“Yes, I have some of the preliminary findings here. Let me get the printout..
Vera knocked on the door and came in with Warren Emerson’s chart. She didn’t say a word, just dropped the folder on the desk and walked out again. While waiting for Max to come back on the line, Claire opened the chart and glanced at the first page. It was dated 1932, the year of Emerson’s birth. It described the uncomplicated labor and delivery of a healthy boy to a Mrs. Agnes Emerson. The doctor's name was Higgins. The next few pages were devoted to well-baby checks and routine childhood visits.
She turned to a new page in the chart and frowned at the date:
1956. There had been a ten-year gap between the previous entry and this one. For the first time, Dr. Pomeroy’s signature appeared in the chart. She started to read Pomeroy’s entry, but was interrupted by Max’s voice on the line.
“Bacterial cultures are still pending,” he said. “So far I see that dioxin, lead, and mercury levels are all within safe limits..
Claire’s attention was suddenly riveted on the chart. On what Pomeroy had written in the last paragraph: “Has committed no other violent acts since his arrest in 1946”
“…by next week, we should know more,” Max said. “But so far, the water quality seems pretty good. No evidence of any chemical contamination.”
“I’ve got to to go,” she cut in. “I’ll call you later.”
She hung up and reread Pomeroy’s entry from beginning to end. It was written in the year Warren Emerson had turned twenty-five years old.
The year he’d been released from the State Mental Hospital in Augusta.
Nineteen forty-six. In which month had Warren Emerson committed violence?
Claire stood in the basement archives room of the Tranquility Gazette, staring at a wooden cabinet that took up an entire wall. Each drawer was labeled by year. She opened the drawer for 1946, July to December.
Inside lay six issues of the Gazette. In 1946, it had been a monthly newspaper.
The pages were brittle and yellow, the ads adorned with wasp-waisted women in bouffant skirts and smart little hats. Gingerly she leafed through the July issue, scanning the headlines: RECORD HEAT
MAKES UP FOR RAINY SPRING… BIGGEST SUMMER VISITOR COUNT EVER… MOSQUITO
ALERT… BOYS CAUGHT WITH ILLEGAL FIREWORKS… JULY 4TH PARADE DRAWS RECORD
CROWDS. The same headlines that seem to appear every July, she thought. Summer has always been the season for parades and biting bugs, and these headlines brought back memories of her first summer in Maine. The crunch of sweet corn on the cob and snap peas, the tang of citronella on her skin. It had been a good summer, as it had been in 1946.
She turned to the August and September issues, where she read more of the same, news of fish fries and church dances and swim races in the lake. There was unpleasant news as well: a three-car accident had sent two visitors to the hospital and a house had burned down due to a cooking mishap. Shoplifters had taken their toll on area stores. Life was not perfect in Vacationland.
She turned to the October issue and found herself staring at a headline in bold print:
15-YEAR-OLD BOY SLAYS PARENTS, THEN FALLS TO HIS DEATH; YOUNGER SISTER’S ACTIONS
“CLEARLY SELF-DEFENSE.”
The juvenile was not named, but there were photographs of the murdered parents, a handsome, dark-haired couple smiling in their Sunday best. She focused on the caption beneath the photo, identifying the murdered couple: Martha and Frank Keating. Their last name was familiar; she knew of a local judge named Iris Keating. Were they related?
Her gaze dropped to another headline below it: FISTFIGHT BREAKS OUT IN HIGH
SCHOOL CAFETERIA.
Then another: BOSTON VISITOR MISSING; GIRL LAST SEEN WITH AREA YOUTHS.
The basement was unheated, and her hands felt like ice. But the chill came from within.
She reached for the November issue and stared at the front page. At the headline screaming up at her.
14-YEAR-OLD ARRESTED FOR MURDER OF PARENTS: FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS STUNNED BY
CRIMES OF “SENSITIVE CHILD.”
The chill had spread all the way up her spine.
She thought: It’s happening all over again.
14
'Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you keep it a secret?”
Lincoln crossed the room to shut his office door. Then he turned to face Claire.
“It was a long time ago. I didn’t see the point of dredging up old history.”
“But it’s the history of this town! Considering what’s happened in the last month, it strikes me as relevant.”
She placed the photocopied articles from the Tranquility Gazette on his desk.
“Look at this. In 1946, seven people were murdered and one girl from Boston was never found. Obviously violence is nothing new to this town.” She tapped the stack of papers. “Read the articles, Lincoln. Or do you already know the details?”
Slowly he sat down, staring at the pages. “Yes, I know most of the details,” he said softly. “I’ve heard the stories.”
“Who told you?”
“Jeff Wifiard. He was chief of police when I was first hired twenty-two years ago.”
“You hadn’t heard about it before then?”
“No. And I grew up here. I knew nothing about it until Chief Willard told me.
People just don’t talk about it.”
“They’d rather pretend it never happened.”
“There’s also our reputation to consider.” He looked up, at last meeting her gaze. “This is a resort town, Claire. People come here to escape the big city, escape crime. We’re not eager to reveal to the world that we’ve had our own problems. Our own murder epidemic.”
She sat down, her gaze now level with his. “Who knows about this?”
“The people who were here then. The older ones, now in their sixties and seventies. But not their children. Not my generation.”
She shook her head in amazement. “They kept it a secret all these years?”
“You understand why, don’t you? It’s not just the town they’re protecting. It’s their families. The kids who committed those crimes were all local. Their families still live here, and maybe they’re still ashamed. Still suffering the aftermath.”
“Like Warren Emerson.”
“Exactly. Look at the life he’s had. He lives alone, and has no friends. He’s never committed another crime, yet he’s shunned by everyone. Even by the kids, who have no idea why they’re supposed to steer clear of him. They just know from their grandparents that Emerson is a man to be avoided.” He looked down at the photocopied article. “So that’s the background on your patient. Warren Emerson is a murderer. But he wasn’t the only one.”
“You must have seen the parallels, Lincoln.”
“Okay, I admit there are some.”
“Too many to list.” She reached for the photocopied articles and flipped to the October issue. “In 1946, it started off with fights in the schools. Two kids were expelled. Then there were windows smashed in town, homes vandalized-again, adolescents were blamed. Finally, the last week of October, a fifteen-year-old boy hacks his
