Best Place to Die

by Charles Atkins

  ‘You sound like an alcoholic trying to quit.’

  ‘Fine,’ Ada said, already tugging at one of the boxes labeled ‘AA-CE’. Luckily it was near the top. Lil grabbed the other side, and they hauled it from the closet and dropped it on the bed.

  ‘Hold on,’ Ada said, as she pulled the drapes closed. She stared intently through an opening in the fabric, trying to imagine someone taking pictures. ‘It had to have been someone who knows about photography.’

  Lil, who was ripping the tape off the box, responded, ‘How so?’

  ‘They got the shot of us in bed. It was obviously at night. If they’d used a flash there would have been glare in the glass. So either they had an incredibly steady hand or had a tripod.’

  Following her train Lil added, ‘More likely they just rested it on the table,’ referring to the iron patio set. ‘But you’re right.’ She instantly thought of Sam King who’d shot all those wonderful pictures of the Ravens. She lifted the cover off the box and her fingers walked down the tabs. ‘This brings back memories; it even smells like Bradley’s office. And all this color-coding was my handiwork – state of the art at the time.’

  ‘Very pretty,’ Ada said. ‘I’m thinking pink for girls and blue for boys.’

  ‘Are you making fun of me . . .? There she is!’ Lil checked the date of birth on the outer flap. 4/23/62. No need to delve further – she pulled out Victoria Binghamton’s file. ‘I can almost feel him watching us.’

  ‘Bradley?’

  ‘Yeah, he would not approve of this.’

  ‘Let me.’ Ada took the chart and opened it. On the inside flap was the birth information, born in Brattlebury Hospital by Caesarean to Mary Binghamton, and no father’s name listed. Which, in 1962, in a town like Grenville, would have been noteworthy. Then came the page of vaccinations and Well-Baby visits. The back-to-school physicals, a tonsillectomy/adenoidectomy at eight. Nothing out of the ordinary, until the end.

  ‘That!’ Lil said, reading over Ada’s shoulder. ‘That’s never a good sign.’ She pulled out an unbound page of blue-lined progress note paper. Holding it into the light she knew some things without reading a word. ‘Bradley would only do this if he was either stressed or hurried, and if it was the latter he’d leave it for me to file properly the next day.’

  ‘Which leaves stressed,’ Ada said, as she looked at the note.

  ‘See how he timed and dated it, both at the beginning and at the end. He’d only do that when he thought a note might turn into evidence.’ She read aloud:

  ‘November 8, 1977. 3:15 a.m. I received a call from Mary Binghamton asking that I evaluate her daughter, immediately. I told Ms Binghamton that she should take her daughter to the emergency room at Brattlebury Hospital, which she was unwilling to do. Ms Binghamton arrived, with Victoria who had clearly been assaulted. I was able to do a very limited examination, and reiterated my grave concerns to Ms Binghamton that Victoria would need to be seen in an emergency room. While there were no apparent fractures, there were extensive contusions to the face, neck and shoulders. She had two ecchymotic orbits and was in obvious pain. Her vital signs were stable, and her mental status showed signs of acute shock. She was barely verbal and answered most questions with a simple yes or no. When asked what happened to her, she either would not, or could not, answer. It was clear she needed more thorough evaluation, including a rape examination, and crisis counseling. As Victoria is a minor I informed her mother that the assault would have to be reported and Victoria would need to be seen in an emergency room. Ms Binghamton requested I not do that. I informed her that as a mandated reporter for the State of Connecticut I had no choice.

  ‘She asked if Victoria had any broken bones. I told her that without X-rays I couldn’t say with certainty, but on examination there were no acute fractures. At which point Ms Binghamton instructed her daughter to get dressed. I attempted to reason with her, and offered to call an ambulance, but she adamantly refused further treatment. When I reiterated that the assault would be reported, she replied, ‘And you think that will hurt the animals that did this to my daughter? The only one it will hurt is her.’

  I immediately contacted the Grenville police and spoke directly with Chief Henry Morgan at 4:10 a.m. He informed me that he would follow up immediately with the Binghamtons. I then left a phone message with the Department of Children and Families, reporting the assault, and will contact them during business hours.’

  Lil looked at Ada, who was clearly distraught.

