Pieces of Her

by Karin Slaughter

  There was laughter from the crowd.

  “Dr. Maes, let’s let you take this one.” Martin Queller was, it must be said, a man who could command a room. He was clearly putting on a show, teasing around the edges of the topic they had all come to see debated. In his youth, he’d likely been considered attractive in that way that money makes a boring man suddenly interesting. Age had agreed with him. Laura knew he was sixty-three, but his dark hair was only slightly peppered with gray. The aquiline nose was less pronounced than in his photographs, which had likely been chosen for their ability to garner respect rather than physical admiration. People often mistook personality for character.

  “What of Chernenko, Herr Richter?” Martin’s voice boomed without the aid of a microphone. “Is it likely we’ll see the full implementation of Andropov’s arguably modest reforms?”

  “Well,” Friedrich began. “As perhaps the Russians would tell us, ‘When money speaks, the truth keeps silent.’”

  There was another smattering of laughter.

  Laura shifted in the chair as she tried to relieve the pain radiating down her leg. Her sciatic nerve sang like the strings of a harp. Instead of listening to Friedrich’s densely academic answer, she stared off to the side of the audience. There was a bank of lights hanging from a metal pole. A man stood on a raised platform working a shoulder-mounted Beta Movie video camera. His hand manually twisted around the lens. The lighting had likely thrown off the auto-focus.

  Laura looked down at her own hand. The thumb and two of her fingers were still calloused from years of adjusting the focus ring on her Hasselblad.

  The month before Lila had died, she’d told Laura that she wanted to take photography lessons, just not from her mother. Laura had been hurt. She was, after all, a professional photographer. But then a friend had reminded Laura that teenage girls were finished learning from their mothers until they had children of their own, and Laura had decided to bide her time.

  And then time had run out.

  All because of Martin Queller.

  “—the juxtaposition of social policy and economics,” Martin was saying. “So, Dr. Maplecroft, while you might disagree with what you call the ‘atavistic tone’ of the Queller Correction, I merely sought to put a name to a statistically occurring phenomenon.”

  Laura saw his chest rise as he took a breath to continue, so she jumped in. “I wonder, Dr. Queller, if you understand that your policies have real-world implications.”

  “They are not policies, dear. They are theories assigned to what you yourself have described as tribal morality.”

  “But, Doctor—”

  “If you find my conclusions cold, then I would warn you that statistics are, in fact, a cold mistress.” He seemed to enjoy the turn of phrase. It had appeared in many of his editorials and essays. “Using emotion or hysterics to interpret the datum opens up the entire field to ridicule. You might as well ask a janitor to explain how the volcanic eruption at Beerenberg will influence weather patterns in Guam.”

  He seemed very smug about the pronouncement. Laura yearned to be the one who slapped that self-satisfied grin off of his face. She said, “You say that your theories are not policies, but in fact, your economic theories have been used to affect policy.”

  “You flatter me,” he said, though in a way that indicated the flattery was warranted.

  “Your work influenced the Lanterman-Petris-Short Act in ’67.”

  Martin scowled at the comment, but then turned to the audience and said, “For the benefit of the Europeans, you should explain that the Patients’ Bill of Rights was a landmark piece of legislation in the state of California. Among other things, it helped end the practice of institutionalizing people in mental hospitals against their will.”

  “Didn’t the bill also cut funding to state mental hospitals?”

  The smirk on his lips said he knew where this was going. “The funding cuts were temporary. Then-governor Reagan reinstated the funds the following year.”

  “To previous levels?”

  “You’ve spent your life in front of a chalkboard, Maplecroft. It’s different in the real world. The turning of government policy is as the turning of a battleship. You need a lot of room to make corrections.”

  “Some would call them mistakes rather than corrections.” Laura held up her hand to stop his retort. “And another correction was that the following year, the criminal justice system saw twice as many mentally ill people entering into, and staying in, the criminal justice system.”

  “Well—”

  “The overcrowding of the California penal system has given rise to violent gangs, led to the re-incarceration of thousands and helped incubate an explosion of HIV cases.” Laura turned to the audience. “Churchill told us that ‘those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it.’ My colleague seems to be saying, ‘Repeating our history is the only way we can stay in power.’”

  “Patients!” He said the word so loudly that it echoed against the back wall.

  In the ensuing silence, Laura asked, “Sir?”

  “Doctor.” Martin smoothed down his tie. He visibly worked to control his temper. “This law that you’re talking about was rightly called a Patients’ Bill of Rights. Those who left state mental hospitals were either moved into group homes or received out-patient treatment so that they could become useful members of society.”

  “Were they capable of being useful?”

  “Of course they were. This is the problem with socialists. You believe the government’s job is to coddle man from cradle to grave. That’s the very type of faulty reasoning that has turned half of America into a welfare state.” He leaned forward, addressing the audience. “I believe—and most Americans believe—every man deserves a chance to stand on his own two feet. It’s called the American Dream, and it’s available to anyone who’s willing to work for it.”

  Laura indicated her cane. “What if they can’t stand on their own two feet?”

