Chet carefully removed the material from her neck and placed it on a tray for closer examination. The length of blue fabric was tied between two wooden dowels, which had been hidden in the rainwater. As Chet gently pulled at the edges of the cloth, Will’s chest tightened.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” JB pointed a gloved finger at the yellow California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation stamp. “You were right. Prison issued.”
“What about the handles, Doc? Any ideas?”
Chet nodded at Will, picking up one of the dowels so that the end was visible. “These holes were probably drilled in, and the fabric inserted with a wire and a stop knot to keep it from slipping out. Because the ends have a little weight to them, the assailant could easily toss one across the victim’s throat and catch it with the other hand. Then, pull back tight. It takes considerably less effort than manual strangulation.”
JB frowned at the handles the way he frowned at Will sometimes. Like a fly he couldn’t quite catch to swat. He paced around the small tray, crouching to inspect it from all angles, until finally he smacked his hands together. “I’ve got it. I know exactly what they are.”
JB preened while Chet photographed and measured the garrote, speaking into a recorder as he moved. When he finished, he placed the garrote in a clear evidence bag for further testing for fingerprints and DNA.
“So, are you gonna tell us or should we guess?” Will asked, finally.
“Get this. My third wife, Bev, she was a hell of a lousy cook. Also, a hell of a nag, but that’s neither here nor there. Her grandmother had given her this antique rolling pin, and she got this wild idea that she was gonna bake her own bread from scratch. That dough was hard as a brick. So tough that one of the handles popped right off. She was always on my ass to fix it. Anyway, it looked just like that.”
Will shook his head at JB. Half annoyed, half amazed, he couldn’t help but smile.
“I think you might be right,” Chet told him, taking another look at the dowels.
“Damn-skippy, I’m right. I’ll bet you Chief Flack nominates me for Detective of the Year.”
“Detective of the Year?” Will asked. “Aren’t there just two of us?”
JB shrugged. “Guess you’re runner-up then.”
Chet met them outside the examination room having shed his gloves, his face shield and lab coat. The smell of formalin still wafted from his clothing. Will had been to enough autopsies to recognize it as the official odor of death. It seemed fitting, the way it grabbed you by the throat. The repulsive way it lingered in your nose. He’d probably still be smelling it tonight, after a long, hot shower. Death doesn’t wash off easy.
“Gentlemen, you’ve got yourselves a homicide. That’s for certain. Death by asphyxiation, likely early Thursday morning. No obvious signs of trauma to the genitals. No tearing of the cervix or vaginal cavity. But, given the state of undress, I don’t think we can rule out a sexually motivated murder at this point.”
“C’mon,” JB said. “Tell us something we don’t know.”
“I’m getting there, Jimmy.”
“Well, could you speed it up a bit? My stomach’s been growling all morning since City Boy here had me runnin’ laps through the muck in that damn tunnel.”
“Alright. Remember how I showed you those reddish-purple stains on the victim’s lower legs and feet? Those are the lividity stains, the lowest point on the body, where the blood pools after death. They become fixed somewhere between twelve and twenty-four hours.”
JB groaned. “Give it to me in English, Clancy.”
“I think what Doc is saying is that someone moved Bonnie’s body at least twelve hours after her death.”
“Exactly,” Chet said. “Before that the blood had already pooled in the lower extremities. That tells me she was sitting. And for a while, too.”
Will’s phone buzzed in his pocket—“Give me one minute.”—and he left Chet and JB, pushing through two sets of double doors and out into the crisp, fresh air. A welcome relief, even if it didn’t quite rid his nostrils of death’s perfume.
“Will Decker, Homicide.”
The caller took a long, shaky breath. “Uh, Will. Detective Decker. I didn’t know if you’d answer. It’s James McMillan. You told me to call if I thought of anything, and, well… there is something I’d like to talk to you about.”
