The Chill of Night

by James Hayman

  ‘Sounds like an appropriate response.’

  ‘I think it was.’

  ‘How did she react?’

  ‘She felt abandoned. Humiliated. He was the first man she’d reached out to since her illness began, and he turned her away.’

  ‘Did he tell her he was gay?’

  ‘Yes. I think on some level she already knew it. Subconsciously, she was creating a situation she knew would lead to rejection.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe to demonstrate her own worthlessness.’

  McCabe remembered the picture of the healthy young woman standing on the rocks by the sea. Only a couple of years older then than Casey was now. grrrl power! her sweatshirt proclaimed. He felt a profound sadness at the curveballs life had a way of throwing at people. He knew there wasn’t much he could do about it.

  He pulled out the photo of Lainie Goff and the others at the party and handed it to Wolfe. ‘Any idea what the occasion was?’

  ‘Yes. A Sanctuary House fund-raiser. A week or so before Christmas. I was there along with about a hundred other people.’

  ‘I recognize Ogden and Kelly, and Goff, of course. Do you know who the other two are?’

  ‘The blonde is a Palmer Milliken attorney. Janet something or other. I only met her that night.’

  ‘Janet Pritchard?’

  ‘Sounds right.’

  ‘How about the tall bald guy?’

  ‘A money man from Boston,’ said Wolfe. ‘Goff hooked him for a decent chunk of change, and Kelly closed the deal.’

  ‘How big was the donation?’

  ‘Ten K.’

  ‘Do you know the money man’s name?’ McCabe asked.

  ‘Uhh … yes.’ Wolfe paused, trying to remember. ‘Give me a minute. I don’t have your talent for total recall.’ He squinted at the horizon. ‘Tom? Ted? No, Todd. That’s it. Todd Martin? No, that’s a tennis player.’

  ‘Todd Markham?’

  ‘Markham, yes, that’s it.’ Wolfe nodded. ‘Todd Markham.’

  A buzzer rang. Wolfe looked at his watch. ‘Food’s here,’ he said. ‘Sit tight. I’ll run down and get it.’

  Jesus, McCabe thought, this was getting incestuous. He looked again at the photo. Every one of these people was in some way connected to Goff, and any one of them might have had reason to kill her. Kelly for the money. Ogden as her lover. Pritchard as a competitor for a Palmer Milliken partnership and maybe for Ogden’s affections. Markham? All he knew was that Lainie was killed in Markham’s house, in Markham’s bed. Maybe they were lovers as well.

  Markham was in Chicago Tuesday night, Maggie had told him. Had dinner with a couple of clients. Stayed at the Hyatt. Didn’t get back to Boston till … Till when? He’d interrupted her before she finished the sentence. He’d have to check.

  Wolfe returned carrying a brown paper bag filled with food. He set it on the coffee table. ‘I don’t know if I should even bring this up,’ he said, pulling containers out of the bag, ‘but there is one possibility we haven’t discussed.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Which is that maybe Abby didn’t just witness Goff’s murder. Maybe she committed it.’ Wolfe opened a drawer in his desk and started pulling out paper plates, napkins, and chopsticks. ‘Shall I split everything up? Half and half?’

  ‘Sure. That’s fine.’

  As Wolfe began doling out equal portions of the food, McCabe walked over to the window and looked down at the water. The barge hadn’t made a whole lot of progress in the time he’d been there. He guessed barges moved slow. He thought about what Wolfe just said. Could Abby have been the killer? He’d never considered that possibility. None of them had. Not Maggie. Not Bowman. Not any of his team. Probably dumb. It was a scenario too obvious to ignore. He knew she was present when the murder took place – she knew details she couldn’t have known otherwise – and she had run away. Disappeared into the night. They’d all assumed she was hiding from the killer. Wasn’t it equally possible she was hiding from them? From the police? Or maybe hiding from what she had done.

  Wolfe held up the bottle of Dewar’s. ‘Sure you won’t join me?’

  McCabe glanced back. ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Another water, then?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Wolfe refilled his own glass and put another bottle of Poland Spring by McCabe’s plate.

