Ever So Silent

by Christopher Little

  “Dearie,” Vanessa said brightly, “How are you surviving that frightful funeral. How dare that brat Julian Jackson! He had no right at all. You’re doing as much as anybody can possibly do. And shame on you for not answering my phone call last night. I knew you were home. Who would go out after such an appalling day? I was just calling to cheer you up—”

  Emma succeeded in getting a word in. “If truth be told, I hit the scotch pretty hard last night and managed to get plastered. Strictly for therapeutic reasons.”

  Emma could hear ice clinking at the other end of the line. “Everyone deserves a bender from time to time,” Vanessa said.

  The airy banter was wearing on Emma. She would have loved to unburden herself to Vanessa and read her Will’s hurtful message. But some stronger power, which she obeyed, kept telling her not to.

  “I tried Deb. No answer. Do you know what she’s up to tonight?”

  “I haven’t talked to her since the funeral. So, no idea.”

  “Look, sweetie,” Emma said, “gotta pour myself another glass of wine. Bye-bye. Talk soon. ’Kay?”

  In the kitchen, she treated herself to another full pour. She decided that “Hair of the dog that bit you” was not a foolish concept. From her distant past, she remembered that the expression came from an old wives’ tale that someone bitten by a rabid dog could be cured of rabies by taking a potion containing some of the dog’s hair.

  Whatever. Hangover-helper was working.

  She sat on her red sofa and took out her cell phone. For the umpteenth time, she clicked back to Will’s message. Much as she wished otherwise, not a single word had changed. And every one of them communicated no small measure of hatred. Everything about the text was so unlike the Will she knew. The man she loved was kind, gentle, and generous. Not the man who would write such vile words. It made no sense.

  Her Will could never murder anyone. That was preposterous. Hell, with his depression raging he couldn’t even get out of bed and get dressed let alone murder Ethan Jackson. And why kill Ethan anyway? None of it made sense. And yet there was the text …

  The real question was what to do next. That was the job for a clear head. Tomorrow.

  Meantime, she re-dialed Deb’s home phone. Still no reply. She also tried her cell phone, which went directly to voicemail.

  The moderate amount of wine she had drunk combined with the remnants of her hangover were taking their toll. She was exhausted. She looked at her watch. It was just after midnight and time for bed.

  No sooner had Emma fallen asleep, her phone woke her up. She didn’t mind. She wanted to hear Deb’s voice. But it was Vanessa. “I’m really worried about her, Em, she treats her cell phone like a bodily appendage. When was the last time you called her cell and she didn’t answer? Never. Right? I think we should go over there, check on her.”

  “Hmm,” Emma replied, thinking of her comfy bed. “No, you’re right,” she decided. “I’ll pick you up in fifteen.”

  Pepper perked up as Emma dressed. She slipped on shorts and a short-sleeved blouse. She found a waistband holster in her chest of drawers, placed her Glock in it, and clipped it to her shorts. Connecticut law requires off-duty police officers to carry.

  She stopped at Vanessa’s house. Vanessa was waiting for her in the cool, clear evening. They drove to Deb’s.

  Deb lived in an attractive center-hall Colonial outside Hampshire’s city limits. Her house was surrounded by woods. They drove up her gravel driveway. The house was ablaze with light. Vanessa said, “Since she’s obviously home and still up, why the hell isn’t she answering her phone?”

  Emma said, “Let’s find out.”

  They walked up the sidewalk to the front door, which, typical Deb, was unlocked. Emma opened the door and shouted for Deb. She didn’t get a reply. She looked at Pepper. Her canine companion was on high alert, her withers twitching.

  Emma always listened to Pepper.

  Emma placed a hand on Vanessa’s arm. “I’m not getting a good vibe here. Why don’t you wait here while I check the house?” Emma drew her Glock and held it next to her thigh. Pepper knew the meaning of a drawn weapon, and she tensed in anticipation of a job.

  “Jesus, Emma, aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself? You’re scaring me.”

  “I’m a cop. This is what cops do.”

  Emma ordered Pepper to heel. She stepped into the foyer and again shouted Deb’s name.

