A Noise Downstairs Page 17
He leaned over and set the typewriter into the bottom of the box. When he let go, he flexed his fingers to get the blood circulating in them again. “That is one heavy son of a bitch. Okay, close it.”
Charlotte closed the lid of the blanket box as Paul scanned the room.
“What?” she asked.
“Looking for something heavy to put on top.”
“Jesus, Paul, it’s not the clown from It. It’s not going to break out and attack us.”
Paul had nothing to say to that. He found three liquor store boxes with the word BOOKS scribbled on the side in black marker. He set them on top of the blanket box.
“That should do it,” he said. “Those things weigh a ton.” He clapped his hands together, as if dusting them of dirt.
Charlotte linked an arm in his. “Do you think maybe you can relax a bit now?” When he said nothing for several seconds, she said, “Paul?”
“There’s one more person I want to talk to.”
“Who?”
“Gabriella Hoffman,” he said, and saw the doubt in his wife’s eyes.
“What can that possibly accomplish?”
“Locking that typewriter in a box doesn’t mean I don’t still have questions.”
“I don’t know, Paul. Maybe this has been a mistake. Maybe you need to put all this behind you, stop dredging up everything.” She glanced at the blanket box weighed down with the boxes of books. “I never should have bought that thing.”
“What if you were meant to buy it?” Paul asked.
“What are you saying?”
“What if this is all part of some plan?”
Charlotte looked away, not wanting to listen.
“Hear me out. Whatever the reason for those messages, it’s possible that typewriter belonged to Kenneth Hoffman, that this is the machine he forced those women to write their apologies on. What are the odds you’d be drawn to that very yard sale, find that very machine, by chance? To buy something linked to someone I know, to an issue I’d already been thinking I might write about? What are the odds of that?”
Quietly, Charlotte said, “Long.”
“Exactly. Incalculably long. But it’s a lot more believable if it was somehow preordained. What if there were some sort of force leading you to it?”
“Jesus, Paul. What force? Whose plan?”
“I don’t know. Did you find out whose house it was?”
“I told you, I’ve made calls but haven’t heard back yet.”
“Maybe it doesn’t even matter. Maybe we’re not meant to know. The typewriter just is. It has no history other than what Hoffman made them write on it. It lives in that moment.”
“It’s like a Twilight Zone episode.”
Paul couldn’t help but laugh at that. “No shit. But I think I’m meant, for whatever reason, to pursue this. And that means talking to Gabriella, and ultimately, Kenneth, who can—”
“Wait, hold it. Kenneth?”
“In prison. I want to talk to him in prison. Maybe Gabriella could expedite that process, if she’s willing.”
“Why would she?”
“Maybe she won’t. But it’s worth a try.” He took hold of Charlotte’s shoulders. “Who knows. Maybe she’s as desperate for answers as we are.”
“I’ll come with you.”
He shook his head. “No, it’s okay. I think this is something I have to do alone.”
Charlotte looked less sure. “I’m worried about you. Out there, asking questions that seem . . .”
“Insane.”
She sighed with resignation. They crossed the garage to the door that would take them back into the house. As Paul closed it, he took one final look at the blanket box, then turned off the light.
Thirty-Five
I was afraid maybe you wouldn’t want to see me,” Paul said to Gabriella Hoffman.
“Not at all,” she said, opening the door for him. “It would seem the least I can do.”
Instead of dropping in as he had done with the others he’d wanted to talk to about Kenneth, Paul phoned Gabriella first. She had not asked what it was about, which led Paul to wonder whether she’d always expected he would call, someday.
While Paul and Kenneth had been colleagues, Paul had never been in the Hoffman home. It was a stately two-story in north Milford, set back from the road. Paul was expecting some level of inattention, not necessarily along the lines of Gilford Lamb’s place, but when tragedy strikes a household, sometimes other things slide.
But the yard was beautifully maintained. Blooming flower gardens, perfectly trimmed shrubs. He parked alongside a black Toyota RAV4, rang the bell, and was admitted.
Gabriella, tall, thin, with silvery hair that came down to her shoulders, was described as forty-nine years old in the Gwen Stainton article, but she looked older. Despite that, she looked fit, and held her chin high, as though she had nothing in the world to be ashamed about.
She said they’d be more comfortable talking in the kitchen, and led him there. She offered coffee from a half-full carafe and set two mugs on the table. They sat across from each other.
“Many times, I’ve thought about getting in touch with you,” she said.
“You have?”
She nodded. “When you discover you’ve been married to a monster, you can’t help but feel responsible for some of the monstrous things he’s done.”
“I’m not blaming you. It’s never occurred to me to do that.”
Gabriella smiled and touched his hand. “That’s kind of you. The truth is, I never found the courage to approach you. And as much as I’ve wanted to offer condolences, something, anything, to Harold or Gilford, I have to admit that I haven’t the courage there, either. What would I say? Can I make it all up to them by bringing over a dozen home-baked muffins? I think not. Several times I’ve tried to write letters to them, and to you, but every time I end up tossing them into the garbage.”
