Mad Max: Unintended Consequences

by Ashton, Betsy

  “So, what do you think happened to her?”

  “Mrs. Goodman stayed in touch with her after the wedding, even though Hunter forbade it. Lydia-Marie was strong-willed. She wasn't about to be bullied. Mrs. Goodman kept her letters. She'll send them if we need them.” I couldn't sit any longer. I walked back to the window and watched police cars enter and leave the parking lot as the morning shift ended and the afternoon shift began.

  “Wonder if we can find Lydia-Marie's body.” Whip mumbled. “If Hunter gets rid of his mistakes—and Merry was a mistake—he must have gotten rid of Lydia-Marie too.”

  “Alex is searching for unsolved crimes between here and New York. Do you have any idea how many police and sheriff jurisdictions there are?”

  “Too many to count.”

  “You've got that right. Alex is focused on unsolved murders of young women in or near the hospitals where we know he worked.” I rubbed tired eyes. I was almost as drained as I was the week of Merry's funeral.

  “Hunter shot Merry behind the ear with a twenty-two. Have him look for similar crimes. For missing women too.” Whip joined me at the window.

  “Will do.”

  “Try smaller jurisdictions.”

  I was too exhausted to ask why.

  “How are you holding up? You look beat.”

  “I am. Once Mrs. Goodman contacted Em, she was up several nights puking. It's nerves. She feels Mrs. Goodman's pain. She's overwhelmed.”

  I stared through the mesh sandwiched between two panes of glass. I wanted to hide how worried I was about Emilie's health. Whip had enough on his mind without fretting over something he couldn't change.

  “Used to think her feelings were fantasy. They're real, aren't they?”

  “They're very real. Do not underestimate that child.”

  “Does she know how to control them, the feelings?”

  “No. I'm looking for a New Age, hippy-dippy shrink. Maybe from California. Doubt there's anyone local. I might have to call every shrink in the phonebook. Ask what their sign is. Or if they've read Carlos Castaneda. Do they believe he turned into a crow? Come to think about it, that might not be a bad idea.”

  Whip laughed.

  “Seriously, I've been reading about some of the newer trends in psychotherapy. We need someone experienced in dealing with a sensitive. Not a sensitive teenager, but a true sensitive. Em's gift has to be trained, or it could destroy her.”

  I stowed the photographs in my tote. Pete opened the door to the interview room.

  “Time's up.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  I was more worried about Emilie than I let on. I told Whip the truth about looking for a psychiatrist, but I didn't tell him I'd called experts all over the country. Dr. Silberman was helping the kids develop the day-to-day coping skills they needed to get over their mother's murder, but he'd already told me he had no experience with sensitives. He, too, was making calls.

  Finding a New Age shrink was on my list as far back as when we began going to Dr. Silberman. I was about ready to tackle the search when Hunter murdered Merry. No way could I put this off any longer. If there was a rock I could turn over, I would.

  I regretted ignoring Emilie's initial response to Hunter when she said he was evil. Perfect twenty-twenty hindsight. I shouldn't have.

  I pulled into the drive and went upstairs to look for the kids. The house felt too silent for my peace of mind. Alex's room. Empty. Emilie's. Empty. I trotted downstairs to the kitchen table where we always left notes. Empty. No text messages on my phone. I called each kid's cell. No answer. My vivid imagination ran wild with thoughts of bloody bodies and car wrecks and perverts kidnapping children. I jumped half out of my skin when my cell rang.

  “Mad Max?”

  Alex. My knees felt weak as I struggled to control my voice.

  “I just got home. Where are you?” I sounded cross because I was scared.

  “At Danny's. We're playing video games. I forgot to leave a note. I left my cell on my desk. Stupid me.” The beeps and tire squeals of Grand Theft Auto sounded in the background.

  “Don't do it again.”

  “Okay.”

  “Where's Em?”

  “I dunno. She was on her computer when I left. Maybe she went to the library.”

