Chosen for Death (10 page)

He leaned forward into the light. I'd avoided really looking at him before. I'd been too angry to care how he looked. His skin was pale, almost sallow, and this late at night, the dark shadow of his whiskers showed. His nose was thin and almost pointy, his eyes dark and lost in shadow so I couldn't see their color. His eyebrows were very dark, and rose above his eyes in crescents that gave him a perpetual questioning look. An attractive face, if only he allowed it some expression.

"You've heard some of these questions before," he said, "but I'll try to be more civilized about it this time." He was nervous, too. He wasn't used to wearing his own face, to being vulnerable himself. The impassive facade was a good barrier. But the day, with our clashes and anger, the odd kindness of dinner and his confession, had created a cautious intimacy between us. It would be difficult for him to retreat now. "First, maybe you should tell me about your sister," he said. "What was she like?"

"Lost," I said. "That's the first word that comes to mind when I think of Carrie. And the second is complicated. She had an air of vulnerability, of needing to be rescued. People were always trying to rescue her, to help her—her teachers, our neighbors, her boyfriend, Todd. But she resisted it. Part of it was just the way she looked. Like a perfect little doll. People treated her like a toy and not a person. She had that curly blond hair, and perfect pink and white skin, and an adorable turned-up nose. And she was so small. Of course, beside the rest of our family, she looked even smaller and blonder. So people perceived her as helpless, even though she wasn't particularly helpless. And yet, even though she resisted all attempts at rescue, I think she always hoped she'd be rescued. To prove you truly loved her, you had to rescue her, and she made rescue impossible."

I searched for the right words to explain Carrie. "I don't know much about the psychology of adopted children, but I think the fact that she was adopted played a big part in Carrie's life. The family made no secret of it. Mom always told Carrie that she was extra special because she was 'chosen' to be a part of the family. That with Michael and me, they had had to take whatever they got, but with her they'd been able to choose. Carrie never believed it. She didn't feel chosen. She probably shouldn't have been given to us. She should have been an only child in some nice blond family."

"Why?"

"The physical differences. She couldn't identify with the family. Part of her air of being lost was genuine. She was lost because she didn't feel like she belonged to us, and she didn't have anyone else to belong to, so she had no identity. Our love, caring, and support, and all our efforts to include her and make her feel like a part of the family, couldn't keep her from feeling alien. It was like we were a different species. Am I making any sense?"

He nodded. "How did Carrie get along with your mother?"

"I think you already know," I said. "Not very well." I hated to admit it. "Carrie was always defiant. Difficult. Once she became a teenager, they didn't get along at all. Mom would never admit it, of course, but I think she felt as alienated from Carrie as Carrie did from us. Carrie represented the failure of her dreams of the large, perfect family. My parents wanted lots of children. After Michael, they couldn't have any more. It took them a long time after that to get Carrie. I think they both expected too much from her."

I didn't want to say bad things about my mother so I tried to change the subject. "Detective," I said, "do you really need to know this stuff, about Carrie and my mother?"

"Hard for you, isn't it?" he said. "But it does help me understand her."

"Mom never said this. She'd never admit it, but this is what I saw. She had taken Carrie in, and lavished love and attention on her, and she got rebellion and ungratefulness in return. They just didn't understand each other." I had a clear vision of Mom and Carrie in the kitchen, making cookies. Mom trying to teach Carrie; Carrie determined to do it by herself. Ending up with burned cookies and hurt feelings. "Of course Mom got rebellion from me, and from Michael, but Carrie's was different. And Mom didn't handle it as well. She was older when Carrie was a teenager; maybe that was part of it. The worst thing was Carrie's desire to search for her birth parents."

"Your mother mentioned that on Sunday," he said. "Was that something that went on for a long time?"

