Dead Past

by Beverly Connor

  “Webcam dating,” said David. “That sounds like me. Only, I usually don’t know the girl at the other end.”

  Jin laughed; Diane rolled her eyes.

  “Just kidding,” he said. “Although I understand you can have some pretty good remote kinky sex with a webcam. Joana Cipriano’s ex-husband apparently gets lots of cartoon action.”

  “I’m not even going to ask,” said Neva.

  “I wouldn’t.” Diane shook her head.

  “You can tell me later,” said Jin.

  Diane replaced the seashells in the evidence bag, resealed it, and had Neva, Jin, and David sign as witnesses. Just as she put it in the locker, her cell phone rang. She looked at the display. It was Laura Hillard, psychiatrist friend and museum board member.

  “Hi,” said Diane. “You call to tell me I’m a murder suspect?”

  “I guess you know that some crazy woman’s been calling all of us,” said Laura. “I tried to set her straight, but it’s awfully hard to set someone straight who’s nuts—I know. Actually that’s not why I called. It’s about your employee, Juliet Price.”

  “Juliet? Is she all right?” Diane walked back to her office as she listened to Laura.

  “Nothing’s happened. Don’t worry. She’s been coming to see me. You know how I like to work—I have my patients come every day for a couple of weeks before I go to a weekly appointment schedule. I think the initial intensity gives them a lot of security up front and lets me get to know them better. Of course, I’ve had a few who think it’s just a money-making scheme.” She laughed. “Anyway, she gave me permission to speak with you. I thought you could help.”

  “Me? How?” asked Diane.

  “Her problems stem from that one tragic event in her life. She remembers only snatches of it. I’m working with her on that, but I have to be careful of creating false memories, so it’s going to be a slow process. But I think something happened recently that’s triggered post-traumatic stress reactions. She doesn’t know what it could be.”

  “And you want me to find out? I don’t think . . .”

  “No, no. I want you to take a look at her kidnapping. She has all the files in her possession. If you could solve it . . .”

  “Solve it? Laura, what makes you think I can solve a—what is it—twenty-year-old case?”

  “Isn’t that what you do?” asked Laura sweetly.

  “Not exactly. Any bones involved?” said Diane.

  Laura laughed. “None that I know of. How about it? I think it would help her to know what happened. All her life her parents shielded her from the information. Her stepmother meant well, but she wasn’t any help, either. Her father and maternal grandmother blamed her for her mother’s death. It wasn’t until she was an adult that she was able to find out much at all. Until then she only had strange memory fragments that frightened her. You might be the only one who can shed light on what happened to her.”

  “OK, I’ll have a look at her files,” said Diane.

  “Good. I’d like you to listen to the tape I made of her talking about her memories. She thinks it’s a good idea, but didn’t want to ask you herself.”

  “All right,” said Diane.

  “I knew I could count on you. Isn’t this more fun than going on a killing spree?” said Laura.

  “That’s not funny, Laura. I suppose you heard about the McNair murder.”

  “Of course. That’s the advantage of being ‘old Rosewood.’ We get to hear everything. I understand that addlebrained Councilman Adler is trying to take political advantage of these tragedies. Did you see him on the news, weeping over his nephew? He didn’t care a flip for his nephew. You can’t when you’re a sociopath, and Adler’s one if I’ve ever seen one.”

  “No, I didn’t see him. For some reason he wants me to be the killer. I’m not sure I understand that.”

  “Because you are part of the Rosewood police department, and he’s been gunning for them. He’ll stop that in a hurry. He’s made Vanessa mad and you know what she’s like when she’s mad. Attacking you is like attacking the museum, and that’s like attacking Milo, and she won’t have that.”

  “Send me the files and tape,” said Diane.

  “They should be on your desk. I sent them by courier. I knew you’d say yes.”

  “You are awful, Laura,” said Diane.

