by Leslie Wolfe
“Huh,” Michowsky replied. “She’s from my jurisdiction. I knew there had to be a reason why I got involved in this case.”
Doc Rizza gazed at him with a mix of curiosity and amusement. “Since when did you become a predestinarian?”
“A what?” Michowsky asked.
“One who believes that events are predestined or fated to happen a certain way.”
“How did she die, Doc?” Tess asked, unable to take her mind off the young woman’s demise. Only yesterday, she’d been Myra Lambert, a young and beautiful woman, full of life, smiling, living, thriving. And now she was nothing but a lifeless body, covered with a white sheet, cold as death on the coroner’s table.
Michowsky had set up his laptop on the lab table next to the digital microscope. He typed slowly, using only the index and middle fingers from both hands.
“She—” Doc Rizza started, but Michowsky cut him off.
“She was a project manager, working for Southeast Chemical and Paper. It’s a big company, over five thousand employees,” he said, after clicking through a series of screens. “Wow, I didn’t expect that,” he added.
“Didn’t expect what?” Tess asked.
“Look at her,” Michowsky said, his face flushed red. “I thought she was a high-end escort or something.”
“Really?” Tess reacted, her voice a bit higher that she’d wanted. “Just because a woman is beautiful and sexy means she can’t have a brain or use it to make an honest living?”
“No, that’s not what I said,” he rushed to explain. “Statistically, in South Florida, when you see girls like her, they’re usually not project managers. I’d say more than ninety-nine percent of them aren’t.”
Tess let out a frustrated breath of air. She was still angry but had to admit Michowsky had the numbers by his side.
“Let’s focus on the preliminary findings for now,” she said, approaching Myra’s body.
The coroner peeled back the white sheet that covered Myra’s body and exposed her head, neck, and chest.
“As I had suspected, there was far more under the surface than meets the eye,” he said, directing their attention to the screens mounted on the wall.
“Underwater?” Michowsky asked, visibly surprised.
“Under the skin surface.” He displayed a series of photos in hues of blue. “Under certain wavelengths and using a special camera, we can visualize bruises that haven’t had the time to form and discolor the skin. Sort of like seeing tomorrow’s bruises today.”
Tess squinted and approached the wall screen, trying to understand what she was looking at.
“All the dark spots and stains are bruising not yet visible to the naked eye. See here?” he added, pointing at a view of Myra’s neck. “She was strangled repeatedly, with bare hands, like this,” he added, demonstrating on Tess’s neck but without actually touching her. “He was facing her, strangling her multiple times, his thumbs pressing hard on her windpipe.”
“Are we talking sexual asphyxiation?” Michowsky asked.
“That term in my book implies consent, but yes.”
“There’s no way this was consensual,” Tess replied.
“I agree,” Doc Rizza said. “There’s extensive bruising on her arms and legs, her inner thighs, and her buttocks. But that’s not what killed her. My guess is he choked her on and off until she fainted, and he must’ve assumed she was dead. But the official cause of death on my report will be ruptured aorta due to a high-velocity fall.”
“From where? A plane?” Michowsky asked.
“That’s your job to find out, not mine,” Doc Rizza replied with a tired smile. “Mine is to tell you her preliminary tox screen was clear, and that she was sexually assaulted, forcefully and repeatedly. No DNA, though, no trace evidence of any kind, but that’s not uncommon for floaters.”
Tess stared into emptiness. “My mind’s still processing the high-velocity fall in the Gulf of Mexico. How on earth did that happen?”
“My first guess is with Michowsky. She must have fallen, or better said, been thrown from a plane,” the coroner said, taking a seat on a four-legged stool and rolling it closer to the lab table.
“Despite what they show in movies, cabin pressure makes opening a cabin door mid-flight impossible,” Tess replied. She spoke slowly and quietly, her mind still gnawing at the one detail that didn’t let her think of much else. Had there been any other victims?