  If Abby was the killer, McCabe wondered, why would she have gone to the police in the first place? Why wake up Bowman in the middle of the night? What about motive? But even as he was asking himself these questions, he knew they were irrelevant. Abby was crazy. Schizophrenic. She suffered from hallucinations and delusions. For someone like Abby, normal concepts of reason and motive didn’t apply. If she killed Lainie Goff, it would have been in the middle of a psychotic episode, probably without even realizing what she had done.

  McCabe returned to his chair and took his plate of food. He picked up a spring roll, dipped it in sauce, and took a bite. ‘You say you know Abby better than anyone else. Do you think she’s capable of murder?’

  ‘Capable of it? Of course she’s capable of it,’ Wolfe said, chewing on a mouthful of spicy duck. ‘Abby’s schizophrenic. She inhabits an alternative reality. If she’s been off her meds for a while – or if they’re starting to lose their effectiveness – she’s capable of damned near anything.’

  ‘So you’re saying she invented the story of the monster with his face on fire?’

  ‘No. Probably not,’ Wolfe said. ‘A monster with his face on fire may in fact be exactly what she saw, whether she killed Goff herself or just witnessed the murder. Either way.’

  ‘You better help me with that, Doctor. I’m a little slow today.’

  ‘Let me give you some background. Schizophrenia is a brain disorder that’s characterized, more than anything else, by a profound disconnect between perception and reality. Like most schizophrenics Abby suffers from delusions, things that are false but that she believes to be true. She also suffers from hallucinations. False sensory perceptions. She sees and hears things that aren’t there. She really does see them, though, and hear them. They’re as real to her as that coconut shrimp is to you.’

  ‘So if Abby did kill Goff …’

  ‘She may really, truly have seen a monster do it. Maybe somewhere in her mind she feels it’s something only a monster could do. What she doesn’t recognize, if that’s the case, is that the monster is her.’

  McCabe leaned back and stared at the ceiling. He supposed what Wolfe was suggesting was possible, but the more he thought about it, the more certain he became that it just didn’t happen that way. There were too many details that didn’t fit. Details Wolfe wasn’t aware of. Like the dumping of the body on the Fish Pier. Like the note in the mouth. Like the precise and careful way she’d been killed. No, McCabe was sure Abby hadn’t done it. ‘What if she’s not the killer?’ he asked. ‘What if she did in fact see it happen?’

  Wolfe shrugged. ‘Then she’s probably seeing the killer as a monster because what she actually saw was too frightening or too painful for her mind to accept. But really, I’m just guessing now.’

  McCabe wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, got up, and tossed his empty plate in the trash. ‘Is there any way to bring the real memory back?’

  ‘Maybe. When nonschizophrenics repress painful memories, hypnotherapy sometimes works.’

  ‘Hypnosis?’

  ‘Yes. It isn’t typically used with schizophrenics, but it’s not necessarily contraindicated either. I’ve never tried it with one, but I’ve read about some experimentation. In fact, I’d be interested to see how it works with someone like Abby.’

  ‘Do you know anybody who’s an expert in, what did you call it? Hypnotherapy?’

  ‘Yes. Me.’

  ‘You’d be willing to hypnotize Abby?’

  ‘Yes. Of course – but we’ll have to find her first.’

  McCabe nodded thoughtfully. ‘Thanks, Doc. I’ll let you know when we do.’ He got
his coat and put it on. ‘And thanks for dinner.’

  Twenty-Three

  ‘It’s Andy, right? Do you mind if I call you Andy?’ Maggie leaned into the open back window of the black-and-white patrol car, looking down at the small figure hunched on the backseat. He glanced up at the question but didn’t answer. Maggie smiled. Andy Barker blinked back. ‘You don’t mind if I call you Andy, do you?’ She repeated the question. ‘I’ve got a younger brother named Andy. He’s my favorite brother, actually.’ Her brothers’ names were really Trevor and Harlan. ‘Andy’s always been one of my favorite names.’

  Her eyes registered the green and black plaid wool pants the guy was wearing, the green suede ankle boots, the fake snakeskin jacket. Little perv even dresses creepy, she thought.

  ‘Yeah. That’s fine,’ he said, still blinking. ‘I guess that’s fine. Can I call you Margaret?’

  Could he call her Margaret? The name printed on the card she’d given him last night. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘You call me Margaret.’

