Leaving Time: A Novel (11 page)

“This,” Donny Boylan said to me, ten years ago, as he popped another antacid tablet into his mouth. “This couldn’t have happened two weeks from now?”

Donny was counting the days until his retirement. As I sat with him, he gave me a litany of all the things he did not need: paperwork from the chief, red lights, a rookie like me to train, the heat wave that was aggravating his eczema. He also did not need a call at 7:00
A.M.
from the New England Elephant Sanctuary, reporting the death of one of their caregivers.

The victim was a forty-four-year-old long-term employee. “You have any idea what kind of shitstorm this is going to cause?” he asked. “You remember what it was like three years ago when the place opened?”

I did. I had just joined the force then. There were townspeople protesting the arrival of “bad” elephants—the ones who’d gotten kicked out of their zoos and circuses for acting out violently. Editorials every day chastised the planning board, which had allowed Thomas Metcalf to build his sanctuary, albeit with two concentric fences to keep the citizens safe from the animals.

Or vice versa.

Every day for the first three months of the sanctuary’s existence a few of us were sent over to keep the peace at the sanctuary gates, where the protests were centered. It turned out to be a nonissue. The animals adapted quietly and the townspeople got used to having a sanctuary nearby, and there were no complications. Until that 7:00
A.M.
phone call, anyway.

We were waiting inside a small office. There were seven shelves, each filled with binders labeled with the names of the elephants—Maura, Wanda, Syrah, Lilly, Olive, Dionne, Hester. There was a mess of papers on the desk, a stack of ledgers, three half-finished cups of coffee, and a paperweight shaped like a human heart. There were invoices for medication, and squash, and apples. I whistled, looking at the sum total of a bill for hay. “Holy crap,” I said. “That could buy me a car.”

Donny wasn’t happy, but then, Donny was never happy. “What’s taking so goddamn long?” he asked. We had been waiting now for almost two hours, while the staff tried to corral the seven elephants into the barn. Until then, our major crimes unit could not collect evidence inside the enclosure.

“You ever seen someone who’s been trampled by an elephant?” I asked.

“You ever shut up?” Donny replied.

I was investigating a strange series of marks stretched along the wall, like hieroglyphs or something, when a man crashed into the office. He was skittish, nervous, his eyes frantic behind his glasses. “I can’t believe this happened,” he said. “This is a nightmare.”

Donny stood up. “You must be Thomas Metcalf.”

“Yes,” the man said, distracted. “I’m sorry to keep you here so long. It’s been crazy, trying to get the elephants secure. They’re quite agitated. We’ve got six of them in the barn, and the seventh won’t come close enough for us to entice her with food. But we’ve put up some temporary hot wire so that you can still get into the other side of the enclosure …” He led us out of the small building into sunshine so bright the world looked overexposed.

“Do you have any idea how the victim might have gotten into the enclosure?” Donny asked.

Metcalf blinked at him. “Nevvie? She’s worked here since we opened. She’s handled elephants for more than twenty years. She does our books, and she’s also the night caregiver.” He hesitated. “Was. She
was
the night caregiver.” Suddenly he stopped walking and covered his face with his hands. “Oh God. This is all my fault.”

Donny looked at me. “How so?” he asked.

“Elephants can sense tension. They must have been agitated.”

“By the caregiver?”

Before he could respond, there was suddenly a bellow so loud that I jumped. It came from somewhere on the other side of the fence. The leaves of the trees rustled.

“Isn’t it a little far-fetched to think that an animal the size of an elephant could sneak up on someone?” I asked.

Metcalf turned. “Have you ever seen an elephant stampede?” When I shook my head, he smiled grimly. “Hope that you never do.”

We led a crew of major crimes unit investigators, walking for five minutes before we came to a small hill. As we crested it, I saw a man seated next to the body. He was a giant, with shoulders broad as a banquet table, strong enough to commit murder. His eyes were red-rimmed, puffy. He was black, and the victim was white. He was well over six feet tall, and certainly strong enough to overpower someone smaller. These were the sorts of things I noticed then, as an apprentice detective. He was cradling the victim’s head in his lap.

