The Girl on the Bridge

by James Hayman

  Toni Bernstein snorted loudly on the other end of the phone. “Yeah. I’ve heard that one before.”

  “Haven’t we all? But sometimes it’s true. In this case Thorne told his wife he’d even made an audio tape recording of the girl saying yes.”

  “You telling me Thorne or Charlie or somebody just happened to have a tape recorder handy at the rape site? And he just happened to turn it on so he could capture the girl’s verbal consent for posterity?”

  “That’s what the wife told us.”

  “Handy to have if she decided to accuse them of rape. In fact, a little too handy, don’t you think?”

  “I do.”

  “Anyone collect a rape kit or test the girl for roofies?”

  “I don’t know but I’d guess not. So far everything I’ve got comes literally fourth hand from Thorne’s wife. What she told us was that the victim didn’t report the rape until four months after the fact. Who knows why? Shame. Guilt. Not wanting to testify publically about an embarrassing sexual experience. My next call’s to Holden College to see if I can get some hard information about exactly what happened. The truth is I don’t even have a name for the victim yet.”

  There was a short silence on the other end so Maggie jumped in with another question. “You said Charlie had no business being on the road he was on. What did you mean by that?”

  “He was coming from a dinner meeting with some clients. That particular road doesn’t take him home from the restaurant. Doesn’t really take him anywhere he’s likely to want to go. He had no reason being there.”

  “But it is dark and lonely?” asked Maggie.

  “Dark and lonely with very little traffic. Especially at a few minutes to twelve on a brutally cold winter’s night.”

  While she listened Maggie looked at the photo of Josh Thorne tied to the bed. She wondered if they’d eventually find Josh’s body at the bottom of a scenic overlook. Or maybe at the bottom of a lake. Or, more likely in Maine, not find his body at all because it was at the bottom of the ocean providing nutritious meals for some hungry lobsters. “Who were the last people to see Charlie alive?”

  “We only know the next to last people. The two insurance clients he was having dinner with. They both say Charlie only had one bourbon before dinner and a couple of glasses of wine while they were eating. They both rightly insist it wasn’t nearly enough to get him as stinking drunk as we found him.”

  “Did the three of them all leave together?”

  “Yes. And this is where things get more interesting. One of the clients, a guy named Jeff Purdy, said that when they went out into the parking lot Charlie was called over by some woman who may or may not have known him but addressed him by name.”

  “What do you mean by she ‘may or may not have known him’?”

  “According to Purdy she called out, “Charlie Loughlin?” with a question mark on the end so it sounded like she wasn’t sure it was him. Could have been she knew him, but couldn’t see who it was walking by real well. Or it could have been that she didn’t know him and she wanted to make sure she had the right guy. Anyway, he said yeah, he was Loughlin and she asked if she could talk to him for a minute. Charlie squinted into the darkness and asked, ‘Who are you?’ Purdy says he heard her say her name was Norah Wilcox . . .”

  A jolt of adrenaline shot through Maggie. She sat up straight. “Norah Wilcox?”

  “Yeah. Why? You know the name?”

  “Absolutely. Thorne’s wife received an e-mail last night.” Maggie described the bondage photograph to Bernstein. “The e-mail was signed by Norah Wilcox. As far as we know she was the last person to see Thorne either dead or alive. Now it sounds like she was the last one to see Loughlin alive.”

  “Don’t get too excited, Savage. I’ve been tracking down possible Norah Wilcoxes since the night Charlie died and come up with zip. I think the name’s a phony.”

  “Yeah, but the same name both times? That should be enough to convince your DA Loughlin was murdered. Hell, it convinces me that Thorne was. Charlie’s clients hear this Wilcox woman say anything else?”

  “Just that she asked if she could have a minute of Charlie’s time. He said sure and walked over to where she was standing. Purdy and the other guy, a guy named Will Wattman, both waved goodnight and left.”

  “Could either one describe what Wilcox looked like?”

