John Connolly - Every Dead Thing

“Can I offer you a drink?” he asked.

“No. Thank you.”

He took a brandy glass from his desk and gestured me toward a chair at the other side before seating himself. I could see him more clearly now. He was grave and patrician in appearance, his hands long and slim, the nails finely manicured. The room was warm and I could smell his cologne. It smelled expensive.

“That all took place a long time ago,” he began. “Most people would rather not talk about it.”

“Are you ‘most people’?”

He shrugged and smiled. “I have a place in this community and a role to play. I’ve lived here almost all my life, apart from the time I spent in college and in practice in Richmond. My father spent fifty years practicing here and kept working until the day he died.”

“He was the doctor, I understand.”

“Doctor, counselor, legal adviser, even dentist when the resident dentist wasn’t around. He did everything. The killings hit him particularly hard. He helped perform the autopsies on the bodies. I don’t think he ever forgot it, not even in his sleep.”

“And you? Were you around when they took place?”

“I was working in Richmond at the time, so I was back and forth between Haven and Richmond. I knew of what took place here, yes, but I’d really rather not talk about it. Four children died and they were terrible deaths. Best to let them rest now.”

“Do you remember Catherine Demeter?”

“I knew the family, yes, but Catherine would have been much younger than I. She left after graduating from high school, as I recall, and I don’t think she ever came back, except to attend the funerals of her parents. The last time she returned was probably ten years ago at the very least and her family home has been sold since then. I supervised the sale. Why do you believe she might have come back now? There’s nothing here for her, nothing good at any rate.”

“I’m not sure. She made some calls to here recently and hasn’t been seen since.”

“It’s not much to go on.”

“No,” I admitted, “it’s not.”

He twisted the glass in his hand, watching the amber liquid swirl. His lips were pursed in appraisal but his gaze went through the glass and rested on me.

“What can you tell me about Adelaide Modine and her brother?”

“I can tell you that, from my point of view, there was nothing about them that might have led one to suspect that they were child killers. Their father was a strange man, a philanthropist of sorts, I suppose. He left most of his money tied up in a trust when he died.”

“He died before the killings?”

“Five or six years before, yes. He left instructions that the interest on the trust fund should be divided among certain charities in perpetuity. Since then, the number of charities receiving donations has increased considerably. I should know, since it is my duty to administer the trust, with the assistance of a small committee.”

“And his daughter and son? Were they provided for?”

“Very adequately, I understand.”

“What happened to their money, their property, when they died?”

“The state brought an action to take over the property and assets. We contested it on behalf of the townspeople and eventually an agreement was reached. The land was sold and all assets absorbed into the trust, with a portion of the trust used to fund new developments in the town. That is why we have a good library, our own modern sheriff’s office, a fine school, a top-class medical center. This town doesn’t have much, but what it does have comes from the trust.”

“What it has, good or otherwise, comes from four dead children,” I replied. “Can you tell me anything more about Adelaide and William Modine?”

Hyams’s mouth twitched slightly. “As I’ve said, it was a long time ago and I really would prefer not to go into it. I had very little to do with either of them; the Modines were a wealthy family, their children went to a private school. We didn’t mix very much, I’m afraid.”

“Did your father know the family?”

“My father delivered both William and Adelaide. I do remember one curious thing, but it will hardly be of any great help to you: Adelaide was one of twins. The male twin died in the womb and their mother died from complications shortly after the birth. The mother’s death was surprising. She was a strong, domineering woman. My father thought she’d outlive us all.” He took a long sip from his glass and his eyes grew sharp with a remembered perception. “Do you know anything about hyenas, Mr. Parker?”

“Very little,” I admitted.

“Spotted hyenas frequently have twins. The cubs are extremely well developed at birth: they have fur and sharp incisor teeth. One cub will almost invariably attack the other, sometimes while still in the amniotic sac. Death is usually the result. The victor is also typically female and, if she is the daughter of a dominant female, will in turn become the dominant female in the pack. It’s a matriarchal culture. Female spotted hyena fetuses have higher levels of testosterone than adult males, and the females have masculine characteristics, even in the womb. Even in adulthood the sexes can be difficult to differentiate.”

He put his glass down. “My father was an avid amateur naturalist. The animal world always fascinated him and I think he liked to find points of comparison between the animal world and the human world.”

“And he found one in Adelaide Modine?”

“Perhaps, in some ways. He was not fond of her.”

“Were you here when the Modines died?”

“I returned home the evening before Adelaide Modine’s body was found and I attended the autopsy. Call it gruesome curiosity. Now, I’m sorry, Mr. Parker, but I have nothing more to say and a great deal of work to do.”

He led me to the door and pushed open the screen to let me out.

“You don’t seem particularly anxious to help me find Catherine Demeter, Mr. Hyams.”

He breathed in heavily. “Who suggested that you talk to me, Mr. Parker?”

“Alvin Martin mentioned your name.”

“Mr. Martin is a good, conscientious deputy and an asset to this town, but he is still a comparatively recent arrival,” said Hyams. “The reason why I am reluctant to talk is a matter of client confidentiality. Mr. Parker, I am the only lawyer in this town. At some point, nearly everyone who lives here, regardless of color, income, religious or political belief, has passed through the door of my office. That includes the parents of the children who died. I know a great deal about what happened here, Mr. Parker, more than I might wish to know and certainly much more than I plan to share with you. I’m sorry, but that’s the end of the matter.”

“I see. One more thing, Mr. Hyams.”

“Yes?” he asked, wearily.

“Sheriff Granger lives on this road too, doesn’t he?”

“Sheriff Granger lives next door, the house on the right here. This house has never been burgled, Mr. Parker, a fact that is surely not unconnected. Good night.”

He stood at the screen door as I drove away. I cast a glance at the sheriff’s house as I passed but there were no lights within and there was no car in the yard. As I drove back to Haven, raindrops began to strike the windshield and by the time I reached the outskirts of the town it had turned into a harsh, ceaseless downpour. The lights of the motel appeared through the rain. I could see Rudy Fry standing at the door, staring out into the woods and the gathering darkness beyond.

By the time I had parked, Fry had resumed his position behind the reception desk.

“What do folks do around here for fun, apart from trying to run other folks out of town?” I asked.

Fry grimaced as he tried to separate the sarcasm from the substance of the question. “There ain’t much to do around here outside of drinking at the Inn,” he replied, after a while.