  Emma’s short hairs were sending warning signals. She added her left hand to the butt of the Glock and held the weapon out in front of her. The master bedroom, she knew, was in the back.

  “Seek!” she commanded. The Belgian Malinois went down the corridor and looked into each room in turn. She didn’t enter. She merely sniffed. She was trained not to taint a crime scene. When she looked into Deb’s bedroom, she backed up two steps. Immediately, she sat down and stared expectantly at Emma. Pepper made no sound.

  Emma knew right away that something dreadful had happened.

  She went to where Pepper sat. She instructed Pepper to stay put. Emma entered the room carefully. Deb’s bedroom appeared to be empty. Emma stared at the bed. The bottom sheet was mussed up. A struggle? Or maybe just energetic sex? Yet where was her friend?

  She approached the bed. When a yard or two away, she spotted the pool of blood. It had already coagulated, which told her nothing, because she knew that blood clots outside the body in thirty seconds or so.

  She left the room and shouted down the stairs. “Stay where you are, Vanessa. Do not come back here.”

  She heard, “What’s going on? You’re freaking me out.”

  Without answering, she quickly checked the other rooms. They were all untouched by the events that had turned the master bedroom into a bloody butchery. She didn’t doubt Pepper’s skills, but she had her own rules to follow.

  Emma had neglected to bring her portable radio. There was an old rotary dial telephone on a table in the upstairs hall. Emma shook her head sadly. It was just the kind of thing that Deb would have saved. She dialed the dispatcher’s line and requested the resources she needed be dispatched.

  “Hot response,” she instructed.

  Downstairs, as kindly as she knew how, she told Vanessa what she had found. But there was no way to lessen the shock … for either of them.

  “Oh God, I knew something awful had happened. Emma, you’ve got to find her.”

  “That’s exactly what I intend to do.”

  She looked down at Pepper, who was shaking with eagerness. Emma figured the dog knew more than she did.

  She said, “Pepper, Seek!”

  Her partner disappeared faster than a buttered bullet, around the side of the house and toward the back.

  30

  Another List of Maybes

  “Stay here!” Emma ordered Vanessa.

  To which Vanessa retorted, “I’m coming with you. Jesus, don’t leave me alone!”

  They both followed Pepper’s path to the back of the house. Emma immediately spotted her dog sitting in the moonlight next to a black and blue lump the size of a body.

  She returned her gun to its holster.

  Emma pointed her flashlight. Deb was face down. The blood pool began at her neck and spread widely, staining the road beneath.

  Vanessa wailed, and Emma wanted to. Knowing the futility of doing so, Emma felt for a pulse. Then, with two fingers she pulled the sheet back.

  There it was: a letter formed by a Sharpie. Depending from which side of the body one viewed it ... either a W or an M.

  Now there was no way to shade the new reality. The same person who had murdered Ethan Jackson had murdered Deb Barger.

  Emma guided Vanessa back to the front of the house to await the troops.

  On the front step, they hugged and cried.

  Stella was the first to arrive, her deafening siren blaring. Ignoring Vanessa, she demanded of Emma, “What’s going on?”

  Emma sighed. “Follow me.” To Vanessa she said, “Wait here. I’ll get s
omeone to drive you home when I have a spare officer. “

  “No,” Vanessa said firmly, “I told you, I don’t want to be alone.”

  Before Emma could lead Stella around back, Buzz, Caroline, and Pete Sinclair arrived. Buzz carried his camera.

  Caroline looked at Emma, who was obviously red-eyed, and said, “Deb was a good friend of yours. Are you sure you want to be doing this?”

  Emma led the way without answering.

  Over the body she said, “Let Buzz approach first, keep the contamination to a minimum. Buzz, get me a complete set of photographs. And don’t miss the Sharpie signature.”

  “Holy shit!” Stella exclaimed. “Mr. Sharpie strikes again?”

  “That’s the way it looks,” Emma said.

  She had a feeling that the name Mr. Sharpie would stick. Didn’t all serial killers get a nickname?