  “Nah. I worked that hard. Neither got much of a look at her. It was a cold night and she was bundled up in a black parka with a fur hood. Nothing sticking out of the hood but her nose. Purdy did say her voice sounded young to him, but since he’s seventy-four years old, young to his ears could be twenty or it could be fifty. No way of knowing.”

  “Find any other witnesses?”

  “No. We canvassed people at the restaurant and also people in the area. No one could remember seeing her.”

  “Did your people look for this Norah Wilcox?”

  “As best we could before the DA, Elliot Morgan, called the investigation off and stamped accidental death on the file. Neither Loughlin’s wife nor any of his employees or friends had ever heard her name. There was no record of anybody by that name in either Charlie’s business or home computers. Checked people in the area with that name or, given that Purdy’s hearing might not be so good, people with similar sounding names. Hotel and motel registrations. Car registrations. Car rentals. Didn’t come up with anything that looked remotely likely. That’s when the DA told us to give it a rest, stop wasting resources and put it down as an accidental death.”

  Maggie sat quietly for a minute trying to figure out what her logical next step ought to be.

  Bernstein interrupted her musing. “Your guy tell his wife anything else?”

  “Just that the victim didn’t scream rape until four months after it happened. By which time she would have been clean. Roofies or any other drug undetectable. The wife says when the girl finally did report the rape, the people at the college discouraged her from going to the police and the guys weren’t punished in any way.”

  “Interesting. And you don’t have a name for the girl who was raped?”

  “I’m hoping somebody at the college will tell us who she was. We also have some people checking both news and police reports for a thirty-something-year-old woman who attended Holden College committing suicide just before Christmas. So far nothing but they’ve only just gotten started.”

  “Ah, yes, Christmas. A favorite time of year for depressives to act on bad impulses.”

  “Yeah. In the meantime, I think maybe we should both talk to Mrs. Loughlin.”

  “Okay by me. Given Thorne’s disappearance I think talking to her in person would be better than by phone. Any way you can come down here?”

  “Practically on my way. Just need to pack a few things. It’s a little over three hours from here to there. Not sure what time I’ll get there but it’d be great if we could meet with her tonight. If she says it’s too late, then first thing in the morning. Let me know what works.”

  “Okay. I’ll tell Heather Loughlin we may have some new information. What’s your cell?”

  Chapter 14

  “WOULD YOU LIKE a drink or anything?” Andie Barrett asked McCabe. “I’ll be happy to fix you something.” She then mouthed the words, “On the house.”

  McCabe smiled. Considering the long line of top tier single malts on the shelf behind the bar, under other circumstances McCabe might have been tempted. But in the end he simply said, “Thanks but no thanks. Not while I’m working.”

  “Okay. Maybe some other time.”

  “Yeah, maybe some other time,” he said to Andie, and left it at that. It was time to change the subject. “Now do you happen to remember if this Norah told Joshua Thorne her last name?”

  “No. She didn’t,” she finally said. “Just told him her name was Norah and that she lived in New York City and worked for an ad agency down there.”

  “Did she tell him the name of the agency?”

  “No.”

/>   “Was she here on business?”

  “Didn’t sound like it. She told Thorne she owned a house in Portland. In fact, she suggested that instead of going to the bar at the Regency they ought to go there. To her house. Something about having more privacy. Pretty stupid if you ask me. I mean, this Thorne guy looked okay—in fact, he looked great—but she’d never met him before and after, like, ten minutes’ bar chatter she’s asking him if he wants to go home with her.” Andie held both hands up, palms forward, in a silent go figure gesture. After a minute, she asked, “To tell you the truth it all seemed like it might be some kind of setup. Did Thorne do something to her? Or vice versa? I mean, is that why you guys are interested?”

  Pictures of the missing Joshua Thorne would probably be circulating on TV and online soon enough but McCabe didn’t want word of Josh’s disappearance getting out before that happened.

  “We just need to find him and talk to him. Norah said she owned this house? She wasn’t renting?”

  “Yeah. She definitely said she owned it. Said she’d inherited it from her parents.”

