I took a step forward.
“I have reason to believe I’m being stalked by a sexual predator.”
The old cop pulled his eyes away from the computer for the first time since we’d approached the bench.
“Come again,” he said, looking up directly into my face.
“I’m being followed.”
Behind his shoulder, I saw that two people were taking notice. Police detectives, or so I suspected. An older man and a middle-aged woman, both dressed in normal everyday, plain clothes. They shot a quick glance in my direction.
“Do you have an ID of the supposed perp?” asked the watch commander.
I hesitated, as though the question shot over my head.
“He’s asking if you know for certain that it’s Whalen who is stalking you?” Michael jumped in.
I nodded.
“Yeah, I can identify the man.”
“You mentioned a name,” the watch commander added, eyes now on Michael.
“Joseph William Whalen,” Michael exclaimed. “He’s registered with Sexual Predators and with ViCAP.”
“Oh, ViCAP,” the old cop smiled. “Looks like you been doin’ your homework.”
“I write detective novels,” Michael said.
“Of course you do. Wait here a minute please.”
He got up, made his way over to the two plainclothes cops. He talked with them while they looked us over again. More carefully this time. When the older of the two approached, I felt my pulse pick up.
“My name is David Harris,” the tall, salt and pepper-haired, black man confessed. “I understand you’re here to lodge a complaint?”
“I have reason to believe I’m being followed.”
“By Joseph Whalen?”
“Yes.”
“You’d better come on through,” he said. “I know of Whalen. I know about what he’s done and what he might have done to more than a dozen still missing young women.”
“How well?”
“I’m the guy who busted him thirty years ago.”
Chapter 30
The watch commander buzzed us in. But not before making us sign the log book and issuing us laminated visitor’s passes which we held onto instead of clipping to our jackets.
Harris personally led us through the big open room to his first floor office where he closed the door behind us.
“Take a seat,” he offered, while making his way around his desk, sitting himself down hard in his swivel chair.
While I sat down in one of the two metal chairs placed in front of the desk, Michael remained standing. Leaning the bag against my knees I took a quick survey of the office. It was square-shaped and small. It smelled faintly of onions, as if Harris had just lunched on a submarine sandwich at his desk. Subway maybe. Or Mr. Sub.
There was a coffee mug on his desk that said ‘I love my job’. When he picked it up and took a sip from it, I could see the word ‘Not’ printed on the bottom. It made me smile. Mounted on the windowless wall behind him was a calendar. Each day that had passed thus far in the month of October had been X’d out in ballpoint pen. In just a little while he’d be able to X out another day.
Harris must have noticed me looking at the calendar. He said, “I’m closing in on retirement. The progressive-minded Empire State doesn’t have much use for its detectives once we get past sixty-two.”
He shrugged, rolled up his shirt sleeves and sat back in his chair.
“But to get back to the issue at hand,” he went on, “I was a part of the team that tracked Whalen down and eventually arrested him. That was back in ‘77 and ‘78. We’d been tracking him for a long while. We were aware of his past as a sexual predator and suspected him in at least a dozen abductions and possible homicides. But we could never quite put the finger on him.”
“Since it’s impossible for the dead and missing to testify,” Michael interjected. “No body, no proof.”
Harris nodded. “Exactly, young man.”
“What about missing persons?” Michael went on. “Records of women who disappeared around that time?”
“Again, it goes back to the bodies, none of which have been recovered. Which means no evidence that will link directly to Whalen.”
“You might check the basement of that creepy house in the woods.”
“We did, as a matter of course, on several occasions.” The detective tossed up his hands. “But we got squat.”
We were quiet for a weighted beat until Michael spoke up again.
“Are you aware that Whalen’s been released from prison?”
Almost dreamily, Harris peeled his eyes off the mug, planted them on Michael.
“I’m aware of it,” he nodded. “I try and keep up on the perps I had a hand in sending away. Meaning, it’s in my best interest to keep up with their releases.”
“You feel the need to watch your back?” Michael asked.
He shook his head.
“Not in this case anyway, Whalen’s been quiet. He’s registered with the necessary data bases according to Megan’s Law. He checks in regularly with his parole officer.”
“You’re sure about that?” I asked.
His eyes shifting back to me.
“I would be aware of it if he didn’t.”
“But you wouldn’t be aware of it if he was following me.”
“I’m aware of that possibility now,” he said. “But I’m going to need a little more to go on than just your word before I can go pulling him back in here. The last thing I need is a harassment accusation.”
That’s when I leaned down, unzipped my portfolio bag, slipped out Franny’s paintings.
Harris eyed the canvases quickly up and down. Then he looked at me rather quizzically.
“You’re an artist.”
“I wish I could say I painted them. But they’re the work of an artist-in-residence where I work at the Albany Center Visual Art Galleries. His name is Francis Scaramuzzi. He’s an autistic savant. You might have heard of him.”
He shook his head, sat back in his chair. “What’s all this have to do with Whalen?”
I swallowed a deep breath and told him. I told him about the abduction and assault that occurred thirty years ago, almost to the day. I told him about Franny’s paintings; told him about the voice I heard in my bedroom; told him about the man I might have seen inside the parking garage.
