Fixed in Fear Page 2

  And now the accounts were closed. Emptied with cashier’s checks in random amounts over a six-week period that ended just as the trial meant to bring Dennis Chait’s murderer to justice was beginning.

  Eddie Dirkin had been as careful closing them as he had been opening them.

  Ann Louise waited nearly two years before reaching out to The Fixer. She said she prayed each day the police would find Eddie. But as the months dragged on and the trail got colder, Ann Louise could sense the hopelessness in the detectives’ voices. More months passed without a lead and she heard a growing irritation whenever she called.

  “I guess I can understand it,” she said. “Every time I call them, their noses get rubbed in a flaming trash pile of failure. But I have to try. My husband’s dead, and Eddie’s dancing on all of Dennis’s hard work.”

  The Fixer had high fees. Ann Louise was back at work as an office manager with a small insurance company. Lydia told Ann Louise that The Fixer wouldn’t be taking the case. She wished her luck and never contacted her again.

  But Lydia continued to monitor all correspondence related to Dennis’s murder within the Minneapolis Police Department. From her communication console she secretly accessed emails, status reports, and monthly updates. Anything submitted electronically was hers to review. She learned Edward Dirkin’s name was placed on no-fly lists across the country and in every nation listed in Eddie’s computer search history. Banks around the globe were asked to notify local authorities should someone matching Eddie’s description try to open an account.

  Lydia focused closer to home. Eddie would have sacrificed his passport when he was granted bail. She was betting Eddie, with his good-time reputation and his lifelong aversion to hard work, wouldn’t assert the effort necessary to build a new identity deep enough to support a valid passport.

  Eddie was somewhere in the United States.

  As a clinical psychologist, Lydia was a trained researcher. The same investigative abilities that led to an award-winning dissertation, dozens of scientific papers, and expert clinical diagnoses proved invaluable as she set about learning all she could about Edward David Dirkin. Within a week she knew his childhood history, his tastes in music, his hobbies, and what he liked to eat. She learned about his health, the kind of movies he rented, and what kind of wine he drank. She gained access to his school and medical histories. His credit cards provided insight into everything he consumed.

  Lydia also monitored Juror Number Three, Janice Gleason. She followed the woman’s electronic and phone communications. For three years there was nothing to indicate Eddie had been in contact with the violinist. But Lydia was patient. Eddie wasn’t built for the isolation of an underground existence. When Janice received an email from a Bill Smith, complimenting her on her jury service, Lydia knew instantly it was Edward Dirkin reaching out for human contact. She tracked the source to an address in Westbrook, Maine: a small rented house overlooking the Presumpscot River.

  Lydia stared at the face on the screen. Dennis Chait was dead. Ann Louise and her young son deserved to know that the man who stole everything from them would not enjoy one more breath bankrolled by their misery. A calm, steadying warmth settled across her shoulders.

  “I’m coming for you, Eddie.” She laid her hand across the face of the man on her computer monitor. “I’m going to fix this.”

  Chapter 3

  Rita Willers, chief of police for Enumclaw, Washington, waited until the second patrolman finished adding his details to his partner’s description of the crime scene. The two men had radioed in a request to speak with her immediately. Rita had seven years’ experience as a patrol officer and four as lieutenant before the mayor tapped her to replace the retiring chief six years ago. In all that time with Enumclaw’s finest, she’d never known an officer to request an immediate meeting with any superior. Especially on a Sunday morning. When the two men finished their debriefing she understood their urgency.

  “We’ve got five bodies,” she said.

  “You should have smelled it, Chief.” The younger officer, Dalton Rogers, crunched his face. “It was hot enough in that sweat lodge to have done ’em in even without somebody killing ’em. At first I figure the fire just got too hot and burned ’em all. But then I took a closer look at the bodies. Throats slashed, deep wounds to arms and legs, and this one black guy was bleeding from the eyeballs.”