  “Did she say where the house was?”

  “The only thing I heard her say was that it was only a few minutes away.”

  He knew 339 Hartley Street was in Portland. A few minutes away if ten counted as a few.

  “I don’t know if she meant by car or on foot.”

  McCabe stood up. “Okay. Thank you for your help, Andie. I think I’ve got what I need.” He handed her a card. “If you think of anything else, please give me a call.”

  She pocketed the card.

  “In the meantime, I wonder if you’d mind spending an hour or so over at headquarters working with David Ishkowitz, our sketch specialist.” Ishkowitz didn’t actually draw his sketches. He was a computer artist who used a software program called Identi-Kit 7 that was capable of producing excellent likenesses based on witness descriptions. “We’d like you to help Dave develop a picture of what this Norah woman looked like.”

  “Now?”

  “Now would be great if you can. I can set it up with Ishkowitz.”

  “Gee, sure, I guess, if Sarah will let me.” Andie seemed excited at the idea of taking part in a police investigation. “I’ll have to ask her if somebody else can cover the bar.”

  “Let me talk to her about that. I need to ask her a couple of other questions anyway.”

  Andie said okay and then wrote something down on a cocktail napkin and handed it to him. McCabe glanced down at a phone number and pocketed it. They rose from the table. Andie disappeared toward the back of the restaurant.

  McCabe didn’t know if the Port Grill had a surveillance camera hidden in the bar or not and there was a good chance Andie wouldn’t either. One reason restaurants install cameras is to see if their bartenders or other help are stealing from the till. Not likely at a place like the Port Grill but you never knew.

  Sarah Jackson appeared. “Hi. How can I help you, Detective?”

  McCabe asked if they could “borrow” Andie for an hour or so.

  “I don’t know.”

  “It is important.”

  “Just for an hour? I guess I can find somebody to cover for her for an hour,” Sarah said.

  “Also, do you happen to know if the owners keep a security camera anywhere in the bar.”

  “Yes,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “As a matter of fact, we do. In case of robberies or some kind of trouble in the bar. Most of the staff aren’t aware of it.”

  “I see. Do you record what the camera sees?”

  “Yes. We keep the video for twenty-four hours, then we erase it.”

  “Can I borrow the disk from last night? From, say, nine P.M. until closing.”

  Sarah made a face like this was something she’d really rather not do.

  “Like I said it is important. It involves a possible murder investigation. I can get a warrant if need be but I’d rather not waste the time.”

  “I have no problem, but I’ll have to check with one of the owners.” She took out a cell phone and speed dialed a number. She briefly explained McCabe’s request to the person on the other end.

  “Okay,” she said into the phone. “Okay, fine.” She ended the call and said to McCabe, “It’s fine with them. Come with me.”

  AS SOON AS he was back on the street with the video in his pocket, McCabe called Dave Ishkowitz and told him to expect a visit from a young woman named Andie Barrett. “Make the sketch of this Wilcox woman a priority and get it to me as soon as you can.”

  Ishkowitz agreed. McCabe ended the call and, as he walked, he punched in the number for the City of Portland tax assessor’s office. At 5:45 he hoped someone would still be there.

  He lifted his collar against the chill. A cold drizzle had started to fall and Fore Street was filled with cars—Portland’s excuse for rush hour traffic—most heading for Franklin Arterial, the quickest way to the interstate from this side of town.

  “Tax office. This is Joan Dempsey.”

  McCabe talked as he walked. “Ms. Dempsey, this is Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe of the Portland PD. I’m in the middle of an investigation and I wonder if you could check a couple of things for me.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “First can you give me the name of the owners of a house at 339 Hartley Street?”

  “That’s easy. Just hold on a minute.”

  Dempsey was back in considerably less than a minute. “That address shows husband and wife as co-owners. A couple named Bickle. Bob and Brenda Bickle.”

  Not Norah Wilcox. Bob and Brenda Bickle. Sounded to McCabe like the start of a tongue twister. Bob and Brenda Bickle bite basketfuls of biscuits. “Do you have a phone number for the Bickles?”

