Habit (27 page)

“How so?”

“Do you know what I do as a doctor?”

“No.” Brendan recalled Donald Kettering saying that Alexander Heilshorn had invested in some medical company, a patent or other, and that’s where the family’s big money came from. He hadn’t considered Heilshorn as a practitioner. Then he suddenly remembered the story about Heilshorn injecting a baby with oxygen to keep it alive.

“I’m an OB GYN,” said Heilshorn.

“Really.”

“Yes, really. It’s a surprise to me, too, considering that I don’t favor abortion. And that I spend a good deal of money angel-investing in lifesaving, cutting-edge medical technology.”

Brendan’s mind looped back to his meeting with Eddie Stemp, who had talked about the subject. He felt a chill. And he thought again of the oxygen-deprived baby. Heilshorn had perhaps used the very technology he invested in. Quite an endorsement.

“But, life is not black and white. I think at one time or another, every one of us wishes it was. But, it isn’t. You were involved in an incident that saw the death of my son. But I can’t blame you. Things aren’t that black and white. You see? My son died because of what he believed in.”

Brendan’s voice was small. They were dancing around the heart of what he’d been pursuing for two weeks. “And what did he believe in?”

“He believed in the preciousness of all life.” Heilshorn then sat back a little. He took a sip of his tea. “We’re not crusaders. We’re not pro-lifers. I don’t know. Maybe we should be. Maybe this is my penance. As a doctor, we’re trained to see tissue as tissue. The organization of life is something which happens of its own accord, part of a mystery we cannot fathom. Systems characterized by a two-way exchange of information. Yet, we inject it with meaning. We try to think in terms of black and white, right and wrong. But when you’ve lost your children, that meaning becomes more apparent than ever, and doesn’t feel like some arbitrary construct. You feel it in your bones. You ache for your children. I know it’s a physiological response, it’s the chemical version of what we call love – but what of that? I’ve spent my life studying the names, the charts, the functions of the body. Everything neatly labeled and categorized. But I don’t know what any of it is. I’m seventy-two, and I’m no closer to understanding the world than I was at twenty-two.”

He took another sip of his tea. Then he nodded towards Brendan’s cup. “Is it hot enough? Would you like more?”

Brendan didn’t want more, but he smiled and nodded just the same. Heilshorn seemed to need to get up, to busy himself. He watched the diminutive man rise and retrieve the teapot. Heilshorn filled both cups again with steaming liquid and then returned the pot to the stove. He remained there for a moment.

“Rebecca got involved in something that threatens life. When she was in that . . . business, she became pregnant. I knew, because I had my private investigator following her.”

Now he came and sat back at the table once more.

“I was afraid of what her intentions were. So, I went and got her. She didn’t like it, but I did. Only, it wasn’t just her I had to contend with.”

Brendan interjected, “At this time, she was in Albany?”

Heilshorn’s eyes flickered. “Yes. Affiliated with some very unsavory people. People that didn’t like it when I decided to take my daughter home. People that didn’t want her to take her baby to term.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because once a woman has a baby, she’s not going to be an escort to a cabinet-level officer, or a senator, that’s why. Once in circulation, as the bastards call it, an escort is a huge commodity. Some of the clients like variation. Others prefer the same girl. It’s horrible to know these kinds of things. There’s no purpose to any of it . . .”

He was trailing off. For the first time since he had invited Brendan into the house, Heilshorn seemed to be losing his composure.

“And they are apt to use the child as leverage to keep the escort in service,” Brendan said. It was more than a guess. He felt sure. And Argon had already helped lead him to the same idea.

Heilshorn fixed Brendan with a look. His eyes conveyed appreciation that Healy already understood, but also evoked the gravity of the issue. “Yes. They have ways of handling the situation that are absolutely nightmarish. To either force a woman to abort her child, or use the child against her. It’s the work of the devil.”

“Why not go to the police? Why not seek help? Expose the situation?”

