Jack saw him from the living room and rushed to hold him back. With both hands pressed against his shoulders, he said, “I’m sorry, Ed. She’s gone.”
Ed’s mouth flew open, his eyes wide with shock. “What happened? Where is she?”
Jack tugged hard to hold him back, not wanting him to see his wife’s body in the throes of a violent death. He wanted him to remember her as the beautiful woman he knew and loved, not her blood-stained body, the deathly paleness and grotesque facial features which now lay sprawled on the living room floor.
Without answering, Jack held tight onto his elbow and led him past Claire’s covered body to the sun porch.
“You don’t want to remember her like this, Ed,” he said, trying hard to conceal his emotions. Ed’s face crumbled into agonizing pain and he burst into shameless tears. His grief was inconsolable. At his sides were Paul and Jack, who put their arms around his shoulders, both fighting back tears of their own.
Sobbing into a handkerchief, Ed dropped heavily into the wicker sofa. His face bore the look of raw unbearable pain.
“Why?” he asked. “You read about things like this happening in Boston and big cities every day, but why a place like Woodbridge Notch.”
It was a rhetorical question, which no one answered.
Paul’s two friends stood by silently wanting to help, to comfort, but not wanting to intrude. They had met Paul Benson’s older brother, Ed, several years earlier when he filled in at a golf tournament for another physician who canceled at the last minute. They had played golf with him on other occasions, but only infrequently. They were friendly, but not close friends. Even so, being physicians, they were shocked and upset by what had happened to the women in this beautiful mountain home – especially to this woman, whom both had met and admired. She was highly regarded for her philanthropy and compassion for the children at the Brookhaven Cancer Clinic, where they worked with Paul.
Since there was nothing they could do, Paul suggested they return to Boston in his car and he’d stay with Ed for as long as necessary, then return with him in the Lexus.
By late Sunday afternoon, everyone in the small community of Woodbridge Notch had heard about the murder of the lovely lady from Boston, and it hung heavy on its sixteen hundred residents.
“Things like this don’t happen here,” said Sadie Fulmore, the town librarian. “I know that’s a tired phrase, but this has always been a safe place. But I guess it isn’t any more.”
Sheriff Redmond heard the woman’s comment and he didn’t like it one bit. He vowed to find the culprits who had created this fear and see that they were punished. He would not allow violence of this kind to take root in the valley he had grown to love and call home.
Chapter 28
Early Sunday evening Paul, Ed and his son, Drew, and his wife, Beverly, were gathered in the sun porch, leaving the rest of the first floor free for police work. The deputy assigned to locate relatives of the three women had reached them all, and they were on their way to the Hammond Medical Clinic.
Tom Gordon was the first to receive a call. As soon as he hung up the phone, he called his daughter, Lisa, who was at home but on call for the hospital. She immediately found a colleague to fill in for her, and within an hour she and Mark were racing up Route 93, clocking speeds up to 90 miles an hour. He would call his son, Danny, in Germany when he knew further details about his mother’s condition. Brad and Russ O’Neil, Rosemary’s sons, had also been located and were on their way. Anne’s daughter, Valerie, caught a plane from Atlanta and would drive from Boston directly to the medical center. But she would not be there until late that evening.
By six o’clock, every state and local police officer in this country and Canada were on the lookout for the black Navigator. Newscasts nationwide were broadcasting the story of the wealthy Boston socialite who was murdered in her family’s ancestral mountain home in the small New Hampshire hamlet of Woodbridge Notch. Mentioned during the broadcast was the fact that one of the women at Hammond Medical Clinic was the wife of the late Judge Harold O’Neil, “a prominent Boston Superior Court judge.” In closing, all the newscasts showed a picture of a late-model black Lincoln Navigator, giving the license plate number MEG 828 and the phone number for the sheriff’s office in Woodbridge Notch.
Earlier in the afternoon, Jack had slipped quietly into the sun porch and left his personal cell phone number with Paul.
“If you need me for anything, call me,” he told him. “I won’t be far away.”
