Fogarty’s eyes hardened behind the sheen of emotion. “No. Not even close. She was going to retire soon. We were going to travel. So I’m getting a little tired of being asked that.”
Mike knew a man’s emotion loved to go toward anger if it meant a break from the grief. He wasn’t trying to rile Fogarty, so he subtly shifted direction. “What did you do for the Highway Department?”
“Everything,” Fogarty said, softening a bit. “Started on mowers, forklift; did the plow every winter for years, in the summer might work a striper, post pounder – whatever it was; I could drive it and work it. But I’ve been out for almost a year. Loving it. Looking forward to just spending life with my wife… Oh God…” Terry fell apart again and they had to give him more time.
Mike knew the rest of the story anyway: Placid PD took the report and made a call to the Lake Haven police, inquiring about Harriet. Lake Haven sent a car up to check the office building where she worked, saw the car parked, the body inside at around seven thirty. Employees began arriving for the day about fifteen minutes after that. Bobbi Noelle had been the first.
“You call her Rita?” Mike asked.
Fogarty gathered himself again and their eyes connected. He nodded and offered a broken smile. “I tried calling her ‘Harry’ for a while but it didn’t take. Her parents called her Rita from when she was little. People at work call her Rita.”
“And she has two brothers?”
“Joe lives in Salt Lake City. Steve is somewhere… I don’t know. He moves around a lot.”
“When was the last time Harriet saw either of them?”
“We don’t really talk to Steve. But Joe was here with his family, um, two Christmases ago. Or three… I can’t remember. He’s got two grown kids. We were planning a trip out there this fall. I’m not looking forward to the call to Joe.”
“And Steve?”
Terry’s eyes were heavy and hooded. “Steve’s not my favorite in-law. He was an asshole to Rita when they were kids. Sorry for the language. He’s the youngest. Never married. She’s the middle child; a brother above and a brother below.”
“How was he an asshole?” Overton glanced at Mike, then back at Terry. “Was he aggressive?”
“He could get in her face. They’re only two years apart; he’s the baby. He was just a problem child – he’d harass her, you know, like, barge into her bedroom when she was changing clothes. When they were little he’d wrestle her and pin her down – but in a mean way. And he just kept on. You know. Very aggressive. Angry. An angry man.”
Mike made a note: family issues, younger brother. “But they haven’t been in contact recently? Maybe an email, Facebook, or something?”
“No. The last they spoke was when Rita’s mother passed, shortly after her father. Cecilia was…” He looked into a corner, remembering. “She died almost four years ago. This August. She’s buried down where the family farm is, in Gloversville. Steve made an appearance for the funeral, but… he was a real handful. Drinking, arguing about the will.”
“The will?” said Mike.
“Okay, so, when Arthur died – that’s Rita’s father – he left everything to Cecilia, his wife, including the farm. Then she left the farm to Joe and Rita. Steve was… He had this whole story about how Cecilia was under duress when she signed it, and that Joe and Rita coerced her, all this sort of bullshit.” Fogarty rubbed his eyes. “I keep swearing. Please excuse my language.”
Mike brushed away the apology with a hand. “Whatever you need, Mr. Fogarty.”
“I haven’t seen Steve in years. Rita wasn’t talking to him. She’d drawn a boundary. That’s the bottom line.”
“She’d said ‘enough,’” Overton suggested.
“Exactly. Life’s too short for someone like Steve and all his bullshit.” The emotion bubbled up again, and Fogarty’s lower lip shook.
Mike asked, “Are you going to reach out to him?”
Fogarty ran a hand over his face. “I have to call Joe. No question. But Steve… I’ll try the number we’ve got for him, if it’s even still his number. I couldn’t care less if he knows or not.”
“Could you share that number with us when you get a chance?”
“I’ll look for it.”
There was a soft knock at the door. Overton opened it up. A mousy woman stood nervously on the other side, wringing her hands. Mike recognized her as Dr. Crispin’s assistant. “I’m sorry to interrupt – Victor Fogarty is here.”
* * *
The young man was square-jawed with fierce eyes and thick brows like his father, but otherwise looked more like his mother. Handsome, wearing dark slacks and a crisp white shirt. Standing in the lobby, fists clenched by his sides.
Terry stuck out his chest a bit, like he was marshaling strength, and walked to his son.
Victor searched his father’s eyes. “Where is she?”
“She’s here. They’re examining her.”
“What happened?”
“It’s okay, Vic. We’re going to be okay…”
“What happened?” Victor glared at Mike and Overton. “Where is my mother? What happened to her?” His chin trembled, eyes shone. Terry tried to embrace his son but Victor pulled away. Then he turned and stalked off toward the autopsy suite and Terry followed. Mike started after them.
Overton caught Mike by the arm, and their eyes locked. “I’ve already had a look at Harriet’s brother, Steve. He’s got a record. Drinking and driving, suspended license, possession charges. He seems to drift around, doing different jobs.” She blinked, let Mike go. She said, “We have no idea where he is right now.”
* * *
Late in the evening they gathered everybody at the state police barracks in Cold Brook, where they had the space to stretch out. The large room was arranged like a college classroom, with semi-circular rows of seating, a dais and three large whiteboards. Present were several state troopers, local Lake Haven patrol officers, the Lake Haven chief, and Mike’s supervisor from the Bureau of Criminal Investigation, Reggie Hume.
Mike drew a large circle on the middle whiteboard. “So, here’s where we’re at: We’ve got twenty-two employees at DSS who are caseworkers, supervisors, administrators, front-desk people, maintenance, custodial, and information techs. Now, most of these are going to go pretty easy – these employees, for the most part, have taken civil service exams, had background checks, physical and mental evaluations. But we’ve also got a construction that just finished up the new addition, and landscapers are still working. I believe they all had to go through background checks, but we need someone looking into that. And finally, prior to construction, there was a survey team, so same thing there.”
He drew a point in the middle of the circle. “This is Harriet.” He drew a ring around her. “And these are all the subjects I’ve just mentioned. They’re fairly easy-access. But outside of them,” he indicated the space between the ring and the circle he’d already drawn, “are hundreds of people involved in services offered by the DSS.” He set the pen down and wiped his hands off, just a reflex from the older days of chalkboards.
“Caseworkers do a lot of their work out in the field,” he said. “They go into people’s homes. Same with the Adult Protective Services – though in that case they’re venturing into homes where the person isn’t able to care for themselves, or there’s some other problem. We’re going to get everybody’s schedule, look at where they were this past month, keep track of what they’re doing…” He trailed off when someone’s hand went up.
Reggie Hume. “There’s some talk that this could have been mistaken identity.”