Out of the Shadow (2 page)

"What was that about?" Angela asked.

Becca lowered the covers just enough to meet Angela’s worried gaze. "From what I gather, the police think I might have killed David. The only semen sample was his. How can that be?"

Angela frowned. "Shit. I wish I knew. A condom?"

"That’s possible." She had to bite back the tears that welled in her throat. "One of my kitchen knives might be the murder weapon. If I read them right, everything points to me."

            "You have to be kidding! Don’t they have eyes? There’s no way you could have pulled that one off. You’re hardly strong enough to turn Browning in 222 when you have to change the dressing on his butt. They can’t possibly think—"

Becca nibbled her bottom lip. "Yes, they can. And they do."

The day following the police visit, her cell rang repeatedly. A couple of the calls were from her frantic mother, Julie, worried to death about her. But a number she didn’t recognize flashed on the display more than once. Assuming it must be the police or other official business, she finally answered it...to total silence. No one responded to her ‘hellos,’ and after a couple attempts to elicit a reply, she hung up. She assumed it was a wrong number, and promptly forgot about it.

A second silent call came in a couple of days later. When no one answered her this time, she raised her voice. "Who are you? What is it you want from me? Why won’t you answer me?"

She heard a click and the phone went dead. 

Days slipped by with no drama and little variation. Besides an occasional call from the police with a question about the crime, time dragged on, affording Becca the opportunity to ruminate about the incident. Memories kept her awake at night and overshadowed her days. And there was something more. Obsessive thoughts of the intruder's returning preoccupied her every waking minute. She couldn’t stand being alone much longer.

Six weeks after moving in with Angela, Becca’s paid leave and sick time ran out. So, on a typical hot and humid Philadelphia summer morning, she put on her brightly colored dress to make herself feel alive, and took the El on her way to St. John’s Convalescent Hospital. At Macy’s, Becca caught a bus that wobbled past towering cement and stone giants that lined the city streets and dropped her off a block from the hospital.

It took every ounce of Becca’s resolve to enter through the automatic jaws that fed her into the asylum for the suffering and the senile, known as Saint John’s Convalescent Hospital. Blazing fluorescent lights, the shrill of the intercom and a subtle scent of decay met her at the door. When she locked her purse in a staff locker and pinned her name-tag to her starched shirt, resistance moved inside her like a fetus about to be born.

At the nurses' station she was greeted by two nursing assistants, who looked at her with drawn, serious expressions and peppered her with questions about what she’d been through. She answered them circumspectly, putting them off with as few details as possible. She didn’t want to dredge up the entire painful experience before beginning her day.

Taking leave of them, Becca made her way from one patient’s room to another; checking temperatures and blood pressure, then entering notes in charts.

First stop, Beverly Samson in 204. Beverly had a reputation around the hospital for being cranky and difficult, taking every opportunity she could to complain about her son’s infrequent visits, which was a far cry from the truth. Robert Samson made the obligatory trek to the hospital once each week on his day off, even though he looked exhausted and beaten-down after every visit. When Becca reminded Beverly of his routine, she was met with outrage and a raised voice; called insensitive and unprofessional. Normally, this wouldn’t have fazed Becca in the least, but she wasn’t in her normal state of mind.

Next she entered George Lowry’s room, to discover he had lapsed into a coma while she had been away. George had always been one of her most good-natured patients. Even in the face of his progressive neurological illness, he had maintained his sense of humor. Now he lay flat on his back with eyes closed. Drool drained from his mouth, and snot from his nose. She took a cloth and cleaned him off, but he failed to stir. Her heart hurt seeing him this way.

In the adjoining room, the stripped down bed took her by surprise. She marched down to the nurses' station to inquire about Barbara Cranfield. One of the nursing assistants informed her  Barbara had passed away the day before. While not totally unexpected, she hadn’t known it would happen this soon.

