The Admirer Read online

  Again, Wilson knelt next to Helen’s chair, so close that Helen could smell her cologne, much sweeter and richer than Charles’s cheap, manly aftershave. Still, Helen leaned away.

  “He sounds like an asshole,” she said wearily.

  “The police are just going to overlook the evidence because it’s Ricky.”

  “He sounds like an asshole,” Helen repeated. “But that doesn’t make him a murderer. Nor does that mean he forged the registrar’s records to make it look like Carrie transferred.”

  Helen wanted to tell Wilson that every time there was an incident on campus, faculty suspected the administration. If an asteroid hit the library, at least one professor would allege wrongdoing on the part of the administration. If Carrie Brown dated a hundred men, including a dozen serial killers and a drug lord, the faculty would still suspect the provost’s rugby–playing son. It was not even Wilson’s fault; it was a law of nature.

  “Why are you so sure it’s her, Dr. Wilson?”

  “Did they tell you about the marks on the legs?”

  “They didn’t find any marks.”

  “Because they didn’t want to. That’s why I had to find the legs. That’s why I called the press first. That’s why we need you. You’re not a part of this place yet. People disappear here. I saw the ties and the place where the bones were crushed like meat. I could see the marrow, and I don’t understand.”

  Helen remembered the president of Vandusen, a gray haired lady with the body of a teddy bear. She hugged faculty at retirements and promotions and sometimes in the hallway just because she had not seen so–and–so from biology for weeks. If Helen had ever hugged a colleague—let alone a subordinate—she might have done it again at that moment. Despite the trouble she’d caused, Wilson looked so frightened, Helen felt an urge to hold her and warn her. Stop. I have gone down that path.

  From one of the pockets in her cargo pants, Wilson withdrew a newspaper clipping marked with a post–it note. “See the girl in the front?”

  It was a grainy photograph taken from the student newspaper. “Angels in America cast takes a bow,” the caption read. The woman at the front of the stage looked radiant.

  “That’s Carrie Brown. She’s a senior, an older student. Twenty–four or twenty–five. Those were her legs I saw in the woods.” Wilson’s voice trembled. “I knew the scars I saw. There was something wrong with Carrie Brown.”

  Wilson cupped the clipping in her hand like a relic. “Her legs were all cut up, scars from childhood and fresh cuts. I referred her to Student Health Services, but she wouldn’t go. She was tough. She didn’t trust anyone to help her or understand. She told me she went, but she didn’t.

  “I’ve seen girls who cut themselves. Overachievers. Victims of sexual abuse. It’s ritualistic. It’s clean. They want to show you. But Carrie hid it. When I did find out, it was because she fainted on stage. She’d carved a chunk out of her thigh.” Wilson held up her clenched fist. “She had taken out this much flesh. It was like she was trying to get to the bone.”

  “And you told the police?”

  “It doesn’t matter. They will lie unless you do something. They won’t investigate. Not in Pittock. It’s too close. There are rules.”

  Wilson reached into another pocket and pulled out her cell phone. She pushed it into Helen’s hand. “Look!”

  The photo on the screen was overexposed, taken at night with a flash, but it was clear from context that Wilson was showing her the legs. The feet were swollen, and there were dark marks across the thighs, as though the legs had been slashed. When Helen looked again, she saw they weren’t slashes at all. Black, plastic straps cinched the thighs.

  Helen looked up and saw Eliza’s face stuck onto Wilson’s head, like a mask with black holes where the eyes had been. No! Focus.

  “Look, here and here. Those scars didn’t happen that night. Do you understand what I’m saying?” Eliza’s mouth moved with Wilson’s words.

  Helen’s heart seized, as though someone grabbed it in a closed fist. The pain in her chest was excruciating. She blinked, but couldn’t clear the fog. In the distance she heard Wilson’s voice.

  “Do you care?”

  “Of course I care.”

  “You have to help me.”