  The library? The bookstore, maybe, but the library? I didn't remember the child going to the library once this summer. I wished she'd spent her summer rereading the Harry Potter series like her friends rather than playing sleuth.

  “Be home in time for dinner. We're having hot dogs and beans.”

  “Yippee. I'll be home by five-thirty.”

  “Dinner will be at six-thirty. Have fun.”

  Much as I disliked Alex playing video games in a darkened room on a day when the sun was shining and the air was Indian-summer warm, at least he was safe. I'd worry about long-term damage to his psyche from Grand Theft Auto later.

  So where's Emilie? She didn't answer her phone. Unheard of.

  She wasn't at Molly's. I called her other friends but came up empty. I paced the family room, more worried about her than Alex. I was haunted by an early memory of Emilie meeting Hunter. I remembered how he said he could work miracles with her because she was so young. Had Hunter snatched her? Dear God, I couldn't cope with that.

  Emilie returned just before five with a laden backpack, her face flushed and sweaty. Torn between anger and weak-kneed relief, I crushed her before I sat her down with lemonade. We had a heart-to-heart talk about taking her phone, leaving notes, and getting permission to visit friends beforehand.

  “You had me worried. I wondered if Hunter—”

  “Don't worry. I pretty much know where he is all the time. He's nowhere near me today.”

  “Don't let him get too close. I don't want him living rent free in your head.” I couldn't shake my fear, even if Emilie knew where Hunter was all the time.

  “Neither do I, but I can keep track of him better than anyone else.”

  For now. When Tony's man was on the job, I'd rest easier.

  “I blew out of here so fast I never even thought about a note.” Emilie looked stricken and excited at the same time.

  “Where's your phone?”

  “Oh, shoot.” Emilie dug into her backpack. “I turned it off. Sorry.”

  “Where have you been?” I stared at the bulging backpack.

  “I went over to the university.”

  “Virginia Commonwealth?”

  “No. University of Richmond.”

  “You rode your bike all the way over there?”

  “Uh-huh. I've been e-mailing a teacher through a paranormal Web site for weeks. I learned about her at camp this summer. I just found out she teaches at U of Richmond, so I asked to meet her.”

  “Okay. That's why you forgot a note. Does she know Dracula?”

  “She never met him, but after she answered me, she did a reading on him and saw five dead bodies.”

  “Is she a psychic?” Hope rose for the first time since I'd entered the empty house.

  “I'm not sure. Maybe. At any rate, she knew things I didn't, so I went to meet her. She's like me, but she ‘sees.’ I ‘feel.’”

  “Can she help?” Mental fingers crossed.

  “Well, she had some ideas for Alex's research. She saw at least five bodies. The first is Kiki. One is Mom. She saw all but Kiki shot in the same way. Oh, we should look for Jane Does.”

  “Dad and I came to the same conclusion this morning. Tell me more.”

  Emilie described her search for a psychic. She heard from dozens of kooks, many interested in doing a reading, “for a fee, of course.”

  “Don't worry. I didn't use my real e-mail. I set up a special account through MySpace.”

  That relieved my worry a little. “This teacher communicated with you through MySpace?”

  “At first. She responded to the e-mail address I used to find Mrs. Goodman. At any rate, she said she might be able to help, but she wants to meet you before we go an
y further.”

  Emilie handed me a card: “Dr. Angela Schwartz, Professor of Philosophy.”

  She could still be a crank emerging from the woodwork to prey on hapless victims of crime. Or she could be real. Or somewhere in between. Emilie sensed she was real, which was almost, but not quite, good enough for me. I needed to vet her before I'd let my vulnerable granddaughter get more involved.

  “Thanks. I'll call her. What's in your backpack?”

  “Books Dr. Schwartz loaned me.” Emilie opened her pack and dumped several books about psychics onto the table. I recognized two but not the rest. One on how mediums helped police departments looked academic.

  “Pretty heavy stuff, huh?”

  “No worse than the books you've been studying.” Emilie grinned.

  “Busted!”