All this added up to greater disappointment and sadness than Becca could handle. She had always taken pride in her work, but any enthusiasm she possessed before the rape and murder had dissipated among the bedpans, the moans of misery, and the odors of illness emanating from the patients she attended. She had functioned quite proficiently when treating the diseased and the dying, had learned years ago to turn down the flow of sympathy as she would an IV. But today, every sight, every sound, every ailment, every infirmity, cut through her with tiny invisible blades. After only two hours on the ward, she could no longer bear to witness another suffering patient. She had to speak to the head nurse.

Becca tried her best to hide her agitation with the head nurse, but she must have been more obvious than she intended, because Rosemary offered her another month unpaid sick leave without much persuasion. Becca decided to use the opportunity to facilitate her recovery from what she now realized was a profound and prolonged case of post-traumatic stress.

While she still resented sitting around the house day after day, she knew it was better to stay put instead of trying to resume her life again, and failing. Thank goodness Angela had offered her this opportunity.

Chapter Three

Becca had known the time would come when she would have to move on from Angela’s, she just didn’t know how soon. Angela had lived up to her name and been the most tolerant of angels, but two weeks after Becca’s failed attempt to return to work, she began to drop hints about her new boyfriend Elliot spending the night.
 

So, on a crisp, early autumn afternoon, nearly two months after the rape and murder, Becca answered Angela’s halfhearted protestations with reassurances she’d be all right, gave Angela a big hug for agreeing to take care of Cecil until she settled back into her apartment, and waited for her father with her suitcases on the row home’s front steps. Before moving home, she would spend a couple of weeks with her parents while her apartment was properly secured and the blood-stained carpet and sofa were replaced.

The pearl-white Buick pulled to the curb in front of Angela’s building, where she exchanged pleasantries with her dad while they loaded her suitcases into the trunk. Once strapped inside the car, they threaded their way through city traffic and took the Schuylkill Expressway toward Lower Merion. To pass the time, she tried to make small talk with her father, but he seemed reluctant to make eye contact, and answered her questions in a cursory fashion.

Finally, at a stop light, without so much as a glance over at her, Irv mumbled. "How are you doing...you know...after what happened?"
 

Since he addressed the rape in such a tangential fashion, it became instantly clear how awkward the subject was for him. "I’m okay, Dad, but to be honest, it’s a bit of a struggle."

His jaw clenched in a stony expression. "I’m sorry to hear that. I wish it hadn’t happened..."

"You and me both."

He nodded. "We’ve been worried about you. I don’t have to tell you how much your mother is looking forward to your visit."

"She’s mentioned it once or twice."

"I’m surprised it was only a time or two. I’ve heard the refrain a couple hundred times lately."

Becca grinned. "No doubt."

"Bec, I hope you’ll be patient with her. She’s been a wreck since...since your troubles. You know how easily upset she is. I know she can be irritating, but she loves you more than you can even imagine."

Becca glanced over at her father and noticed the deep pockets under his eyes. His thinning and fading brown hair was brushed sideways to cover a bald spot. A warm feeling washed over her. She had always adored her dad, but while Irv had been her quiet champion for as long as she could remember, he also acted as referee between mother and daughter when they were all together. He wanted peace at all costs, even if it meant convincing her to squelch her reactions to Julie’s intrusive over-protectiveness. He excelled at that.

Becca sighed. "I’ll do my best, Dad." But she knew it wouldn’t be easy.

At their knock, Julie flung open the front door of the two-story, suburban Philadelphia home and embraced Becca in a brusque hug, then pulled back with her hands on her daughter's shoulders and a distressed stare at her face. Worry lines dug deeply into the soft flesh around Julie’s eyes and mouth. "I’m glad you’re home! You look like the hell you’ve been through. Come."

She took Becca by the hand and led her upstairs to her childhood room, a well-preserved museum of her early years. Nothing had been altered or removed since she had married David and moved into his apartment eight years earlier. Red and white checkered comforters on the twin beds matched the gingham window treatments. A plush red throw lay at the foot of the bed. Posters of Dave Matthews and Mariah Carey hung over her white melamine computer desk. Everything a frozen testimony to adolescent hopes and dreams. Hopes and dreams long gone. As dead and buried as David.

