by Lisa Gardner
Sinkus’s eyes had grown a little wide, but he caught himself. “Actually, sir, I’m going to need you to fill in the rest.”
Eola Sr. sighed heavily. “Fine. Our au pair was engaged in sexual relations with our twelve-year-old son. Are you happy? Is that clear enough now?”
Sinkus let the remark past. “Once you made the discovery, Mr. Eola …”
“Oh, we fired her. Then took out a restraining order against her and had her deported. All under advice of legal counsel, of course.”
“And Christopher?”
“He was a child,” Eola Sr. said impatiently. “He’d been seduced and poorly used by some Belgian twit. Naturally, he was devastated. He yelled at me, raged at his mother, locked himself in his room for days on end. He thought he was Romeo and we had banished his Juliet. He was twelve, for Christ’s sake. What did he know?”
“I called a doctor,” Mrs. Eola volunteered in her whispery voice. “Our pediatrician. He had me bring Christopher in for an exam. But there was nothing physically wrong with Christopher. Gabrielle hadn’t hurt him, she’d just …” Mrs. Eola made a helpless little shrug. “Our doctor said time was the best cure. So we took Christopher home and waited.”
“And what did Christopher do?”
“He sulked,” Eola Sr. said dismissively. “He isolated himself in his room, refused to speak with us, dine with us. It went on for weeks. But then he seemed to come around.”
“He resumed going to school,” Mrs. Eola said. “He joined us for meals, did his homework. If anything, he seemed to have matured from the experience. He started wearing suits, was unfailingly polite. Our friends said he seemed to have turned into a little man overnight. He was charming really. He brought me flowers, spent endless time with his little sister. Natalie idolized him, you know. When he retreated into his room, I think it hurt her most of all. For a while, the household seemed very … smooth.”
“For a while,” Sinkus repeated.
Mrs. Eola sighed and fell silent again, the mournful expression back on her face. Eola Sr. took up the narrative, his voice brisk, unemotional.
“Our housekeeper started complaining about the condition of Christopher’s room. No matter what she did, his bed seemed to stink. Something was wrong in there, she said. Something was wrong with him. She wanted permission to not clean his room.
“Naturally, I denied her. I told her she was being foolish. Three days later, I happened to be home when I heard her scream. I ran into Christopher’s room to find her standing next to the upended mattress. She had finally identified the source of the odor—there, between the box spring and the top mattress, were half a dozen dead squirrels. Christopher had … skinned them. Disemboweled them. Cut off their heads.
“I confronted him the moment he got home from school. He apologized immediately. He had only been ‘practicing,’ he told me. His science class was due to dissect a frog at the end of the semester. He was worried he’d be too squeamish, maybe faint at the sight of blood. And he was concerned that if he betrayed weakness in front of his classmates, he might once again become a target for bullies.”
Eola Sr. shrugged. “I believed him. His logic, his fears, made sense. My son could be quite convincing. On his own, he retrieved the carcasses from his room and buried them in the garden. I considered the matter closed. Except …”
“Except …?”
“Except the household was never quite right again. Maria, our housekeeper, started having little accidents. She’d turn and suddenly there would be a broom across her path, tripping her. Once, after finishing off the last of the bleach, she opened a second bottle, dumped it in, and immediately became overwhelmed by the fumes. She made it out just in time. It turned out someone had dumped out the bleach in the new bottle and replaced it with ammonia. Maria quit shortly thereafter. She insisted our house was haunted. But I heard her mutter under her breath that the ghost was named Christopher.”
“She thought he was trying to harm her?”
“She believed he was trying to kill her,” Eola Sr. corrected bluntly. “Perhaps he’d learned she was the one who’d betrayed his relationship with Gabrielle. Perhaps he wanted revenge. I don’t really know. Christopher was polite. Christopher was cooperative. He went to school. He got good grades. He did everything we asked of him. But even …” Eola Sr. took a deep breath. “Not even I liked being around my own son anymore.”
“What happened in April of ’74?” Sinkus asked gently.