  “For God’s sake, woman. It’s a figure of speech.” He turned back to the audience. “The group home setting allows—”

  “What group homes? The ones run by Queller Healthcare Services?”

  That threw him off, but only for a moment. “The company is privately held in a blind trust. I have no say over any of the decisions made.”

  “Are you not aware that Queller Healthcare derives upwards of thirty percent of its annual profits from the management of group homes for the mentally ill?” She held up her hands in an open shrug. “What a wonderful coincidence that your position as an economic advisor to the state allowed you to advocate that government money should be diverted into the private, for-profit healthcare industry which has been the source of so much of your family’s wealth.”

  Martin sighed. He gave a dramatic shake of his head.

  “Your company is about to go public, is it not? You took on some very high-level investors going into the offering to make sure your numbers were up.” This was the reason behind the now of it all, why there was no turning back. “Your family’s fortune will grow considerably when the Queller model is expanded to the rest of the United States. Isn’t that right?”

  Martin sighed again, shook his head again. He glanced at the crowd as if to pull them to his side. “I feel you have hijacked this panel with your own agenda, Maplecroft. It matters not one lick what I say. You seem to have your mind made up. I’m an evil man. Capitalism is an evil system. We’d all be better off if we picked flowers and braided them into our hair.”

  Laura said the words she had lied for, stolen for, kidnapped for and finally flown nearly six thousand miles to say to Martin Queller’s face: “Robert David Juneau.”

  Again, Martin was caught off guard, but he made an adroit recovery, once more addressing the audience. “For those of you who do not read the newspapers in northern California, Robert David Juneau was a black construction worker who—”

  “Engineer,” Laura interrupted.

  He turned, seemi
ngly stunned that she had corrected him.

  “Juneau was an engineer. He studied at Cal Tech. He was not a construction worker, though he was black, if that’s the point you’re making.”

  He started to wag his finger at her. “Let’s remember that you’re the one who keeps bringing race into this.”

  She said, “Robert Juneau was injured while visiting a construction site in downtown San Francisco.” Laura turned to the crowd. She tried to keep the quiver out of her voice when she told the story. “One of the workers made a mistake. It happens. But Juneau was in the wrong place at the wrong time. A steel beam struck his head here—” She pointed to her own head, and for a moment, her fingers could feel the rough scar on Robert’s scalp. “His brain started to swell. He experienced a series of strokes during the surgery to relieve the swelling. The doctors were unsure of his recovery, but he managed to walk again, to speak, to recognize his children and his wife.”

  “Yes,” Martin snapped. “There’s no need to over-dramatize the story. There was severe damage in the frontal lobe. The man’s personality was permanently altered by the accident. Some call it Jekyll and Hyde Syndrome. Juneau was a competent family man before the injury. Afterward, he became violent.”

  “You like to draw straight lines across a crooked world, don’t you?” Laura was repulsed by his cavalier assessment. She finally let her gaze find Jane in the front row. Laura spoke to the girl because she wanted her to know the truth. “Robert Juneau was a good man before he got hurt. He fought for his country in Vietnam. He earned his degree on the GI Bill. He paid taxes. He saved his money, bought a house, paid his bills, took care of his family, reached out with both hands for the American Dream, and . . .” Laura had to pause to swallow. “And when he couldn’t stand on his own two feet anymore, when it came time for his country to take care of him—” She turned back to Martin. “Men like you said no.”

  Martin heaved a pained sigh. “That’s a tragic tale, Maplecroft, but who’s going to write a check for twenty-four-hour, supervised medical care? That’s three doctors on call, at least five nursing staff, the facilities, the infrastructure, the insurance billing, the secretaries, the janitors, the cafeteria staff, the bleach, the Mop & Glo, multiplied by however many seriously mentally ill people there are in America. Do you want to pay eighty percent of your income in taxes as they do in our host country? If your answer is yes, feel free to move. If the answer is no, then tell me, where do we get the money?”

  “We are the richest country in the—”

  “Because we don’t squander—”

  “From you!” she yelled. There was a stillness in the audience that transferred to the stage. She said, “How about we get the money from you?”

  He snorted by way of answer.

  “Robert Juneau was kicked out of six different group homes managed by Queller Healthcare. Each time he returned, they contrived a different reason to send him away.”

  “I had nothing to do with—”

  “Do you know how much money it costs to bury three children?” Laura could still see her babies on that crisp fall day. David whispering to some girl on the phone. Lila upstairs listening to the radio as she dressed for school. Peter running around the living room looking for his shoes.

  Pow.

  A single shot to the head brought down her youngest son.

  Pow-pow.

  Two bullets tore open David’s chest.

  Pow-pow.

  Lila had slipped as she was running down the stairs. Two bullets went into the top of her head. One of them exited out of her foot.

  The other was still lodged in Laura’s spine.

  She’d hit her head on the fireplace as she fell to the ground. There were six shots in the revolver. Robert had brought it back from his tunnel-rat duty in Vietnam.

  The last thing Laura had seen that day was her husband pressing the muzzle of the gun underneath his chin and pulling the trigger.

