Hello, Darkness
Page 22
“You’ve done a fantastic job.”
“Thanks.”
“No, I mean it. The station is all abuzz.”
That morning, when she’d left in the news van, she had approached the story as an opportunity to strut her stuff, win some attention, create the buzz Jack had mentioned.
Over the course of the day, that had changed. The turning point had been Dean’s conversation with Mrs. Dorrie’s sister. It had opened her eyes to the grim reality of the story, given names to the people involved, made it a human tragedy rather than a vehicle to propel her career forward. It seemed distasteful to benefit from the misfortune of others.
“Have you seen Dean any more?” Jack asked, breaking into her thoughts.
“Only once. He came out midafternoon to ask Mrs. Dorrie’s sister about the children’s favorite foods, toys, games, pets. He wanted to personalize his conversations with Mr. Dorrie.”
Jack frowned thoughtfully. “It’ll be personalized for Dean if this goes south.”
“All he can do is his best.”
“I know that. You know that. Everybody knows that except Dean. Mark my words, Paris. If five people don’t walk out of that house, he’ll beat himself up over it.”
Jack hung around for another hour, then left with her promise to call him if the situation changed. It didn’t. Not for hours. She was sitting in the passenger seat of the van, organizing her notes and trying to find a new angle to the story, when Dean tapped on the windshield.
“Has something happened?” she asked.
“No, nothing. Sorry if I alarmed you,” he said, coming to stand beside the open window. “I just had to get out of that van for a while, get some fresh air, stretch my legs.”
“Jack said to tell you to hang in there.”
“He came around?”
“To bring us burgers. Have you had anything to eat?”
“A sandwich. But I could stand a drink of water.”
She passed him a bottle. “I’ve been drinking from it.”
“Like I care.” He took a long swallow, recapped it, and handed it back to her. “I have a favor to ask. Would you call Gavin? Whenever I’m involved in something like this, he gets scared.” He gave her a fleeting smile. “Too many cop shows on TV. Anyhow, tell him you’ve talked to me and assure him that I’m okay.”
Reading the question in her eyes, he added, “I’ve already spoken to him. So has Pat. But you know how kids are. He’ll come nearer to believing it if it comes from someone not his parent.”
“I’ll be happy to. Anything else?”
“That’s it.”
“Easy enough.”
His necktie had been loosened and his shirtsleeves were rolled back to his elbows. He propped his forearms in the open window, but turned his head in the direction of the house. He stared at it for a long while before he said softly, “He may kill them, Paris.”
She didn’t say anything, knowing that she wasn’t expected to. He was confiding his worst fear to her, and she was glad he felt comfortable enough with her to do that. She only wished she could think of a reassurance that didn’t sound banal.
“I don’t know how a man could shoot his own children, but that’s what he says he’s going to do.” Lowering his head to his clasped hands, he rubbed his thumb across his furrowed brow. “Last time I talked to him, I could hear one of the little girls crying in the background. ‘Please, Daddy. Please don’t shoot us.’ If he decides to pull that trigger, there’s not a goddamn thing I can say or do to stop him.”
“If it weren’t for you, he probably would have pulled the trigger already. You’re doing the best you can.” Then, without any forethought, she touched his hair.
He raised his head immediately and looked at her, possibly wondering how she knew that he was doing his best, or needing to hear that he was. Or maybe just to verify that she had touched him.
“Word filters back to us, you know,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. “From other cops. They all think you’re incredible.”
In a voice equally low, he asked, “What do you think?”
“I think you’re pretty incredible, too.”
She would have smiled, as one friend to another, but a smile seemed inappropriate for a multitude of reasons. The situation, for one. The tightness that had seized her chest until she could barely breathe, for another. But especially because of the intensity of feeling with which Dean was looking at her.
As on the night they met, the stare stretched into more than just an exchange between friends. Only this time it lasted even longer and the gravitational pull between them was much stronger.
She would have lowered her hand, which was still raised, an exposed culprit that had acted of its own volition. But lowering it would only have made its transgression more noticeable and lent it the meaning she didn’t dare acknowledge.
Later she wondered if they’d have kissed if his pager hadn’t beeped.
But it did and broke the spell. He checked the LED. “Dorrie’s asking to talk to me.” Without another word, he sprinted to the van.
It was midnight before he finally negotiated the release of the children. Dorrie was afraid that SWAT officers were going to rush the house. Dean assured him that he wouldn’t allow that to happen if he would let the kids leave. Dorrie agreed on the condition that Dean come as far as the porch and carry them away from the house himself. Of course, Paris didn’t know the terms of this negotiation until the crisis was over.
She was talking to Mrs. Dorrie’s sister when the cameraman came jogging over to them and said, “Yo, Paris, Malloy is walking up to the house.”
With her heart in her throat, she watched as Dean stood, his hands raised high into the air, at the edge of the porch. No one could hear what he and Dorrie said to one another through the door, but he remained in that vulnerable position for what seemed to her an eternity.
