Текст книги "Blind Rage"

Автор книги: Terri Persons

Соавторы: Terri Persons
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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Chapter 31

“WHAT’S UP?” ASKED creed.

“Jeez,” she said, slapping her hand over her heart. He hadn’t been there when she’d first walked into the office on Monday morning, and his sudden presence at his desk startled her. “Can’t you give me some warning before you pop in?”

“What kind of warning?”

“I don’t know. Beep like one of those vans backing up or something.”

“Beep, beep, beep.”

“Oh, shut up,” she said, and turned on her computer.

“I have to ask. Did Alice have a crappy time in Naked Land last week? Was it helpful at all?”

“Not really. I’d rather not talk about it.”

“What about our ASAC? Did he enjoy himself?”

“I don’t think so,” she said, starting to peck at her keyboard. “VonHader, VonHader, VonHader.”

“That only works if you say it into a bathroom mirror at midnight,” Creed volunteered.

“What?”

“You summon someone by saying his name three times into a mirror.”

“You say ‘Bloody Mary’ three times, and she comes out and kills you. I think that’s how it works. I’m not a hundred percent certain. I’ve never been to a pajama party.”

“No friends?” he asked.

“I had to get up early and help with the cows.” She stopped typing for a moment and put her hand on her lower back.

“How are you feeling after that bad date and impromptu dip in the water?”

Blinking, she cranked her chair around to stare at Creed.

He stared back at her from across the room. “What’s wrong?”

“I didn’t tell you about going out to dinner with Matt or getting knocked into the river.”

“Nor did you inform me about the close call you had in the basement with those reprobates.” He folded his arms in front of him. “You’ve been holding back on your partner, and I don’t appreciate it.”

“How do you know about all that?”

“Phone conversation between you and Garcia.”

She hadn’t picked up the phone yet that morning. “Ruben—”

“I need to be briefed on these things and not via eavesdropping.” He leaned back in his chair. “Tell me about this VonHader.”

“I visited Dr. VonHader at home yesterday.”

“The guy who was the shrink for a couple of these dead girls,” Creed said. “Your bad date’s brother.”

“Yeah. Right.” She paused, confused about what she’d actually told him versus what he was gleaning some other way. “I—I saw a blank space up on the wall where a picture must have hung. When I asked about it, the doctor flipped out.”

“You think the missing picture has something to do with the case?”

“At the very least, it has something to do with how the brothers turned out, all screwed up and such. That’s the only lesson I took away from my visit to porn central: how boys are raised determines their sexual habits.”

“‘Of all the animals, the boy is the most unmanageable.’”

“Plato,” she said numbly, remembering the quote.

“Very good.”

“What did you think of the surveillance at the professor’s house?” she asked evenly.

“Thorsson did his usual to screw things up. Too bad about that Cameron girl. Are you sure her death is connected to these drownings? It seems a separate incident entirely.”

Working hard to keep her voice calm, she said, “You’ve been following me around.”

“I have not,” he said.

“You’ve been following me around, and I want it to stop.”

“I’m looking out for my partner. Doing my job.”

She twined her arms around herself. “Have you been going home with me? Where have you been? What have you seen?”

He stood up and went around to the front of his desk. “I apologize if you feel violated.”

“Don’t do it anymore. Please.”

His eyes went to her computer. “Need some help?”

“No,” she snapped. Then in a softer tone: “No, thank you.”

“Would you work more efficiently if I left for the day?”

She knew how much he enjoyed getting back into the job, but he was rattling the hell out of her. “Would you mind?” she asked.

“I have other things I can do,” he said.

“Thank you.” She returned to her typing. A minute later she glanced toward his desk, and he was gone. She exhaled with relief and got back to her research.

Abandoning her usual government databases, Bernadette started surfing the Internet. A Google search using the words Luke VonHader turned up screen after screen listing awards, research projects, and articles in professional journals. They all involved the doctor’s stellar career, and she’d read enough about that. She wanted to get to his family life. She tried using the brothers’ names together, and one article came up: a brief story that had run in a neighborhood newspaper about a donation they’d made to a health care facility, Sunny Park Nursing Home.

She remembered Matthew’s comment during the morose, drunken dinner conversation about dead parents.

At least they never had to be in a nursing home.

