Dead of Winter Page 7

  “Did she give you a name?”

  “Yep. It’s Hildy Schneider. Says she’s a social worker over at the hospital.”

  Izzy gives me a questioning look. “She was involved in Liesel’s care,” I explain.

  “Then I suppose you should go and see what she wants,” Izzy says. “Though I don’t know why she didn’t just go to the police if she has some new information.”

  “I guess I’ll find out,” I say, annoyed that the woman has shown up. I turn to Cass. “Tell Hildy to wait and I’ll be out in a bit.”

  Cass nods and leaves the room. I look over at Izzy, my expression worried. “Are you sure you’ll be okay on this by yourself?”

  “I’m fine,” he says dismissively, if a bit irritably. He glances at the digital clock on the wall, which reads 10:48. “Go. I’ll get Arnie to help me if I need a second pair of hands. I’ll try to have her ready for her father to see by the time you and Richmond get back.”

  “Promise me you won’t overdo it,” I say, heading for the sink to wash my hands.

  “I promise,” he says with a hint of impatience.

  I take my cue and leave. Outside in the hallway, I send a quick text message to Richmond, letting him know that I’ve been delayed, but that I’m still coming and will have some updates for him. I doubt he’ll care that it’s taking me longer than expected, since I know he’s none too eager to get to the task we have at hand. I wait a few seconds, and he sends me back a quick text that says, No problem.

  * * *

  I head up front, where I find Hildy Schneider seated in the reception area. She springs to her feet when she sees me. Grabbing her coat from a neighboring chair, she drapes it over her arm.

  “Mattie, hi again,” she says, hurrying over to me. “Do you have any more information about our girl?”

  “We’ve only just gotten started on her autopsy,” I say, a hint of impatience in my voice.

  “Yes, I suppose it is a bit early in the game, isn’t it?” She sighs and fidgets with something in the pocket of the coat she’s carrying. I give her a questioning look, letting forth with a sigh of irritation. After a brief glance at Cass, she says, “Is there somewhere private where we can speak?”

  “Sure, follow me.” I turn and roll my eyes at Cass as I badge my way back into the secure section of the office, holding the door for Hildy to follow. I lead the way to my office—the library—and once we are inside, I indicate one of the chairs around the conference table. “Please have a seat.”

  Hildy does so, but not before eyeing the table and chairs for a moment. She eventually opts for one of the end chairs along the far side, and I watch her as I settle in across from her. She drapes her coat over the back of the chair, adjusting it a couple of times before she seems satisfied. Next she settles into the seat and scoots her chair up to the table, but apparently doesn’t like where it is, because she pushes it back and tries again, moving it an inch or so to either side with each attempt. She repeats this three times before she seems satisfied.

  I lace my fingers together and set my hands on the table. “What did you want to talk to me about?” I give her what I hope is a friendly smile, even though I’m not feeling particularly amiable toward her at the moment.

  “I need to tell you a little something about myself,” she says, and it’s all I can do not to roll my eyes again. “I know something about that young girl’s case that I think might help, but before I tell you what it is, I need you to understand some things, okay?”

  I nod, feeling a mix of curiosity and impatience.

  “I was orphaned when I was seven,” Hildy starts, flicking at some tiny speck of dust on the table in front of her.

  I curse to myself, thinking that if she’s starting all those years ago, I’m in for a long and tedious story.

  “I never knew who my father was, and my mother tried to raise me on her own, but she was . . . well, she wasn’t prepared for the emotional and financial responsibilities involved in raising a kid. And she wasn’t what one would call a representative of polite society.” She pauses, and gives me a hesitant smile. I say nothing, unsure where she’s going with this story, but feeling enough empathy, and curiosity at the moment, to give her more time simply because we share a fatherless childhood.

  “She was a prostitute,” Hildy blurts out.

