Preying on the Innocent

By Phil DeNapoli

How do you deal with a mother whose behavior fits the label sociopath? What are the chances youll follow in her footsteps? Those are the questions that haunt Maggie Egan on the day she meets Rocco DeCulloin a psychiatrists office. In spite of Roccos struggle with social anxiety, they rapidly cultivate a friendship that plunges them into the middle of a double murder.

A teenage son came home to find the beaten and butchered bodies of his parents. Maggie knows the victims as former friends of her parents. Rocco knows the son. As their connections to the murders multiply, danger threatens. When a third murder occurs, Maggies mother becomes a person of interest. Her father is the prime suspect.

As Maggie works to clear her father, Evanston police work feverishly to make sense of the few clues they have. With the assistance of Maggie, Rocco, and ABC TV investigative reporter Sandra Anderson, they add pieces to the puzzle, but will they find a solution? And will they find the answer soon enough? As each day goes by, a sea of contamination spreads, lives are ruined, and human leeches continue to prey on the innocent.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468596304

Phil DeNapoli

My occupation was ‘Motivational Speaker.’ I consulted large corporations and wrote customized presentations for their sales teams. Upon retirement I decided to utilize my writing skills and follow a dream. Write a novel. After four years of research and rewrites I accomplished my dream. I wrote the novel ‘PREYING ON THE INNOCENT.’ I reside in Skokie, Illinois with my wife Susan and our African Grey Parrot, Bill. I enjoy fishing and golf but love baseball. Please follow Preying on the innocent on facebook. I look forward to your feedback.

Book preview

Preying on the Innocent

PHIL DENAPOLI

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AuthorHouse™

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© 2012 by Phil DeNapoli. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/24/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4685-9628-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-9629-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-9630-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012907226

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

SUNDAY

CHAPTER 1

MONDAY

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

TUESDAY

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

WEDNESDAY

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

THURSDAY

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

For

Dorothy DeNapoli

I love you mom

Mary Griffin (Sister Mary Georgita)

For her encouragement

AND

The 1957 graduation class of

Saint Gertrude Grammar School

SUNDAY

JULY 31

CHAPTER 1

Murder and Mayhem

At 7:30 on a balmy summer evening three masked figures in a black Jaguar circled a residential block in the north end of Evanston, Illinois. Below a baseball cap the slanted eyes and brows of the driver’s mask lent an East Asian appearance. The two men in the back seat were dressed in Ninja black with their hands gloved and their feet covered with black slippers. They looked out the rear windows, alert and silent. It was a Sunday close to sundown, and the neighborhood was quiet. A few sprinklers were running on front lawns but, other than that, nothing—just calm, stagnant air.

Go down the alley, uttered one of the men in the back seat. The driver approached the corner and turned right and then right again down the alley that backed modest homes. Driving slowly, they took in the surroundings, cautiously looking for people barbequing or kids playing in yards. The driver slowed when they reached the house they were targeting. The two in the back seat stared, planning their entry.

What they didn’t notice was Mr. Harold, down on his knees, hidden by a wheelbarrow, and picking weeds from his garden. But, his house was four houses to the right and would not allow him a view of their entry or exit.

Ready, said the man on the right. Let’s do it. He told the driver to return to this exact spot in fifteen minutes.

Got it, the driver replied.

The two men, dressed in black, long sleeved shirts tucked into black sweats, exited the car and shut their doors so quietly that even the driver couldn’t hear them close. They opened a six-foot tall wooden gate to the yard.

This way, said the first man.

My hands are sweating in these gloves, his twin whispered.

They crept along a row of bushes that bordered the left fence, which led to the garage.

Inside the home Dan Reid Sr. was seated at the kitchen table, which was covered by a yellow and white checkerboard tablecloth. He drank iced coffee while his wife, Carol, unloaded the dishwasher. She turned to her husband and asked, What time is he coming?

Eight-thirty, he said. Where are the kids?

Danny is at Romans, and Jeanne is on a sleepover at the Johnson’s.

I thought we made it clear that we didn’t want him hanging around Romans, said Dan. Irritation strained his voice.