  “It was a mess, all right.” Tugger Mahoney, Rogers’s partner and twenty years his senior, seemed equally rattled, despite his best efforts to look calm and controlled. “Add to that the caterwauling of the gal who phoned it in.” He referred to his notes. “Calls herself ‘Blue Dancer,’ but she was Cindy Easton back when she went to high school with my son. She gave us the ID on one of the victims. Sam Adelsburg. Blue says he owns the operation running the sweat lodge. The twenty acres it sits on, too. Along with a pretty nice lodge Blue says was for paying guests seeking spiritual growth and something she called ‘central cleansing.’ ”

  “I know him. From Rotary,” Chief Willers said. “Prefers the name Tall Oak. Always struck me as a nice enough guy.”

  “The scene’s sealed off. Blue gave us a list of possibles for the other dead folks, too.” The younger officer handed a list of names to his chief. “That’s her list of guests who signed up for the sweat lodge. None of them have returned.”

  Willers scanned the list. No names struck her as local. “There’s seven names on this list.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the two patrolmen responded in unison.

  “Blue Dancer says all seven got on the shuttle that took them to the site,” the elder officer said.

  Chief Willers reached for the phone. “Grab the dog and search the property. Either you come back with two more bodies or we just got our first inkling about how this thing went down.”

  She waited until they left her office to punch the familiar number. She announced herself and listened to recorded road conditions while her call was transferred. She knew the sheriff would take her call regardless of what he had going on.

  “Hey, Rita.” King County sheriff Don Barton had a smile in his voice. “How are things in the rolling rural countryside?”

  “I’m gonna need some muscle, Donnie. I just got dumped something that’s way bigger than my overtime budget can handle.”

  Chapter 4

  “You got a visitor.” Daphne’s nasal announcement pulled Mort away from his monthly budget report. “I walked him up myself.”

  Mort told her he could see that and did a double take when L. Jackson Clark, Ph.D., stepped into his office. He thanked Daphne and motioned his friend toward a battered leather chair. “This is what, Larry? The second or third time you’ve been to the station since I’ve known you? Did hell choose this particular Monday to freeze over?”

  The stately black man with graying curls displayed none of his customary humor when he raised sad brown eyes toward his friend. Mort tossed his budget aside and shifted his tone to reflect the concern he felt. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  Larry’s mouth opened and closed several times. He tapped his large hand on his knee and stared into nothing.

  “Are you okay?” Mort leaned forward. “You just come back from the doctor or something?”

  The internationally renowned scholar, a man accustomed to lengthy discussions on any number of arcane topics with the world’s greatest minds, remained silent. Mort got up and closed his office door. He grabbed a bottle of cold water from the minifridge behind his desk and carried it to his friend.

  Larry stared straight ahead. “Carlton Smydon is dead.”

  It took Mort a moment to place the name. “Your uncle? I guess I should say Helen’s uncle. Is that who you mean?”

  “I had dinner with him last week.” Larry pulled the bottle of water from Mort’s hand and unscrewed the cap. “The man knew enough about world religions to sit on the faculty of any university. We spent the evening discussing how the various sects of Shinto view communal responsibility.
” Larry’s voice sounded distant, as if he was focused on a memory he wanted to trace before it disappeared. “There were times I heard the lilt of Helen’s voice in him. After all these years.”

  Mort let him linger in the moment. Their friendship had begun with a mutual passion for New York Times crossword puzzles and grew over two decades. They’d celebrated and shared successes and acted as each other’s confidant and adviser during troubling times. But despite the challenges and joys, it was the shared experience of widowhood that bonded them as brothers.

  “Was it a heart attack?” Mort asked. “He wasn’t much older than you, was he?”

  Larry stayed in that faraway place. “Carlton was only ten years older than Helen. She would have been fifty this year.” A smile came to him. “Imagine that. Helen at fifty. I wonder how the years would have changed her. My hunch is her eyes would still flash with that mischievous dare that was always twinkling in them.” He looked up toward his friend. “She’s been dead as long as she was alive. That hardly seems possible.”