The woman’s skull had been crushed. Her shirt had been torn away from her, but for modesty she was draped with a sweatshirt. Her left leg was bent at an impossible angle, and bruises mottled her skin.

I walked a few feet away as the medical examiner crouched down to do his job. I didn’t need a doc to tell me she was definitely dead.

“This is Gideon Cartwright,” Metcalf said. “He’s the one who found his mother-in-law …” He let his voice trail off.

I couldn’t peg the man’s age, but it couldn’t have been more than ten years younger than the victim. Which meant the victim’s daughter—his wife—had to be considerably younger than he was.
“I’m Detective Boylan.” Donny knelt beside the man. “Were you here when this happened?”

“No. She was the night caregiver; she was out here alone last night,” he said, his voice breaking. “It should have been me.”

“You work here, too?” Donny asked.

The MCU drones had blanketed the area like a swarm of bees. They were photographing the body and trying to limit the area of their investigation. The problem was, this was an outdoor crime scene with no solid boundaries. Who knew how far the woman had been chased by the elephant that ran her down? Who knew if there were any clues that could point to the moment of death? There was a deep hole about twenty yards away, and I could see human footprints on the edge. There may have been shreds of trace evidence caught in the trees. But mostly there were leaves and grass and dirt and elephant dung and flies and nature. God only knew how much of that was important to the crime scene, and how much of it was business as usual.

The medical examiner directed two of his agents to put the body in a bag and approached us. “Let me guess,” Donny said. “Cause of death: trampling?”

“Well, there was certainly trampling. But I don’t know if that was the cause of death. Skull’s split in half. Could have happened before the trampling, or as a result of it.”

I realized, too late, that Gideon was listening to every word.

“No no no,” Metcalf was suddenly shouting. “You can’t put that there. It’s a hazard for the elephants.” He pointed to the crime scene tape being staked out over a vast square by the MCU guys.

Donny squinted. “The elephants aren’t getting back in here anytime soon.”

“I beg your pardon? I never said that you could take over the property. This is a natural protected habitat—”

“And a woman was killed in it.”

“It was an accident,” Metcalf said. “I will not let you affect the daily routine of the elephants here—”

“Unfortunately, Dr. Metcalf, you don’t get to make that choice.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “How long will it take?”

I could see Donny losing patience. “I can’t really say. But in the meantime Lieutenant Stanhope and I will need to speak to everyone who interacts with the elephants.”

“There are four of us. Gideon, Nevvie, me, and Alice. My wife.” Those last words were directed right at Gideon.

“Where’s Alice?” Donny asked.

Metcalf stared at Gideon. “I assumed she was with you.”

His face was twisted with grief. “I haven’t seen her since last night.”

“Well, neither have I.” The blood drained from Metcalf’s face. “If Alice is gone, who has my daughter?”

I am pretty certain that my current landlady, Abigail Chivers, is two hundred years old, give or take a few months. Seriously, you’d think so, too, if you met her. I’ve never seen her wearing anything but a black dress with a brooch at her throat, her white hair scraped into a bun, and her pinched mouth shrinking even tighter whenever she pokes her head into my office and starts opening and slamming shut cabinets. She raps her cane on the desk six inches from my head. “Victor,” she says. “I can smell the work of the devil.”

“Really?” I lift my head off the desk and run my tongue over my teeth, which feel furry. “All I can smell is cheap booze.”

“I will not condone something illegal—”

“Hasn’t been illegal in a century, Abby.” I sigh. We’ve had this fight dozens of times. Have I mentioned that in addition to being a teetotaler, Abigail is also apparently in the throes of dementia, and she is just as likely to call me President Lincoln as she is to call me Victor? Of course, this works to my advantage, too. Like when she tells me I’m late on the rent and I lie and say I’ve already paid for the month.

For an old gal, she’s awfully spry. She whacks her cane on the cushions of the couch and even looks in the microwave. “Where is it?”

“Where’s what?” I ask, playing dumb.

“Satan’s tears. Barley vinegar. Joy juice. I know you’re hiding it somewhere.”

I offer her my most innocent smile. “Would I do something like that?”

“Victor,” she says, “do not lie to me.”