It had been nearly two years since Will had felt it, that blood-pumping, heart-pounding, indescribable rush of chasing a lead. Of working a homicide. The last two years in San Francisco, that part of him had gone numb. Like he’d been packed in ice. Slowly, slowly, he felt himself coming alive again.
“We’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Could you come alone? It’s just that Detective Benson’s ex-wife’s grandson goes to school with Noah. And, I’d rather talk to somebody that’s not so local.”
“Of course. I understand.”
Will understood better than anyone. Sometimes the people who knew you best didn’t know you at all.
Will volunteered to swing by Fog City Cinema to speak to the manager about the security footage, while JB stayed back at the station with a sack of barbecue ribs from the Hickory Pit and a mission to identify the strange object they’d found half-buried on the beach near the entrance to the drainpipe. It might amount to nothing. Just a piece of discarded junk washed up onshore. Or not. Will flipped and flipped and flipped that mental coin as he drove down Pine Grove Road toward the McMillan house.
The route took him past the place where Bonnie’s car had been discovered by a long-haul trucker, with the door gaping open to the rain-soaked seat and floorboard. If Will hadn’t known the spot, he might’ve driven right past it. The crime scene tape had been removed; the car towed to the station. Only the vague remnants of Bonnie’s tire tracks remained. Along with a single white ribbon tied to a fence post. In the spring, when it stopped raining, Will guessed they’d make a proper memorial.
James answered the door on the first knock. A television played cartoons in the background as he stood there, blank-faced and barefoot. A half-dead man walking.
“Let’s talk in here.” He directed Will toward a closed door just off the entryway. “The kids are watching TV with their grandma.”
Will didn’t need to be told the room belonged to Bonnie. The walls were decorated with framed movie posters. The classics like Gone with the Wind, Casablanca, and Vertigo, the last film she’d ever seen. He selected the chair opposite Bonnie’s desk, so he could get a good look at the papers she’d left there.
“So, you said you thought of something that might be important?”
James slumped. “I owe you an apology. I wasn’t completely honest with you and Detective Benson.”
On the corner nearest him, Will scanned a piece of notebook paper. Judging by the neat block print, he figured it had been written by an inmate. Those guys had nothing better to do than perfect their penmanship. The page was marked with red ink.
“There is something you should know. Somebody you might want to take a look at.”
Will slipped a small notepad from his pocket, hoping it wouldn’t slow James down or shut him up entirely. But James didn’t notice. Will followed his eyes to the bookshelf. The first row. The second row. The third row too. The same book on every shelf. Will had a copy just like it at home. A signed copy.
“Drake Devere.” James spoke Will’s worst fear aloud. “He’s the who. And these goddamned books. They’re the why.”
“Look, I don’t want to offend you, but these guys can be extremely manipulative. Was Bonnie involved with—”
“No!” James pounded the desk with his fist, scattering a few papers onto the floor. “Nothing like that. She took her job very seriously. She never crossed the line. It was me. It was my fault.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“Two years ago, Drake enrolled in Bonnie’s class. Apparently, he had real talent. That’s what she told me. He wrote this novel, a thriller he called Bird of Prey. Bonnie edited
it and helped him self-publish online.” He cast a scathing side-eye at the bookshelf. “Those are the signed promotional copies.”
“All those? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I wish I was. It was Bonnie’s idea to donate the proceeds. I don’t think either of us expected it to take off, but the guy’s got a real cult following. Women love him, if you can imagine that. After a while, the whole thing started to piss me off. So, I rerouted the money into our retirement account.”
“Did Bonnie know?”
“I don’t think so. She always let me take care of the finances. But Drake figured it out somehow. He accused Bonnie of stealing the money.”
“When?”
“Monday.” James hung his head. “Are you going to arrest me?”
Will wanted to reassure him. Drake Devere could choke on his literary talent for all he cared. “Not right now. But I need you to cooperate. To tell me everything you know.”
James nodded, gathering Bonnie’s papers from the floor. By the time he’d finished, tears spilled over, and he buried his face in his hands. “I killed her, didn’t I?”
