One We Love, The (14 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY

C
herly Bailey had
been killed last spring, explaining why her name sounded familiar. Her husband,
a high-profile, defense attorney, had been accused, tried, and acquitted. Most
of the more recent stories had to do with the lawsuit he was currently filing
against the police department, the local newspaper, the county, the state and
whomever else he could think of. Despite his scary propensity for revenge
litigation, the news articles still identified him as the main suspect although
they tossed in the words “recently acquitted” to cover their butts.

Much of the case had unfolded just after my own brush with
death, so I wasn’t as familiar with the details as I might have been. Scrolling
down the accounts of the murder, I learned that Cherly Bailey had been found
strangled on the floor of her kitchen. A tape of her husband’s remarkably
composed 911 call had been made public and probably had much to do with the
rush to convict. The defense later claimed that, as a trial lawyer, Bailey was
used to sordid crime and was so caught up in his desire to get help for his
beloved wife that he suppressed his own emotions during the initial part of the
discovery.

Might even be true.

I printed several of the more comprehensive articles
covering the murder and the most recent one on the lawsuit before plugging in
the name of the next woman: Amy Church.

Amy Church was dead, too. This time by suicide three years
ago. It probably wouldn’t have made the papers except she hadn’t been
discovered for several days—a gruesome fact on its own—and there had been some
speculation about the cause of death. Apparently she’d cut her own throat and
done a remarkably efficient job of it. Her mother, Sandee Church, was quoted in
the article. “Ain’t no way Amy killed herself. She hated the sight of blood,
especially her own.” Church’s mother had gone on to organize a fundraising
banquet to “get to the bottom” of her daughter’s death.

I sank back against the couch, thinking. A mother in denial
wasn’t unusual, but the bit about “hating blood,” if it were true, seemed to be
a point in her favor. The other thing that bugged me was the method Amy used.
Throat slashing, while not unheard of, is more often used as a threat, resulting
in a wickedly ugly scar. It’s surprisingly difficult to carry out.

I pulled her file, leafing through to where her therapist,
Lachlyn, had recorded her mental health history. According to this, she’d never
attempted suicide before. At least, none that she’d admitted. Her depression
scales were moderate, but she was compliant with her medication and, according
to Lachlyn, denied any suicidal ideation.

I could feel the popcorn twisting into a greasy clump inside
me as I typed in the next name. Kelly Jordan. Found stabbed outside a local
bar. No mention of a trial, although the police reportedly had a suspect. She’d
been Lachlyn’s client as well.

Tammy Long, killed in April 2007, was seen by Regina. Her
boyfriend at the time was tried and convicted of her murder. She’d been beaten
to death with a crowbar. Witnesses in their apartment building claimed to have
heard an argument, and one reported the boyfriend, Lyle Chester, as storming
out of the apartment in a rage. Chester admitted arguing, but claimed he left
Tammy in order to keep from hurting her, and stayed overnight at his mother’s.
When he returned the next morning to get his work clothes, he found Tammy lying
in a bloody mess on the kitchen floor. He called the police. Currently, he
resided in the Stanley Correctional Institution hoping for an appeal.

Monica Skolnik: left the shelter just this July, killed in
August. Her husband, the primary suspect, hung himself in his jail cell.
Whether that closed the case or not, I didn’t know.

The only one that Google failed to provide details for was
Jean Tschida. Hers was also the oldest file, dating back to March 2001. She’d
been Regina’s client, and the last note indicated that Jean was returning home
and had refused a termination session.

Five out of the six women whose files Regina snuck out of
the shelter were dead, victims of violent or suspicious deaths. I assumed Jean
Tschida hadn’t had a happy ending, or else why would Regina have dug the file
out? She must have remembered something.

Clotilde had set Friday as the deadline, but I needed a lot
more time than that. The only ones who could supersede her wishes were the
board, but even with Beth’s influence I couldn’t imagine that happening. Unfortunately,
I had nothing to offer that would influence their decision to wrap up Regina’s
cases. In my experience, the only thing that reliably swayed boards of
directors was money. Lots of it.

In this economy, everyone was hurting and the governments,
state and federal, were adding hoops within hoops for organizations to jump
through before cutting a check. Grant monies were drying up faster than a drip
of spit on a sidewalk in August.

Money was a guarantee, but sometimes political influence—a
slower, less certain pressure—could work, too. I tried to think if I knew
anyone at the state level who had the power to divert a trickle of the cash
flow to the shelter. I didn’t; along with Garth, all my friends were in low
places.