“Yeah, I believe that’s true for a jet,” Michowsky replied, “but what if it’s a Cessna, or something small, flying low?”
Tess frowned, trying to visualize how the assault could’ve happened in a Cessna.
“Not unless he raped her someplace else and only flew to dispose of the body,” she offered. “But how can you move a body in the middle of an airport, in broad daylight? In a suitcase, maybe?”
No one replied for a long moment.
“Maybe he had access to a private airstrip. That would work,” Tess said. “We have to check if any of those could be in range.”
She looked closely at Myra’s face. None of the anguish of her final moments had marked her delicate features except for the bruising on her jaw and the cut on her lip. Tess closed her eyes and tried to visualize the assault. The heavy blow to her face that had left those marks. That blow must’ve made her dizzy and compliant, so the unsub found it easy to tie her hands behind her back with a cable tie. He came prepared . . . rapists always do. It used to be duct tape and rope, now it’s cable ties. But how do you conduct such an assault on a plane? Where? There’s no physical room, not enough space. Her arms and legs should carry bruises from being crushed against plane seats, even if in a private plane.
But why on a plane? Just because he could then fly them out and drop them in the water to never be found again? That was a good enough reason, but it sounded complicated and expensive at the same time.
So, he’s rich. The cost of a few hours of jet time doesn’t make him flinch.
But then again, how do you open the cabin door of a jet in flight, when you actually can’t?
It’s not how I would do it, Tess thought bitterly. Raping her elsewhere and just hauling her to the plane makes more sense, but even so, it’s risky as hell.
She’d always been able to put herself in the killer’s frame of mind and figure out his process. But this time, she failed to see why he’d choose such a complicated and risky location—an airport filled with potential witnesses and covered entrance-to-tarmac by dozens of video surveillance cameras. The worst possible place to lure a victim to be raped and killed.
Unless the plane meant something to him. Unless it was relevant to his psychopathology somehow.
Or unless the plane was part of his lure. Not many career-minded professionals would say no to a private jet ride with pretty much anybody. Their defenses would be dropped to zero because the private jets usually come with a pilot and a flight attendant. No reason to fear boarding one.
But none of that meant anything because a jet’s door can’t be opened during flight. Period.
How about a transport plane? Military or cargo? That would answer all the questions about loading the body onto the plane and opening the door in mid-flight. Cargo planes do that. But who flies a cargo plane alone?
Still, the most agonizing question was a different one: had there been more victims?
“Doc, how fast do you estimate she hit the water?”
“I’d say close to terminal velocity, about one hundred miles per hour.”
Michowsky whistled. “That kills my backup theory. I was thinking maybe someone lifted her up in one of those parasailing contraptions.”
“Interesting thought,” Tess admitted. “Doc, could that have worked? In that case, we’re looking for a man with access to a fast boat equipped for parasailing, rather than a pilot with a plane.”
“It could have if the line was long enough,” he replied, now typing surprisingly quickly on his keyboard. “Says here that most parasailing lifts to five hu
ndred feet, and a fall from that height won’t reach the velocity I’m talking about. But a fall from a thousand feet would.”
“Could she have fallen from way higher?” she asked. “Like ten thousand feet maybe?”
“She could have. I can’t say definitively, because anywhere after one thousand feet, she would’ve reached terminal velocity and her speed would’ve remained constant at about one hundred miles per hour, maybe one twenty. She was thin, only one hundred and thirty-five pounds, and that puts her terminal velocity at about one hundred and thirteen miles per hour, but wind and currents might’ve had an impact.”
“Did you notice any bruising that could’ve come from her body being slammed against plane seats or manipulated in a narrow space, like you’d expect on a small plane?”
He frowned, thinking for a moment, then he flipped quickly through the bluish images on the wall screen.
“Nothing conclusive. Most bruises can be explained by the assault she endured. These are where he pinned her down,” he pointed at the screen in various places. “These are where he hit her, and those are strangulation marks. But there’s no bruising or trauma of any significance on her back, her ribs, or her legs to support your scenario.”
