Authors: Bill Floyd
The Killer's Wife (7 page)
V
ictor Haddock was an RA, one of the guys who oversees freshman in their dormitories when they first get to college. He was twenty years old when a seventeen-year-old named Randy Mosley moved into Freedom Hall on the Oregon State campus. Randy was there on a hardship scholarship, which he’d applied for following the deaths of his last foster parents, who’d been killed in a house fire a year earlier.
ictor Haddock was an RA, one of the guys who oversees freshman in their dormitories when they first get to college. He was twenty years old when a seventeen-year-old named Randy Mosley moved into Freedom Hall on the Oregon State campus. Randy was there on a hardship scholarship, which he’d applied for following the deaths of his last foster parents, who’d been killed in a house fire a year earlier.
By all accounts, Victor was a friendly, capable mentor, who assisted several kids in adjusting to the pressures of university life. He was an outdoorsman, an avid kayaker and hiker who spent his summers in places like the Snake River Gorge or the Utah Badlands. The year before Randy came into his life, Victor had spent a month hiking the hinterlands of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge in Alaska.
One of the first reporters who tracked me down after Randy’s arrest, during that first week while I was still living at our home in El Ray, before Mom swept me back to enforced isolation in Tapersville, was a guy my age, who was kind and respectful and asked his questions politely instead
of shouting them. So I let him into the house and spoke earnestly with him for nearly an hour before Mom came back from the grocery store and ran him out. I’d let the reporter take along a family album with some photographs. My reasoning was that we hadn’t been married but a few years, and there weren’t many photos in there anyway, and I didn’t want them any longer. I was on a lot of sedatives at the time.
of shouting them. So I let him into the house and spoke earnestly with him for nearly an hour before Mom came back from the grocery store and ran him out. I’d let the reporter take along a family album with some photographs. My reasoning was that we hadn’t been married but a few years, and there weren’t many photos in there anyway, and I didn’t want them any longer. I was on a lot of sedatives at the time.
Randy’s Alaska picture was in there, and apparently it struck the same sort of chord with the newspaper staff then as it had with me, several years earlier. Just the sort of effect Randy calculated it to have. So the paper published it as part of a background story on Randy, and by chance the CNN affiliate picked it up and ran the image nationally.
Victor Haddock’s parents saw it and called the police. They confirmed that they had a copy of the very same picture, and that the figure shown in it wasn’t Randy at all. Victor had gone missing during the summer school session the year after Randy lived on his hall. He’d been scheduled to fly out to Denver and spend a month with some friends, but he never showed up. Randy was enrolled in summer school at the time. The local police searched for Victor after his parents called them; for a few weeks there were copies of his student ID photograph papering campus, with MISSING PLEASE HELP written underneath, and contact information. But then the students returned in the fall and there was a whole new class of freshmen and the police soon had other priorities, like drunk drivers and date rape and the myriad dangerous and reckless behaviors of young people on their
own for the first time. A file remained open. The Haddocks never gave up. But Victor’s body was never recovered. To this day, no one knows what became of him. Randy never mentioned it during any of the interviews police conducted with him prior to or following his trial.
own for the first time. A file remained open. The Haddocks never gave up. But Victor’s body was never recovered. To this day, no one knows what became of him. Randy never mentioned it during any of the interviews police conducted with him prior to or following his trial.
Dark up there, at the top of the world. Where Randy had only ever been in his mind.
I
wasn’t answering the phone most days. It rang and I listened to messages and then deleted them. It was sort of sad and funny at the same time, since I used to almost jump out of my skin when the ringer went off, and then stare anxiously at the caller ID on my machine, hoping for a familiar name. For the past few years, it almost always came up as UNLISTED, which meant telemarketers or consumer surveys. Often I’d pick up and talk to the rep for a while, even if I had no intention of signing on to whatever they were offering, just to hear an adult voice. Those people
didn’t mind wasting your time, but they sure did get pissy when they realized you’d wasted theirs.
wasn’t answering the phone most days. It rang and I listened to messages and then deleted them. It was sort of sad and funny at the same time, since I used to almost jump out of my skin when the ringer went off, and then stare anxiously at the caller ID on my machine, hoping for a familiar name. For the past few years, it almost always came up as UNLISTED, which meant telemarketers or consumer surveys. Often I’d pick up and talk to the rep for a while, even if I had no intention of signing on to whatever they were offering, just to hear an adult voice. Those people
didn’t mind wasting your time, but they sure did get pissy when they realized you’d wasted theirs.