As usual, he was hostile, and trying to keep him from going just makes it worse. He’s pretty tight with your brother, and since Charlie is a partner in Romans, I think Danny always has free passes.

And Jeanne—how did you get her to agree to a sleepover? She hates sleepovers!

I told her we had important business not meant for children.

Good work.

Carol, anxious about the pending confrontation, stopped what she was doing and sat across the table from Dan. We’re in full agreement on this, right?

Absolutely, her husband replied confidently. He looked straight into her tired eyes. I’m done with Charlie. He’s jeopardizing my practice, and I have no intention of going to jail for my brother’s misjudgments.

Carol rose from the table and took a few steps toward the dishwasher, then turned her head, facing her husband. No backing down?

Dan stood, put his arms around her, and gave her a peck on the cheek, not knowing it would be the last time he touched her. He spoke quietly in her ear, No backing down, I promise.

Dan placed his glass on the Formica counter top and said to his wife, I’m going in the garage for a minute. I’ll be right back. Remember, I love you, and this is all going to work out.

Carol attempted a smile. I love you too sweetheart.

Dan slipped from the kitchen and walked through a small entryway that led to a mudroom. He stepped around a pile of shoes and laundry and opened the door to the garage. As he quietly shut it and turned toward his workbench, a baseball bat struck him squarely in the face. One swing, red flashing lights, then one moon-shaped white light were the last things Dan would carry to his grave. His head caved in, and he fell slowly, one hand out, trying to find balance before he totally lost consciousness and dropped to the concrete floor next to his workbench.

His attacker waited for forty-five seconds, then reached down and placed a gloved finger to his victim’s neck. He’s toast, he whispered. He then removed a well-honed scorpion throwing star from a black fanny pack and began slicing into Dan’s flesh.

It was several minutes before he handed the bat they had found upon entering the garage to his partner and replaced the throwing star back in the pack.

You do her, he said. I don’t do women. When you’re done, come get me.

His partner carefully opened the door to the mudroom and crept like a cat burglar into the house. He followed the sounds coming from the kitchen, headed in that direction, and peeked around the corner. The woman’s back was turned. Perfect. She was drying a pot with a dishtowel when he sprang.

Thwack, thwack. Carol was down before she knew what hit her. The only sound was the pot bouncing on the ceramic floor and one last word before she died. Chaarrllie…

The man opened his fanny pack, retrieved a scorpion star, and proceeded to slice her like a peach. When he finished the chore, he went to the garage to fetch his partner, who was still standing over Dan, smiling at his clever work.

The two of them re-entered the house and began turning it upside down, careful not to create too much noise. Ten minutes later the job was complete. A bulldozer couldn’t have been more thorough.

The black Jag pulled up just as they peered out the kitchen window

Let’s go. They went out through the back door and did a low crawl along the hedge to the back gate, the leader with the bat in hand. They slipped into the car and drove away.

Two down, two to go, breathed one of the killers.

*     *     *

At 10:00 p.m. Maggie Egan quietly inserted her key into the back door of her mother’s home in Skokie. She was early—her mother hadn’t expected her home till after midnight. She’d spotted Bobby Judd’s car on the street in front of the house, so she slipped into her bedroom and silently shut the door. Connie Egan had a study stream of boyfriends, but Maggie suspected that her attraction to Judd had more to do with his access to drugs than his sex appeal.

Maggie had planned to go out with a few friends from her old high school, but they canceled at the last minute. Spending the evening at home repulsed her, so she went to the Skokie Library to research sports agencies instead. She was in the process of flooding the sports world with resumes, hoping to land a job.

As she placed her purse on her dresser, a loud argument rose above the thrum of music in the living room. The voices were shrill and angry, but she couldn’t quite make out the words. She opened her bedroom door a crack, unconsciously clenching her hands into fists then releasing them. The sudden rise in the voices of her mother and Bobby Judd alarmed her.