  She asked Martin Queller, “How much do you think those funerals cost? Coffins, clothes, shoes—you have to put them in shoes—Kleenex, burial space at the cemetery, headstones, hearse rental, pallbearers, and a preacher to bless a dead sixteen-year-old boy, a dead fourteen-year-old girl, and a dead five-year-old little boy?” She knew that she was the only person in this room who could answer that question because she had written the check. “What were their lives worth, Martin? Were they worth more to society than the cost of keeping a sick man hospitalized? Were those three babies nothing more than a goddamn correction?”

  Martin seemed at a loss for words.

  “Well?” she waited. Everyone was waiting.

  Martin said, “He served. The Veterans’ Hospital—”

  “Was overcrowded and underfunded,” she told him. “Robert was on a year-long waiting list at the VA. There was no state mental hospital to go to because there was no state funding. The regular hospital had barred him. He’d already attacked a nurse and hurt an orderly. They knew he was violent, but they moved him to a group home because there was nowhere else to warehouse him.” She added, “A Queller Healthcare-managed group home.”

  “You,” Martin said, because the well-respected thinker had finally figured her out. “You’re not Alex Maplecroft.”

  “No.” She reached into her purse. She found the paper bag.

  Dye packs.

  That was what was supposed to be inside the bag.

  Back in California, they had all agreed on the red dye packs, flat and slim, less than the size and thickness of a pager. Banks hid the exploding dye inside stacks of paper money so that would-be bank robbers would be indelibly stained when they tried to count their loot.

  The plan was to see Martin Queller humiliated on the world stage, stained by the proverbial blood of his victims.

  Laura had lost faith in proverbs when her children were murdered by their father.

  She took a deep breath. She located Jane again.

  The girl was crying. She shook her head, silently mouthed the words her father would never say: I’m sorry.

  Laura smiled. She hoped that Jane remembered what Laura had told her in the bar. She was magnificent. She would find her own path.

  The next part went quickly, perhaps because Laura had watched it play out so many times in her head—that is, when she wasn’t trying to conjure memories of her children; the way David’s feet had smelled when he was a baby, the soft whistle that Peter’s lips made when he colored with his crayons, the wrinkle in Lila’s brow when she studied how to frame a photograph. Even Robert sometimes haunted her thoughts. The man before the accident who had danced to Jinx Queller on the piano at the Hollywood Bowl. The patient who had wanted so desperately to get well. The violent inmate at the hospital. The trouble-maker who’d been kicked out of so many group homes. The homeless man who’d been arrested time and time again for theft, assault, public intoxication, aggressive panhandling, public nuisance, loitering, suicidal tendencies, making terroristic threats, willfully threatening to commit bodily harm.

  “In some ways you were lucky,” Laura’s oncologist had told her after the shooting. “If the bullet had entered your back three centimeters lower, the scan would’ve never found the cancer.”

  Laura reached into the paper bag.

  She had known the moment she pulled it from behind the toilet tank that she was not holding the agreed-upon dye packs, but something better.

  A six-shot revolver, just like the one her husband had used.

  First, she shot Martin Queller in the head.

  Then she pressed the muzzle of the gun beneath her chin and killed herself.

  August 21, 2018

  8

  Andy felt numb as she drove through Alabama in her mother’s secret Reliant K station wagon filled with secret money toward a destination that Laura had seemed to pull from thin air. Or maybe she hadn’t. Maybe her mother knew exactly what she was doing, because you didn’t have a covert storage facility filled with everything you needed to completely restart your life
unless you had a hell of a lot of things to hide.

  The fake IDs. The revolver with the serial number shaved off. The photos of Andy in snow that she could not ever recall seeing, holding the hand of a person she could not remember.

  The Polaroids.

  Andy had shoved them into the beach tote in the back of the Reliant. She could’ve spent the rest of her day staring at them, trying to pick apart the terrible things that had happened to the young woman in the pictures. Beaten. Punched. Bitten—that was what the gash on her leg looked like, as if an animal had taken a bite of her flesh.

  That young woman had been her mother.

  Who had done all of those awful things to Laura? Was it the they who had sent Hoodie? Was it the they who were probably tracking Andy?

  Andy wasn’t doing a great job of eluding them. She had made it as far as Birmingham before she remembered that she hadn’t unhooked the battery cables in the dead man’s truck. Laura had told her that she had to make sure the GPS wasn’t working. Did GPS work without the engine running? Coordinating with a satellite seemed like something the on-board computer would do, which meant the computer had to be awake, which meant the car had to be on.

  Right?

  The LoJack vehicle recovery system had its own battery. Andy knew this from working stolen car reports through dispatch. She also knew Ford had a Sync system, but you had to register for the real-time monitoring service, and Andy didn’t think that a guy who went to the trouble of blocking out all the lights on his vehicle would give up his anonymity just so he could use voice commands to locate the nearest Mexican restaurant.

  Right?

  What would happen if the truck was found? Andy played out the investigation in her mind, the same as she had while running away from her mother’s house.