Halloween night murder, p.7
Halloween Night Murder, page 7
“Hey, Sally,” she began, “I saw little Jack Mullen getting off the school bus and had a nice chat with him.”
“Yeah, all the kids are in school. Isn’t it great?”
“Yeah, pretty great,” said Lucy, somewhat sarcastically. “But they’re all back in that awful farmstead.”
“They’re on a list for subsidized housing, Lucy. That’s what Bronwen tells me, anyway. It’s going to take time, so that’s why they’re back at the farmstead. It’s better than sleeping under a bridge, right?”
“Jack told me that Larry Conroy is back, too.”
“That’s what I hear,” said Sally.
“Well, isn’t there a warrant out for him? Can’t you stake out the place and arrest him?”
“I think the warrant was voided,” said Sally. “And anyway, we don’t have the manpower to do a stakeout. We’re stretched thin coping with fentanyl, that’s the focus these days.”
“So this convicted felon can come back and restart his criminal cattery and abuse Chrissy and probably the kids now that Paulie is gone. And by the way, is anybody looking at him for the hit-and-run?”
“We’d need probable cause, Lucy. We can’t just arrest somebody and accuse them of a crime without any evidence.”
“I bet there’s evidence, if you guys would look for it,” said Lucy.
“The best thing would be if Chrissy would file a complaint,” said Sally, “then we’d be obligated to arrest him. Probably couldn’t hold him, but she could get a restraining order.”
“Somehow I don’t see that happening,” said Lucy.
“Well, sometimes it just takes a little push, from a caring and supportive neighbor,” said Sally.
“I don’t think she wants help,” said Lucy, remembering the way Chrissy rebuffed them all on Saturday.
“Probably not,” said Sally. “Thanks for the info—I’ll pass it on to Uncle Jim, I mean the chief.”
Lucy chuckled, signing off and wondering what Jim Kirwan really thought about having two of his relatives, Sally and her cousin Todd, working in the department. Sally, especially, seemed to see his authority as a bit of a joke.
She decided to get a start on supper, which would have to be early if she was going to make that seven o’clock meeting, and tucked a chicken into the oven. A nice easy supper, she thought, planning on adding a couple of potatoes to bake in a while. Until then, she considered settling down with a magazine. She grabbed the glossy she’d picked up last time she’d been grocery shopping and, wouldn’t you know, a teaser on the cover asked “Is It Abuse? How Can You Tell?”
She stared at the smiling face of that actress from that show, what was that show? She thought of Sally’s hint to be a good neighbor to Chrissy, and decided there was a line between caring support and meddling. And then she thought of Jack, and Rose, and Jayson. Would Jayson feel he had to step in to protect his mom and younger siblings? Would he be next? She looked at the clock. Wouldn’t you know, she had a good half hour before she needed to put those potatoes in the oven. She wasn’t happy about it, she wasn’t even convinced it was a good idea, but she had to try to convince Chrissy to file that complaint. She grabbed her barn jacket off the hook by the door and shrugged into it, determined to give it the old college try.
Five minutes later she was knocking on the door of the Mullens’ house, hoping her knocking wouldn’t cause the whole shaky edifice to collapse. Well, maybe it wasn’t really that bad after all . . . and why wasn’t anybody answering? She kept on rapping and finally the door opened a crack. She could see one of Chrissy’s eyes. Why was she hiding? Was she bruised or otherwise obviously injured?
“Just wanted to know how you’re getting on?” asked Lucy.
“Okay,” said Chrissy, starting to close the door.
“Did the kids get the cookies?” asked Lucy.
“Oh, yeah. Thanks.”
“Jack is really a terrific kid,” said Lucy. “He told me that Larry is back.”
“What’s it to you?” demanded Chrissy, opening the door a bit wider. “What’s this all about?”
“Well, I just want you to know that we’re just across the street, if you need anything, anything at all,” added Lucy, noticing that Chrissy did have a bruise on her cheekbone. “And if you want a ride into town, if you need some protection. . .”