The kitchen separated her bedroom from the living room, and the music acted as a buffer, so she still picked up only some of their words. When she heard the words kill and Mike being shouted by her mother, she shut her door and fell to her knees, heart racing. Oh my God, not now, she pleaded as the adrenaline rush of a panic attack swept over her. She managed to work her way to the corner between the door and the two double windows facing the backyard. With her back in the corner and knees almost touching her chin, she began inhaling deeply then slowly releasing the air through her nostrils. She repeated this over and over till she heard Bobby shout, Fuck you.

Brown bag—brown bag, she whispered as she slowly rose to her unsteady legs. She walked to her nightstand, using her bed for support, and pulled a small paper bag from the top drawer. Sweat beaded on her forehead and began to drip slowly down her face, burning her eyes with salt. She sat on the bed, held the bag to her mouth with her left hand, and began blowing air inside and sucking it back out.

It felt like the room was closing in on itself, sucking the life from her body. She had to prevent herself from crying out loud as she drowned in terror.

Maggie kept counting as she worked the bag. When she exhaled for the fifteenth time, she heard a scream from her mother and a crash of glass like a coke bottle hitting a brick wall. In a daze she ran from her room, still clutching the paper bag.

Stop it! Are you both crazy? she shouted when she reached the living room. Bobby had hold of Connie’s wrists, and she was kicking out with her right leg, trying to land a blow on his lower body. Shards of a red vase and a dozen wilted daisies were scattered on the floor near the far wall.

Maggie’s unanticipated presence broke through her mother’s rage. She stopped struggling.

Are you done? Bobby asked. He still gripped one of Connie’s wrists.

I heard what you said about Daddy, Maggie fibbed. She didn’t know exactly what Connie had said, but she was sure that the reference to Mike Egan and kill was malicious. How could you think of such a horrible thing?

Connie twisted her wrist out of Bobby’s grip and turned toward Maggie, who stood with the paper bag still in her hand. Well lookie here. What’s the bag for? Daddy’s girl has a little anxiety going on?

Maggie broke eye contact with her mother, humiliated by the words uttered in front of a man she despised. She took a slow deep breath and glanced at the coffee table in front of the couch. Six even lines of cocaine rested next to a rolled bill. Maybe this wasn’t the proper time for a confrontation with her mother.

I’m going to bed. I would appreciate it if you could be civil with each other. Maggie turned and headed for her bedroom.

Connie made a move toward Maggie when her back was turned, but Bobby grabbed her by the arm and sneered, That’s enough.

That little bitch just insulted me. Just like her father—she tried to make a fool of me.

Leave her alone. She was dead on. I’m leaving, and you need to chill out. Bobby Judd pulled his car keys from his pocket and added as he left, Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.

MONDAY

AUGUST 1

CHAPTER 2

Maggie: A New Direction

How do people dress when they’re on their way to see a psychiatrist for the first time? Maggie held up a yellow sundress that sported a deep ruffle just above knee level. It would be a comfortable choice on this warm August day, but, no, she didn’t want to risk looking like a little girl. Dr. Finley was likely to take her more seriously if she dressed more seriously. Maggie opted instead for an ultra-conservative, black linen pants suit and a starched white blouse. It fit better with her self-image as a Marquette University graduate. Black pumps with a two-inch heel supplemented her 5-foot 4-inch height and made her legs look more feminine without the trampy look that her mother achieved with four-inch stilettos.

The black suit accented Maggie Egan’s professionally colored blonde hair, which she’d had cut in soft, long wisps as soon as softball season was over and she no longer needed the convenience of a ponytail. Simple gold hoops and a matching necklace completed the outfit. Sparkling, sapphire blue eyes—her mother’s eyes—highlighted her flawless round face. She was aware that her appearance was striking, and it gave her a much needed measure of confidence. It was bad enough that she was about to share personal issues with a psychiatrist—a complete stranger. Worse, she literally trembled at the thought of her mother finding out about this appointment.

