‘Mary Burig.’
‘Yeah?’ said Danny. ‘Who’s this Mary Burig?’
‘Please,’ said Stan. ‘Can we tone this all down? You’re making me anxious.’
Danny looked at Joe.
‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ said Stan, shifting in his seat, sitting up straighter.
‘Tell us about Mary,’ said Joe.
‘Mary is a patient,’ said Stan, ‘well, not a patient, a client at the Colt-Embry Homes, a couple of blocks away. Part of the Rehab Clinic.’
‘Meaning?’ said Danny.
‘Meaning what?’ said Stan.
‘Patient/client – what’s that all about?’ said Danny.
‘I guess Mary – like all the other clients in the building – is there because she got a brain injury.’
‘Everyone staying in these apartments has a brain injury?’ said Joe.
‘Yes. You go there after rehab, but before you go home. To help, you know, initiate yourself into society.’
Danny locked eyes with Joe and slowly shook his head.
‘So what you’re saying is this Mary is brain damaged,’ said Danny.
Stan’s jaw clenched. ‘No. I am not saying that.’ He paused. ‘In fact, I would hate to say that.’ He shrugged. ‘I guess you guys can say what you like.’
‘What’s your relationship with Mary, exactly?’ said Joe.
‘None. I mean, I kind of know her, she’s a nice girl. I’m an electrician/handyman working in the apartment building she lives in. That’s it.’
‘Why were you mailing letters for her?’ said Danny.
‘Because she asked me to. Jeez. There’s no mystery to this. She’s a nice girl. She asked me a favour. I go out on my morning break. I mail her letters.’ He shrugged.
‘Did you know why she was mailing them?’
‘No idea. To be honest, I didn’t even read the envelopes. None of my business.’
‘You never read the envelopes,’ said Joe.
‘Sure,’ said Danny.
‘I did not,’ said Stan. ‘Privacy is a big thing there. Clients have got to feel respected. I would never want to upset anyone. Look, I’ve told you everything. Can I go now?’
‘No you can not,’ said Joe.
‘You’re an electrician, right?’ said Danny.
‘Yes.’ Stan nodded.
‘So you got the keys to a lot of houses, a lot of apartments,’ said Danny.
‘What do you mean?’ said Stan.
‘Do you or don’t you?’
‘Sure I do. But so do lots of people. A lot of people have a lot of keys.’
‘You gotta understand,’ said Joe. ‘That not a lot of them are mailing letters to the case detective of a serial homicide.’
‘Homicide? Oh, no. You’re not investigating that Caller guy, are you? You think… Oh my God. No way. No way. What’s Mary mailing you guys for?’
‘Well that’s what we’d like to know,’ said Joe. ‘If Mary really is the person who wrote them, why? And why you are the person mailing them to me, without allegedly looking at the address or the name of the person.’
‘I didn’t know what I was mailing!’ said Stan. ‘If I thought it was something weird, I wouldn’t be walking right up there to the Astoria Post Office in broad daylight with no gloves on or nothing, mailing it. I’m truly sorry that this has caused you problems, I really am, but I did not know. Please talk to Mary. She’ll clear this up.’
‘That seems fair,’ said Joe to Danny.
Stan got up to leave.
Danny laughed. ‘Buddy, I’m afraid you’re going to have to sit it out while myself and my partner here take a visit to this Colt-Emory.’
‘Embry,’ said Stan. ‘Embry. You’ll need to speak to Julia Embry. She’s the boss.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘They’re good people there.’
In 1992, Madeline Colt and Julia Embry came together at The Mount Sinai Hospital of Queens to watch their teenage sons paint. Separately, they had turned away and walked crying into the hallway outside.
‘My son used to hike,’ said Madeline.
‘Robin made us laugh so much,’ said Julia. They had both looked back at their sons, one with the easel lowered to the level of his wheelchair, the other having his brush guided around the page by a nurse. The women looked at each other and smiled.
‘But they’re here,’ said Julia.
‘They are,’ said Madeline. ‘We’re blessed.’
Ten years of campaigning and fundraising later, the Colt-Embry Rehabilitation Clinic was founded to support patients with traumatic brain injuries. It sat on a one-acre site between 19th and 21st Street in Astoria. Tucked into the north-east corner were the Colt-Embry Homes, a small block of twenty apartments to ease the transition for patients from rehab to home.
Julia Embry sat at her desk, pressing a Kleenex carefully under her eyes to catch the tears before her mascara did. She held a photo of Robin in her hands. It was taken at his eighth birthday party. He was wearing a huge black pirate’s hat and a white shirt with a red kerchief tied around his neck. An eye patch was beside his plate, a glass of orange beside that. His chin was so far forward and he was grinning so wide, that he almost didn’t look like himself. But what Julia loved about it was just how happy he looked, how bright those eyes were, how gentle the little blond boy looked as a fearsome pirate.
The last time she had a visit from two detectives, it was to tell her about Robin’s car accident.
He was seventeen years old when the car he was driving was involved in a crash and the other driver left the scene. Robin was rushed to the hospital where his bones were repaired and his wounds eventually healed. But his brain injury was too severe and after hanging on for a year in rehab, he died. The police never caught the driver.
There was a knock on the door.
‘Come in,’ said Julia, putting the photo back on the desk facing her. She stood up.
‘I’m so sorry about all this, detectives,’ she said. ‘Please, sit down.’
Joe and Danny introduced themselves and took a seat.
‘Firstly,’ said Julia. ‘I really would like to reassure you about Stanley Frayte, for what it’s worth. He’s worked with me for so long now. He’s the best. He really is. He was trying to do the right thing by Mary. But, you know, he doesn’t know everything about everyone. He’s been with the clinic and me for ten years, but he’s only been working here in the apartment building several weeks, so…’ She smiled. ‘Poor Stan.’
‘We’d like to talk to you about Mary Burig,’ said Joe.
‘OK,’ said Julia. ‘What would you like to know?’
‘Let’s start with how she came to be here,’ said Joe.
‘Mary was found last year, wandering the street three blocks from her apartment. When they got her to hospital, doctors discovered the TBI. She had no recollection of what happened to her.’
‘So Mary has never spoken about her accident.’
Julia shook her head. ‘No. She can’t remember it. It’s not uncommon. It’s kind of like the brain’s defence mechanism.’
‘Can you talk us through her, uh, situation, condition…’ said Joe.
‘First of all, Mary is a person… who suffered a traumatic brain injury.’
‘I understand,’ said Joe.
‘Not a brain injury sufferer.’
Joe nodded.
‘So Mary as she was before – what we call pre-morbidly – is still there, but she’s got a new set of behaviours. Every program is individual here. This is Mary’s.’ She handed a copy to each of them. Joe flicked
