Attachment Strings (4 page)

“How old is the daughter?” I asked.

Williams read from a sheet in the file. “She’ll be seven in merely a month. She has multiple disabilities, for example, cerebral palsy. There are a lot of medical words I don’t understand. The gist of it is that the girl is blind, can’t talk, and her mental state is similar to that of a six-month-old baby.”

“So, someone is probably trying to scare Mrs. Anderson. Do we know who could be responsible for those calls?”

“Not yet. A tracking device is being installed today. The calls aren’t the only thing that upset Mrs. Anderson. She mentioned that quite a few of the disabled children attending the same school as Amaris have ended up in the hospital during the last few months. Two children died, one after a severe seizure and another one fell. The fall was so severe that the student who fell, a boy, fractured his skull and died a few days later. She also said that some of the older disabled pupils have been beaten up, while others reported being threatened when they were out alone,” Williams explained.

I frowned. “Why would anyone beat up someone who’s disabled?” I held up my hand to stop Trenkins from answering. “Shut it. It was a rhetorical question. What about that Albridge case from two weeks ago? The guy was disabled too and there’s no clue as to who killed him.”

“You think it’s connected? Albridge was forty-seven years old,” Trenkins threw in.

I shrugged. “I just believe it’s worth looking into, don’t you think? Maybe look at accidents that involved people with disabilities for the last few months?”

“No, I don’t think it’s worth looking into it. I don’t even think it’s worth talking to Mrs. Anderson. Those children are
disabled
. They die more easily than healthy children. She’s making a mountain out of a molehill.” Trenkins sounded exasperated, as if we’d be too dumb to get what this was all about.

Before I had time to decide on an appropriate reaction, Williams said, “Since I decide what’s worth looking into, you two will have a talk with Mrs. Anderson and ask around. I already talked to the headmaster of St. Christopherus School and they are willing to cooperate with us.”

“They are?” I asked doubtfully.

“After I made it clear that Mrs. Anderson would most likely become hysterical and maybe go to the media with her story, yes,” Williams retorted with a smile.

“She’s thinking about going to the press? Does she think there’s a conspiracy against disabled children?” Trenkins’s voice dripped with skepticism.

“I don’t know about a conspiracy theory, so let’s just stick to the facts. You’re going to investigate those calls and talk with the parents who are willing to talk to you. Ask if they feel threatened, if they’ve had any calls similar to those Greta Anderson has been getting or what have you. But for heaven’s sake be sensitive!” Williams looked from Trenkins to me.

“I’ll make sure he behaves himself,” I said.

Trenkins’s eyes narrowed and an angry flush crept up from his throat to his cheeks. Icily, he retorted, “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Woods isn’t your babysitter. Just listen to him when he tells you to shut it, okay? You haven’t got much leeway after the last incident. You’re a good detective. Don’t destroy your career by letting your temper dictate your actions.”

I watched Trenkins swallow heavily when Williams told him he was a good detective. Williams wasn’t one for saying stuff like that often and when he did, he meant it. Trenkins sucked up the big compliment greedily.

I had been paired up with Trenkins for two years now and had been the junior partner. He had taught me a lot, but by now I was the more mature and confident one. During the last year he had lost his temper several times. On one recent occasion, his display of anger had cost him suspension from work for a fortnight. Obviously Trenkins remembered the latest incident quite vividly, because he said, “I won’t.”

“Good. You’ve got all the contact details there.” Williams pointed at the folders. “Now get to work.”

Trenkins and I strolled out of Williams’s office and picked up our jackets. We walked to my car in a strained silence. Before I started the car, I asked, “Are you okay?”

He grimaced. “I’m not big on being told off or reminded of my temper.”

“No one is.”

I turned the key in the ignition and drove out on the street. “It’s in Brigantine, right?”

“Seaside Road,” Trenkins replied.

With no more to say, we remained silent for the rest of the ride.

M
RS
. A
NDERSON
personally opened the door for us. She was a petite blonde, in her midthirties, and very obviously used to getting her way. Crisply, she demanded to be shown our badges and that we tell her what we had done so far concerning the threatening calls. Trenkins’s face darkened. I forestalled him by saying, “I’m sure our captain already informed you that a technician will come out this afternoon and place a tracking device on your phone. We would like you to tell us all about the calls you received.”

“How many people do I have to tell about them before something happens? My daughter’s life is at stake here!”

“Where is your daughter now?” Trenkins asked.

“She’s in her room with the physiotherapist, doing her exercises.”

“She isn’t at school?”

“I always pick her up at noon and bring her home. She’s not equipped to handle a full day there. She attends to all her therapies at home and….” She trailed off. We waited until she continued, “She likes it better here at home. She’s more relaxed and at ease and I like to have her close and see with my own eyes she’s doing fine.”

Maybe she wasn’t that bad. Her voice softened when she spoke about her daughter’s well-being. I didn’t get the impression of dishonesty at all. On the contrary, she seemed to care about her daughter. Why wouldn’t she? She was her mother, after all.

We watched Mrs. Anderson’s gaze flickering around the room for what seemed like a long time. Eventually she took in a deep breath, smoothed out a crinkle in her skirt, and asked politely, “Would you like something to drink?”

“No, thanks,” Trenkins and I said in unison.

“Well, have a seat and ask your questions.”

Mrs. Anderson ushered us toward a big sofa with rose-colored flowers all over it. It fit in with the wallpaper and the other furniture in the living room. Trenkins could barely mask a horrified expression when he discovered the precisely matched cushions. I shot him a warning glare, which he ignored completely. At least he kept his mouth shut.

