“Maybe. Give a call.”
Decker stared at the picture. “He looks younger than she is.” He continued to study the picture. “Of course!” He slapped the photo. “They look alike. The eyes, the lips . . . the identical smile.”
McAdams stopped what he was doing and looked at the picture. “Right. Brother and sister.”
Decker didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “Look at Katrina’s face for a moment, Harvard. Tell me what you see.” When McAdams picked up the glam shot, Decker said, “No, put that down and look at the ski snapshot. Who does she look like besides the guy standing next to her in the picture?”
McAdams studied her face. “Are you thinking Mallon Euler?”
“Same long face, roughly the same height. Belfort’s build is bigger, but under a hoodie you couldn’t tell that. If she was covering all that long hair, I think she could easily pass for Mallon.”
“If it was Katrina who broke into Mallon’s room, what could she be looking for?”
“Maybe she thought that Mallon might have a copy of Eli’s papers. Or maybe she was trying to spook Mallon?”
“But why?”
“I don’t know. I’m just shouting out suggestions.” Decker held up the phone. “Let’s see what Ryan has to say, if anything.”
The line was connected, and after four rings, it went to her voice message.
You’ve reached Ryan, you know what to do.
Beep.
“This is Detective Peter Decker of the Greenbury Police Department. Please call me back as soon as you get this message.” He recited his cell number and hung up the phone. He pointed to the computer. “Did you find anything worthwhile in that hunk of metal?”
“Not yet. I’d probably have more success if I took it with me and studied it in your house.”
“We shouldn’t take it home. It’s evidence.”
“One night.”
“We’ll deal with that later. Right now let’s have a look around. Make sure we haven’t overlooked a crime scene.”
“You don’t think she was killed in the woods?”
“She might have been poisoned here and dragged into the woods. If that were so, the house would be the primary crime scene. How about if you rummage through the kitchen and bathroom cupboards and cabinets and see what kind of pills and poisons are lurking about. I’ll check out the living room and bedroom, go through the drawers, and look for signs of a struggle.”
“Everything looks pretty darn neat, Deck.”
“That’s why I said I’ll look for signs of a struggle, Harvard. I’m searching for all the tiny cracks. Eventually I’ll find a leak. With crime, there’s no such thing as watertight.”
CHAPTER 18
SOME PEOPLE MAINTAINED neat rooms in their public spaces, but the drawers and closets of their bedrooms were dumping grounds. Not so with Katrina Belfort. Her desktop was clear except for the computer and monitor and everything stored below had been organized. While McAdams poked around in her bedroom, Decker pulled out the drawers’s contents and sifted through the printed matter. He mostly found bills, old receipts, and bank statements organized by dates and categories. All of the amounts going in and out suggested a reasonable life. Her academic work was contained in the bottom two drawers—papers with indecipherable formulas except to those in the know—and two neatly typed-up articles, both of them having to do with longitudinal studies of stock prediction using fast Fourier transforms. There were also a few cover letters to academic journals, explaining her topic and submitting her work for publication.
There were no personal letters, but people often correspond in texts, tweets, and e-mails. He hoped her phone and computer would divulge some hints as to what had happened in the woods.
A half hour later, McAdams emerged from the bedroom, holding a sheet of paper with a latex-gloved hand. “I think you need to see this.”
He handed the paper to Decker. Smack in the middle of the sheet were the lines
I can’t go on anymore. The pain is too much.
It was typed using the same font and letter size as Belfort’s peer-review articles: Times New Roman with a magnification of twelve.
“Where’d you find this?” Decker asked.
“In a nightstand drawer. Just opened it up and there it was,” McAdams said. “It’s rather nonspecific for a suicide note.”
“First thing I’m interested in is what kind of pain. Did you go through the bathroom yet?”
“I did.”
“Did you find any prescription medication?”