Two hours later Maggie pulled the gold handle on the enormous glass door at the main entrance of a sleek, downtown office building. She mustered adequate strength to open the door wide enough, but it was a challenge to squeeze through the space while she juggled her clutch purse and the morning newspaper. She checked her watch as she entered the main lobby—fifteen minutes early for her eleven o’clock appointment. If time permitted, she wanted to read the story under the bold headline, Two dead at suburban murder scene.

She walked across the vast lobby, trying to act nonchalant, but her legs began to shake and her heart was thumping rapidly. If she left now, she could retreat home to her bedroom, lock the door, and end this nightmare… but she kept walking.

She finally reached the elevator, took a deep breath, and pulled the business card from her soft, black leather clutch bag. Her father had given her the card at breakfast last week. He fully supported her decision to make an appointment with a psychiatrist. Looking at the card apprehensively, she pushed the UP button and waited.

The elevator reached the seventh floor and she exited timidly, legs still shaking. The best guitar picker couldn’t keep up with her heartbeat. She followed the arrows to the appropriate offices and found herself facing a mahogany door with two names in brass—Dr. James Finley, M.D., Psychiatrist and Dr. Susan M. Garrity, Psychologist. With trepidation, Maggie turned the knob and held her breath for just a few seconds, wishing she were not there. Guilt mixed with her anxiety, and on her forehead she could feel beads of sweat that had nothing to do with the warm day. Deep down she knew this was her last shot at a normal existence with her mother. She had tried self-help books, pamphlets, and manuals about mental disturbances, and though they gave her insight into the mind of a self-absorbed individual like her mother, she hadn’t found any practical suggestions on how to co-exist with her.

With a final deep breath Maggie stepped into the large, perfectly square room. Ten matching high-backed, brown leather chairs were placed symmetrically about the room. An end table was placed at the side of each chair, and each end table had its own golden-beige shaded lamp. Thickly piled burgundy carpeting gave the room another touch of elegance. Obviously some of Doctor Finley’s four hundred dollar an hour fees were being used to supply the office with a luxurious atmosphere. Only two of the chairs were occupied, allowing Maggie to choose from any of the remaining eight.

Before she sat, Maggie approached the reception desk and announced herself in a low, soft tone, little more than a whisper. Maggie Egan, for Doctor Finley—eleven o’clock appointment.

The red-haired receptionist looked up from his notepad and took in the smartly dressed figure before him. He paused several seconds before glancing at the appointment book, keeping his brown eyes focused directly on her sparkling blues.

Good morning, Miss Egan. Doctor’s running about ten minutes late, he said in a sing-song voice. He handed two forms to Maggie to complete, one for insurance purposes and one to record her health history. Please fill out these forms and return them when you’re finished, he said.

Maggie looked at the young man and spotted the ID on his pale pink shirt—Kevin. She accepted the forms from Kevin, and then reached into her purse and removed some cards that were neatly arranged in her black Coach wallet. She placed the forms on the desk and plucked her insurance ID from the wallet, still able to squeeze the newspaper under her left arm. She slowly replaced the wallet in her purse, and reached down nervously, taking the forms in her hand.

I adore your clutch, Kevin said.

Thank you, Maggie replied softly.

She did an about face and headed for an empty chair that placed her at maximum distance from the other patients. As she carefully seated herself in the way-too-big-for-her chair, anxiety smacked her like an angry parent. Filling out the papers Kevin had given her felt like a total commitment with no turning back. She took a couple of slow, deep breaths and tried to relax, but it was impossible. She was trapped in a cyclone on the high seas, perched on the elevated seat of a canoe.

She placed her clutch on the end table, and removed a small pen. As if it might provide respite, she glanced at the morning paper. The headline murders had occurred in Evanston, a suburb bordering Skokie, where she lived with her mother. Instead of providing respite, the article sent a chill up her spine. She slipped the paper under her chair.

