changing her medications, trying to wean her from the antidepressant/antipsychotic cocktail they put her on before realizing that frontal-lobe changes were to blame.
And Jenna. Oh God. Jenna. Scanlin loved Melissa more than he could ever love another woman, but no one loves a woman the way a child loves a mother. Maybe in some families, one parent’s illness brings the healthy parent closer to the children. That wasn’t how it worked for the Scanlins.
Scanlin remembered the initial interview of Susan Hauptmann’s sister. What was her name? Gertrude? Gwendolyn? Guinevere? G-something, if he had to guess. See? He couldn’t remember. At the top of his game, he could remember the name of a victim’s sister. Somewhere right between her last high and the next one, the sister had been a font of information, motivated by concern for her sister but probably also the hope of getting on the good side of a police officer.
As she’d droned on and on about the pressures their father had placed upon Susan—no sons, only one “good girl” to count on—Scanlin had felt himself coming to conclusions. If Scanlin’s own daughter, Jenna, could push him away, why wouldn’t a woman like Susan, with an SOB father like that, make a clean break of it and start over again?
And then he was getting pushed in a different direction by the likes of some cop-hating prosecutor. Not to mention constant phone calls from the pushy father who had pushed his daughter to the brink and was now pushing him.
All that pushing at a time when Scanlin was in no mood to be pushed.
The truth was that, back then, the only way he found the time to deal with Melissa, her doctors, and his pissed-off daughter was by phoning it in on the job. Susan’s father obviously had enough money and connections to pull out all the stops for reward offers and private detectives, so what more could Scanlin do? Writing off Susan Hauptmann as a grown-up runaway made his life easier.
Now his mind was in a fog because seeing McKenna Jordan was forcing him to ask whether he’d rushed to judgment. He could think of only one way to be sure he could stand by the choices he’d made so long ago. He made a call to the Records Department. “It’s Joe Scanlin, Homicide, Twelfth Precinct. I need an old case. The name on it is Susan Carol Hauptmann.”
He’d take a quick look. Just for peace of mind. Just to be sure he hadn’t missed anything.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
D ana was still freaking out in the pool reporter room. At one point, she began to screech like a stepped-on cat until Bob Vance stuck his head out of his office and threatened to remove her vocal cords with a letter opener if she didn’t shut up.
Her meltdown had sent McKenna into a panic, futilely opening windows on her own computer, hoping that the video had cached itself somewhere in the computer’s memory. As if McKenna even knew what “cached” meant.
That video was the only proof—if she could even use that word—that Susan was alive. Even after seeing the video, Patrick had been dubious. Now she had nothing.
She was starting to wonder if she truly remembered what Susan looked like. She had pictures, of course, but pictures were never the same as the real thing. They were a more perfect version—images that were saved for a reason. Photographs were never enough to catch the facial expressions, subtle reactions, and other idiosyncrasies that defined a person’s appearance.
McKenna had first met Susan through an e-mail forward. Susan had found a two-bedroom in Hell’s Kitchen but needed a roommate to split the rent. Her e-mail blast about the rental landed in the in-box of an ADA who knew that McKenna’s tenancy on the sofa of a college friend was wearing thin.
When McKenna went to see the apartment, she couldn’t believe her luck. The condo was clean and bright with floor-to-ceiling closet storage and a tiny slice of a Hudson River view. And her new roommate was smart, nice, and hilarious. What could
And Jenna. Oh God. Jenna. Scanlin loved Melissa more than he could ever love another woman, but no one loves a woman the way a child loves a mother. Maybe in some families, one parent’s illness brings the healthy parent closer to the children. That wasn’t how it worked for the Scanlins.
Scanlin remembered the initial interview of Susan Hauptmann’s sister. What was her name? Gertrude? Gwendolyn? Guinevere? G-something, if he had to guess. See? He couldn’t remember. At the top of his game, he could remember the name of a victim’s sister. Somewhere right between her last high and the next one, the sister had been a font of information, motivated by concern for her sister but probably also the hope of getting on the good side of a police officer.
As she’d droned on and on about the pressures their father had placed upon Susan—no sons, only one “good girl” to count on—Scanlin had felt himself coming to conclusions. If Scanlin’s own daughter, Jenna, could push him away, why wouldn’t a woman like Susan, with an SOB father like that, make a clean break of it and start over again?
And then he was getting pushed in a different direction by the likes of some cop-hating prosecutor. Not to mention constant phone calls from the pushy father who had pushed his daughter to the brink and was now pushing him.
All that pushing at a time when Scanlin was in no mood to be pushed.
The truth was that, back then, the only way he found the time to deal with Melissa, her doctors, and his pissed-off daughter was by phoning it in on the job. Susan’s father obviously had enough money and connections to pull out all the stops for reward offers and private detectives, so what more could Scanlin do? Writing off Susan Hauptmann as a grown-up runaway made his life easier.
Now his mind was in a fog because seeing McKenna Jordan was forcing him to ask whether he’d rushed to judgment. He could think of only one way to be sure he could stand by the choices he’d made so long ago. He made a call to the Records Department. “It’s Joe Scanlin, Homicide, Twelfth Precinct. I need an old case. The name on it is Susan Carol Hauptmann.”
He’d take a quick look. Just for peace of mind. Just to be sure he hadn’t missed anything.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
D ana was still freaking out in the pool reporter room. At one point, she began to screech like a stepped-on cat until Bob Vance stuck his head out of his office and threatened to remove her vocal cords with a letter opener if she didn’t shut up.
Her meltdown had sent McKenna into a panic, futilely opening windows on her own computer, hoping that the video had cached itself somewhere in the computer’s memory. As if McKenna even knew what “cached” meant.
That video was the only proof—if she could even use that word—that Susan was alive. Even after seeing the video, Patrick had been dubious. Now she had nothing.
She was starting to wonder if she truly remembered what Susan looked like. She had pictures, of course, but pictures were never the same as the real thing. They were a more perfect version—images that were saved for a reason. Photographs were never enough to catch the facial expressions, subtle reactions, and other idiosyncrasies that defined a person’s appearance.
McKenna had first met Susan through an e-mail forward. Susan had found a two-bedroom in Hell’s Kitchen but needed a roommate to split the rent. Her e-mail blast about the rental landed in the in-box of an ADA who knew that McKenna’s tenancy on the sofa of a college friend was wearing thin.
When McKenna went to see the apartment, she couldn’t believe her luck. The condo was clean and bright with floor-to-ceiling closet storage and a tiny slice of a Hudson River view. And her new roommate was smart, nice, and hilarious. What could
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