  I try to keep my expression neutral, but know I’ve failed when Hildy says, “I know, I know. It’s shocking, isn’t it? But she did it because it was the only way she knew to make a living. She had no formal education or job training of any sort, and her parents were very strict, religious farm people from Iowa, who basically disowned her when she was a teenager because they caught her in the hayloft with one of the local boys. All she had going for her was her looks. She was very pretty,” she concludes in a wistful tone.

  She reaches into her right coat pocket and pulls out a black-and-white photo that is creased and yellowed with age. She slides it across the table to me and I look down at the picture, which shows a long-legged woman in a pair of very short shorts standing next to a pickup truck. She has pale blond hair cut short in a pixie style that shows off the high cheekbones and oval shape of her face. Her eyes are large and round, her lips are full, her nose is small and slightly upturned, and her complexion and figure both appear flawless.

  “Wow, you’re right. She was beautiful,” I say, sliding the picture back to Hildy. I study the face of the woman across from me, searching for a resemblance to the one in the picture. The shape of the eyes and color of the hair are the same, but there the resemblance ends. Hildy has a square-shaped face, thin lips, and a broad, flat nose. She is not an unattractive woman, but she didn’t inherit her mother’s beauty or her tall, slender build.

  “Clearly, I take after my father, whoever he was,” Hildy says with a wry smile, reading my mind and my frank assessment.

  “You don’t have any idea who he is, or was?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know that my mother knew for sure.”

  Remembering that she said she was orphaned as a child, I ask her, “How did your mother die?”

  “She was murdered.” Blunt, and to the point.

  “Oh . . . I-I’m sorry,” I stammer. “How awful.”

  “It was,” Hildy says with a sober nod. “And the culprit was never caught.”

  I can’t think of anything to say that won’t sound trite or patronizing, so I say nothing.

  “Anyway,” Hildy says, picking up after a brief, awkward silence, “I ended up in the foster system. My grandparents wouldn’t . . . couldn’t take me in, and there was no one else, since my mother was an only child. I missed my mother terribly, of course, and as a result, I had a tendency to act out.” She pauses and gives me an embarrassed, apologetic look. “I’m afraid I was a bit of a terror, actually. I did some awful things, things I’d rather not dwell on. Suffice it to say, I moved from one foster home to another until I was twelve years old, racking up more than fifteen of them. No family would keep me for more than a few months. I finally got hooked up with a counselor I could relate to, or perhaps it’s better to say he could relate to me, and by the time I reached my teenage years, I settled into my new life a little better.” She pauses and frowns. “Though I suppose saying ‘I grew resigned to it’ is a more accurate way to put things.” She shrugs and smiles. “Anyway, I spent several of my teen years in a group home with a bunch of other sad sacks like myself and we formed a kind of bond among us that helped me to settle down.”

  “How awful for you,” I say, meaning it. My own childhood was no cakewalk, given that my mother’s revolving door of husbands and her severe hypochondria didn’t exactly instill me with a sense of security. But at least I had my sister, who, despite some contentious times between us, at least understood where I was coming from. Hildy had no one like that.

  “Yes, well, it wasn’t ideal, that’s for sure,” Hildy says. “But I think I’m a stronger person because of it.” She pauses, raking her top teeth over her lower
lip. “I didn’t come out of it unscathed, however,” she says, her tone cautionary. “I have a few, um, quirks that evolved as a result of my living arrangements. You see, living in foster homes often means competing with a family’s real children, their natural children, for things and attention. And the foster kid always comes out on the losing end. I watched time and again as the real kids,” she wraps this term in air quotes, “would get treats I didn’t, or get to do things I didn’t, or went places I didn’t. And sometimes the kids were pretty snotty about it. They’d taunt me, flaunt their booty and their privilege, rubbing it in my face.” She hesitates and lets out a snort of derision as her eyes take on a brief faraway look. “In one case, quite literally. It’s surprisingly difficult to get peanut butter out of your hair.” She grows silent, still gazing off, and I suspect she is briefly reliving whatever moment she is referring to. Eventually she snaps back to the present, looking at me with a hint of embarrassment. “Anyway, things were rarely fair and sometimes, when I did get a little something special for myself, the other kids would often find a way to take it from me. So I found ways to treat myself from time to time. I stole things and hid them, particularly food treats.”

