question. Now will you answer mine?”
Walsh turned back nervously, his darting, round eyes only
brushing the detectives. He still gripped his knees.
“We
weren’t
estranged,” he said. “She just hadn’t
been speaking to me lately…”
“And that was why?”
Behind Connor, an orderly pushed a laden gurney, a nurse
pushed an instrument tray, and then another nurse ushered Alex Brand, Keri
Blasco, and a weeping couple into the doctors’ lounge. The cops avoided
exchanging glances, but Brand propped the lounge door open. By prearrangement,
Connor had positioned his chair so he could see through the door, judge body
language, confer with Brand and his interview by phone.
He looked back to Brian Walsh, who was shifting a bit less nervously,
clutching his knees again.
“Jenna said she was sick of me always trying to protect
her,” he said slowly, begrudgingly. “It’s been like that since High School,
she’d get into trouble and I’d get her out…”
“That was a Catholic High School?” Zeinuc asked, scribbling.
“Yes. I was the good one, and she hated that. Years passed
and she kept…getting into worse stuff…” He swallowed, stopped abruptly.
“What worse stuff?” From Connor.
A frown. No reply.
“When did you last speak to her?”
More scowling over to the surgical suite. Without looking
back Walsh said, “In June. I called her, tried to reason with her…” His voice
trailed.
“About?”
“Family business. Private.”
Zeinuc flipped a notebook page, and Connor leaned forward.
“Care to be more specific?”
“I
told
you.” Walsh wheeled on him. “Family business.
We had issues
.”
Connor flicked a glance at the wall clock. “Where’s your
wife, by the way?”
“I don’t know. I called her, left a voice mail.”
“That was twenty minutes ago. She hasn’t called back.”
A shrug. “She will.”
“Her name is Dara, right?”
“Right.”
“What does she do?”
“Works nights in a convalescent home.”
“Did you know Jenna had an OB appointment here?”
Walsh’s eyes slid away. The detectives traded glances.
“Did you know-”
“Okay, yes.” Squirming and shifting again.
“I thought you hadn’t spoken to her.”
Dry-lipped: “My wife did. She called her once or twice,
tried to be friendly.”
“When?”
“Recently. I told Dara I didn’t want to hear about it.”
Connor’s phone vibrated and he answered, peered into the
lounge at Brand who was turned a little away with his phone to his mouth. Keri
was trying comfort a sobbing woman.
Brand’s voice said low, “The couple’s name is Susan and Paul
Sutter. Jenna was their surrogate mother because Susan’s a type 1 unstable
diabetic.”
Connor’s eyes went sympathetically to the Sutters. Paul
Sutter, looking stricken, had both arms around his wife.
Brand continued. “They don’t like Brian Walsh. Didn’t know
about him when the pregnancy was IVF-initiated in March. Jenna was broke,
needed the money, and they liked her. Sweet girl, they say. Later the brother
started hounding her. She told them he’d become obsessed with the church over
the last couple of years, warned her surrogacy was a mortal sin and she was
going to burn in hell. She told them she just was a holiday Catholic, but he
upset her. She finally told him to leave her alone.”
Connor was taking notes. Glanced back into the lounge just
as tearful Susan Sutter, pale with pale hair, maybe forty, looked up to him.
Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen in a face too ghastly white. Connor had
known type 1 diabetics. They’d sometimes pass out in the street, at the wheel,
be presumed drunk and nearly die. This was so depressing.
Hanging up, Connor passed his notes to Zeinuc and glared at
Walsh. “So you were trying to save your sister’s soul? Is that it?”
A sullen silence.
“You consider surrogacy a sin?”
“That’s the Church’s position.”
“So
Walsh turned back nervously, his darting, round eyes only
brushing the detectives. He still gripped his knees.
“We
weren’t
estranged,” he said. “She just hadn’t
been speaking to me lately…”
“And that was why?”
Behind Connor, an orderly pushed a laden gurney, a nurse
pushed an instrument tray, and then another nurse ushered Alex Brand, Keri
Blasco, and a weeping couple into the doctors’ lounge. The cops avoided
exchanging glances, but Brand propped the lounge door open. By prearrangement,
Connor had positioned his chair so he could see through the door, judge body
language, confer with Brand and his interview by phone.
He looked back to Brian Walsh, who was shifting a bit less nervously,
clutching his knees again.
“Jenna said she was sick of me always trying to protect
her,” he said slowly, begrudgingly. “It’s been like that since High School,
she’d get into trouble and I’d get her out…”
“That was a Catholic High School?” Zeinuc asked, scribbling.
“Yes. I was the good one, and she hated that. Years passed
and she kept…getting into worse stuff…” He swallowed, stopped abruptly.
“What worse stuff?” From Connor.
A frown. No reply.
“When did you last speak to her?”
More scowling over to the surgical suite. Without looking
back Walsh said, “In June. I called her, tried to reason with her…” His voice
trailed.
“About?”
“Family business. Private.”
Zeinuc flipped a notebook page, and Connor leaned forward.
“Care to be more specific?”
“I
told
you.” Walsh wheeled on him. “Family business.
We had issues
.”
Connor flicked a glance at the wall clock. “Where’s your
wife, by the way?”
“I don’t know. I called her, left a voice mail.”
“That was twenty minutes ago. She hasn’t called back.”
A shrug. “She will.”
“Her name is Dara, right?”
“Right.”
“What does she do?”
“Works nights in a convalescent home.”
“Did you know Jenna had an OB appointment here?”
Walsh’s eyes slid away. The detectives traded glances.
“Did you know-”
“Okay, yes.” Squirming and shifting again.
“I thought you hadn’t spoken to her.”
Dry-lipped: “My wife did. She called her once or twice,
tried to be friendly.”
“When?”
“Recently. I told Dara I didn’t want to hear about it.”
Connor’s phone vibrated and he answered, peered into the
lounge at Brand who was turned a little away with his phone to his mouth. Keri
was trying comfort a sobbing woman.
Brand’s voice said low, “The couple’s name is Susan and Paul
Sutter. Jenna was their surrogate mother because Susan’s a type 1 unstable
diabetic.”
Connor’s eyes went sympathetically to the Sutters. Paul
Sutter, looking stricken, had both arms around his wife.
Brand continued. “They don’t like Brian Walsh. Didn’t know
about him when the pregnancy was IVF-initiated in March. Jenna was broke,
needed the money, and they liked her. Sweet girl, they say. Later the brother
started hounding her. She told them he’d become obsessed with the church over
the last couple of years, warned her surrogacy was a mortal sin and she was
going to burn in hell. She told them she just was a holiday Catholic, but he
upset her. She finally told him to leave her alone.”
Connor was taking notes. Glanced back into the lounge just
as tearful Susan Sutter, pale with pale hair, maybe forty, looked up to him.
Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen in a face too ghastly white. Connor had
known type 1 diabetics. They’d sometimes pass out in the street, at the wheel,
be presumed drunk and nearly die. This was so depressing.
Hanging up, Connor passed his notes to Zeinuc and glared at
Walsh. “So you were trying to save your sister’s soul? Is that it?”
A sullen silence.
“You consider surrogacy a sin?”
“That’s the Church’s position.”
“So
Similar Books
