Shadows of Ashland

by Austin,Robin

  If I’d done my homework on her, who knows how things would have turned out? I never will. But it cost me more than token quotes for the article. When I stood in the front yard of Kaufman’s home and watched the ambulance rush him away, I made the decision to at least try to get some answers before the police got to Fowler.

  I gave Davenport’s name to Martin without hesitation, but I didn’t give him Fowler’s. Now I wanted to give Kaufman’s accomplice, and the last person who could say what really happened to Ruby, one last chance to tell her side, and not just for Eunice’s sake.

  For all I know, Fowler wasn’t Kaufman’s accomplice at all, but another one of his victims. She was a young and timid nurse back then. Maybe she’s carried a burden so heavy all these years that it’s turned her against everyone who threatened to expose her– including or perhaps especially me.

  I order a sandwich and call Ashland. “Hello, this is Jan Abbott. I have an urgent message for Patricia Ann Fowler. I know she isn’t on duty today, but she needs to be contacted and given my number. This is an urgent matter regarding today’s events at Ashland. I’m certain she’ll want to hear what I have to say. She has the option of calling me back. I won’t try to contact her again, but if she doesn’t call before two o’clock today, it will be too late.”

  The delay is so long, I think I’m alone on the line. Finally, I’m asked for my number. I disconnect and wait. Fowler has forty five minutes to call.

  The waitress brings food I didn’t order. She looks relieved when I don’t send it away. Ten minutes later, my phone rings.

  Since coming to Ruston, my clock has been on fast forward. Now Fowler’s time is up. Before I walk into the Ruston Police Station, Fowler has one chance to tell me everything she knows about what happened the night Ruby died, and maybe convince me why the police shouldn’t be told.

  “Ms. Abbott?”

  “Hello, Ms. Fowler. I thought you should know before the police contact you that I saw Dr. Ira Kaufman yesterday. We discussed Eunice Cohoon’s baby. Before he died, he implemented you in the death of the child—”

  “Died? Did you say that Dr. Kaufman….”

  “Yes, I’m sorry to be so blunt. He suffered a heart attack. Did you hear what I said about the child? I’m certain you know exactly what I’m talking about. How do you want to respond to Kaufman’s allegation that you were involved in the infant’s death?”

  “Hello? Ms. Fowler? Are you still there?”

  Chapter Twenty Four

  §

  I leave my lunch, now soggy and cold, and drive to the Ruston Police Station less than a mile from the diner. With ten minutes to spare, I call Rick and leave a message. My words are hollow, spoken as if reading from a script, which I certainly don’t have.

  “My trip home is delayed by the police.” This I explain like it’s perfectly normal, just another part of the assignment. Some unexpected things came up during my investigation. I tell him I might need his assistance in posting bail; “I’ll let you know as soon as I do.” At this, I laugh– the nervous, uncomfortable type that’s not meant to get a laugh back. Then I apologize and disconnect.

  Next I call my mother, in case I need a backup. I’m relieved when my father answers the phone.

  “Where you at, kiddo?”

  I tell him I’m still in Ruston, but hope to be on the road soon.

  “Ruston? What are you doing in Ruston? That up north?”

  “No, Dad. It’s south of us. I’m here doing a story on Ashland, remember?”

  “Oh, sure I do. That psychiatrist fooling around with the patients. How could I forget?”

  “Is Mom home?” The phone is slipping in my hand and a lump is swelling in my throat. My mother comes on the phone, filled with excuses for my father before I even get out a word.

  “Your father’s fine,” she says, cutting me off when I start to tell her that I may need her help. “When are you coming home?”

  “Soon, Mom. Soon.” I disconnect and walk into the police station.

  The clerk at the front desk takes my name and stares at me in the same way the Baxter diners did before he tells me to take a seat. He watches me while he talks low into the phone, perhaps to be certain I don’t run off or hear the plot being orchestrated against me. As soon as he hangs up, he tells me someone will be out soon, then he goes back to his paperwork or maybe a crossword puzzle.

  The Ruston Police Station is smaller than the Ruston diner, not including the holding cells in the back, though I’m only assuming. I’ve never visited the place before, never got the tour and hope that won’t be happening today.

  The press wasn’t given access to the police after Kaufman was arrested or during his trial. Initially, they held conferences in front of the station, then left further questions for the prosecutor. Kaufman made bail right after his arrest. Actually it was waved, if I recall correctly. Professional courtesy. Rapist are people too mentality. I wonder how they feel about journalists.

  When Detective Carter called, he said Martin would sit in on the interview. I took that as a good sign, assuming it meant our conversation would be connected to my finding Ruby’s grave and not the circumstances that ultimately led to Kaufman’s death.

  After more delay than reasonable, I’m ready to insist that Carter drive to Stratton to interview me. I start to inform the clerk of this when a man who looks more like a high school football coach than a detective opens the door to the waiting room. He seems concerned, troubled even.

  “Ms. Abbott. Detective Gavin Carter.” We shake hands and he motions for me to sit. The small waiting area is empty except for the two of us.

