Unintended Consequences

by Marti Green

  “I do. And not just because your client is on death row. If the dead child isn’t his, then it means some mother and father are out there who’ve spent almost twenty years not knowing what happened to their child. I can’t imagine how agonizing that would be. So, yes, I do want to help you. If it’s possible.”

  Thank goodness Helen had answered his initial phone call and not that sourpuss at the front desk. He was sure she’d have given him the brush-off. “Okay, so maybe we start with the year 1990, then narrow down results to where cause of death was leukemia, and then narrow those results to four-year-olds, and finally to females. And then do it the next year with five-year-olds. How does that sound?”

  Helen had been fiddling with the computer while Tommy spoke. “I think it might work, but it’s going to take some time. If you have some other things to do, I can work on this by myself and give you a call if I find anything.”

  Tommy gave her a big smile. “You’re an angel. I owe you for this.”

  He wrote his cell number on the back of his card and handed it to Helen. As he headed out, he passed Anne behind the front counter. “Keep up the good work, sweetheart,” he said and patted her fanny. He could have been wrong, but he thought he saw the barest hint of a smile.

  Next stop—Olmsted County Community Services. If Angelina Calhoun had been abandoned in Rochester, Minnesota, someone would have called that agency to take her. Tommy had spoken to a few people there and mostly gotten a runaround. He didn’t expect much more in person. By the time he arrived, the rain had finally tapered to a drizzle. After parking, Tommy walked into the building and scanned the directory for the right office. Five minutes later he sat at the desk of Roger Holmes. Roger looked like a throwback to the hippie generation: washed-out jeans, a T-shirt with a peace symbol on the front, bushy hair down to his shoulders, and a beard that should have been trimmed a decade ago. Tommy couldn’t guess his age under all that hair, but he thought Roger was in his fifties. The nameplate on his desk had the initials “MSW” after his name.

  Tommy had handed him Calhoun’s signed release and a picture of three-year-old Angelina. Holmes sat staring at it. Finally he looked up. “I don’t know what you expect me to do with this. You have no name of the child or the parents. And my crystal ball is out for repair.”

  “Look, I know I’m not asking for something easy. But maybe somebody here remembers a little girl being abandoned at the hospital.”

  Roger snorted. “You think that’s unusual? I can’t tell you the number of abandoned children we get. Not that it’s an everyday occurrence, but enough so over the years that it’s no longer shocking.”

  “This girl would have been different. She had leukemia. The parents left all her medical records with her.”

  Roger sat back in his chair and stroked his beard. “Let’s see. Maybe Abby. She’s old enough to have been around back in 1990. No.” He shook his head. “I forgot she transferred here from up North.” He continued stroking his beard, his lips moving silently as he rolled off names in his head. Suddenly his face brightened. “I know just who. She’s not a caseworker, but Alice would know. She’s been secretary to every director who’s gone through these doors since 1979. Keeps track of everything that goes on in the office. If anyone remembers, it’d be Alice.”

  “Okay,” Tommy said. “Let’s go ask her.”

  Roger looked at the large clock on the adjacent wall: four thirty. He scanned the opposite end of the large open room and saw an empty desk next to the director’s office. “You’ll have to wait for tomorrow. She comes in at eight and leaves at four. She’s gone for the day.”

  “Damn. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to give me her home phone number.”

  Roger shook his head. “No can do, buddy.”

  “How about if you call her?”

  “I wouldn’t know her number. We don’t share personal information here.”

  Tommy felt himself get irritated. He had a short fuse, a problem since his teen years. He’d gotten good at keeping it under control after he joined the FBI, but it still sparked now and then. “Look, somebody here’s got to know her number. Don’t you have a personnel office, or what do they call it now—human resources?”

  “Sure, but they won’t give you her phone number. What’s the big deal about waiting one more day?”

  “A man’s fucking life. That’s the big deal,” Tommy said as he got up and left the office.