I cross my heart. “Swear to God, there is no booze in this room.” I get to my feet and stagger to the tiny bathroom attached to my office space. It is big enough for a toilet, a sink, and a vacuum cleaner. I close the door behind me, take a piss, and then open the lid of the toilet tank. Fishing out the bottle I started last night, I take a long, healthy swig of whiskey, and just like that, the dull throb of my head starts to fade.

I put the bottle back in its hiding place, flush, and open the door. Abby is still hovering. I haven’t lied to her, just massaged the truth. It’s what I was taught to do a lifetime ago, when I was training to be a detective. “Now, where were we?” I ask, and just then, the telephone rings.

“Drinking,” she accuses.

“Abby, I’m shocked,” I say smoothly. “I didn’t think you indulged.” I steer her toward the door, the phone still ringing. “How about we finish this later? Over a nightcap, maybe?” I push her outside as she protests, then grab for the phone and fumble it. “What?” I snap into the receiver.

“Is this Mr. Stanhope?”

In spite of the quick swig of whiskey, my temples feel like they’re in a vise again. “Yeah.”

“
Virgil
Stanhope?”

When a year passed, and then two, and then five, I started to realize what Donny had told me was true: Once a cop has a ghost, that ghost is there to stay. I couldn’t get rid of Alice Metcalf. So instead, I got rid of Virgil Stanhope. I thought, stupidly, that if I started over, I could start fresh—free from guilt and questions. My dad had been a veteran, a small-town mayor, an all-around upstanding man. I borrowed his name, thinking some of his traits might rub off on me. I
figured maybe I could become the kind of guy people trusted, instead of the one who’d fucked up royally.

Until this moment, no one had questioned me.

“Not anymore,” I mutter, and I slam down the receiver. I stand in the middle of my office, pressing my hands to my aching head, but I can still hear her. I can hear her even when I go back into the bathroom and pull the bottle of whiskey out of the toilet tank again, even when I drink it down to its last drop.

I never actually heard Alice Metcalf speak. She was unconscious when I found her, unconscious when I went to the hospital to see her, and then she was gone. But in my imagination, when she’s sitting across from me passing judgment, she sounds exactly like the voice that was just on the other end of the phone.

We had been sent to the sanctuary for a reported death that wasn’t suspicious at the time of the initial call to the police. And in fact, there was no reason on that morning ten years ago to assume that Alice Metcalf or her child was missing. They could have been out grocery shopping, blissfully unaware of the goings-on at the sanctuary. They could have been in the local park. Alice’s cell phone had been called, but by Thomas’s own admission she never remembered to carry it anywhere. And the nature of her work, studying the cognition of elephants, meant that she often disappeared into the far reaches of the property for hours at a time to do observation, often—to her husband’s chagrin—taking her three-year-old with her.

I was hoping she’d turn up with a cup of coffee, back from an early morning Dunkin’ Donuts jaunt, the baby gumming a bagel. The last place I wanted them to be was in the sanctuary, with that seventh elephant still running loose.

I didn’t want to let myself think of what might have already happened to them.

Four hours into the investigation, MCU had collected ten boxes of evidence: husks of squash and tufts of dried grass, leaves black with what might have been dried dung and might have been dried blood.
While they worked the scene, we accompanied Nevvie’s body to the main gate of the sanctuary with Gideon. He moved slowly; his voice was as hollow as a drum. As a cop, I’d seen enough tragedy to know he was either truly affected by the death of his mother-in-law or else worthy of an Oscar. “My condolences,” Donny said. “I imagine this is very hard for you.”

Gideon nodded, wiping his eyes. He looked like a man who’d been through hell.

“How long have you worked here?” Donny asked.

“Since the sanctuary opened. And before that, with a circus down South. It’s where I met my wife. Nevvie was the one who got me my first job.” His voice broke on the dead woman’s name.

“Have you ever seen elephants display aggressive behavior?”

“Have I seen it?” Gideon asked. “Sure, at the circus. Here, not a lot. A swat, if a keeper surprises them in a bad way. Once, one of our girls freaked when she heard a cell phone ring that sounded like calliope music. You know how they say elephants never forget? Well, it’s true. But not always in a good way.”

“So it’s possible that something upset one of the … girls … and she knocked down your mother-in-law?”

Gideon looked at the ground. “I guess.”