  She extended her hand. He looked at it but made no effort to shake it. ‘Nice to meet you, Andy,’ she said. ‘And thanks for agreeing to come in and talk to us.’ She pushed the hand toward him just a bit more.

  Finally he took off a glove and shook. His hand felt cold and dry. Like a dead man’s, she thought, letting go. She could see he was shivering. ‘Hey, Castleman,’ she called to the uniform behind the wheel, ‘pump up that heat a little, would you? Man’s cold back here.’

  Castleman didn’t do anything right away. Maggie knew the last thing he wanted was to make the guy in the backseat more comfortable. Tough shit. ‘Hey, Castleman, you hear what I said?’ Castleman’s right hand poked at the temp gauge and flipped the fan on to high.

  ‘Thanks, Castleman,’ Barker said, a little gloat in his voice. Then he looked up. ‘Why do I have to go with him anyway?’ he asked. ‘I’d rather drive with you. In your car.’

  ‘Yeah. I know, I’d prefer that, too, Andy. Then we could talk privately on the way in. But we’ve gotta follow department protocol. You know what I mean?’ She stood and tapped her left hand twice on the unit’s front door, letting Castleman know it was time to leave. The rear window rolled up. The car pulled out onto Brackett. Maggie could see Barker turn and look back, watching her through the misted glass. She smiled, raised a hand, and gave a small wave. Like a mother sending her kid off to school.

  She waited until the unit turned left on Pine Street and disappeared, then stepped over a pile of dirty snow that was starting to melt in the warmer air. She opened the door of her unmarked Crown Vic, pulled off her coat, tossed it on the passenger seat, and headed for 109.

  Barker knew something he wasn’t telling them. Maggie was as sure of that as she was of anything. Something that explained why he snuck into Goff’s apartment at four in the morning wearing a tool belt. The trick would be getting it out of him. In spite of what she’d told McCabe, she had to play this one carefully. It wouldn’t be all that easy.

  Maggie parked herself in Fortier’s office and watched Barker fidget on the TV set in the corner. He was nervous, looking this way and that. He’d been there ten minutes and was starting to get antsy. Time to get the show on the road. She nodded to Brian Cleary, who was standing next to her. Ten seconds later she watched the door to the interview room open. Cleary walked in.

  ‘Hey, Mr Barker, how are you? Detective Cleary here.’ Cleary disappeared from view as he sat down in the interviewer’s chair. The camera stayed focused on Barker’s face.

  ‘Where’s Margaret?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Margaret.’

  ‘Oh. Detective Savage, you mean.’

  ‘She asked me to call her Margaret.’

  ‘Yeah. Well. She’s my boss, so I gotta call her Detective Savage. Anyway, she’s stuck in a meeting for a few minutes. Said to tell you she’ll be with you as soon as she can. Shouldn’t be very long. Asked me to cover a few of the preliminaries so we don’t take any more of your time than we have to. Hey. Would you like me to get you a cup of coffee? Or water or anything?’

  ‘I’ll have a glass of water.’

  ‘Okay. Sure thing.’ Cleary’s shoulder came into frame as he got up. A minute later Maggie could see his hand place a full glass of water in front of Barker. If he drank any he’d leave a DNA sample on the rim.

  She could see Cleary’s hands on the table opening a manila file folder. ‘Okay,’ he asked. ‘Now, your full name is what?’

  ‘Andrew Barker.’

  ‘Any middle name or anything?’

  ‘John.’

  ‘Good. And you live in Apartment 1F at 342 Brackett Street here in Portland, right?’

  ‘I own the building.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Good for you. How long have you lived there?’

  ‘All my life. I was born there.’

  ‘Really? Right there in the apartment?’

  ‘No,’ Barker said, irritation beginning to creep into his voice. ‘I was born at Cumberland Medical Center. My parents lived in the apartment at the time.’

  ‘Your folks still live there?’

  ‘Is Margaret coming soon?’

  ‘Yeah. Just a few minutes. She said she’s anxious to talk to you, so I’m sure she’ll be here as soon as she can. Your folks still live there? In the apartment, I mean?’

  ‘No. My parents divorced when I was little. Mimsy died about five years ago.’

  ‘Mimsy?’

  ‘My mother.’

  ‘Mimsy was her name?’