Eventually the door was opened from inside the house and a little boy slipped through, followed by an older girl carrying a smaller child. All were crying and shading their eyes against the bright lights aimed at the house.
Dean placed his arms around their waists and, carrying them against his body, delivered them to the Child Protection Services caseworkers who were standing by to receive them.
One of Dorrie’s bargaining points, Paris learned later, was that the children were not to be handed over to his sister-in-law, who’d always hated him and had tried to turn his wife against him.
When Paris did a stand-up reporting the children’s release, her voice was hoarse with fatigue and her appearance ragged, but a spirit of optimism had rejuvenated everyone at the site.
She concluded her stand-up by remarking on that mood shift. “For hours it seemed as though this standoff might have a tragic ending. But police personnel are now hopeful that the release of the children unharmed signifies a breakthrough.”
Her last word was punctuated by two loud gunshots. The noise silenced Paris and other reporters doing similar stand-ups. In fact, she had never experienced a silence that sudden and that profound.
It was shattered by the third and final shot.
• • •
Paris stared at the clipping one last time, then refolded it exactly as Jack had done and replaced it behind her photograph in his wallet. She returned the wallet to the box, sick with the knowledge that if Jack had ever connected the night of the standoff to what transpired afterward, he might not have saved the clipping, but would have ripped it to shreds.
chapter 20
She was a small woman. The hands twisting the damp tissue could have belonged to a child. Her legs were crossed at the ankles and tucked beneath the chair. She was as jittery as a piano student at a recital, awaiting her turn to play.
Curtis introduced them. “Mrs. Toni Armstrong, this is Dr. Dean Malloy.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Armstrong?”
Curtis was being as gallant with her as he had been with Paris. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“I’ll have you out of here well before then.”
Prior to this meeting, Dean had been briefed for all of thirty seconds, the time it had taken him to walk to Curtis’s cubicle after seeing Gavin and Liz off. He didn’t have a clue as to why he’d been summoned to sit in on this interview. He remained standing, propping himself against the wall, for now a silent observer.
Mrs. Armstrong wasn’t the shrinking violet her dainty appearance implied. It must have appeared to her that she was being ganged up on, because she put a stop to the pleasantries and cut to the chase.
“Mr. Hathaway said you had asked to see me, Sergeant Curtis, so I’m here. But no one has explained why you wanted to talk to me. Should I call my lawyer? Is my husband in some kind of trouble that I don’t know about?”
“If he is, we don’t know about it either, Mrs. Armstrong,” Curtis replied smoothly. “But he has violated the terms of his probation, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“And Hathaway says you’ve recently noticed other troubling behavior.”
She lowered her head. “Yes.”
Curtis nodded sympathetically. “Hathaway called one of the SOAR officers, who then brought your husband to my attention.”
Dean was beginning to see where this was going. SOAR—Sex Offender Apprehension and Registration—was under the auspices of the CIB. The detectives who specialized in sex offenses would know about Curtis’s investigation. Too often those crimes and homicide overlapped.
“Could you please fill me in on the background?” Dean asked.
“Eighteen months ago Bradley Armstrong was convicted of molesting a minor and sentenced to five years’ probation, mandatory group therapy, and so forth. Lately he’s been skipping meetings.
“His probation officer scheduled two appointments with him today. He didn’t show. Mrs. Armstrong notified his attorney, who went to his office—he’s a dentist—to urge him to comply, get his act together. He’d split, although he had appointments with patients scheduled for this afternoon. Nobody knows where he is. He isn’t answering his cell phone.”
Toni Armstrong said, “I’m glad Hathaway called you. I’d rather Brad be arrested for violating his probation than . . . than for something else.”
“Like what?” Dean asked.
“I’m afraid he’s on the brink of committing another offense. He’s doing everything he’s not supposed to do.”
Curtis, sensing that a rapport had been established, offered Dean his desk chair. Once he was seated, he said, “I know it’s difficult for you to talk about this, Mrs. Armstrong. We’re not trying to make the situation harder on you. In fact, we’d like to help.”
She sniffed, nodding. “Brad is collecting pornography again. I found it in his office. I can’t crack his computer because he’s constantly changing the password to keep me out, but I know what I would find. It came out during his trial that he had bookmarked dozens of websites. And I’m not talking about artistic or elegant erotica. Brad goes for the very hard-core stuff, especially if the girls are in their teens.
“But that’s not the worst of it. I haven’t even told his probation officer all of it.” She smiled at Dean wanly. “I’m not sure why I’m telling you. Except that I want Brad stopped before he gets into real trouble.”
“What didn’t you tell Mr. Hathaway?”
In fits and starts, she told them about her husband’s frequent absences from his office and home, his lies, and his justifications for his actions. “All of which I know are signs that he’s losing control over his impulses.”
Dean agreed with her. These were classic bad signs. “Has he become defensive when you try to talk to him about it? Overly sensitive and angry? Does he accuse you of being suspicious, of not trusting him?”
“He turns every argument away from himself and tries to throw the blame on me for being unsupportive.”
“Has he become violent?”
