Secrets to the Grave

47

Anne got out of her car in the parking lot of the mental health facility and took a deep breath—both to enjoy the fresh air and to clear her head before going in to deal with Dennis.

Clouds were gathering, gray and swollen and promising rain. She had always welcomed this time of year when the rains came. After months of baking heat and relentless sun, it was nice to curl up at home with a blanket and a good book and listen to the rain come down.

That sounded like a good plan for the evening. Vince had come home to rest and watch Haley for her while she came to see Dennis. Maybe she would get lucky and have her husband home for the evening, and the three of them could snuggle up on the couch and they could read a book to Haley, or watch a video.

She tried to check herself at the thought. They hadn’t had Haley in their home for a day yet, and she was already getting too comfortable with the idea of her being there. Not smart, Anne.

She was in Haley Fordham’s life for a specific reason. She needed to remember that. At the end of this investigation into Marissa Fordham’s death, Haley would go elsewhere, hopefully to a relative who would take her in and love her. Although, from what Anne had gathered, Marissa Fordham had been estranged from her family. So far, no one had even been able to find out where they were.

If no relatives could be located, Milo Bordain would try to get custody. It wasn’t that Anne had no sympathy for the woman. If Marissa had been like a daughter to Bordain, then Haley was like a granddaughter. Milo Bordain probably loved the little girl in whatever way she was capable of loving her, but that didn’t necessarily make her a good candidate to raise a small child.

Bordain was in her fifties, very staid and proper. Anne didn’t have to visit the woman’s home to know there would be a long list of rules and things not to be touched by a four-year-old. She could imagine little Haley dressed up in Burberry and Hermès, accessorized like a fashion doll.

Haley had grown up in the home of an artist, an environment full of inspiration and imagination, and probably few boundaries. In going through the clothes Vince had picked up for her, Anne found tie-dyed T-shirts and a pink tutu, a tiny denim jacket hand-painted with baby jungle animals and a fairy costume complete with wings.

Anne set the subject to a back burner as she went into the hospital and signed in at the desk, exchanging pleasantries with the staff. She had to focus now on Dennis Farman.

He was jumping around the room practicing karate moves when Anne walked in. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, but pretended not to know she was there, continuing to leap and shout and kick and chop.

Anne took her seat at the table and set her tote bag and purse on the floor.

“That’s pretty impressive Dennis,” she said. “Did you take lessons?”

“I’m a black belt,” he said, crouching and chopping with his arms as he moved around the table.

That was almost certainly a lie, Anne thought, though she had to admit she knew nothing about martial arts. On the other hand, she supposed if Frank Farman had thought to sign his son up for something it would be something macho like karate. The violent aspect would have appealed to him.

“Good for you,” she said. “But that’s enough for today. Have a seat.”

“I don’t have to,” he said belligerently.

“You do if you want me to stay,” Anne said calmly. “If you’re just going to goof off and be obnoxious to me, I’ll leave.”

He jumped up in the air, shouted, and kicked out with one foot. Anne pushed her chair back from the table, gathered her things, and stood up.

“See ya,” she said, turning for the door.

Dennis’s angry expression fell away. He didn’t ask her not to go, but he sat down at the table.

Anne waited for a moment, letting him think she was still considering walking out. He had to realize there were consequences to his behavior—consequences that didn’t involve him getting a beating. He needed to learn to take the feelings of others into consideration when he acted out.

He was pouting now as she returned to her seat, staring down with his nose inches from the tabletop.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come yesterday, Dennis,” Anne said. “I was tied up in an important meeting.”

“More important than me,” Dennis said.

She didn’t take the bait. “Meetings have to happen when they have to happen. Judges have very busy schedules.”

At the mention of a judge, he looked up at her. “Was it about me?”

“No.”

“Then why the fuck should I care?”

“No reason,” she said, ignoring his language. “What did you do yesterday?”

“Nothing. There’s nothing to do here but watch the crazy people. That one weird guy with the dreadlocks pulled his pants down and shit on the floor in the activities room,” he said, laughing. “That was pretty funny!”

Oh my God, I have to get him out of here, she thought. She would look into group homes herself. There had to be one somewhere that would be appropriate for him.

“Did you do your reading assignment?” she asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You didn’t come.”

“You should have read it Tuesday. You didn’t know I wouldn’t come yesterday.”

“But you didn’t,” he argued. “How was I to know if you’d ever come back again? You could have been dead for all I knew. You could have been murdered and stabbed a hundred times and your head cut off.”

“I could have flown to the moon,” Anne said. “But that wasn’t likely. And it wasn’t likely that I had been murdered either. That’s no excuse not to do your homework, anyway.”

“Dr. Crane tried to murder you,” he pointed out. “Why wouldn’t somebody else?”

“Let’s talk about you,” Anne said pointedly. “I know you had a session with Dr. Falk yesterday. How did that go?”

“Somebody killed that other lady,” Dennis said. His small eyes gleamed with excitement. “They stabbed her a million times and cut her head off.”

“How do you know about that?”

“I know stuff,” he said evasively.

“Did you see it on television?”

“No.” She could see him contemplating whether or not to tell her the truth. Finally he said, “I read it in the newspaper.”

“Really?” Anne said, brows lifting in surprise. At least he was reading something. She would have preferred the subject matter wasn’t murder, but she wasn’t going to be choosy at this point. “I’m impressed. Do you enjoy reading the newspaper?”

“No,” he said, frowning, knowing he had gotten himself caught in something now. “Just about murders and rapes and stuff like that.”

“Reading is reading,” Anne said, determined not to react to his supposed interest in the macabre. He only said those things to rattle her. She hoped. “So you can write me a report about this murder. I want to see two pages tomorrow.”

His jaw dropped. “The fuck!”

“Yeah, life’s a bitch, isn’t it?” she said. “I’m a teacher. I can take anything and turn it into an assignment. I want you to write two pages about the murder. And no copying from the newspaper. I read it too.”

“That sucks!”

Anne shrugged. “You’ve got nothing better to do. You said so yourself.”

He hated it when she turned his own words around on him. The rims of his ears turned red and his freckles stood out like polka dots on his cheeks. He made two fists and hit the tabletop in frustration.

“I’ll bring you something special tomorrow,” she promised.

“Like what?”

“I’m not telling,” Anne said, thinking she would make a trip to the bookstore on the Plaza downtown and see if they had something Dennis might channel his reading interest toward. Some comic books, maybe. Superheroes fighting crime instead of committing crime. “But you have to have your pages written. Deal?”

He looked suspicious. “No. What if what you bring me is something stupid like sugar-free gum or some stupid toy or something?”

“What if it isn’t something stupid?” Anne challenged. “What if it’s something you’ll really like?”

“Like what?”

“I’m not telling.”

Behind the frustration Anne thought she could see a little glimmer of excitement. Dennis had had a rotten childhood. She was willing to bet neither of his parents had ever surprised him with any kind of gift. Half the time he had come to school in dirty clothes. Not even his basic needs had been taken care of adequately.

Maybe she could show him the world could be a better place for him—not just for the Wendy Morgans or Tommy Cranes of the world. If she could show him that people could take an interest in him and care about what happened to him, maybe he could turn around. It certainly wasn’t going to hurt to show him a little kindness.

Or so she hoped ...