Twisted Reason (11 page)

Eli flushed bright crimson, but didn’t say a word.

“I’ll need a list of those facilities, Mrs. Kendlesohn,” Lucinda said.

“Why? She never stayed in any of them.”

“I just do, Mrs. Kendlesohn,” Lucinda insisted.

Rachael sighed long and loud. “If you insist, Lieutenant.”

“I certainly do, ma’am,” she said and turned back to Eli. “Did your mother take any prescription medications?”

“She did take a few but despite the loss of her mental capabilities; she was in very good shape physically.”

“Do you still have those prescription bottles by any chance?”

“Yes, I’ll get them for you,” Eli said as he rose.

Before he could walk away, Rachael said, “You have them? I told you to throw them away months ago.”

“I know, Rachael, but I couldn’t. I was still hoping she’d come back one day.”

“Oh, really, Eli? How unrealistic.” She shook her head in disbelief.

“Mrs. Kendlesohn,” Lucinda interrupted, allowing Eli the opportunity to escape the room. “The facilities list? When can I get that from you?”

“I suppose you’ll want contact names and numbers, too.”

“That would be quite helpful.”

“I think I can find the time sometime this week.”

Lucinda stood again and leaned over the seated woman, resting her hands on the arms of the chair. “You will find the time this morning. Someone will pick up the list at noon. Make sure it’s ready.”

“Your badge number, Lieutenant.”

Lucinda whipped out her badge, flipped it open and said, “There it is. Memorize it.”

“I – I – I can’t. Not just like that.”

Lucinda pulled a pen and a pad of paper out of an interior suit pocket. “Here I’ll make it easy for you.” She jotted down the digits and ripped out the sheet of paper. She was delighted to see the woman cringe at the harsh tearing sound. Lucinda flipped the page into Rachael’s lap.

Eli returned to the room holding a paper bag. “Here you go, Lieutenant. They’re all in here.”

“Thank you, sir. You can contact your funeral home and let them know that your mother is down in Norfolk. They’ll know where to go to get her. If they have any questions, they can call me. Here’s my card. Once again, sir, I am so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Thank you for your time. And you, too, Sergeant. I appreciate all you’ve done.”

As they walked down the sidewalk to the car, Jumbo said, “Boy, I sure feel guilty.”

“Ah, c’mon. We had to tell him about his mother’s death, Butler.”

“No, not that, Lieutenant. I feel guilty for leaving him alone with that woman.”

Lucinda laughed. “Can’t argue with you there.”

Eighteen

The next stop for Jumbo and Lucinda was the home of Heather and Mark McFaden, the daughter and son-in-law of Francis DeLong. They pulled up to the curb in front of a long ranch with stone running up to the window sills and white siding from there to the roof. Heather was in the front yard, hose in hand, watering a flower bed. She stared at them with a furrowed brow and pursed lips.

As soon as Jumbo emerged from the car, Heather’s mouth flew open, she dropped the hose and ran towards the car. “You found Dad, Sergeant Butler? You found Dad?”

“Yes, Mrs. McFaden. We found your father,” Jumbo said with a sigh.

“Is he okay? Where is he? When can I see him?”

Jumbo jerked his eyes away from the woman’s pleading face. “I’m sorry, Mrs. McFaden. So sorry . . .”

“What happened? Is he hurt? Is he sick? Oh my heavens! He didn’t finally hurt someone, did he?”

Lucinda put a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Ma’am, can we go inside and talk, please?”

The furrows deepened on Heather’s forehead; it seemed to Lucinda that she was perplexed by her presence and hadn’t realized that Jumbo wasn’t alone until that moment. She darted her eyes between the two detectives and nodded. Her head hung low as she dragged her feet toward the front door – each step exaggerated as if she were pulling her feet out of sucking mud.

Inside, Heather waved her left hand toward a seating arrangement in front of a stone fireplace and stepped into the edge of the hallway. “Mark. Mark. Sergeant Butler and – and – uh, somebody else are here about Dad.”

