In less than a minute, she’d be on the air, and she was sweating profusely. Sitting in the studio at VideoLink for her first television appearance in twenty years as a crime reporter, with Philadelphia’s skyline superimposed on the greenscreen backdrop, Kirsten was nervous. Not only were the lights intense in the tiny room, but the air-conditioning seemed to be broken. And while the satellite technology was impressive, the squiggly wire attached to her earpiece was tickling her.
In the hours since she’d sneaked past the police barricades and taken the only picture of Officer Frank Smith’s mud-covered body, Kirsten had become a national figure. She’d talked to the police commissioner. She’d generated millions of Internet hits. She’d sparked a fierce debate on media ethics, but she still couldn’t get a call back from Mike Coletti.
As she waited for the interview to begin, a bead of sweat trickled down her face. She reached up and dabbed it dry with a napkin. Fortunately, her face was devoid of makeup except for a bit of lipstick. Studio makeup was apparently reserved for the truly important. Despite her instant fame, Kristen was not yet among them.
“Five seconds.” The director’s voice came through the earpiece as she stared at the square camera in front of her.
She reached up nervously to adjust her hair and took a last look at the notes she’d jotted down in front of her. Then suddenly the host’s voice was in her ear, and she forgot about her talking points and points of emphasis and everything other than the truth.
He recapped what she’d done and who she was, and as Kirsten tried to focus on what he was saying and what she would say in response, she somehow heard the host welcome her to the show.
“Thanks for having me,” Kirsten croaked, clearing her throat and trying to smile while staring into the camera.
The host spoke a few more words about the murders and asked Kirsten for her impressions on the investigation thus far.
Kirsten took a deep breath and tried to remember that the camera was supposed to be the audience. Then she stared straight ahead and talked until the slight tremor in her voice went away.
“Honestly, I don’t have any real thoughts on the investigation at this point, because I can’t get any of my sources in the department to return my calls. But I do want to say before I go any further that my condolences go out to the victims’ families. I think that’s kind of been lost in all this discussion about media ethics and privacy and everything else. I’m a human being and I can’t help feeling for the families, especially since I’m lucky that I made it out of those woods alive.”
The host stared into the camera with a serious expression. “And for our viewers who don’t know, Kirsten, what exactly happened when you went into those woods?”
Kirsten paused to gather herself. Then she said things she’d never expected to come out of her mouth.
“I think going into those woods changed me in ways I still haven’t quite figured out. Initially it was just about getting the story because I felt like we were being stonewalled by the police. And as you know, sticking to traditional approaches means getting our butts kicked by online outlets that have a no-holds-barred approach to reporting, and—”
The voice in her ear interrupted her. “Does that mean you don’t believe you did anything wrong?”
“It means newspapers, including mine, are threatened with being shut down because our news is old before we even go to press. I’m not saying it’s right. I’m just saying it’s reality.”
“So what do you mean when you say you were changed in those woods?”
“I mean, I went back there initially just to get the facts, you know? But sometimes the story goes way beyond just facts. Things aren’t always black and white. Sometimes, they’re gray, and even though my training as a journalist tells me to reject that type of subjective thinking, what I saw in those woods today changed my mindset. In fact, I think it changed everything about me.”
“Wow,” the host said. “What did you see?”
“Well, I think it’s more important to establish what I didn’t see,” Kirsten said. “I didn’t see any trails or markings at first, which is odd, since it’s not like I was going into the Amazon back there. The part of Sedgley Woods I walked into is pretty tame. There’s a disc golf course back there, so while there are some areas that are pretty dense with fallen trees and vines and the like, I should’ve seen fairly well-traveled paths and markers.”
“And you didn’t?” the voice in her ear asked.
“Not at first,” Kirsten said, looking down at her hands and trying to stop them from shaking. “It was almost like they weren’t there one minute, then the next minute they appeared, and then they were gone again.”
The camera zoomed in as her facial expression said things her mouth never could.
“So what was real and what wasn’t?” the host asked, drawing Kirsten back to the moment.
Kirsten looked up into the camera, smiled nervously, and dabbed at her face with the napkin. “I’ve been wracking my brain trying to figure out how to answer that without sounding completely insane, but the truth is, those woods seemed to change when I was back there. They got darker and denser. Now, part of it might have been the weather. The rain and the dark clouds made it a lot harder to see, but while I was back there, it was almost like I’d been transported to a different place.”
“Are you trying to say—”
“I’m not trying to say anything,” Kirsten said, growing impatient. “I’m telling you that there was something—no, someone—back there behind those trees, but every time I thought I saw him, he melted into the darkness, almost like he’d never been there at all.”
“Forgive me for saying this, but people don’t just melt away.”
Kirsten went from being impatient to being angry. “In twenty years as a reporter I’ve never had my integrity questioned,” she spat, “and I don’t plan to have it questioned now. Not by you, and not by anyone else.”
“Wait a minute, Kirsten, I—”
“Don’t tell me to wait!” she snapped. “You asked me to tell you what I saw, and I’m telling you what I saw! It really doesn’t matter to me what you think about it! I’m the one who risked my life going into those woods, not you!”
As Kirsten ranted, the director cut from the single camera to the split screen. The side-by-side image of an embarrassed host and an angry interview subject was riveting.
“Okay,” the host said, refusing to be shown up on his own show. “Do you have a picture of this person you supposedly saw in the woods?”
“No,” Kirsten said, “and frankly, I resent the implication that I might not have seen him. I know what I saw.”
“Well, why don’t you share what you saw with the rest of us?” the host said, his voice growing louder.
“I saw a man, okay?” Kirsten said, leaning forward in her chair and pointing into the camera. “He was pale, he was tall, and he was wearing a long black coat that looked like something out of the eighteen hundreds.”
“Did you get video?”