  “There’s a couple of local numbers. They’re listed as cell phones.”

  Dempsey read off both. McCabe had no need to write either down. The numbers would be etched in his memory more or less forever.

  “Thank you,” he said. “One more favor. Could you see if you can find a residential property in Portland owned by someone named Norah Wilcox. W-I-L-C-O-X.”

  Another minute went by.

  “Okay, I show four properties owned by people named Wilcox,” said the clerk, “but there doesn’t seem to be any Norah. Could ownership be listed under another name? First or last?”

  Norah Wilcox had told Thorne she inherited the property. McCabe supposed it could be listed under her parents’ names. Or Wilcox might be a married name. Or, more likely, it was a name she just made up for the benefit of Joshua Thorne.

  “I don’t think so but could you e-mail me the addresses for all four Wilcox properties? And the full names of the owners?” he asked. “And could you copy Detective Margaret Savage on the e-mail?”

  Joan Dempsey said she would and McCabe provided both e-mail addresses.

  He then tried calling the Bickles. Both calls went to voice mail and McCabe left his number and asked them please to return the call. He told them it was important.

  Chapter 15

  THE HOLDEN COLLEGE website informed Maggie that Holden was a small, private liberal arts school, founded in 1836 and located in upstate New York in a town called Willardville. It boasted an active Greek life and a Division III football team, nicknamed the Warriors, whose opponents included Maine’s Colby, Bates and Bowdoin colleges. Maggie glanced at the school’s main number. She didn’t know how much information she’d be able to get by cold calling, but as she was increasingly certain Thorne wasn’t missing but dead, she’d push as hard as she could. Again Maggie used the department landline instead of her cell and punched in the college’s main number.

  She was pleasantly surprised when a live female answered instead of a computer asking her to press 1 for English or 2 for Spanish. “Holden College. How may I direct your call?”

  Might as well start at the top. “The president’s office, please.”

  “Thanks. I’ll connect you.”

  A few seconds later another, younger-so
unding female came on the line. “President Nixon’s office.”

  Suppressing an urge to ask the woman if Tricky Dick had come back to life and was hanging out in upstate New York, Maggie asked to speak to the president.

  “May I ask who’s calling and what this is in reference to?”

  “Yes. This is Detective Margaret Savage. I’m a detective with the Portland Police Department. I need to talk to the president regarding a homicide investigation that may involve several Holden alumni.”

  There was an audible intake of breath before the woman responded, “Homicide? You mean as in murder?”

  “That’s right, as in murder.”

  “Oh wow. I’ll see if she’s available,” said the assistant.

  So President Nixon was a woman. As with Toni Bernstein, that might turn out to be an advantage when considering accusations of rape.

  “This is Ann Nixon. To whom am I speaking?”

  Nixon’s voice was deep, her accent distinctly upper crust. The kind McCabe liked to call Locust Valley Lockjaw. It made her sound like a youngish version of Katharine Hepburn, back when the now dead actress was maybe in her forties.

  “Ms. Nixon, this is Detective Margaret Savage of the Portland Police Department. I’m investigating the possible murders of two Holden College alumni. I believe one of the murders may have taken place about ten days ago in Connecticut, the other just last night here in Portland, and I need your help.”

  Maggie knew that without a body or other proof she was skating on thin ice describing either Thorne’s disappearance or Loughlin’s so-called accidental death as murders. But she was certain doing so would get her the information she needed a lot faster than telling Nixon that Thorne was still officially a missing person or that Loughlin was officially a drunk who might have taken a nasty fall.

  “I’m disturbed to hear that. How can I help?”

  “A man named Joshua Thorne, who graduated from Holden in 2002, has been reported missing. Since we haven’t found his body yet I can’t say with certainty that Thorne is dead, just that I believe that to be the case. We happen to know one of Thorne’s classmates and fraternity brothers, Charles Loughlin, is dead.”