We asked Mrs. Anderson about the calls. When did they start? Did she recognize the voice? Was it always the same person? Why didn’t she call the police earlier?

“The first call came in a week after Amaris had started school last year in September. In the beginning they came intermittently. Now they come at least twice a week. I didn’t take the first calls too seriously. I thought someone was playing a cruel joke. Such people are attracted to people like me.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I’m the daughter of a powerful man, Detective Woods. It makes me a convenient target for hate campaigns. I never thought they’d include Amaris too. She’s innocent and such a sweetheart. I don’t understand why anyone would threaten her.”

Tears pooled in her eyes and Trenkins shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. I cleared my throat while Mrs. Anderson discreetly wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “Have you been threatened before?”

“Yes, but nothing ever happened. I’ve never really been worried before, but now… it is different.” Defiantly, she raised her chin and declared, “And I’m not hysterical or overreacting. This is serious. If you’d heard this person on the phone… he’s full of hatred. He hates Amaris for being alive, can you imagine that?”

I could. People were astonishing in their ability to hate.

“To answer your other questions: no, I didn’t recognize the voice, only that it’s a male. I think it’s mostly the same person, although I’m not entirely sure. And about not calling the police earlier—let’s say my husband and I had different opinions on that topic.”

“What convinced you to call the police now?”

A shudder shook her small body, as she held the seam of her skirt in a white-knuckled grip. “The man called again yesterday morning, shortly after Amaris was picked up. He… he told me there would be an accident with the bus, I’d better prepare myself for the worst, and… and….”

She hiccupped and forced us to wait for her to regain her composure. In a choked voice, she went on, “He laughed and told me he was doing me and the world a favor. Eliminating the worthless scum was his goal, he said. I… ended the phone call.”

“What did you do then?” I asked, keeping my voice gentle and soothing.

She took in a deep breath. “I was paralyzed. Fifteen minutes later the phone rang again. It was the bus company, telling me there had been an accident.”

By then Mrs. Anderson was crying. Trenkins and I stared at each other, keeping our expressions impassive. Our heads swiveled around when someone cleared their throat. Another woman stood in the room, holding a child in her arms. Softly, she asked, “Where do you want to have Amaris, Greta?”

Mrs. Anderson wiped her eyes and got up from the sofa. She pointed to a construction in the corner of the living room. The two women gently lowered Amaris into something I realized was a ball pool. Mrs. Anderson crooned to her daughter. “Hey sweetie, you like this? Go ahead, play with your balls. Mommy will sit close by, all right?”

A grunt was her answer. We watched Mrs. Anderson bidding goodbye to the physiotherapist, Mrs. Summers, while we listened to odd slurping noises from the ball pool. Trenkins squirmed on the sofa. He whispered, “Those sounds she’s making… they are
weird
.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. Definitely weird and unpleasant. I gave Trenkins credit for using the right pronoun when he spoke of Mrs. Anderson’s daughter. I had been sure he would refer to her as
it
.

“I’m sorry about the interruption,” Mrs. Anderson said when she walked past us.

She plucked a cushion from the sofa, placed it next to the ball pool, and sat down on it. She looked younger, less tense now. Trenkins and I shared a surprised look. Neither of us would have thought of the immaculate Mrs. Anderson sitting on the floor. It didn’t please me that I was so prejudiced in my beliefs about her.

“You were telling us about the accident,” Trenkins prompted.

He craned his head to get a better look at the ball pool. When he couldn’t get a good enough view, he got up and walked over to them. Leaning against the wall, he sneaked glances at the ball pool. His face was a mirror of emotions, never settling on one for long. Mrs. Anderson studied him, shook her head in defeat, and answered, “Another car hit the bus with Amaris in it. Thank God she wasn’t hurt. None of the other kids were severely injured. They were scared and all, but the bus driver was the only one injured from the impact. He got off lightly from what I understood, only a slight concussion.”

She knelt on the cushion, produced a cloth out of nowhere, and cleaned her daughter’s face. Trenkins’s face contorted in disgust. I couldn’t bear sitting on the sofa any longer and walked over to them. I peeked into the ball pool to catch a glimpse of Amaris.

She would have been a beautiful girl if it weren’t for her disability. She held a ball with both hands, brought it to her mouth, and sucked on it enthusiastically. The ball slid from her hands, eliciting a wail of protest from her. Her mother gave her another one and waited until Amaris held it securely.

Mrs. Anderson smiled tenderly at her daughter and brushed a curl away from the child’s forehead. Love emanated from the woman, stunning me into silence. How could she love someone so distorted, someone who was and would forever be a burden, so much? Suddenly, I asked myself why I couldn’t find someone to look at me like that.

Life just wasn’t fair, that was why.

Trenkins drew me out of my reverie. “What happened to the driver who was responsible for the accident?”

“The brakes on the bus didn’t work and the bus overbalanced on a curve. Thank God they weren’t going fast. It’s a miracle everyone is alive! I’m sure this wasn’t just a coincidence. There is someone out there who wants to take away my daughter.” She fought a new battle against tears while we stood there and absorbed the information.

“I was so upset yesterday that I called my father. He was shocked and told me we had to get the police involved. I mean
really
involved. Of course you are investigating the accident. My husband and I decided to keep Amaris at home for a few days. I know of at least one other mother who received similar calls. Her son died two months ago from a seizure.”

“As far as I understand, no one can be held responsible for someone else dying from a seizure,” I spoke.

“The boy had been spooked, we’re sure about that. He was also locked up in a utility room.” She held up a hand to stop my comment. “He couldn’t have locked himself up. It was impossible. Someone must have locked him in there on purpose.”

“Couldn’t he have been overlooked?”