"And after the conclusion of the trial in '81, did you have occasion to see Mr. Umbrio again?" D.D. asked.
The lawyer, Carson, immediately raised a hand. "Don't answer."
"Mr. Carson—"
"Mrs. Gagnon graciously agreed to answer questions related to her abduction in October through November of 1980," the attorney clarified. "Whether she saw Mr. Umbrio after 1980, therefore, does not fall under the scope of your interview."
D.D. appeared highly annoyed. Catherine merely smiled.
"When you were with Mr. Umbrio, in October and November 1980," D.D. added for emphasis, "did he ever talk to you about other crimes, abductions, or assaults on other victims?"
Catherine shook her head, then added belatedly, for the sake of the tape recorder, "No."
"Have you ever visited Boston State Mental Hospital?"
Carson held up his hand again. "Mrs. Gagnon, did you ever visit the Boston State Mental Hospital in the fall of 1980?"
"I've never even heard of the Boston State Mental Hospital, before or after 1980," Catherine conceded graciously "What about Mr. Umbrio?" D.D. persisted.
"If he had, he obviously didn't mention it to me, or I would have heard about it, wouldn't I?"
"What about friends, confidantes? Umbrio ever mention anyone he was close to, or perhaps bring a 'guest' to the pit?"
"Please, Richard Umbrio was a teenage version of Lurch. He was too big, too cold, and just plain too freaky even at the age of nineteen. Friends? He had no friends. Why do you think he kept me alive so long?"
This elicited slightly shocked expressions. Catherine simply spread her hands, regarding the rest of us as if we were idiots. "What? You think I never figured out that he was going to kill me? I can tell you for a fact, he tried to kill me every other day. He'd wrap his big sweaty fingers around my neck and squeeze like he was wringing a chicken. Liked to look me right in the eye as he did it, too. But then, at the last second, he'd let me go. Kindness? Compassion? I don't think so. Not from Richard.
"He just wasn't ready for me to die yet. I was the perfect playmate. Never argued, always did as I was told. Like he was going to get that lucky in real life."
She shrugged, the very flatness of her voice making her words that much more cutting.
"He'd strangle you?" D.D. pressed. "With his bare hands? You're sure of that?"
"Very"
"Never brought a knife, used a ligature, played around with a garrote?"
"No."
"You said he tied you up. Rope, handcuffs, other?"
"Rope."
"One kind of rope, different kinds of ropes? Favorite knots?"
"I don't know. Rope. He had a whole coil of it. It was thick, maybe half an inch. White. Dirty. Strong. He would pound stakes into the wooden ground, then tie my limbs to the stakes. I will confess that at the time I didn't notice the knots." Her voice remained remote.
"Did he ever bring trash bags to the scene?"
"Trash bags? What do you mean? Like a Hefty bag?"
"Like any kind of trash bag."
Catherine shook her head. "Richard favored plastic grocery bags. He'd have supplies and/or food in them. You'd be proud of Richard, he was a conscientious camper, carried in, carried out. A regular Boy Scout, that one."
"Mrs. Gagnon, do you know why Mr. Umbrio kidnapped you?"
"Yes."
D.D. momentarily faltered, as if not expecting this answer, though she was the one who asked the question. "You do?"
"Yes. I was wearing a corduroy skirt with knee-high socks. Turns out, Richard had a fetish for Catholic schoolgirls. Took one look, decided I was it. No one else was around, so lucky me."
D.D and Bobby exchanged glances. Bobby had been taking furious notes while D.D. asked the questions. Cataloging the details of Catherine's attack to compare to the victims found at Boston State Mental, I would suspect. But this bothered them. Now both stared at Catherine.
"Catherine," D.D. asked quietly, "had you met Richard before that afternoon?"
"No."
"Had he by any chance noticed you? Mentioned following you home from school before or watching you on the school playground, that sort of thing?"
"No."
"So, that afternoon, when his car turned down the street. That's the first time you and Richard met?"
"Like I said, lucky me."
D.D.'s frown deepened. "After you got into his car, what happened?"
"The door was jammed, locked, I don't know. It wouldn't open."
"Did you scream, did you struggle?"
"I don't remember."
"You don't remember?"
"No. I remember getting into his car. I remember growing… confused, uneasy I think I tried the door handle and then… I don't remember. Police and therapists have asked me for years. I still don't remember. I would guess I screamed. I would guess I fought. But maybe I did nothing. Maybe my lack of memory is my cover for shame." Her lips curved slightly, but the self-conscious smile never reached her eyes.
"What do you remember?" D.D.'s voice was gentler now. It seemed to put the steel back in Catherine's spine.
"Waking up in the dark."
"Was he there?"
"Ready to rock and roll."
"In the pit?"
"Yep."