Terminal City (11 page)

Mercer threw in all the platitudes about the good dying young. How violently she died was better left unspoken.

We let Thatcher talk about Corinne’s work for as long as he wanted to, his wife occasionally blotting her tears and adding a few words about her child’s extraordinary kindness to others.

I waited until he seemed to have exhausted himself listing her good acts. We needed to know whether anyone in her orbit could have been responsible for this tragedy. “What did she do for the Red Cross, exactly?”

“The disaster relief work took her all over the country. All over the world, actually. Anywhere there was a flood or a cyclone or a fire that destroyed a community. Supplying people with food and shelter and medicine, that’s the kind of thing that Corinne did.”

“Not tonight, of course, but can you put together a list of the places she lived and some of the people at her job?”

Thelma Thatcher spoke. “My son can do that.”

Corinne’s father started reeling off a list of cities in the Midwest and on both coasts.

“What did she do abroad?” I asked.

“She lived in Okinawa for a while. It was Red Cross work, but it was with the air force in particular. I think it was called communications liaison.”

Mercer took over. “So she had to handle emergency messages between military personnel on the island and their families back home?”

“Yes. She didn’t mind it that much, but when there was a death that she had to report—like telling an officer that his dad had died, or even an ill soldier needing to reach out to relatives, it really took a toll on her.”

“I understand.”

“From there she went to Dubai.”

“Really?”

“It was a promotion, actually. Corinne learned how to issue grants to families to get them immediate assistance in an emergency.”

“Related to war in the Middle East?”

“Some of that, Mr. Wallace. Yes, sir. But she was pretty miserable living there, so she asked to come back home.”

“Is that when she quit?” I asked.

“No. No, it wasn’t. She got assigned to the support resources operations for postdeployment.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m not familiar with what that is.”

Thatcher sighed as he began to explain the duties to me. “Obviously, ma’am, there are always challenges when service members come home from war. Their spouses may have assumed new responsibilities or taken jobs. Some adjust quickly and easily, but many have trouble reestablishing relationships or handling depression.”

“I thought those were issues for the military to deal with.”

“I don’t know for how long the Red Cross has been involved, but they are very much in the mix. That was Corinne’s job.”

“Here in New York?”

“Yes, most of her work was here in the city.”

“Did she have direct contact with ex-military men?” I asked.

“And women.”

“One-on-one?”

“Some individually, others with their families. She had to deal with post-traumatic stress issues and often with TBIs.”

“I don’t know—”

Bill Thatcher cut me off. “Traumatic brain injuries. A lot of our soldiers have long-term health problems. There’s a good bit of reunion adjustment.”

“You said that Corinne became—well, overwhelmed by the work, is that right?”

“Yes, ma’am. It got to her, seeing how much some of these young people gave to their countries and how hard it was for them to get on with their lives.”

Mercer followed with a list of questions that suggested we were both on the same wavelength. Were there any ones in particular with whom Corinne had bonded? Or about whom she was most worried? Or who had threatened her well-being? We also needed to know if she had become intimate with any of them.

The answer to every question was no.

“Who knew Corinne best?” I asked.

Bill Thatcher flinched. “Knew her?”

He still wasn’t able to think of his daughter in the past tense. That might take months to happen.

“With whom was she closest? Her brother?”

“No. Not so much anymore. Maybe her roommate?” He turned to his wife.

“Lizzie. Elizabeth Angler,” Thelma Thatcher said. “But she’s on vacation. I think she went abroad to visit family.”

“We’ll need that contact information,” Mercer said.

“Did Corinne quit her job?” I asked.

Her father answered. “Yes, back in June. She’s just taking some time off this summer. Starting at NYU in a few weeks with some grad school courses, so that she can teach. She decided she wants to teach school after all.”

“Did she have a boyfriend, Mr. Thatcher?”

He paused before answering. “Corinne was dating a young man through the winter and spring. She ended that relationship about the same time she quit work.”

“Was he also involved with the Red Cross?”

The Thatchers stared blankly at each other.

“Sir?”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “My wife and I never met him. For some reason, Corinne never wanted to bring him home. She didn’t think we’d approve of him.”