The words startled Will, but he’d learned not to show it. Hiding your emotions so well you can’t find them yourself. Classic cop job hazard. “What do you mean?”
“Maybe Drake paid somebody off.”
“Do you think that’s what happened?” Will thought of the garrote, as he scanned Bonnie’s desk one last time. It struck him then. The familiar handwriting. All the papers had the same name in the top right corner. The same words painstakingly etched across the top, as if the title itself was art. Hawk’s Revenge, The Second Book in the Bird of Prey Series. Copyright: Drake Devere.
“He’s certainly capable. You should ask Doctor Rockwell over at the prison. Aside from Bonnie, she’s the one who knows him best.”
Will deposited his gun at the base of the Crescent Bay State Prison guard tower, just like the sign instructed him. The last time he’d visited a prison he hadn’t brought his gun along. He’d come on a personal mission. Now, as he stared down the long concrete hallway, the old bones rattling in his head, he wished JB had come along to distract him. But he hadn’t even called his partner. He had to see for himself if James’ story had any merit, and he’d promised James he’d be discreet. Not to mention, if he had to deal with Dr. Smarty Pants again, he didn’t want any witnesses.
Will tried the door to the Mental Health Unit. Locked. He tapped on the window, and the officer at the desk hurried over.
“You must be Detective Decker.”
Will nodded and shook the sweaty hand of Sergeant Wickersham. The small black square on his uniform told him so.
“Control said you were on your way. Doctor Rockwell’s office is that one, right over there. She’s expecting you.”
So much for the element of surprise. Each of his footfalls clacked on the tile floor, a countdown to his arrival. Will found the door open. He knocked anyway.
“Doctor Rockwell?”
Her eyes were unexpected. Greener, softer. More tired than he remembered. He wondered if she’d lain awake like him, thinking of Bonnie.
“Please, call me Olivia. Unless you’re here to arrest me again, Detective.”
“Deck,” he said. “That’s what most people call me. And, I owe you an apology.”
She shook her head, waved him off. “It’s okay. I shouldn’t have run down there. You were right.”
“I get the feeling you don’t say those three little words very often, so I’ll count myself among the lucky.” When Olivia smiled at him, revealing a single dimple in her freckled cheek, Will considered himself just that. He’d never seen her smile before.
“How can I help you, Deck?”
“It’s about the McMillan case.” Dimple, erased. Smile, faded. A hard line appeared in its place.
“I spoke with the officer yesterday like you asked. He took my statement.”
“Not that.” Will gestured to the chair opposite her. Probably the one where her patients sat, the Vulture included. “May I?”
She didn’t answer, but he sat anyway, immediately glancing at the wall to her left. From here, he could look without being obvious. Doctor of Philosophy in Psychology, Stanford University. Special Commendation, Federal Bureau of Investigation, San Francisco. Every bit the big deal Chet had warned him about.
“What, then?” she asked.
“An inmate here at Crescent Bay. Drake Devere. Someone told me you know him well.”
“Have you spoken with the warden? I’m not allowed to discuss my patients outside of the institution.” Olivia turned her attention to straightening a neat stack of files at the edge of her desk. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some paperwork to finish.”
“So, he is a patient then?”
“I didn’t say that. But I will need the warden’s approval before I speak with you any further.”
“Warden Blevins is aware.” He’d spoken to Blevins on the way and told him only what he’d needed to secure entry into Crescent Bay. That he had official police business with Dr. Rockwell related to the McMillan case. Still, the half-truth left a bitter taste. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”
“I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’ll have to talk with him first. I’m sure you understand.”
“I can see Devere’s file right there.” The way she kept fidgeting with the stack, he had a hunch. “Can’t you just answer a few questions off the record? Or should I assume you’re protecting him from something?”
Olivia’s glare pinned him to the seat, and he knew he’d pushed too far. This must be how it felt to be one of her inmate patients. Leveled with a single look.
