“Your biodad. I like it. Yes, let’s get you looking pretty, sweetheart.”
Lauren ignores her pounding heart, helps her daughter out of bed, to the shower.
Why would she be asking about V now? Why?
Oh, God. Mindy found the letters.
51
August 1994
Dear Liesel,
My last few letters have come back unopened with a stamp that says Return to Sender. I suppose that means you’ve moved. Moved away, moved on. I know your mother is keeping you from me, the bitch. If I ever see her, I will do bad things to her. But not to you. Never to you. I miss you muchly, Liesel. Please write.
Love,
V
September 1994
Fuck you, Liesel. I can’t believe you’ve abandoned me here like this. Stupid bitch. I’m mailing this even though I know you won’t get it. That’s Einstein’s theory of crazy, right? Doing the same thing over and over expecting a different outcome? Next letter I get from you, I’ll return to sender. How’s that sound?
January 1995
My sweet V,
It’s been so long since I heard from you, I figure you must be mad at me. Or maybe you’ve moved on from the hospital. I hope so. You don’t need to be there, V. You are so strong. If that’s not the case, I’m sorry for whatever I said to upset you, and I’m sorry I couldn’t come visit you before I moved.
I love my new home, and my new school. The view of the mountains is incredible, and so far, the students are very nice. Mother likes her new job. We left behind most of our furniture–it increased the value of the house, Mother said, so we have all new things, and I talked her into a big queen bed for my room, which has been very nice to test out with my new boyfriend. He likes my tattoo, too.
I think of you often. I hope you write me back.
Love,
Liesel
March 1995
Dear Liesel,
I was hoping to send better news, but I am back in the hospital. I’ve done a six-month voluntary. And the answer to your question is yes, I did try again, and yes, I failed, and yes, Dr. Freakazoid and Ratchet and the chattering whack-jobs are still here. Nothing has changed. Nothing ever changes. It’s the same bleak-as-shit hole in the ground smelly shitty nasty ward.
Don’t you wish you were here?
I know you’re disappointed in me. I’m sorry.
Love,
V
April 1995
Dear V,
I just received your letter, and I am so sorry to hear you’re back in. But, V, I could never be disappointed in you. I’m disappointed for you, of course, because I know how much you hate it in there. I completely understand. But remember, V, there is no shame in getting help. You deserve to find happiness, to have a life filled with joy. If being in the ward, being counseled by Freakazoid and Ratchet, eating healthy food–okay, stop laughing, I know we can’t exactly call mystery meat healthy, but it is regular food. You’ve always been too skinny. If these things will help you get better, that’s a good thing, right?
Seriously, take their advice, and let them help you. I’m pulling for you from afar! Hang in there–ha ha, some gallows humor for you– Don’t you dare!
Love,
Liesel
52
NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE
It’s late, second shift is well-underway, the detectives in the bullpen loud and raucous, waiting to be called out to a crime scene. Parks locks himself in the conference room and pulls the Armstrong files from their corrugated boxes. He needs to look deeper into the murder and kidnapping, get completely up to speed. He set Starr the task of coordinating with the CBI tech; she is more than capable of getting them organized and ready for the current investigation. The two of them are heading to Colorado tomorrow afternoon. Just enough time for him to get his head into this case.
Earlier, he’d swung by Gorman’s house, and Andrea allowed him to take Gorman’s personal files on the case with him. He hopes a deeper dive will reveal something he missed the first time around.
Parks knows there has to be a reason Gorman went to Colorado in the first place. It had to be more than a hunch that the young skier he was such a fan of looks like his cold-case victims. That is a leap even Parks has a hard time buying.
He starts at the beginning again, pulling out Gorman’s full facsimile of the original murder book, with duplicates of all the crime scene photos and Vivian Armstrong’s autopsy photos.
The facts are straightforward and somewhat lacking. Vivian Armstrong had the child two weeks early, at home, with a midwife from the University Hospital midwife program in attendance, called late in the labor process. The delivery was uneventful and relatively quick and, according to the midwife, Vivian was in fine spirits when she left. She worried about leaving the young mother alone, offered to call her husband, but Vivian insisted she wanted private time to bond with the baby and promised to be at her follow-up appointment the next day.
The call to 911 came from the husband. He returned to find the front door unlocked and Vivian Armstrong on the kitchen floor. She’d been dead for at least a day, maybe more. The baby was nowhere to be found.
A large kitchen knife was found on the floor next to the deceased woman, the only fingerprints smudged, though one was lifted that belonged to Vivian Armstrong herself—nothing surprising there, it was her kitchen, and clearly, her knife.
No forced entry. No video of the assailant entering or exiting the house. The suspect was a ghost.
Or the husband.
Parks shakes his head as he reads the reports. Zachary Armstrong was in Alabama when his wife was murdered, standing over the grave of his mother. There were three messages from him on the answering machine—all increasingly worried. He didn’t commit the act, on that, most of the professionals agree. Oh, there are a few speculative reports that the husband drove home, murdered his wife, then drove back for the funeral, but Gorman’s assessment: Armstrong was telling the truth. He passed a lie detector, was open and forthright, and was, by all accounts, utterly devastated. There were no strange money trails in his bank records, no indications he hired someone to kill his wife, but the forensic accountant couldn’t say that cash hadn’t been saved up over time and all the contacts made in person.
