"You hit him," Mrs. Eola whispered. "You ran at him. You leapt on him. You kept hitting and hitting. And Natalie was screaming and you were screaming and it went on and on and on. Christopher just sat there. Wearing that terrible smile, his mouth filling with blood."
Eola Sr. didn't bother with an apology. "I chased his scrawny ass up to his bedroom, where he locked himself inside. And I… I tried to think of what to do next. I honestly couldn't bring myself to kill my only son. But at the same time, I could not subject my daughter to the scrutiny of the police. I consulted my attorney"—his gaze flickered to Barron—"who suggested a third alternative. He warned me, however, that given Christopher's age, committing him to a mental institute would be difficult. I would need him to stay voluntarily, or I would have to get a court order, meaning that we'd have to go to the police.
"My son is smart. I'll grant him that. And as I said, he has an appreciation for the finer things in life. I can't imagine him living on the streets any more than he could. So in the morning, we made a deal. He would stay at Boston State Mental until his twenty-eighth birthday. At which point, assuming he fulfilled the terms of our deal, I would release his inheritance. Three million dollars is nothing to sneeze at, and Christopher knew it. He went, and we never saw him again."
"You never visited?" Sinkus clarified.
"My son is dead to us."
"Never checked on his progress, not even by phone?"
"My son is dead to us, Detective."
"So, you didn't know your son got himself in a bit of trouble at Boston State Mental. Ended up in Bridgewater."
"When Boston Mental announced it would be closing, I called over. The doctor informed me that Christopher had already been sent to Bridgewater. I found it convenient."
Sinkus frowned. "And on Christopher's twenty-eighth birthday?"
"A note arrived at my attorney's office. 'A deal is a deal,' it read. I signed off on the funds."
"Wait a minute," D.D. spoke up sharply "Christopher turned twenty-eight in April of 1982. You're telling me that he came into three million dollars on that day?"
"Actually he inherited three point five. The funds were well managed."
"And he accessed these funds?"
"He has made periodic withdrawals over the years."
"What?"
Eola Sr. turned to his lawyer. "John, if you would, please."
Barron lifted up a leather briefcase, briskly snapped it open. "This is confidential information, Detectives. We trust you will treat it accordingly"
He passed around copies of a stapled sheaf of papers. Financial records, Bobby realized, quickly skimming the sheets. Detailed financial records of Christopher's trust fund, and the date each time he made a withdrawal.
Bobby's gaze went straight to Barron. "How did he make contact? When Christopher wanted money, what did he do, pick up the phone?"
"Ridiculous," Barron snapped. "It's a trust fund, not an ATM. We required a written request, properly signed and notarized, which we kept as part of the official records. Keep flipping, you'll find a copy of each sheet. You'll see that Christopher was partial to increments of one hundred thousand, roughly two to three times a year."
"He wrote, you cut him a check?" Bobby was still quizzing, rapidly flipping sheets.
"He wrote, we liquidated funds, rebalanced the portfolio, and then cut him a check, yes."
"So these checks were never collected in person? You have a mailing address?" This was too good to be true. Which it was, as he spotted on the last page. "Wait a minute, you wrote the check to a bank in Switzerland?"
Barron shrugged one shoulder. "As Mrs. Eola mentioned, Christopher spent some time overseas. Obviously, he set up a bank account while he was there."
Bobby arched a brow. Normal nineteen-year-olds did not open Swiss bank accounts. Not even the spoiled sons of Boston's upper class. It felt like a preemptive strike to him. The act of a man who was already assuming he might need to hide assets sometime soon, perhaps for a life on the run. Made Bobby wonder what all Christopher had been doing during his "grand tour" of Europe.
Things were wrapping up now. Eola Sr. had his arm belatedly around his wife as she blotted at her smeared mascara. He whispered something in her ear. She gave him a tremulous smile.
"How is your daughter, Mrs. Eola?" Bobby asked softly
The woman surprised him with her flinty answer: "She's a lesbian, Detective. What else would you expect?"
Mrs. Eola rose. Her anger had invigorated her. Eola Sr. capitalized on the moment, ushering her out the door. The lawyers and secretary filed out behind them, one massively overpriced brigade, heading for the elevators.
In the lull that followed, Sinkus spoke first.
"So," he asked D.D., "does this mean I can go to Switzerland?"
Chapter 26
THE EMERGENCY TASK-force meeting started late, given the overrun of the Eola interview. The majority of the detectives, however, had arrived as scheduled, meaning that by the time Bobby, D.D., and Sinkus appeared, the pizza boxes were empty, the soda consumed, and not even a breadstick remained.