by Mary Burton
“Drowned?”
“There is water here. But blood tests will give me a better idea.”
“Drowning has got to be one of the worst ways to die,” Sinclair whispered. “I nearly drowned as a kid, and I’ll never forget the sensation.”
Rokov glanced at his partner, and for the first time, she looked upset. However, a tender word would be met with scorn, so he ignored the comment. “She was drowned in one location, brought to the abandoned restaurant, and staked to the ground.” Rokov made notes in his book.
Dr. Henson continued her autopsy with a vaginal examination. For this Rokov did drop his gaze and waited to hear the doctor confirm what he already suspected.
“She was sexually assaulted,” Dr. Henson said.
Sinclair muttered an oath. “Any semen?”
“No. He was careful to use a condom. I would suggest that, based on the damage, he raped her several times.”
A heavy silence filled the room as she finished taking swabs and then covered up the lower half of the body. When Henson pronounced the autopsy complete, the detectives moved toward the door. They pulled off their scrubs, dumped them in a laundry bin, and moved into the hallway.
Sinclair pressed fingers to her temples. “He’s going to do it again.”
“What makes you say that?”
“He went after her like he was on some damn holy mission. And fanatics on a mission don’t stop at one.”
Rokov often played devil’s advocate. “A bad breakup or divorce. Emotions run hot.”
“Hot? Shit. This goes beyond regular anger and frustration. This is crazy-guy behavior.”
“No argument.” Rokov’s cell buzzed. He removed it from the holster, and checked the caller’s identity. “It’s Kier.”
Detective Malcolm Kier was partnered with the senior member in the unit, Deacon Garrison. Kier hailed from the southern part of the state and last year had married Angie Carlson, Wellington’s associate.
Rokov opened his phone. “Rokov.”
“I got your DMV picture. Where are you?”
“Medical examiner’s office.”
“I’ll send it to your phone.”
“Thanks.”
“The magistrate says if the photo matches this victim, you’ll have your search warrant right away.”
“Good.” His phone beeped. The image of Diane Young’s driver’s license photo appeared on the screen.
He held the DMV photo next to the victim on Dr. Henson’s table. Dark eyebrows, round face, full lips. It was a match.
Rokov raised the phone to his ear. “Tell the magistrate the photo is a perfect match.”
“I’ll get the warrant,” Kier said.
He checked his watch. “It’s past seven so the traffic should be gone. I want to search her place tonight. The sooner we catch this nut, the better.”
Chapter 6
Tuesday, October 19, 7:30 p.m.
The detectives arrived at Diane Young’s house just after ten p.m. Forensic technicians were backlogged at another crime scene but had said they’d follow within the next half hour.
Diane Young lived on the top floor of a three-story brick apartment complex in New Market Apartments off Beauregard Street. The three-hundred-plus-unit complex was constructed mostly of brick and had plenty of grass and well-established trees for shade. Located on the border of the city of Alexandria and Arlington County, it had been built in the late seventies and was considered nice and affordable.
A single light illuminated the top level and the metal doors that led to the four different units. Each of the doors had either a wreath or a welcome sign, including Diane Young’s, which sported a piece of stained glass artwork fashioned into a half-moon.
Rokov pulled on his rubber gloves, and then using the master key from the complex manager, he opened the front door. He flipped on the light just inside the front door. He glanced inside the apartment, taking note of parquet floors that led to a galley kitchen, and then to a dining room.
An eleven-by-fourteen painting featuring the sun and the moon hung on the wall just inside the small foyer, and below it a small table sported a basket and a cell phone charger. No doubt, like him, Diane put her keys in the basket and her phone on the charger in the same place every time when she returned home.
“She’s got a thing for the sun and moon,” Sinclair said.
Rokov nodded. “Records show that she owned a business called Beyond. Apparently she reads horoscopes and tarot cards for Internet customers.”
Sinclair flipped on the lights in the kitchen. A pot rack filled with copper pans dangled from the ceiling, and a rich maple dinette set filled the corner nook. “Looks like business might have been good.”
“According to the city business license department, she made six figures last year. And the business owns three top-of-the-line computers, a scanner, and printer.”
Moving through the kitchen into the dining room, they noted the furniture was made of a rich fine-grained wood. A china cabinet was stocked with fine crystal and china. More paintings on the walls featured the sun and moon theme. They rounded a small corner and into the living room filled with a brown leather sofa, two club chairs, a coffee table, and a wide-screen television. An oval Oriental rug pulled the space together.
The magazines on the coffee table were neatly stacked. Rokov picked up a copy of a fashion magazine. Diane had dog-eared the pages of the articles she wanted to read. Not surprisingly, she’d made notes in the margins on the horoscope page. “JV! Wrong! Too general. Looks like she didn’t have much use for the monthly horoscope column.”
Sinclair picked up another magazine. “She’s done the same here. I guess she was always tracking the competition.”
Other than Diane’s notes in the magazines, the place was eerily put together. Not a pillow was out of place or a picture askew. “She liked things neat.”
Sinclair picked up a picture of Diane and another woman who shared her blue eyes and black hair. “Think this is her sister?”
