by Lisa Gardner
“All right,” D.D. said, spreading her hands. “You convinced me. So where’s Mr. Eola these days?”
“Dunno. Left a message with the hospital superintendent at Bridgewater an hour ago. I’m waiting to hear back.”
D.D. considered the matter. “Pay her a personal visit. This isn’t the first time I’ve heard Eola’s name today.”
D.D. launched into a brief summary of her and Bobby’s conversation with Charlie Marvin. She shared the minister’s concerns about Eola, as well as about former staff member Adam Schmidt. Then, taking a very deep breath, D.D. mentioned the appearance of Annabelle Granger.
The task force went from stunned silence to full uproar in under ten seconds.
“Whoa! Whoa, whoa, whoa!” McGahagin’s rasping voice finally cut through the clatter. “You’re telling us we have a witness?”
“Mmm, too strong a word. Bobby?” D.D. turned to him neatly, her gaze perfectly steady, as if she weren’t dumping a load of shit in his lap. He gave her a tighter, thanks-a-lot-Teach smile of his own, then scrambled to boil down three days of covert activities into three salient points for the task force’s consideration.
One, Annabelle Granger was still alive and the remains found with her engraved locket most likely belonged to her childhood friend, Dori Petracelli.
Two, this narrowed their time line to the fall of ’82, where they had evidence an unidentified white male subject was stalking seven-year-old Annabelle, then possibly kidnapped Dori as a substitute after the Granger family fled to Florida.
Three, there was the highly messy, disturbing, niggling little detail that Annabelle Granger happened to be the spitting image of another young girl, Catherine Gagnon, who was kidnapped and held in an underground pit in 1980, two years before Dori Petracelli vanished. Catherine’s abductor, Richard Umbrio, had been imprisoned by the beginning of ’82, however, meaning he couldn’t have been involved in Annabelle’s case.
Bobby stopped talking. His fellow officers stared at him.
“Yep,” he said briskly. “That’s about what I think, as well.”
Detective Tony Rock spoke first. “Holy shit,” he declared. He looked worse tonight than he had last night. The long hours, or the situation with his mother?
“Another astute observation.”
McGahagin turned on D.D. “Were you ever going to tell us about this?”
Score one for McGahagin.
“I thought it was important to verify Annabelle’s story first,” D.D. replied steadily, “given its rather perplexing impact on our investigation. She herself couldn’t provide any supporting documentation. Instead, Detective Dodge has spent the past twenty-four hours substantiating the details. I’m willing to believe her now. Unfortunately, I still don’t know what any of this means.”
“We can add to the profile of our suspect,” Sinkus spoke up. “We’re definitely looking for a predator who’s methodical and ritualized in his approach. He doesn’t just abduct his victims—he stalks them first.”
“Who might be in some way connected to Richard Umbrio,” another detective thought out loud. “Can we interview Umbrio?”
“Dead,” Bobby volunteered, but didn’t elaborate.
“But you said he was imprisoned.”
“At Walpole.”
“So maybe they still have his personal effects. Including correspondence?”
“Worth a try.”
“What about Catherine Gagnon? Any connection between her and Annabelle Granger?”
“Not that we’ve determined,” Bobby said. “But we’ve set up a meeting between the two women for tomorrow afternoon. Perhaps once they see each other in person …” He shrugged.
A couple of the task-force members were studying him now. Detectives had a relentless memory for details, such as that two years ago Officer Dodge had been involved in a fatal shooting involving a man named Jimmy Gagnon. Surely the last name wasn’t just a coincidence.
But they didn’t ask and he didn’t tell.
“Charlie Marvin spotted Annabelle at the Boston State Mental site,” D.D. was saying now. “Said he thought she looked familiar. I caught up with him after Annabelle left and tried to press him for details. Maybe he’d seen her or someone who looked like her in Mattapan. He was vague, though. Just thought for a moment he recognized her from somewhere, one of those passing things. I don’t know if there’s something more significant there or not. Annabelle would’ve been just a child when Boston State Mental closed, so an actual connection between her and the site …”
“Not probable,” Sinkus filled in for her.