“Christopher went away,” Eola Sr. answered softly. “And for almost two years, it was as if a dark cloud had lifted from our home. Our daughter seemed less anxious. The cook whistled in the kitchen. We all walked with a lighter step. And no one said anything, because what could you say? We never saw Christopher doing anything wrong. After the squirrel incident and Maria’s departure, there were no more little accidents, or strange smells, or anything the least bit suspicious. But the house was better with Christopher gone. Happier.
“Then he came back.”
Eola Sr. paused, his voice drifting off. He had lost his clipped, emotionless tone. A mood had settled over his face. Dark, angry, depressed. Bobby leaned forward. He could feel his stomach muscles tightening, steeling him for what was coming next.
“Natalie changed first,” Eola Sr. said, his voice far away. “Became moody, withdrawn. She would sit in silence for long periods of time, then suddenly lash out over the tiniest thing. We thought it was adjustment issues. She was fourteen, a difficult age. Plus, for over a year she’d had the house to herself, been like an only child. Maybe she resented Christopher’s return.
“He, if anything, seemed to indulge her tantrums. He brought her flowers, her favorite sweets. He called her silly nicknames, invented outrageous little songs. The more she pushed him away, the more he lavished attention on her, taking her to the movies, showing her off to his friends, volunteering to walk her to school. Christopher had grown into a fine young man while he was away. He’d filled out, settled into himself. I think more than a few of Natalie’s friends had a crush on him, which of course he used to his advantage. Pauline and I, we thought perhaps his travels had done him good. He was finally coming around.
“The day after Christopher’s birthday dinner, I received a call from a client in New York. Something had come up, I needed to meet with him. Pauline decided to join me, perhaps we could catch a show. We didn’t want to pull Natalie away from school, but that wasn’t a problem, Christopher was home. So we left him in charge and went away.”
That pause again. A heartbeat’s hesitation while Mr. Eola fought with his memories, struggled to find words. When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse and low, hard to hear.
“My emergency meeting turned out to not be such an emergency after all. And Pauline could not get tickets for the show she wanted to see. So we returned. A day early. We didn’t think to call.
“It was after eight o’clock at night. Our residence was dark, the help gone for the night. We found them right in the living room. Christopher was sitting in my favorite leather chair. He was buck naked. My daughter … Natalie … He was forcing her to perform … a sex act. She was sobbing. And I heard my son say, in a voice I’d never heard before, ‘You stupid fucking cunt, you had better swallow, or next time I’ll ram it up your ass.’
“Then he looked up. He saw us standing there. And he just smiled. This cold, cold smile. ‘Hey Dad,’ he said. ‘I owe you my thanks. She’s much better than Gabrielle.’ ”
Eola Sr. broke off again. His eyes found some spot on the burnished wood table, locking in. Beside him his wife had collapsed, her shoulders shaking spasmodically as she rocked back and forth.
D.D. moved first. She retrieved a box of tissues, handing one silently to Mrs. Eola. The older woman took it, tucked it into her folded hands, and resumed her rocking.
“Thank you for talking to us,” D.D. said softly. “I know this is terrible for your family. Last few questions, then I think we can wrap things up for the day.”
> “What?” Eola Sr. asked tiredly.
“Can you give us a description of Gabrielle?”
Whatever he’d been expecting, this wasn’t it. Eola Sr. blinked. “I don’t … I hadn’t really thought about her.… What do you want?”
“The basics would be fine. Height, weight, eye color. Overall appearance.”
“Well … she was about five foot six. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Slender, but not that rail-thin you see so much these days. She was … robust, vivacious. Like a Catherine Zeta-Jones.”
D.D. nodded, while Bobby made the same mental connection she probably had. In other words, Gabrielle’s general description could also be applied to Annabelle.
Sinkus cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention back to him. It was time to wrap things up, but the detective appeared troubled.
“Mr. Eola, Mrs. Eola, if you don’t mind … after you caught Christopher, he went with you willingly to Boston State Mental?”
“He didn’t have a choice.”
“How so?”
