Chapter 30
The watch commander buzzed us in. But not before making us sign the log book and issuing us laminated visitor’s passes which we held onto instead of clipping to our jackets.
Harris personally led us through the big open room to his first floor office where he closed the door behind us.
“Take a seat,” he offered, while making his way around his desk, sitting himself down hard in his swivel chair.
While I sat down in one of the two metal chairs placed in front of the desk, Michael remained standing. Leaning the bag against my knees I took a quick survey of the office. It was square-shaped and small. It smelled faintly of onions, as if Harris had just lunched on a submarine sandwich at his desk. Subway maybe. Or Mr. Sub.
There was a coffee mug on his desk that said ‘I love my job’. When he picked it up and took a sip from it, I could see the word ‘Not’ printed on the bottom. It made me smile. Mounted on the windowless wall behind him was a calendar. Each day that had passed thus far in the month of October had been X’d out in ballpoint pen. In just a little while he’d be able to X out another day.
Harris must have noticed me looking at the calendar. He said, “I’m closing in on retirement. The progressive-minded Empire State doesn’t have much use for its detectives once we get past sixty-two.”
He shrugged, rolled up his shirt sleeves and sat back in his chair.
“But to get back to the issue at hand,” he went on, “I was a part of the team that tracked Whalen down and eventually arrested him. That was back in ‘77 and ‘78. We’d been tracking him for a long while. We were aware of his past as a sexual predator and suspected him in at least a dozen abductions and possible homicides. But we could never quite put the finger on him.”
“Since it’s impossible for the dead and missing to testify,” Michael interjected. “No body, no proof.”
Harris nodded. “Exactly, young man.”
“What about missing persons?” Michael went on. “Records of women who disappeared around that time?”
“Again, it goes back to the bodies, none of which have been recovered. Which means no evidence that will link directly to Whalen.”
“You might check the basement of that creepy house in the woods.”
“We did, as a matter of course, on several occasions.” The detective tossed up his hands. “But we got squat.”
We were quiet for a weighted beat until Michael spoke up again.
“Are you aware that Whalen’s been released from prison?”
Almost dreamily, Harris peeled his eyes off the mug, planted them on Michael.
“I’m aware of it,” he nodded. “I try and keep up on the perps I had a hand in sending away. Meaning, it’s in my best interest to keep up with their releases.”
“You feel the need to watch your back?” Michael asked.
He shook his head.
“Not in this case anyway, Whalen’s been quiet. He’s registered with the necessary data bases according to Megan’s Law. He checks in regularly with his parole officer.”
“You’re sure about that?” I asked.
His eyes shifting back to me.
“I would be aware of it if he didn’t.”
“But you wouldn’t be aware of it if he was following me.”
“I’m aware of that possibility now,” he said. “But I’m going to need a little more to go on than just your word before I can go pulling him back in here. The last thing I need is a harassment accusation.”
That’s when I leaned down, unzipped my portfolio bag, slipped out Franny’s paintings.
Harris eyed the canvases quickly up and down. Then he looked at me rather quizzically.
“You’re an artist.”
“I wish I could say I painted them. But they’re the work of an artist-in-residence where I work at the Albany Center Visual Art Galleries. His name is Francis Scaramuzzi. He’s an autistic savant. You might have heard of him.”
He shook his head, sat back in his chair. “What’s all this have to do with Whalen?”
I swallowed a deep breath and told him. I told him about the abduction and assault that occurred thirty years ago, almost to the day. I told him about Franny’s paintings; told him about the voice I heard in my bedroom; told him about the man I might have seen inside the parking garage.
I thought the wall plaster would crack from the silent tension. Until Harris brought his hands to his face, rubbed his eyes. In a word he appeared visibly shaken, if not pale-faced. He inhaled and exhaled a profound breath. Then, reaching down with his right hand, he opened the bottom desk drawer and came away with a bottle of Seagrams 7. He uncapped the bottle, poured a jigger into his ‘I love my job’ mug and downed the shot in one swift expert pull. Capping the bottle, he put it back in the drawer, closing it back up.
He must have realized he’d taken Michael and me by more than a little surprise because he pursed his lips and opened his eyes.
“Shocked?”
“A little,” I said, motioning a glance at Michael. “My dad was a trooper with Rennselaer County.”
Harris pursed his lips. “What’s his name?”
“It was Daniel Underhill. He and my mother passed away not long after my sister died.”
He gave no indication of whether he knew my father or not; no indication of whether or not my father might have had a hand in Whalen’s arrest. But then, if he had, I wasn’t the least bit aware of it.
Instead he said, “Tell you what, Ms. Underhill, I’m going to request that you leave the paintings with me for a while. I’ll have the lab draw up a print analysis. That is you don’t mind.”
“They’re kind of expensive,” Michael said.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Hoffman. The lab people are very careful. They’ll be well cared for.” Eyes back on me. “Have you considered seeing your psychologist about this, Ms. Underhill? Or is it Hoffman?”
“Please call me Rebecca,” I said. “And I’m not crazy if that’s what you’re thinking.”
He shook his head, raised his hands in surrender.
“I’m sure you’re not. But keeping a secret of the magnitude you have for all these years can be considerably traumatizing. A psychologist can treat you for PTS.”
“Post Traumatic Stress,” Michael interjected. “Is that what you think my wife has been experiencing Detective Harris?”
The cop cocked his head. “It’s possible,” he said.
“Gentlemen,” I said. “I’m not crazy.”
Harris got up.
I stood up along with him.
“I’ll tell you what I’m willing to do,” he exclaimed. “I’m going to give Whalen’s probie a call before I leave tonight, find out where he’s living; find out what he’s doing for a job. If he lives and works anywhere near you, I’m going to alert New York State Sexual Predators about it. At your discretion of course.”
I nodded. Meaning, he had my discretion and permission.
“Is there anything else you want to tell me before you go? Anything else you need to show me?”
I thought about it as I slung the bag over my shoulder. That’s when I recalled the old black and white photo. Reaching into my jean’s pocket, I set the snapshot onto his desk.
“What’s this?” he said, picking it up with his fingers by the narrow white border.
I told him.
“So you found this picture only this morning on the porch of your parents’ Brunswick home?”
“It matches perfectly a little painting Francis Scaramuzzi produced years ago. A painting that is now stored under lock and key inside his personal basement storage room.”
