last things my daughter learned was that her father was-was
McDermott takes some notes. A painful sound comes from Natalia’s throat. Her head drops in despair.
“Let me ask about Cassie, if I could,” he says.
Natalia weeps softly. McDermott thinks of his daughter, Grace, and how a child’s pain hurts the parent even worse.
“One of the recent victims was asking questions about Cassie. We think maybe those questions got her killed. That’s why I’m asking.”
Still unable to speak, she gestures for him to continue.
“Were Cassie’s doctors at the Sherwood Executive Center? It’s a building in Sherwood Heights. It’s on-”
“Yes,” she says with a hoarse voice, taking heavy breaths. “Yes, that’s where her doctors were. Why?”
One of the hard parts of these conversations is that they aren’t really conversations. It’s not his job to answer questions. “Ma‘am, was Cassie pregnant?”
The meager restraint Natalia has mustered fails her now. She buries her face in her hands and weeps openly. McDermott looks away, feeling like an intruder, but his adrenaline is surging.
“Ma‘am?” It’s the woman in white, standing at the threshold of the room, bouncing on her toes. Natalia holds out a hand, shakes her head as she composes herself. “I’m fine, Marta, thank you.” The woman disappears.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Natalia says.
“No need, ma‘am. I’m a parent, too. I wouldn’t want my daughter’s privacy violated, either. But, Mrs. Lake-something strange was happening back then. It looks like someone orchestrated some kind of break-in into that building. The man who orchestrated it is now dead. The woman who was asking
The room goes quiet. He hears sounds from what he assumes is the kitchen, plates and pots clinking together, a faucet running. Better not to push here, he decides. She’ll come around.
Natalia takes a deep breath. “All right, Detective.” She nods her head. “All right. But I want your promise that this information will stay confidential unless you absolutely have to use it” She looks at him. “Do I have that promise?”
“Of course you do. As a cop and as a parent, Mrs. Lake.”
He hates making a promise he won’t keep.
“Very well.” She struggles again momentarily, as if having second thoughts. But she’s already given McDermott the answer.
“Yes,” she says. “Cassie was pregnant that year. And you are correct that she was not pregnant at the time she died. She had that procedure,” she adds tersely, preempting a follow-up, “but I didn’t know about it until it was over. Cassie only came to me after it was done. Because she knows I would have talked her out of it.”
“And who-”
“I do not know who the father was. It would be an understatement to say that I tried to find out from her. In fact, I probably focused too much on that issue and too little on how the entire thing was affecting my daughter. That is something I have to live with every day”
He thinks again of the note found in Koslenko’s house, the reference to Professor Albany and Cassie. This time, he won’t front the name, like he did with Ellie. “Can you give me any possible names? Boyfriends or anything?”
“She wouldn’t tell me. She absolutely refused. She was very protective of this person.”
McDermott watches the expression on her face. “But.”
She makes eye contact with him, the anger rising in her again. “Of course I had certain suspicions. She seemed to have a rather unique relationship with one of her professors.”
McDermott starts. His reaction is not lost on Natalia.
“You know, don’t you?” she asks, emitting a bitter laugh. “This is another time you are asking me something you already know. This is what you do. You tell people-”
“Mrs. Lake, listen.” He raises his hand. “It’s very important that I hear the information from you and not the other way around. You can understand that. Please, just give me a name.”
“The one who testified at the trial,” she says. “Mr. Albany.”
WHEN GWENDOLYN LAKE excuses herself for the ladies’ room, I use my cell phone to call Mike McDermott. I get his voice mail and leave him a vague message that I need to speak with him right away.
Now we have an ID, the mysterious “Leo.” Connected to the Bentley family, pictured in the background of that photograph of Harland and the reporters.
Gwendolyn returns from the restroom and drops in the seat opposite me.
“Is he committing these crimes?” she asks me. “Just tell me.”
“Leo? I think so,” I concede.
She moans. “I think he was-not all there. Mentally, I mean.” She looks at the table. “I didn’t exactly hang out with the staff. But he seemed-a little off. Y‘know, like he’d hold his stare on you or he’d be mumbling to himself. My mother once said he’d had some problems in Russia.”
“Russia?”
“Oh, yeah. He was an immigrant. I think his family knew my mother’s family there. My grandmother was a dancer in Russia-”
“Right, I know.”
“-Okay. And I think his family asked if he could stay with us. Like, as a favor.”
“What kind of problems did ‘Leo’ have in Russia?”
She shakes her head. “Beats me. I don’t think I said two words to him. But Cassie, she was different. The staff loved her.”
My mind races through my talking points. Last time I talked to Gwendolyn, I didn’t do such a good job of interviewing her. I’ve been given a reprieve, and I want to cover everything.
A waitress passes us with a cholesterol special, hash browns and dripping eggs and bacon. The smell of fried food turns my stomach in knots.
“Gwendolyn,” I say, “where were Cassie’s doctors located?”
“Her doctors? I have no-well, wait,” she says, stopping on that. “Probably the same as mine, actually. I had a doctor named Sor-I think it was Sorenson? Yeah, Dr. Sorenson.” She nods. “Yeah. Dr. Sorenson was my general practitioner. When I’d come to the States, I’d usually get a checkup.”
“Where was Dr. Sorenson located?”
“Oh.” She sighs. “It was in some building in the next town over.”
“The Sherwood Executive Center?”
She shrugs. “The name of the building? I have no idea.”
“On Lindsey Avenue in Sherwood Heights? A brick building?”