  Mort nodded. Larry was respected around the world for his writings. He advised kings and presidents. He attended Hollywood premieres, royal weddings, and had the pope’s personal cellphone number listed in his contacts as “Yeah, That Guy.” But Mort knew Larry would trade it all in a heartbeat to have the lifetime of memories Mort had shared with Edie. “How’d he die, Larry? When?”

  Larry blinked his eyes rapidly, as though forcing himself into the present moment. “Yesterday. Or maybe Saturday. The bodies were found Sunday morning. That sweat lodge mayhem in Enumclaw. I read about it in the paper, of course, but I had no idea Carlton…” Larry drifted away again. “There was a fire. All of them dead…burned. The news reports say it’s being handled as a mass murder. Abraham called me this morning. Apparently the authorities contacted him looking to verify identification.”

  “Abraham Smydon has never been one of your favorite people.”

  Larry shrugged. “He was Helen’s father. Pissed beyond description when his darling daughter announced she’d fallen in love with a lowly assistant professor. He never forgave me for proposing marriage.” The black man’s face hardened. “And I suppose I’ve never forgiven him for insisting Helen be at that damned blowout he had for his fiftieth. If she hadn’t gone she…she might…”

  Mort didn’t need him to finish his thought. He knew the history. Helen had kissed her young husband goodbye and boarded a ferry to Orcas Island twenty-five years ago to attend the weekend celebration of her father’s birthday. That was the last time he saw her alive.

  All those years ago Abraham had asked his secretary to call Larry to tell him Helen had been killed.

  This time was different. Abraham called personally, asking Larry to tend to his murdered brother.

  “From what I’ve read, those bodies were badly burned,” Mort said. “What led anyone to think Carlton was there?”

  Larry took a sip of water. “He was registered at the lodge. He’d signed up for the activity. Carlton was spiritually hungry. He traveled nonstop seeking experiences he thought might get him closer to the Ultimate.”

  Mort knew that appetite was what connected Carlton to Larry. “How’s Abraham doing?”

  “He’s seventy-five. Strong as a moose and still running that blasted seafood business. You remember me telling you Carlton is Abraham’s half brother, right? Abraham’s mother died when he was ten. Cancer. His father remarried a much younger woman, and Carlton came along a few years later. They were never close.” Larry shook his head. “My guess is Abraham is not racked with grief.”

  In his thirty years as a cop Mort had the occasion to see all manner of corpses. He knew what fire could do to a body. “Where do they have him? I’ll go with you.”

  “There’s no need,” Larry said. “Five people were killed. Carlton was the only African American at the lodge. One black body was found. Beyond that…” Larry lifted his left trouser leg to reveal a tattoo Mort had seen dozens of times. “Carlton adored Helen. They were only ten years apart. He was more big brother than uncle. We grew close after Helen’s death. The night after her murderer was convicted we got drunk enough to get matching tats.”

  Mort nodded at the heart and the teardrop inked on Larry’s ankle. The name HELEN underneath.

  “The body was burned primarily in the torso region,” Larry said. “I described the tattoo and the police verified the exact one on the body in the morgue. I let Abraham know, and he asked if I’d oversee cremation.”

  Mort watched his friend, now with two loved ones murdered, sit wrapped in the numbness of grief. “I’m sorry, Larry. What can I do?”

  “Do I have to ask, Mort?” Larry’s jaw tightened. “I need a cop. I need to know who murdered Helen’s uncle.”

  Chapter 5

  Lydia Corriger stepped to one of several microphones positioned throughout the conference hall. She stumbled over the cord, sending the stand crashing to the floor and a piercing stab of feedback screaming through the speakers. Nearby attendees registered their reaction with harsh stares. When the microphone was back in position, she spoke.

  “Sorry about that.” She held the stand with both hands. “I didn’t see the wires.”

  The keynote speaker, more gracious from the stage than the collection of psychologists, psychiatrists, and social workers in Lydia’s near proximity, assured her she was fine.

  “I trust you remember your question,” he said.