  Over our supper of hot dogs and beans, Emilie told Alex about Dr. Schwartz and her suggestion he widen his hunt to include Jane Does. He'd been concentrating on people whose names we knew; Jane Does might offer another avenue. We had to try everything.

  We knew what happened to Kiki, and we knew Lydia-Marie's maiden and married names. Alex searched for mention of her everywhere. So far, all he'd found were engagement and wedding announcements and a few photos in the Post-Gazette of the happy couple at charity events. Otherwise, Lydia-Marie Mendoza Hunter didn't exist.

  “She's dead. You know that, don't you, Mad Max?” Emilie said.

  “I'm afraid so, but Alex'll find out. At the very least, we might be able to help her family.”

  The more we peeled away the layers of the Dracula onion, the more complex he became. The more evil he became. He was a broken soul, who turned to the dark side after his initial loss.

  “Don't tell me it'll bring closure. I hate that word.”

  “So do I, Em. There's no such thing. We can end the uncertainty. If you go through life wondering what happened to a loved one, it has to be worse than accepting the finality of death. At least then you can bury the body, mourn, and move on.”

  “That's what Dr. Schwartz said. Lydia-Marie's dead. Her family doesn't know it. That's one way I can use my gift. To help other families through the pain of loss.”

  I was beginning to like this Dr. Schwartz, unmet and sight unseen. “Did she say you could use your gift for people who are alive?”

  I didn't want Emilie facing a life of darkness, of “I see dead people” like in The Sixth Sense, the old Bruce Willis movie. I didn't want my family living through that plot.

  “Yes. I don't know if I want to learn how to use it. It's more a curse than a gift.”

  I put my arm around my granddaughter's shoulders. “Can you ignore it?”

  “No more than you can ignore breathing.” Emilie's smile was quavery. I gave her a squeeze and sent her upstairs while I called Dr. Schwartz.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Whip asked for a speedy trial when he entered his not guilty plea, so we expected courtroom antics to begin within three months. Now, at the two-month-and-three-week mark and closing in on November, we still hadn't seen all the evidence. I was growing more and more agitated with the criminal justice system when every day passed with nothing new.

  Whip whirled on Vince the moment he entered the interview room. “I want my fucking life back.”

  I remained seated but shared Whip's urgency. My son-in-law stood with his back to the grubby window, his arms crossed over his chest.

  Vince went through his standard routine; he pulled file after color-coded file out of his briefcase while Whip ranted. He opened his yellow notepad, uncapped his fountain pen, and folded his hands at the edge of the table. And waited.

  “Are you done now?”

  “I should say I'm sorry, but I'm not. Are we getting stonewalled?”

  “Yes.”

  “All we have is an evidence list. Is that normal?”

  “No.”

  “Then what the fuck's going on?” Whip threw himself away from the wall and paced, mimicking the frustration of countless criminals and innocent men who sat in this room before him. “I want outta here.”

  “Max and your family are doing more than I am? Is that it?”

  The fury went out of Whip with the explosive blast of a punctured balloon. He collapsed into a chair. I remained planted in mine. I opened my mouth then closed it. This was between Whip and his attorney. They had to settle their differences in a guy way.

  “No, that's not it. Well, yes, that's part of it. At least they're trying to prove Hunter killed Merry.”

  Vince looked at me. “We've been over this before. If and when you bring me something that will stand up in court, I'll add Hunter to the witness list. Without proof, Whip could be sued for making false accusations.”

  I was defeated by Vince's logic.

  “Why don't I have a trial date?”

  “Because the district attorney is stalling. He might ask for a contingency, but the election season is looming. He's running way behind his opponent.”

  “Does he try and stall until after the election?”

  “He could, but that would be a bad political maneuver. If there's one thing you can count on, it's that District Attorney Weed is a political animal.”

  “The election's not for seven more months,” I said.

  “Since we haven't seen the evidence, my guess is he's delaying because he's got real problems proving the case.”

  “Well, no shit. Like having the wrong man sitting on his ass in jail.” Whip waved his hand at the thin pile of folders. “Anything new here?”