So why did they dump so much money there? The article didn’t say. She tried plugging in just the last name—VonHader—and the name of the nursing home. In addition to the donation story, one other Web offering came up. It was the page from an electronic memory book maintained by St. Paul’s daily newspaper, the Pioneer Press. The entries—mostly from nursing home workers expressing their regret for the family’s loss—were about someone named Ruth.

Ruth. That was the name painted on Matthew’s boat.

Bernadette read the entries carefully.

I’m so sorry for your loss. I was Ruth’s night aide for ten years. Even though she couldn’t thank anyone herself, I know she appreciated everything we tried to do to make her time at Sunny Park enjoyable. Be comforted knowing she is now resting peacefully with the angels.

—Respectfully, Cecelia O.

Ruth was a beautiful soul who suffered silently for so many years. She has surely earned her place in heaven. I will include her and all of you in my prayers.

—From the Rev. Stephen Whitrockner, nursing home chaplain

I am truly sorry for your loss. Ruth must have been a lovely girl when she was a teenager. You could still see that beauty in her face, especially in her pretty eyes. I will keep her family in my thoughts as you struggle to get through what must be a difficult time. All my sympathies.

—Tamara, the first-floor medication nurse

“Depressing as hell,” Bernadette muttered. She was grateful to arrive at the final entry, a brief one that gave her pause:

Still waters.

—Love, C.A.

Who was C.A., and was that water reference a coincidence? She filed the question away.

The deceased had to be an elderly relative of the VonHader boys. An aunt or a grandmother. None of the entries indicated when Ruth had died.

A return to government databases didn’t come up with a death record for a Ruth VonHader, but that didn’t surprise her. There were hiccups in the system. How many dead people were still receiving Social Security checks? She couldn’t find anything else in those databases about this Ruth. Still, there had to be a paid obituary notice containing this matriarch’s story. She went to the Pioneer Press Web site and dove into its electronic archives.

There it was, a life summarized in two lines:

VonHader, Ruth A. Died at Sunny Park Nursing Home, St. Paul.

Private services and interment.

No age, survivors, day of death, or cause was listed. From the date of the archived obituary, however, she could surmise the month of death—and it made Bernadette’s heart race. The woman had died that April, the same month bodies started turning up in the Mississippi River.

To find out more about Ruth VonHader’s life, Bernadette would start with her place of death. She couldn’t find a Web site for Sunny Park Nursing Home, so she turned to the phone book. The facility was in St. Paul just off Lexington Parkway, a major road that crossed Summit Avenue—the street where the doctor lived.

She picked up the phone and told Garcia what she’d uncovered and said that she was going to visit the place where the woman had died.

“I guess you don’t need someone covering your back at a nursing home,” he said. “How is your back?”

“Good,” she said, lying.

“I’ve got some news on the news front,” he said. “Cops are holding a press conference in time for the six o’clock broadcasts. They’re going to issue a description. They aren’t releasing the name of Klein’s neighbor, but they’re going to say someone saw her with a fellow the night she was murdered.”

“Well, they couldn’t sit on it forever. We’ll see what this does.”

“Call me,” he said, and hung up.

IMPATIENTLY NAVIGATING around other vehicles, Bernadette plowed her Ranger down Wabasha Street through the heart of downtown. It was the start of the lunchtime rush hour, and the streets were congested with cars and trucks and delivery vans. As she sat in traffic, she thought about the woman who’d been put to rest some six months earlier. What was it about her life and death that could have driven someone to commit murder?

Chapter 32

ON THE OUTSIDE, there was little sunny or Parklike about Sunny Park Nursing Home. It was a flat-roofed, one-story brick building pocked with foggy windows. Overgrown juniper bushes and massive pine trees had taken over the front lawn, leaving little room for grass. Expecting the pattern of neglect to continue, Bernadette braced herself for the odor of urine and feces as she entered.

Once inside, she was surprised to smell nothing more ominous than roast beef and mashed potatoes. Nevertheless, she felt squeamish about touching anything in the place and pulled her gloves tighter over her fingers. She saw no one stationed at the reception desk. A guest book was open and a basket of visitor badges sat next to it, but she didn’t bother with either.