And he wasn’t. Leaving the forensics to investigators with the state crime scene unit who had arrived from Concord, he got into his patrol car and sped down the drive to the cabin. The boys’ red pick-up and motorcycle were in the front yard. That meant they’d be home, and he wanted to talk with them.
Edna Hayes opened the door to his knock, Melanie at her side. But when she told him the boys weren’t home, a red flag went up. Their vehicles were here; why weren’t they?
“Do you know where they are?” the sheriff asked their mother cautiously.
“Probably at Herbie Grogan’s house, I ‘spect. Most likely stayed there last night. They was all here watching television most all evenin’. When me and Melanie went to bed, I told ‘em to turn it down. Then when I got up this morning, it was still on. I was gonna give ‘em a piece of my mind, but then I seen their beds ain’t been slept in. They musta spent the night at Herbie’s house, ‘cuz he stays here sometimes if they drink too much.” Her last comment was said apologetically, embarrassed by her sons’ drinking and drug abuse.
The haggard-looking woman had the sheriff’s complete attention. The more she talked, the more red flags went up. The name Herbie Grogan was well known to him. He was involved in the April break-in at the Lodge. A pock-marked skinhead with a tough-guy attitude, Grogan had been in and out of trouble since he was fourteen years old. His antics started with small petty crimes like stealing soda from Potter’s Convenience Store, and newspaper money from the rack in front of Jackson’s Pharmacy. Muscular and cocky, he was the town bully, always fighting with kids in school, and even later when he left at age sixteen.
He spent time in juvenile detention a year later for breaking into an elderly woman’s home. She was at home at the time and he attacked her with a kitchen knife. She fought him off with a broom, but not before he grabbed her pocketbook. Needless to say, he didn’t get away with it. She knew who he was and called police. She wasn’t seriously hurt, but required a few stitches on her arm, and her pocketbook was returned to her minus the fourteen dollars in her wallet. Herbie told the arresting officer that “the lousy fourteen bucks wasn’t worth his trouble,” but it was enough to get him two years in Bristol County Juvenile Detention.
At age eighteen, he teamed up with Stanley Healy, who moved to the area recently from Portsmouth. Together with the Hayes brothers, they had been involved in alcohol and drug abuse and petty theft. Sheriff Jack Redmond wanted to talk with the four of them; he wanted to know their whereabouts last night and today.
“Is this about something that happened at the big house down the road?” Edna Hayes asked. “I seen the ambulance and police go by. What happened? We seen the lady at church who was hurt. Does she live at that house?”
Sheriff Redmond, as angry and upset as he was about Claire’s murder, was not ready to lay the blame at this woman’s door step. Not yet. At this point he had no reason to think her sons were involved. Perhaps they had spent the night innocently at Herbie Grogan’s house and were there now sleeping off a hangover. Not likely, he thought, but it was a possibility. He’d find out. It was his Number One priority.
“Yes, Mrs. Hayes, someone at the Endicott Lodge was hurt last night.” His answer was curt as he turned and walked quickly to his cruiser.
The Grogans’ farmhouse was north of the village in an area that was fast becoming commercial because of its proximity to Route 93. Herbie’s family included his mother, who worked as a clerk at the village dry cleaner, his father, an automob
ile mechanic, two younger brothers, Billy and Lester, and a married sister, Maryanne, who lived in the new development on Bear Mountain.
The Grogan farm had been in the family for three generations, but hadn’t been a working farm for the past fifty years. When he returned from the Army, Mr. Grogan turned the barn into an auto repair shop and made a fair living from it. Herbie worked for him as the mood struck him, which was usually only when he wanted money for drugs or alcohol.
When the sheriff arrived at the Grogan farm, the first thing he noticed was that Herbie’s green, beat-up Buick Skylark was not in the yard. Mr. Grogan came out the door and stood on the porch and greeted his unexpected visitor cautiously.
“Hello, Sheriff, what brings you out here today?”
“I’m looking for Herbie. Know where he is?”
