”

  “Well, he wasn’t mugged. He was trying to help a couple that was being robbed on the street and one of the robbers shot him. I don’t know any more than that.” She pronounced the word row-bear, like the French Robert.

  “Merci, Madame. Vous êtes très gentille.”

  The woman on the line paused again. Ellie wondered if she had been surprised by her use of French and got ready to explain about her career and her PhD, but the woman spoke again to her in English.

  “Are you Doug’s lover? Are you the woman from Paris?”

  Ellie was taken aback by the other woman’s directness. “No. I mean yes, he came to Paris to see me last year, but no, we are just friends. Last year I was … hurt… Doug was the detective on my case and we got to be friends.”

  “I know the story,” Claire Hansen said. She sounded weary, though her tone was cool, neutral. “I know who you are.”

  Ellie decided to shift gears. “I’m so sorry about Doug. I’d like to stay in touch. Can I call you again to see how he’s doing?”

  The Canadian sighed and then said, “I’ll take your number and give it to him when he is better.”

  “He has my number,” said Ellie.

  “Then I’m sure he will call you if it’s important to him,” the woman said and the line went dead.

  Again, Ellie felt dismissed. She couldn’t quite figure out why she was in the wrong in all this. She got up and got ready for bed. It was just past eight, but she couldn’t imagine being awake any longer and feeling this way.

  The phone woke her out of a deep dream of being pulled further and further down into a suffocating blackness. She felt relieved to see the streak of neon shining in the split of the curtain. The phone went to voicemail before she could reach it, but it rang again right away.

  It was Capriano. He apologized for waking her though she saw that it wasn’t even nine-thirty. She struggled to wake up and listen to him.

  “We found nothing more in your apartment. No other sign that he’d been there. We dusted for prints but don’t have results yet. I assume we’ll find yours, the Gersteads, Doug Hansen’s.” He paused.

  “And Roger Gerstead’s,” Ellie said. “You’ll find his, too.”

  “Anybody else?”

  “Well, Roger could have had someone over. He stayed there for months.”

  “Do you know him well?”

  “Not really. I’d met him a half-dozen times at Arlen’s and Sandy’s. Mostly at the holidays or Arlen’s birthday. He seemed like a nice kid and he needed a place to stay and I needed a house-sitter. It was actually Sandy’s idea. It seemed like a nice coincidence and he took good care of my cats and my place so I had no complaints.” She hesitated a moment. “You don’t suspect him?”

  “No … no,” said Capriano. “But we’re looking for any connection we can find. You never met any of his friends? No one ever came looking for him after you came back?”

  “No … well, wait. A couple of weeks after I got home, some young people showed up on a Saturday night. Must have been around eight-thirty. Two girls and a guy. They were already pretty well sloshed and they were looking for Roger. The two young women were very pretty, and all dressed up—makeup, expensive clothes—like fashion models. But the guy didn’t look like he belonged with them at all. His hair was long, unwashed. Jeans, jean jacket, all that needed washing, too. He had a mustache, a big silver belt buckle. Kind of biker or hippy-looking. He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place him. I wondered later if he’d been a student at the college or someone I knew from Paris.”

  “You get any names?”

  “No, even if they’d said them, it’s been months. I wouldn’t remember. I just remember what an odd combination they were.”

  “Did they come into your place?”

  It was Ellie’s turn to pause. “Yes,” she said finally. “The guy asked to use the bathroom. I didn’t intend to let them in but he pushed his way in and went straight to the bathroom. We could hear him peeing from the landing. Then he came right out, thanked me, and they left. Oh God, was that him?”

  “I don’t know,” said Capriano. “Could have been nobody.”

  Neither of them said anything for a few minutes. Then Capriano said, “I don’t know how safe you are in your place right now. You might want to stay somewhere else. With a friend.”

  “Do you think I’ll be safe with Sandy Gerstead?”

  He waited, then said, “I can’t tell you that. We just don’t know enough.”

  “Okay then,” said Ellie.

  “I’m sorry,” said Capriano.

  “Me too,” said Ellie. She sat there a moment with the phone in her hand. Then she put it in her purse, packed her stuff back up into the car, and headed out into the night.

