“Chuck was your husband?”
“At first I was afraid he might have accidentally rolled on top of her during the night and smothered her. But they said no. They said it was SIDS.”
“How old was Mary Jo?” I asked.
“She’d just had her first birthday.” She blinked back tears.
“Had Emily been born yet?”
“She came a year later, and I just knew the same thing was going to happen to her. She was so colicky. So frail. And the doctors were afraid she might have apnea, so I had to constantly check on her in her sleep. To make sure she was breathing. I remember walking around like a zombie because I never had a night’s sleep. Up and down all night, night after night. Living with that horrible fear.” She closed her eyes for a moment and rocked, brow furrowed by grief, hands clenching armrests. It occurred to me that Marino did not want to hear me question Mrs. Steiner because of his anger, and that was why he was out of the room so much. I knew then his emotions had wrestled him into the ropes. I feared he would no longer be effective in this case. Mrs. Steiner opened her eyes and they went straight to mine.
“He’s killed a lot of people and now he’s here,” she said.
“Who?” I was confused by what I had been thinking.
“Temple Gault.”
“We don’t know for a fact he’s here,” I said.
“I know he is.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because of what was done to my Emily. It’s the same thing.” A tear slid down her cheek.
“You know, I guess I should be afraid he’ll get me next. But I don’t care. What do I have left?”
“I’m very sorry,” I said as kindly as I could.
“Can you tell me anything more about that Sunday? The Sunday of October first?”
“We went to church in the morning like we always did. And Sunday school. We ate lunch, then Emily was in her room. She was practicing guitar some of the time. I didn’t see her much, really.” She stared the wide stare of remembering.
“Do you recall her leaving the house early for her youth group meeting?”
“She came into the kitchen. I was making banana bread. She said she had to go early to practice guitar and I gave her some change for the collection like I always did.”
“What about when she came home?”
“We ate.” She was not blinking.
“She was unhappy. And wanted Socks in the house and I said no.”
“What makes you think she was unhappy?”
“She was difficult. You know how children can get when they’re in moods. Then she was in her room awhile and went to bed.”
“Tell me about her eating habits,” I said, recalling that Ferguson had intended to ask Mrs. Steiner this after he returned from Quantico. I supposed he’d never had the chance.
“She was picky. Finicky.”
“Did she finish her dinner Sunday night after her meeting?”
“That was part of what we got into a fuss about. She was just pushing her food around. Pouting.” Her voice caught.
“It was always a struggle… It was always hard for me to get her to eat.”
“Did she have a problem with diarrhea or nausea?” Her eyes focused on me.
“She was sick a lot.”
“Sick can mean a lot of different things, Mrs. Steiner,” I said patiently.
“Did she have frequent diarrhea or nausea?”
“Yes. I already told Max Ferguson that.” Tears flowed freely again.
“And I don’t understand why I have to keep answering these same questions. It just opens up things. Opens up wounds.”
“I’m sorry,” I said with a gentleness that belied my surprise. When had she told Ferguson this? Did he call her after he left Quantico? If so, she must have been one of the last people to talk to him before he died.
“This didn’t happen to her because she was sickly,” Mrs. Steiner said, crying harder.
“It seems people should be asking questions that would help catch him.”
“Mrs. Steiner–and I know this is difficult–but where were you living when Mary Jo died?”