“You do understand that students on a college campus have a privacy right…” Helen stopped.
Wilson was watching her intently, waiting for her to finish. “It doesn’t matter, does it?”
You’re invulnerable. Helen remembered Wilson’s description of the invulnerable Drummond family. I come from a family like that. She heard Drummond’s voice: You can’t touch Wilson.
Wilson shrugged. “Do you want to know what we found?”
Helen sighed. “Yes.”
“Are you going to let me in?” Wilson took a step closer.
“We can talk out here.”
“You just use women?” Wilson’s voice was flirtatious, but a trace of melancholy touched her eyes. “You can’t even sit down with me? You won’t even let me in your house?”
Wilson was standing so close; Helen could smell her cologne, see the fine sheen of perspiration at the hollow of her throat. She could not let anyone see them like this.
“Okay. Come in.”
In the kitchen, Helen took a sip of her drink. She offered the bottle to Wilson, who shook her head. Helen sat. Wilson leaned against the counter
“She hadn’t packed, Helen,” Wilson said without precursor. “It was as if she had just stepped out to use the bathroom. Her computer was on. There was half an apple on her desk. There were empty suitcases under her bed. Maybe she was getting ready to go somewhere, but she didn’t get there. She never left.”
Help me, Helen. Help me.
“I know.” Helen rotated the glass in her hands. She had to decide: throw Wilson out with a lecture on college procedure and call Hornsby or tell Wilson everything. Carrie. Sully. The slashed tires. The devotees.
“I know. I know. I know.” There was really no question. Not anymore. She had to tell Wilson. “I was at her apartment today, the one she supposedly rented to go to UMass. The neighbor said she’d never seen anyone go in or come out. Never heard the toilet. There was no one there.”
“Do you see now?” Wilson asked. “The police aren’t looking. Someone doesn’t want us to know what happened.”
“I don’t know what this means, but…” Helen told Wilson about Sully and Crystal Evans. She described her meeting with Hornsby, and told her about the devotees and Carrie. Wilson listened, rapt. Reluctantly, Helen added, “After you left the Cozzzy Inn… my tires were slashed. The hotel clerk said he saw someone near the car. A man driving a yellow Jeep.”
“I’ve seen one on campus. We can find it, find out who owns it,” Wilson said.
Help me, Helen. She could not stop the voices anymore. You can’t touch Wilson. They don’t let boys like Ricky Drummond go down for anything. I know. I come from a family like that. Help me, Helen! Help me.
“Ricky Drummond drives a yellow Jeep,” Helen said.
Wilson put her face in her hands. “I have to see the legs.”
****
Helen had planned on driving them to the medical examiner’s office in Holyoke. But when they arrived at the staff lot, Wilson put her hand on Helen’s arm.
“You must be tired. I’ll drive,” Wilson said.
Wilson was right; she was exhausted. Her head pounded.
Wilson removed an electric key from her pocket and clicked in the direction of the parking lot. Helen looked for taillights. Nothing.
“Behind the sedan,” Wilson said.
Her car was a platinum-colored BMW convertible. Helen recognized the model because she had entertained the idea of getting one before she realized that a year’s salary would not begin to cover the cost.
“How does a theater professor afford a BMW M6?” Helen asked as she lowered herself into the sleek interior. It was a lovely car.
Wilson shifted into second gear, and the car purred out of the parking lot.
“Family money.” Wilson kept her eyes on the road, a slight smile turning up the corner of her lips.
“That’s a lot of money.”
“I have a lot of family.”
Helen stared out the window as they pulled onto the highway that led out of Pittock. The sun was setting in long, orange fingers. The scene was beautiful, but the light hurt her eyes. Her headache was threatening to become a migraine. She pressed her fingertips against her forehead. Wilson glanced over.
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
“You want an oxycodone? There’s some in my bag in the back.” Wilson gestured backward with a nod. “You won’t feel a thing.”
“No. I’m fine.”
