Ever So Silent

by Christopher Little

  The morphine had worn off. Dr. McKay had proved stingy with additional painkillers. She recommended Tylenol, which was wholly inadequate. A harried nurse’s aide served her dinner-on-a-tray, the high point of which was Pomegranate Jell-O.

  Right after the same aide collected her dinner tray, there was a knock on her door. She assumed it was a visitor for her roommate, so she didn’t answer. Following another knock, Lieutenant Skip Munro from Major Crimes poked his head in.

  “Hello, Emma, mind if I come in for a moment?” He took a chair next to her bed and studied her face. “As my daughter would say, “Ouchy-ouchy. Poor you.”

  She managed a laugh. “You don’t sound like a Major Crimes cop.”

  “Do you feel up to answering a couple questions?”

  “Anything to relieve the boredom.” She jerked her thumb at her roommate, who was watching a well-amplified Fox News program. “My companion doesn’t seem to know I exist.”

  Skip began, “Chief Weeks filled me in on some of the events of last night at Mrs. Mack’s house. What a horror show. You showed a lot of guts getting a shot off after what looks like a damaging beating.”

  Emma frowned. “Maybe, but I might’ve shot my husband.”

  Skip said, “That’s kinda why I’m here. How sure are you that Mr. Foster is our guy? I’ve been looking into your husband. Pretty thoroughly, actually. What his friends say, his family, his history. Either some component of his personality went seriously haywire, or we’re looking for the wrong person. What do you think?”

  “That you are the only person around here who doesn’t have a bull’s-eye on Will’s back.”

  “Ha! Why don’t you walk me through last night? Did—let’s call the intruder the ‘suspect’ for now—did the suspect say anything to you?”

  Thoughtfully, Emma answered, “I’m pretty sure the only word he said was ‘shit.’ He sort of muttered the word. I remember thinking at the time that the suspect’s voice sounded lower than Will’s.”

  “That was all he said, during the whole encounter?”

  “Yeah, funny that, no? There were a lot of obvious times for him to say something, but the suspect chose not to.”

  Skip shifted in his chair and thought for a moment. He said, “That would make me think that the suspect has a voice you would recognize and intentionally didn’t give you that opportunity. Make sense?”

  “Hmm, makes sense.”

  “Assuming that Will does not wear perfume,” Skip smiled, “did you catch a whiff of the subject? In my experience, most people have a distinctive smell, and if you know them well you can pick it up.”

  “The only odor I remember smelled like bug spray. And BO, but I’m afraid that the latter was mine. Sorry.”

  “How about the way the suspect felt? I understand he was on top of you. Did that feel like Will’s body?”

  “Now, don’t go kinky on me Lieutenant,” she said. “But now that you mention it, the suspect didn’t feel like Will. Same height and about the same weight. It was hard to tell, though, because, as I’m sure you heard, the suspect was wearing a bulletproof vest. Which is another bizarre anomaly. I simply can’t imagine my husband choosing to wear body armor, no matter what the circumstance. Too weird for words.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No, I can’t think of anything more that might be helpful.”

  “Well, in that case,” Skip said, standing, “I better be off.” Before he left, he added, “I’m not going to rule out your husband, but him being the killer doesn’t add up to me. How could a man so well known in Hampshire be skulking around murdering people, and yet not a soul has laid eyes on him. Huh?”

  Emma was deep in thought when Skip Munro pulled the door closed behind him.

  After Skip left, she turned over in her mind all the doubts that the investigator had raised. The most obvious of which was, if not Will, who? Emma hadn’t given much voice to one daunting construct. To wit, she couldn’t think of another link between Ethan, Deb, and Vanessa other than herself. It felt like a circle of murders with her at the center. But who, and for what possible reason, would someone be so against her to do the things they had done. That left her with one final thought. Archie had taught her to be, above all, kind.

  Hadn’t she tried her damnedest?

  A little after nine o’clock, Emma’s cell phone rang.

  “Emma!” a panicked voice shouted. “I’m at the Cincinnati airport, at baggage claim. Vanessa was not on the flight. Checked with Delta. She was booked, but a no-show. What the hell happened?”