Besides, nowadays there were so many checks and double
checks at the front end of the money and outcome reports and efficacy studies
at the back end that keeping the money was just as difficult as getting it.

Wait.

Efficacy studies. More and more funding sources were
requiring studies that proved the money was doing what it was supposed to be
doing. Not a bad thing, really, but they were demanding those results at a time
when less money meant less staff to execute the studies.

So wouldn’t a volunteer who was willing to systematize an
evaluation process come in handy? Someone willing to do the grunt work that
kept the money a-comin’? Someone willing to dig through the records to chart
how the women fared after leaving the shelter?

Someone like me.

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

I
spent Wednesday
morning at the shelter holed up in Regina’s old office, finishing up the last
of the paperwork. As I had passed the stairwell door, I’d taken note of the new
padlock—menacing and ominous despite its bright, efficient shininess—that now
graced the door leading to the second story.

Contrary to my recent blustering, I took care to keep a low
profile. Lachlyn wasn’t there, but Clotilde surprised me by allowing me to
proceed unsupervised. Of course, if they’d already vetted the new stack of
files, they had nothing to worry about. I had no way of verifying they were
complete. None had the RTA notation on the discharge page, though.

Obviously, she wanted to get rid of me as soon as possible. On
the two occasions when I crossed paths with her, I kept my face a careful
blank, not wanting to give away any sign that I was engineering a coup. Between
forcing myself to be patient and the suspicions that roiled around my brain, I
worked up a splitting headache.

Despite that, I found myself looking forward to the AA meeting
later that night. A women’s group, it had been meeting for more than a decade.
I counted myself lucky that at less than a year of sobriety, I had access to
such a wealth of sober experience. Plus, since we took turns meeting at each
other’s houses, the coffee was infinitely better than at the club and there
were usually delicious, homemade munchies. So good, in fact, that we’d had
several men try to infiltrate over the years. Technically we couldn’t exclude
anyone, but after an evening spent listening to the minute details of menstrual
cycles and comparisons of cervical dilation records in birthing, the brave soldier
would usually decamp, vastly preferring rancid coffee and vending machine candy
over “that woman stuff.”

This month we were meeting at Rhonda’s. She shared one-half
of a tiny duplex that felt crowded with three people gathered, but her peanut
butter chunk brownie recipe was to die for. She’d crammed five extra folding
chairs—the metal kind that chills your butt when you first sit down—alongside a
couple of lawn chairs with dubious webbing. There were so many of us that we
ended up sitting five to a couch, but we all had warm brownie and a smile.

My smile had much to do with the ominous ripping sound that
I’d heard when Sue claimed one of the lawn chairs. She pretended not to hear
it, but I noticed her trying to sit light, bracing herself on the metal arms
and using her leg muscles to attempt a David Copperfield-style of levitation. Betting
that her thighs would give out before the ragged webbing, I was busily
calculating the trajectory of her brownie (in case it needed rescuing) when
Rhonda passed out the readings.    

I would have preferred the Promises, but I got the Twelve
Steps instead. Could’ve been worse. Charlie got the boring Traditions, but
after eight years of sobriety, she demonstrated more maturity.

I started reading but hadn’t even gotten through the second
step, “Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to
sanity,” when I felt someone staring. I glanced up and found Sue giving me a Sponsor
Stare of Death, which was supposed to alert me to an issue relating to my
sobriety that I should be attending to. I knew what she wanted. She wanted me
to talk to the group about my current struggles with the Second and Third Steps.
The whole “Higher Power” thing scared me to death and I’d been avoiding it. Sue
had been trying to get me to look at why.

And I might have. Except just then her chair bottom, with a
sound like two mating monkeys, split wide open. Maybe even three monkeys. It
was
loud
.

It took four of us to pull Sue to her feet and an extra
person to uncouple her from the aluminum chair frame that had embedded itself
on her nether regions. We had to pause in sheer wonder at the originality,
velocity, and intensity with which she described her feelings about being
victimized by patio furniture. I wanted to take notes.

Eventually we wrestled the thing off her butt and got her
settled on a sturdy dining room chair with a new brownie since her last had
gone flying. After all of that, the meeting was a lost cause. Every time we’d
start to settle down, someone would get the giggles, reigniting the rest of us.
Except for Sue, of course. She refused to see the humor in the situation.