“You know, you don’t always have to be in control.” Wilson reached for the satchel with one hand, while keeping her eyes on the road ahead. She pulled out a prescription vial and tossed it to Helen.
“Here.”
Adair Merrill Wilson, Helen read on the bottle. This is the end.
The drug took affect almost immediately. The pain in her head became irrelevant and then disappeared altogether. Helen felt her limbs relax. Her body sank into the soft leather. She was vaguely aware of Wilson running her fingertips back and forth across her thigh. She felt her body flush at the touch, and then she was asleep.
Chapter Thirty-six
When Helen woke, it was night and they were in front of a brick building on the side of a divided highway.
“The medical examiner’s office,” Wilson said.
The building was four stories high. It looked squat because its length was so much greater than its height. The bricks reminded Helen of the asylum, without its antiquated grace. Inside, florescent lights reflected off linoleum floors. On the walls, posters invited them to take a bite out of crime and check for radon. Helen thought that if she had ever been in a building where she feared radon poisoning, it was here.
It took her almost an hour to convince the receptionist to let her speak to the medical examiner on duty. The man who finally appeared was in his early fifties, with a boyish face and silver hair. His lab coat fitted him well, and he looked pleased to see them, shaking first Helen’s hand then Wilson’s.
“I went to Pittock for two years. Best two years of my education. What can I do for you ladies?”
Helen explained the situation.
“Ah! You would like to help the police investigation.”
Helen nodded.
“I’m sorry. I can’t accommodate you, Ms. President. I’m flattered to have the president of Pittock here. If you would like a tour of our office, I could arrange that for you, during working hours, but I can’t let you see the legs.”
“Why not?” Helen asked.
“Completely nonstandard procedure.” The medical examiner smiled jovially. He had the confidence of a man in his element. This was his world. Whatever Helen did on the outside, he ruled this fiefdom. “We don’t let random civilians in to see body parts. Ever. You know that scene in the movies where the family goes into a viewing room and they wheel out the body? We don’t even do that. No one looks at those bodies besides us. If anything, we’d take a Polaroid. ”
“Can we see the Polaroid?” Wilson asked. “I have to see her.”
The medical examiner shook his head.
“All that is police business. I’m sure the investigator assigned to the case has the information he needs.”
“But he’s not investigating!” Wilson said.
“I wish I could take you back. Everyone should see a few dead bodies. All young people…” He gave Wilson a pointed look. “…should visit the morgue a few times. It’s better than joining the Boy Scouts. Very edifying, but we don’t provide that service here.”
He steered them toward the door, not quite touching their backs with the tips of his fingers.
“Thank you for coming, ladies. Good luck with your quest.”
Outside, Helen and Wilson stood in the halogen glare of the receiving bay. As they pondered what to do next, an ambulance pulled up, its sirens muted, its lights dark. There was a large crack in the back window. A piece of silver duct tape traced the break.
Helen thought of the poem she had
chosen for Eliza’s memorial service. W. H. Auden, “As I Walked Out One Evening,” with its dark evocation of horror lurking behind the artifacts of everyday life. In the cupboard. In a cracked teacup.
Eliza would have liked the 23rd Psalm. Eliza was always going on about “sweet Jesus” and angels, although she never set foot in a church. It was the last gift Helen could have given her, a ceremony that affirmed Eliza’s belief that Jesus loved her and waited for her. Instead, Helen had given the priest a copy of the poem. “Are you sure?” he had asked.
The back of the ambulance opened, and two EMTs rolled out an empty stretcher. The wheels rattled on the rough pavement. The medics walked with their heads down. For a moment, Helen felt the urge to pull Wilson to her and kiss her violently on the lips. The parking lot was so stark, the building so institutional. Behind the swinging double doors worked men and women who had become inured to death. In the examiner’s trays, lay men and women reduced to less than human. And then there was Wilson, so young and beautiful, her skin flawless, her muscles visible in the artificial light. She was so alive; Helen wanted to crawl inside her skin.