  “I know. But I get things done. I’ll talk to you later. I’m eager to see what you make of it all. Juliet’s having a hard time right now. Thank you for helping.”

  “Sure, as you say, it beats going on a killing spree.” Diane looked accusingly at her phone after Laura hung up. “I can’t believe I said yes. As if I don’t have enough to do.”

  Diane closed her office and went back to the crime lab where Jin, Neva, and David were bouncing ideas off each other.

  “Any new theories on the crimes?” asked Diane.

  “Nothing that makes any sense,” said David. “I think the kid just had his hand—pardon the pun—in too many pots.”

  “You know, David,” said Jin, “I’ve been counting the number of times you’ve used a word that starts with p, and it’s a lot.”

  David glared at Jin for a long moment. “You what? Jin, that doesn’t make a bit of sense. Why would you do that? Why not the number of words that start with f ?”

  “Because you use p more often,” said Jin. “Statistically, you use it more frequently than the occurrence of p words in everyday language.”

  David looked at Jin, amazed. “To know that, you would have to count all the first letters of all the words I use when I talk. Why do you have so much time? And why in the hell would you care?”

  “That’s just something I notice,” said Jin.

  “He’s right,” said Neva. “And they tend to cluster. That’s called something.”

  “Alliteration,” said Jin. Then he grinned. “Or is it onomato-pee.” Both he and Neva lauged at what Diane thought was a rather lame joke. Diane rolled her eyes and shook her head.

  David looked from one to the other, then at Diane. “See what I have to put up with? They have far too much time on their hands.”

  Diane laughed, too. She had a slight feeling of d’jà vu, but couldn’t put her finger on the source. It was odd that she would, because this was such an unusual conversation. She shook her head as if she could shake out the feeling.

  “As much as I’d like to continue this conversation,” said Diane, “I’ve got work to do. I’m going to my museum office. Remember, Jin, you have a DNA lab riding on your work.”

  “Gee, no pressure, Boss.”

  David went back to his computer, still shaking his head and casting glances of consternation at Jin and Neva.

  “Now you’ve made him paranoid,” said Diane. “He’ll never again use another word that starts with the letter p.”

  Chapter 30

  Laura Hillard’s package had been delivered by the time Diane got back to her museum office. Andie had put it on her desk. Diane opened the envelope and spilled the contents out on her desktop. There were copies of police reports, newspaper clippings, and a tape. She picked up the yellowed pages of the newspaper clippings. They were arranged in chronological order and held together with a paper clip. The first thing that occurred to Diane was that they needed to be treated with a deacidifier. She smiled to herself. First thoughts are of preserving the paper—a consequence of working in a museum.

  The lead article, dated September 29, 1987, was the first news account of Juliet’s disappearance. It contained a school photograph of a young Juliet. A smiling little girl, she looked happy. Diane wondered if that picture was the last time Juliet looked happy. She read the article over a couple of times. Not much information in it other than Juliet’s description, that she had been missing since the day before, and was last seen playing in her backyard. Diane wondered if it was fenced in or not. How much trouble had the kidnapper gone to to take her?

  The second clipping, dated October 2, 1987, described Juliet being found. A group
of kids discovered her when their basketball rolled down an embankment and into a concrete culvert. She was stuffed in the culvert with mud and rocks as if she’d washed in. The preteen boys pulled her out. One ran for the police. There was a picture of a row of smiling boys, one holding a basketball. There was a picture of the empty culvert.

  The article said she had been drugged and strangled. When she passed out, the kidnapper apparently thought she was dead. He’d put her in the cement pipe and left her. A light autumn rain had washed mud, rocks, and leaves around her body. She was lucky she hadn’t drowned.

  What a terrible story, thought Diane. She wondered how Juliet had felt reading it. No wonder she was having post-traumatic stress issues. Anyone would, having gone though such an ordeal.

  The third clipping, dated November 7, 1987, was a follow-up. It simply said that after a month, the police had no leads as to who had kidnapped Juliet and left her for dead, and no information as to the motive.