“I was wondering the same thing. He didn’t come home last night. Guess he spent the night at the Hayes’ house. Sometimes he does that, ya know.”
“No, he’s not there. I just came from there. The Hayes brothers weren’t home all night, either. Any idea where they might be?”
“Well, they all hang around with Stanley Healy sometimes. If they ain’t at one place, they’re at the other.” Squinting down at Jack, who stood on the ground facing him on the porch, he said, “I hope them boys ain’t in no trouble agin, Sheriff.”
“That’s why I want to talk with Herbie, Mr. Grogan. When he comes home have him drop by the office, will you?”
“Sure will, Sheriff. Sure will.”
When he left the Grogan farm, Sheriff Redmond headed for Bear Mountain, where Stanley Healy was staying with his uncle. Of the four troublemakers, Stanley Healy was the one who surprised and disappointed him the most.
His father was Capt. Joseph R. Healy, USN, operations officer at the naval air station in Portsmouth. In the Navy it’s the general rule that officers serve two years of sea duty followed by two years on shore. Perhaps it was his father’s long time at sea, leaving Stanley without the supervision he needed as a teenager that was at the root of the boy’s troubles, he thought.
Stanley was an adopted child, and to his doting mother he had been an adorable, well-behaved child until he reached thirteen. His personality changed dramatically when he entered puberty. He became very rebellious, which was thought to be just a teenage phase. At first he was disrespectful and rude to her during his father’s long absences. As he got older, he became more belligerent, using words even his father, a seasoned Navy man familiar with salty language, wouldn’t say in his home.
Stanley was sixteen, a junior in high school, when Captain Healy was assigned to the naval facility at Portsmouth. Unfortunately, Stanley almost immediately fell in with the wrong crowd, and one afternoon was caught selling marijuana in the city’s historic section of Strawberry Banke. He was arrested for drug possession, ruining his chances of going to Annapolis, which broke his father’s heart. Despite his parents’ pleading, he refused to prepare for college. Instead, he quit school and hung out with other aimless teens.
Captain Healy’s solution was to send him to stay a few months with his younger, unmarried brother, Donald, a forest ranger who lived on Bear Mountain up in the North Country. As in many families, children will respect adults other than their parents, and Captain Healey hoped this would be true in Stanley’s case. Even so, like his older sibling, Donald Healy was a no-nonsense authority figure and it was hoped that he would be able to change Stanley’s behavior before the teenager got into serious trouble. The fact that he got in with the wrong crowd in Portsmouth brought grief and anxiety to his parents and annoyance to his uncle. But Donald was not ready to give up on him. Like Stanley’s mother, he thought it was a teenage phase he was going through and would soon realize the error of his ways and grow up. Now five months later, his good friend Sheriff Jack Redmond was knocking on his door.
It was Sunday afternoon and Ranger Healey was home alone watching a New England Patriots football game on television. He opened the door and greeted Jack with mixed emotions.
“A social call, I hope,” he said with a broad smile as he held the door open for Jack to enter.
“I hope,” responded his friend, “I’m looking for Stanley. Is he here?” Jack asked only out of politeness, as he didn’t see Stanley’s Chevy Impala in the driveway.
“No, he isn’t. As a matter of fact, he didn’t come home last night. I planned to call Joe after the game to see if he’s with them. Is there a problem, Jack?”
“Yes, Don, ‘fraid so, and he may or may not be involved. Do you mind calling your brother now to see if he’s in Portsmouth?”
“Sure, Jack. What’s the problem?”
They were professionals, but more than that they had become good friends even before Jack became sheriff. They were both members of All Saints and worked together with area youth on several outreach projects.
Jack was aware of Stanley’s problems in Portsmouth and respected his friend for what he was doing to help his nephew straighten out his life. The incident didn’t mar their friendship; if anything, it drew them closer. They were cut from the same cloth. Their integrity, character, and work ethic were beyond reproach.
“There was a home invasion at the Stone Brook Lodge last night. Claire Benson was murdered. Three other women are in the hospital; one might not make it.”