“My money is my money, Detective Sinkus. And you can be quite sure after that … incident, I wasn’t giving Christopher one red cent. Christopher, however, did have his own resources. A trust left to him by his grandparents. By the terms of that trust, he was not eligible to collect until he turned twenty-eight. And even then he would need the cooperation of the trustee. Which would be me.”
Bobby got it the same minute D.D. did.
“You threatened to cut him off. Deny him his inheritance.”
“Goddamn right,” Eola Sr. spat. “I let him live that night, that was generosity enough.”
“You hit him,” Mrs. Eola whispered. “You ran at him. You leapt on him. You kept hitting and hitting. And Natalie was screaming and you were screaming and it went on and on and on. Christopher just sat there. Wearing that terrible smile, his mouth filling with blood.”
Eola Sr. didn’t bother with an apology. “I chased his scrawny ass up to his bedroom, where he locked himself inside. And I … I tried to think of what to do next. I honestly couldn’t bring myself to kill my only son. But at the same time, I could not subject my daughter to the scrutiny of the police. I consulted my attorney”—his gaze flickered to Barron—“who suggested a third alternative. He warned me, however, that given Christopher’s age, committing him to a mental institute would be difficult. I would need him to stay voluntarily, or I would have to get a court order, meaning that we’d have to go to the police.
“My son is smart. I’ll grant him that. And as I said, he has an appreciation for the finer things in life. I can’t imagine him living on the streets any more than he could. So in the morning, we made a deal. He would stay at Boston State Mental until his twenty-eighth birthday. At which point, assuming he fulfilled the terms of our deal, I would release his inheritance. Three million dollars is nothing to sneeze at, and Christopher knew it. He went, and we never saw him again.”
“You never visited?” Sinkus clarified.
“My son is dead to us.”
“Never checked on his progress, not even by phone?”
“My son is dead to us, Detective.”
“So, you didn’t know your son got himself in a bit of trouble at Boston State Mental. Ended up in Bridgewater.”
“When Boston Mental announced it would be closing, I called over. The doctor informed me that Christopher had already been sent to Bridgewater. I found it convenient.”
Sinkus frowned. “And on Christopher’s twenty-eighth birthday?”
“A note arrived at my attorney’s office. ‘A deal is a deal,’ it read. I signed off on the funds.”
“Wait a minute,” D.D. spoke up sharply. “Christopher turned twenty-eight in April of 1982. You’re telling me that he came into three million dollars on that day?”
“Actually, he inherited three point five. The funds were well managed.”
“And he accessed these funds?”
“He has made periodic withdrawals over the years.”
“What?”
Eola Sr. turned to his lawyer. “John, if you would, please.”
Barron lifted up a leather briefcase, briskly snapped it open. “This is confidential information, Detectives. We trust you will treat it accordingly.”
He passed around copies of a stapled sheaf of papers. Financial records, Bobby realized, quickly skimming the sheets. Detailed financial records of Christopher’s trust fund, and the date each time he made a withdrawal.
Bobby’s gaze went straight to Barron. “How did he make contact? When Christopher wanted money, what did he do, pick up the phone?”
“Ridiculous,” Barron snapped. “It’s a trust fund, not an ATM. We required a written request, properly signed and notarized, which we kept as part of the official records. Keep flipping, you’ll find a copy of each sheet. You’ll see that Christopher was partial to increments of one hundred thousand, roughly two to three times a year.”
“He wrote, you cut him a check?” Bobby was still quizzing, rapidly flipping sheets.
“He wrote, we liquidated funds, rebalanced the portfolio, and then cut him a check, yes.”
“So these checks were never collected in person? You have a mailing address?” This was too good to be true. Which it was, as he spotted on the last page. “Wait a minute, you wrote the check to a bank in Switzerland?”
Barron shrugged one shoulder. “As Mrs. Eola mentioned, Christopher spent some time overseas. Obviously, he set up a bank account while he was there.”
