We arrived back at the bar about an hour later. The weather outside was cold and gray, and the wind coming in off Lake Michigan split itself into icy tentacles that snaked their way down the streets and between the buildings of the city. There was definitely snow in the air; I could smell it, see it in the clouds, and feel it in my bones. I’d heard other people express similar sentiments often enough to suspect that these sensations were legitimate ones that others shared as well, but such is the nature of my disorder that I can never be sure. I can taste an oncoming snowstorm, something I’ve never heard anyone else mention, so I keep that one to myself. And I can often tell what kind of snow is coming from slight variations in the taste. Light, fluffy, dry snow tastes like white bread, whereas wet, heavy snow tastes like wheat bread.
Once inside, Duncan and I headed for my office, shedding our coats along the way. We waved several of my customers along to follow us: Cora, the Signoriello brothers, and Tad.
“We heard about some missing kid on the news,” Frank said when we were behind closed doors. “They issued an Amber Alert and said he lives in the Halyard Park neighborhood. Is that where you guys were?”
I nodded, not saying anything. I was still struggling with my emotions.
“I could use a cup of coffee,” Duncan said, reaching over and giving my shoulder a squeeze. “Can I fix you a drink? I’ve got something special in mind, an old family recipe. It will take me a few minutes because it requires some kitchen prep, but I promise you it will be worth it. And it’s the perfect drink for a cold night like this one.”
“Sure, thanks,” I said, intrigued.
“Anyone else?” Duncan asked the others.
The Signoriello brothers were huge Pabst beer fans and they each had one in hand, most likely their second or third ones if history was any indication. Cora, who tended to live in my bar because she could conduct her business from anywhere there was Wi-Fi—and it was thanks to her that Mack’s Bar had Wi-Fi—often nursed a single glass of Chardonnay for an hour or two. In typical fashion, she had half a glass that she had carried into the office with her.
Tad hadn’t brought a drink with him and he quickly accepted Duncan’s offer. I think the others might have passed had the offer been for any regular drink, but Duncan’s preface had them intrigued. Eventually everyone accepted and Duncan left to go make his mystery drink.
I settled in at one end of my couch and the Signoriello brothers filled up the other. Cora claimed the work chair behind my desk and then went about setting up her laptop. Tad settled into the chair on the other side of the desk, meaning Duncan would have to stand when he came back.
These impromptu meetings had become something of a regular event since the establishment of the Capone Club. A few people had emerged as “specialists” for the club, such as Cora for her computer and hacking skills, and Tad for his financial knowledge and contacts.
Another regular member—one whose “expertise” wasn’t so obvious—was Kevin Baldwin, a single, thirty-something gentleman who has been out of town for a couple of weeks. He worked as a local trash collector—though he preferred the title “sanitation engineer”—and his primary value to the group was his access to people’s trash. A lot of people don’t realize that trash put out for collection can be gone through without a warrant by cops who are searching for information or evidence. The cops had asked Kevin a couple of times to set aside certain trash pickups on his route so they could search through them. Though the cops could legally confiscate someone’s trash if they wanted to, they liked the idea of using Kevin to collect it for later inspection, because it kept the owner of the trash none the wiser.
The Signoriello brothers have little in the way of current expertise to offer, but they have an unbridled enthusiasm for the job, some great contacts in the insurance industry, and some keen insights on human nature gleaned from their combined 140-plus years of living.
Not surprisingly, the foursome in my office started pumping me for information almost immediately. I suspected they were hoping to get the scoop before Duncan came back, some juicy tidbit that he and the other cops investigating the case wouldn’t want shared. But one thing Duncan and I had in common was a good understanding of human nature. As such, we had anticipated this and discussed it on the way back to the bar after leaving the Cooper house. Duncan had already told me what I could and couldn’t share. Most of what I was allowed to tell was the same stuff the news people would get. Enterprising reporters monitor police scanners for bits of radio chatter that give away details, or they’ll quiz neighbors, witnesses, or acquaintances for what they know. I’ve learned from Duncan that the cops are well aware of these information leaks and they expect that many of the details about the case will get out. But there are always a few things—sometimes seemingly insignificant things—that the cops try to keep under wraps so they can weed out false confessors and distinguish which of any similar crimes may be copycats.
