For several months she crashed at one student pad or another in Burlington. Using the money she’d stolen from Bernadette, and the name Alice Hamilton, she enrolled in a quick-trip online course and obtained certification as a CNA1.
McGee had learned of the Corneau farm by overhearing conversations between Pomerleau and Catts/Menard. More info stored for future advantage. In early 2007, using what remained of Bernadette’s stash, and perhaps more obtained by the same means, she bought the aged Impala and set out for St. Johnsbury. One can only imagine that first meeting between former predator and prey.
By McGee’s account, she and Pomerleau lived together for a while, making maple syrup and playing in the snow. All sins forgiven. One night Pomerleau died in her sleep. Saddened, McGee left Vermont for North Carolina to fulfill a long-standing desire to thank me properly. Thus the clipped photos.
Not sure if she’d flourish in Dixie, and wanting backup options, McGee kept paying the bills on the Corneau property. Pomerleau had explained the scam, the accounts at the Citizens Bank in Burlington. Or, more likely, McGee had extorted the information and stored it for future advantage.
I suspected a far different reality for the time in Vermont. McGee pursuing much darker desires. For payback. For torture. Eventually, for blood. One day we may learn how she overcame her former captor, how she harvested Pomerleau’s tissues, how she killed her. Or we may not. That will be up to McGee.
When questioned about Gower, Nance, Leal, and the other girls, McGee switched to abstractions. Talked of angels, of sunlight, of eternal peace and safety. Only then did something remotely human soften her eyes.
When asked why Pomerleau was in a barrel, McGee stared blankly.
When asked about human tissue in her freezer, she stared blankly.
When asked about chloral hydrate, she stared blankly.
When asked about Hamet Ajax, she stared blankly.
Incredibly shrewd or crazy as a loon. I couldn’t decide.
“Ready?”
Mary Louise’s voice snapped me back to the present. I was wrong about her intake capacity. The kid had cleaned her tub.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, bunching my napkin.
While driving, we discussed the latest project. Mary Louise was creating hats to honor each of the murdered or missing girls. A knitted stocking cap for Nellie Gower. A chignon-wrapping thing for Lizzie Nance. A seashell affair for Shelly Leal. A cloche with a fleur-de-lis on the band for Violette, an Acadian flag for Bastien. The other designs were still on the board.
Mary Louise knew, of course. The story had dominated the news for over a week. Leal. Nance. Estrada. The CMPD was basking in the warmth of citizen approval. But there was one alteration to the cast of characters. The press conferences hadn’t featured Tinker on the dais.
In the glow of generalized goodwill, Henrietta Hull had escaped all censure for acting outside her jurisdiction. Even in her hurry, she’d been smart enough to notify her dispatcher that she needed to go to Mecklenburg on one of her cases to question a potential witness possibly planning to leave the area. She’d also notified the CMPD that she needed to see a person of interest in Charlotte on an out-of-county matter, but would not require local assistance. That seemed to satisfy everybody, and it cut her in for a portion of the credit for subsequent events.
I was asked for interviews. Did them at Salter’s request. Journalists wanted to probe my emotions. “How do you feel about these murdered children? How do you feel about catching their killer?” I felt like smacking the mikes into their carefully practiced frowns.
And then the fickle media moved on.