McAdams took out his notebook. “Aleve, Tylenol, Claritin, Benadryl, Sudafed, vitamins—organic, by the way. One vial of erythromycin with two tablets inside . . . she didn’t finish her course, bad girl.”
“So there was nothing to suggest that she was on pain relievers for a physical condition. Anything to suggest psychological pain? Anxiety or depression medication?”
“Just what I told you, boss. She was on birth control. It might suggest a boyfriend even if there were no pictures of him in her house.”
“Sure. We need to explore it further. What about illegal stuff?”
“As a matter of fact, she had some loose joints in a plastic bag in her nightstand—the one not with the note.”
“How many joints?”
“A half dozen. I counted them. More recreational user than dealer.”
“I agree. What about poisons?”
“Nothing in the bathroom, although I suppose you can OD on Sudafed or Benadryl, especially if you mix it with booze.”
“I haven’t checked the kitchen yet. Maybe she was a secret boozer.”
Since the house was open plan with no walls, the living room, the dining room, and a tiny kitchen were all one space. McAdams started by looking in the pantry while Decker opened the refrigerator. Inside were a half gallon of milk that hadn’t reached its expiration date, ditto with the orange juice, fresh fruit and salad vegetables in the bin, fresh cheese, and several packages of deli meat. Decker smelled it—nothing rotten or off. He checked the freezer, which was equally well stocked: frozen juices, fruits, pie crusts, cookies, lots of boxes of one-dish meals like lasagna, pot pies, stews, and several cartons of chicken breasts with green beans and roasted potatoes.
“There’s about a half-dozen wine cartons in the pantry. Two Buck Chuck. Also two used bottles of whiskey. Chivas and Jim Beam, which is bourbon actually.”
“What about under the sink?”
McAdams squatted. “Dishwashing liquid, Cascade, sponges, Drano . . .” He opened the bottle. The chemicals burned his eyes. “Looks full. Nothing here suggests depression.” He stood up and stretched. “Nothing suggests that this woman’s life was falling apart.”
“And yet something in her life got her killed. If we think the note was faked, we have to figure out who would fake it and who would type it out on her computer. It has to be someone she knew well. Tyler, do you think you’ll be able to hack into her computer?”
“I honestly don’t think so, but I’ll give it the old college try.”
“Okay, let’s do this. Detach the keyboard and the mouse from the computer. I want our crime scene unit to dust it for prints. If it hasn’t been tampered with, we might get something beyond smudged prints. We’ll take the desktop to the station house after we’ve dusted the on/off button for prints. Keep at it for a while. See if you make any headway. I’ll meet you there and I’ll pick up dinner for us. Just give me a little time.”
“Last winter the station house at night was one step above an igloo.”
“The heat’s been fixed to the point where you have to open a window to breathe. You’ll be fine.”
“You know, if things were permanently deleted from her files, I know I won’t be able to recover them. But a pro could possibly recover the files from the hard drive if they weren’t written over.”
“If we have to, we’ll hire a pro. Just do what you can. Take the computer in the car. I’ll walk into town, get some grub, and mee
t you back at the station house.”
“Why don’t we just go together? Or are you not done yet?”
“I think she was shot in the woods. But I also think she might have been knocked out and dragged up there before she was shot. I want to look around for evidence of a struggle here—in the house.”
“The place is spotless.”
“I know. And it doesn’t reek of disinfectant. It could be that there wasn’t enough blood spilled in the house to warrant a wholesale cleanup of bleach. Maybe just a roll of paper towels was sufficient. All I’m saying is that if she was murdered here, I’ll find evidence.”
“Want me to stay and help?”
“Thanks but no. You crack the computer, Harvard, and I’ll do the searching. Let’s play to our strengths.”
ARTIFICIAL ILLUMINATION WASN’T daylight. Each had their advantages and worked in different spectrums. Something visible in daylight often blended into surroundings under a lightbulb and vice versa. It was always advisable to look at the scene under all sorts of conditions.
