Agent Linden didn’t have an office to use temporarily at the hospital, so we sat in his car in the parking lot as he smoked a cigarette out the partially cracked driver-side window. True to form, he listened to everything I’d experienced in Beth’s mind with a look of smug skepticism on his face. He was like that one guy at the magic show that wanted to be sure everyone around him knew he wasn’t going to have the wool pulled over his eyes.
“So, let me get this straight,” he said, blowing smoke in more ways than one. “Her older self thinks she’s someone else, but her younger self said her name was Elizabeth?”
“Yes.”
“How the hell does that happen?”
“It could be that the trauma of the attack somehow set her back emotionally. Maybe she feels more comfortable being her younger self because she isn’t ready to deal with it. There was a teenage version of her too, but I haven’t talked to that one yet.”
“Jesus, Crawford. Can’t you just get her to be one version of herself? The one that can tell us who tried to murder her?”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Well, have you had inmates do something like this in their dreams?”
“Sure.”
“What’d you do then?”
“It was different. Sometimes they would pretend to be someone else just to forget about their crimes for a while. But they knew they were pretending. I think Beth really believes she’s someone else.”
“Well, you’ll just have to convince her that she’s not. Now what about the fiancé? You said he was the only one she recognized.”
“But not as Bobby Fugate. As Mr. Stevens. It would help if I could talk to him.”
“But there is no Mr. Stevens.”
“I meant Fugate.”
“I doubt he’ll talk to you. He already made a statement. Unless he becomes a suspect, he doesn’t have to say another word.”
As it turned out, Bobby Fugate had an alibi for the night Beth was nearly killed. After a long night of boozing it up with the senior members of his law firm, he returned home to his inner-city apartment allegedly expecting Beth to be there. When she was nowhere to be found, he tried reaching her on her cell phone, a call that was made approximately two hours after the attack would’ve taken place. He then drove to his future in-laws’ farm house and Beth was discovered early the next morning.
“I still need to try,” I said. “Where’s his law office?”
“About two miles from here,” replied Linden.
“Can we go there?”
“It’ll piss him off, so absolutely.”
Linden started the engine and we drove out of the hospital parking lot. Within a few minutes we were outside the Law Offices of Baxter, Freeman, and Lester. Linden crammed his car into a metered spot between two vehicles, nearly ramming one and then the other as he settled into place. From where we were sitting, I could see the Ohio River nearly a stone’s throw away across the interstate. Directly on the other side was Indiana, a piece of geography I remembered from childhood but never expected to experience.
We got out of the car and walked up to the front door of the law office. Linden led the way inside and I followed close behind. There was a blonde-haired receptionist at a desk texting away on her cell phone. It was fairly easy to tell by the furniture in the waiting area that the firm had been successful. Not to mention the prime downtown office spot. The receptionist didn’t look up from her phone.
“Can I help you?” she asked indifferently.
“We’re here to see Bobby Fugate,” Linden answered.
“Mr. Fugate is out of the office at the moment,” the receptionist replied, still texting away. “Would you like to leave him a message?”
“Do you have any idea when he’ll be back?” I asked.
“Nope,” she said.
Just then the front door opened and an older man in a suit entered the office. He gave Linden and me a once-over. “Are you gentlemen seeking legal counsel?” he inquired.
“We’re here to see Mr. Fugate,” Linden told him. “Will he be in today?”
“I’m afraid not,” the man answered. “He’s in court all day. Is there something I can do for you?”
“Actually, maybe there is,” I said. “My name’s Max Crawford,” I said, extending my hand.
The older man accepted hesitantly. “Oscar Freeman,” he reciprocated.
I motioned to Linden. “This is Agent Linden of the FBI We’re investigating the attack on Mr. Fugate’s fiancée, Beth Martin. Do you know her?”
“Yes,” he answered. “I know Beth. Lovely girl. It’s a shame what happened to her. Why don’t we go somewhere we can talk more privately?” He turned to the receptionist, who was now eavesdropping without trying to hide it. “Any messages for me, Candace?” he asked, giving her a disapproving look.
“No, Mr. Freeman,” she replied, pretending to go back to work. “Nothing this morning.”
“Thank you, Candace,” he said. “This way, gentlemen.”
He led us down a hallway and into a suite of offices. Each one had the name of each senior partner on gold plates on the door. I didn’t see one for Fugate. Freeman brought us into a conference room with a long, mahogany table in the middle of it. There were several plush office chairs around the table. An unobstructed view of the Ohio River filled a window that ran the length of one of the walls. Freeman motioned to two of the chairs.
“Please, have a seat.”