  Buzz’s strobe fired dozens of times as he worked the scene. Everyone waited patiently except Stella, who paced the driveway. Eventually, she said, “Chief, you gotta swallow your pride. Now’s the time to call in CSP—”

  Stella couldn’t hide her surprise when Emma said, “You’re right. Why don’t you get in touch with the state police?”

  “I’ll get right on.”

  Emma excused herself and walked off by herself.

  Between Will, Ethan, Archie, and now Deb, she was so angry that her pride no longer mattered. Jesus, a serial killer in Hampshire. All that mattered was catching the killer, even if the killer turned out to be Will, which of course was impossible. She was sanguine with her decision, even happy. Calling in the state police might feel like a victory to Stella, but, now, for Emma, it didn’t feel like it was a defeat.

  Re-energized, she went back to be with Vanessa.

  Caroline and Pete left the house to knock on doors. Stella stayed with Buzz. Emma could still see the strobe flashes bouncing off the trees.

  Emma wouldn’t stay bottled up any longer. She suddenly confessed to Vanessa, “I heard from Will.”

  Vanessa broke off a sob. “That’s wonderful,” she said, wrapping her arms around Emma. “I am so happy for you.”

  Emma freed herself from Vanessa’s embrace. She pulled up Will’s message on her iPhone and showed it to Vanessa, who read it slowly. Then she appeared to read it again. “I am so sorry for you, Em. I hardly know what to say. This is a god-awful disaster.”

  “That pretty much sums it up. I can only see this is a punctuation point in my life. Not a comma, a period. What am I supposed to do next? Except hate the son of a bitch.”

  Vanessa said, “How did you reply?”

  Emma blinked her eyes in self-astonishment. “You know what? I was so shocked, it never crossed my mind to text him back.”

  “Are you going to now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Let me see that again,” Vanessa said suddenly.

  Vanessa read the text for the third time, this time out loud. She inflected the words with the same malice with which they had been written.

  Emma, your endless interference is really pissing me off. Stop looking for me. Stay out of my life. Will

  “Christ, Emma,” she said when she finished, “you do realize what this might mean?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  At 1:45 in the morning, a large Ford truck arrived. Painted gray, white, blue, and gold, the vehicle looked like an over-sized ambulance with no windows. The decals on its side read Connecticut State Police Major Crime Squad.

  Emma realized that she felt relieved. She greeted the lieutenant who was in charge. Pepper regarded him with suspicion. His name was Skip Munro. Unlike every trooper she’d ever met, he wore his blonde hair over his ears and long in the back. He gave her a pleasant smile, but the bags under his eyes and the wrinkles on his face suggested he had seen more than most people had or should have. Despite the bumpy road etched on his face, she guessed he was not much older than she. Early forties.

  Emma fully briefed him, ending with: “So, Mr. Sharpie is responsible for at least two homicides.”

  Skip let out a whistle. “No shit.”

  “No shit,” Emma echoed.

  “How come you didn’t call us when Mittendorf figured out that the first guy—um, what’s his name, yeah, Jackson—was a murder victim?”

  Emma ducked the question. “It’s a long story, but I’ll be very grateful for your help now.”

  “That’s what we’re here for. What’s the situation?”

  “Deb is lying on the back driveway. Her neck has been slashed, well, ear-to-ear. I’m guessing a large knife was used, but that’s only a guess.”

  “You called her by her first name,” Skip said. “Were you acquainted with the victim?”

  “I was,” Emma said haltingly. “She was my best friend.”

  “I am truly sorry to hear that. If you want, we can take over from here. Why don’t you go home and get some rest?” He looked at his watch. “It’s pretty late.”

  “No, I would like to stay. “

  Skip appraised her. “Did you know the other victim?”

  “I knew Ethan Jackson, too.” She decided to be honest with Skip. “He and I had a brief physical relationship in high school.”

  He kept his face impassive.

  “Did the two victims know one another?”

  “Yes, but I don’t believe they were friends, per se.”

  He removed a tube of Nicorettes from his pocket and popped one in his mouth. “Trying to quit,” he muttered.

