Primal Fear (24 page)

“Sure,” Vail answered. “He administers to the landed aristocracy. Spends more time on the society page than he does in his office.”

“That’s whose phone number was in the bishop’s book, the one you gave me a couple of weeks ago. The Berenstein Clinic over in Waterview Towers.”

“Linda had an appointment with Berenstein?” Goodman said.

“Made by the bishop himself. I went over and had a chat with Dr. Si today. In fact, she had two appointments. One a week before Rushman was murdered, which you missed in his book, Marty, and the one last week. Her real name is Linda Gellerman. She listed Akron, Ohio, as her hometown. And she’s a year younger than we thought.”

“You mean she started with the altar boys when she was thirteen?” said Goodman.

“That’s right. Also, as of February nineteenth, which was when she had her first appointment with Berenstein, she was seven weeks pregnant.”

“You’re kidding,” Vail said. The Judge just shook his head.

“She was supposed to have an abortion last week but she didn’t show,” said Naomi. “Berenstein claims he hasn’t seen or heard from her since that first meeting.”

“I thought the bishop was radical on abortion,” said Goodman.

“According to Linda’s file, Rushman claimed the girl was raped at Savior House. It says they dealt with the problem ‘inhouse’
and wanted to keep the whole thing hush ‘for Linda’s sake.’”

“Sure. I wonder who the father really is?” Vail said.

“She probably doesn’t know,” said Naomi. “It could be any of the altar boys.”

“Or the bishop,” Vail said. “Okay, Tommy, you know the drill.”

“Yeah. I hope there aren’t too many Gellermans in the Akron phone book,” he moaned.

TWENTY-TWO

“Hey Zwick, catch nine. It’s long distance.”

Detective Eric Zwicki was about to check out for the day. He had to go to a Little League meeting on the way home and after that it was his night to cook, his wife having been liberated from that chore two nights a week, among other emancipations, as a result of the women’s movement and a subscription to
Ms.
magazine. He was late already and he hadn’t even left the office yet.

“Shit,” he said, and snatched up the phone.

“Missing Persons, Zwicki,” he said.

Tom Goodman, who was calling from Naomi’s desk, introduced himself, explaining he was an investigator for the lawyer involved in the Rushman homicide.

“I read all about it,” said the detective. “Some kid whacked a Catholic cardinal.”

“Bishop.”

“You been gettin’ a lotta press on that.”

“Yeah. Big case. The reason I’m calling, we’re looking for a girl who might be a material witness in this case. She’s only fifteen years old. My information is that she’s from Akron, probably left there a little over two years ago. I’m just playing a hunch—thought maybe Missing Persons might have her listed.”

“Is her name Linda Gellerman?”

“You’re a mind reader, Detective.”

“Nah. Two years ago? Thirteen years old? Girl never turned up? Been bugging me for two years, wondering whether she was dead and who killed her. Shit, her folks drove us crazy for at least a year. You’re not telling me she’s still alive, are you?”

“She was two weeks ago.”

“Jesus Christ! Man, I gave that one up a long time ago. She walked out of her house on her thirteenth birthday and it was like the earth swallowed her up. Not a fucking clue.”

“Well, she’s been living here, in a place called Savior House, for almost that whole time.”

“Never called home. No card. Nothin’ for two years.”

“So you haven’t heard from her in the last month or so?”

“Hell no. And I’m sure if her parents heard anything they would’ve called.”

“Can I have their number?” Goodman asked.

“Why not?”

Ten minutes later, Goodman was back in Vail’s office.

“I think Linda was bullshitting Aaron,” he said. “She never planned to go home. I talked to her parents and to a Missing Persons detective in Akron. They all thought she was dead. Not a peep in two years.”

“I wonder if Aaron knows she’s pregnant?”

“There’s only one person who can find out.”

“I’ll call Molly in the morning,” Vail said. “So where do we go from here? She didn’t show up at the clinic. Where the hell is she?”

“Marty?”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t suppose she’s the one who put that napkin under my windshield, do you?”

“Hiding out at Savior House, maybe?”

Goodman shrugged. “That’s where I got the message. But why didn’t she show up at Berenstein’s clinic?”

“Because the bishop’s dead, Tommy. Assuming nobody else at the church knows about this, who’s going to pay the freight at Berenstein’s? Maybe she’s scared Berenstein’ll turn her up to the cops. She’s fifteen years old, where’s she going to run? She’s probably scared to death.”

“Or maybe she was there when it happened.”

Vail nodded. “Yeah, that’s the big one.”

He got up and began his custom of pacing the room, thinking out loud.

“We get her, we can bring in the altar boys tape and the bishop because she can corroborate the voice on the tape. She can testify that he also screwed her, which takes the onus off the other boys. That she got pregnant and he arranged with
Berenstein for an abortion and lied about the reason. Hell, she was never raped. He probably told her to leave Aaron and come stay at Savior House—out of sight until after she was aborted.”