“By the time Rebecca knew what she was in for, it was too late. These operations have trap doors like you wouldn’t believe. They are escape artists. They have a dozen fake fronts. They are portable. They cover city upon city. This is the oldest profession known to man – they’ve figured it out by now. She could have gone to the authorities, but they would have found nothing, no one, smoke.”

The last word sent a chill through Brendan.
I was born under the black smoke of September
.

“But she would have gotten out.”

“And done what? Gone into police protection for the rest of her life? Just because they’re elusive doesn’t mean they leave anyone out there in the open to continue the whistleblowing. These clients – these Eliot Spitzers, these Philip Giordanos – they are presidential hopefuls, some of them. Judges, congressmen, cabinet members, the U.N., for God’s sake. It’s just people. Underneath it all, it’s just people. It’s these basic drives. Avoid pain. Pursue pleasure.”

Heilshorn seemed flustered again. Brendan relented. “I understand. So, you were able to get her, to get her away from them.”

“Yes. Seven months pregnant.”

“And she stayed with you until she had the baby.”

“Yes. And she was delivered the only way to keep Leah safe. I performed the delivery myself.”

Brendan was shocked. He inadvertently leaned back from the table. This was why he was never able to find any record of paternity, any birth records for the child. Her own grandfather had brought her into this world. Brendan could scarcely imagine what a position that had put both father and daughter in. No wonder they had been estranged since.

“My God,” Brendan said. It slipped out.

Heilshorn was unoffended. “It kept that little girl safe. And she remains safe. Her name is unknown to them, her whereabouts a secret. They will never find her. And with Rebecca departed, I suppose they will never need to.”

The pieces were coming together at last. Some of them. “And Kevin knew this. He knew that Leah was safe as long as she remained anonymous. That anything we might uncover could lead to her exposure. But . . . like you just said, with Rebecca departed, there would be no need to. Why would Kevin come after me? Why risk his life – or give his life – to protect Leah if she was no longer threatened?”

But before Heilshorn could respond, Brendan felt he already knew the answer.

He breathed: “Because he believed there are others.”

Heilshorn just looked at him. The man had cobalt blue eyes, and they were now hard like stone.

“Yes,” he said after a moment. “There are others.”

Brendan felt hot and cold waves passing through him. His hip flared with pain and he realized he had been sitting too long. He needed to get to the doctor and get some of the non-addictive pain medication he could handle. But his mind was spinning with more questions.

“But why would she relocate so close to Albany? If she wanted to stay hidden . . . I don’t understand. You have money. With all due respect, you are practically the Trumps, from what I’ve seen. Why not send her away to her own personal island somewhere?”

And once more, the answer to his own question tugged at the back of his mind. But this time, he let Heilshorn articulate it.

“Because she was helping the others. She was helping the women get out, and she was helping to keep their children out of harm.”

Brendan shook his head with exasperation. It made sense in some cloak-and-dagger way, but he remained dubious. There were law enforcement agencies for this type of thing. The FBI. Even the Department of Justice. They could operate free of jurisdictional restraints and the limitations of pay grades and elections. There were tasks forces, sting operations, and Grand Juries to handle crimes of this magnitude and sensitivity. One woman – one family acting as vigilantes for prostitutes seeking escape? And with their children in danger of being used as leverage, it just didn’t seem realistic. It was like the Underground Railroad, but for escorts. Approaching absurd.

But she had installed a diaper sprayer in her remodeled bathroom. That detail was in line with what the old man was saying.

Brendan looked at Heilshorn, but there was no guile in the man’s face, no duplicity to speak of. What Heilshorn was saying was true – Brendan was sure, at least, that the older man believed it, through and through. Brendan just wasn’t sure
how
it was true yet.

“So, what do you want me to do?”

“Nothing.” The word came fast and sudden, as if Heilshorn had been preparing for the question all along. “I want you to leave it alone. Let us continue our work.”

Brendan pushed back from the table a little. His hip was a constant siren now. “You know I can’t do that. I understand you feel a sense of obligation . . .”

