Maryann walked slowly ahead of them and sat on a pink brocade couch, the upholstery faded and shredded in spots on the arms. Cats, thought Vega. But she saw none.
Maryann touched the cannula, pressed the prongs up her nose with two swollen fingertips.
“Sorry to keep you out there,” she said. “Don’t move too fast.”
Vega nodded.
“Ma’am, I received this email this morning.”
Vega unfolded the sheet of paper and handed it to Maryann. She squinted at it and looked disappointed.
“Who sent this?” she said to them.
“We don’t know. The email address is just a Gmail; we’re trying to trace the actual machine it was written from. Do you have any idea why someone would link your son’s disappearance to the Brandt girls?”
Maryann paused to consider, then shook her head. The red hair, which was now very clearly a wig, moved stiffly on her shoulders.
“He’s been gone three years November. Other than the fact that there’s all three of them missing now, I’m not sure….” She took a deep breath through her nose then and coughed.
Vega felt everything that was bothering her just then—the toe she had stubbed that morning, a cut below her knee from a razor two days before, most of all the smell of the house, some kind of lotion and mold, like a cellar stuffed with old clothes. It seemed to be getting worse.
“Could you tell us what happened to your son, to Nolan?” said Vega.
Maryann nodded.
“Yeah, I can,” she said, resigned to the task. “He was what you call a disorganized schizophrenic, which is just like what it sounds like. Everything about him was disorganized, his head and the way he talked, and his emotions. I first knew something was wrong when we were at my mom’s funeral when Nolan was, oh gosh, about twenty-one, and he was laughing during the service. But I could tell he didn’t think he was doing nothing wrong—he just didn’t know how to be. Before that, he was a normal boy. Played all kinds of sports, had a couple nice girlfriends. Here,” she said, waving her hand toward a small white table. “Get those pictures, will you, hon?”
Vega stood and went to the table, saw two pictures in dusty frames and brought them over.
“That one, that’s him in his soccer gear,” Maryann said, pointing to Vega’s left hand.
Cap and Vega looked. A boy, big and brawny, with red cheeks, on one knee in a soccer uniform. He had the look, Vega thought, the one reserved for teenaged boys, the one that says there’s nothing but girls and beer and sports in the world and I am goddamn okay with that.
“Looks like a forward,” said Cap.
“You got it,” said Maryann, proud. “Went to State that year. Lost in the end but made all the papers.”
“When was this taken?” Vega said, nodding at the other photo.
It was the same boy but obviously transformed, wearing a white shirt buttoned up to his chin and his hair combed neatly. He smiled but was shy about it.
“Then that’s him right before he disappeared. He was in the community college when he was diagnosed, and then he just lived with me and my youngest. Their dad’s way far out of the picture.”
She paused to take a breath through the tubes in her nose and pressed them again to her nostrils, as if to get every last bit.
“That must have been challenging,” said Vega.
Maryann laughed. “You know, you’d think so, right? But by the time he left, we were doing okay, the three of us. Nolan knew he had to take his meds, and he smoked a pack and a half of Camels every day, but it was no bother. He always smoked them on the porch or in his room.”
“There’s something I have to ask you,” Vega said, leaning forward in her chair. “Did Nolan ever show any interest in underage children?”
Maryann breathed strongly through her nose, coughed and laughed. “No, my dear, he did not.”
“And he never had any violent tendencies? I hear that can happen with schizophrenics.”
Now Maryann seemed to try to steady herself, placed one hand on the arm of the couch. Vega could see the white in the knuckles. Maryann held up one finger.
“One time he pushed me. Once. When we were still trying out different meds, before we got him on the Zyprexa. But he was like a starving dog that ain’t been fed yet. Just wild and sick.”
“And that was it,” said Vega.
“That was it.”
“What happened when he disappeared?” said Vega.
Maryann shut her eyes.
Please do not cry, thought Vega.
“He and I got in some silly argument over emptying the dishwasher—he was usually really good about chores—and I told him I was too tired. And then I told him, ‘Nolan, I’m going to bed early and tomorrow morning that dishwasher better be empty.’ I was working a fifty-hour week back then, before I got sick. And I woke up next morning, and he was gone. All his clothes still in his closet. No note. Just took his wallet and his cigarettes.”
She looked at Cap and Vega then, and wiped tears from the corners of her eyes with her clubby fingers.
Cap leaned forward and handed her a square brown napkin from his pocket. She nodded and took it, wiped her eyes.
“Youse have kids?” she said.
Vega had heard that a few times since she’d gotten to Denville—the “youse.” It made her think of old movies, newsboys waving papers on the street corner.
“One,” said Cap.
“No,” said Vega.
Maryann focused on Cap.
“I’ve been to every morgue in eastern Pennsylvania. I’ve seen a baker’s dozen of John Does, anyone who’s male between the ages of twenty and forty. All’s I want is a body. All’s I want is some dust or some nails or something to bury and say the Lord’s Prayer over. Can you imagine that, wanting something like that?”
Cap shook his head.
“I can’t, ma’am.”
“You shouldn’t have to. Nobody should.”
Her nose crinkled up, lips tightened and released. Vega knew she was trying not to cry, and that this was not an unfamiliar effort.
“You went to the police,” Vega said, trying to move things along.
Don’t let them get emotional unless you’re looking for a confession. Otherwise you get stuck in tears and reminiscing.
“Well yeah. That’s what I’m supposed to do, right?” she said. “They put him up on the NamUs website; they questioned the neighbors. Did a lot of paperwork for about a week. Turns out no one cares too much about a grown man who goes missing, especially one they think’s retarded.”
She somehow, thought Vega, did not sound bitter saying this. It was like she was observing it all.
“I guess you can’t blame them,” she said, and then her tone went flat. “He wasn’t as cute as those two girls.”
“Were there ever any solid leads?” asked Vega.
“No. Not that they told me about. I put up flyers and kept updating the profile on NamUs. Once we got close—they had a body down in Philly that matched him, but the face was all decomposed. Then they did the teeth and no go. Ain’t him. I got sick about a year later, so I don’t do much anymore. My youngest keeps up with it more nowadays.”
She shrugged.
“Is it your lungs?” asked Vega.
Cap turned to her, startled.