“From who? Who do I need protection from?”
“Larry has a criminal record,” said Lucy, cutting to the chase.
“That’s none of your business. He’s okay. He’s doing the best he can.”
“How did you get the bruise, Chrissy?”
“Oh, that. I bumped into a cabinet door. I’m so stupid, I forgot to close it and bam, smacked right into it.”
“If you say so,” said Lucy, her heart sinking. “But if you change your mind, we’re right across the street.”
Chrissy didn’t answer, just closed the door. Lucy turned, her heart heavy as she started back home. It was classic, an abused woman defending her abuser. Was it really her only option? Was the world such a frightening, terrible place to Chrissy that she needed Lar? For what? Protection? Money? Affection? She would never understand, she thought, waiting at the road for an Amazon truck to pass.
Chapter Seven
Lucy was distracted while preparing dinner, thinking of Chrissy as she absent-mindedly poured the chicken fat down the drain. Bad, bad for the septic system, she told herself, resolving to focus on the task at hand. Bill loved roast chicken, and was in high spirits, telling her all about the new project he’d landed to renovate a huge old Queen Anne cottage on Shore Road.
“The place hasn’t been touched since 1910,” he said, adding a huge dollop of butter to his baked potato. “It needs insulation, wiring upgrades, complete kitchen and bath makeovers, but the woodwork, Lucy, you can’t believe how gorgeous it is.”
“Who are the owners?” asked Lucy, glancing at the clock.
“McGraw’s his name. Some big shot CEO, marine construction I think. Wind farms, docks, stuff like that.”
“Well, don’t lowball the estimate,” said Lucy, pushing her chair away from the table. “I’ve got a meeting, I’ve got to run. Do you mind cleaning up?”
“Who, me? I’m a big shot now. Working with the movers and shakers.”
Lucy chuckled. “Maybe you could move and shake these dishes right into the dishwasher?”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” he said, adding a little salute.
Lucy made it to the planning committee meeting on time, but couldn’t focus her attention on the burning issue of whether the Winslows’ proposed backyard deck was too close to their property line. And she lost the thread of the prolonged argument about how many parking spots Cali Kitchen could add to their existing lot. Her thoughts kept drifting off, returning to Chrissy Mullen and her kids. It was simply intolerable that they should be held captive by an abuser, right across the street from her home. This was the sort of thing the justice system was supposed to prevent, but she knew from experience that it hardly ever worked. She’d covered plenty of stories about women who’d suffered terribly at the hands of abusers after attempting to get restraining orders against them. These protective orders were frequently denied, and those who were lucky enough to get them learned that they were simply pieces of paper that nobody was enforcing. Victims of abuse who attempted to get help discovered all too frequently that there was no help for them until it was too late. All too often the system didn’t take action against an abuser until after the victim was seriously injured, or died.
Something had to be done, she decided, driving home after the meeting. Stepping into the kitchen, which Bill had tidied, she thought how lucky she was. Just asking some men to help with a household task could earn a woman a black eye, or worse. She heard the TV going in the family room; it sounded like he was watching a basketball game, and she went in. Bill was relaxing in his recliner and greeted her with a smile. “How was the meeting?”
“About usual,” said Lucy, plopping down on the nearby sectional sofa. “Thanks for cleaning up.”
“No problem. You might want to check the chicken, I had some trouble with the plastic wrap.”
Lucy smiled to herself, figuring that he’d wrapped the leftover chicken in most of a roll of the sticky stuff, but somehow managed to leave half the bird uncovered. “I’ll fix it,” she said, getting up. “Coming to bed?”
“Not yet. Looks like they’re going into overtime.”
“Well, I’ll leave a light on for you,” she said, heading for the kitchen. She rewrapped the chicken, set up the coffeepot for the morning, and went upstairs, yawning as she went. Tomorrow, she told herself, she was going to do some digging and try to figure out why these so-called protective orders were so ineffective.