Maggie slowly began to fill out the forms as she fiddled with her hair and adjusted her necklace, trying to center the pendant perfectly on her blouse. She ventured a few glances at the other patients, but she might as well have been looking into an abyss—nothing registered. The insurance form took all of two minutes to complete, and then she faced the medical history form. It was easy till she came across a section that asked the question, Why are you here? Her body began to twitch and perspiration started to run down her under arms, causing her blouse to stick to the moist skin. Maggie felt the air conditioning, but it didn’t seem to help. The one-inch space available to answer the question wasn’t large enough for what she had to relate, and her mind was spinning like a hula-hoop. What kind of answer did they want? My mother is selfish, manipulative, and lying? I don’t know how to live with a woman whose major traits are narcissism and phoniness? While her feet tapped on the rug, and her knees shook ever so slightly, Maggie opted for the obvious answer and boldly wrote, Anxiety with occasional panic attacks.

Maggie glanced at her Movado when an elderly woman entered from a door to Kevin’s right—eleven o’clock. Maggie saw at a glance that the woman had been crying, and she averted her eyes out of respect for the woman’s privacy. Did most people turn into teary messes in a psychiatrist’s office?

Another door opened a minute later and an athletic, handsome young man emerged, laughing as if he’d just heard the best joke of his life. Maggie walked back to the reception desk with the forms and waited behind the woman and the young man while they scheduled their next appointments. Maggie guessed that he was a teenager and wished she’d had a better look at him. She was sure she’d seen his face before but couldn’t pinpoint exactly where.

As if responding to her wish, he turned to Maggie, and his eyes gave her an obvious once over. What the hell is a princess like you doing in a place like this?

Rocco, it’s none of your business, Kevin whispered sharply.

Chill out, Kevin, Rocco replied pleasantly. I’m only trying to make conversation here.

Rocco…

Maggie looked at Kevin with amusement—an effeminate knight in shining armor, complete with pink shirt, lavender and yellow striped tie, and a diamond stud in his ear. The hint of a smile on her face must have encouraged Rocco to try again.

So what brings you here, princess? Rocco asked before Kevin could interfere.

I’m recommending my crazy mother for treatment. It was the first thought that popped into her head.

So there’s nothing wrong with you? Rocco said. Like… as a result of your mother’s crazy ways?

I guess that’s what I’m here to find out. Maggie tilted her head, almost enjoying the unexpectedly lighthearted moment.

The elderly woman finished scheduling her next appointment, turned, and limped toward the door. Before Rocco stepped up to the reception desk, he turned to Maggie again and said with mock wistfulness, The only thing wrong is that you were not my date for the senior prom.

Maybe another time, Maggie said.

Kevin interrupted and handed Rocco an appointment card. Don’t be late Mr. DeCullo, Kevin said.

Be late and miss some extra free time with you? Never!

You are not my type, said Kevin enunciated sarcastically. Now move on and let the lady pass.

Rocco spun and winked at Maggie on his way out, and she smiled back. She suddenly realized she felt quite normal when not thinking about her mother.

Sorry about that, Kevin said sensitively as he took the forms from Maggie’s hand.

No problem, said Maggie.

Hang on. Did you know that your insurance only covers fifty percent of psychiatric care? asked Kevin.

I pay my bills, Maggie said slightly annoyed. She tallied her emotions as she walked to her chair. She had just experienced a near panic attack, been diverted by the wit of a young man named Rocco, experienced minor annoyance over Kevin’s remark, and now her emotions were in check. Maybe it was all just normal behavior. Should she be embarking on this adventure? But Doctor Finley would be the judge of that.

She had been seated for only a minute when her name was called.

Miss Egan, said a tall, dark, and extremely attractive man. Anxiety began to reassert itself, and the glow of the last few minutes was gone. She noticed the perspiration again and felt her hands shake as she picked up her clutch purse. Was she really doing this?

CHAPTER 3

Maggie: Her Story

Rocco DeCullo strolled from the elevator through the vast lobby, toward the Starbucks that occupied the space adjacent to the main entrance. He entered the coffee shop and advanced to the counter. His rugged six-foot two-inch, one hundred eighty pounds of chiseled muscle made him appear older than eighteen.

The girl behind the cash register eyed him and temporarily entered a dead zone, watching Rocco while he looked at the options printed on cardboard charts above the counter.

Uh, may I help you? she asked at last.

I’ll have a strawberry and cream, please.

