"I want the record to show how much I resent this meeting," Eola Sr. was stating now, his voice shaky with age, but still containing the uncompromising note of someone accustomed to having his orders obeyed instantly "I find it premature, not to mention highly irresponsible, to be pointing fingers at my son."
"No one is pointing anything at anyone," Detective Sinkus soothed. The Eolas had been his assignment, so he was running the show. "I assure you, this is a routine inquiry. Given the discovery in Mattapan, we're naturally trying to learn as much as we can about all of the patients who resided at the Boston State Mental Hospital, including, but not limited to," he added dryly, "your son."
Eola Sr. quirked a thin gray eyebrow, still suspicious. His hunch-shouldered wife sniffed and dabbed at her eyes. Apparently, just thinking about her son had brought her to tears.
Bobby wondered where their daughter was, the one with whom Christopher had allegedly had an "inappropriate" relationship. Thirty years later, she was a middle-aged adult. Didn't she have an opinion in all this?
The lawyer cleared his throat. "Naturally, my clients intend to cooperate. We're here after all. Of course, the events of thirty years ago remain highly sensitive for everyone involved. I trust you will take that into consideration."
"I will use only my nice voice," Sinkus assured him. "Shall we?"
Grudging nods from the assembled suits. Sinkus started the recorder. They got to it.
"For the record, sir, can you please verify that Christopher Walker Eola is your son, born April sixteen, 1954, with the following Social Security number." Sinkus rattled off the number. Eola Sr. grunted his grudging consent.
"And Christopher Walker Eola resided with you and your wife in your residence on Tremont Street during April of '74?"
Another grumbled yes.
"Also in residence was your daughter, Natalie Jane Eola?"
At the mention of the daughter, hackles rose, nervous glances were exchanged.
"Yes," said Eola Sr. finally, biting off the word and spitting it out.
Sinkus made a note. "Other people in the residence? Relatives, housekeepers, guests?"
Eola Sr. turned to his wife, who was apparently in charge of staff. Pauline stopped dabbing at her eyes long enough to dredge up four names—the cook, the housekeeper, Pauline's personal secretary, and a full-time driver. Her words were whispery and hard to catch. Her chin rested close to her chest, as if her body had caved in on itself. Advanced osteoporosis, Bobby guessed. Not even big money could stave off age.
Sinkus moved the tape recorder closer to Mrs. Eola. Preliminaries established, he got down to business.
"It is our understanding that in 1974, you, Mr. Christopher Eola, and your wife, Mrs. Pauline Eola, admitted your son, Christopher Junior, to the Boston State Mental Hospital."
"Correct," Eola Sr. granted.
"Exact date, please?"
"April nineteen, 1974."
Sinkus looked up. "Three days after Christopher's twentieth birthday?"
"We had had a small party," Mrs. Eola spoke up suddenly "Nothing fancy. A few close friends. The cook made duck a l'or-ange, Christopher's favorite. Afterwards, we had trifle. Christopher loved trifle." Her voice sounded wistful and Bobby pegged her as the weak link. Mr. Eola was resentful—of the police, the interview, the unwanted memory of his son. But Mrs. Eola was mournful. If the stories were true, had she been forced to incarcerate one child to protect another? And even if you thought your child was a monster, did you still miss him, or at least the idea of who he could've been?
Sinkus turned ever so slightly in Mrs. Eola's direction, bringing her more fully into the open line of his body, the encouraging contact of his gaze. "It sounds like a very nice party, Mrs. Eola."
"Oh yes. Christopher had only been back home a few months from his travels. We wanted to do something special, both to mark his birthday and his homecoming. I invited his friends from school, many of our associates. It was a lovely evening."
"His travels, Mrs. Eola?"
"Oh well, he went abroad, of course. He'd taken time off after high school to see the world, sow a few wild oats. Boys. You can't expect them to settle down too quickly. They need to experience a few things first." She smiled weakly, as if she realized how frivolous it sounded now. She picked up more briskly "But he had returned around Christmas to start working on his college applications. Christopher had an interest in theater. But he didn't think he was quite that talented. He thought maybe he'd pursue a degree in psychology instead."
"After spending over a year on the road? Can you be more precise, Mrs. Eola? What countries did he visit, for how long?"
Mrs. Eola waved her hand in a fluttery, birdlike motion. "Oh, Europe. The usual sort of places. France, London, Vienna, Italy. He had an interest in Asia, but we didn't feel it was safe back then. You know"—she leaned forward to confide—"given the war and all."
Ah yes, the Vietnam conflict, which Christopher had conveniently managed to dodge. Conscientious objector, Daddy's money, his college aspirations? The possibilities were endless.
"Did he travel alone? Or with friends?" Sinkus asked now.