  Having hidden away a food treat myself a time or two—albeit out of guilt rather than self-preservation—I can relate.

  “I sometimes take things that aren’t mine,” she admits guiltily. “Like your pen this morning.”

  I think back to my earlier encounter with her and vaguely remember her asking to borrow a pen so she could scribble out her phone number on the card she gave to Kit. It dawns on me now that she didn’t give it back to me, though I never really missed it. I carry several pens in my scene kit, so to my mind, it was a minor thing.

  Any remaining vestiges of my irritation with her have faded away. I can’t imagine a childhood like hers, and figure she must be a very strong and resilient person to have overcome it. Either that, or she’s batshit crazy. “I had no idea,” I say to her. “If I’d known, I would have been happy to give you a pen.”

  Hildy smiles. “It’s not about my needing a pen,” she says, blushing. “It’s more about me taking control over my own destiny, having some power over a situation. Or at least that’s what my shrink says. It’s an almost unconscious thing when I pocket stuff that I fancy for some reason or another. I’m working to get control over it, but it’s hard to control something you’re not aware of doing.”

  I stare at her in silence, not knowing what to say. Her history is sad yet fascinating, but I’m also aware that time is ticking by and I should be doing other things.

  As if she has somehow read my thoughts, or sensed my restlessness, Hildy says, “And that brings me to why I’m here.” She sticks a hand into the pocket of her coat—the left one this time—and removes a candy bar. It’s a simple chocolate bar, and she sets it on the table, slides it toward me with a trembling hand.

  I look at it, bemused, and then look back at her.

  “Turn it over,” she says.

  I do so, and on the underside of the bar is a small, white circular sticker with the price of fifty-five cents handwritten on it. “I don’t understand,” I say.

  Hildy takes in a deep breath, and eases it out. “I took it from the pocket of the jacket our girl in the ER was wearing.” She sucks in her lower lip, straightens her back, laces her hands together and sets them on the table in front of her. She stares at me with a guarded expression, clearly waiting to see how I’ll react, and from her posture, it is just as clear she expects me to explode.

  I’m too stymied by everything she has said to know how to react. In the end, I keep it simple. “Explain.”

  Her shoulders sag with momentary relief, but there is a lingering tautness to her posture that tells me she isn’t off her guard yet. “I was in the ER when she came in, and I saw the man who came with her. Something about the expression on his face told me that things weren’t right, and I checked in with the nurses who were caring for her and they let me know they had the same feeling. The poor girl looked terrified and I went to her to offer some support. It wasn’t long after that when she crashed, and then I was pushed out of the room. As I was leaving, I saw her clothes piled on a chair by the door to the room, and the end of that candy bar was sticking out of her jacket pocket.” She pauses, pulls her hands from the table, and starts to massage her temples, closing her eyes. “I don’t remember taking it, but I do remember seeing it there and I found it in my pocket later, so I know I must have grabbed it.” She stops rubbing and opens her eyes, looking back at me. “It’s an unconscious thing,” she says in a pitiful tone. “I can’t help myself.”

  “I understand,” I say, and I do. I recall the minuscule adjustments she made to her coat when she hung it on the back of the chair, and the similar gyrations she went through once she sat in the chair. Having grown up with a mother who suffers from a severe case of OCD, I have a better than average understanding of these sorts of things.

  Looking at me with a pleading expression, Hildy says, “I’ve worked at the hospital for just over two years and this is the first time I’ve done anything like this there. It typically only happens when I’m overly stressed, and I think there was something about this girl that got to me.”

  “I understand,” I say again. “But I’m not sure why you’re giving this to me, and telling me about it now.”