  He’d had enough for one day. Flying always tired him out. He headed back to the hotel, where he took a long scalding-hot shower and ordered room service. While waiting for it to be delivered, he called Dani to report on his day.

  “Please tell me you have good news, Tommy.”

  “Not yet. But it’s also not hopeless. I’ve got a few things going here that might pan out. And I’m heading over to the hospital tomorrow.”

  “Well, we struck out today. The judge didn’t even wait overnight to think about it. He ruled from the bench.”

  “You know, even though it’s true that Angelina had leukemia, it doesn’t mean our guy didn’t kill her. Maybe it gave him more of a reason—he couldn’t handle it. Or maybe he thought he’d save her from suffering in the end.” He heard a sigh at the other end of the line. He pressed on. “You can’t just ignore Sallie’s confession. I mean, it’s nineteen years later and she’s still saying they killed their daughter.” He appreciated how much Dani wanted George to be innocent. The thought of a parent murdering his child was abhorrent. But Tommy knew from his days at the FBI that most murders of children under the age of five were done by parents—fifty-seven percent. And the bulk of the rest were committed by other family members or family acquaintances. He would spend the time in Rochester looking for another answer, and he would do it diligently, but he didn’t have high hopes that he’d find any trace of Angelina Calhoun in this city.

  “She could barely look me in the eyes. There’s no question she feels enormous guilt, but maybe it’s over abandoning her sick daughter. Nineteen years of not knowing what happened to her. Not knowing whether she suffered a horrible death, all alone. Not knowing whether some stranger picked her up and did awful things to her. Yeah, I can see a mother feeling that she killed her daughter by leaving her the way they did.”

  Tommy would keep investigating and maybe he’d find something that would prove Dani right. He knew he’d never convince her otherwise.

  Finally, the clouds were gone and sunshine greeted Tommy when he pulled back the heavy drapes in his room. The bright sky put him in a better mood. Not a great mood, just better. Being on the road, being away from his family, tired him. Lately, he’d thought about leaving HIPP and finding a steady security job, a nine-to-five life. He wasn’t like the others there who were on a mission against capital punishment. He’d heard all the excuses criminals gave for their acts—their abusive childhoods, their alcoholic parents, their crime-infested neighborhoods. But for him it boiled down to this: Murderers should get what they gave.

  He downed his usual breakfast—coffee and a cinnamon roll—and headed back to Olmstead Community Services to find Alice. An attractive young woman stood behind the counter with a welcoming smile. Her name tag read “Pam.”

  “You’re a breath of fresh air to start the day with,” he said.

  Pam’s smile dimmed. “Excuse me?”

  “Just teasing you, sweetheart. I had a sourpuss wait on me yesterday over at Vital Records and you’re a welcome improvement.”

  “Is there something I can do for you?” she asked, the smile now completely gone.

  “I’m looking for Alice. Maybe Roger mentioned to you that I’d be back today?”

  Pam’s smile returned. “Oh, you’re that investigator. Alice is all the way back in that corner,” she said, pointing down the row of desks. “You can go on back. She’s expecting you.”

  Tommy made his way past the various public workers, some bus
y at their desks, others chatting with each other. He passed one guy playing Freecell on his computer. As he approached Alice’s desk, he saw a petite, gray-haired woman with thick-lensed glasses, dressed in a flowered blouse and a pleated skirt.

  “Morning, Alice. I’m Tommy Noorland. Did Roger happen to speak to you about me?”

  “You’re the investigator, right? Asking about an abandoned child?”

  “That’s right.”

  “We’ve had a number of abandoned children who’ve come through these doors, but none that had leukemia.”

  “Are you certain? Have you gone back through the records?”

  Alice’s body stiffened. “I make it my business to know about the children that come through here. I can’t remember the name of every one over the years, but I can assure you that I’d have remembered one who had leukemia. And such a pretty child, too. I certainly would have remembered that face.”