  “Detective Martin’s been called out to investigate another case,” he says, in a near whisper, apparently wanting to keep this news from the desk clerk. “It may be a while before he gets back, and I know you said you were returning home today. I don’t want to keep you longer than necessary so if it’s okay with you, we’ll talk without him.”

  “It’s either now or you can contact me in Ruston. Your decision, unless you have grounds to hold me.” My annoyance makes a poor suit of armor.

  Carter leans back as if weighing his options. “Okay. This way.” He motions for me to follow, first through a security door, then a door to a short hallway that leads to a small room. He points to one of two chairs sitting at a card table– almost like in the movies. Across from me, he fumbles with a file.

  “I have a few questions about your trip to see Dr. Kaufman.” Carter raises his eyes, attempts to read my blank face. “Detective Martin and I may have more questions at a later date, but I’m hoping we can take care of most things on Kaufman right now.”

  Carter asks if he can record our conversation and I agree. I’m guilty of nothing, I tell myself. Straight off, he wants to know why I tracked Kaufman down and drove all the way to his home in Baxter.

  “Just hoping to tie up loose ends,” I say.

  “What kind of loose ends?”

  “I was hired to write an article for Matrix Media about institutionalization for the mentally ill population. I wanted to know if Kaufman could add anything to explain procedures that contributed to patient development. I was doing my final research before turning the article over to my client.”

  “And did he? Did Kaufman have anything on this patient development stuff?”

  “No. As you’re aware, he had a heart attack. Our time together was cut short.”

  “What kind of procedures did you expect him to explain?”

  “Therapy, education, activities. I didn’t really know. That’s why I went to see him.”

  “Did the two of you argue?”

  “No. Although I’m sure being questioned about a past most would rather forget was stressful. I assured him I wasn’t there to discuss the actions that landed him in prison, but the mere fact of mentioning Ashland likely elicited those memories. Whatever memories he had were his own, we didn’t discuss them.”

  “Did you suspect that this woman you were hired to writ
e about was one of his victims?”

  I start to answer then stop. “Obviously, you’ve discussed the case with Detective Martin because I’ve said nothing about any of the patients. I’m sure you know that patient confidentiality is protected by law, so I won’t continue this line of questioning without the advice of an attorney. To answer your question though, I’ll tell you what I was told by my client. The sample patient was not one of his victims.”

  “According to Detective Martin, when Kaufman was in the middle of having a heart attack, he told you a child was buried in the woods behind Ashland.”

  “That isn’t quite the way I stated it. In the course of my interviews with the sample patient, the subject of an infant was revealed. Just before my trip to see Dr. Kaufman, the patient told me the child was deceased. I had no reason to believe or disbelieve the allegation. The child was one of several things I discussed with Dr. Kaufman while trying to determine what led to the sample patient’s advanced cognitive abilities. It wasn’t until he began to feel ill that he made the disclosure.”

  “Dying man’s confession?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You implemented Dr. Kaufman and Pastor Leroyce Davenport in the matter.”

  “I implemented neither. Detective Martin asked questions and I offered what I knew. That being one man who claimed to know where the child was buried and the other whose last name the sample patient seems to have taken.”

  Carter flips through his file as if he’s read none of it or wants me to think as much. “Patient was Eunice Cohoon… and Matilda Davenport.”

  “Is that a question, Detective?”

  “No, Ms. Abbott. I just have a hard time investigating cases involving sample people. Did you ask Ms. Cohoon or her multiple personality who the father was?”

  “It’s not that easy. Eunice Cohoon is mentally challenged. Ours were not logical conversations, not those you would have with a fully functioning person. Like I said, I had no reason to believe there even was a child. For all I knew, it could have been a doll she once owned, a show she watched, even a conversation she overheard. With the mentally ill, reality isn’t always tangible.”

  “Yet you thought it important enough to drive over five hundred miles roundtrip to question Dr. Kaufman?”

  “You’re twisting my words, Detective. I’ve already explained that I went to see the man regarding procedures and patient development. Those were critical factors in my research. Like you, it’s my job to investigate– even vague leads. Both our jobs require this even if those leads are dead ends.

  “Unfortunately, Detective, your questions are getting too close to violating patient confidentiality. If you want to continue this line of questioning, you can do so with my client’s attorney present. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to beat the Sunday evening traffic back to Stratton.”

  Carter shuffles uncomfortably in his chair, then carefully aligns the loose papers in his file. “Okay, Ms. Abbott. Thank you for your time. Detective Martin and I have your number.”

  He walks me out the door and mumbles something about the weather. “How’d you find Kaufman?”

  “You know the answer to that, Detective. Google.”

  There’s three messages on my phone: one from Rick, one from Palmer, and one from Sledge. Sledge wants an exclusive interview seeing as I’m an “old-time fellow crony from The Herald.” His powers of persuasion teeter between naïve and asinine.

  Of the other two calls, I can’t decide which to return first, but anticipate Rick’s will be more understanding. He picks up on the first ring, not at all as understanding as I’d hoped.

  I’m more tired than I realized, more solemn. Rick’s more hyper and demanding. When I assure him I won’t be going to jail anytime soon, he calms down.

  “We don’t need a scandal, Jan.”