What size would you prefer? The girl tilted her head and smiled.

A large will be fine, he replied.

Do you mean a venti? she asked.

If that means large, I’ll take it, Rocco said. Rocco reached for his billfold, handed the girl a five dollar bill, dropped the change in the tip cup, and moved to the right to retrieve his drink from the barista, who was busily working three blenders at the same time.

Rocco chose a table close to the glass window facing the hallway. From there he could see anyone who exited the east end of the building. If she chose the west exit, he would miss her. He took a sip of his drink and waited.

Seven floors above, Maggie entered Doctor Finley’s office. Their greeting was cordial, a handshake, an introduction, and a smile from each of them. Maggie noticed immediately the natural aroma of the room, unaltered by antiseptic or aerosols. The freshness was soothing and afforded her the feeling of relaxation that she desperately needed. The office was elegantly furnished. Doctor Finley pointed to an early American wingback chair covered in soft green and light yellow brocade. Please sit, he said. He sat in a duplicate chair six feet away.

Doctor Finley took a minute to look over Maggie’s personal information and medical history. She sat quietly, trying to analyze his facial expressions, but the doctor remained expressionless, giving her no clues to what he was thinking. He set the papers on a long legged table adjacent to his chair and opened a leather bound journal that rested on his lap. He plucked a gold Cross pen from the breast pocket of his lightly starched, powder blue shirt and made a few notes in the journal.

Maggie, I see that you graduated from college this spring. Tell me something about school and your degree.

The degree is sports management. I always wanted something to do with sports, and Marquette had a good program in sports management. My real dream is to be a sports agent, but you almost need a law degree to do that, so that’s in the future. This was easy. The fists that she’d made unknowingly, began to relax.

Have you been involved in any sports?

I’ve been on the softball team for four years, so that’s been a major commitment. I also love golf and basketball, but I’m really not competitive in those.

Are you working?

Not yet. I’ve been trying to find something that’s at least sports related. I have an interview with the Chicago Cubs on Wednesday, Maggie said with an extra sparkle in her sapphire eyes.

You sound excited about that. The doctor paused to let her respond.

It’s just an apprentice position in the marketing department, but it has potential for better opportunities if I move forward in the organization. And, I could attend law school at night.

The doctor nodded his head and smiled reassuringly. What have you been doing with your time since graduation?

Besides looking for a job—you know, sending out resumes, going to a few interviews—I’ve mostly been my mom’s maid, cook, and gardener.

What about friends?

My two best friends found jobs out of state. Great for them, but not so much for me.

Other relationships?

Really, just my mom and dad. They’re separated, so I spend a little time in the city with my dad.

And the Skokie address is your mother’s?

Yes.

Well, that gives me a very general picture of what’s going on in your life. The reason you stated for this visit was, ‘Anxiety with occasional panic attacks.’ Can you describe the panic attacks for me?

Well I actually had one last night. I have difficulty breathing, and I begin to sweat. I get a feeling of claustrophobia, and at the risk of sounding a little over dramatic I feel like I might stop breathing and die. I did some research on the Internet, and the website suggested breathing into a paper bag. I keep one in my nightstand. Most of my attacks occur at home.

I assure you a panic attack will never kill you. It makes you feel you’re losing control, and that’s what petrifies you. Using a paper bag does help, but it isn’t a cure. On a scale of one to ten, with ten being the worst, how severe are they?

Last night it was bad. I’d say an eight. But on average I’d say six or seven.

Did you get panic attacks when you were at Marquette?

Rarely, but I was often anxious.

Do you have a sense for what’s made the attacks worse?

Maggie closed her eyes and sat in silence, willing herself to stay calm.

Doctor Finley waited for a full minute before he said gently, "I want to assure you that anything we discuss will be totally confidential. Nothing leaves this office, unless of course you are about to tell me you plan to commit a felony. Then I am required by law to report it to the police.

Maggie, what changed enough that you felt you needed professional help?

My mother, Maggie said reluctantly, knowing that she was about to take a journey she never wanted to make.

What about your mother? Doctor