The Secret Friend (14 page)

40

Tina Sanders was ravaged by osteoporosis. Protruding from her back and hidden underneath the red fabric of a ratty down coat was the classic dowager’s hump. The woman was hunched forward, her bony, gnarled fingers clutching the rubber grips of her walker. Her hair, tied up in rollers, was partially hidden underneath a blue silk scarf.

‘Did you find Jenny?’

‘Let’s talk in the conference room,’ Darby said.

Tina Sanders shuffled across the floor in her walker and black orthopaedic shoes. Darby held open the door. She had already left messages on Tim Bryson’s cell and office voicemails asking him to call her immediately.

Darby helped the woman into a chair. Cigarette smoke was baked in her clothes and hair.

Hand shaking, Tina Sanders reached inside her purse. She came back with a folded piece of paper and placed it on the table.

The glossy 8½ ×11 sheet contained a picture of a blonde woman with feathered hair – the same picture Darby had seen tacked to the rotted wall inside Sinclair.

‘Where did you get this, Miss Sanders?’

‘He left it in my mailbox.’

‘Who left it in your mailbox?’

‘The detective,’ Tina Sanders said. ‘He told me to come down here and find you. He said you knew what happened to Jenny.’

‘What was this man’s name?’

‘I don’t know. What’s going on with Jenny? Did you find her body?’

‘You’ll have to forgive me, Miss Sanders, but I’m confused. Bear with me a moment.’ Darby opened her notebook. ‘First tell me how you got this photograph.’

The old woman struggled with her impatience. ‘I got a call this morning. It was a man saying he was a detective from Boston. He said Darby McCormick from the Boston Crime Lab found out what happened to my daughter. I asked him what it was, and he told me to go out to my mailbox. That’s where I found the picture. When I came back to the phone, he wasn’t there, got disconnected or something. That’s what happened. Now tell me about Jenny. What did you find?’

‘Where do you live, Miss Sanders?’

‘Belham Heights.’

Darby grew up in Belham and knew the Heights section well – triple-deckers with views of clotheslines fastened to porches and postage-stamp sized backyards separated by sagging chain-link fences.

‘And this is your daughter in the picture.’

‘I said that, what, six times now?’ Tina Sanders removed a pack of Virginia Slim cigarettes from her purse.

‘I’m sorry, Miss Sanders, but you can’t smoke in here.’

‘I just want to hold this.’ She had turned the cigarette pack over; tucked underneath the cellophane was a gold crucifix. ‘I’ve been praying for this moment for twenty-six years,’ she said, voice breaking. ‘I can’t believe it’s finally happening.’

‘Tell me what happened to your daughter,’ Darby said. ‘Start at the beginning and take your time.’

41

On the evening of 18 September 1982, twenty-eight-year-old Jennifer Sanders, a psychiatric nurse for the Sinclair Mental Health Facility, had left the hospital to meet her mother at a bridal store in downtown Boston. They were scheduled to meet at 5 p.m. and then have dinner.

By six, when Jennifer hadn’t shown up at the bridal store, Tina figured her daughter, coming into the city from the North Shore, was stuck in traffic. There was no way for Jennifer to call and say she was going to be late. This was 1982, a time when cell phones were big, bulky expensive toys owned by the wealthy.

By 7:30 p.m., and with still no word from her daughter, Tina Sanders had grown nervous. Maybe Jennifer got into a fender bender. Maybe her car had crapped out and she had left to seek out a pay phone to call AAA. If that was the case, Jennifer would have called the store to let her mother know what had happened. Maybe she was in an accident. Maybe she was seriously hurt and on her way to the hospital.

Or maybe, Tina thought, Jenny had gotten the dates mixed up. Or maybe she had simply forgotten. Jenny was very forgetful lately. She worked long hours and was always tired. Jenny was under a lot of stress – planning for the wedding and possibly having to find another job. An electrical fire had destroyed part of Sinclair, and in the midst of the chaos of moving patients to other hospitals, there was constant talk that Sinclair might be forced to close its doors.

Tina used the bridal store’s phone and called her daughter at work. Her boss was still in his office and said Jennifer had left a few minutes before five.

Jennifer’s fiancé, Dr Michael Witherspoon, an oncologist, was home. They had recently bought a house in Peabody, close to where Jenny worked, and decided to move in together.