I thought the wall plaster would crack from the silent tension. Until Harris brought his hands to his face, rubbed his eyes. In a word he appeared visibly shaken, if not pale-faced. He inhaled and exhaled a profound breath. Then, reaching down with his right hand, he opened the bottom desk drawer and came away with a bottle of Seagrams 7. He uncapped the bottle, poured a jigger into his ‘I love my job’ mug and downed the shot in one swift expert pull. Capping the bottle, he put it back in the drawer, closing it back up.
He must have realized he’d taken Michael and me by more than a little surprise because he pursed his lips and opened his eyes.
“Shocked?”
“A little,” I said, motioning a glance at Michael. “My dad was a trooper with Rennselaer County.”
Harris pursed his lips. “What’s his name?”
“It was Daniel Underhill. He and my mother passed away not long after my sister died.”
He gave no indication of whether he knew my father or not; no indication of whether or not my father might have had a hand in Whalen’s arrest. But then, if he had, I wasn’t the least bit aware of it.
Instead he said, “Tell you what, Ms. Underhill, I’m going to request that you leave the paintings with me for a while. I’ll have the lab draw up a print analysis. That is you don’t mind.”
“They’re kind of expensive,” Michael said.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Hoffman. The lab people are very careful. They’ll be well cared for.” Eyes back on me. “Have you considered seeing your psychologist about this, Ms. Underhill? Or is it Hoffman?”
“Please call me Rebecca,” I said. “And I’m not
crazy if that’s what you’re thinking.”
He shook his head, raised his hands in surrender.
“I’m sure you’re not. But keeping a secret of the magnitude you have for all these years can be considerably traumatizing. A psychologist can treat you for PTS.”
“Post Traumatic Stress,” Michael interjected. “Is that what you think my wife has been experiencing Detective Harris?”
The cop cocked his head. “It’s possible,” he said.
“Gentlemen,” I said. “I’m not crazy.”
Harris got up.
I stood up along with him.
“I’ll tell you what I’m willing to do,” he exclaimed. “I’m going to give Whalen’s probie a call before I leave tonight, find out where he’s living; find out what he’s doing for a job. If he lives and works anywhere near you, I’m going to alert New York State Sexual Predators about it. At your discretion of course.”
I nodded. Meaning, he had my discretion and permission.
“Is there anything else you want to tell me before you go? Anything else you need to show me?”
I thought about it as I slung the bag over my shoulder. That’s when I recalled the old black and white photo. Reaching into my jean’s pocket, I set the snapshot onto his desk.
“What’s this?” he said, picking it up with his fingers by the narrow white border.
I told him.
“So you found this picture only this morning on the porch of your parents’ Brunswick home?”
“It matches perfectly a little painting Francis Scaramuzzi produced years ago. A painting that is now stored under lock and key inside his personal basement storage room.”
He shook his head, rolled his eyes.
“Strange coincidence, I will admit,” he said. “I’d like to hold onto this as well, check it for prints along with the paintings.”
“You have my blessing.”
“You sure that’s everything?” he asked once more.
I spotted Harris’s cell phone set on the desk top. I was immediately reminded of the strange texts I’d been receiving for some months now. I went to open my mouth up about it. But something held me back. I knew I should have told Harris everything. But something inside my gut stopped me from doing the right thing. Something entirely to do with Molly.
I knew that if I told Harris about the texts, he might confiscate my cell and look for a way to break into the data base to find a way to expose the unknown caller’s ID. He might take away my only physical link to Molly.
Michael slipped on his jacket and his beret. Harris took special notice of the beret, squinting his eyes and slipping out from behind his desk. He opened the office door, held it open for us.
“I understand you write detective novels, Mr. Hoffman,” he smiled. “Anything published?”
“ The Hounds of Heaven,” Michael said. “Came out a few years ago. I’m working on something new right now.”
Reaching into his pocket the detective handed us each a card.
“Give me a call anything else happens,” he said. “Call anytime day or night. My cell number is also on there.”
I thanked him.
He told me not to worry; to get a good night’s rest.
As we started to walk out, I said, “I do have one more question, Detective.”
His eyebrows perked up.
“You never asked me why my sister and I didn’t come to you about the attack thirty years ago.”
He picked at his right earlobe quickly with an extended index finger.
“I’ve been working this job for thirty-eight years,” he said with a resignation I hadn’t noticed until now. “I know precisely why you didn’t come to me, Rebecca. It’s not your fault.”
With that I turned, led Michael toward the exit. Handing in our visitor’s passes to the watch commander, he asked us to have a nice day. But it seemed a little late for that.
Chapter 31
“Why didn’t you tell him about the texts?”
Michael was speaking to me out the side of his mouth as he pulled out of the police station onto South Pearl Street.
I turned to him, watched his profile while he drove. “Why didn’t you tell him?”
He was quiet for a minute, pretending to concentrate on the road when in fact he was filled with thought.