Damn it, she thought. How the hell did he pull it off? And how was this MO relevant to him?
“Doc,” she asked, “One more question. What exactly happens with a body after falling into the Gulf of Mexico like hers did?”
He straightened his back and rubbed the root of his nose, where his glasses, after being worn for hours, had left deep indentations. “A body will initially sink, if the air can escape the lungs, and descend to the bottom of the water, where crabs and shrimp start doing their work, while putrefaction kicks in. After about three days, there will be enough accumulation of decomp gasses in the abdominal cavity to increase the body’s buoyancy and resurface it. At this time, the skin has been softened enough by water to make it appealing for all kinds of fish. Even some sharks could take a bite, although normally they prefer live prey. And if a storm occurs, that body could soon disintegrate and be completely consumed by marine life.”
“Could there have been others? Like Myra?”
He nodded with sadness. “I hate to say it, but yes, countless others, and we would’ve never been the wiser. This is the closest I’ve come to seeing a perfect murder, at least for the body disposal part of the crime. There’s no evidence, no DNA, and, except this unique streak of luck, no body. What else is there?”
Tess stared at Myra’s pale features, her long, dark chestnut hair settled in luscious waves around her head. “We still have Myra. She’ll tell us her story.”
Myra
“What’s on your mind?” Tess asked, seeing Michowsky’s deep frown and white knuckles on the steering wheel.
They were headed to Myra’s house to perform the most disturbing part of their job: the next-of-kin notification. She always felt a knot in her stomach in anticipation of delivering the message, knowing the devastation such news brings upon a family. She found herself feeling grateful that Myra’s parents were both deceased. Far too many times, she’d told mothers their children weren’t ever coming home.
“It’s nothing,” Michowsky said in a rushed, quiet voice, barely audible with all the noise from the rush-hour highway traffic.
“I would’ve assumed that after so many years of police work, you’d be a better liar,” Tess replied. “Come on, spill it.”
He pressed his lips together in a straight, tense line and shot Tess a quick glance, brimming with frustration. “It’s my daughter,” he eventually said, letting out a long, bitter sigh. “I believe she might be pregnant.”
“Oh,” Tess reacted. “I guess congratulations wouldn’t be in order then?”
“She’s seventeen, for Pete’s sake,” he replied angrily, delivering a blow to the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. “I didn’t know she had a boyfriend. I didn’t even know she was, um, sexually active.” He cussed under his breath, then continued, his words bitter and harsh. “It’s this damn job, taking every piece of soul we’ve got left in us. I’m too old for it, that’s what’s going on, if you really want to know. By the time I get home, I’m happy if I can walk straight and stand for long enough to take a shower.”
“How old are you, partner?” she asked gently, but he didn’t reply, keeping his eyes trained on the busy highway and his hands clenched on the wheel as if he was clinging to it for dear life.
He honked angrily at a driver who was distracted, texting with both his hands while doing seventy miles per hour. Then he flipped on the siren for a second and chuckled when the driver freaked and dropped the phone, then swerved out of the way.
“I should pull his ass over and rid him of that driver’s license,” he said. “These people with their damn phones, more lethal on the roads than anything else.”
“And your damn age too,” Tess said, her voice uncompromising now. “I’d really like to know when I should start saving for a nice flower arrangement for your funeral.”
“Ahh, Winnett!”
“Yeah, it’s me talking to you, while your self-pity party has no place in this vehicle.” She allowed a few seconds to see if he was going to say anything, then continued. “So, what if she’s pregnant? You’re not ready to be a grandpa, is that it?”
“Look who’s talking,” Michowsky replied. “How many kids do you have?”