I glanced across at Mercer.

“What do you know about him?”

“Precious little.”

“What was the reason for your disapproval?”

Bill Thatcher swallowed hard. “He wasn’t educated, this fellow. And Corinne knew how important that was to us. Now I hate myself for it. For being so small-minded.”

“That was the only issue for you?” I asked.

He thought about my question for a few seconds too long.

“Did he have a criminal history?”

“I have no reason to think so. Thelma knows his name, I’m sure.”

“So, you didn’t even know that much,” I said.

“What is it, Thelma? Pedro, or is it Pablo? Something like that.”

Mercer grimaced as he nodded to me.
Something like that.
The boyfriend’s background was “something other” than the Thatchers’.

“He was Dominican. I didn’t feel he was right for our daughter.”

The bold fact of Thatcher’s prejudice didn’t seem to slow him down at all.

“Because of his ethnicity. Just that?”

The father was silent. He avoided making eye contact with Mercer.

“Or was he ever violent toward Corinne? Did she mention any inappropriate behavior?” I asked. “I mean when she broke up with him.”

The choice of separation by one partner is the leading cause of violence in a dating relationship, when the other one doesn’t want to end the connection. Repeated efforts by the victim to escape the escalating attacks led to fatalities with astounding frequency.

“Nothing like that.”

“Do you know what he does for a living?” I asked.

“I—I don’t.”

“Was he ever in the military?” Mercer asked, with mounting urgency.

“I wouldn’t know,” Thatcher said. “But look here, why are you so interested in the man she dated?”

“We have to check into everyone in Corinne’s world,” I said. “Friends, coworkers, people she might have been intimate with.”

The likelihood that a young woman was killed by someone she knew—rather than a stranger—was tremendous.

“I’ve met the man our daughter was dating,” Thelma Thatcher said softly, lifting her head.

“You’ve
what
?” her husband said, practically shouting at her.

“His name is Paco.”

“When did this happen?” Bill Thatcher asked.

“In the spring. I came into the city to have lunch with Corinne.”

“You know how I felt about this. You betrayed me, Thelma. You’ve made a fool of me.” Thatcher’s face turned beet red as he tried to restrain his anger.

“What can you tell us about him?” Mercer asked.

“That Corinne liked him very much. That he was quiet and didn’t speak a lot,” she said.

“Details,” Mercer said. “We’re going to need as many details as you can give us, Mrs. Thatcher. We’d like to try to find him tonight.”

“You need to call my son. He has more information than I do. I just remember Corinne telling me she had ended the relationship because her friend—because Paco—was angry. That he was angry all the time.”

Bill Thatcher looked more puzzled than Mercer and I. “She told you all this?”

“Why was he angry?” I said. “Did Corinne tell you the reason?”

She nodded her head up and down as more tears streaked her cheeks. “Paco’s brother had come back from Afghanistan. He lost both legs. His tank was blown up by an IED.”

“That’s a good reason to be mad.”

“He didn’t hurt her, Mr. Wallace.”

“But she told you Paco was always angry.”

“That was her world, Detective. Good people, but many of them damaged, many of them struggling, many of them deeply unhappy. This boy wasn’t taking out any hostility on my daughter,” Thelma Thatcher said. “He directed his anger elsewhere.”

“Do you know—?”

“Paco’s brother isn’t a citizen of this country. He joined the army to fight in this war and came home without his legs and half his face missing. Corinne told me she couldn’t get her friend to focus his—his venom, she called it—into something more constructive. Paco’s anger, according to Corinne, is directed at the president of the United States.”

ELEVEN

“You can’t be that unhappy to see me,” Mike said.

“Perfect end to a truly miserable day,” I said, closing the door to the conference room of the morgue shortly before 7:30
P.M
. “You here to top it off?”

Mike’s feet were up on the long table. He had obviously been examining autopsy and crime scene photographs. Mercer and I had just put the Thatchers in a patrol car for the ride home. I didn’t imagine there would be much conversation on that long, sad drive.

“The commissioner thinks I’m presidential material. I mean, not presidential but—”

“I wasn’t confused for a nanosecond. He’s asked you to be part of the task force when the feebies show up.”