The house took on a cozy quality at night—the neatness, the fireplace, the pillows and throw blankets. The wood floors were recently swept and the tabletops were dust-free. Even the picture frames were polished. The rule of thumb was that women kill in the kitchen, but are killed in the bedroom. So that’s where Decker started his search.
His cell rang . . . a number he didn’t recognize. “This is Decker.”
“Detective Decker?”
“Yes. Who am I talking to?”
“Ryan Belfort. You asked me to call you right away. Is my sister all right?”
“Mr. Belfort, where are you calling from?”
“My office. What’s going on?”
“Where is your office, sir?”
“Manhattan. You’re making me nervous.”
“Mr. Belfort, I’m so sorry to tell you this, but your sister has died—”
“Oh my God! What the hell happened?”
“Mr. Belfort, this conversation would be best face-to-face. Is it possible for you to come up north to Greenbury?”
His voice became a whisper. “I just spoke to her yesterday.”
“When?”
“Around four in the afternoon. This is insane. I can’t . . .” His voice faded into silence.
“What about your parents, Mr. Belfort? If you give me a numb—”
“It’s just Kat and me. Our parents died in a car crash six years ago. Kat was both mother and sister to me.” His voice cracked. “What happened? Was it an accident?”
“No, it wasn’t. Right now we’re ruling it a suspicious death.”
“Murder?”
“Murder or suicide—”
“Suicide’s impossible!”
Emphatic in his statement. Decker said, “Why do you say that?”
“Kat wasn’t suicidal. If anything, she was happier than I’d seen her in a long time. She liked her job. She liked living in a small town. She liked her students. She was impressed by their intelligence.”
“Did she mention specific names of students?”
“No, she didn’t. Do you think it was one of her students?”
“We’re not sure. Did she talk to you about her students?”
“Just to say it was a diverse group and she liked that. I can’t fucking believe . . . this is fucking nuts! You can’t tell me anything?”
“I’d like more information before I put my neck out there. I don’t want to mislead you or tell you something wrong. I promise you when I know more, you’ll know more. And it would be beneficial to talk to you face-to—”
“This is just . . . horrible.” He was quiet. “I’m stunned.”
“Mr. Belfort, was your sister with your parents when they had their car crash?”
“No, she wasn’t.”
“Do you know if she had been suffering from physical pain?”
“Physical pain?” A pause. “As far as I know, she was at the peak of health. We went skiing about a month ago. We’re both avid skiers.”
“And what about emotional pain—depression or anxiety.”
“Everyone gets depressed or anxious from time to time.”
“I’m talking about something crippling—”
“It wasn’t suicide! I’m positive!”
“I have to ask these questions. I’m sorry if they touch a nerve. You said she liked her students. What about other relationships? A boyfriend, maybe?”
“If there was, she didn’t say anything to me about it. I do know there was a fling around three years ago—Jason Logan. He was a math professor at the University of Maryland. The breakup was cordial. She wasn’t serious about him. He was twenty years older and married. I wasn’t happy that she was involved with a married man, but as far as I knew, it didn’t get in the way of her life.”
“Okay.” Decker was writing as fast as he could. “And as far as you knew, they were no longer in contact.”
“They weren’t in contact. Kat would have told me if they were.”
“Has she mentioned anyone else in the last three years?”
“Not really. She always told me that once she was hired as faculty, she was too busy with her research to pursue relationships. Do you have evidence that says differently?”
“No, I don’t. What about friends?”
“I wouldn’t know. I suspect she was too busy for intrusive friendships.”
“Can you think of anyone who might want to do her harm, sir?”
“No one.”
“And you’re pretty certain she wasn’t in any . . . compromising relationship?”
“I couldn’t swear, but I don’t think so. I will tell you this. She wasn’t depressed!”
“Is there any way that you could come up to Greenbury, Mr. Belfort?”
“To claim the body? I suppose I’ll need to do that.”