  “Oh God, Dave. This is horrible.”

  “You’re damn right it is! And I expect you to fix it.”

  “Have you called the Hampshire police? I’m still in the hospital.”

  “Of course, I’ve called the goddamn police. I spoke with a, a woman—”

  “Stella Weeks?”

  “Yeah, her!” Dave said, still shouting. “She said that she drove Vanessa home from the hospital to pack and called her a cab to take her to the airport. Wait! There’s another call coming in. Hold on.”

  Emma waited fearfully.

  Dave came back on the line, wailing. “Jesus, Emma, Weeks just talked to the taxi driver. He told her that he went to our house, banged on the door a bunch of times, and NOBODY ANSWERED. What am I going to do? This is on you, Emma.”

  46

  An Inattentive Guard

  Grinding pain kept Emma awake most of the night. Finally, in the predawn hours of Sunday morning, she finally found a fitful sleep. At precisely 6 a.m., however, “Fox and Friends” ruined what became a short nap. The hospital provided cheap personal TV speakers for each patient. Her roommate’s lay on the pillow right next to her ear. She was definitely deaf, because the volume was way too high to be close to a properly functioning ear. The crackling speaker was as distorted as Fox News itself.

  There was nothing Emma could do about it. She waited patiently until she thought it was not too early to call Mark Byrne. She hoped that he was still at her house looking after Pepper. By seven o’clock, her patience crumbled. She got Mark on the phone and asked him to bring her iPad and the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle to the hospital. She asked him to bring her some clothes, too.

  “Any particular underwear you need from your underwear drawer?” he asked, harkening back to her comment from Friday.

  “Touché!”

  Mark told her that he would give Pepper a long walk and would then come to the hospital “bearing gifts.”

  “What’s that noise in the background?” Mark asked before ringing off.

  “‘Fox and Friends,’ I’m afraid.”

  “I can see why you are going crazy. Right-wing rubbish. I’ll lend you my Bose headphones. Be there soon as I can.”

  Emma only knew one private investigator, but she couldn’t imagine there were too many others out there who viewed Fox News as rubbish. She was pleased that he was one of them.

  Outside her window, battleship-gray clouds threatened. A June thunderstorm was on its way. She looked forward to the diversion. If she accomplished anything today, it would be to persuade Dr. McKay, who had promised to stop in, to discharge her. Meantime, she looked forward to seeing Mark.

  He arrived during her perfect English breakfast, scrambled eggs and cold toast. She handed him her plate and asked him to dump it in the trash. Mark sat in the seat that Lieutenant Munro had occupied the night before. He had two shopping bags with him. From one, he produced a headset, the complete Sunday Times, her iPad, some fresh fruit, and an Elizabeth George novel she was halfway through.

  “I found this,” he said handing her the book, “in the living room.”

  How thoughtful, she thought.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “I don’t mean to add to your burdens, but have you seen this?” He withdrew the Hampshire Chronicle from his busy shopping bag and held it up for her to see.

  Hampshire Police Investigate

  Disappearance of Vanessa Mack />
  Emma read the article.

  By Virginia Hobson, Staff Reporter

  According to David Mack, 37, Vanessa Mack, 36, both of 17 Highcroft Terrace, failed to board her ticketed flight to Cincinnati yesterday. She was expected to join her husband and children there. Police say that she is missing and that they are investigating. Foul play is feared. On Friday night, there was a major police action at her home on Highcroft Terrace. At this time, police are not providing any details about Friday night. However, the Chronicle has learned that Mack and former Hampshire Chief of Police, Emma Thorne, were transported to hospital. Mack was released on Saturday. Thorne remains hospitalized ...

  Emma finished the rest of the lengthy front-page story, which contained lots of verbiage but no further information.

  She handed the newspaper back to Mark. “I heard about it, because Dave Mack telephoned last night from Cincinnati and reamed me a new asshole.”

  “Just what you needed, huh? It’s like with my ex-wife … everything was my fault.”