Parks reads the heavily redacted military reports on Armstrong’s shooting, gathering as much of the story as he can, gleaning from between the lines. Armstrong was meeting an informant who’d been providing solid information to him for several months. Without warning, instead of giving over the latest dispatches, the informant shot him. Armstrong was wearing Kevlar, but the shot came from the side, ricocheted inside the vest, and damn near killed him.
The Army patched up Armstrong and sent him home. A month later, Armstrong’s wife was killed. Had she been targeted to send a message? Something about this theory feels wrong. There is no evidence at all to point to a foreign national as a suspect. Nothing. No demands, no calls, nothing to suggest the child was kidnapped by someone who was planning revenge on the Armstrongs. The case went dead as a doornail within a few weeks, as soon as Vivian Armstrong’s tox screen came back negative for illegal substances.
He flips through the correspondence between husband and wife. There isn’t much—email and a few physical letters—but what is there is kind and loving, excitement about the new baby, lovey-dovey words. Nothing at all to set off alarm bells. The Armstrongs missed each other, cared for each other. Armstrong didn’t discuss his work, didn’t even release where he was. And she didn’t ask.
Typical military household, as far as Parks knows.
The autopsy report is much more interesting.
Vivian Armstrong died from heart failure caused by exsanguination from two stab wounds—one to her right cervical carotid artery, the other to her abdominal aorta. The neck wound was a three-inch slice, just deep e
nough to nick the artery; the stomach a full-on stab, the knife going so deep that it scraped the L3 vertebrae. It was then pulled straight out and tossed to the floor next to her. Based on the wound trajectory, the suspect was most likely right-handed. The victim bled out within four or five minutes. There was no indication Vivian Armstrong struggled or tried to drag herself to safety; the blood pool beneath her was undisturbed. The knife was identified as a Wüsthof Classic eight-inch chef’s knife, part of a set. The slot for the knife was empty in the butcher block. There was a handwritten note from Gorman—Confirmed set purchased in Germany at the PX and brought home by husband as gift.
Everything he sees points to a crime of convenience. Possibly even of passion. The suspect used the closest available weapon instead of bringing their own to the scene.
He flips the pages until he gets to the dictated autopsy report. There is an amendment to the original, and Gorman has highlighted a line. Parks reads it, confused. This is something he hasn’t known or seen before. He can’t remember anyone ever talking about it—granted, he didn’t work the original case, so there was no reason for him to know. But Gorman felt it important enough to highlight. After the fact?
Expanded toxicology panel finds nortriptyline in high doses. Liver test confirms.
Nortriptyline?
He looks it up. It’s listed as a tricyclic antidepressant marketed under the brand name Pamelor. He digs a little deeper, curious. Pregnancy class C.
Vivian Armstrong had been taking an antidepression medication while pregnant. Interesting, but hardly earth-shattering. So why is it highlighted?
Parks speeds through the rest of the file, searching for any other information. He doesn’t find anything, and this is odd. There should be something from the prescribing doctor, at the very least. But Gorman from the grave has nothing more to offer. There are no doctor’s reports, no follow-ups, no more notes. And the evidence list does not show the bottle of medication.
There is a simple explanation—concerned with the immediate problem of finding the child, and the delay in the final toxicology report, a mental illness diagnosis wasn’t followed up on. If they missed this, what else did they miss?
Gorman wasn’t a flighty cop. If he’s marked this, he must have been concerned. It’s worth looking into. In Parks’s experience, psychiatrists keep excellent records.
Where would a military wife go for mental health treatment?
He looks at his watch. He’s been at it all night, it’s nearly 7:00 a.m. Starr should be in. He calls her cell, and she answers on the first ring.
“Are you here?”
“If by here you mean the squad, yes.”
“Good. I’m in the conference room.”
A few minutes later, she knocks and enters, a notebook in one hand and an apple in the other. “You’ve been here all night?”
He rubs his face with both hands. “Yeah. Listen, I just saw something in the autopsy report about Vivian Armstrong being treated for depression. Did anyone ever follow up on that?”
“I did see something, hold on.” She disappears, then comes back with a red folder and a steaming cup of coffee, which she sets in front of him.
“Ah, thank you.” He takes a deep gulp.
Starr flips open the folder. “Yes, she had an antidepressant in her system, but there’s no record of her receiving treatment, no doctor’s bills or anything, so no way to know who was treating her. I was surprised. Do you think this is something?”
“Anything that wasn’t looked at back then is fair game for us now. Gorman highlighted it in his personal file. We should track it down before we leave.”
“Flights a few hours off. You have time to follow this trail. I’m putting together all the files for the Colorado cops. Shout if you need me to run anything down for you.”
“Copy that. Thanks, Breezy.”
He picks up his phone. Vivian Armstrong lived near Vanderbilt—the closest ER to their house. Might as well start there.