"On and off. Carrie always wanted to know who her 'real' family was, but she rarely mentioned it, because Mom always seemed so threatened by it. More recently, she got involved with a search group—a group of adopted children all interested in finding their birth parents—and with the group's support she got more demanding. She felt that Mom should help her, since the records are sealed and available only to the adoptive parents. And Mom refused. I thought—we all thought—that when Carrie came up here she was taking a break from her search."

"Carrie didn't pursue her search while she was here?"

"Not as far as I know. But the fact that she didn't mention it doesn't mean she wasn't doing it. Carrie was much more secretive than the rest of us." Now that I understood his reasons, I wanted to cooperate, but talking about Carrie, especially here in this apartment, made her seem so close. It was hard to talk around the big lump in my throat. "I know what you said, about the dead having no privacy. I still feel like I'm violating her memory somehow, talking to you about her private life," I said. "All this stuff makes her sound so bad. But if you'd only known her."

He handed me his handkerchief. "This is the only way I can know her," he said. "Your feelings are normal, but by protecting that privacy, you protect the killer. I meant what I said about murder victims having no privacy. It used to bother me like it bothers you, prying into the lives of the dead, getting their family and friends to share the intimate details of their lives. I look at it differently now. I see myself working with the murder victim. I need to know Carrie, to understand her. The closer I come to knowing her, the better my chances are of finding her killer."

He seemed uncomfortable with what he'd just said. I sensed it was something he didn't usually tell people. And he didn't want to say any more. Instead he picked up his coffee cup and got to his feet. "You want more coffee?"

"It wouldn't help. I'm beyond reviving. But I'd like some water, please."

I heard him go into the kitchen, and then heard his footsteps on the stairs. When he came back, he had a blanket over his arm. He set down his refill and my water, and handed me the blanket. "You looked cold," he said.

"Thanks," I said. I wrapped myself up, thinking what an odd combination he was. So gruff and so kind.

"Was Carrie sexually active in high school?"

"Yes. She asked me about birth control when she was fifteen, because she didn't want to talk to Mom. She was usually monogamous, but sometimes she slept around. Her problem was that she chose lousy guys. She loved them and they were using her. It was the adoption thing again. She'd been discarded once, so she didn't think she had any value. We were all relieved when she got involved with Todd."

"Why?"

"Because he was a nice guy. Is a nice guy. The only decent guy she ever picked. He's heartbroken about what happened. Not that it was a smooth romance. Carrie loved Todd, but she couldn't stand his protectiveness. She had to lash out at anyone who treated her well, because she felt she didn't deserve it. She would periodically break up with Todd and take up with some lowlife. Todd always waited patiently, and was there when things went wrong. A real sucker, but he couldn't help himself. He loved her. That's how we all were about Carrie. I'd left home by then, but I was always like a second mother to Carrie, so it was me she called for advice. She used to confide in me a lot."

"Used to?" he said.

"Since David died, I've been less accessible. Most of the time, I work. I haven't been a very good sister to Carrie."

He had the grace to let it go. "Suppose Carrie went too far, flaunting other guys in his face, could Todd have snapped and killed her?"

"Have you met Todd?" I asked. He nodded. "Well, then you must see that he couldn't possibly be a killer. He's devastated by Carrie's death."

"Killers often are," he said. "Passion killings are very common."

I thought of the photograph. "I know your experience is different from mine. I know that the killer is sometimes a most unlikely person, but I know Todd. I can't believe he could commit this crime. Maybe, if he were extremely provoked, he might have hit Carrie. That other thing, though, with the stick. He couldn't do that. Whoever did that hated women, or hated Carrie, or was just terribly sick. Todd's not sick."

"Tell me more about the lowlifes, as you call them. What sort of people were they?"

I couldn't help it. I laughed. "You don't know what lowlifes are?"

He tried to look wide-eyed and innocent, but it didn't work. He just looked foolish. "I see so many different kinds, in my business," he said. "Tell me about the ones Carrie was attracted to."