She related what had taken place in their kitchen last night.
When she finished, Dean asked quietly, “You haven’t seen him since he stormed out?”
“No, but we spoke by phone this morning. He apologized, said he didn’t know what had come over him.”
“Has he ever been rough with you before?”
“Not even playfully rough. I’ve never seen him like that before.”
Another bad sign, Dean thought.
She must have read the concern in his expression. Her eyes bounced between him and Curtis. “I still haven’t been told why I’m here.”
“Mrs. Armstrong,” Curtis said, “does your husband ever listen to late-night radio?”
“Sometimes,” she replied hesitantly.
“Has he ever disappeared before?”
“Once. Just after his patient’s parents charged him with molesting their daughter. He was missing for three days before he was found and arrested.”
“Where was he found?”
“In a motel. One of those residence places. He said he went into hiding because he was afraid no one would believe his side of the story.”
“Did you?” Dean asked.
“Believe him?” Sorrowfully she shook her head. “That wasn’t the first time a patient or coworker had complained about inappropriate behavior or touching. Different dental practices, different cities, even. But the same complaint.
“Brad’s behavior leading up to that incident was similar to what it has been recently. Only this time, it’s more pronounced. He’s not trying so hard to hide it. He’s more defiant, and that’s making him reckless. That’s why it was so easy to follow him.”
“You followed him?”
Simultaneously with Dean’s question, Curtis asked when this had taken place.
“One night last week.” She rubbed her forehead as though ashamed of the admission. “I can’t remember exactly. Brad had called from his office and said he wouldn’t be coming home until late. He made up an excuse, but I saw through it. I asked a neighbor to watch my children.
“I got to his office before he left, so I was able to trail him from there. He went to an adult book and video store and stayed for almost two hours. Then he drove out to Lake Travis.”
“Where specifically?”
“I don’t know. I would never have found the area if I hadn’t been following him. It wasn’t a developed area. No homes or commercial buildings around. That’s why I was surprised to see so many people there. Mostly young people. Teenagers.”
“What did he do there?”
“For the longest time, nothing. He just sat in his car, watching. There was a lot of drinking, messing around, pairing off. Eventually Brad got out and approached a girl.” She lowered her head. “They talked for a while, then she got into the car with him. That’s when I left.”
“You didn’t confront him?”
“No,” she said, smiling ruefully. “I was the one who felt dirty. I just wanted to get away from there, go home and take a long shower. Which is what I did.”
In deference to her embarrassment, neither Dean nor Curtis said anything for a moment. Finally Curtis asked, “Could you identify the young woman you saw with him?”
She thought about it for a moment, then shook her head. “I don’t think so. All that registered with me was that she was probably still in high school. It was dark, so I never got a good look at her face.”
“Blond or dark hair? Tall, petite?”
“Blond, I think. Taller than me but shorter than Brad. He’s five-ten.”
“Could this be her?” Curtis reached for the picture of Janey Kemp that had run in the newspaper and held it out to her.
She looked at it and then at them individually. “Now I know why you wanted to see me,” she said, her eyes filling with fear. “I read about this girl. A judge’s daughter who’s missing. That’s it, isn’t it? That’s why I’m here.”
Rather than answer her,
Curtis said, “Did you ever tell your husband what you’d seen, that you had him cold?”
“No. I pretended to be asleep when he came in that night. The next morning, he was cheerful and affectionate. Teasing the kids, making plans with them for the weekend. Being the perfect husband and daddy.”
She was contemplative for a moment. Dean sensed that Curtis was about to break into her thoughts with another question, but he subtly motioned for him to hold off.
Eventually Toni Armstrong raised her head and spoke directly to Dean. “Sometimes I think Brad actually believes his lies. It’s as if he’s living in a fantasy world where there are no consequences for his actions. He can do as he pleases without fear of getting caught or paying a penalty.”
That was the most disturbing thing she’d told them. Dean doubted that she realized that, but Curtis did. When Dean glanced over at him, the detective was frowning thoughtfully.
He knew, as Dean did, that the profiles of serial killers and sexual predators typically included an elaborate fantasy life, one that was so compelling and so real to them that they acted it out. They often believed themselves to be above the laws of a society that had grievously wronged them, and answered only to a god who understood, and even sanctioned, their perversity.
Curtis cleared his throat. “I appreciate your time, Mrs. Armstrong. Since the subject matter is so upsetting, I especially appreciate your candor.”
But she wasn’t going to be whisked away that easily. “I’ve told you some awful truths about my husband, but he could not be involved in the disappearance of this young woman.”
“We have no reason to believe that he is. None. As I said, we’re following numerous leads.” Curtis paused, then added, “With assistance from you, we could eliminate him as a suspect.”
“How could I help?”
“By letting our experts try to crack his computer. Get into his files, see what they find. This girl was heavily into a website where sexually explicit messages are posted. She made a lot of contacts that way. If she and your husband never corresponded, then chances are slim that he knew her.”
She thought about it, then said, “I won’t agree to that until I’ve consulted Brad’s attorney.”