Later, as we gathered our things to leave, Sue pointed a
stubby finger at me and said, “We need to meet. Soon. You’re going to talk
about the Third.” With that pronouncement, she sailed out the door, leaving us
an unrestricted view of the missing brownie’s final resting place.

Not pretty. The death of a brownie is a sad thing.

U
nfortunately in
all the hoopla, I’d forgotten to get Beth’s phone number, which forced me to
call Sue first thing the next morning. She didn’t mention the brownie or “Attack
of the Chair Night,” as it was later called. I didn’t either. I’m not stupid.

I didn’t even argue when she pushed for our meeting. Facing
God and the Third Step was far less scary than my sponsor. We set it up for the
weekend.

I waited until I had a half-hour break between clients
before making three calls—one to Beth, where I left a message; the next to the
hospital, where the only thing they would tell me was that Blodgett was stable;
and, lastly, to Bettina Reyes.

I hated to break the news on the phone, but I didn’t know
how to ask her to come in for a session without explaining the situation. Not
telling would be unduly mysterious and, to a certain extent, manipulative.
Besides, she probably wouldn’t have come. Still, telling someone over the phone
that her therapist died has its own set of problems.

I did the best I could. Initially, she refused to meet with
me. She claimed that, although surprised and saddened, she didn’t see the need
for further counseling. However, when I explained my role in closing out
Regina’s affairs and how the ethics review was still moving forward, I sensed
her beginning to waiver. The “Oh, shit. This again?” comment was my clue.
Eventually she agreed to meet with me and we scheduled her in for 4:00 that
afternoon.

Beth back called twenty minutes later. She was available for
lunch and we decided on Northwoods Pub. Everything was falling in place.

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

B
y the time I arrived,
Beth had snagged a table and two menus. Seemed a little strange for two
alcoholics to be meeting in a pub, but they had a chicken breast sandwich with
sauteed mushrooms and Swiss cheese that made whatever risk there might be worth
it. We ordered and then Beth sat back waiting for me to open the conversation.
Fair enough.

“You probably know Clotilde gave me a deadline to finish up
the review of Regina’s files,” I said. “That’s up tomorrow. I’m hoping that I
can get that extended. In fact, I have a proposition that I believe will really
benefit the shelter as well as let me complete my obligations.” If I expected
her to pick up on the bait, I was mistaken.

 “Can’t you finish up by then?”

“I could.” I hedged, wishing I knew her better. When we’d
first met at the board meeting, Beth, although shorter and curvier than fashion
dictated, had seemed to fit right in with the professionals. Today she had her
auburn hair pulled back in a pony tail and looked right at home wearing a
faded, well-worn Packer sweatshirt. In a way, she reminded me of Siggy—a
scrappy survivor who had come into some good luck. They had the same elf-green
eyes and don’t-give-me-shit attitude. Like most AA members with a few years
under their belt, she seemed a straight shooter. I needed to walk a fine line
between telling her enough to buy me more time and dumping the whole “I think
there’s a killer running around the shelter” bomb on her. That, I was certain,
would be a surefire way to get all avenues shut down.

“The thing is, while I was going through Regina’s clients, I
noticed a surprising lack of documented outcomes. The shelter just doesn’t have
any way of knowing how—or
if
—their interventions and techniques are
effective. Anecdotally, of course, we can say that the women make progress, but
there’s no real proof. It’s an easy enough thing to fix, too.

“In fact,” I continued, “I’m surprised that the shelter
hasn’t already implemented a system of tracking their results. More and more, grants
are requiring outcome studies. And, of course, they’re a great tool for
attracting donations. People want to know that the money they’re giving is
being used effectively.”

Our food arrived and we sat back as the waiter set the
plates down. Smelled delicious. Beth was watching me, a speculative gleam in
her eye. I busied myself with the napkin and pretended to be unconcerned with
her scrutiny.

“So, what’s the plan?” she asked. “What are you looking to
do?”

“I thought I could set up an efficacy study. I could, um,
review the files—Regina’s included—and do some follow-up with former residents.
Find out what happened to the women, how they’ve fared, how the shelter
impacted their lives. Meanwhile, I’d put together a survey. It would be given
to a woman when she’s first admitted. That gives us a baseline. She’d fill out
a second copy right before she leaves, if we know beforehand. Sometimes they
just take off. That one could double as an exit interview. Then when she leaves,
we’d send a survey with her, with maybe a stamped envelope, so she could pop it
in the mail on her own. I don’t know, though. The last one would be tougher
since we really don’t know what will be going on with the woman after she
leaves, especially if she returns to her abuser. By the way, we don’t know for
certain how often
that
happens either.”