  Tommy couldn’t say he was surprised. Step by step, his suspicions were being confirmed. George hadn’t abandoned his sick daughter in Minnesota—he’d murdered her.

  Last stop—the Mayo Clinic. His phone work back at the HIPP office had been helpful in working his way through the complex of campuses that made up the medical center. He knew just where he needed to go: If Angelina had been treated there, she would have ended up at either the Mayo Clinic Cancer Center or, more likely, Saint Mary’s Hospital, where pediatric medicine was practiced. Tommy easily maneuvered through the streets of Rochester and arrived at Saint Mary’s ten minutes later.

  He’d called ahead and made an appointment with Dr. Jeffreys, head of the pediatric department. When he arrived, Jeffreys’s secretary brought him into the doctor’s office to wait for him. And wait. A half hour later, he started to get fidgety. He’d never had the patience to sit and do nothing. Just as he stood to leave, the door opened and a short, balding man with patches of red hair on the back and sides of his head walked in. Instead of hospital garb, he wore gray slacks and a navy blazer, with a blue striped shirt and a dark-red tie. He looked to be in his early forties, not old enough to have headed up pediatrics when Angelina was a toddler.

  “I’m terribly sorry you had to wait so long,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m Dr. Jeffreys. Did anyone offer you some coffee?”

  “No, but I’m fine. I already had my java for the morning. I appreciate you making the time to see me. I’m sure you’re very busy.”

  “Well, yes, I am, of course, but I’m here now and so are you, so tell me, how can I help you.”

  Tommy handed the doctor Calhoun’s signed release and took out a picture of Angelina. “Have you ever seen this child? It would have been about nineteen years ago.”

  “No,” Dr. Jeffreys answered quickly. “But at that time I was still doing my residency at Yale Medical School. What’s her name? I can check and see if there’s a record of her as a patient here.”

  “Her real name was Angelina Calhoun, but she probably would have been registered under a different name.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Tommy filled him in about Calhoun’s story.

  “I’m afraid it’s going to be hard to help you. None of the doctors in the peeds unit now were on staff back in 1990.”

  “Do you know if any are still in the area, maybe in a private practice?”

  “Daniels moved to our center in Miami; Goldstein retired and I’ve heard he’s moved, but I can’t say where; and Blonstein, well, he passed away suddenly last summer.”

  It was like a broken record everywhere he went. Nobody knew anything. Was that the case because Angelina had never been here or because it was just too damn hard to search back nineteen years when he didn’t even know what name she’d been given? Either way, he had nothing.

  “I suppose I could post her picture in the doctors’ lounge,” Dr. Jeffreys offered. “If you have another copy of her photo, I could post it in the nurses’ lounge as well. You never know.”

  “Thanks, Doc. Anything would help. But you know, we’re running out of time here, so if someone recognizes her, they need to reach me ASAP.” Tommy thanked the doctor and left.

  As he walked to his carm his cell phone rang. “Tommy Noorland here.”

  “Tommy, this is Helen, from Vital Records. I just finished the search. I’m sorry. Nothing came up.”

  “Thanks, Helen. I appreciate you trying.”

  Well, that’s it. I’m batting zero. If George was telling the truth, I don’t think we’ll ever find out.

  CHAPTER

  19

  He’d stared at the computer screen for twenty minutes, transfixed by the half-column story in the Indiana Star. He’d almost missed it. Now he couldn’t take his eyes off it. “Indiana State Superior Court denies bid to exhume dead child’s body.” That was the headline. He had just scanned the page when the name “George Calhoun” screamed out.

  Okay. He had to calm down. It had been denied. They weren’t going to dig her up. But he knew that rulings got appealed. Maybe this wasn’t over. Damn! His hands were clammy. His chest felt tight. He struggled to take a breath. Was he having a heart attack? He almost wished he were. Then this would be over. The terror of being discovered would be gone.

