Seven Sisters - Earlene Fowler [114]
OUTSIDE, DETECTIVE HUDSON leaned against his truck, staring out at the bright, level horizon.
“Thought you’d never get through,” he said, spitting a wad of gum out on the dirt. “So, what’s the story?”
“She’s ninety-seven. I’ll be glad if I can even talk at that age.” I looked back at the tiny desert house, bleached bone-white by the sun. A mental shiver rattled my brain. “Let’s get on the road. I’ll tell you on the way back.”
We were halfway to San Celina by the time I finished my story.
“That’s unbelievable,” the detective said, his expression as incredulous as I still felt.
“I know. And somehow it’s got to do with Giles’s murder. I’m assuming he found out about this and was going to let it out. I bet you anything now that Giles was the anonymous caller to the newspaper the night of the party. He was going to make sure this went public immediately if Cappy and the sisters didn’t cooperate.”
“And the great child-loving philanthropist, Rose Brown, would be exposed for what she really is—a baby killer.”
I stared out the window. “The question is, what do we do now?”
He was quiet for a moment, then said, “I’m going to confront Capitola. Throw down the gauntlet and see what happens.”
I twisted around to look at him. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. We don’t know enough yet to confront her. We need to run this by someone who knows the legal stuff involved. You could blow it if you jump in too fast.”
He thought for a moment. “Okay, I’ll go talk to someone at the DA’s office, then.”
“That’s still jumping the gun. I don’t trust them to keep it quiet. I’m telling you, Detective, this is a very, very prominent family in San Celina. One whiff of this scandal, and the media will be all over you, me, the Browns, and Eva. If we found her without much trouble, so will they. I don’t want . . . no, I won’t let that happen. It might kill her.”
Annoyed, he asked, “So what do you propose we do?”
“I know someone we can trust who’ll be able to advise us without fear of leaks. Let me just run it by my friend before you set things in motion.”
His face set hard and stubborn.
“Please,” I said, ready to beg if necessary.
He hesitated, then said, “An hour. That’s what I’ll give this person. Then it’s out of your hands, and I’m going to my superiors and the DA.”
“Deal,” I said.
15
AS BEFITTING A good attorney, Amanda’s expression didn’t change while I told her Eva Knoll’s story. For once Detective Hudson sat quietly and kept his thoughts to himself. When I finished, she waited a moment before speaking.
“I’ll be flour-breaded and deep-fried,” she finally said. “I know some research doctors back east who’d give their left nuts to hear this. There’s always been speculation it happened before the seventies when it was given a name, but most doctors always considered it a modern-day disorder. I guess there is nothing new under the sun.”
“A disorder?” I said. “What do you mean?”
“If what this Mrs. Knoll told you is true,” she said, leaning back in her executive office chair, “then it appears that Rose Brown had a syndrome called Munchausen by Proxy.”
“Don’t give me any psychological crap,” Detective Hudson burst out. “She killed those babies. That’s homicide in my book.”
Amanda’s normally mobile and smiling mouth turned grim. “I agree wholeheartedly, Detective, but it’s not quite as simple as that, at least in the law.”
He started to protest, and Amanda held up a hand. “Let me see if I can explain. I prosecuted a Munchausen by Proxy case when I was working for the DA’s office in San Francisco. Young mother regularly fed her two-year-old daughter syrup of ipecac to make her throw up whatever she ate. The child inhaled her own vomit, causing pneumonia a couple of times. She was literally starving to death, but it took doctors eight months to figure out what was causing it. Since the pneumonia qualified as great bodily harm, we eventually prosecuted the mother under torture charges, simply