“You don’t understand. You may never understand.”

“What I understand
is that this is the reason the law exists. I need names, I need dates; I need people. This needs to be exposed, taken down, and dismantled. That is not a civilian’s duty.”

Heilshorn was shaking his head. “You’re wrong, detective, I’m sorry. I thought you, of all people, would understand my sense of personal responsibility. It’s more than just a calling. This is the way it has to be done. You’ll never get any names, dates, or people. You’ll only chase your tail, and in the process, you’ll get innocent women and children killed.”

Brendan stood, wincing with the effort. Heilshorn stood too, instantly concerned. “Are you okay? Can I help you?”

“I’m okay. I just stiffened up. I can’t sit too long.”

The men were now facing each other, standing by the table. They were almost eye-to-eye, with Brendan just a few inches taller. The clock on the wall was closing in on noon.

“You’re a good man,” said Heilshorn. “I don’t want to have to threaten you, Detective.”

“Threaten me? With what? More bad tea?” He regretted the silly little remark as soon as he’d made it, but he could feel Heilshorn starting to put the bite on him, and he didn’t like it.

“With peeing in jugs beside your bed. Throwing up on yourself. Masturbating to the porn on your computer.”

Brendan’s blood ran icy cold. He knew he had likely been spied on, but to hear it put this way was still totally disconcerting. He steeled himself and said what he knew was in his heart, what he knew was true.

“Go ahead. I’ve got nothing to hide. Tell anyone, tell everyone. Make pictures of me and send them as Christmas cards; I don’t care. I’ve listened to you, now I want you to listen to me. I’m too aware of what doing nothing can lead to. Of what can happen when you look the other way.

“I am going to do my job. I am going to find the man who killed your daughter, which led to the death of your son and nearly cost me my own life, and I am going to bring him to justice. And I can either do it with your help, or without it. I’ll leave you the afternoon to decide. Please excuse me; I have to go to the doctor. My hip feels like it’s being sliced apart by saw blades.”

Brendan gathered his crutches and hobbled away, Heilshorn watching after him, but not following him to the door.

Outside, Bostrom waited dutifully in the driveway.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX / MONDAY, 1:24 PM

“We need to go back to the beginning,” said Brendan. “Keep it simple.”

Bostrom drove as Brendan spoke. They had left the doctor’s office a few minutes before and were en route to pick up the prescription painkillers at a nearby pharmacy. Brendan could feel Bostrom’s resentment – the deputy was like a nanny, driving the detective around and tending to him like this. So Brendan started sharing his thoughts.

“The killer entered Rebecca Heilshorn’s home with no sign of forced entry, right? You were the first officer on scene. What did you see?”

Bostrom sat up a little straighter as he drove. “Door was closed, but not locked.”

“And the back door to the house was locked.”

“Correct.”

“The victim was stabbed with a knife. We were unable to ascertain whether or not he pulled the knife from Rebecca’s kitchen, or had come with it himself.”

“Right.”

“Boot print on the door to the bedroom, which he kicked open, showed someone in a size eleven work boot. No particular brand of boot we could discern, but forensics determined his height about six foot, maybe a hundred and ninety pounds. Sounds like the same guy who tried to run me over with his truck.”

Bostrom glanced over.

Brendan continued, “And he was in the kitchen for a little while before going upstairs. I went back to the house to try and figure out why, and I was compelled to look at the collection of photos again. You realize none of this can be discussed with anyone. Not even your wife.”

“I’m not married.”

“No? Ever been?”

“Once. Lasted about six months. I was young.”

Brendan regarded the deputy. Bostrom had bright blonde hair and a strong jaw and hatchet nose. He was famous for his temper, but Brendan had always thought it a mistake to write off the deputy as a brute, as others in the department seemed to. Brendan sensed intelligence in the man, and the propensity for fierce loyalty. On the other hand, if he didn’t like you, he was a prick.