The unexpected blow silenced her. How was she supposed to explain that after what had happened to her twelve years ago, she wasn’t able to let any man get close. Not until recently, but even that bit of blooming romance had scared her so badly she’d breathed with ease when Fradella was accepted into the Quantico FBI training academy. Michowsky’s old partner was studying to become a federal agent, at a safe distance from Miami. She still didn’t know if she wanted him to return or secretly hoped he’d get assigned elsewhere.
If he came back, would she be able to handle a normal relationship?
She swallowed with difficulty, her throat dry and raspy, constricted by the wave of unsettled emotions Michowsky’s comment had brought to her mind.
“We deserve each other, don’t we?” she asked weakly, feeling defeated.
“You didn’t deserve that, and I’d kick myself if I weren’t driving. When we get there, please slap me hard,” Michowsky said. “I mean it.”
“Nah . . . no need for violence in the workplace,” she laughed quietly. “We have enough of that as it is.”
They drove in silence for another few minutes, the drive through the sun-filled city seeming surreal against the backdrop of what they were set to do, against the vivid memory of Myra’s frozen features on Doc Rizza’s table, a memory Tess didn’t seem to be able to shake.
She’d been someone’s daughter.
“If your daughter’s pregnant, she really needs you now, more than ever,” Tess said. “Be there for her, that’s all I want to say. Stay calm, whatever she decides to do, and yell at me if you really have to yell at someone. I’ll be there for you.”
“She’d not even out of high school yet,” Michowsky mumbled angrily, fueling his own fire.
“How do you know she’s pregnant?”
“She throws up a lot, in the mornings,” he replied. “She spends a lot of time in the bathroom, and I believe she’s gained a little weight. And she’s moody as hell.”
Tess gave him a long stare. “This could be a million other things, partner. A moody teenager? Really? Who spends tons of time in the bathroom?”
“But she’s barfing all the time,” he pushed back. “What’s up with that?”
“Why don’t you ask her?” Seeing his clenched fists on the steering wheel, she added, “Or, better yet, have your wife ask her. She might be better suited to hear whatever is going on.”
Michowsky pulled in at the address, a high-rise building on South Ocean Boulevard. Before he cut the engine, he turned to her and acknowledged with a nod.
“Myra lived with
Stewart Aquilar, a scuba diving instructor,” he clarified, checking his notes. “His DMV records show him at this address for the past two years. Myra owned the apartment.”
“Let’s hope we catch him before he leaves for work,” Tess replied, checking the time with a quick frown.
Stewart Aquilar was home, and he answered the door in red swim trunks, his face partially covered in shaving cream and his hands wet. When he saw Tess’s badge, he withdrew from the door as if he’d seen a monster, while color drained from his face, leaving it almost as white as the shaving cream.
“No . . .” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. He let himself drop against the wall until he reached the floor, his head hung low. “What happened?” he whispered? “Was it the plane?”
He wiped the foam off his face with his hands, then ran his palms against his trunks.
“What plane?” Tess replied, taken by surprise by his question.
He looked up at her with tear-filled eyes. “Did her plane crash?”
“No, Mr. Aquilar,” she replied gently. “I’m sorry to say Myra was murdered.”
He sprung to his feet, approaching Tess so quickly she pulled away. “What do you mean? Who killed her?”
“We’re investigating her death,” Michowsky intervened. “As soon as we know, we’ll be in touch.”
He shook his head again, this time more forcefully, pacing the living room as if looking for something to do to help him make sense of what was going on.
“We have some questions for you, Mr. Aquilar,” Tess said.
“Anything,” he replied, coming to a standstill and facing them.
“When did you notice she was missing?”
“I got worried last night when she didn’t call,” he replied, “When I got out of the water, I saw her missed call and message. I called her back, but we never connected. She was on a business trip in Houston and was supposed to get back late last night. I called her, left a couple of voicemails, but I assumed she’d had an overbooked flight or something. That happened a lot. But this morning, she still hadn’t called, and I’ve been up since five, trying to figure out how to get in contact with her. I was going to go to her office, to ask if anyone knew anything.”
