He playfully clutched at his chest. "Oh, be still, my beating heart. I'm too old to be receiving such high praise from a pretty face. Be careful, or my wife's spirit will come back to chastise us both. She always was a hellion."
That made me laugh, which seemed to make him happy. Bella returned to check on our progress. Seeing we had accomplished nothing, she flopped down at my feet, sighed heavily, and put her head down. For a while, the three of us sat there, gazing at the moon, listening to the water, feeling the peace of the silence.
Of course, I was the one who broke it first.
"Do you know who did it?" I asked, no reason to define "it."
Charlie took his time with his answer. "I'm afraid I know who did this terrible thing," he said at last. "Meaning, when the police figure it all out, the name will be someone I knew from the hospital."
"You mentioned a couple of likely suspects. This Adam Schmidt. Christopher Eola."
"So you were eavesdropping."
"I have an interest," I said levelly.
He winked at me. "I'm not criticizing, child. In your shoes, I would've eavesdropped, too."
"Between the two, who do you think is most likely?"
"Not knowing any details of the crime?"
"None of us know many details of the crime," I said, in answer to his underlying question.
"Christopher Eola," he said promptly "You'd have to be depraved but calculating to kidnap and murder six girls. Adam was a sleaze, don't get me wrong. But he was too lazy for this kind of crime. Christopher, on the other hand… He would savor the challenge."
"Do you know where he is now?"
"Well…" Charlie started, then stopped.
"Well?" I prodded.
"I got to thinking about it more after talking with Detective Dodge and Sergeant Warren. . . "
"Yes?"
"Well, the more I thought about Christopher, the more I thought it had to be him. So I called a buddy of mine at Bridgewater. He'd never even heard Eola's name—bad sign right there, if you know what I mean. But he did some digging, and sure enough, Eola was released in '78. Meaning Christopher's had all sorts of time on his hands, yet none of us have heard from him. Makes me nervous."
"You don't think he magically got a job, assimilated into society, became a model citizen?"
Charlie contemplated my question. "Do you consider Ted Bundy was a model citizen? Because if you do, then maybe Christopher has a chance."
"That bad?"
"Man had no morals. No empathy with his fellow human beings. For a guy like that, the whole world is a system meant to be played. And what Christopher Eola enjoyed playing most was outwitting others in order to indulge his very private, very violent fantasies."
I considered Charlie's words. "If that's the case, how do you think he's made it nearly thirty years without coming to police attention?"
"I don't know"
"But you must have some ideas."
Charlie stroked Bella's head, considering. "Eola came from money, so maybe he's tapped into those resources. A little bit of money can cover a lot of messy tracks."
"True."
"And he's smart, which helps. Mostly, however, I think he relies on his appearance."
"You described him to the detectives as effeminate."
"Yes, ma'am. He's strong, though—all muscle and sinew, that one. But he appears—appeared, I guess, when I knew him—quite aristocratic. For some reason, no one ever suspects the cultured academic."
"Academic?" I heard myself say.
"It's not like he actually had a degree or anything. But it was an image he cultivated. Several of our female nurses actually thought he was a Ph.D. until we broke the news he'd never even gone to college."
"What kind of degree did he pretend to have?"
Charlie pursed his lips. "Oooh, that's a long time ago. A degree in history? Master of fine arts? Maybe it was literature. I don't remember now. Just that he led some people to believe he taught courses at MIT. I don't know why I would've guessed him a Harvard man myself."
Charlie flashed his friendly grin, but I was no longer smiling. Something niggled at me. Too many coincidences.
"Do you have a picture of Christopher?" I asked.
"No, ma'am."
"But there should be something on file. A yearbook? A mug shot? Something."
"I'm not sure, to tell you the truth. Maybe Bridgewater took a photo."
I nodded slowly. Foot starting to tap in agitation. If Eola was loose in '78… Still exiled from his family, with no place to go…
Would someone like that drift out to Arlington? Maybe make himself at home in the attic of a little old lady? And given that he had money, if the target of his interest disappeared, would he be inclined to run, too? Maybe the Boston police had never known about Christopher Eola for the same reason they didn't get to know about me. Because we both vanished and spent the next twenty-five years on the road.
The hour was growing late. Lost in my own thoughts, I hadn't realized that Charlie was already standing, ready to go. Belatedly, I rose, then dug in my purse until I found one of my cards.
"If you think of anything else," I told him, "I would appreciate any help you have to give."
"Oh, not a problem. Pleasure's all mine." He glanced at my card, frowned, and asked, "Tanya?"