Beth had finished most of her sandwich while I talked. I
took a hasty bite of my own while I waited to hear her response.

“Why?” she asked.

Since I had a mouth full of mushrooms and Swiss cheese, I
just raised my eyebrows in a “why, what?” look.

“Here’s the thing,” she said, crumpling her napkin. “I think
it’s a great idea, but I’m more interested in what’s behind it. Something tells
me there’s more to this than charitable impulse. No offense. What aren’t you
telling me?”

I started re-evaluating my stance on psychic abilities. This
woman was scary perceptive. Sue had warned me not to try bullshitting her. I
swallowed and took a deep breath.

“I can’t explain the whole thing,” I admitted. “Part of it
is wanting to make amends to Regina. She did some things for me that I didn’t
truly appreciate until after she died. I was so busy being pissed at her that I
never told her thank you.

“Another part of it is just stubbornness, I guess. Clotilde
and Lachlyn seem to have gone out of their way to let me know that they don’t
want me there, and it bugs me. I just want to do my job, fulfill my obligation
to Regina, and get out. Maybe if I were as fanatical as they are, they wouldn’t
discount me. But I don’t have to drink the shelter’s Kool-Aid to do a good job.
Even Regina recognized that.”

“Maybe that’s what bugs them,” Beth said. “I know what
they’re like. In fact, I’m pretty sure Clotilde has higher aspirations. I’ve
been on the board nine months, and you’re right about their . . .  I wouldn’t
call it narrow-mindedness, but they’re certainly devoted to the shelter. That’s
a good thing, by the way.” She raised a sardonic eyebrow at me.

“I know it is. I’d admire them for it if they weren’t so
annoying. What do you mean by higher aspirations?”

“Political. I think Clotilde’s been positioning herself for
a run at the state senate. She would certainly be a powerful ally to women in
this community, but think how much more could she do at a higher level? She
seems to be grooming Lachlyn to take over as director, but I’m not satisfied
that Lachlyn is, well, versatile enough to handle the people-pleasing side of
things.”

“Wow. I hadn’t realized that. I’m not really political,” I
said.

“Regina shared their fervency. I know you’re the therapist
and everything, but are you sure you’re not working out some kind of Freudian
thing here? Trying to make amends to the dead or something?”

I grinned. “Maybe. There are definitely some loose ends that
I need to pull together. I guess you could say that I’m just trying to ‘do the next
right thing.’” I invoked the AA slogan that acknowledges the lack of a plan,
but a motivating force of good intentions.

“So what’s the part you can’t explain?”

Huh. Like a bloodhound scenting truth she’d circled back to
the one point I’d tried to obfuscate. I sighed.

“I can’t tell you, because I don’t know if it’s true.
Looking over Regina’s files, I found some things that don’t add up. I think
Regina was looking into it, too. Look, if I’m wrong, just the suggestion of it
could destroy the shelter’s reputation. I’m being honest.” Well, now I was. “I
need more time at the shelter. I need a freer hand with the files, not just
Regina’s. As for the rest, I just can’t tell you more than that.”

Beth’s turn to sigh. Shaking her head, she looked off into
the distance, weighing my words. We sat in silence for so long that I’d about
given up. And maybe I
was
asking too much. She didn’t know me. Her
allegiance was to the shelter. The aura of AA could only invoke so much
loyalty.

“Anybody looking for a high-risk lifestyle should try
honesty,” she said turning back to me. “It’s a bitch, ain’t it?”

I nodded.

“Okay, here are the rules. We’ll go with your survey plan.
It makes sense and it would be good for the shelter either which way. They’ve
moved the board meeting up to tomorrow so I better scramble if I’m going to get
more support for this idea. It can’t just be me behind this, although I hate
that kind of behind-the-scenes politicking. Anyway, you meet with me in two
weeks and tell me exactly what’s going on, in
detail
. If your suspicions”—her
fingers twitched quote marks—“turn into fact, you call me right away. Don’t
wait. Last, if any of this harms even one of our residents, then you’ll answer
to me. And I don’t play by the rules. Get me?”

I did.

After some stilted good-bye noises, we divvied up the check
and left. In the parking lot, just before I angled off toward my car, she said,
“Letty? Be careful what you ask for. You might get it.”

 She never did tell me why she was willing to let me go
ahead.