“It’s your call,” he said after a while. “I know how you feel about the texts; about them coming from…” Instead of finishing his thought he allowed it to dangle, as if it were too strange for him to say it.
“Coming from Molly,” I uttered for him. “From heaven above… You don’t have to be afraid to say it.”
“That the tangible proof you need that heaven exists? That God exists? That Molly lives? A cell phone?”
I couldn’t help but smile.
“I still think you should have told the dick,” he added.
“I will tell him. As soon as I can convince myself that Molly has nothing to do with it.”
We let the subject drop. But our silence didn’t lighten things up for even a moment. By the time we approached my apartment complex I was so nervous, so pent up with anxiety, I felt like jumping out of my skin.
Michael couldn’t help but notice my apprehension. He thought it would be a good idea for us to simply head into the apartment, lock ourselves behind closed doors and do something we hadn’t done together in ages: cook.
It felt like a good idea; a comforting idea. It’s exactly what we did, even though I wasn’t particularly hungry. It had been a long time since I’d shared a dinner with another man. It’d been a long time since I cooked for myself. Anything other than Stouffers. My kitchen shelves were not exactly stocked with food. I was just one person after all.
But Michael wasn’t the least bit fazed. Crossing his arms over his chest, he staunchly replied that he would make do with whatever I had. Which pretty much consisted of three boxes of wheat pasta and some tomato sauce.
“Minimalism,” Michael smiled. “Simply perfect. Like a Ray Carver short story.”
“A rose is a rose is a rose,” I recited.
“Gertrude Stein,” he stated proudly.
He filled a large pot with cold tap water then set it onto the gas stove to boil. He uncorked a bottle of red, poured us each a glass and took them with him into the living room. While I slipped the new Belarus disk into the CD player, he sat down on the couch, exhaling a long sigh.
“Feel better?” he said, taking a small sip of wine. “I know I do. In a proactive sort of way.”
I listened for the music to begin. Slowly strummed guitar, smoothly exhaled harmonica, deep bass, steady drums. Voices followed. Harmonious and touching me in the spot that made tears press up against the backs of my eyeballs.
I shuffled around the coffee table, sat myself down on the couch beside my ex-husband. Reaching out I picked up my wine, took a small sip.
“I’m not entirely sure what I feel.”
“Harris is looking out for you now. That’s gotta mean something, afford you just a semblance of peace. Even if you did avoid the issue of the texts.”
“I got the distinct feeling he thought I was out of my head.” Turning to Michael, I continued, “In fact, I’m starting to feel the same way. That maybe I’m just a little nutty; that maybe much of what’s happened over the past few days is in my head.” I laughed. “Heaven sent text messages for God sakes. I’m not even sure I believe in God anymore!”
“Oh ye of little faith,” Michael said, taking a large swallow of wine.
“I don’t know what to believe sometimes,” I said.
“You can’t deny Franny’s paintings,” he pointed out. “You can’t deny seeing the words in them.”
“Why is it so much more difficult for other people to see the words?”
“It’s just easier for you to see them. Or maybe you want to see them.”
“Okay, so what else can’t I deny?”
“You mean what else proves you’re not a nutcase?”
�
��Sure.”
“You can’t deny that the images Franny paints are similar to your dreams.”
“No, I can’t. But not even Franny is gifted enough to be inside my head.” I paused. “Or is he?”
Cocking his head, Michael exhaled. “Maybe he’s in tune with you. Your thoughts and fears. I think that he somehow sees your dreams; paints them. He has no choice but to paint them for you. He wants you to see your dreams through your conscious eyes.”
As much as I couldn’t deny any of what Michael was telling me, I could just as easily look at it all as a remarkable coincidence. But then how could I deny the painting of me and Molly that was presently stored inside Franny’s basement storage room? How could I deny the identical black and white snapshot I found on my parents’ porch? How could I deny Whalen’s release from prison?
Maybe I wasn’t nuts after all. Maybe everything was somehow fitting into place. Maybe Whalen truly was a threat. Maybe Franny knew this and was doing everything in his power to warn me.
I rested my head back against the couch.
“I’m thinking about taking the next couple of days off,” I said. “Stay close to home until this thing blows over and Harris can assure my safety.”
“Good idea,” Michael agreed. “You can sleep in while I bite the nail.” He smiled. “Like we used to do in the old days.”
I thought about the old days. Back when the Hounds of Heaven was first published. Michael and I would spend a lot of time in New York City back then. We’d stay at the Gramercy Park Hotel on Lexington Avenue. In the mornings Michael would run the paved path that ran parallel to the East River. I’d sleep in until he came back, body damp from the jog, a paper bag in one hand filled with hot croissants, a second bag in the other holding two large coffees with milk. He’d tiptoe around the room while he undressed and showered, and if I was still sleeping he’d write at the hotel desk dressed in nothing but his bath towel, until I woke up. That’s when he’d slip back into bed with me and we’d have our breakfast and plan out our day while we ate fresh croissants with jam and drank coffee, our bare feet touching under the covers. Back then it had never been the things that Michael said to me that made me feel secure with him. It was the things he did for me.
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