As Jack spoke, Don listened with a shocked expression on his face. “Oh, no!” he exclaimed. Then, “You think Stanley was involved?”
“I don’t know yet, but the Hayes brothers didn’t come home last night, neither did Herbie Grogan. Let’s see if Stanley is in Portsmouth with his parents.”
Don reached in his pocket for his cell phone and pressed the speed dial for his brother’s number. Joe answered immediately, seeing Don’s incoming number and said with gusto, “Yes, I know your Patriots are beating my boys, but the game’s not over yet.”
Without answering him, Don asked bluntly, “Joe, is Stanley with you?”
Joe’s voice changed immediately and he said soberly, “No. Why? Is anything wrong?”
“I don’t know yet. When did you see him last?”
“Not since the day he went to stay with you. Why, Don, what’s he up to now?”
“Probably nothing. Don’t worry. I’ll get back with you as soon as I find him.”
But Jack didn’t find him or the Hayes brothers or Herbie Grogan that night. He did find Stanley’s car. Just before midnight, his office received a call from the night manager at 7-Eleven, who said when he was ready to close he noticed a car parked at the store, but there was no driver anywhere around. Upon investigation, Jack learned the light brown Impala was registered to Capt. Joseph R. Healey of Portsmouth. He reported his findings to his friend, who in turn called his brother in Portsmouth. Jack would later learn that Herbie Grogan’s car was in his sister’s garage on Bear Mountain, a short distance from Don Healey’s residence.
It was just after eleven o’clock Sunday night when Jack got back to his office to file a report of the day’s extraordinary events. Weary to the core, he went home to catch a few hours’ sleep, knowing that the days ahead would be even more demanding.
Chapter 29
By late Sunday evening, all three women were being cared for at Hammond Medical Clinic by a very concerned staff of medical personnel.
When the ambulance arrived, Meg was rushed into the emergency room, and after a quick x-ray of her shattered elbow, was prepared for surgery. It was a long and tedious operation by two specially trained orthopedic surgeons whose skilled hands repaired broken bones, blood vessels, nerves, tendons and ligaments. Metal wires were needed to connect disintegrated bone fragments to her upper and lower arm bones to assure movement in her elbow, hand and fingers.
After six hours of surgery, the initial operation was successful and she was recovering in ICU, but the doctors also had determined she had a concussion and were watching her very closely. Because of the seriousness of her injuries, which were caused by loss of bone from her el
bow, she would remain hospitalized for additional surgery to reconstruct her elbow using bone grafts. It was determined that then she would need at least three months of intensive physical therapy to regain the use of her arm. Her head injury was another matter, and it remained to be seen how serious that was.
Rosemary was seen by a psychiatrist who evaluated and treated her emotional state. Having given her a sedative, he ordered that she be admitted for observation, and she was now resting in a private room down the hall from Anne.
Anne had been examined thoroughly and, except for a few scratches and bruises, was found to be in relatively good health. The physician on duty had ordered that she, too, remain overnight for observation as a precautionary measure. Valerie had arrived earlier and sat at her mother’s bedside, holding her hand.
“All she needs is a good night’s sleep,” the head nurse told Valerie, studying Anne’s chart. “She only has superficial lacerations and bruising, but she’s sore all over and needs to rest while these injuries heal. The doctor wants to see her in the morning and plans to release her then.”
That was good news for Valerie. She was anxious to take her mother home and away from the awfulness of what happened. She wanted her to rest in the comfort of her own bed and the tranquility of Cape Ann. But Anne was anxious about her friends, Meg and Rosemary, and didn’t want to leave while they were still hospitalized. While she was especially concerned about Meg and Rosemary, she was absolutely devastated about Claire.
“Meg’s in ICU, Mother,” said Valerie “The nurse said the surgery to her elbow was successful and she’s expected to make a full recovery. It’ll be awhile before they know about movement in her arm, but they expect it will be almost normal with physical therapy. It’s the concussion that concerns the doctors. Rosemary is going to be alright, but they want to keep her for a few days until she’s stronger emotionally.”
The Mystery Trip Page 17