In the Cooper case, one such bit of information was the fact that panty hose were found wrapped around Belinda’s neck. The medical examiner who was there in the room with Duncan and me had determined—based on the amount of bruising around Belinda’s neck and the amount of bleeding from her stab wounds—that the perpetrator had tried to strangle her with the panty hose prior to stabbing her. For whatever reason, the strangulation hadn’t killed her, and after seeing the disarray in Belinda’s bedroom, I guessed it was because Belinda put up too much of a fight. The ME did say he saw tissue under Belinda’s fingernails—tissue we all hoped would belong to the perpetrator. But there were also deep scratches on the front of Belinda’s neck, and the ME said that was a typical finding for someone who was being strangled from behind with something; victims typically clawed at the offending object in an effort to release the pressure on their throats and get some air into their lungs. The ME also said that while the strangulation might have rendered her unconscious, based on what we saw in that bedroom, it was clear that the stab wounds and the subsequent blood loss were the actual cause of death.
Beyond this bit of inside knowledge, Duncan had told me to use my judgment. If information I was about to reveal was something the public would likely know or could easily find out, it was probably okay to share. Otherwise, I should keep it to myself. That he entrusted me with this knowledge and discretion made me feel good.
So when Frank started with, “What was it like?” and Joe jumped in right behind him with, “What did you see?” I was prepared to provide plenty of possibly helpful but hopefully harmless details.
I started by describing the scene outside when I first arrived. Then I told them about the foyer and the living room—how they looked, the stain on the carpet, the framed photos in the bookcase. After that, I briefly described the bathroom and the third bedroom that was used as a home office. Then Tad asked a question that tugged painfully at my heart and brought my impersonal descriptions to an end for the moment.
“That poor woman,” he said. “What was she like?”
“She was pretty,” I said, recalling the photos of her I had seen in the house rather than the blood-smeared death mask that had been Belinda’s face. “She was also small. I bet she stood only five feet tall, which would have put her at a definite disadvantage against almost anyone, although she did have very muscular arms and legs, and that makes me think she worked out regularly. Given that, she might have surprised the killer by putting up more of a fight than they expected.”
“Was there evidence of a struggle?” Joe asked.
“Some,” I said. “But not as much as one might hope, at least not in terms of knocked-over furniture and that sort of thing. In fact, the house was impeccably neat. Things were very clean, and the cabinets and closets were all organized and very orderly.”
Before I could explain further, Duncan walked in bearing a tray of six mugs. When he set it on the desk, I saw that one of the mugs had coffee in it. The other five were filled with a steaming, spicy-smelling, creamy-brown drink topped off with a cinnamon stick. Duncan doled them out to us, saving the coffee for himself.
“This is my granny’s recipe for hot buttered rum,” he told us as everyone sipped and moaned with delight. The drink was hot, creamy, and flavored with hints of nutmeg and cinnamon—the perfect hot toddy for a cold autumn night.
“Wow, this is good,” I said, and then I took a second, longer taste. “You have to give me the recipe for this.” I took another swallow and felt my muscles start to unwind and relax.
“I don’t know if my granny would approve,” Duncan said. “It’s a closely guarded family secret. But I suppose if you’re nice to me, I might be persuaded.” There was more than a hint of innuendo in this comment and I saw the others in the room exchange looks.
Duncan took a sip from his coffee mug, and I wondered if he had souped it up with a shot of anything, or if he was drinking it straight. “What have you guys been discussing so far?”
“Mack was describing what the victim looked like,” Frank said.
“And telling us how she was kind of a neat freak,” Joe added. “Maybe she had OCD and had to see a shrink. You should check on her insurance claims and see if she had any psychiatric care. If she did, they might be able to give you some leads on the people or situations in her life that were problematic.”