Tina had the correct date, Witherspoon said. Was there a problem?

Tina Sanders told her future son-in-law Jenny was late. She stayed at the store until eight, when it closed, and drove back home to Belham, telling herself there was a rational explanation for this. There was no reason to worry.

Dr Witherspoon didn’t share his future mother-in-law’s optimism. By midnight, and with still no word from Jennifer, he was sure something had happened. Pacing the rooms waiting for the door to open or the phone to ring, his imagination conjured up all sorts of grisly scenarios.

He also had another reason to worry: Jennifer was two months pregnant. She didn’t want to tell anyone the news just yet – it was too early in the pregnancy, she insisted, and anything could happen. She knew of too many friends who had suffered miscarriages.

There was another reason Jennifer didn’t want to tell her mother. Given her staunch Catholic background, Jennifer felt a measure of shame for getting pregnant before she was married.

Sinclair was a massive place, and Jennifer worked in a world of emergencies. The patients she treated were violent offenders. Sometimes they killed themselves or another patient. They attacked the staff. There had been an incident the previous year when a paranoid schizophrenic punched Jennifer in the face. The young man believed Jennifer was trying to poison him.

Witherspoon called the hospital’s emergency line and asked to speak to someone in security. He explained the situation and asked the man on the other end of the line to look into the matter. The security guard called Witherspoon back an hour later.

‘They found her car in the lot,’ Tina Sanders told Darby. ‘That’s all they ever found of her.’

‘Does Michael Witherspoon still live in Peabody?’

‘No, he left… it must have been ten, fifteen years ago. Moved out to California, I think. We lost contact. He kept in touch with me in the beginning, those first few years, and then he came to me one day and said he couldn’t live like this any more, not knowing, the stuff with the police.’

‘What stuff with the police?’

‘They thought he had something to do with Jenny’s disappearance, but that was ridiculous. The man was devastated. They put him through hell. He wanted to get on with his life. I didn’t blame him. You don’t have that luxury as a parent.’

‘Were you and Jenny close?’

‘Of course we were.’ The woman seemed insulted by the question. ‘Growing up, it was just the two of us. Jenny’s father was in the Marines, stationed in China. He wrote me one of those Dear Jane letters saying he fell in love with some Chink. I never heard from him again.

‘I helped Jenny with all the wedding stuff, you know, going with her to look at dresses, picking out flowers. She was paying for the whole thing herself. Jenny was working a lot of overtime at the hospital to help pay for the cost of the wedding. God knows I couldn’t help her, not on a waitress’s salary.

‘Michael’s family was real rooty-toot; thought their shit didn’t stink,’ Tina Sanders said. ‘Jenny didn’t say this, mind you, but I think Michael’s the one who pushed for the big wedding. His parents offered to pay, but Jenny said no. She was proud that way. She was going to pay for everything herself. She wanted a nice, simple wedding, not some fancy ballroom gala. Michael’s parents weren’t too happy about it. He was a nice guy. Kind of uppity, I guess, ’cause he was a doctor and all, but he treated Jenny real well.’

‘What was Jennifer like?’

Tina Sanders clutched the cigarette box between her palms as she spoke.

‘She was a good kid, obedient, did what she was told. I never had any problems with her. She had a real positive outlook on life, never complained, was real passionate about her job – she really believed she was helping people at McLean’s. That’s the first mental hospital she worked at. I don’t know why she left. The patients were much better there, kind of easier to manage, she said. Jenny, she loved to help people. She shouldn’t have taken that job at Sinclair.’

‘Why do you say that?’ Darby asked.

‘During the last year, she became real moody and withdrawn. She didn’t call as much. When we got together, she barely talked. She said she was having problems sleeping. She said it was the stress of the job plus working overtime to pay for the wedding, the talk of layoffs and the possibility of the hospital shutting down for good. I didn’t know she was pregnant – that explained the mood swings.’ The old woman rubbed a finger over the crucifix. ‘She could have told me. I wouldn’t have judged her for getting knocked up.’

‘Did she normally keep secrets from you?’

‘No. No, she didn’t. We were close, like I said. Jenny not telling me about the pregnancy, it really bothered me for a while, but I understood. She wanted to get married in a Catholic church. Getting knocked up before you’re actually married, well, I don’t have to tell you how the Catholic Church frowns upon such matters.’

‘Did your daughter ever talk about or mention a man with black eyes?’