****
The diner that Wilson drove them to was as bleak as the medical examiner’s office, and Wilson looked just as stunning. She leaned back in her seat, one arm draped over the back of the ripped vinyl booth. Behind her head, a faded Precious Moments print looked even more mawkish against her aggressive beauty.
The waitress arrived with coffee and menus. Helen waved away the menu, but Wilson ordered a plate of pancakes.
“With two forks,” Wilson said. “And extra syrup and butter, plus whipped cream if you have it.”
The waitress, a haggard woman with straw hair and a dry cold sore on her lip, shot Wilson a contemptuous look. Helen understood. Wilson looked like a model in an avant garde photo shoot, posed in this diner because its unremitting ugliness showcased her beauty. She probably ate whipped cream every day and stayed as lean and muscular as a race horse.
Helen felt Wilson’s eyes on her.
“What now?” Helen said to break the silence.
Wilson sucked her lower lip. “If the medical examiner won’t talk to us, maybe he will talk to someone else.”
“I don’t trust Hornsby.”
“What about Darrell or Tyron?”
In Helen’s mind, the two young officers had become Tweedledee and Tweedledumb. She furrowed her brow. “Do you trust them?”
“Think about it. They’re young.” It sounded funny coming from Wilson. “They don’t know all the rules yet, and you’re as much an authority figure in Pittock as Hornsby. The college and the town are like this.” Wilson held up her crossed fingers. “Ask a personal favor. Can it hurt?”
Helen thought about her slashed tires. Everything could hurt and would eventually, she was certain. Wilson pulled out her phone and touched the screen.
“Ready?” She tapped out the number and held the phone to her ear. “Is Officer Thompson there? Just a friend.” A second later she said, “Tyron. It’s Addie from Pittock. I have a friend who needs a favor.”
Wilson passed the phone to Helen. It was still warm from her touch.
“Is there a way you could check on the Pittock legs case for me?” she asked. “I need to know about a picture, a Polaroid you got from the medical examiner’s office.”
“Of course, I can look into that for you.” He sounded very grave. “It’s about time someone took this seriously.”
“What do you mean?”
Thompson hesitated. “I mean, Chief Hornsby has a lot on his mind, what with his wife being sick.”
Thompson was not giving Helen the full story.
“Can we keep this between you and me?” she asked.
“And Darrell?”
“Sure.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’d rather do that. I’ll look, and call you right back.”
Helen ended the call and placed Wilson’s phone on the table between them. The screen saver showed a picture of students in the colorful garb of a theater production.
“What play was that?” Helen asked.
“Brigadoon.”
“Whose choice?”
“Mine. Why?”
Helen laughed. “I would have pinned you for Rent.”
The waitress returned with the pancakes, and Wilson pushed them toward Helen.
“Eat something.”
Helen had just taken a bite when the phone rang.
“Strange thing,” Thompson said. “There’s no photo in that file. There’s almost nothing in that file. I mean there’s a lot of paper, but half the medical examiner’s report is missing. The other half has been redacted like an FBI cover up. Most of the photos we took at the scene are missing. Someone gutted that file.”
Helen relayed to Wilson what Thompson had just said. Wilson gestured for the phone.
“Tyron,” she said. “You’ve got to help us. We’ve got to see that medical examiner’s report. Can you or Darrell get out to Holyoke to the medical examiner’s office and get another copy without Hornsby catching on?”
****
Two hours later, Thompson joined them at the diner, a manila envelope tucked under one arm.
“Coffee, officer?” The waitress asked. “I sure feel safer with you here. I hate working the midnight shift, but I get off in an hour.”
She was flirting. Thompson looked up, as though he had never wanted coffee in his life.
“Just leave a pot on the table,” Wilson commanded.