Now, the messages wouldn’t stop coming. The newspaper called, and the TV stations. They wanted my side of the story. I could have told them very concisely that my side of the story was FUCK YOU, although I didn’t think that would help my cause. Jim phoned from work, twice, “Just checking in. Just wanted to let you know you don’t have to go through this alone.” It both tweaked my dependencies and infuriated me; after all, what did he really have to offer? A patient ear and some awkward sex? Like he could even begin to understand. Then I remembered what he’d endured, with his sick child and his faithless ex-wife, and I got angry with myself. But I didn’t call him back.
And then, Thursday morning:
“Hello, Ms. Wren? My name is Carolyn Rowe. My husband Duane and I run a private investigation service here in the area, and I’m sorry to have to tell you that we’re the ones who located you for Mr. Pritchett. We were subcontracted by an affiliate company Mr. Pritchett had retained in California, and they turned out to be less than forthcoming about the reasons you were being sought. I’m calling you to offer our sincere apologies. We thought we had a pretty decent screening system in place to keep ourselves from getting into this kind of trouble, but it seems to have failed us in this instance, and you’re bearing the brunt. I understand completely if you don’t want to speak with us, but we have some information on Mr. Pritchett that we’d like to share with you, a few choice tidbits that might help get him
off your back. We’re just really, really sorry about what’s happened to you and … well, that’s all I can say, I guess. Here’s our number—” I recognized the prefix for Clayton, a small bedroom community on the east side of Raleigh.
off your back. We’re just really, really sorry about what’s happened to you and … well, that’s all I can say, I guess. Here’s our number—” I recognized the prefix for Clayton, a small bedroom community on the east side of Raleigh.
To tell the truth, I was curious as to exactly how Pritchett had tracked me down. He’d mentioned the private firm in LA during his interview, and I’d had visions of men in black sunglasses with walkie-talkies and satellite data. But that was bullshit. It wasn’t as though I’d taken any extraordinary precautions against being discovered, aside from the name change and moving across the country: I only wanted Randy not to find us, and I had thought of his means as being limited. Now I realized that someone could track me by spending half an hour navigating the right Internet sites.
The message might have been a con, another draw from people who didn’t particularly have my best interests in mind.
I looked in the phone book under Private Investigators (who knew they actually advertised?) and sure enough, there was the number, alongside a listing for ROWE INVESTIGATIONS. They didn’t have an ad, just their title. I rested a little easier, but didn’t know what would be the point of contacting them. Pritchett had money, recent history, and a valid grudge on his side. I had to let this pass over me like a storm, and then peak my head back out when it was clear.
If I didn’t lose my mind first.
Then Hayden came home after school, and things changed again. He wasn’t crying, but his face was screwed
up so tight I could tell it was coming soon enough. I hugged him, and sighed. “Honey, I thought you were supposed to be going over to Caleb’s.”
up so tight I could tell it was coming soon enough. I hugged him, and sighed. “Honey, I thought you were supposed to be going over to Caleb’s.”
“His mom won’t let me come over anymore,” he said, his poor eyes filling with rejection, that ugliest of hurts. “She says he can’t be friends with me anymore.”
Something in me went still and then hardened. I spent the next few hours trying to cheer him up, with little success. I thought of calling Gabby McPherson and telling her my exact opinion of her son, her house, her husband, and her shitty excuse for interior design. Instead, I picked up the phone and dialed the number Carolyn Rowe had left on the machine.
W
e met at Pullen Park in Raleigh, on a Saturday afternoon. It was a public recreation area with playgrounds and ponds and a merry-go-round, and the day turned out to be sunny and bright, the sky that hard clear blue of late winter, with temperatures in the low fifties. Lots of people had decided to take advantage of the weather, and the park was busy. I got a table with an umbrella near the slides and swing sets, so I could keep an eye on Hayden. The Rowes, when they arrived, mentioned that they didn’t have children of their own, which I soon surmised was their way of explaining why they got jumpy every time a group of kids exploded into screams or laughter.
