Ruth nodded. “I agree there were strong feelings about Erin, but I couldn’t figure out who felt what.”
“These folks are good. They’ve had years of practice.”
“I’ve seen dysfunctional families before, and I’m probably part of one myself, but those three are champions.”
Dix laughed. “You might have asked Chappy about him and Erin, to see the looks on their faces.”
“I hate to ask you this, but do you think one of your family could be involved in Erin’s murder?”
He was silent as he turned onto Mount Olive Road. “When Christie disappeared, I thought about every possibility, including someone in the family being involved. And after all these years they’d have to do a whole lot to surprise me. But I don’t see any of them killing somebody. And yes, I’ve been wrong lots of times.”
A short time later, they stood in front of Helen Rafferty’s desk. Dix slipped off his aviator glasses and smiled down at Helen, who looked harried.
Dix said, leaning close, “I need to speak to you, Helen. Five minutes, in the lounge?”
“I—Well, I don’t suppose you’ll take a rain check, Sheriff?”
“I would prefer now. This is very important.”
There were two employees in the Stanislaus administration employee lounge, hunched over a green Formica table, a bag of Fritos between them. Dix flipped out his badge and waved them out. Ruth sat beside Helen and looked at her for several moments, judging her mood. She turned on her FBI interview voice, calm, inviting. “Tell us about Dr. Holcombe and Erin Bushnell, Ms. Rafferty.”
Helen looked from Ruth to Dix, who was standing with his shoulders against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.
She burst into tears.
CHAPTER 20
PHILADELPHIAWEDNESDAY
SAVICH AND SHERLOCK sat opposite Elsa Bender in the starkly modern living room of Jon Bender’
s home on Linderman Lane on the Main Line. Although it was very warm in the living room, a cashmere afghan covered her legs, a thick wool sweater draped over her hunched shoulders. Her brown hair was pulled back from her face, fastened in a clip at the base of her neck. Her hands clasped and unclasped ceaselessly in her lap. Savich saw that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. The room was brightly lit, but Elsa Bender seemed to sit in the midst of shadows.
Her eyes weren’t bandaged now, but she wore dark glasses. She was too thin, and unhealthily pale, as if she never went outside. However, they saw her smile up at her ex-husband, who stood at her side, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. According to the papers, Jon Bender was a successful real estate developer who had traded her in for a younger model, namely his personal assistant, two years before, but didn’t marry her. And he was here now, a big man, stocky, tough jawed, his blind ex-wife again living in his house.
Savich introduced himself and Sherlock. He said without preamble, “The old man and the young girl who bragged to me about taking you—their names are Moses Grace and Claudia. We don’t know her last name yet, or her relationship to the old man. They’re the same ones who buried my friend Pinky Womack in a grave in Arlington National Cemetery.”
Mr. Bender looked from Savich to Sherlock, obviously wondering if he should be alarmed. He nodded slowly. “We heard about that. We had no idea until you called this morning—Well, now there are actual names attached to their faces. I assume you’ve spoken with the local police?”
“Yes, we did. We’re here because we need your help, Mrs. Bender. You’re the only one who can provide us with a description.”
Mr. Bender answered for her. “Elsa still can’t remember what happened, so she can’t help you.”
Savich sat on the hassock at Elsa Bender’s feet. He took her left hand between his two large ones, felt the chill of her flesh. She’d turned inward, he thought, and that was the wrong direction. He said, “I appreciate your agreeing to speak to us on such short notice. Do you mind if I call you Elsa?” At her faint nod, he continued. “We know how badly these people hurt you, Elsa. We don’t need to focus on that. I know you want these monsters caught and punished for what they did to you. They’ve done terrible things to other people, too. You’re one of the lucky ones; you survived. We need your help so that other people can survive, too.”
“I wouldn’t call this surviving,” Elsa said, and Savich continued to hold her hand as the bitterness flowed through her.
He said, “I would. There’s something else, Elsa. These people who hurt you, they’re calling me, they want to kill me. They’ve also threatened my wife, and my little boy. I desperately need your help to protect them.”