‘You mean like they were bruised or something?’

‘I was referring to the actual colour of his eyes,’ Darby said. ‘This man, his eyes are completely black. He’s tall, about six feet or so, has pale skin and dresses very well.’

‘I don’t know anyone like that.’

‘Excuse me for a moment, Miss Sanders.’

42

Darby left the conference room and from her office retrieved the computer-printed photograph of Malcolm Fletcher, the one from the FBI website.

‘Have you seen or met this man, Miss Sanders?’

‘Is this the man who killed Jenny? Are you telling me you found him?’

‘No, we haven’t. Have you seen or met this man?’

‘No.’

‘Did Jenny ever tell you about meeting or seeing such a man?’

‘If she did, I don’t remember. Did you find her body?’

‘We found this photograph in connection with another case,’ Darby said. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s all I can tell you.’

‘I don’t understand. The man I spoke to specifically told
me you
had information on what happened to Jenny. He said you would tell me the truth.’

‘I am telling you the truth.’

‘It sounds to me like you got nothing. Why did he tell me to come all the way down here for this?’

‘Miss Sanders, what you’ve told me is extremely helpful. I’m sure a detective will want to stop by and speak to you about your daughter. Will you be home later today?’

‘What else do I have to do? You think I’m going dancing?’ Tina Sanders reached for her walker. Darby stood to help but the woman waved her off. ‘I can do it myself, thank you.’

‘Has anyone else besides yourself touched this piece of paper?’

‘No.’

‘Before you go, I was wondering if I could take your fingerprints.’

‘For what reason?’

‘I need a comparison set of prints,’ Darby said. ‘I want to see if anyone else has touched this picture.’

Darby’s cell phone rang. It was Tim Bryson. She told him where she was and what had happened. Bryson asked her to keep the woman there.

‘Detective Bryson is on his way up,’ Darby said. ‘He’d like to speak to you for a moment.’

‘If you find the man who killed Jenny, I want to talk to him. I want this man to know I forgive him.’

‘You forgive him,’ Darby repeated.

‘You can wipe that look off your face. I’m not some crazy old bat.’

‘Miss Sanders, I don’t –’

‘I don’t expect you to understand, but I’m going to tell you anyway.’ Tina Sanders gripped her walker. ‘After Jenny died, I decided to go back to my Catholic faith. I go to St Stephen’s almost every day. Father Donnelly said I had to let go of the hate, and the only way to do that was to forgive this man. That way I can keep Jenny alive, keep her close to me and remember the good parts. That’s what I’m left with now, the good parts.’ Tina Sanders eased back into a chair. ‘It took a long time to get to this place, a lot of crying and anger, but once I decided to forgive this man – I mean
truly
forgive him – the good Lord Jesus took away the pain. Now every day I’m surrounded by Jenny’s love. When I die, Jenny and I will be reunited in heaven.’

Darby wondered what the woman had managed to discover on the other side of her grief to inspire that type of faith.

43

Boston detectives worked out of the fifth floor in an area called the bullpen. Pairs of desks sat facing each other down a long, gymnasium-type space lit up with crummy fluorescent lighting that glared off the computer monitors. Phones rang day and night.

While the police department’s top slot was held by a woman, the ranks of beat cops filled with women of every shape, size, age and colour, the detective bullpen was still boys only. No matter what time of day Darby came here, no matter what the season, the bullpen always smelled to her like a men’s locker room – sweat and testosterone masked by too much aftershave and cologne.

It was 5 p.m. on Monday. Detectives filling out paperwork, typing on their keyboards and talking on the phone watched her as she walked down the aisle.

Tim Bryson sat in the corner near one of the coveted window spots, elbows propped up on his desk and chin resting on his folded hands as he read through a NCIC file for Jennifer Sanders.

‘How did you make out with the photograph?’

‘Tina Sanders’ prints are all over it,’ Darby said. ‘I sent Coop over to dust the mailbox, but I’m not holding out any hope.’

‘Here, take a look.’ Bryson pushed himself away from his desk and stood. ‘I’m going to get some coffee. You want one?’

‘I’m all set, thanks.’

Darby felt the warm spot he had left in his chair. On the corner of his desk was a framed picture of a young girl with long blonde hair and a gap-toothed smile. His daughter looked no older than ten.