When she got to the office, she greeted Phyllis. “Any word from you know who?” she asked, referring to Ted.
“His nibs is going to be in Gilead all day,” Phyllis reported, looking up from her Sudoku.
“And all’s quiet on the western front?”
“So far, so good,” said Phyllis. “Not a peep,” she added, with a nod at the blinking light on the police scanner, which was silent.
“I’m gonna make a few phone calls,” said Lucy, hanging up her jacket. “If Ted calls . . .”
“I’ll tell him you’re talking to Natalie Withers.” They both knew that Natalie, the town’s self-appointed fiscal watchdog, was persistent and notoriously long-winded.
“Thanks,” said Lucy, powering up her computer. After checking her emails, she got down to business and called Sally. “As you suggested, I visited Chrissy Mullen yesterday,” she began.
“How’d it go?”
“She wouldn’t even talk to me, but she had a big bruise on her cheekbone.”
“Bumped into a cabinet door?”
“So she said, but you know, I’ve been in that kitchen and there are no wall cabinets. Just a few milk crates.”
“Funny about that,” said Sally.
“Yeah. But it got me thinking about how these abusers get away with it until the victim is on life support in the hospital, or dead. Something’s wrong with the system.”
“I agree,” said Sally. “Are you going to do a story?”
“I’m thinking about it. Is there anyone you know who might be willing to talk to me? I’d like to get a first-person account from a victim who survived and escaped her abuser.”
“I presume you want people whose stories didn’t make the news?”
“Yeah. And I can guarantee anonymity.”
“Okay,” she said, giving Lucy two names. “I’d start with Harleigh Blick,” she advised. “Harleigh with an igh. She’s a hot ticket.”
Lucy dialed Harleigh Blick’s number, and her call went straight to voicemail. She left a message and also sent a text, thinking it was probably an exercise in futility. If she was an abuse victim, she’d probably want to lie low and avoid exposure, fearing her abuser would track her down. She was just about to dial the second number she’d been given when Harleigh returned her call.
“Thanks,” said Lucy. “I really appreciate this.”
“No problem,” said Harleigh. “I got away, but I know other girls aren’t so lucky. I’ll tell you everything but you can’t use my name, or anything that would identify me. This was bigger than my stupid boyfriend, much bigger.”
Lucy was immediately curious. What did she mean? What was much bigger?
“No problem. No names, no places, that’s fine with me. What do you mean, about it being bigger than just your boyfriend?”
“I don’t exactly know, but something really bad is going on and he got caught up in it.”
Uh-oh, thought Lucy. The poor woman was paranoid, or had a persecution complex or something. “Let’s start with the boyfriend,” she suggested.
“Okay. We met in a bar, he was cool, really good-looking and I was an idiot. The bad-boy thing, you know?”
“Sure,” said Lucy, who really didn’t see the appeal.
“It was great at first, and he had a lot of money. Great car, motorcycle, even a nice place on a lake. I shoulda suspected he was dealing, but no, I figured he had a good job, or maybe a trust fund. I was real dumb. He said I should move in with him and I jumped at it. I wasn’t doing so good then. I was working in a restaurant but I knew it was gonna close for the winter and I didn’t know what I was going to do. He seemed like the answer to all my problems.”
“But after you moved in you figured out that he was dealing? Opioids?”
“You got it.”
“And is that what started the abuse?”
“No, it was fine at first. I mean I didn’t like that he was dealing, but I put it out of my mind because I was having a great life. He said he was just giving people ‘better living through chemistry,’ like a public service. He didn’t make anybody take the stuff, they came to him, they begged him for it. We had a lot of fun living it up, really throwing money around, until he got arrested. It seemed like he was getting off easy; he was only in the police lockup for one night, he was arraigned the next morning and he got out on bail, but he was real scared because the trial was hanging over him and he was convinced they’d throw the book at him. He’d been in the county jail for six months before, and he was scared they’d send him back. This one night he got all wired up, crazy scared, so I tried to calm him down and that’s the first time he hit me. But in the end he didn’t need to worry, he got probation and he didn’t even have to check in or anything.”