  Slowly, the tightness subsided and his breathing relaxed. He was okay. He would come through this. God hadn’t spared him only to trip him up now, like some sort of cosmic joke. He thought about it. Was there another appeal? Maybe it was too late now. But if there were enough time, if they could appeal and the court let them exhume the body, then what? Even if they learned it wasn’t the Calhouns’ daughter, they still wouldn’t know who was buried in that anonymous grave. Only he knew the name of the child. Only he knew he’d caused her death, burned her body beyond recognition, and discarded her like worthless trash.

  He’d done what he had to to protect himself. And he’d do whatever needed to be done to continue protecting himself.

  CHAPTER

  20

  “I realize it’s only been a week, but have you thought about what you’re going to do with your mother’s house?”

  Nancy’s question startled Sunny. She felt a rush of tears and struggled to hold them back. She couldn’t bear parting with the house on Aspen Road. Not yet, at least. Later, when the pain of her mother’s death wasn’t so intense. She knew, though, that her reluctance stemmed from a secret wish that they would return to that house when Eric finished his residency. That was just a little more than a year away.

  Byron was a wonderful place to raise a family, with its tree-lined streets, good schools, and neighbors who looked out for each other. Her mother had met Nancy when she lived in the house next door. They’d quickly become friends and remained so after Nancy and her husband moved.

  “I don’t want to sell it, Nancy. Maybe after Eric finishes here, when we know where we’ll end up. But not yet.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I know a handyman who can close it up. You know, drain the pipes and those sorts of things. I hope I’m not being too practical for you now, but there are some matters you should deal with right away.”

  “No, you’re right. Is there something else I should be doing?”

  “Well, you need to cancel the phone and cable service, things like that. And do you know if your mom left a will?”

  “No. We never talked about that. I never thought that Mom might die. I mean, of course I knew it would happen someday, just not so soon.”

  “Well, whether she did or didn’t, you’ll need a lawyer to transfer the house into your name. Make sure everything is done proper and all. I can recommend an estate attorney if you’d like.”

  “You’ve been a godsend during this whole ordeal, Nancy. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

  After they finished their conversation and said their goodbyes, Sunny went back to cleaning up the breakfast dishes. She felt an ache in
her chest when she thought of her mother, of their strong bond and their fierce love for each other. Her mother had been her best friend and now she was gone. Sunny’s ties to Byron were severed.

  Manhattan life seemed so different from life in Byron. No one smiled. No one made small talk when they passed in the hallway or rode together in the elevator. Thank goodness for play dates, when children got together while their mothers watched and gabbed. At least then she had some women to talk to. Not that they talked about anything serious. Sunny called it “empty talk.” What movies they’d seen, what had happened on the latest installment of their favorite television shows, what gossip they’d heard. Sunny would never discuss with them the isolation she felt in this imposing city, how inadequate she sometimes felt raising a child, how she yearned to be living in a small town.

  She’d had a wonderful childhood in Byron and wanted the same for Rachel. Instead of organized play dates, the children on her street would go door to door gathering friends. They’d ride their bikes up and down the block, make up games to play in their backyards, explore the nooks and crannies in each other’s homes. When they were at Sunny’s house, her mother would often be planted at the kitchen table, lost in discussion with Nancy. Sometimes Sunny would catch snippets of their conversation, so she knew they’d shared their deepest concerns and desires.

  She heard rustling coming from Rachel’s bedroom, a sign that she was stirring from her nap. Rachel usually awoke with a lusty cry, but if she saw Sunny sitting on her bed and stroking her arm, she awoke with a smile. Sunny headed to the bedroom.

  “Hi, sleepyhead,” she said as Rachel opened her eyes. “Want some ju-ju?”

  “Yeth, apple ju-ju.”

  Sunny knew she meant apple juice. “Okay, scoot out of bed and let’s go get some.”

  “And then play with Billy?”

  “No, sweetie, not today.”

  “I want Billy,” she whined.

  How could she explain to her daughter that she was still too sad to sit with other women and engage in “empty talk.” “We’ll go to the zoo today. How about that?”