"She liked the drink-too-much, use-and/or-sell-drugs, don't-read, indifferent, all-girls-are-pieces-of-ass types. Guys who cared more for their cars than for their girlfriends, who bragged about the girls they'd slept with, mooched their girlfriend's baby-sitting money for beer and gas, who didn't go to school, except as a diversion, and who believed that using condoms was an affront to their divine manhood. You get the picture?"

I thought of the countless hours I'd wasted trying to talk Carrie out of seeing some of them. Of the times she'd called me in tears because she'd been used, mistreated, or abandoned. You can't transfuse self-esteem, and Carrie had badly needed some.

"Any of them ever hit her?"

"Now and then."

"Did she talk to you about that?"

"I talked to her. There was this one guy, Chuck, she dated her last year of high school. She was so crazy about him that she couldn't think straight. He used to pinch her until her arms were all black and blue, and once he gave her a black eye. She insisted he was just teasing, with the pinching, even though she admitted it hurt. She said she deserved the black eye, because she'd kept Chuck waiting, and he hated to be kept waiting."

Carrie had called so much that year that David had briefly taken to answering the phone "Mother Thea's Counseling Service." Not that anything I said to Carrie made much difference. But she always said it made her feel better to talk to me.

"You're drifting away," Lemieux said.

"Sorry. I was remembering. I tried to tell her that guys who care don't hurt you for fun, but she just couldn't hear it. Chuck used to break up with her, take her back, and break up with her again, just to jerk her around. He was a real pretty thing—handsome, smooth as a snake, smart, and charming, but a real bastard." I drank the rest of my water. I was beginning to lose my voice, and my eyes kept closing. It was cozy under the blanket and I was ready to curl up and sleep.

"I'm losing you," he said. "Bear with me just a few more minutes and I promise I'll go away and let you sleep." I tried to shake myself awake.

"What happened to Chuck?" he asked.

"Went to jail for car theft. And Carrie went back to good old Todd. Oh, I forgot. Chuck liked kinky sex. He used to tie her up, and sometimes he wouldn't untie her for hours. He was older and had his own apartment. Carrie said she hated it—the tying, not the apartment—but it made him happy. Making him happy was all-important to her. We were so glad when he was sent away that we celebrated. Mom made Carrie's favorite dinner, and the whole family came home. Carrie spent the whole evening crying on David's shoulder, while Todd watched helplessly. Later David said we'd have to give Todd iron pills if he was going to have the energy to handle Carrie. What he really meant was he thought Todd was a wimp."

"Who is David?"

"David was my husband," I said. Lemieux leaned forward as though he was eager for more information about David. "I don't talk about David. He's dead."

"Why don't you talk about him?"

"It hurts too much," I said. That's all I was going to say. My feelings about David were private, for me alone. They had nothing to do with this and were none of Lemieux's business. "Is there anything else... about Carrie? It's been a hard week and I'm awfully tired."

"I know you are," he said. "I'm almost done. What about Carrie's other boyfriends, after Chuck?"

"I don't know much about them. There was Todd, of course. He and Carrie were both in the Amherst area. She was at U. Mass. and he was at Amherst. I was busy, so I didn't see much of her. She called me a lot. Then David was killed, and I sort of withdrew from the family; well, from everything, except work, for a long time, and so I rarely saw her. She didn't call me with any crises, so I figured she'd settled down. I'm afraid I sort of abandoned her. So I don't know what she was up to. But everything will be there in the diary, so you can read about it. She used her diaries like an imaginary friend, confiding everything to them. You
do
have her diary, don't you?"

Lemieux looked surprised. When he was surprised, his eyebrows flew up and gave his face an appealing, elfin quality. He'd probably have hated it if he knew. "No, we don't. Why did you think we had it?"

"The apartment looked like someone had searched it. Carrie was very precise and neat. She'd never leave books lying all over, or drawers half open. I assumed you'd looked through her things and taken whatever might be helpful. Are you telling me you didn't search?"