  53

  Ellie drove south, out of Pennsylvania and into Maryland. She drove until a little past midnight. By then, the adrenaline of the two conversations had worn off and the fatigue had set in, and she knew she couldn’t drive all night. In addition, there’d been no one else on the road except truckers for a half-hour so she felt safely alone. She pulled off at a Holiday Inn and took an upstairs room. She dumped her suitcase and headed to the bar before it closed. The place was deserted except for two couples in a corner having a quiet conversation. She sat at the bar and drank a double rye on the rocks pretty quickly and went back to her room. That and the Valium she took helped her sleep all night.

  When she woke at eight, she was groggy. A shower helped, breakfast in the café, too. Before she checked out of her room, she called Sandy. The number rang and rang and then rang through to voicemail. In a way, Ellie was relieved to just leave a message.

  “Hi Sandy. I’m sorry to just dump the cats on you like this but I think you’re safer there without me. I hope so anyway. I’m heading south. Don’t know where or how long I’ll be gone. I’ll send you money for their care. Or maybe Roger could house-sit for me again. If you could talk to the dean and explain, I’d really appreciate it. Somehow I think my life in Pittsburgh is over. If I get settled some place, I’ll send for the cats.”

  She paused a moment. “I’m sorry I can’t be there for you. I just need to take care of myself. I’m too scared to stay there. Take care of yourself. I’ll miss you.”

  On her way to the car, she threw her cell phone into a dumpster. She’d pick up a pay-as-you-go somewhere down the road.

  The fact that she had deserted Sandy nagged at her. She had lots of hours in the car to mull that over. Should she have told Sandy about the gold cords? About the killer—for that’s surely who it must have been—finding her house? Was the killer after her or after them both? Would Sandy be safer knowing that or safer not knowing? Maybe Capriano had already told her, already searched Sandy’s house for more evidence. Maybe Sandy wasn’t answering because she, too, had left.

  She thought of Hansen and sent him a prayer. If she had come back to the States with him in December, if she had moved to Gettysburg with him, he might not have been in Montreal. And the killer might not have come after her. But then he might have come after Sandy. It was all too complicated.

  She forced her mind back to the road, back to the Leonard Cohen CD that was playing, back to the present.

  She drove across West Virginia into Kentucky, then across the corner of Tennessee and Arkansas into Texas. She drove for four days, stopping at rest stops every few hours, stopping at chain restaurants for soup and sandwiches, stopping in motels with lounges where she could get a drink or two and the bartender wouldn’t let anyone hit on her. She’d never realized there were so many lonely middle-aged men out looking. Was it sex? Love? Comfort of some kind they wanted? A couple of times she was tempted. The men were clean, wel
l-dressed, eager but not too pushy. Not too young and not too old. It was something to think about, not sleeping alone, someone to protect her if the killer came in the night. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. What if … just what if the one she chose was the killer? And then that began to have its appeal, too. If she said yes and it was the killer, she wouldn’t have to be afraid anymore.

  That kind of thinking was madness and she knew it. But she felt crazy some of the time. There were many moments in the last year when she’d felt unhinged, that the solid ground that had been beneath her feet all these decades had been swept away.

  The young rape counselor she’d seen right after Gettysburg hadn’t been much help, but one thing she’d said had stayed with Ellie: “You may find it hard to trust the decisions you make for a while. This happens to women who are raped by men they thought were safe.”

  This had resonated with her. She had trusted Joel. Assumed he was a regular guy, a professional, normal. And he had had a dark secret, a terrible secret. Not only had he not cared what happened to her, but he had also paid to have it done. She couldn’t get over that.

  That sense of distrust had stood between her and Hansen when he came to Paris. Of course, he wasn’t the rapist. But he had secrets. Of course he did. He was too old not to. And she didn’t want those secrets to hurt her.

  On the fifth afternoon of driving, she got to Dallas. Since Tennessee, she’d acknowledged that she had a destination, that she was going to Danny. There were other old friends in the address book: in Virginia, in South Carolina, in Florida. Former colleagues and classmates. But they were all women, all more innocent bystanders like Sandy, whom she had unwittingly involved in this. Well, no, that wasn’t right. Arlen was at the center of this. Arlen, who had introduced her to Joel. Arlen, who had gotten himself killed and through Joel put both her and Sandy in danger.

  She had known Arlen and Sandy for eight years. She and Sandy had been close almost that whole time. She would have trusted Arlen with her life. And he had turned out to be twisted as well. What was it about these men and their ways of using and abusing women? How could a woman know she was safe? Whom could she trust?