“What does that do for our case?” Naomi asked.

“It takes the heat off Aaron and puts it on the bishop,” said the Judge. “A pillar of the Catholic Church sexually abusing kids who trusted him? We bring in Aaron’s background. Sexual abuse, physical abuse, humiliation, mixed religious signals. It sets up a motive for outrage and sudden anger.”

“So maybe he went into a fugue state, killed the bishop, and doesn’t remember it,” said Vail.

“Or maybe Linda did,” Tom said. “Aaron is there with her, sees it happen, decides to take the rap.”

“So he grabs the knife and makes a run for it, only a cop car happens to be in the alley and he gets trapped in the church.”

“And she goes underground to cover her own ass,” Tom concluded.

“Might be enough for reasonable doubt,” the Judge thought aloud. “Or not guilty by reason of. We can certainly keep him out of the chair with that kind of case.”

“Of course, you’re going to need Rebecca and Linda to testify. Unless we can find Peter or the Jordan kid,” Naomi offered.

“I told you, the teacher’s out,” Vail said. “Self-incrimination. Besides, she’d have to testify she slept with Tom.”

“How the hell do you know?” a surprised Goodman said.

“Tommy, you’re good but not that good. You don’t get that kind of information over a cup of coffee at Rosie’s café.”

The Judge and Naomi nodded accord. Obviously they had all made the same assumption. Embarrassed, Goodman said, “It didn’t happen the way you all think.”

“Oh? How did it happen? Were you swinging from the chandelier?” Vail said, and laughed.

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Tommy, I don’t care how it happened, okay? I don’t care if it was love at first sight, or full moon madness, I don’t care. It’s your business. The point is, we can’t afford to bring her in and she can’t afford to come. But Linda’s a different case. Unless she’s directly implicated in the homicide, she could save Aaron’s ass. Judge?”

“It’s certainly looking better than it did yesterday,” the Judge
said. “But without the girl or the other two altar boys, it would be suicidal to bring in Rushman.”

“You still going for not guilty?”

“Yes,” Vail answered.

“And amend later to guilty but insane?” Naomi asked.

“There are three ways we can go. Not guilty and try to beat them on reasonable doubt, not guilty by reason of insanity
or
guilty but insane.”

“What’s the difference in the two insanity pleas?” Naomi asked.

“If they return not guilty by reason of insanity then what they’re really saying is that he was temporarily insane at the time of me crime—in which case he could walk,” the Judge said.

“Guilty but insane means he’s wacko,” said Vail. “He goes to the rubber room, and if they cure him, he has to serve the rest of his sentence, which in this case could be life. I’d like to go for the first but it’s the toughest to prove and the riskiest.”

“Yes, we lose, he’s dead,” said the Judge.

“So we go for the rubber room?” said Goodman.

“That really depends on whether we find Linda Gellerman—and what our good doctor tells us about Aaron,” answered Vail.

It was late in the day and the drizzle had turned into a cold, intermittent rain when Goodman returned to Savior House for the third time. The halls were virtually deserted. He walked to the end of the hall and took the steel-and-concrete stairs to the second floor, checking the old classrooms which had been turned into sleeping rooms. The beds were made and the rooms were neat, clean and empty. Friday afternoon. The refugees of Savior House were obviously off frolicking for the weekend.

He went back to the stairs and went to the third floor. A sign by the door at the top of the stairs said,
INFIRMARY, VISITING HOURS
1–4
P.M.
He entered a long, dismal hallway that ran the length of the building. Two ceiling lights illuminated the bleak corridor. There was not a sound. He walked down the hall past empty rooms and stopped in front of one. In that room, the bedclothes had been stacked neatly at the foot of the cot. He flicked on the light and went inside but it was obviously deserted.

“She’s gone,” a voice said behind him. Startled, he turned to face the shrouded figure of a nun, silhouetted against the hall
lights. She stepped closer to him, the light from the bedroom falling across her young face. The mischief Vail had seen in her eyes was gone, replaced with sadness and suspicion. “I’m Sister Mary Alice,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“Gone where?” Goodman said, ignoring her question.

“I have no idea,” she said.

“Sister, I really don’t want to dispute your word—”

“I said I don’t know where she is,” she said coldly. “Now who are you and what do you want?”

“My name’s Tom Goodman. I’m Martin Vail’s investigator.”

“Who are you looking for?”

“Who’s gone?”

She sighed and her shoulders slumped. “She’s a scared little girl, Mr. Goodman. Why don’t you leave her alone?”

“She’s a material witness in a murder case, Sister. She could save Aaron Stampler’s life.”

“She doesn’t know anything about that.”

“How do you know?”

“We talked about Aaron a lot.”

“How long was she here in the infirmary?”

“I don’t remember exactly. About three weeks.”

“So she was here the night the bishop was killed?”

“Yes. She couldn’t stay down in that awful place with Aaron. The poor child was sick.”