  “But, seriously, it’s horrible about Vanessa, and that is my fault.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up, kid. Judging by the way you look, you did everything humanly possible to protect her. According to what I heard, your friend Stella Weeks drove her home and just dumped her there. None of this would’ve happened if she’d driven Vanessa to the airport. I place the blame right on her doorstep.”

  Emma nodded tentatively.

  Changing the subject, Emma said, “I don’t think I can stand another day in here.”

  A new idea occurred to her.

  “You know what, Mark, I’m just gonna check myself out. Screw this. Did you bring me some clothes?”

  He handed her the other shopping bag. “Sorry I didn’t think to bring you a raincoat.” Rain was now pelting the window.

  Wearing a skimpy hospital johnny, bow-tied in the back, Emma shuffled to the bathroom. Over her shoulder she said, “Don’t you be sneaking a peek at my tush.”

  Mark scouted the hospital corridor. When the coast was clear, he and Emma made it to the fire stairs without being spotted.

  Pepper went mad with excitement when they arrived back at her house. While reveling in their reunion, Pepper rolled onto her back and demanded a tummy rub.

  Mark cooked them a proper breakfast, brunch really. Eating together, she declared, “Ah, finally some decent food.”

  Chewing some toast, Mark spoke with his mouth full. “I want you to take it easy. You’re probably still concussed. Unfortunately, I have to visit my mom today. So, I won’t be around to keep an eye on you. I try to go every other Sunday. She’s not doing too well.”

  “That’s nice,” she said. They finished eating a cheese omelet, bacon, toast, and coffee. Mark said goodbye to Pepper and Emma, giving the latter a peck on the cheek.

  The second he left the house, Emma prepared to leave too. With an umbrella and a rain jacket, she waded through a cloudburst to her car. Pepper jumped through the open door and thoroughly shook her coat, drenching Emma all over again.

  She drove directly to Highcroft Terrace and parked around the corner from the house and away from the driveway. She figured that Vanessa’s house would still be considered a crime scene and probably guarded by a Hampshire officer. She and her dog stole through the wet woods behind the house. Sure enough, Officer Pete Sinclair was sitting in his cruiser, parked near the front door, with the windshield wipers on. He was reading a book. Anyway, he couldn’t see the back door from where he was parked.

  There was crime scene tape crisscrossing the doorway. Emma found the key that Dave always kept above the lintel of the back porch. She let herself in, telling Pepper to be quiet. They passed through Vanessa’s cluttered mudroom and into her thoroughly suburban, yellow kitchen. The living room, like the kitchen, was neat. There was no evidence of mischief.

  Back in the kitchen, she opened the door to the basement and instructed Pepper to search it. Pepper returned to the kitchen seconds later wagging her tail, eager for a more fruitful assignment.

  They went upstairs to Vanessa’s bedroom, the scene of the horrors of Friday night. In a laundry hamper in the bathroom Emma found the pajamas Vanessa had worn that night. She let Pepper smell them.

  “Search, Pepper.”

  Leading a frenzied tail, the dog sniffed each room methodically. Emma followed her. Downstairs, Pepper suddenly sat and looked to her master for approval. Emma couldn’t see immediately what Pepper was signaling that she had found. She got down on her hands and knees. She ran her hands over the patterned carpet. Partially underneath the sofa, she found a hoop earring. She remembered that it was the same style as the earrings Vanessa had worn on Friday.

  As Pepper’s tail thumped the carpet next to her, she picked up the earring. The kidney-shaped ear wire was bent into the open position. There was blood on the wire and on the earring.

  This suggested an abduction. Still, there was no overturned furniture or any other signs of a struggle. Vanessa must have been swiftly overwhelmed. She found a Ziplock in the kitchen and a fork. She lifted the earring with a tine and dropped it into the baggie.

  “Good job, Pepper!”

  47

  Nine Criteria

  Dark wood paneling sheathed the lobby of the Hampshire Police Department headquarters, which reflected its nineteenth century heritage. It was far from grand however. Bolted to one wall was a metal box with a slot on the top. The sign on the box said: Leave Your Expired and Unwanted Drugs Here. Next to the box, there was a poster advertising Hampshire’s Gun Buyback Program. “You can get $50 to $100 for certain handguns and up to $200 for assault weapons.”