Past the desk, the hallway divided into a T. Glancing to her left, she saw a short corridor that led to a door labeled “Memory Care Unit.” That would be locked tight. She hung a right and went down a hall that spilled out into an airy, open room. The carpeted floor was dotted with plush couches and chairs, and the walls were covered with striped paper in calming shades of cream and taupe. At one end of the long space was a massive lighted aquarium teeming with tropical fish, and at the other end was a large-screen television set tuned to The Andy Griffith Show. The room had everything but seniors.

“May I help you?”

“Where did everyone go?” asked Bernadette, turning to address the woman at her elbow.

“To the dining room for lunch,” said the woman, a husky brunette stuffed into tight slacks and a tight sweater. Her plastic name tag identified her as Hannah.

Bernadette nodded. “Smells good.”

“Do you need help finding someone?”

“I’m trying to nail down a place for my mom,” said Bernadette, unbuttoning her trench coat. “I’ve been told good things about Sunny Park.”

“That’s nice to hear.” She waved a hand around the dayroom. “This is all new, courtesy of a generous donor.”

“I’d like to see the rest of the home,” Bernadette said.

Hannah took in Bernadette’s figure and apparently found a small woman in a suit no threat to the elderly. “Feel free to look around. I can’t give you a formal tour right now; mealtimes are very busy. Plus I work in the Memory Care Unit. Does your mom have Alzheimer’s?”

“No.”

“Then I’m not the one to give you a tour anyway.” She pointed down a hallway that skirted past the large dayroom. “Ask for Sheila at the nurses’ station. Go past the dining room, head down the hall, and go to the very end.”

“Sheila,” Bernadette repeated. “Thanks.”

Bernadette followed her nose down to the dining room. The linoleum floor was crowded with seniors, some of them piloting their own wheelchairs and walkers while others were getting wheeled or walked by aides. She wished she could question a few of the diners about Ruth VonHader, but she didn’t want to be overheard by a staff member. They might tell the VonHaders she’d been snooping.

Past the dining room was a wall covered by brass rectangles the size of license plates, the entire collection headed by a sign: “Our Generous Donors.” It was a plaque near the top containing a biblical quotation that drew her attention:

THE VONHADER FAMILY,

IN LOVING MEMORY OF RUTH.

“WHITHER THOU GOEST, I WILL GO;

AND WHERE THOU LODGEST, I WILL LODGE.”

As Bernadette stood staring at the wall, a phlegmatic cough echoed down the hallway. An elderly man in a wheelchair was trying to get by her. “Excuse me,” she said, moving to one side. “I’m right in the way, aren’t I?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, and hacked again.

No one else was in the corridor. Bernadette trotted next to him. “Sir?”

In a hurry to get to his meal, he kept wheeling toward the dining hall while giving Bernadette a sideways glance. “What is it?” he grumbled.

She had to walk briskly to keep up. “Did you know Ruth VonHader?”

“Room 153,” he said.

“But did you know her?”

“Room 153,” he repeated. “She’s got a big mouth. Been here the longest of anybody. Knows everybody.”

Bernadette watched as he continued down the hall. She turned around and jogged toward the end of the corridor. Patient rooms lined both sides. All of the doors were open, and every room appeared empty. Finally she hit a room containing a patient. Eating alone, she was sitting in a wheelchair with a hospital tray in front of her. According to the plaques to the right of the door, the woman was either Inez or Gladys.

Bernadette checked the number posted over the names. Room 153. She tapped twice on the open door. “Hello.”

The woman looked up, fork in her hand, and motioned Bernadette to come inside. “Are you lost, chère?”

“A little.” Bernadette walked into the room.

The slight woman was dressed in a velour sweatsuit and sneakers. The skin on her face was olive-colored and leathery. The halo of white hair surrounding her head was as fine and fragile as a dead dandelion. She peered at Bernadette through thick bifocals, but her eyes looked clear and lively. “I had a dog like you. Blue left and brown right.”

“Catahoula leopard dog?”

“How’d you guess?”

“I spent some time in Louisiana. The breed is big down there.”

“My people are from the parish of East Baton Rouge,” the elderly woman said proudly. “I still got folks down there.”

“I thought I detected a little accent. Parlez-vous Creole?”

The elderly woman beamed. “Oui, oui. Je parle Creole. Et vous?”

“Je connais un peu de Creole,” replied Bernadette, holding up her thumb and index finger together to show a small amount. “Did I say that right?”