  “I do. It’s about your suggestion that the legacy of trauma is often retained in muscle.”

  The speaker nodded. “Body memory, I like to think of it as.” He stepped clear of the podium, his portable microphone projecting his words throughout the hall as he moved across the stage. “Just like a well-trained athlete will unconsciously know how to move his or her body to achieve maximal performance, so will the body of an abuse victim remember how to cower or reflexively protect itself in any circumstance triggering reminders of past abuse.” He mimicked the standard poses of someone protecting against a blow. “There’s often no cognition put behind the moves. They’re seemingly instinctive.”

  “And that’s the basis of my question,” Lydia said. “Instinct is hardwired. Like the swallows flying back to Capistrano. They can’t do anything but. Or a kitten kneading its mother’s breast to start the flow of milk. The kitten has no cognition behind the move.”

  “I’m aware of instinctive behavior, Ms.—” The speaker’s tone was impatiently condescending.

  “It’s ‘Doctor,’ actually. Dr. Lydia Corriger. I’m a clinical psychologist. I have a private practice in Olympia, Washington.”

  The speaker’s smile was broad. His program bio indicated he had been trained at a host of prestigious universities and currently taught cognitive psychology at an Ivy League school. He spoke like an adult explaining to a headstrong teenager why she couldn’t take the car out on a snowy evening. “You’re a long way from home, Dr. Corriger. But trust me, they teach us about instinct here on the East Coast, too.”

  His insult drew a conspiratorial chuckle from the crowd.

  “Your question, Dr. Corriger.” He had his hands in his trouser pockets as he rocked on his heels.

  “Are you saying an abuse victim’s responses become instinctive? Leaving him or her destined to a life of shivering whimpers whenever faced by aggression? Doesn’t that limit and discount the human spirit’s ability to learn and to heal?”

  The audience was quiet. Academic protocol demanded someone of the speaker’s status be asked only respectful, adoring questions. Direct challenges to theories were best left to printed journal articles. Verbal disagreement was to exist solely within the realm of behind-the-back gossip.

  “I’m not sure what you mean when you say ‘human spirit,’ my dear.” Lydia noted the passive-aggressive endearment. “I’m a man of science.” The speaker scanned the room with a smug smile. “I’ll leave the discussion of spirits to others.”

  “So you are saying victimization is an abu
se survivor’s destiny?” Lydia persisted.

  The speaker walked across the stage and resumed his place behind the podium. “I’ll leave speculation about destiny to others as well.” He pointed to his left. “Do we have a question over here?”

  Lydia ignored his attempt to shut her down. “A person, once traumatized or victimized, has no choice but to instinctively protect themselves forever. Is that your assertion?”

  The speaker looked down, as though examining his notes.

  “You hold no room for pushing beyond? For healing? For thriving despite a traumatized history?” Lydia shrugged her shoulders. “Your position holds no expectation for hope. What does that say about our profession if your theories are true? If it’s all now body memory, what are we as psychologists to offer our patients?”

  The speaker looked to the moderator for help.

  “I’ll cede the floor in light of your silence,” Lydia said. “Lest I risk traumatizing you and handing you over to a future of endless reactive fear.”

  Lydia gathered her briefcase and purse to a chorus of whispers and murmurs. She walked out of the room, crossed the conference hotel lobby, and entered the elevator that would take her to her floor. She’d accomplished what she came for. Three hundred fifty people were now able to swear Dr. Lydia Corriger was in Boston this Monday afternoon. If they hadn’t noticed the stumble and electronic squeal, they’d surely remember her confrontation with a highly regarded evolutionary theorist. Her name would come up at every dinner table and cocktail meeting tonight. When she headed down to breakfast the next morning, heads would turn to note her arrival. There may even be a few brave souls who dared to speak to her, complimenting her on her courage to take on the scholarly bully in his very own pulpit. She’d be generous thanking them for their support. It never hurt to have hundreds of alibis who could swear Lydia had been at the Northeast Symposium on Trauma and Its Effects from its opening session to its closing awards dinner.