  “Is there any evidence of a sexual assault?” Skip asked.

  “She is naked except for a sheet, but the truth is I don’t know. I only touched her twice. First, to check for a pulse. I guess I did that out of desperation. I loved Deb very much. Second—call it a gut feeling—I lifted the bedsheet to check for a Sharpie mark, which, as you know, I found. I wasn’t wearing gloves, but I only used two fingers to lift the sheet.”

  “Thank you for your candor. Time we got to work. Will you show us the way?”

  Emma finally convinced Vanessa to go home to her husband. She got Caroline Stoner to drive her.

  She watched as the three-person team investigated the scene. Skip took more photographs than Buzz had. One tech used a SAFE kit, a sexual assault forensic evidence kit. The third Major Crimes trooper scoured the area. Emma doubted he would find anything given the sanitary nature of the Ethan Jackson crime scene.

  About 4:30 a.m., the team packed up. She said goodbye and thanks to Skip and his guys.

  Finally, a grieving Emma Thorne drove home, while Pepper slept in the backseat.

  31

  The Bombshell

  Though exhausted, Emma knew she couldn’t fall asleep. Wouldn’t. A maelstrom of conflicting emotions and ghastly thoughts prevented any chance. She sat on her bed, her back propped up by pillows. She stared at her cell phone.

  Nothing came to mind.

  She had no idea how to answer Will, or, for that matter, whether she should. Should she beg him to come home? Should she damn him to hell? Should she ignore him, and try to continue her life as best she could? No bright-eyed solution popped into focus.

  A tear splattered on the screen of her iPhone. She wiped it away and slipped the iPhone under her pillow like a child might. Out of sight, out of mind.

  But Deb’s merciless murder was all too real. Emma couldn’t suppress the memory of her brutalized body. Deb, who didn’t even kill flies, let alone hurt people.

  She would miss Deb Barger terribly. Deb was gone forever. She would never come back. It seemed more and more likely that Will wouldn’t either.

  She reached for a pen and paper on her side table. She wrote down all of Mr. Sharpie’s possible combinations.

  ML LM M7 7M WL LW 7W W7

  Were the first four a person’s initials? W7 was a London postal code. The M7 sounded like a foreign motorway. She Googled it. There was an M7 in Ireland, which terminated in Limerick. Could this refer to a limerick? 7W could also be a route. ML and LM were Roman numera
ls for 1050 and 950.

  Emma was good at puzzles, but the solution to this one eluded her.

  She had a more frightening thought. Were there still more letters or numbers to come?

  Emma’s mind was caroming around like a trick pool shot.

  Her next thought: although she knew both Ethan and Deb, they barely knew each other. Hadn’t Deb said, when they were picnicking at Lost Pond, that she hadn’t seen Ethan since high school? So, what was it that tied them together in Mr. Sharpie’s sick brain? It made no sense to Emma that she was the common link.

  And, finally, what should she do with the knowledge that Will was alive, somewhere close by? Vanessa, earlier, had alluded to the same scenario. That Will was somehow a part of this nightmare. Emma remained convinced that Will’s involvement was impossible, but the evidence suggested otherwise. Maybe. She also knew that it was vital information which she should be sharing, not hiding.

  Emma shook her head. It was preposterous to think that Will was capable of killing anyone. Yet where had the viciousness in his text come from? It didn’t sound anything like her Will.

  Finally, she consoled herself that Joe Henderson cried out for more of her investigative attention.

  Before leaving for the office, Emma, who had not closed her eyes all night, telephoned Skip Munro. She bet that Skip was enough of the go-getter-type to be at work already.

  “Lieutenant Skip Munro,” he answered.

  “It’s Emma Thorne from Hampshire, I’m anxious to hear whatever you’ve found out so far—”

  “How are you feeling, Chief? I hope you were able to get some rest after we left. I know how much it sucks to lose a friend.”

  She was surprised that a hardened Major Crimes vet would trouble to ask. She was also pleased. “I’m okay, considering what happened. Didn’t get much sleep though. Actually, none.”

  “Yeah, I feel your pain—”

  “About the case—”