Paul did not know what to say.
Gabriella continued, “I was reading one time about a case in Canada. A respected military man who turned out to be a serial killer, and his wife had absolutely no idea. I think about her, and wonder, how does she get up every day, knowing she lived with someone like that, that she didn’t see it, and that if she had, maybe she could have done something about it?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“What Kenneth did wasn’t quite as horrific as that, but my God, it came pretty close. If there is anything to be grateful for, it’s that you survived.”
“Well,” Paul said, “I guess there’s that.”
She put a hand on his arm. “I think we met a few times at faculty events.”
“We did.”
“Did you know?”
Paul felt a jolt. “Did I know what?”
“That Kenneth was sleeping with anyone who’d let him into her pants?”
The bluntness threw him for a second. He was ashamed by the answer he was to give. “Yes.” He paused.
“I suppose everyone did.”
“I can’t speak for everyone, but I think it’s likely,” he said. “Now, sitting here, I feel somehow complicit, too. It’s not in my nature to be judgmental, but maybe if I’d called Kenneth out on what he was doing, it might have made a difference.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to make you feel guilty. I just wondered. Don’t feel badly. I certainly knew.”
“You did?”
“Oh please,” she said. “I knew there was the odd one here and there. I knew what kind of man he was. Although, carrying on with two at the same time, that came as something of a surprise.”
“Yes, I suppose it did.”
She placed her palms on the table and straightened her spine, as though signaling a change in the conversation’s direction. “Kenneth spoke of you often. In fact, he still does.”
Paul’s eyebrows rose. “Really?”
She nodded. “I visit him every couple of weeks. The man does feel, whether we choose to believe it or not, remorseful. I think he fee
ls especially bad about you. You were a good friend.”
“I don’t know which I’m more surprised by. That he would mention me, or that you visit him in prison.”
“He’s still my husband.”
“You’ve never—forgive me, this is probably none of my business—but you’ve never taken any steps to end the marriage? The affairs alone would be cause for divorce, but since Kenneth did what he did . . .”
As Paul asked the question, it struck him where, exactly, he was sitting.
He was in the kitchen of the Hoffman home. This was where it had happened. His eyes wandered down to the table. Could this be the same one? Was this where the typewriter had sat? Was the chair he was sitting in the one Jill Foster had been bound to? Or Catherine Lamb?
What must it have taken to clean this place up after he’d slit their throats? Was there still blood buried in the grains of this wooden table’s surface? Was this where two women pleaded for their lives, where they hoped that a couple of typewritten apologies might save them?
“Paul?” Gabriella asked.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“It looked as though I’d lost you there.”
“My mind, it drifted there for a second. What did you say?”
“You were the one talking. You were wondering why I haven’t divorced Kenneth.”
“I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”
She smiled. “As difficult as it may be to imagine, he’s a victim, too. A victim of his own impulses. Since he’s been in prison . . . he’s tried to take his own life. At least once that I know of. Kenneth is my husband. For better or for worse. That was the vow I took. Vows mean something, you know.”
“Kenneth took those same vows. About being faithful and forsaking all others.”
Gabriella smiled sadly. “He wasn’t very good at sticking to those, was he?”
Paul felt a shiver.
“What about the house,” he said. “Have you thought of selling it, moving away from Milford?”
“Good luck with that,” she said. “Your wife, she works in real estate, doesn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“She’d probably know all about how hard it is to sell a house where something horrific has happened. In time, maybe, but what Kenneth did, it’s far too fresh in people’s minds.” She paused. “For me, it always will be.”
She took a sip of her coffee, set down the mug. “So what was so important that you needed to see me?”
Best to come right out with it.
“I’d like to see Kenneth.”
“Oh?”
“I thought it might help if you spoke to him, paved the way, had him put me on a list of accepted visitors.”
She considered the request for a moment, then said, “I don’t suppose that would be a problem, but I have to ask. Why?”
“At first, I wanted to see him just”—he shrugged—“to talk to him. These past eight months—and I know they’ve been very difficult for you—but they have been pretty hard on me. I guess what I have is PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder. I’ve had recurring nightmares, bouts of memory loss. Even . . . moments where I may be perceiving things I believe are real, but they’re not.”
Gabriella eyed him with sympathetic wonder. “Oh my, that’s awful, but do you think seeing him will help you with any of that?”
“I do. I might be totally wrong, but I do. I think coming face-to-face with him, of turning him back into an actual person, instead of some kind of demon that comes to me in the night, may help.”
If she was offended by having her husband referred to as a demon, she didn’t show it.
“I’m writing about what happened to me. I don’t know what it’ll turn into. A memoir, a novel, or maybe just something I write for myself that’ll never be read by another living soul. But I think the process is helping me come to terms with what happened. I’ve been talking to the others touched by Kenneth’s actions.”
Gabriella put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear. You mean, like Harold and—”
“Yes.”