She walked into the living room, sat in a chair and straightened her spine rather than sinking into its comforting arms. She folded her hands in her lap. “Mark will be here as soon as he can. He was dressing.”

“I’m here, I’m here,” Mark said, limping into the room – one foot wearing a shoe, the other clad only in a sock. He sat on the arm of his wife’s chair and reached protectively around her shoulders.

“Mrs. McFaden, we are very sorry to have to bring you this news. But—” Jumbo began.

“He’s in jail isn’t he? Or is he in an insane asylum?” Heather cried.

“Easy, sweetheart,” Mark comforted her. “Let’s hear what they have to say before you start jumping to conclusions.”

“Actually, it’s a bit worse, Mrs. McFaden. And we are both terribly sorry for your loss,” Jumbo said.

“Loss? Loss? What do you mean loss? Are you saying? No. No. He can’t be dead,” Heather shrieked.

Mark slid to the floor on his knees and wrapped his arms around his wife, pressing his forehead against hers. “Sssh, sssh, sweetheart. I know it’s hard but we’ll get through this together.”

When Heather’s shoulders stopped heaving, Mark released her and resumed sitting next to her on the arm of the chair. “Apologies, detectives. Heather really loved her dad. The last nine months have been hellish for her.”

“He’d been living with you when he disappeared, correct?” Lucinda asked.

Heather nodded her head.

Mark added, “He’s been living with us off and on since we were married – and that was nearly thirty-five years ago.”

“Off and on?” Lucinda queried.

“Yes, you see, Francis had more problems than his most recent struggle with Alzheimer’s or dementia or whatever it was.”

“He was a good man – Dad was a good man,” Heather protested.

Mark patted her arm and said. “Yes, he was a good man at heart, Heather.” He turned to the detectives. “Sometimes, though, he’d have a really bad psychotic episode and we’d have to commit him to an institution until they could regulate his medication again.”

“What was the nature of these episodes?” Lucinda asked.

“He was never violent – not to us, not to anyone, except himself,” Heather said, her voice cracking as tears fell.

Mark gave her a one-armed squeeze and planted a kiss on top of her head. “He did hurt himself – sometimes rather badly. That was why we had to have him put away several times for his own protection. He heard these voices. He was never clear to us about what they said to him. He claimed there were literally little people in his head, yelling at him. When it got really bad, he’d bash his head against the wall or the floor, the dashboard of the car – any place that was handy. He said he wanted to kill them or at least make them move out.”

“That had to be difficult to deal with,” Lucinda sympathized.

“Yes, but more than that, it was just flat out sad,” Mark said with a sigh. “And Heather’s right – when his psychosis was kept in check by the anti-psychotic drugs, he was a sweet old guy and a great storyteller. But when the chemical balance went haywire, it was like an alien had taken over his body.”

That comment brought on a huge sobbing wail from Heather. “I was wrong. I was so wrong.”

“Wrong about what?” Lucinda asked.

“I – I – I didn’t – I – I,” Heather stammered.

Mark patted her arm again. “Hush, sweetheart. I’ll explain.” He cleared his throat. “The doctor suggested that we put him in an Alzheimer’s unit because he’d started wandering a lot. It was really hard to believe how crafty he could be about slipping out of the house. We visited a couple of places but they just broke Heather’s heart. As much of his life as he spent in institutions already because of his mental illness, she just couldn’t bear locking him up in one of those places for good. And I just couldn’t stand to force the issue. We thought we’d try caring for him at home a little longer and then, he was gone. I guess we both erred out of misguided gestures of kindness.”

“And you haven’t heard from him once in the last nine months?” Lucinda asked.

The couple shook their heads.

“Could you give me a list of the facilities you visited?”

“Sure, no problem,” Mark said.

“What about medications? Was he taking any at the time he disappeared?”

“Oh, yeah, lots of them. Two drugs for high blood pressure, one for high cholesterol, but the one that worried us the most was his anti-psychotic medication. He’d been doing well on it for a long time – but without it, there’s no telling what would happen. The first two weeks we were more concerned about the lack of those meds than anything else.”

