“Professor William Stigler?” he repeated, then frowned. “You don’t know him?”
“No, I’ve never heard of him.” Kate felt suddenly angry. “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner, Palmer? Why let me go on and on like that? I feel like such an idiot.”
“No, no. Don’t feel that way. I wanted your unbiased opinion. Everything you said makes perfect sense. It validates what I’ve been working on.”
“You could’ve told me from the beginning and saved us both a lot of time.”
“Are you sure you don’t remember him?”
She shook her head angrily. “Why should I remember him?”
“He’s a sociology professor in his late fifties. Over two decades ago, he did a residency at the asylum where your mother was confined. Like I said, I thought you knew. He was doing a postdoctoral thesis on family dynamics and mental illness. He asked for volunteers. Your mother was one of those volunteers. They grew… close.”
“What?”
“Then you probably don’t know about this either,” he said bluntly. “But your mother and Stigler moved in together shortly after she was released from the hospital.”
“Are you kidding me?”
He sat back. “Maybe it’s time for me to stop.”
She stared at him with ferocious intensity. “What the hell, Palmer?”
“You should talk to your father about this.”
“I remember visiting her at the hospital,” Kate said numbly. “She seemed so lost. When she finally came home six months later, she looked like a different person. She had this glow about her. We all figured she was better. But then, my parents started bickering again, and after a few weeks, she packed her bags and took off. Savannah and I had no idea where she’d gone, but Dad told us she went back to the asylum for more treatment.”
“He never told you the truth?”
Kate shook her head. “I had no idea she was having an affair. What did you say his name was? Seegler?”
“William Stigler. I’m sorry, Kate.”
“And you think he’s a suspect?”
“He’s my prime suspect.”
“How do you know? What’s your evidence?”
“It happened last year, during the Makayla Brayden investigation,” Palmer explained. “Stigler approached us out of the blue and offered to help with the case, which is highly suspicious in my book.” He leaned forward. “This is strictly confidential, Kate. You can’t breathe a word of it to anyone.”
“I’m a psychiatrist. I know how to keep a secret.”
“Not even James,” he warned.
She gave a grim nod.
He cleared his throat. “Stigler came to us uninvited, claiming he wanted to help. He did a few other things, too.”
“Like what?”
“I can’t get into that right now. You have to trust me.”
Her temper flared. “Maybe I don’t trust you anymore, Palmer? Maybe if you’d told me sooner—?”
“Kate,” he interrupted, “the last thing I want to do is lose your trust.”
Kate relented. She remembered visiting Julia at Godwin Valley Asylum, that bizarre Gothic fortress across town. A dumping ground for crazy people. She recalled her mother’s pale dissociated countenance during those rare visits. Julia drifted through the halls like a ghost, looking straight through her frightened daughters. “I’m here for my nerves,” she told them vaguely. “My nerves need rewiring.”
Palmer steepled his hands together. “Any crime you’re investigating, you develop a list of suspects. Mental patients, excons, rapists, relatives, neighbors… whoever matches the profile. You gradually build your list, and one by one, you cross them off. My list is very short now. And Stigler’s name is at the very top.”
“Why haven’t you arrested him?”
“For one thing I’m retired. I can’t arrest anyone.”
“But he’s your prime suspect, right? Can’t you get one of your pals down at the police station to arrest him?”
“My pals?” Palmer cracked a smile. “Believe it or not, Kate, I don’t have that kind of influence.”
“Okay, so last year, he offered to help you with the case. How does that make him a suspect?”
“You were right about the differences between the victims. They come in all sizes and shapes. But they do have another thing in common: they all come from broken homes. Divorce, domestic abuse, alcoholism, drugs. These weren’t the happiest of families.”
“So what’s that got to do with Stigler?”
“He’s a sociology professor. One of the classes he teaches is called ‘Victimhood Among Children From Broken Homes.’ Over the past couple of decades, he and his team of postdocs and research associates sent out thousands of questionnaires to at-risk families. His underlings weeded through the responses and conducted the initial interviews, but Stigler himself conducted select follow-up interviews. And guess which families he’s interviewed personally?”
She took a stab. “All of them?”
“No. Seven out of nine of the cases I think are linked. Not your family, not Emera Mason’s, but all the rest. I believe he selected them because they fit the criteria: troubled homes with abusive relationships or mental illness or alcohol and drug problems. He chose girls who were vulnerable to predation. What better way to find your next victim?”
She fell silent.
“Look,” he told her gently. “I wouldn’t blame you if you decided to stop. Sometimes the truth can get ugly.”
She shook her head. “Don’t you think I know that?”
“What I mean is… it’s okay to quit.”
She bit her lower lip. “After my sister died, I begged them not to cremate her. I didn’t want her to end up in a box like our mother. My father agreed, so we picked out the casket together. I went to her room and found her favorite dress—it was lilac with an empire waist. I found her favorite doll, too. She’d given it a makeover—Magic Marker lipstick and a choppy punk haircut. I remember sitting there for the longest time with that ugly doll in my lap, sobbing.”
Palmer nodded.
“Anyway, the doll’s shoe fell off and rolled under the bed. And when I went to pick it up, I saw the biggest wad of bubblegum I’ve ever seen in my life—it must’ve weighed two pounds. Savannah would chew gum until it lost its flavor, and then stick it under her bed, where nobody could see. She must’ve stuck hundreds of pieces of gum there. I’ve never laughed so hard. That was my sister. She was the funniest kid in the world. She was my best friend. So when you tell me the truth can get ugly… it can also be beautiful.”
A feathery silence landed between them. She stood up. “I have to go talk to my father.”
He escorted her to the door. They paused on the threshold, while she dug her keys out of her bag. “Do you really think they’re dead?” she asked. “The missing girls?”
He nodded.
“Every last one of them.”
34
KATE DROVE ACROSS TOWN feeling nauseous and disoriented. Her father wasn’t home. His Ford Ranger was gone from the driveway. She checked her watch: 10:30 AM. Being semi-retired, he had Tuesdays and Thursdays off. So where was he?
She decided to wait for him. He kept a spare key hidden under a flowerpot in the garden. She let herself in and started a fresh pot of coffee brewing. She took a seat at the round table in the kitchen and listened to the coffee maker as it gurgled, while morning sunlight spilled across the linoleum floor. The house had once been full of people. Now it was full of creaks and groans.