Her hand fluttered a moment, then settled again. “It’s been a horribly painful time for me, Agent Savich. I don’t know if I can ever think about what happened. I don’t want to face those monsters again.”
“Elsa doesn’t need to be tortured with this again, Agent Savich,” Mr. Bender looked ready to muscle Savich out the door. He said, “Listen, she’s gone through enough. We’re sorry about the threats to you and your family, but Elsa can’t help you. We’d like you to leave now.”
Savich didn’t look away from Elsa. “I imagine the doctors told you that when you begin to remember what happened, it’s important not to block it out again. Remembering it, talking about it, will only lessen the pain. Tell us about it, Elsa, tell us and you can send it into the past, where it belongs. You survived. Never forget that you survived.”
To Savich’s surprise, Elsa said, “Jon was in the past. And yet he’s here now. Isn’t that strange?”
Savich saw Mr. Bender flinch, heard him say, “I’m not going anywhere,” but Savich had no idea if she understood his words.
“We have children ourselves, Agent Savich, Jon and I. But I can’t talk about what they did to me, I simply can’t.”
“I don’t need you to, Elsa, although I’m convinced it would help you.”
Elsa said, “The fact is, I’ve remembered almost all of it.” She heard her husband’s quick indrawn breath, but didn’t pause. “The girl Claudia called him her sweet pickle. He was a filthy old man with a hacking cough. She tied my hands behind my back in that dirty old van, told me that he wanted to see her with a woman and that he picked me because she’d told him I looked like her, like I could be her mama and wasn’t that the coolest thing? Then he told her to pretend she was diddling her own mama. The old man blindfolded me and then the girl started.” She began to cry quietly. She swallowed hard and whispered, “
The oddest thing is that I didn’t feel the pain in my eyes until later, in the emergency room.”
“You were in shock, a good thing.”
“I suppose it was.” She lifted her glasses only enough to lightly daub the edge of a monogrammed white handkerchief to her eyes. She straightened her glasses again and said, “It doesn’t hurt so much anymore when I cry.”
Jon Bender said, “Tell them about the farmer, Elsa.”
“The farmer who found me. He visited me in the hospital every single day, brought me roses. He’d sit by my bed and tell me about how he grows barley and oats. Jon came late that night, and three days later, he brought me back here, to our old home, only I can’t see what they’ve done to it since I left.”
“Ask him, Elsa. Simply ask him.”
Jon Bender looked like he wanted to burst into tears. He said, “I didn’t do anything, Elsa.”
“Good.” For the first time she smiled a little. “I hate fussy things. I’m glad you left it clean.” She let Savich ask her questions for several minutes and gave the best description she could of Moses and Claudia. She agreed to talk to a sketch artist later in the day. She told Savich about how Claudia did indeed look like her daughter. She smiled toward her ex-husband. “Jon, give them that photo of Annie throwing the beach ball. Remember, I sent you a duplicate? The resemblance is really quite striking.”
While Mr. Bender was gone, she said, “Tell me more about your boy, Mr. Savich.” Her hand still rested comfortably between his.
“His name is Sean, and he’s a pistol.” He watched her face as he told her about Sean’s birthday party, where Savich’s sister Lily chased around twenty small children, her feet in gigantic clown shoes. He told her how Sean loved to barrel at him the moment he walked through the front door every evening. Hearing this, she was smiling, breathing easily.
Jon Bender broke in when he returned. “I’ve been trying to talk Elsa into giving me another chance, Agent Savich.”
The hand in Savich’s stiffened a bit, then relaxed. She wasn’t ready to let go of him yet, and that was fine.
“I’ve promised her over and over I won’t ever be an ass-hole again.”
And glory of glories, Elsa Bender laughed. She looked up in the direction of her ex-husband’s voice. “
Perhaps you won’t,” she said. “The kids seem to think you won’t. Perhaps.”
Sherlock looked closely at Jon Bender’s face, studied his eyes as he looked at Elsa. “You know what, Elsa? I think this guy of yours has learned what’s important to him.”
Ten minutes later, Savich clasped Elsa’s hands in both of his and pulled her slowly to her feet, letting the afghan pool at her feet. She wasn’t quite steady.