“Did he suffer?” Heather asked.

Jumbo and Lucinda winced.

“Oh, it was awful, wasn’t it? I can tell by the look on your faces,” Heather moaned.

“He died from blunt force trauma. It appeared as if his head had violent contact with a flat surface. That injury caused him to die slowly, but in all likelihood, he was unconscious and unaware of any suffering throughout most of that ordeal,” Lucinda said.

Heather wailed out an inhuman sound and Mark pulled her to her feet and wrapped her in an embrace. Over his wife’s shoulder, he looked at the detectives, jerked his eyes toward the door and mouthed “one minute”.

The detectives expressed their sympathy once again and stepped out the front door. Five minutes later, Mark joined them carrying a list and a clear plastic bag filled with prescription bottles. He handed the two items to Lucinda and said, “Thank you. I had a couple of questions I didn’t want to ask in front of Heather. First, if he did kill himself by beating his head against the wall, will his death be ruled a suicide?”

“I doubt that, sir,” Lucinda said. “Not unless there are other indications of suicide and from what you’re telling me that doesn’t seem likely.”

“Good. A suicide ruling would tear Heather up. Where did you find him?”

“That’s the odd part, Mr. McFaden. We found his body in a pond out in Dinwiddie County. You have any idea of how he would have wound up there?”

“No, but, in a pond? And he didn’t drown?”

“No sir, it appears as if his body was left there by someone else. He did not drown.”

“It seems like I should have a dozen more questions but I can only think of one: how do we get his body back for a funeral?”

 “Just tell the funeral home that his autopsy was performed in Norfolk – they’ll know where to find him. And, Mr. McFaden, you’re not going to want your wife to see his body. There was extensive damage caused by scavenging animals.”

“Oh, dear Lord,” Mark moaned.

Lucinda handed him one of her cards. “Don’t hesitate to call me if you think of any more questions.”

Mark stared at her card. “Homicide? You think someone murdered him?”

“We thought it was a possibility, Mr. McFaden. From what you told me this morning, it seems less likely now but I’ve got to keep investigating until I know that with a certainty.”

After Mark went inside, Jumbo asked, “You still think it might be murder?”

“Somebody dumped his body in the middle of nowhere, Butler. There must be a reason for that. And I won’t rest until I know who did it and why.”

Nineteen

Two blocks from the McFaden home, Jumbo’s cell phone blurted out a reggae beat announcing an incoming call. When he disconnected, he said, “That was a woman whose husband, I believe, just up and left here a few months ago. She’s been reluctant to accept that possibility but now, it’s seems, she’s stumbled across a hidden stash of love letters. Would you mind stopping by her place for a few minutes? It’s on our way.”

“Not at all. I’ll just wait in the car and make phone calls and think some things through.” Lucinda called Ted after Jumbo slipped inside the modest ranch home at the end of a cul de sac. She explained the situation with Mrs. Kendlesohn.

“Sounds like she’ll need a little on-site encouragement to get the job done,” Ted said. “I’ll head right out there.”

Doubts about her motivations in this case of missing and deceased senior citizens took over Lucinda’s thoughts. That, in turn, took her back to that awful day – the sound of gunfire, the smell of the powder in the air, the slow-motion drop of her mother’s body onto the stairs. The roar of the shot that followed and the thump as her father’s body hit the floor in the hallway. She blamed herself. She shouldn’t have hidden at the top of the stairs. She should have come down when she heard her father’s voice. He wouldn’t have shot her mother if he knew she was watching. Or would he? She would never know and because of that she had never been able to grant herself absolution for her inaction.

Is that why I’m meddling in a natural death, an accidental suicide and a drowning? Is that why I am trying to find other reasons? To make someone responsible for their deaths? Or is there really something there?
Her musings travelled in circles. A half hour after Jumbo went inside, her frustration pushed her to try to derail her train of thought.