The first part of the NCIC file was pretty much a rehash of what Tina Sanders had told them. Darby scanned through the text, stopping when she found the investigative notes.

For the first six months, Danvers investigators had worked the patient angle. Maybe one of her former patients had abducted her. Jennifer Sanders was an attractive woman.

By the end of the year, with no witnesses, evidence or leads, detectives decided to investigate the murder-for-hire angle, the theory being that Witherspoon, wanting to break off the engagement but feeling trapped by the pregnancy, had hired someone to murder his fiancée. Witherspoon was an odd duck, they thought, cold and guarded. Witherspoon submitted to several polygraphs. Each time he passed. Detectives kept working on their theory, interviewing known contract killers.

Two years later, the trail went cold. The case was still listed as active.

Bryson sat on the edge of his desk. ‘Anything jump out at you?’

‘No. I called the state lab. The only evidence they had was Jennifer Sanders’ car. Judging by what I was told over the phone, they really went through it – vacuumed the carpets, everything. They found some interesting fibres but they didn’t lead anywhere. They said they’d send over copies of what they have.’

‘Great. More shit to read to read through. This asshole is going to bury us in paper.’ Bryson stood and grabbed an empty office chair.

‘I spoke with Danvers PD,’ he said, rolling the chair across the floor. ‘The Sanders case wasn’t transferred to their computer system, it’s somewhere in storage. If we’re lucky, we’ll get a copy by the end of the week.’

‘How did your interview with the mother go?’

‘The pregnancy thing bothers me.’

‘Not all pregnancies are planned.’

‘I’m talking about the fact that she didn’t tell her mother. Could be she was ashamed, you know, Catholic guilt about having a baby out of wedlock.’

‘Wedlock,’ Darby repeated. ‘Where did you pick up that word, Tim, the
Dictionary for Old Farts?’

Bryson tossed his paper coffee cup into the trash. ‘Watts went over to Brighton and interviewed Hannah Givens’ two roommates. Givens’ backpack is inside her room. He went over to Northeastern and got a copy of her class schedule. Hannah failed to show up for her Shakespeare and history class. Nobody has seen or heard from her.’

‘What about the parents?’

‘Watts talked to the mother this afternoon. She was worried. Hannah calls and talks to her mother every Sunday. The mother says Hannah always calls. Watts is interviewing Hannah’s boss, flashing the picture the roommates gave him to people who work in the area. The picture’s going to run on all the news cycles and it will be in tomorrow’s papers.’

Was Hannah Givens being held in the same place as Hale and Chen? A trickle of fear ran through Darby, cutting through her fatigue.

‘Chadzynski is holding a press conference tomorrow morning to address what’s going on with Hale, Chen and Givens,’ Bryson said. ‘She’s debating about releasing Fletcher’s name. Personally, I think it’s a good move. It might force him to crawl back under his rock. This asshole has us jumping through hoops and, frankly, I’m getting sick and tired of it.’

‘I don’t blame you. I feel the same way.’

Bryson wasn’t finished. ‘He sends us to Sinclair, and we waste a day and a half searching empty rooms and hallways for what? Because he left a picture of a missing woman tacked up to a wall?’

‘We know who she is.’

‘Yeah, and the only reason we know is because the son of a bitch sent the mother down here. And what do we do? We drop what we’re doing, and now we’ve wasted part of the day looking into a woman who’s been missing for twenty-six years. For all we know Fletcher consulted on this case years ago, and now he’s rubbing our nose into it.’

‘I’m not following.’

‘It’s bullshit. Fletcher is jerking us around.’

‘I keep coming back to the statue. It’s the same –’

‘Darby, I know about the goddamn statue.’ Bryson’s face was mottled red. ‘I was there with you, remember? I saw it with my own eyes.’

She didn’t answer.

Bryson waved a hand in apology. ‘I don’t mean to take my frustration out on you,’ he said. ‘I’m operating on about four hours of sleep.’

‘If it’s any consolation, I’m feeling the same way. Fletcher’s using the statue as a carrot, dangling it in front of us, and every time he calls or does something, we drop what we’re doing and jump.’

‘Maybe that’s what he wants.’

‘We need to find out what he’s doing.’

‘It’s a waste of time.’

‘We don’t have much of a choice, Tim. Malcolm Fletcher is here, and he knows something. He’s not going away.’

‘Let’s talk about your surveillance,’ Bryson said.