“Listen, Deck.” She made his name sound like a dirty word. “I’m following the ethics code. And the law. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”
He stood up and turned to go but reconsidered. No smarty-pants doctor would make him slink out with his tail between his legs. “You know, after the way you acted yesterday, I didn’t think you’d be so by-the-book.”
“You’re one to talk.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Will knew exactly what it meant, and he hoped she wouldn’t answer. He couldn’t bear for anyone to say it out loud. Mercifully, she only shrugged at him. There it was again. That look.
He flung open Olivia’s door. “Let me out.”
Sergeant Wickersham flinched, nodding his head so fast Will wondered he didn’t pull a muscle.
Out in the hallway, he leaned against the cold bricks, watching the inmates file past. Guilt settled on his chest, the way it always did when he thought of Ben, heavy as a millstone. He started back down the hallway toward the exit, feeling the weight of it around his neck. It wasn’t just knowing Ben would spend five more years in a prison just like this one. It was knowing he’d put him there.
“Hey, I know you.”
Some voices you never forget. You hear them in the dark spaces in your head. You wake up drenched in your own sweat, your heart pounding against your rib cage like the hooves of a racehorse. Drake Devere had a voice like that. Will had been hearing it for five years. Like the Vulture had pecked his way into Will’s brain and taken perch there.
But this voice didn’t come from inside his head. It came from behind him.
“Detective William Decker. After all those letters I wrote you, it’s about time you paid me a visit.”
Chapter Six
“Who was that?” Leah asked, poking her head into Olivia’s office.
“You mean, Mister Wise Guy?” After Will fled, Olivia had counted to ten, waiting for her frontal lobe to catch up to her amygdala. Then, she’d counted to ten again, until her blood had gone from a boil to a simmer.
“I mean the ruggedly handsome gentleman you just sent running for the exit.” Leave it to Leah to notice the ruggedly handsome part.
“He’s a homicide detective.”
“Homicide?” Leah came inside and shut the door behind her. “Was he here about Bonnie
?”
“That’s what he said. But then he asked me about Drake.”
Leah frowned, twirling her ponytail around her hand the way she always did when she was worried. “What did you tell him?’
“Nothing.”
Olivia thought of the morning. Her walk down the runway. Melody’s whispered words. Strangled by an inmate.
“So, why did he run out of here like he’d seen a ghost?”
Olivia didn’t answer, and when Leah dressed her down with an accusatory look, she changed the subject. “Hey, have any of your patients said anything about Bonnie being strangled by an inmate?”
“What? God, no. Where did you hear that?”
“Good ole Crescent Bay rumor mill.”
“Do you think that detective knew something about it?”
“His name is Will Decker.” Olivia felt the sting of shame hot on her neck. She shouldn’t have thrown it in his face like that, even if she hadn’t said it aloud. The past should never be a weapon. She’d learned that long before she’d come to work in the prison, where all of her patients had pasts sharp as axe blades.
“Okay. Will Ruggedly Handsome Decker. Got it.”
Olivia sighed. “Ring any bells?”
Leah shrugged, so Olivia waved her over and typed Will’s name into the search bar on her computer. The same way she’d done dripping wet on the rock by the Earl River. She picked the first article on the list and waited for the gasp as Leah read over her shoulder.
“Oh. Jesus. The poor guy. No wonder he moved here.”
San Francisco Post
“SFPD Officer Convicted of Voluntary Manslaughter in Tenderloin Shooting”
by Angela Nguyen
Former San Francisco police officer Benjamin Decker was sentenced to six years behind bars for the fatal shooting of an unarmed female, Rochelle Townes, who he had observed behaving suspiciously outside of the Aces High nightclub in the Tenderloin District. At the time of the shooting, Decker was employed by the San Francisco Police Department as a patrol officer. A jury convicted Decker on multiple charges, including violating the oath of office, making a false statement, and voluntary manslaughter, but rejected the more serious charge of second-degree murder.
Watch Her Vanish: An absolutely gripping mystery thriller (Rockwell and Decker Book 1) Page 5
