“How about Kathy Bates? She could play Mary. She’s a great actress,” one “concerned” caller asked the talk show host, who was all too glad to play along.
“Too old. Besides, she already did Misery. I say you get Nicky Kidman, get her to slap on another fake nose, wig, thirty pounds, and you’re good to go,” replied the DJ. “Or maybe Meryl Streep. Emma Thompson? Kate Winslet would be strong.”
My check-in at the station house took almost forty-five minutes. I had to speak with four different personnel and show my ID half a dozen times just to reach the small interrogation room where they were going to bring Mary Wagner to me. Eventually—in their own sweet time.
When I finally saw her, my first reaction, surprisingly, was pity.
Mary looked as though she hadn’t slept, with bruise-colored half-moons under her eyes and a drooping, shuffling walk. The pink hotel uniform was gone. She now wore shapeless gray sweatpants and an old UCLA sweatshirt flecked with pale yellow paint the same color as her kitchen.
Vague recognition flickered in her eyes when she saw me. I was reminded of some of the Alzheimer’s patients I regularly visited at St. Anthony’s in D.C.
I told the guard to remove her cuffs and wait outside.
“I’ll be okay with her. We’re friends.”
“Friends,” Mary repeated as she stared deeply into my eyes.
Chapter 95
“MARY, DO YOU REMEMBER ME from yesterday?” I asked as soon as the guard was back out in the hallway. I had pulled up a chair and sat across from her. The plain four-by-eight table between us was bolted to the floor. It was chilly in the small room, with a draft from somewhere.
“You’re Mister Cross,” she said dully. “FBI Agent Cross. Excuse me, I’m sorry.”
“Good memory. Do you know why you’re here?”
She tensed, though it was barely discernible from her otherwise flat affect. “They think I’m that woman. They’re accusing me of murder.” Her gaze fell to the floor. “Murders. More than one. All those Hollywood people. They think I did it.”
I was actually glad she said “they.” It meant I could still be a potential ally in her mind. Maybe she’d tell me some of her secrets after all, and maybe not.
“We don’t have to talk about that if you don’t want to,” I said.
She blinked once, and seemed to focus a little. She squinted her eyes at me, then looked down at the floor.
“Would you like anything? Are you thirsty?” I asked. I wanted her to feel as comfortable as possible with me, but I was also feeling an urge to help this woman. She looked and sounded so terrible, possibly impaired.
Now she looked up, her eyes searching mine. “Could I have a cup of coffee? Would it be too much trouble?”
The coffee arrived, and Mary held the paper cup with her fingertips and sipped at it with an unexpected kind of delicacy. The coffee seemed to revive her a little, too.
She kept sneaking glances at me, and she absently smoothed her hair against her head. “Thanks.” Her eyes were a little brighter, and I saw a shade of the friendly woman from the day before.
“Mary, do you have any questions about what’s going on? I’m sure you must.”
Immediately, a pall came over her. Her emotions were palpably fragile. Suddenly, tears welled up in her eyes, and she nodded without speaking.
“What is it, Mary?”
She looked up to the corner of the ceiling, where a camera was watching us. I knew that at least a half-dozen law enforcement personnel and psychiatric specialists were tucked away less than ten feet from where we sat.
Mary seemed to guess as much. When she did speak, it was in a whisper.
“They won’t tell me anything about my children.” Her face contorted as she fought back more tears.
Chapter 96
“YOUR CHILDREN?” I asked, somewhat confused, but going along with what she’d said.
“Do you know where they are?” Her voice was wavery, but her energy had increased quite a bit already.