I’d forgotten how shrill large groups of kids could be to the unattuned ear. Duane Rowe joked that it was like a flashback to his days as an uniformed cop, busting parties.
e met at Pullen Park in Raleigh, on a Saturday afternoon. It was a public recreation area with playgrounds and ponds and a merry-go-round, and the day turned out to be sunny and bright, the sky that hard clear blue of late winter, with temperatures in the low fifties. Lots of people had decided to take advantage of the weather, and the park was busy. I got a table with an umbrella near the slides and swing sets, so I could keep an eye on Hayden. The Rowes, when they arrived, mentioned that they didn’t have children of their own, which I soon surmised was their way of explaining why they got jumpy every time a group of kids exploded into screams or laughter.
I’d forgotten how shrill large groups of kids could be to the unattuned ear. Duane Rowe joked that it was like a flashback to his days as an uniformed cop, busting parties.
He was a short man, stocky and thick, with a wrestler’s kind of build. He wore a Durham Bulls baseball cap, which he removed to shake my hand, and then promptly placed back on his head. I was left with an impression of a prematurely gray halo of hair, cut short and patchy in places; I guessed the cap was a routine fixture. A corduroy jacket and faded blue jeans made him seem both instantly affable and indistinguishable from half the middle-aged men in the park. His wife was his physical opposite, slim and athletic, bleached blond and well preserved, although her eyes gave her away as slightly older than she was trying to look. Still, I could imagine her being pursued by men in their twenties and men in their fifties alike; a trick not many of us could pull off. She managed to sport the low-cut jeans worn by girls half her age, without coming across as tacky. Several fathers were loafing in our vicinity, ostensibly keeping watch over their children, and more than one of their heads swiveled in her direction more than once. Duane seemed not to notice.
Carolyn was also one of those Southern ladies who seems uncontrollably compelled to act a bit overly familiar; instead of shaking my hand, she hugged me quickly. “Oh, honey, I can’t begin to tell you how sorry we are,” she gushed, her eyes sparkling like she might cry right here in front of everybody. “You can slap each one of us in the face, pour a drink on our heads, whatever you want.”
“Not necessary,” I said. We sat at the table and I made a mental note of Hayden’s location. He was playing with some kids near the swing set; a couple of them were talking amiably to him and they were all laughing. I reminded myself that they probably didn’t recognize him, or know who his mother was.
“I like what you did with your hair,” Duane said.
“Thanks.” Yesterday, while Hayden was at school, I’d had it cut short and darkened a few shades. I was also wearing big sunglasses, and had yet to draw any untoward stares. “So …”
Carolyn sat beside me and brought a folder out of a worn leather tote bag that looked like she’d been carrying it around with her since she was a teenager. “Right off, let me tell you a little about us. Duane was a police officer in Baltimore for six years, then in a town called Reston, Virginia, for eight more. I was a reporter for the paper in Reston, and that’s where we first met. When he decided to leave the force we moved down here, because I grew up here and my mom was sick at the time. She’s better now, but we decided we liked it and we started up our business. Now we mostly do things like divorce, insurance fraud, those sorts of jobs.”
“Following people around,” I said.
Duane laughed.
“That’s exactly right,” Carolyn said. “It’s less romantic than most people think, but I can see we don’t have to disabuse you of that notion. Which is good. Now, as relates to you, we got a call from another investigative firm on the West Coast about five months ago—”
“You mentioned that in your message.”
“I think Ms. Wren would appreciate it if you cut to the chase, darling,” Duane observed.
“No, that’s all right,” I said. “It’s just that it’s all still kind of surreal.”
“Well, anyway, Duane and I usually collect enough background information that we can screen out people who want us to locate someone for the wrong reasons. We don’t assist stalkers, and we don’t even work for insurance companies if they have a bad record.”
“Which narrows the field a bit,” Duane said with a smile.
Carolyn slapped his arm. “I’m trying to tell her what she needs to know.” She looked at me. “Didn’t he just tell me to hurry it up?”
I nodded, amused despite my best intentions.