  ‘That poor girl. Bastards!’

  ‘There’s more,’ Lil said, seeing a quickly scrawled line from later that morning, where Bradley documented submitting a formal report to DCF and talking to a case worker who’d said there would be an investigation. And then the doorbell rang, and the phone, and Lil’s cell.

  Then, a knock at the front door, and a second and a third.

  ‘What now?’ Ada said.

  The knock turned into a loud banging. ‘Mrs Campbell, federal agents. Open the door.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  Dennis Trask’s thoughts had laser-sharp clarity as his gloved hands found easy purchase on the familiar slope of Grassy Mountain. Since leaving the police station yesterday afternoon, he was certain of things he’d previously suspected. These were the facts as he saw them: Jim Warren killed Delia Preston. His good friend Jim Warren killed his father, and his lifelong pal Jim Warren was taking him for a fool. It was that last realization that had robbed him of sleep. He actually thought he could pull this over on me? Wally, if he was somehow caught up in Jim’s machinations, couldn’t be blamed; he was an idiot who needed to be told to wipe his nose . . . You put it in her, you moron! But Jim . . . the motive clear; he was in trouble for the scams he and Delia were running at Nillewaug. Couldn’t leave well enough alone . . . and his response when caught . . . burn it down and eliminate anyone who could rat him out. You killed my father! As he scrambled up the wooded face of Grassy Mountain, he thought through his plan, looking for holes and not finding any. Pulling out a piece of dull tan fabric he scraped it against a tree trunk letting it snag and rip. The coat he’d torn it from, along with the Browning under-over shotgun slung across his back and the Timberland boots he was wearing had all been lifted earlier that evening from the unlocked workshop of Gary Grasso. And what a pain his mother, Betty Grasso, had been; his first-grade teacher, and one of the Nillewaug victims. Gary, whose wife had left years ago on account of his drinking, lived alone. He’d have no alibi, a pair of muddy boots, a torn coat, the gun that fired the bullet that ended Jim Warren’s life and a whopping motive. The only tricky bit was avoiding the pair of Feds parked at the entrance to Jim’s cul-de-sac. But they were concerned with Jim trying to make another stab at freedom. They would not be expecting this. And by the time they figured where the shot had come from, he’d be long gone. ‘Nope, time to get what’s coming, Jim.’ And, clearing the crest, he stared at the Warren Manse, perched on the best lot of Eagle’s Cairn, and moved into firing range. ‘Ostentatious bastard.’ The only lights were from a TV up in his son’s room, a glance at his pretty little daughter’s window let him know she was out for the night.

  He pressed the only pre-programmed number in his disposable cell, and wedged the Bluetooth earpiece in place. He raised the shotgun as the phone rang, once, twice.

  ‘Hello?’ Jim’s voice, although he sounded like he had a cold.

  ‘Hell of a day, Jimbo. We need to talk.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  Dennis smiled as he stared down the barrel. ‘Look out your back window.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘I know. No one saw me. We have to talk.’

  There was movement in the family room and then a curtain pulled back and the shadow of a head. ‘Works for me,’ Dennis muttered. And with steady aim, he squeezed off a single shot.

  The window shattered, and as Dennis turned to flee, a blinding spot hit him in the face, and two others from either side. And Hank Morgan’s voice: ‘Pu
t down the gun, Dennis. Do it now! Get on the ground! Now! Do it now!’

  Dennis blinked, his agile mind processing the information, his pulse barely quickened as he saw and heard more than a dozen law-enforcement agents advance towards him. He thought through the options, including running for it, or even hurling himself off the side of Grassy Mountain. That last possibility brought a faint smile – probably sprain an ankle. What finally won out, as he lowered the shotgun to the ground, was curiosity. He looked up, blinded by the light. ‘Hank?’

  ‘Yes, Dennis.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  There was a pause, and Hank Morgan’s words came slow; he sounded exhausted. ‘I’ve known you a long time, Dennis. The moment you thought Jim had something to do with your dad’s death, I knew you’d come after him. Couldn’t stop yourself if you’d tried. Now turn around slowly, put your hands up where I can see them.’

  He was about to comply, but squinting into the light. ‘So did I get the bastard?’