“No, I don’t think so.”
The task-force room fell silent.
“So where are we?” McGahagin prodded, trying to wrap things up.
“Tracking down Christopher Eola,” Detective Sinkus offered.
“Finishing our report on missing girls,” D.D. added, with a pointed look back at McGahagin. “And,” her voice grew conciliatory, more thoughtful, “honing in on the time line of 1980 through ’82. We know the mental hospital closed in 1980. We know, thanks to Detective Sinkus, that animals began disappearing in Mattapan—which is an interesting little sidebar. We also know that at least one perpetrator, Richard Umbrio, had come up with the idea of imprisoning a girl in an underground pit. And we know that by the fall of ’82, a man was stalking a girl in Arlington and that her best friend disappeared shortly thereafter twenty-five miles away in Lawrence. We have some reason to believe all these events are related, if only by their proximity in time, so let’s get that nailed down.
“Sinkus, you’re on Christopher Eola—from the moment he left Boston State Mental, where did he go, what did he do? Where is he now? McGahagin, your team can finish the comprehensive list of missing girls. I want you to focus on all names from the early eighties, summarize the details from each case file, start looking for any connections—and I mean any—between the missing girls. How many names do you have?”
“Thirteen.”
“All right, start digging. See if you can tie any of those missing girls to Mattapan, Christopher Eola, Richard Umbrio, or Annabelle Granger. I want to know if any of the families remember their daughters receiving anonymous gifts before they disappeared, about any incidents of Peeping Toms in the neighborhood, that sort of thing. Let’s assume Annabelle’s case gives us an MO, and see if any of the others fit the pattern.
“As for the Catherine Gagnon connection—Bobby and I will be flying to Arizona tomorrow to meet with her in person. Which gives Bobby exactly”—she glanced at her watch—“twelve more hours to uncover all relevant connections between Richard, Catherine, and Annabelle. All right, people, that’s a wrap.”
D.D. pushed out of her chair. Belatedly, the rest of them followed suit.
Bobby followed D.D. out of the room. He didn’t speak until they were in the relative privacy of her office.
“Nice ambush,” he commented.
“You handled it okay.” D.D. had never been one to apologize. Even now, she mostly appeared impatient. “What?”
“Started thinking about something this evening.”
“Good for you. Bobby, I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I would sell my soul for a shower. Instead, I’m five minutes from meeting with the deputy superintendent, where I get to convince him we’ve made significant progress in an investigation when I think we honestly understand less today than we did yesterday. Don’t talk dirty to me. I’m too fucking tired.”
He made a motion with his fingers—the world’s tiniest violin playing in sympathy.
She sat down heavily and scowled at him. “What?”
“According to Annabelle Granger, her whole family fled in the middle of the afternoon, taking with them only five suitcases. So what happened to the house?”
D.D. blinked at him. “I don’t know. What happened to the house?”
“Exactly. I’ve spent two hours poring over newspaper stories from the end of ’82 through ’83. Think of it: an entire house, fully furnished,
suddenly abandoned in the middle of a neighborhood. You’d think someone would notice. But I can’t find any reports in the news or the police files.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking the house wasn’t abandoned. I’m thinking someone, maybe Russell Granger, returned to wrap up loose ends.”
D.D. perked up. “For no one to notice, he would’ve had to do it fairly quickly,” she mused.
“Yeah, within a matter of weeks, I’m guessing.”
“Meaning right around the time Dori Petracelli disappeared.”
“Seems about right.”
“You check storage units, real estate records?”
“So far, no storage units or real estate transactions under the name Russell Granger.”
“Then who owned Annabelle’s house in Arlington?”
“According to property records, Gregory Badington.”
“Who’s Gregory Badington?”