  Suddenly Helen was back in her sister’s kitchen. She was vaguely aware of dropping from her chair. Her knees hit the hardwood floor. Then she was leaning over Eliza, pressing a dishtowel to her face. Eliza was swimming in blood, the linoleum slick and dark. Once again, Helen’s cell phone was slipping out of her grasp. Once again, she was frantic, feeling for the phone in the sea of blood. It was too late to get help. She couldn’t breathe.

  “Somebody help me!” The sound of her own voice jarred Helen back to reality. For a moment, she felt herself swimming up through the memories, images of Eliza slipping past her. Then she saw Wilson’s face.

  “Look at me,” Wilson was saying.

  She heard Drummond’s voice in the distance. “Dr. Wilson, let go of her.”

  Helen blinked convulsively. She was crouched on the floor. Wilson was clasping one of her hands, her other hand pressed to the back of Helen’s head, her fingertips digging into her skull.

  “Look at me, Helen. Look at me.”

  Without preamble, Drummond swooped down on Helen, lifting her to her chair as though she weighed no more than a child.

  “What did you do to her?”

  “Helen, are you okay?” Wilson tried to maneuver around Drummond.

  “It wasn’t her fault,” Helen mumbled as she rubbed her eyes. “Asthma. I’m fine. She didn’t do anything.”

  Drummond kept a hand on her shoulder and an eye on Wilson.

  “She was just in a meeting.” His voice was both sonorous and comically at wit’s end. “She was fine a minute ago.”

  “Really,” Helen said, trying to smile. “I must have fainted. That’s all. I just need a drink of water.” She found Wilson’s eyes. “We’re done here.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  He glared at Hornsby. He wanted to reach across the desk and strangle him. Perhaps the last seconds of asphyxia would spark a fire in Hornsby’s eyes. He had seen that in some of the Cambodian whores. They had no zeal, no fight, but something in the hindbrain still roared against death and made their last seconds their most passionate.

  “I just don’t know.” Hornsby spoke as though no one was in the room. He massaged his crew cut temples. “I’m too old for this. I can’t believe…here in Pittock…and with Alisha so sick. I don’t have time for this.”

  Hornsby was a mule; that had never been clearer. And if Hornsby was the only man on the force, he would have botched the investigation on his own. There was a chance—just a chance—however, that one of the rookies would stumble on evidence. The rookies. Or Wilson. Or beautiful Helen Ivers. He could not take that risk.

  “I came to talk about the investigation,” he said.

  “You and everyone else.”

  “I’m not here to criticize.” He sat in front of Hornsby’s desk. It was covered with gutted folders, their papers splayed across the desk and neighboring chairs.

  “What’s your take on this situation, Chief Hornsby?”

  “Like you said, some lunatic from the asylum, homeless probably. I don’t even know. I can’t stomach this stuff anymore. They can.” He gestured to the rookies’ empty desks. “Not me.”

  “Is there a real danger to the town?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. We got some forensic psychologist working on a psych profile. What can they know?”

  “As much as you’re willing to pay for,” he said, with a sympathetic grimace.

  “And we can’t afford any of it,” Hornsby agreed.

  He wondered if Hornsby was skimming the police budget; he hoped so. “You’ve been working hard,” he said, keeping his voice amicable.

  Hornsby waved his hands over the paperwork on his desk. “I haven’t been home in two days. I haven’t seen Alisha…”

  “
How is your lovely wife?”

  It was so pathetic. Hornsby’s whole body deflated at the mention of that musty–smelling woman.

  “It’s bad,” Hornsby said. His grief was as obvious as a billboard, though he tried to hold it in. “The doctors called hospice. The insurance plan says she’s maxed out her benefit, something about life expectancy to benefit ratio. They’re saying her life isn’t worth preserving. It’s not worth the money. How can you put a value on life?”

  On some lives, not on all of them. “How long does she have?”

  “Weeks. Maybe months.”

  Now was the time. He pressed the tips of his steepled fingers to his lips. “Have you looked into the Le Farge trials?”

  The chief shook his head. “What’s that?”