  Diane looked at a copy of the police report. It was sketchy. It included the missing person’s report, the school picture of Juliet, a doctor’s report, which said that she wasn’t molested but had a bruised trachea, arms, and ribs.

  The police had interviewed the parents, grandparents, teachers, neighbors, and friends. They found nothing. The interviews were included in the report and Diane read through them. Only a couple of items jumped out at her. One was a report of a woman who had fallen while jogging on the road in front of Juliet’s home at about the time of Juliet’s abduction. Several neighbors saw her, including Juliet’s mother. Two neighbors went to help her up. The police were unable to find her even after an appeal in the newspaper. The other item of interest was a report from a child who lived next door and was a year older than Juliet who heard her say, “I don’t know you,” an hour before she was reported missing. That seemed to suggest that Juliet hadn’t recognized whomever she was talking to. Then was it a stranger? Was it the kidnappper?

  What if, Diane thought, the woman was a ruse whose purpose was to keep the neighborhood eyes to the front of the houses and not the backs where they might see Juliet being snatched? Diane wondered if the police had a composite sketch made of the jogger. She searched and didn’t see one among the papers.

  She picked up the tape, weighed it in her hand, and looked at it before inserting it into a player. She felt really reluctant to listen to Juliet in one of her sessions with Laura. It was as if she would be listening to something she had no business hearing. However, if Juliet thought it was a good idea . . . Diane slipped on the earphones, and pressed the PLAY button.

  “Juliet, tell me what you remember.” This was Laura’s voice.

  There was no introductory conversation. Laura had edited the tape. Diane felt better.

  “Dark and hard to breathe. I’m afraid of being closed in,” said Juliet. Her voice was low and soft.

  “Just tell me what you remember. We’ll talk about your fears later,” said Laura.

  “I remember dark, and something in my eyes that hurt. I do remember that. I don’t know when that was—I could have been playing outside, for all I know,” said Juliet.

  “That’s OK. We just want to look at your conscious memories right now,” said Laura. “Do you have any other memories that frighten you or that you find mysterious or simply can’t connect up with anything that your parents remember about your childhood?” asked Laura.

  There were a few moments of silence. “I had a doll that Gramma said I must have stolen. I didn’t, but I don’t know where I got it,” said Juliet. “Gramma was a strict woman, but she could be fun sometimes, especially when she baked or when we collected seashells on the beach.”

  There was a pause, and Diane could hear Juliet breathing.

  “I remember being in a dark room with new dolls. I remember a baby doll, and I remember being afraid in the room.” She paused again. “The room had hardwood floors.” Juliet laughed. “I’m not afraid of hardwood floors.”

  Diane heard Laura laugh, too.

  “I remember running from something,” continued Juliet, “just running. I remember someone saying, ‘She said you took it.’ I don’t know if any of these memories are connected to the same thing, but they all give me the same fear when I think of them. I have very few memories before the age of seven. That’s when it happened, and I don’t really remember getting kidnapped at all. I don’t know if any of these memories are from the kidnapping. I used to have this dream of rows and rows of new dolls. The dreams stopped for a long time, and now they’ve started back. I don’t know why. And I don’t know why I’m afraid of them.”

  “What do you mean by new dolls?” asked Laura.

  “Dolls still in the box,” said Juliet. “What does it mean?”

  “I don’t know, yet,” said Laura. “But we’ll find out. Memory is funny. I have a friend who associates the name Louise with vinegar.”

  Diane smiled. That was her. It was something she told Laura when they were kids. Talk about memory.

  “Vinegar?” said Juliet.

  “The word Louise sounded like vinegar to her—that’s the best she could explain it to me. It may be that when she was little she met someone named Louise who spilled vinegar, and the association stuck. But most probably, when she learned the words Louise and vinegar, they somehow got stored in the same place in the brain. Or there could be some other reason entirely.”