  The wall facing the entrance doors was glass. Archie had changed the original plate glass to ballistic glass-clad polycarbonate as befitted the twenty-first century. The dispatcher who sat behind the glass doubled as the receptionist.

  That Sunday it was Laura Hester, who greeted her with genuine warmth. “I’m so glad to see you back on your feet. I can’t tell you how freaked I was when you called in on Friday night.”

  “Thanks. Still achy and creaky, but I’m doing okay. Is Stella in?”

  “Yup. She’s called a meeting about Vanessa Mack—they’re about to start—in the war room.”

  Emma asked, “What’s the war room?”

  “That’s what Stella’s renamed the roll call room,” Laura said. She repeated the new name, enclosing it in ironic air quotes.

  “Really?”

  “Kid you not! Maybe she thinks she’s Winston Churchill.” Laura’s phone rang. “Oops, gotta go. 911 coming in.” She buzzed Emma in as she answered the 911.

  Emma and Pepper headed down the corridor to the roll call room. They waited outside the door. She told Pepper to Stay. Otherwise, Pepper would have happily proceeded inside to greet her old friends. Emma debated whether to enter and hand over her new evidence to Stella when the meeting started.

  Emma heard Stella rap the podium and say, “Okay, everyone, listen up.” In a lengthy presentation, she brought the team up to speed on the disappearance of Vanessa Mack. Like Virginia Hobson’s article in the Chronicle, there wasn’t much meat.

  She continued, “I am confident that the man we are looking for is Will Foster. The mark on Emma’s ankle, which he mistook for Vanessa’s ankle, proves it. Many of you, probably most of you, knew Will. So, how hard could it be to find him? Let’s hit the bricks and get this sonofabitch behind bars, where he belongs.”

  Emma recognized the voice of Skip Munro.

  “Um, okay if I say a few words?”

  “Of course, be my guest.”

  “With all due respect, Chief Weeks, my team hasn’t come to the same conclusion. Not yet, at any rate. I’ll explain why in a moment. But first let’s discuss some basics.

  “The term ‘serial killings’ means a series of three or more killings, having common characteristics such as to suggest the reasonable possibility that the crimes were committed by the same actor or actors. At least, that’s
what the FBI says. Do we have a serial killer in Hampshire? Yes, I believe we do. If you count Vanessa Mack’s attempted murder and the Sharpie marks on three different individuals, it tastes like serial to me.”

  Emma heard a few chuckles.

  “Pun intended,” he said.

  It sounded to Emma like Skip was skillfully disarming his audience in anticipation of bad news to come.

  “So, let’s look at some commonly accepted traits linked to serial killers. And which of these apply to Will Foster … and which don’t.”

  Emma couldn’t resist any longer. She stepped into the room and stood at the back. She made Pepper wait outside. Skip moved to the whiteboard at the front of the room and began writing:

  1. White male in his mid-20s to mid-30s.

  2. Antisocial Behavior.

  3. Arson.

  Skip turned back to the room. “I read that childhood friends of the ‘Son of Sam’ killer, David Berkowitz, called him ‘Pyro.’ The police in New York said that he may have set as many as a thousand fires.”

  4. Torturing small animals.

  “Jeffrey Dahmer, the cannibal killer, dismembered his own puppy and later mounted its head on a stake.”

  Officer Pete Sinclair said, “Yuck.”

  Skip said, “Agreed.”

  5. Poor family life and childhood abuse.

  6. Substance abuse.

  7. Voyeurism, sadomasochistic pornography, and fetishism.

  Skip turned to his rapt audience. “As an adolescent in Tacoma, Washington, Ted Bundy cruised his neighborhood at night looking for windows without curtains and women without clothes.

  “And, finally, the last component of an ‘organized’ serial killer, which I think our killer certainly has, is …”

  8. Intelligence.

  Skip placed the dry-erase marker he had been using onto the tray at the base of the whiteboard.