“That’s weird,” said Lucy. “Do you know who the judge was?”
“I do. He seemed real understanding. Real nice. Judge Whalen.”
Lucy was beginning to wonder about the wisdom of some of Judge Whalen’s decisions. “So he gets off easy and stays out of jail but the abuse continues?”
“Yeah. It actually got worse. Much worse. He was under a ton of pressure, he really was. He was on probation, but it was sort of private probation which meant he had to do whatever the judge wanted him to do. Like he’d get a text or something and off he’d go. But being the guy he was, thinking he was bigger than Jesus, one time he got the message and he went and got high instead of doing whatever he was supposed to do. So what happened was that like a day later he got stopped for having a broken headlight and was sent to jail for a year. That’s when I got away.”
“Lucky for you.”
“Yeah, well, I had a mashed-up face and a broken wrist, and I figured there was no point sticking around waiting for this loser to get out of jail. But I know I’m lucky. I have a grandma in another state and she took me in, no questions asked. I’m going to community college, I’m going to make something of myself.”
“Good for you. And you’re right, you are lucky to have family support.” Lucy paused. “But when the abuse was going on, did you try to get a restraining order, or get any help?”
“No. I figured it would be pointless, maybe even dangerous, considering my boyfriend’s situation with that judge. I didn’t trust anybody in the system at that point.”
Probably wise, thought Lucy. “So tell me more about this Judge Whalen thing. What sort of stuff was your boyfriend supposed to do?”
“Different stuff. Driving people, shaking people down, I think he beat up a few guys, he came home a couple of times looking pretty rough.”
“Did he say anything about what happened?”
“No, but I knew he didn’t like it. So this one time I came right out and said he should quit and he said he couldn’t and then he smacked me. But he was right, I think, that he really couldn’t quit, he was trapped. It was like living with a caged animal or something, you never knew what would set him off. It could be the least little thing and it really had nothing to do with me. He hated himself and the mess he’d gotten himself in and he took it out on me. That time he blew them off somebody set him up, messed up his headlight so he’d get arrested, and with his priors, which included, get this, violating the terms of probation, the judge put him away. He got punished.”
“Wow, this sounds like the Mafia or something,” suggested Lucy.
“Yeah. Kinda. No Italians, though.”
“Wow,” said Lucy. “So you’re okay now? You’re not in the next town or anything?”
“No. I’m on the other side of the country and I’m planning on staying here. Grandma’s not doing too well so it’s good I’m here to help her. She says it’s a win-win situation.”
“That’s great. And thanks for sharing your story with me. I’ll give you a heads-up when it runs and you can read it in the Courier’s online edition.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” said Harleigh, ending the call.
Lucy sat at her desk, staring out the window and letting out a big sigh. “So what was that all about?” asked Phyllis, who’d been listening in.
“Well, according this abuse victim who got away, there’s some kind of organized crime ring operating out of the county courthouse.”
“That’s what Elfrida’s been saying,” reported Phyllis, referring to her niece, “but I didn’t believe it.”
Lucy got right on it and called Elfrida, who was a single mom raising five kids. “Hi, Lucy,” she trilled, answering the phone. “What’s up?”
“I’m working on a story about domestic abuse and how there’s little help for women . . .”
“Right. There’s nothing until you’re dead, and that’s too late.”
“Have you had experience with abuse?”
“Me, no. My relationships don’t usually last that long,” she admitted cheerfully. It was widely known that Elfrida’s five kids all had different fathers, which folks attributed to Elfrida’s good heart and inability to say no. “But some of my girlfriends have had trouble, and when they tried to get those restraining orders, they got nowhere. There’s only the one judge who deals with them, and he’s all about keeping families together, which means the abuser gets to stay.”