Bobby shrugged. “Dunno. Name’s listed as deceased. I’m working on identifying next of kin.”
D.D. scowled. “So Russell didn’t own the house. Maybe he rented. But still, you’re right. Furniture, clothes, stuff. All of that had to be taken care of somehow by someone.” D.D. picked up a pencil, bounced the eraser off the top of her desk. “Do you have a Social Security number for Mr. Granger? What about a license?”
“Am searching DMV records now. Got a call in to his former employer, MIT.”
“Keep me apprised.”
“One more thing. We’d have to work it from your end.…”
“And that is?”
“Sure would be good to know the order of the victims. Like you said, we seem to be narrowing in on a time line. I think we need to place each of those six girls in that time line. I think it makes a great deal of difference whether Dori Petracelli was the beginning—or the end.”
D.D. nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll call Christie. No guarantees, however. Her limitations are her limitations, and the information you want means by definition she’s analyzed all six remains.”
“Yeah, got that.”
“You’ll keep pushing the Russell Granger angle?”
“Yep.”
“Anything else we need for tomorrow?”
“Told Annabelle I’d pick her up at ten.”
“Ah, a day with Catherine Gagnon,” D.D. murmured. “God give me strength.”
“You’ll leave the brass knuckles at home?” he asked dryly.
She merely gave him a pinched smile. “Now, Bobby, a girl’s gotta have some fun.…”
Bella and I ran. Down Hanover, exiting right, weaving through a myriad of side streets until we burst through to the main drag of Atlantic Avenue. We picked up pace, thundering into Christopher Columbus Park, bursting up the short flight of stairs, flying beneath the long, dome-shaped trellis before pounding down the other side, across the street, and into Faneuil Hall. My breath grew ragged. Bella’s tongue lolled.
But still we ran. As if I could be fast enough to escape the past. As if I could be strong enough to face my fears. As if through sheer force of will I could block Dori’s grave from my mind.
We hit Government Center, then looped back to the North End, dodging reckless taxis, passing the clusters of homeless bedded down for the night, then finally returning to Hanover Street. There, we finally slowed, chests heaving, and limped our way back to the apartment. Once inside, Bella drank an entire bowl of water, collapsed on her bed, and closed her eyes with a contented sigh.
I showered for thirty minutes, put on my pajamas, lay on my bed wide-eyed. It would be a long night.
I dreamed of my father for the first time in ages. Not an anxiety dream. Not even an angry dream, where he appeared as some omnipotent giant and I was a tiny little person, yelling at him to leave me alone.
Instead it was a scene from my twenty-first birthday. My father had invited me to dinner at Giacomo’s. We arrived promptly at five, because the local favorite seated only a handful and never took reservations; on a Friday or Saturday night, the line for a table would wrap around the block.
But it was a Tuesday, quiet. My father, feeling expansive, had ordered each of us a glass of Chianti. Neither of us drank much, so we sipped our wine slowly while dipping thick slices of homemade bread into peppered olive oil.
Then my father, out of the blue: “You know, this makes it all worth it. Seeing you looking so beautiful, all grown up. It’s all a parent wants for his child, sweetheart. To raise her, to keep her safe, to see the adult he always knew she could become. Your mother would be proud.”
I didn’t say anything. My throat felt too tight. So I sipped more wine. Dipped more bread. We sat in silence and it was enough.
Eighteen months later, my father would step off the curb into the path of a zigzagging taxi, his face so badly shattered by the impact, I identified his remains based upon the vial of ashes he still wore around his neck.
I honored his wishes by cremating his body and mixing his ashes with my mother’s in my pendant. Then I took the urn down to the waterfront late one moonless night and turned the rest of his ashes loose in the wind.
All these years later, my father’s entire worldly possessions still fit in five neat suitcases. His only personal item: a small box containing fourteen charcoal sketches of my mother.
I packed up my father’s apartment in one afternoon. Canceled the utilities, wrote those last few checks. When I shut his apartment door behind me for the last time, I finally understood. I had my freedom. And the price of it was to always be alone.