  ‘He’s not even here. But if it makes you feel better, he’s in a federal prison right now facing a few hundred charges of criminal fraud, and that’s just the tip. You’re not the only one who thinks Mr Warren set that fire.’

  Dennis nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face. ‘They’re going to want my cooperation with that . . . I’ve got a lot to tell.’

  ‘Good to know, Dennis . . . now turn around.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  This isn’t happening, Lil thought, as dark-suited federal agents, including the pair she’d met at the scene of Wally Doyle’s suicide, carted out Bradley’s records. She stood in the living room watching them like a stream of ants going out with a box or two, coming back empty, going out with another. In her hand were a subpoena and a search warrant.

  Ada was by her side, having told Aaron to stay with Rose in her condo. She whispered. ‘This can’t be legal.’

  Lil was struggling with what the agent who’d presented the warrant had said. ‘They think Bradley had something to do with Nillewaug.’

  ‘But he was their medical director for only a very brief time ten years ago,’ she replied.

  ‘They must know that.’ Lil felt frightened, and it wasn’t just this intrusion.

  ‘Is that all of them, Mrs Campbell?’ the square-jawed one whose ID said Fitzhugh asked.

  She walked into the bedroom, and Ada followed. Where the boxes had been was now bare carpet, a lighter shade of tan than the surround. ‘They’ve been there since we moved in. That’s all of them. But why?’ she asked, struggling to make sense of this. ‘Why now?’

  Fitzhugh looked at Lil, and then at Ada. ‘We received information that your husband was aware of fraudulent billing activities at Nillewaug.’

  ‘But . . .’ Trying to make sense of this intrusion. ‘He wouldn’t have any Nillewaug patient records here.’

  ‘Probably true,’ Fitzhugh answered. ‘What we’re banking on is his having had prior relationships with Nillewaug residents before they were . . . Nillewaug residents. We believe his records will help to establish a pattern.’

  Lil nodded, following his logic to a degree. But the piece that was turning like a knife in her belly – ‘We received information.’ First the pieces on that damn website, then someone pointing a finger at Bradley. And then it came to her: ‘Lesbians in their Midst.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Fitzhugh asked.

  She looked at Ada. ‘Whoever posted those pieces about us had to have read my column before it appeared. It had to have been someone at the paper.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Ada said. ‘Just someone who saw it before it ran. And who at the paper would be that interested in us? I mean, really. I think it’s closer than that Lil. And you’re right, whether intentional or not, they were influenced by your article. It was on your office computer, and then your flash drive and then the computer in the dining room. Usually you print one out for me to read, but you were in a hurry. I didn’t see it until it came out, so someone had to have gotten on to either computer, or taken your flash drive.’

  Fitzhugh was following their discussion. ‘What are you two talking about?’

  She looked at the agent. ‘You said someone gave you information about my husband’s records. Who?’

  ‘It came through the tip line,’ he said. ‘Why?’

  ‘And that’s how you found out about Nillewaug in the first place. Someone called in anonymously.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK,’ Lil said. ‘Now in everything I’ve learned about health-care fraud, if you whistle blow, and there’s evidence that fraud was committed, aren’t you entitled to a reward?’

  ‘Also true,’ he said.

  ‘How big?’ Ada asked.

  ‘In the case of Nillewaug,’ he said, ‘big. Possibly a million-dollar payout, or more.’

  ‘But if it’s anonymous . . .’ Lil felt something crucial just out of reach. ‘If they don’t take credit for it, they can’t get a reward, then money’s not the motive. This is personal, everything that’s been happening is personal . . . I need to check something, excuse me.’ With Ada and Agent Fitzhugh trailing behind she headed back to the dining-room table and the computer she used for the Internet. Clicking on to her web browser she checked the history. She’d set up her system so that the history and cache files got dumped every two days. As she scrolled down, she hit a block of sites she didn’t recognize, and one that ran on for several lines – Grenville4Grenvillians.com. Behind her, she felt Fitzhugh and Ada watching. Lil looked back at Fitzhugh. ‘What do those suffixes mean?’ she asked, hovering the cursor over several lines on the history that all started with Grenville4Grenvillians.

