“Where did she end up?” I asked.

“Vermont State Hospital in Waterbury, probably. I wouldn’t have any transfer records here, but that ward isn’t exactly overflowing. I can get you a name and number if you want to find out.”

It was tempting to pull a little no-I-want-YOU-to-find-out attitude, but I preferred to make the calls myself anyway. I took down the number for Vermont State Hospital.

“What about Mary Constantine’s MO?” I asked Medlar. “What have you got on the actual murders?”

I heard more turning pages and then, “Unbelievable.”

“What is it?”

“Didn’t your Mary Smith use a Walther PPK out there in L.A.?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Ditto here. Walther PPK, never recovered, either. She must have dog-boned it.”

I was scribbling notes furiously the whole time he talked. To say the least, he had me riveted.

“All right, Agent Medlar, here’s what I need. Get me a contact for whatever Mary Constantine’s local police department would have been. I also want everything you’ve got on file there. Send whatever’s electronically available right now and fax the rest.

“And I mean everything. I’m going to give you my cell number in case you find anything else worth mentioning. I’ll be on the move.”

I stuffed some papers into my briefcase while I was still talking to Medlar.

“One other thing. What airlines fly to Vermont, anyway?”

Chapter 108

Chapter 108

EIGHTEEN HOURS AND THREE THOUSAND MILES later, I was sitting in the small, cozy living room of Madeline and former sheriff Claude Lapierre, just outside Derby Line, Vermont. It was a tiny village, as sweet as a calendar photo, and literally pressed up against the Canadian border. In fact, the local Haskell Free Library and Opera House had been accidentally built on the border, and guards were sometimes stationed inside to prevent illegal crossings.

Not the kind of place you’d imagine would keep law enforcement very busy, though. Mary Constantine had lived there all her life—right up until she killed her three young children, a horrifying crime that had made national headlines twenty years ago.

“What would you say you remember most about the case?” I asked Mr. Lapierre.

“The knife. For sure the knife. The way she cut up that poor little girl’s face, after she killed all three of them. I was Orleans County sheriff for twenty-seven years. It was the worst thing I ever saw. By far, Agent Cross. By far.”

“I actually felt kind of sorry for her.” Mrs. Lapierre sat next to her husband on the couch, which was covered in a denim-blue fabric. “For Mary, I mean. Nothing good ever happened to that poor woman. Not that it excuses what she did, but . . .” She waved her hand in front of her face instead of finishing the thought.

“You knew her, Mrs. Lapierre?”