Bella crawled into bed with me around three. I think I had been crying. She licked my cheeks, then turned around three times before collapsing in a heap at my side. I curled around her, and slept the rest of the night with my cheek against the top of her head and my fingers curled into her fur.
Six a.m., Bella wanted breakfast, I needed to pee. My thoughts were still scattered, I had dark circles under my eyes. I should finish my current project, send out the invoice, then get packed for Arizona.
I thought instead of the day ahead. The meeting with Catherine Gagnon, who everyone agreed that I didn’t know. Yet the cops were willing to fly all the way to Phoenix to see her with me.
The unknown unknowns. My life seemed to be full of them.
And then, brushing my teeth, the gears finally started churning in my brain.
With four hours before departure to Arizona, I knew what I needed to do next.
Mrs. Petracelli opened the door and seemed to step right out of my memory. Twenty-five years later, her figure remained trim, her hair a dark bun pinned conservatively at the nape of her neck. She wore dark wool slacks, a cream-colored cashmere sweater. With her carefully made-up face and red-lacquered nails, she was everything I remembered: the polished Italian wife who took impeccable pride in her home, her family, and her appearance.
As I stood on the opposite side of the screen door, however, she plucked at a loose thread dangling from the hem of her sweater, and I could see her fingers were trembling.
“Come in, come in,” she said brightly. “Oh my goodness, Annabelle, I couldn’t believe it when you called. It’s so nice to see you again. What a fine young woman you have become. Why, you are the spitting image of your mother!”
She waved me inside, hands moving, head bobbing as she gestured me into a butter-colored kitchen, where a round table awaited with steaming mugs of coffee and sliced tea bread. I could feel the forced gaiety behind her words, however, the brittle edge to her smile. I wondered if she could gaze on any of Dori’s girlhood friends without seeing what she had lost.
I had looked up Walter and Lana Petracelli this morning, using the phone book listings on the Internet. They had moved from the Arlington neighborhood to a little cape in Waltham. It had cost me a small fortune in cab fare to get here, but I thought it would be worth it.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice,” I said.
“Nonsense, nonsense. We always have time for old f
riends. Cream, sugar? Would you like a slice of banana bread? I made it last night.”
I took cream, sugar, and a slice of banana bread. I was glad the Petracellis had moved. Just being around Mrs. Petracelli was giving me a terrible case of déjà vu. If we had been visiting in their old kitchen in their old house, I wouldn’t have been able to take it.
“Your parents?” Mrs. Petracelli asked briskly, taking the seat across from me and picking up her own coffee, which she drank black.
“They died,” I said softly, adding hastily, “Several years back,” as if that made a difference.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Annabelle,” Mrs. Petracelli said, and I believed her.
“Mr. Petracelli?”
“Still in bed, actually. Ah, the price of getting old. But we still get out and about quite a bit. In fact, I have a meeting at nine for the Foundation, so I’m afraid I can’t linger too long.”
“The Foundation?”
“The Dori Petracelli Foundation. We fund DNA tests for missing persons cases, in particular, very old cases where the police departments may not have the resources or the political will to pay for all the tests now available. You’d be amazed at how many skeletal remains are simply tucked away in morgues or whatnot, having been shelved before the advent of DNA testing. These are the cases where the new technology might have the most impact, yet these are precisely the victims who remain overlooked. It’s a catch-22—victims often need an advocate to apply pressure to an investigation, and yet without an identity there’s no family to advocate for the victim. The Foundation is working to change that.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“I cried for two years after Dori disappeared,” Mrs. Petracelli said matter-of-factly. “After that, I grew very, very angry. All in all, I’ve found the anger to be more useful.”
She picked up her mug, took a sip of coffee. After a moment, I did, too.
“I didn’t know until recently what had happened to Dori,” I said softly. “That she’d been abducted, gone missing. I honestly … I had no idea.”