  ‘No. Her name was Gloria. Mimsy’s what I called her.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Sort of like Mom or Mommy or something like that?’

  Barker squinted at Cleary. ‘It wasn’t like that. Mimsy’s what everybody called her.’ He started looking around the room. Everywhere but at Cleary. ‘Where’s Margaret? I thought she wanted to talk to me. I can’t wait here all night, y’know.’ The tone was petulant. Maggie figured it was time to make an entrance. Wait any longer and Barker’s irritation would turn into anger and they’d probably lose him altogether.

  ‘Mr Barker,’ she said, walking into the interview room, ‘I’m sorry we had to keep you waiting.’ Then, to Cleary, ‘Brian, I can take over from here.’ When Cleary didn’t move she added, ‘Would you mind?’

  ‘Hey, I’ll be happy to stay, Marg … uh, Detective Savage,’ said Cleary.

  ‘Not necessary,’ Maggie said. Walking behind Barker’s chair, she stood behind him, facing Cleary. ‘I’d rather speak to Mr Barker privately.’

  Cleary held up his two hands, palms out, a signal of surrender. ‘Okay, you’re the boss,’ he said. ‘Call me if you need me.’

  Maggie continued around the table in time to see a nearly imperceptible smile flicker across Barker’s face as he watched Cleary collect his notes and walk out of the room. The carefully orchestrated dance was over.

  ‘Asshole,’ Barker muttered.

  ‘Oh, don’t mind him,’ said Maggie. ‘He’s just trying to do his job. We all are.’

  ‘You’re different.’

  ‘Thank you, Andy. I appreciate that.’ She sat in the chair Cleary had just vacated.

  He looked at her.

  ‘I’d like to start by asking you some questions about your building and about Elaine Goff. And also about your other tenants. Would that be alright?’

  ‘Okay. Yes. Sure. That would be fine.’

  Maggie opened a small notebook and for about ten minutes took him through a series of general questions about the building, about his job as landlord. After that they went back and forth for a few more minutes about the other tenants in the building. Who they were. Where they worked. How long they’d lived at 342.

  As they spoke Maggie could see Barker’s eyes darting back and forth, going from her face when she was looking at him to her breasts when he thought she wasn’t. Every time she looked down to write something in her notebook, boom, down they’d go. It was almost funny. The little creep would probably start salivating in a m
inute. Or jerking off. She considered buttoning her jacket and cutting off his view. Then she changed her mind and, instead, hoisted her long legs up on the table and leaned back in the chair and let the jacket fall open. Barker’s lascivious looks weren’t anything she couldn’t handle, and the longer he thought he could sneak a peek, the longer he’d want to stay and answer questions. Maybe more important, the more excited he got, the more likely it was that he’d slip up and tell her something he didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to confess to the crime, Your Honor. I was distracted by the detective’s boobs.

  ‘How long has Goff lived in the apartment?’ Maggie asked.

  ‘A little over three years. She signed a lease for a fourth year back in November. She was a good tenant. Quiet. Clean. The place was always picked up. She always paid her rent on the first of the month.’

  The place was always picked up? Interesting. How would Barker know that? ‘Was she friendly with any of the other tenants?’

  ‘Not really. Not that I know of. I saw her talking with the Chus occasionally.’

  ‘The Chus?’

  ‘Nancy and Tom Chu. The people on the third floor rear. She was pretty friendly with them, especially Nancy.’

  ‘Interests in common?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Barker. Maggie’s pen went back to her pad; Barker’s eyes went back to her breasts. ‘Nancy’s into photography. They talked about that a lot.’ Maggie looked up. So did Barker. He gave her his best smile.

  ‘Would you excuse me, Andy?’

  He looked up questioningly.

  ‘Just be a second,’ she said. ‘I have to go to the little girls’ room,’ she added in a conspiratorial whisper.

  She left the room and found Cleary and Tasco. ‘Did you guys talk to the Chus last night? Apartment 3R?’

  ‘No. They didn’t answer the door.’

  ‘Okay. Find Nancy Chu. Bring her in. Tell her it’s important.’

  She went back to the interview room. ‘There, that’s better.’ She smiled. ‘So, tell me about Goff,’ she said. ‘What kind of woman was Lainie?’