  I have no idea what he means except that his relief is motivated by things other than my having to sit in a jail cell. I don’t have the energy to challenge him on the merits of what it takes to create a scandal, or which of us is a more likely culprit for committing such an offense. I say goodbye and disconnect before he ventures an explanation.

  Next I call Palmer, and gratefully, get her voice mail. I say I’m on the road to Stratton and won’t have my phone on while driving. I don’t respond to her question on, “Why the hell is Rodham so pissed off now?” I’m pleasantly surprised she doesn’t know, though curious too. I assumed Rodham would have told her I’d dug up the Institute’s dark past, or more accurately, had the police excavate it.

  Got to write the story the editor paid you to get, kiddo. My father’s wise words again. Ones I know he would say if I told him everything that had happened. If he could remember them, those would be his words.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  §

  When Rick came back to Stratton, after my father summoned him from LA, he made plans– our plans. Career, family, projected income, acceptable level of happiness. He wanted me to get a job with the local television news station. When that didn’t pan out, he wanted me to get a radio talk show. This last one I couldn’t understand. Years later, I came to accept that what my husband wanted was visibility in the community without having to be visible himself.

  My sociable husband became aloof at some point; I can’t remember just when. He wanted a lower profile. He wanted me to be more successful. I even accused him of working more on my career than his own. He said I could do better, said that I needed to do better. I was a huge disappointment in the execution of his plan– for us, for me.

  “Rick believes in you,” my father started saying when it became all too obvious that we weren’t having the ideal couple experience. “Establish yourself then you can have children. A woman can accomplish anything she wants these days, but they expect you to take off a little time to have a family.”

  My men, busy making my plans.

  Now, looking back on these thirty years, I wonder whose plans I’ve been living: mine, Rick’s, or my father’s. Or even worse, none of the above. I worked hard to be a successful, driven news reporter getting the story no one else could– and mostly falling flat on my face, except for the times I was running from the shadows.

  Now here I am with the story nobody else ever got. Not the police back when Kaufman was arrested, not the prosecutor who managed to convict the man, not even Paine who’d stolen my fashion-conscious thunder in reporting the trial.

  I’ve finally succeeded. Problem is, not one person including me is happy about that. The power of plans is grossly exaggerated.

  Rick had dinner waiting for me when I got home, something that never happens. He apologized. Said he was nervous about what was happening. Questioned why I didn’t clarify it better. Complained I’d been keeping him in the dark about this entire assignment. For all he knew, he’d said, I may have killed someone. At this I’d laughed, which ironically relaxed him. I claimed to have a raging headache and left him to clean up.

  The next morning, I listen until I hear Rick’s car drive away then slip out of bed, go for the coffee he’s left for me. The draft of my article is done except for some minor edits. I’ve decided to spend the morning in my garden rather than in my study finishing it.

  My plans of sending the article to Palmer changed after thinking about her voice message. I decided I’d give her time to talk to Rodham before calling, if she didn’t call first. For all I know, I’ll get instructions to write about the scandal she’s likely already watched on the news. Either way, I hope I have a bargaining tool, one that will get me paid.

  After a shower and more coffee, I call my mother. She doesn’t sound like herself. Doesn’t chastise me for not coming home sooner to tend to my husband. She rambles on about a new vacuum she wants to buy, about canning fruit she doesn’t have time to do, and a new diet she thinks she’ll try. Then she empties her lungs, a long crackled swoosh, and tells me my father wandered away again… and said some things to the neighbor woman. This last part she whispers.

 
“Things? What kind of things?” I ask. She tells me to never mind, to stop worrying. I tell her I’m not worrying, I’m asking. What things? She says she doesn’t want to talk about it, not right now. I’m six years old again: not right now, Jan.

  “I’ll come by later,” I say. “I’ll bring lunch from the deli unless you and Dad would rather go out to lunch.”

  She says that isn’t a good idea. She’s having lunch with her friend, Nat. She needs time out of the house. She does the crackled swoosh thing again, then tells me she had to get her husband of fifty-two years a nurse so that she can leave the house.

  “I had to get him another woman.” She says this loud and starts laughing at a pitch too high, then stops abruptly. Then she tells me she has to go in a way that sounds like I’m taking up too much of her valuable time.

  “I’ll bring lunch for Dad and me while you’re out.”

  “Jan, don’t,” she says, and I can tell she means it.

  My mother is angry and scared and angry about being scared because she never is. It doesn’t suit her. My father is adrift on a slow row boat, one without oars, and the water’s getting darker and deeper. Me, I’m terrified that I’m drowning in that water, and I’m scared and seriously pissed.

  I wait until the afternoon before calling Palmer’s office, hours after Rodham normally gets to Ashland. By now she must know of the grave, the police investigation, probably my visit to see Kaufman and even his death. If she’s spoken to Rodham, she knows that her human interest, pro-institutionalization story has crashed and burned in infamy– for now anyway.

  But I’ve got a spin for that since I want to get paid without deducting legal fees, as well as avoid being vilified as the freelance journalist who can’t be trusted. I’m going to convince Palmer to put the article on hold until the Ashland mishap blows over. Mishap, I intend to call it.