The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [137]
“Lieutenant Dockerty, I have some things to talk with you about,” she said.
“Yes,” he replied, settling on the edge of his desk, “you certainly do.”
Within thirty minutes, Dockerty had heard enough of Armstrong’s confession to call in a stenographer. As a final act of defiance, he rang the captain and asked him to witness the proceeding. The man, a silky half-politician, half-policeman with bottle-black hair, listened in dumbfounded silence as Armstrong calmly admitted responsibility for the murders of Charlotte Thomas and Dotty Dalrymple, as well as for hiring the killer of Ben Glass and Joseph Rosetti. It was a story she had rehearsed carefully before driving to Station 1—an explanation she hoped would leave Dockerty satisfied that she had acted totally on her own. It disgusted her to have to paint Dalrymple as a heroine who had died because she had stumbled onto the truth, but any hint of a conspiracy would have risked exposure of the movement. She knew what policemen like Dockerty could do. Besides, Margaret was sure that up until the end Dotty had been just as dedicated to The Sisterhood as she was. The woman was frightened of losing her position and her influence, that’s all.
Armstrong’s confession held together well enough, but there was a vagueness about the details that made Dockerty uncomfortable. He attempted to pin her down, but was silenced by the captain, who found his tongue in time to say, “Now, Lieutenant, I’m sure the doctor will fill in some of these details in good time. As you can see, she’s had a rather rough go of it.”
Armstrong thanked him, adding a look that clearly made Dockerty an outsider in the exchange between two people of stature.
Dockerty decided to push his luck. “Just one thing,” he ventured. “Exactly how did you go about hiring a killer like Leonard Vincent?”
“I shall cover that in a moment,” she said, giving him her most withering, patrician stare, “but first, if you would direct me to your ladies’ room?”
“If you’ll wait,” Dockerty said, “I’ll get a matron to go …”
“Nonsense,” the captain cut in. “Dr. Armstrong has been officially charged with nothing as yet. The … ah … ladies’ room is just down the hall to the right. You can’t miss it.”
Armstrong again favored the captain with a look and carefully adjusted her skirt before striding from the room.
The ladies’ room was a sty. The institutional mosaic floor was stained and cracked. What paper towels there were overflowed the metal wastebasket to one side of the sink. The air reeked of urine and disinfectant.
Margaret Donner Armstrong did not notice the filth. She scanned the room, then went directly to the toilet stall, hooked the plywood door shut, and sat down.
She felt pleased at the way she had manipulated Dockerty and the captain. If David and Christine were true to their word, The Sisterhood of Life would die with dignity. The irony in that realization brought her some solace.
After leaving the hospital, Armstrong had gone home and honored her promise. The tapes—all but one—she had incinerated, stopping now and again to listen to a particular report or to reflect on her friendship with a particular woman. Her dream—her ultimate dream—had nearly been fulfilled. If only Dorothy hadn’t come apart.
Barbara Littlejohn had agreed that it was no longer possible for the movement to continue. At times during their telephone conversation the woman had actually sounded relieved. Armstrong wondered if Barbara would have reacted the same way as Dalrymple had her own reputation and career been on the line. The painful fact was that she simply did not know for certain—about Barbara or any of them.
So it had been decided. Barbara would make the calls and write the letters, then do what she could to continue the Clinton Foundation projects. And as the receiver dropped to its cradle, Armstrong knew that, after