Julie watched while Irv brought in the last of the suitcases, then orchestrated where he should place them. Nothing had changed-not her room, not her parents, not their power struggle. Julie still told Irv what to do, and Irv still silently did what he was told. Then he withdrew from his wife to punish her for the crime of controlling behavior. And on and on and on. Over the years, under all circumstances, and obvious to everyone.

What would it be like living with Julie and Irv at this juncture in her life? How long could she tolerate it?

As soon as Irv finished carrying in her things, Becca gently shooed her parents from the room. As expected, Julie put up a fight, emphasizing how much help she could be with the unpacking. To Becca’s surprise, Irv took Julie by the hand and escorted her from the room, glancing back at Becca with a knowing nod behind his wife’s back.

Finally alone in the stuffy room, Becca drifted over to the dormer window and pried it open. She glanced out at the massive oak in the middle of the manicured lawn, the elm trees clustered beyond. As a child, how many times had she hidden in a copse of maple or elm to avoid Julie’s demands? As much as she needed her parents right now, she didn’t want to take advantage of their largesse for long.

The sun shimmered across rust-colored and yellowed leaves which blanketed the trees and speckled the ground. The sight of dying leaves stirred up her inner conflict. It had been months since David’s death and she remained stuck in suspended animation, her life on hold. She dreaded being back in this house. She no longer belonged here, yet she had nowhere else to go.

Restless, with a sense of unease, she knew she still hadn’t recovered from her trauma. Would she ever feel peaceful and safe again?

She no sooner began to unpack when she heard Julie’s raised voice from below. "Becca, come down! I’ve made your favorite strawberry lemonade!"

"Sounds great, Mom," she called down from the banister. "Give me ten minutes."

She returned to place her clothes in closet and drawers. Upon completion she would join her parents downstairs and make the most of a difficult situation.

But not for long.

She knew she had to move on before Julie discovered a way to take advantage of her predicament and indefinitely extend her stay. Her mother had never trusted that she could survive in the world on her own. Now with David gone, there was no doubt Julie would want her ‘home.’ She had to find the courage to move back to her apartment alone, and jump-start her new life. She couldn’t rely on the kindness of others forever.
  

But where was the spark that would ignite her?

Two days later, the police made their first visit to the Goldstein house. At the sound of the doorbell, Becca came out of her room to the railing over the foyer and watched Julie answer the door, with Irv trailing closely behind.

The officers explained they were here to speak with Becca, but had a couple of questions for them first.

"What can you possibly want with us this time?" Julie asked. "We’ve been interrogated twice before."

"Just a couple of quick inquiries," she heard Detective Mills say. "We learned your daughter was in a mental hospital at the age of 12. We’ve requested the records, but we want to know what you can tell us about that time."

Becca cringed. They had more ammunition to use against her.

"Rebecca was having panic attacks and wouldn’t go to school. We didn’t know what to do for her. Our physician suggested we get her some psychiatric help," Julie answered.

"What was the nature of these 'attacks'?" Mills asked.

"How do you explain panic attacks? She was going through early adolescence. She was having problems adjusting. That’s all there was to it." Even from a distance Julie appeared strained.

Becca nibbled her bottom lip. This line of questioning made her nervous. It seemed they couldn’t overturn a stone without exposing a fault on her part. What if they were right and she was crazier than she knew? The doctors certainly thought so. If they hadn’t, they wouldn’t have locked her up and given her those pills which made a zombie out of her.

"And did they put her on medication?" Mills asked.

"Don’t they always?" Julie shook her head. "If you’re implying my daughter is mentally ill, you’re way off base. She had some adolescent issues. That’s all."

Mills made a face. "I don’t think they hospitalize teenagers on a regular basis for having issues.” There were other things going on with Rebecca and we need to know what they were. Can you tell me how long she was in the hospital and what she was like after she returned home? Did she continue treatment? And for how long?"

