Wolf Lake. John Verdon
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all. “This information about the suicide was passed along to Dr. Hammond in a phone call by a Palm Beach detective?”
“Right.”
“Why?”
“Because Wenzel told the minister that his nightmares had started after he’d been hypnotized by Dr. Richard Hammond to help him stop smoking. So the detective called Hammond, asked if he’d treated the deceased. Richard said that was confidential, HIPAA regulations, blah-blah-blah, but what was the problem? The detective explained the situation, asked if suicides or nightmares were ever side effects of hypnosis. Richard said he’d never heard of such a reaction. And that was pretty much the end of that . . . until a week later. That’s when he got another call—this one from a detective in Teaneck, New Jersey.”
Gurney said nothing, just waited.
Madeleine’s eyes widened.
Hardwick went on. “Another wrist-cutting suicide. Leo Balzac, age twenty-eight. When the Teaneck detective checked the deceased’s smartphone calendar, he saw that he’d had an appointment with a local therapist two days before he killed himself. So the detective paid a visit to the therapist, more dancing around the HIPAA bullshit, but eventually he found out Balzac had come to the therapist for a problem he’d been having with nightmares—ever since a certain Dr. Hammond had hypnotized him to help him stop smoking.”
Gurney was intrigued. “This second detective got in touch with Hammond to ask about the hypnosis session, the same as the first one did?”
“Right. And Hammond gave him the same answer.”
Jane looked up from the table. “It wasn’t exactly the same. In addition to insisting that his therapy sessions couldn’t cause nightmares, Richard told the second detective about the call he’d gotten from the first detective. It was clear to him that something strange was going on, and he wanted both detectives to have the whole picture. You see how important that is?”
When neither Gurney nor Hardwick responded, she explained. “If Richard hadn’t done that—if he hadn’t been as helpful as he was—the police in Florida and the police in New Jersey never would have connected the two suicides. It was Richard who innocently volunteered that information. Which proves he had nothing to hide.”
Gurney and Hardwick exchanged skeptical glances.
“But,” interjected Madeleine, “if I remember the news reports, there was more to the story, wasn’t there?”
“A shitload more,” said Hardwick. “The really god-awful mess was yet to come.”
Before Hardwick could proceed, Madeleine went to the sink island and brought back four mugs of coffee on a tray with spoons, milk, and sugar.
Jane took the mug nearest her and thanked Madeleine for it, then looked her over frankly, as if evaluating her slim, athletic figure—still elegantly sexy at forty-seven—concluding with a smile, “You’re so much younger than I’d been picturing on the drive here.”
“Younger?”
“Jack told me that Dave was retired from the police department. The word ‘retired’ conjured up the image of a gray-haired couple puttering in the garden. And you turn out to be . . . well . . . like this. You look about thirty-five, and your husband looks like Daniel Craig.”
Madeleine uttered a small laugh. “He may look a bit like Daniel Craig, but it’s quite a few years since I was anything close to thirty-five. You’re very kind.”
Gurney explained, “Most cops qualify for their pensions after twenty-five years on the job. So it’s a natural time to get out, you know . . . and . . . and move on to something else.” His words trailed off with a descending energy that revealed more about his general feeling of indecision than he’d intended.
“So,” said Hardwick, the short syllable functioning like the tap of a gavel to bring them back to the subject at hand. “After Teaneck PD got talking to Palm Beach PD, it was obvious the next step was to pull the New York State Police into the loop, since the common factor between the two suicides, Richard Hammond, resided on NYSP turf. Which is how this bizarre case ended up on the desk of Senior Investigator Gilbert Fenton.”
“A real son of a bitch,” said Jane.
Hardwick nodded his agreement.
“You know him?” asked Gurney.
“Yeah, I know him. As soon as the situation was dropped in Fenton’s in-box, he took a drive out to the Gall estate to interview Dr. Hammond, find out what he could about this hypnosis business, see if the two suicides were caused by anything that would be of interest to law enforcement.”
Hardwick leaned forward, his muscular forearms resting on the table. “Fenton’s an organization guy, very oriented to hierarchy. So, before talking to Hammond, he wanted to talk to the man in charge—namely, Ethan Gall. But nobody knew where Ethan was. Nobody had seen him for two days. You get where this is going, right?”
Gurney shrugged. “Tell me anyway.”
“Four days after Fenton’s visit, Ethan’s body was found in one of the estate’s cabins, about half a mile from the main house. This particular cabin was not very secure. Some animals had gotten in . . .”
Hardwick paused, letting the visual possibilities register. “The ID process took some time. Dental records, then DNA. Enough of the body was intact to determine that at least one wrist had been cut. There was also a knife present with his blood and fingerprints on it.”
“How do you know this stuff?”
“I know some people who know some people.”
“How did BCI treat the death?”
“The ME’s report was inconclusive—apart from noting that the evidence was consistent with a suicide. A lot of the body had been devoured or dragged off. But the wrist cutting—and the common factor of contact with Richard Hammond—convinced Gil Fenton that this was the third in a series of suspicious suicides.”
“You mean ‘suspicious’ as in possible homicides?”
Hardwick looked like he had acid reflux. “Because of their similarities, the three suicides came to be regarded as ‘suspicious’ in the legally uncharted sense of being brought about by forces other than the independent decisions of self-destructive individuals.”
Gurney frowned. “Meaning what?”
“In Fenton’s public statements, he keeps suggesting that the suicides were not only influenced by Richard Hammond, but may have been orchestrated by him—in effect, that he may have forced these people to kill themselves.”
“Forced them?” Gurney cocked his head incredulously. “How? Through hypnotic suggestion?”
“Hypnotic suggestion . . . and nightmares.”
“Are you serious? Hammond is supposed to have given these people nightmares that made them kill themselves?”
“That’s Fenton’s theory, which he’s pushing every time he talks to the press.” Hardwick paused, eyeing Gurney speculatively. “What do you think of that?”
“I think it’s ridiculous.”
Jane Hammond slapped her hand on the table. “Thank you for saying that! That’s what I’ve been saying myself from the beginning—that it’s ridiculous to even think that Richard would do something like that.”
Gurney asked, “Was Ethan Gall ever hypnotized by your brother?”
“Yes. In fact, Richard helped him break a lifelong smoking habit.”
“And their session was when?”
“Oh, maybe three . . . well, at least two months ago.”
“Do you know if Ethan ever complained about nightmares?”
Jane blinked nervously.