He said, “You’re going to be fine, Elsa. Jon is going to bundle you up and take you for a nice walk, maybe make some hot chocolate when you get back. It’ll put color back in your cheeks.”
IT WAS NEARLY nine o’clock Wednesday night when Savich knocked on Sheriff Noble’s front door. They heard Brewster’s big-dog bark, footsteps running to the front door before it was flung open, Rob and Rafe elbowing each other to be front and center.
“Hello, Special Agent Savich. Hello, Special Agent Sherlock. Did you shoot anyone today?”
“Oh yes,” Sherlock said immediately. “It was all blood and gore. Took me forever to wash it all off.”
“Dude! Really, tell us everything you did. Not just the boring stuff like Dad does, but the cool stuff?”
Savich smiled for the first time since leaving Washington hours before. He hugged both boys quickly, breathing in their excitement, their teenage love of anything gruesome. In ten years or so would Sean be asking the same things?
Rob said, “We waited dinner for you until Dad said he was going to gnaw on his elbows if he didn’t eat. We had bouillabaisse, Ms. McCutcheon brought it over because she knows Dad likes it. It was okay if you like fish.”
“Dillon, come on in the living room,” Ruth called out, before appearing in the doorway, Dix at her shoulder. “We’ve got some delicious tea, some scones that Millie of Millie’s Deli made herself, just for the Feds, and Dix and I had something really interesting happen today, but never mind that just now. Boys, bring in the Federal agents and let’s eat.”
“So how was your day?” Dix asked as he handed out scones.
Sherlock smiled as she took a cup of tea from Ruth. “Actually, our afternoon was great. We took Sean out to build a snowman, poured hot chocolate down his gullet, and listened to him talk nonstop about his grandmother’s new puppy.” She rolled her eyes. “I have a feeling there’ll be barking in our house very soon now.”
“Dogs are good,” Dix said as he gave Brewster a pat. “This little guy keeps my neck warm at night.”
Rob and Rafe finally went off to bed after nearly an hour and four more scones, Savich and Sherlock having filled their ears with horrifying, thoroughly fictional tales of mayhem in the suburbs of Philadelphia. Dix waited another couple of minutes until he was sure it was quiet upstairs, then nodded. “Okay, they’re down for the count. Tell us what really happened in Philadelphia. Could that poor woman tell you anything about Moses Grace and Claudia?”
Savich said, “Yeah, she did. Her name’s Elsa Bender. She’s going to be all right. I mean, I think the future looks pretty good for her.” Savich looked over at Dix and Ruth, who were sitting on the sofa opposite him and Sherlock, Brewster sleeping between them. He pulled a photo out of his shirt pocket. “
This is the Bender daughter, Annie. She’s seventeen in the photo—tall, slender, nearly white-blond hair, big blue eyes. Elsa Bender says she looks like Claudia.”
Ruth studied the photo. “She looks like a cheerleader whose biggest problem is deciding who to go out with after the football game on Saturday night. You’ve already got this photo out all around the Beltway, haven’t you, Dillon?”
“Oh yeah.”
Sherlock said, “Elsa said Moses Grace is as old as he sounds, at least seventy. His face is all leathery from too much sun, which suggests he could have spent a good deal of his life on a farm, an oil rig, a chain gang—take your pick. Elsa said he’s lean and wiry, but he didn’t look fit, he looked sort of gray. She said Claudia’s voice was sweet one minute, shrill the next, with a midwestern accent. As for Moses, we’ve heard his deep drawl, the excessive bad grammar that simply doesn’t feel right. Elsa also said he had a hacking cough, and was always spitting up. That was two months ago. He sounds much worse now.”
Dix sat forward, cuddling Brewster in his arms. “You had a productive day—”
Ruth cut in, the enthusiasm bubbling out of her. “But maybe not as exciting as ours. You’re going to love this. I’ll start you off with Ginger Stanford, and then move on to lunch with Chappy and the little rascals.”
“Then,” Dix said, “our pièce de résistance—Helen Rafferty.”