Rokov glanced at the photo. “Good bet. I’ve got an officer trying to track down next of kin.”
Walking through a victim’s home always left Rokov feeling like the interloper. A week ago, Diane had been alive and well and sitting on this couch, watching TV, eating a snack, and marking up her magazines. Now she lay in the morgue, a Y-incision on her chest, waiting for next of kin to claim her. “Let’s have a look at the back two rooms.”
The first room, listed as the unit’s den, was set up as a bedroom. A twin bed, covered in a silk comforter, hugged one wall. Beside the bed stood a nightstand with a pair of glasses, a half glass of water, and a bottle of sedatives. Pink slippers peeked out from under the bed. The room’s small closet was crammed full of her clothes and shoes.
Rokov picked up the pill bottle made out to Diane Young, prescribed by a Dr. Wexler seven days ago. He opened the bottle. Only three pills remained. “She’s taken more than her share in the last week.”
“What or who could have stressed her?”
“That might be the million-dollar question.”
The next room, considered the master bedroom, had been set up as an office. The walls were covered with astrological charts, stars, moons, and inspirational quotes. In the center of it all was a circular desk equipped with three top-of-the-line laptops. In the corner was a high-capacity printer and fax machine and next to it a shredder. A lush purple carpet warmed the floor, and a pale plum coated the walls.
“So she’s all about tradition in the other rooms, but here it looks a little like a mystic’s shop.”
“That’s what she was for lack of a better description.” He sat down in Diane’s chair and glanced at the blotter covered with jotted notes. Most of the notes were restaurant names and numbers. “Most of these places offer takeout. I bet she almost never cooked.”
“Welcome to my world.”
Rokov shook his head as he clicked on the computer. The screen popped up and immediately requested a password. “L
ooks like we’ll have to wait for the computer guys to do their thing.”
Rokov heard the squeak of the front door and immediately he and Sinclair drew their weapons and moved toward the hallway. Adrenaline popped and snapped through his body. Forensics was expected but he never assumed a visitor was a friend until confirmed. It wouldn’t be the first time a murderer had returned to collect damning evidence.
“Hello! Diane. Are you here?”
The woman’s tentative voice gave him pause as it bounced off the walls and down the hallway. The voice was tinged with fear and worry.
Rokov rounded the corner, his gun in hand. “Alexandria Police. Identify yourself.”
The woman screamed and jumped back. Her gaze darted between Rokov and Sinclair. “Who are you?”
Immediately, he recognized the woman from the framed photo on Diane’s end table. He lowered the tip of his gun but maintained a firm grip. “Alexandria Police. I’m Detective Rokov and this is my partner, Detective Sinclair. Please identify yourself.”
Dark hair swept over narrow shoulders and accentuated pale, pale skin. Frown lines etched her forehead, and her lips were drawn and thin. “I’m Suzanne Young. I’m Diane’s sister. What are you doing here?”
Rokov let out a breath and lowered his gun. He pulled out his badge and showed it to her. “Ma’am, may I see some identification?”
He tucked his badge back in his pocket as she fumbled in a sac purse and dug out a black wallet. With trembling fingers, she pulled out her driver’s license and handed it to him. Her name was listed as Suzanne Elizabeth Young, aged twenty-six of Arlington, Virginia. He handed the license back to her and holstered his weapon. Sinclair did the same.
Suzanne gripped the wallet in her fist as she stared at them. “What are you doing in my sister’s apartment?”
“Why don’t you come into the living room and have a seat?” Sinclair said. The detective could hold her own with the department’s toughest cop or face down any assailant and still possessed a surprising knack for dealing with victims and their families.
“Lady, I do not want to sit down,” Suzanne said. Tears welled in her eyes. “What are you doing here?”
Death notices were never easy, and Rokov had learned years ago from a veteran detective to make them as quick as possible. “Ms. Young, your sister’s body was found early this morning in an abandoned building. She’d been murdered.” The gruesome details would eventually be revealed to Suzanne, but for now he’d spare her.
Tears spilled down her cheeks. “What do you mean, she’s dead? You’ve got it wrong. Diane cannot be dead.”
“We’re very certain, ma’am,” Rokov said.
“How can you be certain?”
Sinclair stepped toward her. “She was wearing a very distinctive red jacket. We located the seller, and he gave us your sister’s name. The woman we have in the morgue matches your sister’s DMV photo.”
“You could have made a mistake.”
“It’s no mistake. We’ve taken prints and plan to match them to ones found in this apartment.”
Suzanne dragged trembling hands through dark hair that looked so much like her sister’s. “There has got to be a mistake.”
“No mistake,” Rokov said.
She looked to the picture taken of the two sisters. Her eyes brightened as if clinging to a happier memory. “We had that picture taken this past summer. Diane almost never got out of her apartment and I was able to coax her out. We went into Washington, had lunch, and saw a show.”
“You said she didn’t go out much?” Rokov said.
“Her work kept her busy.”
Sinclair closed the gap between her and Suzanne and cupped her elbow with her hand. “Come and sit down. Let me get you a glass of water.”