  “Because it’s evidence,” Hildy says. “Look at that sticker. The candy wrapper has a bar code. Practically everything these days has a bar code. And yet that sticker is on there with the price handwritten on it. That suggests to me that the thing was bought—or perhaps taken—from a small mom-and-pop store that rings things up the old-fashioned way. How many of those can there be in the area? If you can find the store, maybe it will lead to something else.”

  “Good point,” I say, nodding thoughtfully. “It’s a bit of a long shot, but you never know.”

  “I’m sorry I took it,” Hildy says. “Like I said, it’s—”

  “No need to explain,” I say, holding up a hand to stop her. “I understand. And I appreciate what it must have taken for you to come here and tell me about it.”

  Hildy sags with relief. “I had to,” she says. “I admit, I didn’t want to, but one other thing my history has imbued me with is a strong need for justice, to see the right thing done. And I knew that bringing this to you was the right thing to do.”

  “You could have taken it to Detective Richmond.”

  She blushes again. “I know, but I didn’t want to have to explain . . . well . . . you know.” She shrugs and looks embarrassed.

  “You like him and you didn’t want to scare him off right away by sharing your history with him.”

  She nods, her blush deepening.

  I consider the situation and the woman before me. I don’t know her professionally because I’ve been gone from the hospital for almost four years now. But I also know that employees who work at the hospital have to undergo thorough background checks, and if she’s been employed there for a couple of years, she must be a stand-up person. She didn’t have to come to me with this. She could have tossed the candy bar or eaten it, and no one would have been the wiser. Yet she came forth and admitted what she did.

  “Tell you what, Hildy,” I say. “I’m going to keep this candy bar, and I’ll share it with Detective Richmond. I’ll tell him you found it in the patient’s room on the floor by the chair holding her clothes and you picked it up and pocketed it to get it out of the way. Later, after the girl died, you realized it might be important evidence because of the sticker but felt a little embarrassed that you had taken it. So, you came to me about it and handed it over. I don’t think Detective Richmond will be angry. In fact, I suspect he might be impressed by your ingenuity in recognizing the sticker as a clue. Does that sound okay?”

  Hildy beams with pleasure. “My goodness, yes!” she says with relief. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Well, you can make yourself available to me whene
ver I ask. I get the sense that you’re a pretty good judge of character, and I might want to consult with you in the future.”

  Hildy looks like a kid who has just come downstairs and seen the loot beneath the tree on Christmas morning. “Thank you so much,” she says, clasping her hands together. She gets up from her chair, picks up her coat, and puts it on. I get up, too, grabbing the candy bar and sticking it in the pocket of my slacks. Then I steer her to the door of the library.

  At the threshold, she turns back, looking up at me. She is a short woman. “You’ve been very understanding,” she says, “and I don’t want to push my luck too far. But might I ask you for one other favor?”

  “You can ask.”

  “I told you that my mother was murdered, and that the culprit was never caught.”

  I nod, sensing where this is going.

  “It’s been over twenty-five years, and I know the odds of finding the person responsible are next to nil. But I did do a little research and digging on my own. I wonder if it would be possible at some point for you to look over what I have and see if there is anything else you can suggest for me to try?”

  “Well, twenty-five years makes it a very cold case,” I say. “And at the moment, I’m pretty busy.”

  “Oh, I know that, and I don’t mean you have to do it right now. But maybe sometime?”

  Her expression is so desperate and pleading that I don’t have the heart to tell her no. “We’ll see,” I say, equivocating and hoping she might forget about it over time. But then I realize that the odds of that happening are about as good as the odds of finding her mother’s killer. If I were in her position, I wouldn’t let it go.

  She looks crestfallen for a moment, but then she rallies. “Thank you,” she says with a grateful smile. “I really appreciate it.”

  Before she can hit me up with any more requests, I lead her back out to the reception area and the front door. “We’ll talk later,” I say, opening the door and making it crystal clear that we are done for now.