“I found writing on the back of each of the photos. A sort of poem. And at first, I thought that this was what the killer was doing while taking time in the kitchen. But it doesn’t make any sense, actually, I was wrong. Forty seconds is not enough time to take the backs off several framed photos and write on each of them. He must’ve written it at an earlier time.”

Bostrom made a turn into a Rite Aid parking lot. “So he must’ve been in the house before.”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

“Makes sense,” said Bostrom, parking. “Nine times out of ten, the killer is someone the victim knows, or has at least met before.”

Brendan considered this silently. He got out, gathered his crutches, and went inside for his prescription.

* * *

“I got something,” said Colinas. The State detective sounded excited on the other end of the line.

“Can you meet me at my house?”

“Sure. Be there in fifteen.”

Brendan told Bostrom to gun it. The deputy seemed happy to oblige. He lit up the light bar and tramped on the accelerator.

* * *

At Brendan’s house, the three men crowded around Colinas’s computer.

“I took this from the database. It took a couple of days, but this is who we got. Reginald Forrester, the name of the guy who owns the rental house in Boonville.”

Brendan instantly remembered. This was the house where Rebecca Heilshorn had stayed while she was ostensibly closing on the Bloomingdale farm. Brendan had called the property manager who had seemed more huffy than helpful. But she had provided the owner’s name, in what may have been an ethical breech, but was certainly a stroke of luck.

They looked at the picture. A man, in his late forties, smiled humorlessly for a headshot. Even just looking at him from the shoulders up, Brendan could tell he was well-built. Athletic. His hair was salt and pepper. He wore a black moustache with dashes of grey in it.

“Who is he?”

Brendan’s eyes were scanning the page for information, his heart beating. He couldn’t digest it all quickly enough.

“Was a professor of English Lit at Cornell. Also, ah, taught Creative Writing. Resigned in 2003.”

“He could have known the victim,” Bostrom said.

Brendan almost forgot the deputy was still there. Technically, he shouldn’t be seeing any of this. But Brendan let it slide. Bostrom was in it now.

“Oh I’m betting he did,” said Brendan.

“I did a pretty extensive background check on this guy. He’s got quite a history. Nothing overtly illicit, but his past is full of head scratchers. Apparently he was in New York City attending a conference during the 9/11 attacks. Then he comes back to Cornell and he seems to go off the rails a little bit. He takes to writing some twisted shit and publishing it, and then he’s asked take a leave. A sabbath, or whatever they call it.”

“Sabbatical.” Brendan was hanging on every word from Colinas.

“Yeah, sabbatical. Supposedly he starts a blog talking about how Osama Bin Laden wanted to bankrupt America, and he figured provoking a war was the best way to do it. How we’re all oblivious to, in denial of, or reacting the wrong way – stockpiling munitions and whatnot – to the impending economic collapse. He claimed he was working on a way to reboot the American economy. Blog was called ‘Nero Fiddled While Rome Burned.’ Talk about a fruitcake.”

Brendan’s mouth felt dry. Where had he heard that phrase? He thought to check his notes. But first, he wanted to see more on Forrester.

“Let’s take a look at the blog,” Brendan said.

“Can’t.” Colinas raised his dark eyebrows. “It’s gone. I got this info from a newspaper article talking about Forrester resigning from his professorial duties at Cornell. With ‘resigning’ in big old scare quotes. Apparently the administration didn’t like his anti-American, anti-human diatribe.” Colinas looked at Brendan and Bostrom. “Anyway, this is what I got. And you know . . .”

Brendan waited.

“This may be a stretch, but he looks to me like the same guy as in the ‘interview’ video. Even though the face is censored out, you still get bits of the hair, the body type. You know which one I mean? The one where she comes in and is on the couch answering questions before she . . .”

“You watched the videos,” Brendan said.

“Oh yeah.” Colinas’s voice grew tight. “Never really want to see a porn film again.”

“I hear you.”

Deputy Bostrom looked at the two men like he had no idea what they were talking about.

“This is incredible.” Brendan rubbed a hand over his jaw.

It was turning into a long day.