The waitress glared. Helen could read her mind. It was bad enough Wilson had taken up a table for hours, looking gorgeous and drinking coffee at a superhuman rate. Now, for the first time that evening, maybe that year, a handsome man walked into the diner and Wilson got him all to herself. If only she knew.
“Are you ready?” Thompson opened the flap of the envelope.
Helen nodded.
Thompson extracted a picture and laid it on the table before them, shielding it from the view of the other diners with his arm. Between them lay a high quality scan of a medical examiner’s picture printed on glossy paper. Two legs, viewed from four different angles. Each angle, showing a messy tangle of scars as though someone had tried to carve the leg with everything from a razor to a fork.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Helen caught a few hours of sleep when they got back to Pittock and dreamed about Eliza. Eliza was locked in a bathroom at their parents’ house. Helen threw her shoulder against the hollow core door and pushed until it gave way with a crack. Inside, the bathroom was filthy, the drain submerged beneath brownish water that spilled onto the floor. Eliza stood in the shower, naked from the waist up, her breasts and belly bloated from her medications. Her wet sweatpants clung to her enormous thighs. She held her hands away from her body as though afraid to touch it.
“Help me, Helen.”
Suddenly their parents stood in the doorway, her mother in a faded, blue jumper, her father in his painting clothes. Even as she felt the glow of recognition, Helen knew they weren’t her parents. They were the Browns.
“Where is our daughter?”
“I’m here,” Helen said.
Eliza tried to speak, but her words sounded muffled. Helen turned. Eliza’s mouth was full of hair, a wad of gray hair. It was getting bigger and bigger, filling Eliza’s mouth
“Where is our daughter?” the Browns asked.
Eliza was choking. Helen tried to pull out the hair, but it kept growing. Then the hair turned to blood, and Helen was back in Eliza’s kitchen.
****
Helen was still rattled the following morning, when she entered the kitchenette in Meyerbridge Hall to make another pot of coffee. The coffee can was empty.
“Patrick?” she called down the corridor. “Is there any more coffee?”
“In the closet. Do I have to do everything around here?” he answered genially.
Helen opened the workroom closet and scanned the shelves. Office supplies. Copy paper. Plastic cutlery. Lost an
d found umbrellas. Coffee. She reached for the coffee. Then something caught her attention. On a hook in the small closet hung an unfamiliar garment. A workman’s jersey or a painter’s smock. She pulled it toward her then released it as though the fabric was hot. The arms on the shirt draped well below the hem. It was stained and stiff. Brown streaks crossed the back like whip marks. The belt on the garment jingled. Only it wasn’t a belt. She looked again. There were buckles on the sleeves. Long arms. Buckles. All the times Helen had taken Eliza to the hospital for observation, Helen had never seen a straitjacket, but its iconic shape was unmistakable.
“Patrick!” She heard the fear in her voice, shrill and trembling. “Patrick, come here.”
“If you can’t make coffee, you can’t run this school,” Patrick said as he trundled down the hall. “I swear…” He stopped when he saw Helen. “What happened?”
“What the hell is this doing in here?” She pointed.
Patrick reached for the straitjacket.
“Don’t touch it,” Helen said, stepping back.
Patrick ignored her, taking out the garment and stretching it between his hands. The smell of mildew drifted up from the sleeves. Mildew and something Helen could not place. Something that reminded her of Eliza.
“I’m calling the police,” she blurted. Even as she spoke, she realized she couldn’t. Who would she talk to? Hornsby?
“Don’t worry. This has probably been here for years,” Patrick said.
“Why would anyone leave something like this?”
He shrugged. “Maybe it’s a prop, a retirement gag gift. No one uses this closet.”
“I looked in here last week.”
“Maybe you didn’t see it.”
“Someone left it for me,” she said. Someone knew about Eliza. The message could not be clearer: you’re just like her.
“You’ve been here long enough to see,” Patrick said. “Every cupboard in this place is full of creepy antiques someone thought were a valuable Pittock tradition.”
The Admirer Page 18