Suzanne allowed the detective to lead her onto the living room sofa. Rokov went into the kitchen and pulled a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water. He moved into the living room and handed it to Suzanne, who accepted it with trembling hands. She made no move to drink the water but held the glass tight. Pale and fragile would have described her best right now.
“Can you tell us a little bit more about what your sister did?” Rokov took a seat in one of the club chairs. Knowing his height could be intimidating, he leaned forward and dropped his gaze a fraction.
“She ran a website.”
“Beyond,” Sinclair said.
“That’s right. She read cards and did charts. She’d become widely popular in the last year. Hits on her site were over a half a million last month.”
Rokov had never heard of Beyond, but knew that rate of visitation would have put her on a lot of people’s radar. “Is that why she didn’t go out much?”
Her gaze shifted slightly as she stared at the water glass. “She said it was the work that kept her here in the apartment. She said she always had more and more requests to fill. She said it was all she could do to keep up.”
“But work wasn’t the only reason she stayed in the apartment.”
When Suzanne raised her gaze, he knew he’d hit a nerve. “It started a couple of years ago.”
“What started?” he coaxed.
“She got more and more nervous about driving on the Beltway. She said the traffic was driving her nuts. That’s when she founded Beyond. She’d work on the site on weekends and evenings. It seemed to really calm her nerves so I thought it was great. And then the site took off and she was able to quit her job as a secretary and devote all her time to it. She was so happy that I didn’t really put two and two together. Then one day I asked her if she wanted to get lunch in two weeks, and she said she’d likely have far too much work to make it. That’s when I realized she had a problem.”
“There were sedatives on her nightstand.”
“She needed those to sleep and to just walk to the mailbox.”
“The bottle was almost empty.”
“She’d said on the phone last week that she’d been considering meeting one of her clients for a date. He e-mailed her a lot, and she was kinda falling for him.”
“You know who this guy was?” Rokov said.
“No. She just mentioned him in passing. He said he wanted to take her to the carnival that had just arrived in town. He was really into astrology and energy healing. It never occurred to me that she’d really go on a date.” Suzanne shook her head. “I should have pushed this homebound thing more with Diane. I talked to several doctors about her and even a lawyer. They all said she was over twenty-one, was working steadily, and didn’t appear to be a danger to herself. They said there wasn’t anything I could really do unless she tried to hurt herself.”
“She ever try to hurt herself?” Rokov said.
“No. Never. Diane really did enjoy this world she’d created. Here, she said, she was the queen.”
Someone or something had coaxed her outside. “Did she have any tattoos?”
“Yeah. A few. She had a snake on her arm and two bands around her ankle. There is also a long string of stars tattoo at the base of her spine.”
All matched the autopsy findings. “Any words?” “Like what?”
“Any kind.”
“No.”
“When we found your sister, she had the word Witch tattooed on her forehead.”
Suzanne frowned. “Diane did not have the word Witch on her forehead. Are you really sure you have the right person?”
“Yes, ma’am. Very sure.” Had Diane summoned the courage to get out of her apartment in the last week and get the tattoo or had the killer done it?
“She had a thing about the skin on her face. It was part of her getting out of the house problem. She didn’t want the sun to ruin her skin. She took pride in how smooth and pale it was.” Her eyes watered up again. “Do you think whoever killed her did that to her?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
“How did she die?”
“She was drowned.”
“What? She doesn’t even swim. She hated the water a
nd never goes near it.”
“That’s what the autopsy revealed.”
She closed her eyes and shook her head. “This doesn’t make sense. Why would anyone want to hurt Diane? She had her quirks, but she was kind.”
“Do you happen to know the password for her computer?” Rokov said.
“It’s 1985diane. The year she was born plus her name.”
“I’d like to have a look at her computer and see if I can open her e-mails.” The question was a courtesy. With or without her permission, he was going to look.
“Sure. Go ahead.”
As he rose, Suzanne moved to stand as well. “Why don’t you stay here with Officer Sinclair?”
Sadness and sincerity rolled off her. “I might be able to help.”
“I appreciate that. Really. But until I know what I have, it’s better that I have a look first.” He felt for Suzanne Young, but at this point he didn’t know much about her or her relationship with her sister. And until he understood the players, he’d maintain strict control.
As he moved down the hallway, Suzanne’s soft weeping followed him. He sat at Diane’s desk and typed in the password. It worked and in seconds the main desktop screen appeared.
The desktop had twenty folders. Tarot. Horoscope. Clients. The Star. Moon. It would take hours if not days to dig through all that she’d created.
He opted to open the e-mail and see who’d been talking directly to her. He hit Get Mail and waited for the latest messages to load. If Diane had been dead twenty-four to thirty-six hours, it had been at least that long since she’d checked her messages. It took nearly a minute for all the messages to load, and by the time the ticker had stopped counting, he had over one thousand two hundred unread messages. He sat back in his chair. The last time she’d checked messages had been Friday, October 15. She’d died on Monday night. Had the killer held her for three days?
He arranged the messages in alphabetical order and scanned to see who had sent her the most messages. This wasn’t necessarily going to give him the killer’s contact information, but it was a place to start. The top three contenders for the most e-mail were CelticLove2, SmithAB, and Wolf-Woman Six. He opened the last message from CelticLove2.