  ‘They’re attachments,’ he said. ‘And that letter there lets you know they were from a peripheral like a camera, cell phone, maybe a flash drive. Someone uploaded files from this computer to that website. And if you move across . . . may I?’

  She relinquished the chair and Fitzhugh switched screen views and came up with an expanded history that included a time log. Someone had been on Lil’s computer in the early a.m. of Monday and then later that same afternoon.

  ‘Lil.’ Ada sounded scared. ‘If this wasn’t you and I know it wasn’t me, that leaves Aaron and my mother, and I know it wasn’t either one of them. My mom can barely turn on a computer let alone do something like this. And Aaron would never. Although Kyle was here . . . but he was long gone when this got posted.’

  ‘We’re forgetting someone,’ Lil said, and little bits of data came to mind – like the way Alice could barely string a sentence together, but had little difficulty dressing or bathing. Sure, she made a show of not knowing how to use her cutlery, but by the time her own mother was forgetting names, she’d also forgotten how to clean herself after going to the bathroom . . . but not . . . ‘It was Alice . . . Oh my God. How did we miss this? The whole thing was an act.’ As the words left her mouth, they sounded too implausible, and completely correct. ‘She’s not demented, Ada, not in the least.’

  ‘And her first name’s not Alice,’ Ada said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘When we were cleaning out her place, all her papers have Mary A. Sullivan. Kyle said she didn’t like the name Mary.’

  ‘Show me.’ She was jogging toward the front door.

  Outside, Fitzhugh’s partner, Connor, was waiting for him, the other two agents having already left. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

  ‘Not certain, but interesting,’ Fitzhugh said, as he trailed behind Lil into Ada’s condo. Where they found Aaron, who’d obviously been trying to listen through the adjoining wall. He started to ask questions. ‘What’s . . .’

  Lil shook her head no and made a beeline for the room where Alice had been staying. Along one wall were opened black garbage bags, and she was barraged by incongruous bits of information. The woman had a hell of a lot of lingerie, but that’s not what drew her interest. It was a framed photo of Alice with Kelly and Kyle on her lap when they couldn’t have been more than two. A pair
of chubby-cheeked toddlers, he in a sailor’s outfit, his brown eyes looking back, and Kelly, who could easily have been a child model with her reddish-gold ringlets and luminous china-blue eyes, her mouth a perfect cupid’s bow as though blowing a kiss to the camera . . . and right then Lil knew the truth. She’d seen those eyes before . . . her mother’s eyes. She did the math, Kyle and Kelly had to be in their early thirties – were they the product of rape? Kelly’s red hair – like Dennis Trask’s. ‘Oh my God!’ Her knees felt week; she was trembling.

  ‘What is it?’ Ada asked.

  Lil couldn’t take her eyes off the picture. The two beautiful children, twins, but not identical. ‘I know who phoned in your tip. And I know why.’ With all eyes on her, she shared the story of Victoria Binghamton’s rape. ‘Mary A. Sullivan was her mother. Alice is Victoria’s mother. She raised her children, adopted them, and thirty-four years after the fact she’s come back to Grenville.’

  ‘Interesting coincidence . . .’ Fitzhugh took the picture from her. ‘That’s Kyle Sullivan . . . the nurse at Nillewaug.’

  ‘Yes,’ Lil said, ‘and that’s his sister, Kelly . . . who came and took her away this afternoon.’

  ‘Where to?’ Fitzhugh asked.

  ‘New York . . . Manhattan. Kyle said Kelly has a loft in Soho.’

  Lil stared at the photo, and thought of dotty Alice – all an act. And the two beautiful toddlers now fully grown. Why did you wait so long to return to Grenville, she wondered. They say revenge is best eaten cold, but thirty-plus years . . .

  As though reading her thoughts Ada gave the answer: ‘It had to have been Victoria’s death. It was six years ago, and a year later she comes to Nillewaug.’

  ‘Yes.’ And Lil looked back at Agent Fitzhugh, now on his cell tracking down an address for Kelly Sullivan. She had so many questions, but something else, too. A horrible knot of emotion that was impossible to untangle. Everything from dread at having them find something wrong in Bradley’s records, to a twisted admiration for Alice, to a sadness for what had happened to Vicky Binghamton.