The largest bedroom—it had to be the master—was the most jammed of all. Two veneered chests stood next to each other. A dark old armchair was parked in front of a cherrywood dressing table. On each side of the bed was a marble-topped nightstand. Nearly every inch of wall space was plastered with framed art. Taking up the center of one wall was a massive fireplace, its mantel crowded with old oil lanterns like the fireplace mantel downstairs.

Poking her head inside the master bathroom, she spotted another Jacuzzi tub, plus a marble-topped vanity with two modern sinks. Satisfied that the doctor’s home wasn’t the killing ground, Bernadette started for the stairs, wondering how much she’d gotten wrong over the past week. But a woman had been kidnapped, and they had to find her.

When she walked into the kitchen, she saw Luke and Matthew VonHader seated on the same side of the table. The brothers were in handcuffs. Her boss stood across from them, holding his gun on the pair.

“Call the police, Agent Saint Clare,” said Garcia.

“Yes, sir.” Bernadette retrieved her cell with one hand and took her gun out of her pocket with the other.

While she punched the numbers on her phone, Bernadette’s eyes went from one brother to the other. The expressions on their faces were calm, almost relieved. While she spoke into the cell, the room was silent. She noticed it was a small but bright kitchen, so unlike the rest of the house.

When she was finished with the dispatcher, she closed the phone and asked the question she’d been asking herself from the minute she stepped inside. “Where’s the body?”

“In the ground,” Garcia said grimly.

“So they killed—”

“Their father,” said Garcia.

Chapter 38

THE BROTHERS TOOK turns recounting the story. It was a smooth retelling, almost practiced. Bernadette wondered how many times one had talked the other out of going to the authorities with it.

“Our parents were good people,” said Luke VonHader, his voice a monotone and his eyes fixed at some invisible target beyond the agents. “They went to church. Made sure we went.”

“Ten o’clock mass every Sunday,” said Matthew, his lids lowered as if he were nodding off.

“They put us in Catholic school,” Luke continued. “We had golf lessons. Tennis lessons. Piano. Growing up, we had everything.”

“All three of us, nothing but the best,” said Matthew.

“Someplace warm during Christmas break,” said the doctor. “Come the summer, a big family vacation. France. Scotland. Denmark. We went to Ireland three times.”

“Four times,” his younger brother corrected him. He looked from one agent to the other. “Can I have a drink? I could really use a drink.”

Garcia shook his head and addressed the doctor. “What went wrong?”

“Time. There was just no time,” said Luke, dragging his hand across his face. “My parents were busy. Father worked sixty hours a week. Mother had her volunteer work. Her charities and antiquing. They didn’t have time for traditional discipline. They were older and less patient, I suppose. They’d waited to have a family. With three high-spirited children, they took the quickest, most effective route to taming them. It was humane, in a sense. It left no marks. The worst you could accuse them of is—I don’t know—lazy parenting.”

“They weren’t sane,” said Matthew. “You of all people should be able to see that now.”

“Shut the hell up,” snapped the doctor.

Matthew turned to Bernadette. “Why would two otherwise fine people resort to water torture as a form of child discipline? They had to be crazy.” He looked at his brother with that last word, a term a psychiatrist would find vulgar, and repeated it with a smirk. “Crazy.”

“How did your parents do it?” asked Garcia.

“It was very civilized,” Luke said flatly. “Everyone had their role. Mother would fill the tub with cold water. Why waste hot water, right? Father was the judge, jury, and executioner. He determined who would receive the dunking and who of the other children would witness it.”

“Witness it?” Garcia asked. “Why a witness?”

Matthew shrugged. “I suppose to lend some sort of validity to it, a modicum of ceremony and propriety.”

“We offenders would put our hands behind us and lean over the side of the tub,” Luke continued. “Our sister usually tied her hair back herself, when she was the one being punished. Then Father would hold our heads under. The length of time we were held, the number of dunkings—all of that was up to Father. The more serious the offense, the worse the punishment. When we were toddlers, I imagine the length of time we were held in the water was minimal. As we got older—”

“Everyone was okay with this?” Garcia interrupted. “I can’t believe your mother went along.”

“Mother had experienced this sort of discipline at the hands of her parents,” said Luke. “She had no lasting physical damage and saw nothing wrong with using it on her own children.”

“You kids didn’t fight back?” asked Bernadette. “Why didn’t you run away or tell someone? You could have gone to a teacher. Another relative. A neighbor.”

Matthew sighed. “It had been a part of the fabric of our family for so long, we thought it was normal. We tolerated the dunkings the way other children accepted spankings or time-outs or getting grounded.”

Bernadette’s eyes narrowed as she addressed her next question to the doctor. “Have you used this on your kids?”

“Never,” he shot back. “I now recognize it as perverted. Abusive.”

“That revelation comes too late to help your sister,” said Garcia.

“You think we don’t beat ourselves up with that thought every day?” Matthew asked.

“Every minute of every day,” said Luke, his voice cracking. He dropped his head and his shoulders started vibrating.

Bernadette ripped a paper towel off a roll and tossed it to the weeping man.

“Save the boohoos for the jury,” said Garcia.

Bernadette shot a curious look at her boss.

“They’re leaving something out of this sob story.” Garcia tipped his head toward the doctor. “Tell her. Go ahead.”

Luke stayed silent.

“One of them killed their father,” Garcia explained. “Pushed him down the stairs. Told the cops the old guy fell.”

Bernadette, leaning her back against the counter, kept her gun on the pair. “Which one did it?”

Luke wiped his eyes while his younger sibling slouched in his seat. Neither man volunteered an answer.

“They’re fighting over who gets credit,” said Garcia.

She smiled tightly. “Sibling rivalry.”

“I did it,” Matthew blurted.

“He’s lying,” said his older brother, bunching the paper towel between his cuffed hands. “It was my call. He’d had a stroke … and I … wanted to put him out of his misery.”

Garcia said, “Who are you kidding? You hated his guts.”

Bernadette walked back and forth between the counter and the table. “Who raised his hand first?”

“Matthew confessed first,” said Garcia.

Bernadette studied the younger brother’s face. He’d never expressed the understanding of his parents’ behavior that his older brother had voiced. “Matthew did it, and the doc stepped in after Little Brother blabbed.”

Luke shook his head. “You’re wrong.”

“We’ll see who passes the polygraph and who doesn’t down at the police station,” said Garcia.

“That brotherly love thing again,” she said. “It’s serving them well—all the way to the jailhouse.”

“Speak of the devil,” said Garcia, seeing lights flashing across the kitchen windows.

Bernadette dropped her gun into her jacket pocket, went to the back door, and opened it. She held up her ID for two uniformed officers planted on the back stoop. “Can you give us a few minutes before you load them?”