Bobby arched a brow. Normal nineteen-year-olds did not open Swiss bank accounts. Not even the spoiled sons of Boston’s upper class. It felt like a preemptive strike to him. The act of a man who was already assuming he might need to hide assets sometime soon, perhaps for a life on the run. Made Bobby wonder what all Christopher had been doing during his “grand tour” of Europe.
Things were wrapping up now. Eola Sr. had his arm belatedly around his wife as she blotted at her smeared mascara. He whispered something in her ear. She gave him a tremulous smile.
“How is your daughter, Mrs. Eola?” Bobby asked softly.
The woman surprised him with her flinty answer: “She’s a lesbian, Detective. What else would you expect?”
Mrs. Eola rose. Her anger had invigorated her. Eola Sr. capitalized on the moment, ushering her out the door. The lawyers and secretary filed out behind them, one massively overpriced brigade, heading for the elevators.
In the lull that followed, Sinkus spoke first.
“So,” he asked D.D., “does this mean I can go to Switzerland?”
The emergency task-force meeting started late, given the overrun of the Eola interview. The majority of the detectives, however, had arrived as scheduled, meaning that by the time Bobby, D.D., and Sinkus appeared, the pizza boxes were empty, the soda consumed, and not even a breadstick remained.
Bobby eyed the lone survivor—a plastic cup of red pepper flakes. He thought better of it.
“All right, all right,” D.D. was saying briskly. “Gather ’round, listen up. For a change, we have developments to discuss, so let’s get cracking.”
Detective Rock yawned, then tried to cover the motion by fanning his piles of paper. “Heard we got a note,” he said. “Real deal or wannabe wacko?”
“Uncertain. We announced Annabelle Granger’s name in the beginning, but never released details on the locket or the other personal items. So our anonymous author either has inside information or is the real deal.”
That perked them up. D.D.’s next announcement, however, elicited collective groans. “I have copies of the note to distribute. But not yet. First things first: our nightly debrief. Let’s figure out what we know now, then we’ll consider how this little community outreach”—D.D. waved the stack of photocopies—“fits into the puzzle. Sinkus, you go first.”
Sinkus didn’t mind. As the go-to guy for Christopher Eola, he was humming with excitement. He recapped the interview with Eola’s parents, what they now knew of Eola’s sexua
l activities and how his former nanny matched a general description of Annabelle Granger, one of the known targeted victims. Even more interesting, Eola had access to vast financial resources. Between his Swiss bank account and multimillion-dollar trust fund, it was highly probable that he could maintain a lifestyle on the run, below the radar, etc., etc. In fact, just about anything was possible, so they’d have to open up their way of thinking.
Next steps: Put in a call to the State Department to track Eola’s passport; outreach to Interpol in case they either had Eola in their sights or a case involving an UNSUB of similar MO; and finally, determine due process for tracing funds transferred out of a Swiss bank account or, better yet, freeze the assets altogether.
“Declare Eola a terrorist,” McGahagin stated.
At his comment a few guys laughed.
“I’m not kidding,” the sergeant insisted. “Homicide means nothing to the Swiss government—or anyone else, for that matter. On the other hand, write up a report that you have reason to believe Eola buried radioactive material in the middle of a major metro area, and you’ll have his assets frozen lickety-split. Aren’t bodies radioactive? Who in this room remembers anything from science class?”
They looked at one another blankly. Apparently, none of them watched The Discovery Channel.
“Well,” McGahagin said stubbornly, “I think it’s true. And I’m telling you, it will work.”
Sinkus shrugged, made a note. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d finessed a square peg into a round hole. That’s why laws were written; so enterprising homicide detectives could figure out a way around them.
Sinkus was also in charge of tracking down Adam Schmidt, the AN from Boston State Mental who’d been fired for sleeping with a patient. He covered Schmidt next.
“Have finally located Jill Cochran, former head nurse,” Sinkus reported. “I’m told she has most of the records, etc., from the closed institute. She’s cataloging them, archiving them, I don’t know. Doing whatever it is you do to insane-asylum paperwork. I’m meeting with her in the morning to follow up on Mr. Schmidt.”