“We’re not ready to release the body.” God no, they weren’t ready to do that. There was no way Decker was going to tell him about the mutilated corpse until he had to. “I’d still like to speak to you in person.”
“Is it absolutely necessary?”
“It would be helpful,” Decker said.
“It’ll have to wait until the weekend. I’m in the middle of litigation and the office is crazy now. Is there any way you could come down to New York City?”
“Possibly on Sunday. Would that work?”
“Possibly. Call me on Sunday.”
“Thank you, Mr. Belfort. I’m sorry, but I do have to ask you where you were last night. I need to eliminate you as a suspect.”
A bitter chuckle. “I was in the office until eleven, and then I went home and went to bed around two. As I said, we have some pressing litigation.”
“Anyone that can verify your whereabouts?”
“At the office, I had to sign out of the building. Home? As far as home, the night doorman was on duty. George Ellison. You can call him if you must.”
“Thank you for your cooperation and for answering my questions. And again, I’m sorry for your loss.”
Belfort paused. “Detective, I don’t know every single detail of her life. But I do know as surely as the sun rises in the east that Kat didn’t kill herself.”
Decker took in a deep breath and let it out. “That’s why I asked you if your sister had enemies . . . who might hold ill feelings toward her.”
His voice dropped to a whisper. “No idea whatsoever. But you’d better find him before I do.”
“Sir, Mr. Belfort, leave the case to—” He stopped talking when he realized he was speaking to a dial tone.
CHAPTER 19
DECKER MADE TWO lists.
Why it could be suicide:
1. Single shot to the head. Bullet from the gun? Probably.
2. A suicide note.
3. No evidence of another crime scene—yet.
4. Her house was in order . . . TCB before she left the planet?
5. Recent suicide of Elijah Wolf. Did she do a copycat? Was it relate
d?
Why suicide is doubtful:
1. No evidence that Katrina’s life was falling apart. Home of a clear-thinking individual (see number 4 why it could be suicide).
2. The single gunshot to the head was at an odd angle for a suicide.
3. The removal of her clothing. An attempt to make the suicide look like Elijah Wolf’s death? If she had PCP in her system, it could have elevated her temperature and she took her clothes off. Check with toxicology report.
4. No mention from students or colleagues of drug or alcohol abuse. Probe this angle.
5. Suicide note was nonspecific: staged?
He read over the lists several times. If there was anything that suggested the slaying happened inside the house—and that would include OD or poison—Decker was determined to find evidence. He carried two pairs of glasses with him. One was for reading print that was too small for his older eyes. The other pair had even greater magnification. He used that pair when searching for clues. He gloved up, snapping the fingers into place, and went to work.
With the exception of the kitchen and bathroom, there was wood flooring throughout, covered by scattered area rugs. He put on his evidence glasses and searched the wood for scratches and bleached spots where someone might have wanted to scour and scrub away blood. When he didn’t find anything obvious, he moved to the area rugs. Squatting, he hunted around for wet spots. Nothing. Then he stood up and carefully moved furniture off the rugs. Then he lifted the rugs and checked the padding underneath. Nothing damp or sticky. He checked the upholstery on the couches and chairs, removing pillows and cushions to view and feel the framework, but found that everything was utterly normal.
Next he moved on to the small tiled kitchen that led to the back door. The floor looked clean and dry over the grout. Even so, he sprayed the small surface area with luminol and turned off the lights. There were intermittent spots of neon blue, but these kinds of markings were more associated with tiny bits of animal matter that also glowed under luminal. So did some food products. A gun shot wound or a stabbing would have lit up the floor.
Decker moved on to the bedroom. He checked the current bed linens: dry. He pushed aside a queen-size mattress to look and feel underneath the springs: dry. He checked out the bathtub for yanked-out tufts of hair in the trap: relatively clean. He sprayed luminol inside the tub to see what hadn’t been washed away. Again, the bath held a few muted spots here and there that were more likely to be dead skin than fresh blood.
The Theory of Death Page 16
