DETECTIVE SANDRA McPHEE

From the moment she and her partner arrived on Azalea Court, Detective McPhee had a hunch something might be hinky about the missing person situation. For one thing, a neighbor called it in instead of the husband. The patrolman who responded to the 911 call told her that something was “off” about Dr. Blum. She supposed that anyone who worked at the state hospital for forty years had a right to be “off.”

McPhee had never been on Azalea Court before that morning. Pretty place to live, she thought, like so many streets in their town. She knew the bigger neighborhood of houses, condos, and apartment buildings that had replaced the massive brick buildings of the state hospital. She also knew the old state hospital grounds. Like many kids who grew up in town, the closed-down campus was a favorite nighttime playground, the ultimate spooky house setting. McPhee and her friends had hung out there most summer weekends, bringing blankets and bottles, candles and joints. Looking back, she realized they rarely thought about the people who had lived in those collapsing buildings, never considered the shadowy ghosts who might be wandering the hallways.

The hospital grounds were very different now. Only five original buildings remained, repurposed as offices or renovated for apartments and condos. She was particularly nostalgic about the coach house, a once-favorite venue for high school parties, now gentrified and reborn as a landscape school. She had lost her virginity on the second floor, where her favorite scenes in the movie The Cider House Rules were filmed. She couldn’t see the old building from Azalea Court, but she fondly whispered, “Princes of Maine, Kings of New England” to herself.

Before entering the Blum bungalow, the detectives got a report from the uniformed cop. They asked him to stay at the front door while they interviewed the husband.

Dr. Blum answered the door at their first knock and stepped back to let them enter the darkened living room. Heavy curtains were drawn, sketching the lines of the furniture in charcoal.

“I’m Detective McPhee.” She offered her hand. “This is Detective Walsh. We’ll be coordinating the search for your wife.”

“What are you doing to find her?”

“May we sit down?” McPhee asked. Dr. Blum nodded and collapsed into a corduroy recliner. McPhee sat facing the husband across a small round table with a vase of dried flowers. Walsh sat near the kitchen, opening his notebook on his lap.

“We’ve issued a Silver Alert,” McPhee said. “That’s when a missing person is an elder. By law we have to notify Elder Services, and we’ve done that. We’ve also called in a canine unit to search the neighborhood.”

Dr. Blum’s face was blank, as if he didn’t understand. “A dog,” McPhee added. “They are first rate at finding people who have wandered off.”

“Wandered off,” Dr. Blum repeated.

McPhee and Walsh exchanged quick glances. “Is that what you think happened, sir?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Dr. Blum said.

McPhee smiled at him, trying to convey her empathy and her patience. “I’m so sorry this is happening to you,” she said. “Why don’t we start at the beginning. When is the last time you saw your wife?”