“Good idea,” Duncan said, setting his coffee on a corner of the desk so he could scribble out some notes.
The brothers both smiled, looking very pleased with themselves and their contribution. I smiled, too. As retired insurance salesmen, they had a knack for inserting an insurance connection into every crime discussion we had. It might have been annoying—particularly since it had pointed a finger at me in Ginny’s murder—if not for the fact that most of their ideas, like this one, were good ones.
“Mack was about to tell us about the sensations she picked up on,” Cora said, her fingers poised above her laptop.
I looked over at Duncan and he gave me a subtle nod of his head, letting me know it was okay to continue. Everyone in the room understood that any information that was shared in my office was to be kept private.
“I got a definite sense of things missing from various parts of the house,” I said. “Things like the little boy’s clothing, and perhaps some of his toys. I even got a sense that something had recently been removed from the refrigerator.”
Cora asked, “Can you tell me how many of each item was taken?”
I shook my head and frowned. “Based on the degree of the voids I felt with the clothes, I’m guessing it was multiples of everything, but I can’t give you exact numbers.”
Tad confirmed what Duncan had said earlier. “Taking that stuff makes me think they don’t intend to kill the kid,” he said. “I guess that’s a positive.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “Particularly since I think it might have been some juice that was taken from the fridge. There were several other juice boxes lined up near where I felt the void, although there were also several yogurt containers there. But we didn’t find any fresh, empty containers of either juice or yogurt in the trash.”
Cora tapped away on her laptop keys. “It does sound like whoever took this kid is planning on long-term maintenance. Did they take any medicines, diapers, or the kid’s toothbrush?”
I looked at Duncan, eyebrows raised. “Funny you should ask, because that’s been bothering me,” I told her. “Why wouldn’t they take the toothbrush if they were grabbing things for the kid? It doesn’t make much sense to me.”
“It’s a good question,” Duncan said, and I could tell from the expressions on the faces of the others in the room that they were all curious as well. “Maybe they meant to take it and forgot. I’m sure they were anxious to get out of there. Or maybe they figured the toothbrush would be an easy thing to buy new without attracting any undue attention.”
Joe Signoriello said, “I might be wrong, but the fact that they grabbed the stuff they did implies a lack of forethought to me, a level of unpreparedness. If taking the kid was something they had planned all along, wouldn’t they already have stuff like that in place? I mean, come on, adults plan for kids in one way or another all the time, whether it be adoptions, or births, or even just visiting grandchildren. It’s part of normal life and simple common sense. So if taking the kid was the main objective, I would think the kidnappers would already have all that stuff ready to go.”
“Joe’s right,” Frank said. “Maybe taking the kid wasn’t the main objective, but rather a by-product of his mother’s death. Maybe that poor woman was killed because someone wanted her kid. Or maybe the kid got taken simply because he witnessed whoever killed his mother and the killer couldn’t bring himself to kill a child.”
“All good points,” Duncan said. “Although I suspect a two-year-old wouldn’t be a huge concern as a witness. I suppose he could identify someone, but I doubt the testimony of a two-year-old would hold up in court. I’m leaning more toward the idea that taking the kid was the main objective.”
“That poor boy,” I said, shaking my head. I felt a hollow ache deep inside my chest and once again I wasn’t sure if it was an emotional response or a synesthetic one. “I hope whoever took him did so because they want him, not because they want to make him disappear.”
Several long seconds of morbid silence filled the room while everyone contemplated the various outcomes. Though for me, even silence is noisy. The various odors in the room—like Cora’s perfume, the drinks we all had, the starch in Tad’s shirt, and the steam from Duncan’s coffee—each came with their own distinctive sound.
“Seems to me,” Tad said, “that we need to figure out a motive. Once we understand why this woman was killed, it might help us find the correct pool of potential suspects. Now, granted I’m a little biased since I work in finance—but it does seem like money is often at the root of so many of these crimes. Any indication of that in this case?”
