Skeletal remains found fifteen days ago in Trout Lake, adjacent to the idyllic resort community of Hampton Junction, twenty miles north of Saratoga Springs, have been identified as those of a socially prominent fourth-year medical student who disappeared over twenty-seven years ago. Retrieval of the remains was a protracted affair requiring a special team of forensic divers to sift through mud at great depth in cold temperatures. Dental records and preliminary DNA results based on a lock of the victim’s hair established that she was Kelly McShane Braden, twenty-nine years old at the time of her disappearance and the wife of Charles Braden IV, currently Chief of Cardiology at New York City Hospital.
According to Hampton Junction coroner, Dr. Mark Roper, Ms. Braden was the victim of foul play. “A fracture of her skull indicates she sustained a blow to the head prior to going in the water. Whether she died of head trauma or drowning is impossible to distinguish,” he said yesterday, when results of his examination and testing were announced. Sheriff Dan Evans confirmed that heavy items found on and near the bones of her legs suggest her body was weighted and bound when disposed of in the deepest waters of the lake.
Her parents, Walter McShane, founder of the prestigious firm McShane Securities, and Samantha McShane, have demanded the police reopen the investigation of their daughter’s case, but refuse to say anything further at this time. Ms. Braden’s husband, Charles Braden IV, was unavailable for comment, but according to press reports at the time of the disappearance, claimed to have last seen his wife in the early evening of Wednesday, August 7, 1974, when she left his father’s country estate near Hampton Junction to catch a train for New York. They’d taken a few extra days’ holiday, and Ms. Braden habitually followed this schedule when she had early-morning classes the next day. Dr. Braden, whose office hours began in the afternoon, did not return to the city until late Thursday morning.
Ms. Braden’s disappearance attracted a great deal of attention. Highly regarded by her instructors, and popular with her fellow students, she was at the top of her medical school class. Speculation at the time centered on a troubled marriage, which Dr. Braden vigorously denied, and a deliberate disappearance by Ms. Braden. The case yielded few leads. The strongest was provided by doormen at the couple’s exclusive Park Avenue apartment building, who saw Ms. Braden get into a waiting cab with a man in the backseat on Wednesday evening. She returned the following morning, leaving several hours later with a suitcase, again by cab, but alone. She was never heard from again. The identity of the man who picked her up Wednesday night is unknown.
He lowered the paper, his stomach in free fall.
ER faded from his mind, and the usual noises outside his door – the beeping of monitors, the chatter, someone retching – became tinny and distant.
He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He couldn’t say for sure how long he sat there, his thoughts and emotions reeling.
A knock, and Susanne pushed open the door. “Sorry, Dr. Garnet, but we’re starting – My God, are you all right? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m fine,” he said, trying to give a reassuring smile. “It’s just my stocks tanked again.” He downed the dregs of coffee from his cup in a gulp, tucked the paper into his briefcase, and joined the assembly of residents and staff who were gathered around the chart rack listening to a resident summarize the cases. Those coming on duty looked as tired as the ones who were going off. The main differences between the two were the crisp white coats and pleasant body-wash scents of the newcomers compared to the wrinkled clothing and stale odors hanging about those who’d been working all night.
“… presented with a squeezing chest pain radiating up the side of his neck. We gave him half an aspirin, stabilized him with oxygen, nitro, and IV morphine…”
“I need IV caffeine,” whispered one of the medical students standing nearby.
“Sign me up,” murmured another.
Earl barely heard any of it. The voices seemed to come at him through a hose. He thought of hair the color of sunlight turning scarlet, and felt his stomach lurch.
“… the next patient is a man who claims his partner shoved the vibrator in too far…”
Had she been tortured, raped, died screaming?
He’d seen a lifetime of victims come through his ER, and needed no prompting to imagine how bad it could get. What if she hadn’t been unconscious when her killer dumped her into the lake? She would have gone to the bottom in agony for air, knowing she was going to die, praying for it even.
He desperately tried to stop the images, but his mind poured them on, determined to scour his experience for detailed examples of what she could have been put through. It left him wanting to scream, to strangle someone, to hit back at whoever had so viciously hurt her. Yet he just stood quietly in the little crowd, his eyes brimming with tears, the ritual start to a day in ER unfolding around him as it had for over twenty years.
“… the next patient presented with coffee-grounds vomitus and black tarry stool…”
So many people’s stories over so many mornings, they extended back to his beginnings here, and farther, to the days of his residency, to medical school, and the time he loved Kelly.
But he could focus only on one story, his and Kelly’s.
He had been the man in the taxi.
New York City
Dr. Melanie Collins, Chief of Internal Medicine at New York City Hospital, dropped the Herald, open at page three, onto the black marble surface of her kitchen counter.
Oh, my God! It didn’t seem possible. Not now. Not after so long. Incredulous, she kept staring at the print.
Catching her breath, she gazed beyond the gleaming state-of-the-art appliances to the white birch floors running the length of her penthouse. The morning sun crept along the pale grain, enriching it. It would normally be her favorite moment of the day, the curtain going up on the chic, architectural masterpiece she’d created for herself – a space more fit for an upscale artist than a middle-aged physician. The light reached a long dining area with a mahogany table capable of seating twelve, a large round of white leather chairs and couches for relaxing, an entertainment center with a wide-screen television so thin she’d had it mounted on the wall amid an array of paintings – everything encircled by 180 degrees of full-length windows overlooking the Hudson River immediately to the west and downtown Manhattan to the northeast. Even the stretch of Japanese hand-painted screens that she’d had to place along the east windows glowed with a soft translucence that blended with the rest of the decor. This was her aerie, a hard-won prize for what she’d accomplished, the place where she found solace and comfort from the exhausting grind of the hospital. But the sense of inner calm it usually evoked failed to arrive. Instead, she felt a stirring of fear.
In the far corner, elevated on a shallow platform, was the four-poster where she routinely bedded men ten years her junior. She strode past it on her way to the bathroom and a large walk-in shower. Dropping her robe, she stepped in and turned on the spray full force. Underneath the hot needles of water, she splayed her fingers over her breasts and slowly ran her hands down her exercise-sculpted body. Yet her muscles remained tense. Was she herself now in danger? It had seemed best at the time to say nothing, especially since the police never found out where Kelly went after she took the cab. But if they ever did…
The thought sickened her. Because they would learn what she’d kept secret all these years, then come asking questions. Just the fact she hadn’t told would look bad, perhaps be enough to make her a suspect – all because she had met with Kelly McShane on the day of her disappearance.