“Right enough for me, chère.” The woman pointed at her bed with the fork. “Sit.”

“Thank you.” Hoping she wasn’t about to sit down on dried urine, Bernadette gingerly plopped down on the edge of the old woman’s mattress.

With a blue-veined hand, the woman extended a dinner roll. “Eat.”

“I already ate,” said Bernadette. “But thanks anyway. Is it Gladys?”

“Inez. Gladys passed away last week. Died in her sleep.” She forked some mashed potatoes into her mouth.

“I’m sorry.”

“What are you gonna do?” Inez sawed her roast beef with a butter knife.

Bernadette glanced around the room. The half belonging to Inez was filled with family photos, and her bed was covered in a colorful quilt. Stuffed toys were lined up along the windowsill. “You like teddy bears.”

“My grandnephews keep giving them to me, and I don’t want to hurt their feelings.” She pointed the butter knife at the collection. “I don’t know what got them thinking Auntie Inez likes them mangy things.”

Perfect segue, thought Bernadette. “A friend of a friend had an auntie here.”

“I know everybody.” She popped a sliver of meat into her mouth and chewed. “Been here forever and a day.”

“She died back in April.”

“We had four of them pass away in April,” Inez said, pushing some peas around the plate. “Bad month.”

“Ruth was her name.”

Inez took a sip of milk and nodded. “Brain damage. Had to be fed through a tube in her tummy.”

“She couldn’t eat?”

“Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sit up. Couldn’t toilet herself. She could see, but she couldn’t talk. Couldn’t move nothin’ but her pointer finger, and that was on a good day. Skinny as a toothpick, but she hung on for years and years. She was my roommate for a bit. I been here so damn long, I’ve had everyone in the place as a roommate at one time or another.”

“Did she have visitors?” Bernadette asked.

“Mark.” The elderly woman took a sip of water. “No, wait. That isn’t right. Matthew. Matthew and Luke. That’s it. One of them was a doctor. The other one, I don’t know what he did for a living. He seemed to have plenty of time on his hands. They were real good to Ruthie, especially the older one. He read to her. Massaged her feet. Brought her enough flowers every week to fill a funeral parlor.”

“That’s nice,” Bernadette said stiffly.

“They’d chat it up with the other residents, too. Got real chummy with the aides and kept in touch with them after she passed. I think they even helped a couple of them find better jobs.”

Bernadette didn’t want to hear any more about the brothers’ good deeds. “How did Ruth become brain damaged in the first place?”

“That was a touchy subject with the VonHader clan. The official explanation was ‘household accident.’”

“What kind of household accident causes brain damage?”

“Exactly.”

“What do you think happened?”

The elderly woman shrugged her narrow shoulders and resumed sawing into her meat. “Who knows? Families got secrets.”

“Did Ruth ever communicate with you in some way? Try to tell you what happened to her?”

“Like I said, poor thing couldn’t talk.”

“But did she … I don’t know—signal somehow? Did she indicate she was afraid of Matthew and Luke?”

“No, no. She loved those boys. I could tell. She looked forward to their visits. Her eyes would light up like sparklers.” Inez paused with a sliver of meat halfway to her mouth. “There was this one time, though.”

“What?”

“The older one, the doctor, this one time he treated the both of us to hairdos in the salon here. Three chairs. Looks like a real salon, only it’s open one day a week.” She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “So we’re in there, me and Ruthie, and we’re getting our hair washed in one of those sinks. You know, the ones with the curve in them so you can rest your neck more comfortable. They’re spraying our heads with warm water and something must have gone haywire with the water temp or something. Maybe she just didn’t want someone touching her hair.”

“Ruthie freaked out?”

“I looked over at her, and that one finger was twitching like crazy.”

Bernadette got up from the mattress. A horrific conclusion was forming in her head: someone had put Auntie Ruth in the nursing home via a near drowning. If it wasn’t the brothers, it had to be another relative.

Inez scooped up a spoonful of pudding and held it out to her visitor. “Tapioca. They do a real nice job with it. You should give it a try.”

“No, thanks,” mumbled Bernadette, sitting back down.

“Skinny thing. You should eat more dessert.” Inez shoveled the pudding into her mouth.

