time. Are the girls related? Family members, religious affiliation, daddies all worked for the Mafia? Did their time in the chamber overlap? Or were they even kept alive down there? That’s an assumption we’re making based on the Catherine Gagnon case. But maybe the space only operated as a burial chamber. A place where the subject could come…be with them. A viewing gallery. We don’t know yet what floated this guy’s boat. We can guess, but we don’t
know.
”
D.D. nodded slowly. “Except, then you have Annabelle Granger.”
“Yeah, well, except.”
“My God, she looks exactly like her. I’m not crazy, right? Annabelle could be Catherine Gagnon’s twin.”
“She could be Catherine’s twin.”
“And what are the chances of that? Two women who look so much alike, growing up in the same city, both becoming targets of madmen who favor kidnapping young girls and sticking them in underground pits.”
“This is where we make the left turn into the Twilight Zone,” Bobby agreed.
D.D. sat back. Her stomach growled. She rubbed it absently. “What do you think of her story?”
Bobby sighed, sat back himself, clasping his hands behind his head. His favorite thinking pose. “Can’t decide.”
“Seems pretty far-fetched.”
“But richly detailed.”
D.D. snorted. “She flubbed half the details.”
“All the more realistic,” Bobby countered. “You wouldn’t expect a perfect list of dates and names from someone who’d been just a kid.”
“Think the father knew something?”
“You mean, did he sense his daughter had been targeted somehow and that’s why they fled?” Bobby shrugged. “Don’t know, but this is where life gets tricky: If something was going on in Arlington in the fall of ’82, it definitely
wasn’t
Richard Umbrio. He was arrested without bail at the end of ’80, tried in ’81, and began his stint at Walpole by January ’82. Meaning the threat would have to be from elsewhere.”
“Troubling. Any chance Catherine was wrong about Umbrio? It was someone else who grabbed her? I mean, yeah, she ID’d him, but she was only a twelve-year-old kid.”
“Subsequent events would appear to rule that out, let alone the corresponding pile of physical evidence.”
“Bummer.”
Bobby shook his head, equally frustrated. “It’s hard without the father to interview,” he said abruptly. “Annabelle just can’t—or won’t—tell us enough.”
“Rather convenient that both parents are dead,” D.D. muttered darkly. She slanted him a look. “ ’Course, we could ask Umbrio, but conveniently enough, he’s dead, too.”
Bobby knew better than to take that bait. “I’m sure Annabelle Granger doesn’t find it so convenient that her parents are deceased. Sounded to me as if she wouldn’t mind questioning her father some more herself.”
“You got the list of cities and aliases?” D.D. asked abruptly. “Look ’em up. See what you can find. It’s a good detective exercise.”
“Gee, thanks, Teach.”
D.D. rose out of her chair, their little conference apparently over. At the doorway, however, she paused.
“Have you heard from her yet?”
No need to define who. “No.”
“Think she’ll call?”
“As long as we keep calling the scene a grave, probably not. But the minute the media finally figures out it was an underground chamber…”
D.D. nodded. “You’ll let me know.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Robert Dodge—”
“You want an official phone call with Catherine Gagnon, you pick up the phone. I’m not your lackey.”
His tone was level, but his gaze was hard. D.D. took the rebuke about as gracefully as he’d expected. She stiffened in the doorway, features frosting over.
“I never had a problem with the shooting, Bobby,” she said curtly. “Myself, a lot of officers out there, we respected that you did your job, and we understood that sometimes this job really sucks. It’s not the shooting, Bobby. It’s your attitude since then.”
Her
know.
”
D.D. nodded slowly. “Except, then you have Annabelle Granger.”
“Yeah, well, except.”
“My God, she looks exactly like her. I’m not crazy, right? Annabelle could be Catherine Gagnon’s twin.”
“She could be Catherine’s twin.”
“And what are the chances of that? Two women who look so much alike, growing up in the same city, both becoming targets of madmen who favor kidnapping young girls and sticking them in underground pits.”
“This is where we make the left turn into the Twilight Zone,” Bobby agreed.
D.D. sat back. Her stomach growled. She rubbed it absently. “What do you think of her story?”
Bobby sighed, sat back himself, clasping his hands behind his head. His favorite thinking pose. “Can’t decide.”
“Seems pretty far-fetched.”
“But richly detailed.”
D.D. snorted. “She flubbed half the details.”
“All the more realistic,” Bobby countered. “You wouldn’t expect a perfect list of dates and names from someone who’d been just a kid.”
“Think the father knew something?”
“You mean, did he sense his daughter had been targeted somehow and that’s why they fled?” Bobby shrugged. “Don’t know, but this is where life gets tricky: If something was going on in Arlington in the fall of ’82, it definitely
wasn’t
Richard Umbrio. He was arrested without bail at the end of ’80, tried in ’81, and began his stint at Walpole by January ’82. Meaning the threat would have to be from elsewhere.”
“Troubling. Any chance Catherine was wrong about Umbrio? It was someone else who grabbed her? I mean, yeah, she ID’d him, but she was only a twelve-year-old kid.”
“Subsequent events would appear to rule that out, let alone the corresponding pile of physical evidence.”
“Bummer.”
Bobby shook his head, equally frustrated. “It’s hard without the father to interview,” he said abruptly. “Annabelle just can’t—or won’t—tell us enough.”
“Rather convenient that both parents are dead,” D.D. muttered darkly. She slanted him a look. “ ’Course, we could ask Umbrio, but conveniently enough, he’s dead, too.”
Bobby knew better than to take that bait. “I’m sure Annabelle Granger doesn’t find it so convenient that her parents are deceased. Sounded to me as if she wouldn’t mind questioning her father some more herself.”
“You got the list of cities and aliases?” D.D. asked abruptly. “Look ’em up. See what you can find. It’s a good detective exercise.”
“Gee, thanks, Teach.”
D.D. rose out of her chair, their little conference apparently over. At the doorway, however, she paused.
“Have you heard from her yet?”
No need to define who. “No.”
“Think she’ll call?”
“As long as we keep calling the scene a grave, probably not. But the minute the media finally figures out it was an underground chamber…”
D.D. nodded. “You’ll let me know.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Robert Dodge—”
“You want an official phone call with Catherine Gagnon, you pick up the phone. I’m not your lackey.”
His tone was level, but his gaze was hard. D.D. took the rebuke about as gracefully as he’d expected. She stiffened in the doorway, features frosting over.
“I never had a problem with the shooting, Bobby,” she said curtly. “Myself, a lot of officers out there, we respected that you did your job, and we understood that sometimes this job really sucks. It’s not the shooting, Bobby. It’s your attitude since then.”
Her
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