“Scully heard that the dead girl’s wacko ex—”

“Nothing to suggest Paco is wacko, okay?”

“What did you feed her that’s got her snapping at me, Mercer?”

I raised my arms and held them out to both sides. “You guys talking about me? So very sorry. I’m just out of sorts ’cause I’m so distressed about Mrs. Chapman’s health.”

“Relax, Coop. She’s doing much better.”

I looked for the slightest sign of deception or discomfort in Mike’s demeanor but saw neither.

Mercer didn’t skip a beat. “I called Corinne’s brother. He’s got—”

“Do you mind giving us a few minutes, Mercer?” I asked.

He looked at Mike before he answered me. “You can have whatever you want, Alex, but this doesn’t seem like the time—”

Mike took his feet down and sat up straight. “I’ve got no secrets from Mercer, kid. You got a beef with me, shoot.”

I stared straight at Mike. “If you don’t mind, Mercer. Five minutes.”

He turned and saluted me before walking out of the room.

“Don’t go acting all crazy on me, Coop.”

“You know I adore your mother, Mike,” I said. “My father helped you get her the best doctors, the best care when she was first diagnosed. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her.”

“And she’s coming along fine. I just told you that.”

“You also told me that she’s in ICU for a few more days of observation.”

Mike’s expression didn’t change. “Like I said. So what’s got you so smoked up about my mother, Coop?”

“Just the fact that I went to visit her in the hospital—”

“Whoa. No visitors but family.”

“Excuse me. She always says I’m just a shadow away from family. I went to say hello to her this morning—just a smile and to blow a kiss—perk her up a bit. Funniest thing is, she wasn’t there. Not this morning. Not this week.”

“So—”

“So your bullshit is wearing thin with me, Detective Chapman. I don’t care that you make a fool of me, but just give it to me face-to-face. Are we done?”

Mike was talking over me. “What hospital did you go to?”

“What does that matter? She wasn’t there.”

“Where?”

I was overtired and overwrought, practically wringing my hands to keep them from flailing while I talked. “Lutheran. The Medical Center.”

“Well, that’s the problem.”

“No, I’m obviously the problem, Mike. What is it? Margaret’s always been treated at Lutheran. Why are you being so—so evasive? It’s about us. It’s about me, isn’t it? It’s not about your mother at all.”

“I got no issue with you, Coop.”

“Then what?”

“Don’t go crying on me, okay? Just dig those two chunky central incisors—the uppers, right there in the front of your mouth,” Mike said, stepping toward me and grabbing my shoulders tightly. “Just dig those two big teeth into your lip. Thatta girl. Bite down.”

I looked at Mike. I wanted him to put his arms around me and explain the long absence and the nonsense about his mother.

“Not here, Coop, okay? I know that look in your eye. Don’t even think about it,” he said, releasing me and taking two steps back, running his fingers through his hair. “Not in the morgue, okay? Creeps me out to think about even touching you while we’re a hairbreadth away from an autopsy table.”

“I wasn’t thinking about touching you.”

“Sure you were,” he said, flashing that irresistible grin. “You wanted a piece of me, didn’t you?”

“Where is your mother? Would you just tell me that?”

“You never heard of HIPAA Security Rule?” Mike said, still clowning around.

“HIPAA, my ass. I’m not violating Margaret’s privacy by asking where she is.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Just
your
privacy, Mike. Am I violating that?”

“Listen to me for a minute, Coop,” he said, turning dead serious on a dime, leaning on his arms on the table between us. “When are you going to understand that I would sooner stick a shiv between the fifth and sixth ribs on the left side of my chest cavity than—”

“You mean, the place where most people have a heart? Are you able to say the word ‘heart’?”

“—than hurt you. Do you get that?” he asked, jabbing a finger toward my face. “Will you ever get that?”

I inhaled and looked down at the table. “I don’t think you’d do anything—intentionally—to hurt me.”

“What did you just say?”

“You heard me.”

“It’s not enough for you, is it?” Mike said. “For Christsakes, we’re in the morgue, Coop. My testosterone kind of chills down in here. It’s about all I can give you right now.”