  “My memories are so frustrating,” said Juliet. “They don’t make sense to me.”

  “Early memories are not always accurate,” said Laura. “There was this book that I liked as a young child—it was one of the Golden books. In the book there was a red ball and red wallpaper. To this day when I see a certain kind of red wallpaper, it reminds me of that book. The same with a certain kind of ball. Not long ago I was sorting some stuff in the attic and came across that book. I looked through it for that ball and wallpaper and, to my surprise, the drawings were much cruder and the colors much less vivid than my memory of them. The drawings were childlike in the book, but in my memory they were more polished—finished.”

  “How does that happen?” asked Juliet. “I thought memories were written in stone once they get stored.”

  “No. Your memories change over time as the brain develops, or as people and events influence them. Some memories are only memories of something that was told to you, and your brain filled out the image. If all your life your parents and relatives tell you a story of how you fell in the creek and almost drowned, you will likely have a memory of it, especially if you’ve ever seen the creek where you were told the event occurred. That happened to my cousin. Years later, she found out it happened to another cousin, not her at all. Yet, by the time she got to be an adult she remembered the event—and it never even happened to her. Sometimes people confuse dreams with memory. That’s why we are going to talk about your dreams another time.”

  “How will we ever figure this out?” said Juliet.

  “Wading through early memories is tough,” said Laura. “But we’ll get though it. I have some ideas.”

  That was all that was on the tape. Diane was glad it was over. Hearing Juliet talk about her memories was uncomfortable. She could hear the pain in Juliet’s voice. A person’s deepest fears are such a private thing. Diane took off the earphones and sat thinking.

  “I don’t know how Laura expects me to solve a twenty-year-old crime with this scant evidence,” she whispered to herself. “I must have been nuts to agree.”

  Diane looked at her watch. It was about time to go home. She locked Juliet’s information in her desk and went to tell Andie good-bye.

  “We haven’t been getting any more harassing phone calls,” said Andie. “Whatever you did worked.” She smiled brightly.

  Diane smiled back ruefully. Patrice Stanton thinks I’ll kill her, she thought. What a reputation I’m getting.

  Before she left the building Diane stopped by the crime lab. David, Jin, and Neva were sitting at the large round table looking at
reports.

  “We don’t have anything, guys,” Jin was saying when Diane walked in.

  “I don’t want to hear that,” said Diane. “We have to have something. What are you looking at?”

  “We have some of the trace back from the GBI,” Jin answered. “They’ve accounted for all the fibers found on McNair. The only thing interesting is a blond hair about seven inches long. It could be his wife’s; they don’t know yet. So far, we can’t find any link between Joana Cipriano’s scene and the other two. In fact, there’s no common trace evidence between McNair and Stanton.”

  “Everything we found in Stanton’s boathouse belonged to the family,” said Neva. “I don’t think the killer ever got inside the boathouse.”

  “I agree,” said David. “I think he came by boat, shot him, and left.”

  “What about the noise?” asked Diane.

  “Electric trolling motor,” said David. “Just a little hum.”

  “But aren’t they slow?” asked Diane.

  “As fast as walking. Fast enough to get you to one of the little coves where you have a car waiting,” said David.

  “That sounds awfully chancy,” said Diane.

  “This is a lake where people do night fishing,” said David. “Nothing unusual about a small boat being out on the water.”

  “In the middle of winter?” asked Diane. She shrugged. “It’s as good a theory as any we’ve had. But where does it get us?”

  “Where you came in,” said Jin. “We don’t have anything.”

  “What do the detectives have?” asked Diane.

  “Less than we do,” said Jin. “We got hold of the GBI report first.”

  “They must have more,” said Diane. “They’ve been investigating McNair’s life, his friends and enemies, his family. Same for Stanton. Surely, they’ve come up with something.”

  “They say they have nothing,” said Neva. “It could be that my sources have been told not to talk.”

  “I’ll talk to Garnett,” said Diane. “They have to have something.”