  “Doctors here don’t have access to the trials, so they wouldn’t talk about them. It’s an experimental treatment they’re testing in Switzerland. Nothing has been released yet, but the hospital says it’s a miracle cure.”

  “For uterine cancer?”

  “For all cancers.”

  “How do you know about it?”

  “You know my father managed the asylum before it closed.” He withdrew a paper from his pocket, unfolded it and pushed it across the desk towards Hornsby.

  “Is that the price?” Hornsby asked.

  “Minus expenses. Insurance won’t pay, of course. Even if she still has benefits.”

  Hornsby looked like he was going to cry. “I could never afford that. If I mortgaged my house… if I sold my house, my car, everything, I could never get that kind of money.”

  “I can help.”

  Hornsby looked up from the paper, apprehension crossing his face. The fool! It had taken him this long to realize what they were discussing. Quid pro quo.

  “I…” Hornsby could not even finish.

  In the front office, the phone rang and Margie, the dispatcher, answered like a cheerful hacksaw. Hornsby froze. They could hear her through the wall. If she listened, she could hear them too. Hornsby began to sweat.

  “You and I both know the whole ‘Pittock legs’ case won’t amount to anything. A crazy, homeless women and reporters with nothing better to do. Just hype.”

  Hornsby nodded slowly. “You want to help Alisha?”

  The only help for Alisha Hornsby was to shoot her on bare dirt where the blood would not leave a stain. For a second, he entertained the idea of making her, but Alisha Hornsby was a mule, and he was done with mules.

  “I can help Alisha, then I want you to help me.”

  “I don’t know.” Hornsby’s lip trembled. “What… what are you asking?”

  If he were as weak as Hornsby, he would end it with a leap off the Sunderland Bridge. Hornsby still wore the same haircut as the cadets. He cared about being a cop. Alisha Hornsby and being a cop: the two compartments in Robert Hornsby’s brain. He had to move carefully.

  “I want to help Alisha, and I want this case to disappear… so we can all go back to living. So we can enjoy our normal lives. So we can enjoy Pittock.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Patrick was on the phone, eating a Twinkie, when Helen arrived the next morning. He pushed half the Twinkie into his mouth. With one finger he drew circles around his temple.

  “Crazy,” he mouthed, through the crumbs.

  Whoever was on the line, Patrick couldn’t get a word in edgewise. He wasn’t writing anything down either. Helen shot him a sympathetic smile on her way past. Back in her office, Helen too had a vast influx of email and voicemails. She had just compiled a priority list when Patrick knocked on her door. He held a sheet of paper.

  “You want the long or short version?” Patrick asked.

  “Let me guess. Somebody’s mom from middle America just heard about the legs and wants to know what we’re doing about it.”

  “Nope.”

  “The whole freshman class has withdrawn?”

  “Luckily not.”

  “Okay. Give me the short version. Who have we got?”

  “I’ll give you the short version, although that’s not what I got. I’ve been on the phone for thirty minutes with some guy named Blake. Wouldn’t give me his last name. Apparently he is president and webmaster for the Devotees of Boston, and he must talk to you.”

  Helen spread her hands in the air. “Why?”

  “Funny you should ask.” Patrick read off a sheet he had printed from the Internet. “‘Devotees of Boston is a social support group for devotees, wannabes and amputees. We welcome all who appreciate the beauty, sexuality, and unique potential of those differently bodied and celebrate those who identify as disabled, disembodied, or uniquely abled.’ From what I gather, Mr. Blake is not just the president, he’s a client, if you know what I mean.”

  “I have no idea.”

  “It’s for people who pretend to be amputees.” Patrick grimaced. “Plus, there are a few amputee fetishists in the mix. Blake calls it a social group.” Patrick wiggled two fingers to show he was placing “Blake” and “social group” in quotation marks. “They meet every second Tuesday in Boston.”

  Helen had worked with too many different groups to be hugely surprised. Even at conservative Vandusen, the gay and lesbian group included bisexuals, transsexuals, and one young man who called himself intersexed because he possessed two thirds of an ovary. From a college president’s perspective, it was best to lump them under the heading of “diversity” and leave it at that.