“Not so far,” Duncan said, shooting me a look. I knew he was thinking of the earlier case we had.
“Either way, the kid must be scared to death,” Cora said, looking concerned.
“I wonder if that’s what caused that nasty taste I had there,” I said.
The noisy silence I experience filled the room as everyone turned to stare at me with questioning expressions.
“What taste?” Cora asked.
“I wasn’t sure if it was significant or not, and I didn’t understand it, so I didn’t mention it. It was a horrible, foul taste, like biting into meat that’s gone bad. But I didn’t have it all the time, only in certain areas. I first tasted it as we were approaching the house, when I was still outside. At first I thought it might have been connected to the blood smell, and a real taste. But it wasn’t present in Belinda’s bedroom and if it had been related to the blood smell, it should have been.”
Cora scanned her computer screen and tapped a few keys. “So far when you’ve experienced a synesthetic taste, it’s been triggered by either a touch or a sound. Were you touching anything when you had the taste?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, thinking back. “I was careful not to touch anything. Besides, Duncan made me put on gloves.”
“Where in the house were you when you experienced the taste?” Cora asked.
“It was strongest in the boy’s bedroom, the foyer, the hallway, and in the kitchen by the entrance from the hallway, next to the fridge. At first I thought it might be a smell from the fridge that was creating the funny taste, but Cora’s right. A synesthetic taste is usually triggered by the lingering air waves from a sound, or from a touch. But when I notice strong smells, I have a tendency to mouth breathe to minimize them and that can lead to some odd tastes. Because of the blood smell, I was mouth breathing quite a bit and kept thinking that was causing the tastes.”
“Seems like you experienced it in all of the places in the house where the kid would have been,” Joe said, and his brother nodded in agreement.
“Maybe I smelled—and hence tasted—his fear,” I said. “People tend to change how they smell with certain emotions.”
“You mean, like pheromones?” Cora said.
“That, yes, but also just the way our body odor or our sweat smells when we’re stressed, afraid, exhausted . . . that sort of thing. I don’t know if it’s the release of stress hormones that causes the change, or something else, but it exists. Plus, under those circumstances we tend to breathe harder and faster, emitting more of our smells into the air. If that little boy’s fear left a distinctive smell in the air, I might’ve picked it up as both a smell and a taste since I was mouth breathing so much.”
Still tapping away, Cora said, “If you tasted the kid’s fear as well as smelled it, the taste would have manifested itself as a tactile sensation or sound for you. Did you notice any correlation between the taste and any sounds or sensations?”
“I did. I felt a chill, like a cold draft was blowing on me whenever I experienced that taste. It was as if I had suddenly stepped in front of a window air conditioner, or was standing in front of an open refrigerator door. Of course, I was doing exactly that at one point, and the entire experience was chilling, so it’s hard to know if the cold sensation was synesthetic or real.”
Still studying her computer, Cora said, “Emotional residue causes tactile sensations for you, too. So maybe the chill was caused by that.”
“Maybe. It’s hard for me to know.” I turned and gave Duncan an exasperated look. “This is where I have my doubts about trying to help you. My confusion over these reactions may just muddle things even more for you.”
“Give it time,” Joe said. “The more practice you have with it, and the more things Cora can record, the easier it will get.”
I cast a suspicious eye at him. “Has Duncan been priming you?”
Joe shook his head and, at the same time, Duncan threw his hands up and said, “Hey, I’m innocent here . . . for once.”
“They’re right, Mack,” Cora said. “You have to give it time.”
I knew in my heart that she and the others were right. But I also knew that there were lives at stake, and I didn’t want to be responsible for anyone coming to harm. If I misinterpreted my reactions and led the police down the wrong trail, it might cost someone their life. It was a responsibility I wasn’t sure I wanted to shoulder. Yet whenever Davey Cooper’s smiling face flashed through my mind, I knew I had to do anything I could to help him. It left me in a dichotomous state of mind, one I feared I’d be living with for a long time to come.