“She’s pregnant, Sister.”

The nun looked shocked. “Where did you hear that?” she said. “Aaron doesn’t even know.”

“Do you know she hasn’t called home in two years? Her parents thought she was dead.”

“I don’t even know her last name, sir.”

“Please call me Tom,” Goodman said. “Did you know she was scheduled for an abortion last week at the Berenstein Clinic?”

She looked down at the floor. “Yes,” she said in a barely audible voice.

“And you approved?”

“It wasn’t my decision.”

“Who’s decision was it?”

“The bishop’s. She was raped here at the house—”

“That doesn’t float, Sister,” Tom interrupted. “He may have told you that, but it doesn’t work. She was sleeping with Aaron
before they moved out of here. Even if she had been raped, which I doubt, the odds are that it’s Aaron’s baby.”

“As I said, it was the bishop’s decision.”

“Why didn’t she show up at the clinic?”

“I think she was scared to death. And she had some moral objections.”

“Was she a Catholic?”

“Yes. A convert.”

“When did you see her last?”

“She left sometime Friday.”

“And you haven’t talked to her since?”

“No. Mr. Goodman, she can’t tell you anything. I told you, we talked about it. Please leave her alone. Isn’t her life miserable enough? Do you have to add more tragedy to all our sadness?”

“We’re trying to save Aaron Stampler’s life, Sister.”

“At what cost?”

“What is a life worth?” She did not respond, so he followed with, “Did she tell you about the altar boys?”

“What about them?”

It was obvious from her casual reaction that she knew nothing about the bishop’s private club and its implications.

“That perhaps they were all at the bishop’s earlier that night?” he answered, diverting the subject.

“So?”

“So maybe one of them did it. Maybe she could enlighten us on that.”

“That’s silly. Even she thinks Aaron killed Bishop Rushman. But she says she has no idea why.”

“Can you get a message to her to call me?”

She shook her head. “I told you, Mr. Goodman, I have no idea where she is and I don’t expect she’ll be calling or coming back here.”

Molly Arrington leaned forward as she guided the rain-slashed rental car along the antiquated two-laner. Cars coming from the opposite direction showered her windshield as they raced through puddles; the truck in front of her skewed water at her from its rear tires. The wipers struggled vainly against the steady assault. She squinted her eyes as she passed a sign which read,
EASTON
, 3
MILES.
She looked at her watch. It was a little after eight.

Only thirty-three miles to go. With any luck she would be at Martin’s before ten.

Her heart was pulsating so hard she could feel it in her throat, a combination of excitement from her discovery that afternoon and the stress of driving under what, to her, were absolutely terrifying conditions. But she had to get back. This news was too important to wait or to talk about over the phone.

A mile outside the little town of Easton, the truck’s rear lights began to weave. She slowed down cautiously, her nose almost touching the windshield, eyes squinted. Was he turning? Stopping?

Suddenly a barrage of red lights flashed in her face. It seemed the whole rear end of the truck had become a giant stoplight. Then the truck swerved and she was driving straight at its side. She yanked the steering wheel, felt the tires hit the soft gravel of the shoulder. The back end began to fishtail. She whipped the wheel into the turn as dirt and gravel spewed from under the truck wheels and riddled the front of her car. Her car lurched back onto the highway, and for a moment she thought she’d make it, but as the tires hit the rain-swept pavement the car started to spin. Car lights, trees, the out-of-control truck—all whirled past her as if she were on an errant merry-go-round. The car just as quickly straightened out and vaulted straight toward the ominous pillar of a culvert.

Advice from her father years ago flashed suddenly through her mind. She fell sideways across the passenger seat and stiff-armed the dashboard to brace herself against the coming crash.

The truck slammed into the opposite side of the culvert, climbed up on the railing and screeched almost the entire length of the concrete abutment before it stopped. Molly was not as lucky. Her car hit the end of the culvert dead-on. The front of the car was thrown up. Inside, Molly’s arm gave way and she saw the dashboard rushing toward her. She lowered her head a moment before it slammed into the instrument panel.

Outside, the rain continued to shower down. The truck was poised crazily on the bridge railing. Molly’s car lay half on its side, the hood folded back over the windshield. There wasn’t a sound except for the spattering of the rain and the hiss of steam from Molly’s ruined radiator.

Vail’s table was a wasteland of legal pads, law and medical books, newspaper articles and reports. Once arranged neatly
into subject piles by Naomi, they were now strewn out in a chaotic mess. He was making notes to himself; listing reference cases, items from the forensic and autopsy reports, witnesses, evidence, questions to himself, the Judge, Goodman, Naomi and Molly. It was a nightly ritual, this updating and correlation of information as he challenged himself to take the best course possible in defense of Aaron Stampler. His ashtray was full and his coffee had grown cold in the cup. So consumed was he that he did not hear the doorbell until it rang the second time. He went to the door, grumbling to himself and snapping his elbows back to ease the cramps in his shoulders.