CHAPTER 21
“…WHEN WE GOT to Stanislaus, we took Helen Rafferty into the employee lounge. Ruth didn’t give her a chance to settle, to get herself ready. She asked her point-blank about Dr. Holcombe and Erin Bushnell.”
Ruth smoothly took up the tale, as if they’d worked as a team for a very long time. “She actually started crying, and only got ahold of herself after I reminded her how important it all is, now that Erin is dead.”
Dix said, “After she dried her eyes, the first thing she did was ask us if we’d like some coffee. I said yes to give Helen some time to collect herself.”
Ruth said, “She apologized to Dix because she knew Dr. Holcombe was his uncle, but she had thought about it, and had to let it out. The bottom line is, Helen Rafferty admitted she and Dr. Holcombe—that’s how she always referred to him—were lovers for perhaps three months about five years ago. She said it was in the summer, when there weren’t many students around. He broke it off, told her that being with her drained him. You’re going to like this—he said being with her had been sort of like attaching himself to an ancient blessing that had lost its power over the years, and now it was suffocating him and he couldn’t continue to be intimate with her. Fact was, she told us, Dr. Holcombe had this compulsion—she
’d known about it since before their affair. He’d slept with a number of very talented young women at Stanislaus over the years, and he seemed not to want to stop. She confronted him with it, and he said he supposed that deep inside his spirit he needed their nourishment, their innocent love of music and life, or he couldn’t create, couldn’t compose his own music, didn’t think he could go on at all. She smiled a little and said she knows what that sounds like, but that he believed it, she was sure of that.
“Helen still thinks of him as a great man with a sickness, a harmless infirmity, not an old lech. So she bought into it. Because she had to, I guess, because she still loves him and admires him tremendously. She said Erin Bushnell was just another girl in a steady stream of talented young students who found themselves ministering to Dr. Holcombe’s spiritual needs. Again, her words.”
Dix sat forward on the sofa, clasped his hands between his knees. “Then she frowned, said maybe she was wrong, maybe Dr. Holcombe had felt more about Erin than about the others. It was creepy, guys, the way she spoke of him and his philandering, as if it was all right as long as it inspired Uncle Gordon’s music. She forgave all of it.”
Ruth picked up the story. “She said Dr. Holcombe had incredible energy, he composed the most amazing music in the past few months. But now, she said, he is destroyed, a shell of himse
lf, and she is very worried about him. I mentioned he didn’t seem all that destroyed when we told him about Erin’s murder, and she told us he would never want to burden others with his pain.” Ruth snorted. Sherlock asked Dix, “Did you get the names of the other young girls who ‘ministered’ to Dr. Holcombe over the years?”
“Whoa—” Dix pulled out his notebook, thumbed through the pages. “Okay, over the period of time that Helen has worked for Dr. Holcombe—fourteen years, four months—she thought he had affairs with about eight female students—that is in addition to Helen—both graduate students and undergraduates. I believe that would be up to the advanced age of twenty-three or -four. She gave me some of the names
—none of them are at Stanislaus anymore—and said she’d look up the rest.”
Ruth marveled aloud, “Imagine, a man my father’s age believing I was too old to sleep with. She said that when Dr. Holcombe ‘disengaged’—her word—from a student, they didn’t leave Stanislaus, except when they graduated. They all seemed happy to remain, somehow simply taking it as part of their educational experience. Maybe they even enjoyed themselves, knowing they had made the great man shine again, who knows?”
Savich said slowly, “It would seem Dr. Holcombe had very good judgment about whom to pick, an excellent talent for self-preservation. It must also have helped over the years that as director of Stanislaus, he had great influence over their professional futures. I’m surprised other people in the school didn’t know about Dr. Holcombe’s predilections, then certainly there would be gossip, some bad feeling from students who couldn’t compete, maybe even a bit of huff from colleagues who found his behavior inappropriate.”
Ruth said, “Helen told us she actually thought no one except the girls involved over the years knew about it. She certainly never heard any rumors.”
Savich shook his head. “That’s hard to believe. Usually if more than two people know about something illicit, particularly something as juicy as this, it starts coming back to them in embarrassing detail.”
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