“What about other visitors? Did Ruthie have any other regulars?”

“Not many. And when they did, well … I don’t think Ruthie liked her daddy all that much. Her eyes got all buggy when he walked through the door.”

Bernadette blinked. “Did you say her daddy came by? How old was her father?”

“He’s dead now. Died shortly after his wife. He had a stroke. Took a bad fall. Lucky bastard. Not like Ruthie.” The old woman scraped one last spoonful of pudding from the bottom of her dish. “Pneumonia got her. I suppose there are worse ways to check out.”

“They call it the old people’s friend,” said Bernadette.

“Not that she was that old.”

Bernadette frowned. “How old was she?”

“Forty or so by the time she died.” Inez licked the spoon clean. “But she was a girl when she got here. I still think of her as a girl.”

“What?” Bernadette got up off the bed.

“Ruthie was but a teenager when she came here.” Inez dropped her spoon on the tray and stared at her visitor’s ashen face. “Are you all right, chère? You look like you just seen a ghost.”

RUTH. THAT’S whose portrait was missing in the First Communion gallery. Ruth was the pretty blond girl in Bernadette’s dream.

While she drove, Bernadette came up with a sickening theory: Ruth VonHader became brain damaged when her father tried to drown her. Her brothers knew about it, or even watched helplessly while it happened. Upon their sister’s death, one of them started repeating the heinous act again and again—with coeds filling in for Ruth.

Whither thou goest, I will go …

______

SHE WAS WALKING into the cellar when her desk phone rang. It was Wakefielder, and what he had to tell her made her sink into her chair.

“Agent Saint Clare, I wanted you to know before I came under suspicion. One of my students is missing.”

Was this for real, or was it some sort of ploy to make himself look good? She grabbed a pen. “Since when?”

“Nathaniel advised against calling you, but if she’s in trouble …”

“What’s her name, and how long has she been missing?”

“I mean … I don’t know what happened to Zoe. You have to believe me. She was fine when I dropped her off at—”

“Professor. The girl’s name. Please.”

“Regina Ordstruman. She’s been gone since, well, at least since class on Friday. We don’t have class on Thursday.”

“Did you try her at home?”

He didn’t answer.

“Professor, I don’t care about your extracurriculars.”

“I tried her at home and got no response.”

“Her parents?”

“They’re not close. Haven’t been for some time.” He sounded genuinely concerned.

“Is it possible she’s just taking a long weekend?”

“We had a big test today, and she wouldn’t have missed it unless …” His voice trailed off.

“Professor, was she being treated for psychological problems? Did she have a shrink?”

“If by that you mean a psychiatrist, no. I tried to get her to go in, but she refused. I did give her some tools, in case she ever needed them in an emergency. I give all my students tools. My courses tend to draw a fair number of …”

“Train wrecks,” Bernadette finished.

He paused. “That’s putting it crudely, but yes.”

“What sorts of tools are we talking about? Do you recommend specific doctors or clinics?”

“Nothing like that. I give them phone numbers. There’s a suicide hotline. I’ve even got stickers I distribute.”

He has suicidal girls signing up for his classes, and he gives them stickers. She decided to cut to the chase. “Do you know Dr. Luke VonHader?”

“That name sounds familiar.”

“He was Zoe’s psychiatrist. He was also Kyra Klein’s doctor.”

“What are you saying? Do you think one of their health care providers is involved?”

“Professor, three girls connected to you have died. Two of them went to the same doctor. Help me. There is some link between you, this doctor, and their deaths.”

She heard a voice in the background. It was the pit bull butting in on the call. “Agent Saint Clare, we’re getting into dangerous territory here,” said Wakefielder. “I’m going to have to hang up. If you need anything else, please call Nathaniel Selwyn.”

“Wait. I need more on Regina. A description. Her address. The names of her—”

“I’ve given you all I can,” he said, and hung up.

“Dammit!” She snapped her pencil. If Regina Ordstruman was real and had been missing since Thursday, she could be the woman Bernadette had witnessed having intercourse with the killer.

She looked at the office clock. The first hours of a missing persons case were vital, and this girl had been gone for days. Bernadette needed a shortcut, and her sight would have to provide it. She only hoped it would be a short cut to a live girl and not another corpse.

She called Garcia and told him to meet her at her loft.