  “Let me guess. They want to talk about the Pittock legs.”

  “Yep,” Patrick said. “Mr. Blake got your email address and sent you fifty–some pages of smut from some creep who’s been posting to their website, and he wonders why you haven’t read it, because he sent it last night at 10:00 p.m.”

  “Did he send it to the police?”

  “Of course. He probably sent it to the mayor.”

  “Does he have any real reason to think this has something to do with the college?”

  “Actually, yes.” Patrick’s voice suddenly lost its affected lisp as he explained that the webmaster had traced the threatening posts to an IP address in Pittock.

  “The town of Pittock?” Helen asked.

  Patrick shook his head. “The college.”

  ****

  Helen had just clicked on the email Patrick forwarded when Drummond knocked on the wall outside her open door. He stood at stiff attention as always, his blazer buttoned over a dark tie. Still, there was something tentative about his posture.

  “Come to my office for a coffee?” he asked.

  Helen was about to refuse. His hesitation stopped her. It was the first time Drummond had invited her into his office. For the most part, his door had remained closed, whether he was in or not. The message had been clear: you’re not welcome. Now Helen rose.

  Drummond’s office was as modern as hers was full of antiques. She paused in front of a glass–fronted cupboard and admired a bronze sculpture of a naked man sitting astride a horse. The man’s muscles rippled with effort and his hands were lost in the horse’s mane.

  “A Jean–Luc Broussard replica,” Drummond said as he tinkered with an espresso maker on a shelf.

  Helen smiled. She would not have guessed that he made his own coffee.

  “It’s called ‘Le Chevalier de la Nouvelle Monde.’ It represents man’s ability to control, not only nature, but his own destiny. The man’s legs hold the horse and the rock beneath it, symbolizing Broussard’s belief that everything can be controlled by the mind of a man who doesn’t compromise his desires.”

  The espresso maker sizzled, filling the room with the smell of fresh roast.

  “I suppose I’ve taken that motto too seriously.”

  Helen looked up, searching his face.

  “It has been a long time since I had a colleague who did not report to me. I was curt to you on the day of Wilson’s search. You made an excellent decision in a tight situation.”

  “Thank you,” Helen said, waiting for criticism to follow.
/>   “It was great press: the college and the town coming together in difficult times.” He handed her a demitasse.

  “Yes,” Helen raised her cup in a small salute. “It was.”

  Drummond pulled a set of car keys out of his pocket. “Would you like to go out to breakfast? Off campus? There is a bed and breakfast in Sheffield.” He stumbled, perhaps embarrassed by the connotations of “bed.” “They do a nice English tea on the patio.”

  ****

  In the parking lot, Drummond directed Helen to a yellow Jeep.

  “That is quite a vehicle,” Helen said, taking in the blinding yellow exterior and black vinyl upholstery.

  “I walked to campus this morning. We live about a mile away, Ricky and I. My wife passed away a few years ago.”

  “I heard. I’m sorry.”

  Drummond nodded to acknowledge her sympathy and cut it short at the same time. “This monstrosity belongs to Ricky. He had it on campus, and since he belongs in class, he has no good excuse for not letting us borrow it. It’s in remarkably bad taste, isn’t it?” Drummond opened the door for Helen. “I bought it for him. That’s the worst of it.”

  Had she heard a touch of tenderness in his voice? Helen caught a glimpse of the father behind the façade of New England reserve.

  ****

  On the drive, they discussed the email from the Devotees. Patrick had already forwarded it to Drummond, and Drummond declared it smut.

  “One more desperate person trying to find some meaning in this,” he declared, and they were silent until they took their seats on the white porch of the Carriage House in Sheffield.

  Then Helen said, “What would we be talking about if there hadn’t been the legs? I want to give this situation its full due, but there are going to be times when we can’t do anything about the case. I want make sure I serve the college in every way possible.”