53
THE WRIGHTS’ HOUSE
Zack falls asleep without issue after their late dinner, a result of the altitude, he supposes, and is awakened, surprisingly refreshed, at 4:45 in the morning, by Juliet, who is shaking his shoulder.
“Hey, I’m sorry to wake you, but the doctors want to do some testing as soon as possible. Can you get up and come with me?”
“Sure.” He’s awake instantly. He’s always been a morning person, likes the quiet before the dawn when nothing stirs but his memories. He jumps in the shower, dresses, and is downstairs in the kitchen five minutes later. Jasper is there making coffee, and Juliet is feeding Kat, who is gazing at this new goddess adoringly for both taking her for an early morning constitutional and giving her food without asking.
“Traitor,” Zack says to her, rubbing her ears while she scarfs down her kibble.
“Did you sleep?” Jasper asks. He looks like he was up all night, his face puffy and hair standing up in the back.
“I did, thank you. Passed out is more like it. Yesterday was a bit exhausting.” He continues petting Kat. “Do you have a good place for me to leave her? She’s used to sleeping on the couch at my place, but I don’t want her on your good furniture.”
Juliet shakes her head. “No, bring her. Today is going to be rough for everyone, and she’ll be a good buffer. Besides, Mindy won’t forgive you if you show up without her. She loves dogs, and Lauren’s already told her all about Kat.”
“Right. Good plan.”
“We should get going. Here’s a thermos.” Jasper hands him the coffee. He is quieter this morning, thoughtful. So much at stake, Zack thinks. All of our lives are going to change today.
Zack snaps on Kat’s harness, and they troop to the garage. Jasper gets into a silver Audi Q7, and Juliet leads Zack and Kat to her black Xterra. Kat clambers in the back and settles right down. Zack climbs in the front next to Juliet, cracks open the thermos and takes a deep drink.
“Jasper makes great coffee, doesn’t he? I wish he’d show up at my place every morning, carafe in hand.”
“He does.” He takes another sip. “You’re all so very kind. I appreciate it.”
“I don’t know about that. Mindy has been all of our priority for a long time, and especially now. Trust me, once we know how things are going to shake out with her, there will be plenty of drama.”
“I can do without the drama. I’ve had more than enough to last two lifetimes.”
“I don’t know if the media will allow that to happen, Zack. This is going to be a huge story once it gets out.”
“I’d rather it not be. I’m a private person, and with my past...let’s just try to keep things between us for now, okay?”
“I’m fine with that, and God knows Lauren will be, too, but the cops might have another plan. They’re catching a flight this afternoon. I’ve set up an appointment for them later today with my people at the CBI. Now that Mindy’s been found, they’re going to have to look hard at Castillo and her partner, Fuentes, to see how they managed to get her here. Did they have people across the country supplying babies? Was Vivian a casualty of something bigger? We’re going to have to look into everything, Zack. I’m sorry.”
“I want her murder solved as much as everyone else, trust me. But it’s been seventeen years. I don’t see how a few more days will hurt. At least give Mindy and me some time to talk, to get to know each other a little, hopefully.”
“That’s understandable, and I’ll do my best, okay? You’ll be happy to know Lauren told her last night that you were going to be here today. She’s excited to meet you.”
“And I am excited to meet her, too. It feels very strange saying that, I mean that I’m only now meeting my own flesh and blood.”
He stares out the window as they wind down the mountain and cross under the highway into the city of Vail, then take the turn for the hospit
al. He is surprised by how much he likes the architecture of the small city, the stone and timber buildings, the well-placed evergreens, the high-end shops and walking-only streets. There are already a few skiers strolling around in goggles and boots with skis on their shoulders. He assumes they’re gearing up for breakfast before the lifts open, eager to get a jump on the day. A few cars move slowly around the base of the slopes, but they pass through the stoplight then wind around to the hospital without too much delay, arriving at ten after five.
She turns off the engine. “First things first. Let’s go talk to Dr. Oliver and get your blood work done, then Mindy should be awake and ready to talk. She’s an early bird, we won’t be waking her.”
He feels that odd twinge, another similarity. Like me. Vivian was the opposite, always wanting to linger in bed, read the paper, drink some coffee. Zack had usually taken a run, showered, eaten breakfast and started a book before she even woke up.
Of course, that’s when he was home.
All in all, he figures that out of two years of dating and marriage, he’d actually been with Vivian for about four months over the course of that time.
He barely knew her.
She barely knew him.
But they created a brief life together, and once she got pregnant, he planned to ask for a transfer back to base so he could be home with his family. Then she died, and the baby was gone, and he felt like he’d failed her on every level. He’d loved her. But that hadn’t been enough.
And now, half of the biggest mystery of his life is about to be solved. Silently, he asks her spirit for strength.
Kat woofs from the backseat as Juliet gets out of the car. Zack doesn’t move. He is suddenly terrified. He’s clung to the notion of Violet being out there somewhere for so long that the immediacy of knowing she is just inside the walls in front of him makes him want to run away screaming and rush inside and never let her go all at the same time.
What if she hates him? What if she looks at him with disdain, or worse, indifference?
Tear Me Apart Page 24