We sat down on the side facing the window and Freeman took a chair at the head of the table. In the center of the table, there was a bouquet of flowers. Next to the bouquet, there was a box of tissues. I assumed they were for clients when they found out how much their bill was going to be. Freeman leaned back in his chair, obviously very comfortable in his senior position.
“I’m gonna level with you, gentlemen,” he said with an air of authority. “Bobby’s already told me about you and, frankly, I disagree with how you’re handling the investigation. But it’s not up to me, so here we are. How can I help you?”
“How long has Mr. Fugate worked for your firm?” I asked.
“This is his second year with us. He’s in line to be partner one day. He’s a very bright and driven young man. Kind of like me when I was his age.”
I paused to read Freeman’s mind. He genuinely liked Bobby. He even had feelings toward him as if he were his own son. Linden and I, on the other hand, Freeman did not like.
He was trying very hard to hide his disdain for us coming to his place of business in the middle of the day unannounced. As for Beth, he didn’t seem to care one way or the other. He was very much about keeping up appearances.
“Any further questions?” he added with a grin that bared his teeth.
“Only a couple more,” I said. “How did Bobby act after the attack?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was his ability to perform his duties affected? Did he ask for time off?”
“No, he did not. I encouraged him to take time off, but he insisted on continuing to work. He said he needed to stay busy to keep his mind off it. I’m sure you can both understand. As for his performance, he’s as top notch as he’s always been. Does that make him a suspect?”
“Should it?” asked Linden.
Freeman smiled. “I assure you Bobby loves Beth very much. He wants to find the person that did this to her even more than you do.” He started to get up from his chair. “Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me—”
“Just one more question if you don’t mind,” I said.
“Of course not,” he said, simultaneously sitting back down and wanting to punch me in the face. “Go right ahead.”
“Can you think of any reason Bobby would want to impede our investigation?” I asked.
“Let’s just cut to the chase, why don’t we?” he said, no longer feigning a grin. “This psychic nonsense isn’t helping anybody. Why don’t you leave the poor girl alone? The truth always comes out one way or another. Why continue with this charade?”
“Her parents don’t seem to think it’s a charade,” said Linden. “They actually want our help.”
“Her father is losing his mind and her mother is so desperate she’ll do anything,” said Freeman. “Of course, they’ll agree to the most cockamamie idea that comes their way. Why get their hopes up?”
“Because they deserve justice,” answered Linden.
“Justice,” Freeman scoffed. “That word is thrown around so often it’s lost its meaning. What they deserve is closure.”
Closure was a concept I always struggled with in my job. A respectable goal, no doubt, but one that seemed perpetually out of reach. Even when inmates came to terms with their crimes, were forgiven by their victims’ families, and gave their life to God, the nightmares still came back. No example better illustrates the apparent inescapable nature of the past than Paul Fletcher, an inmate convicted of killing a man while driving intoxicated.
One wouldn’t assume Paul Fletcher would be capable of such a thing. A very mild-mannered and polite man of fifty-seven, he served as assistant to the prison chaplain, a role he took very seriously when it came to converting other inmates. He also publicly confessed to his crime in front of his victim’s surviving family members, a gesture that would eventually cause them to cease pursuing the death penalty for him. He felt true remorse for his crime, made amends to the best of his ability, and found solace in religion. One might even say he had atoned for his sins.
But, as much as Paul appeared to be at peace with his past, he was haunted every night by the man whose life he took after surpassing the legal alcohol blood level. During visits into his dreams, I was a recurring passenger in his car and would try to remind him of everything he had done for the sake of his rehabilitation. Yet not once did he turn the steering wheel. Even at the very last second, he drove straight ahead, reliving the worst moment of his life repeatedly.
Obviously, Paul Fletcher’s type of closure wouldn’t be the same as that of Allie and Edward Martin. Nevertheless, what happened to Beth would likely stay with them one way or another for the rest of their lives. And if that’s the case, is there really such thing as closure? For once, and believe me, this was rare, I agreed with Agent Linden. What they needed was justice. At least that was something that could be defined in finite terms.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Freeman,” I said, realizing there was no further need for him. I stood.
Linden stood as well. “We’ll see our way out,” he said.
Freeman stayed kicked back in his comfortable chair. “Good luck, gentlemen,” he said. “It’s like my grandfather used to say, just because you disagree with where a man’s headed doesn’t mean you should wish him well on his journey.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Oh, and, by the way, I feel a need to apologize for Candance,” he added. “It wasn’t easy finding a replacement.”
“Replacement?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Our last receptionist, Maggie, quit without notice. It was the damndest thing. One day she was here, and everything seemed fine. The next day, poof, she was gone.”
The wheels turned in my head. “Maggie?” I said. “Is that short for Margaret?”
“As a matter of fact, it is. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. What was her last name?”
“Stevens,” he said. “Do you know her?”