She appeared to be deflating. “What have they said to you? How—no, don’t tell me. I don’t think I’m ready to hear it.”
“I understand.”
Gabriella took a second to collect herself. “You’re seeing a therapist, I presume.”
“I am.”
“Does he think it’s a good idea?”
“She. She’s not convinced it’s a good idea, but she’s not stopping me. In fact, I want to take her with me, if I am able to get in to see Kenneth.”
“Well,” she said. “You said, at first. Is there another reason you want to see him?”
“Before I answer that, I want to ask you something else, something that may seem strange.”
“Go ahead.”
“Do you ever feel . . . haunted by the women Kenneth killed?”
Her head cocked slightly, as though no one had ever asked her this before. “I suppose I do.”
“In what way?”
“I don’t know . . . I guess sometimes, I can see them, at this table. Asking me why.”
Paul nodded. “Yes. When you see them, how real are they?”
“Far too real. I mean, even though I never saw what happened, I can imagine it, sadly.” Gabriella sharpened her focus on him. “Why do you ask?”
Here we go.
“I think it’s possible,” Paul said, “that I have the typewriter.”
Gabriella’s face froze.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I think I have it. The typewriter Kenneth made them write their apologies on.”
“That’s not possible. The typewriter was never found. How could you have it? Kenneth got rid of it the night of the murders. The police never found it. No, that’s simply not possible.”
Before he could tell her more, she asked: “What kind of typewriter is it? Describe it.”
“It’s an Underwood. Very old. Black metal. You know. An antique manual typewriter. My wife acquired it recently at a yard sale.”
She appeared to be trying to remember. “It’s funny, you see it sitting around the house every day, and now I’m trying to think, was it a Royal? A Remington? An Olympia? All names I remember from my childhood. But I think, yes, I think it’s possible our old typewriter was an Underwood. But there are millions of them. You can find one in almost any secondhand shop. What would make you think it was ours?”
Paul had thought about how he would answer. “That’s something I would be prepared to discuss with Kenneth.”
“You should tell me.” Her face darkened. “After all I’ve endured with that man, surely I’m entitled to know whatever you’re holding back.”
“I’d like to tell Kenneth first. If he wants to tell you what I’ve told him, I have no problem with that.”
She didn’t look pleased with that, but she didn’t fight him. She did appear ready to ask him something else, but they were interrupted by what sounded like a truck pulling up to the house.
“My son’s home,” she said.
“Can you get in touch with Kenneth and ask him if he’ll see me?”
Gabriella stood up, evidently eager to greet her son. “I’ll see what I can do. Sometimes these things can be arranged more easily than you think. And what’s the name of the person you want to take with you?”
Paul told her. She nodded and started walking toward the front door.
It opened before she got to it. Leonard Hoffman, still in his ice cream–stained apron, came into the house.
He looked at Paul and said, “You.”
Thirty-Six
Hello, Leonard,” Paul said.
Gabriella was startled. “You know each other?”
“This is the bad man I told you about,” Leonard said.
“Wait, what?” she said.
“Leonard sells ice cream on our street quite often,” Paul said defensively. “Earlier today, I admit, I mentioned to him that there was, well, a connection.”
Gabriella looked as disappointed as she was angry. “Why would you do that? Why would you drag my son into this? Don’t you think he’s suffered enough from what his father has done?”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“He called me saying some man asked about his father, but I had no idea it was you.”
Paul looked apologetically at Leonard. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Leonard, why don’t you go in and have a snack while I see this man out.”
Leonard hesitated, not sure that he was ready to be dismissed. But finally he said, “Okay.” He glanced over his shoulder, adding, “Don’t come back here again.” He disappeared into the kitchen.
“Really, I’m sorry,” Paul said to Gabriella.
“Something we never got to,” she said, keeping her voice low, “was how hard this has been on Len.”
“I can well imagine that—”
“No, you can’t. Len’s not been the easiest boy in the world to raise. He’s got his share of difficulties, but say what you will about Kenneth, he loves his son and was always there for him.”
“What’s Leonard’s—”
“If you were going to say ‘problem,’ Leonard doesn’t have a problem. He was always just a little slower than the other kids, but there’s nothing wrong with him. He might not have been college material, but he’s got this job now driving that ice cream truck and that’s done the world for how he feels about himself. Can you imagine what it’s been like for him having a father go to jail for what he did? I just thank God he’s years out of school. The other kids would have tormented him to death.”
“I should go,” Paul said.
“Maybe you should.”
But Paul hadn’t moved toward the door, and Gabriella guessed why. “I’ll still do it for you. I’ll get in touch with Kenneth, and the prison.”
“Thank you. Can I give you my cell number?”
She went for a pen and a piece of paper. When she returned he gave it to her and she wrote it down.
“Okay,” she said.
“When I talked to Leonard,” Paul said hesitantly, “he said it was my fault.”
“What?”
“Because I came upon Kenneth. Because maybe if I hadn’t, Kenneth would have been gone by the time the police came.”