Julie threw up her hands. "She was hospitalized for a few short weeks and was fine after she returned home. I’m sure she had appointments with her doctor afterwards for a time, but they were outpatient. I still don’t understand this line of questioning. I hope you don’t think her bout in a mental hospital over fifteen years ago has anything to do with your investigation!"

"It’s all relevant to our investigation," Mills said, consulting her notes. "When was the last time you saw your daughter and her husband together before the murder?"

"A week before," Julie replied. "They came over for dinner regularly."

"Did you notice anything unusual about them?"

"No."

"How did they get along?"

Julie had turned her head away, but Becca could only imagine her mother’s expression. A long silence ensued, then Julie said, "They had a good relationship as far as I knew. Why do you ask?"

"Just a mere formality. Were you aware of any tension between them?"

"No, nothing noticeable."

"Did you ever see them argue or fight?" Mills asked.

"Not more than Irv and I argue and fight. I still don’t see your reasoning."

"We’re just trying to gauge the nature of your daughter’s relationship with her husband..."

Suddenly, to her surprise, she heard Irv’s voice rise above the rest. "Are you suggesting our daughter had anything to do with her husband’s death? Because if you are, you’re barking up the wrong tree. My daughter’s the victim here! Don't try to frame her for this crime. It’s time you start looking for the real perpetrator!" Irv moved Julie aside and stepped up to Mills, squaring his shoulders as though he was ready for a fight. "I think we’ve had enough of this line of questioning. Either you stop right here or you’re leaving right now."

Stunned, Becca listened closely; the anger in Irv’s voice apparent even from above. It was
 uncharacteristic of him to be so forceful with anyone, especially the authorities. What had gotten into him? Was he more upset about the entire situation than he had let on to her?

Not nearly as shocking, Julie took over where Irv left off. "I don’t understand why you won’t leave Becca out of this. She’s not the guilty party. Why do you keep pestering her?"

"Look," Mills’ burly partner answered, "we have our job to do and the job entails questioning your daughter. It’s not your place to interfere."

Becca smiled to herself, wondering when her mother didn’t interfere.

Then she heard Sally Mills say, "We’re not here to bother your daughter. We just want to clarify a few points.”

Again Irv jumped in. "You’re aggravating her, whether you intend to or not. She’s been through one hell of a time. I wish you’d let her be."

"We will, right after we speak with her," the uniformed cop said. "Now will you let her know we’re here?"

Becca descended the steps in time to see Julie glare at him. "You don’t seem to understand..."

Grateful for her parents’ defense of her, Becca wanted to spare them more trouble. She raised her voice. "It’s okay, Mom and Dad. I’ll take over from here."

"Are you sure you feel up to this, Rebecca?" her mother asked, still staring darts at the officers.

Becca patted her mother on the arm. "I can handle this, Mom. You and Dad go on back to the kitchen and brew up some coffee. I’ll be in for a cup when I’m through."

"Come on, Jul," Irv said, taking her arm. "Becca’s a big girl. She obviously wants to handle this on her own."

Julie shook her head. "I don’t like this harassment," she mumbled to herself before following Irv to the back of the house.

Sally Mills’ shoulders drooped the moment they disappeared from view. "Your parents certainly care about you."

Sometimes a little too much
. "Do you want to have a seat in the family room?"

Before the officers could answer, she led the way in. The police took two chairs on one side of the coffee table, Becca sat on the loveseat across from them.

After everyone was seated, Mills looked over at her. "We still have a few things we need to clear up. You told the officers at the hospital David was still alive when you found him. What happened after that?"

Now what were they getting at? "I tried to staunch the blood and called 911."

Mills frowned at her. ''Anything else?''

Becca squirmed at the implication of the question. Did they actually believe she wanted him dead? "I tried performing CPR, but I wasn't successful.''

Mills stared at her with a fixed expression.

All at once, rage soared up inside of Becca with the force of a fire hose. "I don’t understand why you keep questioning me as though I’m the bad guy! I didn’t murder David and I certainly didn’t rape myself! It’s time for you to begin looking for the real killer and stop focusing all your attention on me."