  “Not really.”

  Whip flipped open the top folder. I could see the contents from where I sat. “Glove.” There was a single piece of paper inside written in Vince's crabbed hand. It documented a conversation with an assistant district attorney who said they found a glove on the floor of Merry's apartment.

  “Do we know any more than they found a plastic glove?”

  I had this bizarre image of a yellow Playtex kitchen glove.

  “No. Just that the district attorney says the killer wore two pairs of gloves,” Vince said.

  Whip set the nearly empty folder aside. Next in the stack was titled “Divorce Papers.” “We've been over both of these already.”

  “Stop sounding so angry, Whip. It could work against you in court.”

  “Well, I'm pissed.”

  “Vince, are there more than one set of divorce papers? I mean, we gave you what Whip and Merry filed.” I stared at the folders, wondering if we'd ever get to a consistent set. Did the district attorney have a different set than we did? Or were they reading them completely differently?

  Whip flipped through more folders. He stopped at the last one. “Temporary Restraining Order.”

  “Why's the district attorney still holding onto this? Didn't you tell him he had it ass-backward?”

  “Weed's been ducking me. He's turned all the prep over to his hotshot assistant district attorney, Julie Hamada. She won't meet with me or return my calls, either.”

  “I took out the TRO on Merry, not the other way around. Max brought you a copy. I can prove she was a threat to me. She attacked me with a knife on our front porch after I locked her out.”

  “There's a police report?”

  “Sure. Ask Jerry Skelton, the officer who responded to a call from my neighbors.”

  Whip repeated the messy story of the attack. Then he shrugged out of his orange jumpsuit, pulled up his T-shirt, and turned around to reveal the ugly scar left by Merry's knife. “I'll sign a release for the emergency room. They have photos.”

  It was puckery, and the scars from the stitches required to close the wound were still visible.

  Vince stared at the curved scar. “Your wife did that?”

  I stared too. I hadn't seen it since Whip's back was covered in blood on the front porch of his house.

  “She came by the house, drunk and stoned. Got violent when she found I'd changed the locks. Got arrested for assault. Spent the night in the drunk tank. It's al
l well documented. The next day I took out the TRO to keep her away from me. Protect the kids. I didn't know what else to do.”

  “Mr. Medina and I were eyewitnesses,” I said.

  Vince gathered the scattered folders, straightened them, and replaced them in his briefcase. He made one last note on the pad. Whip busied himself pulling the jumpsuit back into position.

  “Time to ask the judge for an evidentiary hearing.”

  “It's way past time.” Whip's anger had lessened, but it hadn't dissipated. “The district attorney's case is a house of cards, isn't it?”

  “It sure looks like it. I think we can get a judge to agree. No weapon, no DNA, no fingerprints, no paper trail of threats. The divorce papers, the TRO, the police report for the call at your house—as you say, all ass-backward.”

  “What are our chances?”

  I stood to walk out with Vince.

  “Looking a helluva lot better than they were two hours ago. I'll charge stonewalling by the district attorney. The documents they built their case on tell a very different story from the one they've been leaking to the press. Without a murder weapon, this should collapse. Wish me luck.”

  “Get me the hell out of here.”

  “We will,” Vince and I said in unison.

  In the corridor, I handed Vince another small packet of information we'd gathered on Hunter. “For future use” was all I said.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  “I found at least five Kikis.” Alex plopped on the end of my bed, another fistful of printouts crumpled in his left hand. I was folding and putting away clean laundry. I pushed the pile aside and sat on the bed too.

  “Five?”

  “I found three more. There may be others.”

  “May I see?” I pointed to the papers, my heart pounding. Maybe Hunter as a serial killer wasn't such a far-fetched idea after all.

  “Whatcha got, Alex?” Emilie followed her brother into my room.

  “What do you have, Alex?”

  “You sound just like Mom.”

  “Well, who do you think taught her? Me. So?”

  “What do you have, Alex?” Emilie sighed and repeated the question using correct grammar this time. She sat cross-legged on the bed beside me.