“See?” she told her husband. “Now shut up until I’m finished. Okay. So Duane had a partner when he was still in Reston, a fellow who eventually moved out West. This guy works for this firm I mentioned, it’s a lot bigger than our operation, obviously, I mean they’ve got like twenty investigators and a huge budget and all. Well, this guy called Duane and he made out like you were the target in a civil case and you’d skipped out and changed your identity in order to duck a subpoena. They already had your new name and everything, even your address. They just wanted us to establish if it was actually you, and get your routine down and let them know. We’d done some research on the Internet, so we knew a little something of your history, and I can
tell you I was kind of conflicted about it already at that point, but by then we’d taken the job. And I figured that maybe you’d done something wrong in the time since what happened with your husband. Then Mr. Pritchett showed up and we gave him our records and I suppose he used them to sneak up on you. I heard he came after you while you were shopping?”
tell you I was kind of conflicted about it already at that point, but by then we’d taken the job. And I figured that maybe you’d done something wrong in the time since what happened with your husband. Then Mr. Pritchett showed up and we gave him our records and I suppose he used them to sneak up on you. I heard he came after you while you were shopping?”
“How did you know that?”
“Oh, we’ve had words with Mr. Pritchett,” Duane said. “We called him and expressed our displeasure with his little smear campaign in no uncertain terms. But my friend’s outfit had already cut us a check and Pritchett simply told us our services were no longer required. He actually hung up on me.”
“I love that you do your shopping late-night,” Carolyn confided, leaning over and putting a hand on my shoulder. It was all I could do not to flinch. “There’s nothing like a store when it’s all empty, just you and the Muzak. Do they still call it Muzak? Anyway, it breaks my heart that he accosted you the way he did. We never meant for it to happen like that. Duane’s had a pretty serious talk with his friend in LA, too.”
“This case has ended a couple of financially beneficial relationships,” Duane said unhappily.
I wanted to like them. But when he said that, I responded before I knew quite what I was going to say: “I had to tell my son the truth about his father the other night. I had always told him he was just a petty criminal. And I’d told him he was dead.”
Both of them were quiet for a moment, and we all looked over at the swing set. Hayden was going pretty high, his legs tucked in tight during the backswing to get the most momentum, his hair flying out around his head. The clouds had started to move in and the children were breathing steam, dissipating trails lingering momentarily wherever they went running by.
“Bless his heart, he is the cutest thing,” Carolyn Rowe said mistily. When she turned to face me, though, her lips had gone tight and her eyes were cold. “After we realized what we’d been part of, we did some digging of our own into Mr. Pritchett’s history. We have some ideas on how you might get him to let you alone.”
“First off, though, you really need to give some kind of a response to the press,” Duane said. “I know it sounds like bullshit, but if people don’t hear your side, they assume that whatever’s being said about you is true. Jennifer McLean has done the most extensive local coverage, and she’s the only one who’s actually interviewed Pritchett, so it would probably be most effective if we could get her to do an interview with you. It’ll be tough, but once you can explain how you were as much a victim as Pritchett was, people will be much more likely to empathize.”
“Hold up for a minute,” I cautioned. “First, how did your friend in LA find me? Do you know?”
Carolyn sighed and Duane nodded. Duane said, “Your mother passed away last year?”
Damn. I knew it. “Last winter. She never even told me how sick she was, said it was just routine aging issues. It was
stomach cancer. She left a note that said she didn’t want a funeral because she didn’t want me to come out there and attract attention.”
stomach cancer. She left a note that said she didn’t want a funeral because she didn’t want me to come out there and attract attention.”
“She must have meant well,” Duane said kindly. “But both your real name and your assumed name were included in her will, and it was executed to your bank account once everything was liquidated. You signed in your own name.”
It had been a two-week trip. I’d boxed up the house and hired some men to take the boxes to Goodwill. I avoided all my old friends and didn’t leave the house but a few times. Hayden wandered the halls wide-eyed, sensing my disconnection and steering clear as much as he could manage. He played in the empty rooms with his handheld computer and stared at the photos on the wall until I packed them away. He asked who the people in the pictures were, and I told him I had to concentrate. I sold the house to the bank at a loss and kept only three boxes worth of memories, important papers, and photographs, Mom’s file folder of all her editorials, clipped out of the newspaper. I didn’t think about Mom much while I was there, spending my mental energy instead on damning Randy, over and over again.
Now I looked at the Rowes and told them, “I didn’t know any better. I thought maybe everyone would forget about me. I always knew my mother would blow it at some point.”
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