“No.”
“Then how are we to believe you saw this man in the woods? How do we know you didn’t just listen to the police description and claim you saw him? Why didn’t you take his picture?”
“I was too busy running!” she shouted as the camera zoomed in on her face. “The man I saw in those woods wasn’t interested in having a chat. He was stalking me, and I’m convinced that if I didn’t keep running, he was going to kill me. Do you understand that? He was going to—”
Kirsten’s voice broke. She covered her eyes with her hand, and tears fell down her cheeks as her shoulders began to shake with sobs.
“Kirsten?” the host said as the camera captured every captivating moment. “Kirsten?”
“I’m all right,” she said, sniffling and wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Kirsten,” the host said, his voice much gentler than it had been just seconds before. “How did you get away?”
She looked into
the camera, her face a portrait of the fear she’d experienced while running through those woods. “Honestly, I don’t know. He was behind me and I ran until I came to a hill. I slid down and tried to run again, but I fell near a tree. A second later, he was right there, almost on top of me. That’s when I screamed. And when I opened my eyes again, the man was gone, and the only thing I saw was a huge black bird flying away.”
“What kind of bird was it?” the host asked.
Kirsten dropped her eyes before staring into the camera once more. “It was a raven.”
“So after this harrowing experience, what’s next for Kirsten Douglas?” the host asked.
She smiled sadly. “I’m going to keep following this story. Not just for me, but for the victims and their families. I feel like I owe them that much.”
CHAPTER 5
The reality of his wife’s death began to hit home for Ellison Bailey as he got dressed for the trip to the ME’s office. He’d spent years avoiding anything that even remotely resembled responsibility. Yet here he was, the only one who could speak on Clarissa’s behalf, because he was the only family she had. The feeling that came with that realization wasn’t one that Ellison relished. It was one that he dreaded.
He’d fought Clarissa for months for the ability to leave and take part of her fortune with him. Now that she was dead and he stood to gain everything he’d sought from her, he didn’t know if he could handle receiving it this way.
Coletti had sensed Ellison’s change in attitude as soon as he got the call from the morgue. Now, as Coletti sat waiting, he wondered if Ellison’s change of heart came from a sense of guilt. He’d have to wait and see.
Coletti’s phone buzzed. He looked at it and saw that it was another call from Daily News reporter Kirsten Douglas. Coletti pressed ignore. Then he called Charlie Mann.
“Are you getting a bunch of calls from Kirsten Douglas?” Coletti asked when his partner answered.
“Yeah, she’s calling everybody. I guess she’s upset because nobody’s talking. Somebody said she was even on CNN saying we were trying to stonewall her. Did you see her?”
“No, but it’s just as well. Did you get the e-mail I forwarded you? It’s the one Clarissa Bailey sent out right before Lenore visited.”
“Yeah, I got it. What do you want me to do with it?”
“Can you see if you can trace that fifth address—the one without a name attached to it?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Mann said.
“How’s our witness?”
“She’s fine. We’ve got a two-man detail over at the Loews with her, and we should have the safe house ready in a little bit. How’s things over there with you?”
“Clarissa’s husband is chock-full of information,” Coletti said. “We’re about to head to the ME now. I’ll fill you in later.”
Coletti disconnected the call just as a freshly scrubbed Ellison came back with two cups of coffee in his hand.
“Would you like a cup, Detective?”
Coletti begged off. Ellison needed it much more than he did, although the fact that he would have to actually look at his dead wife was far more sobering than coffee could ever be.
Ellison gulped down both cups, and a few minutes later the two of them emerged from the house for the ride to the ME.
“I need you guys to follow us,” Coletti said to the two cops who were parked outside in the cruiser. He didn’t say why. He didn’t have to. They all knew that Ellison was a suspect.
Ellison knew it, too, and he looked troubled as he got into Coletti’s car.
“You all right?” Coletti asked.
Ellison nodded. Then he looked out the window as the streets of Society Hill flew by in a blur of bricks and branches. It was funny how beautiful the city could be when one’s senses weren’t dulled by alcohol. It reminded him of the way Clarissa looked when his mind was clear.
Physically, she’d never been alluring. She had wrinkles and sunspots and a face that was unremarkable, but just like the city with its grime and old age, Clarissa was lovely beneath the surface.
Ellison’s mind went back to the way she loved him in spite of himself. She cooked him gourmet meals and smiled as she watched him eat. She rubbed his temples on the days when he was gripped by writer’s block. She told him he was talented although they both knew it was a lie. She cared for him even when he didn’t care for himself.
Now Clarissa was dead, and Ellison was in a police car with a detective looking at him as if he were somehow involved. In truth, Ellison didn’t blame him. He understood why he was a suspect.
In a few minutes, Coletti rounded the bend on Walnut Street and arrived at the building where the medical examiner’s office was located. With the Veteran’s hospital across the street and Penn’s campus just a few blocks away, the gray concrete building, with its flat structure and straight lines, seemed out of place. A gate in front shielded the ramp where the bodies were delivered: most people who drove by had no idea that this place was home to so much death.
Coletti turned into the asphalt driveway and rolled down the ramp to the loading bays. When Ellison looked around at the black vans with the words “Medical Examiner” written on the sides, his face paled. And when he and Coletti got out of the car and walked up onto the platform leading to the back entrance, he was downright afraid.
Coletti watched him carefully. He’d purposely brought him this way instead of taking him to the front of the building. He wanted to see how Ellison would respond to being on a bloodstained platform where the mingled scents of congealed blood and formaldehyde flooded the air.
“The first thing we’re going to do is have you identify her,” Coletti said as they stood on the concrete platform. “Then we’ll talk to the investigator and the doctor about whatever it was they found. You ready?”
Ellison’s face was turning a pale shade of green. The sickening stench was turning his stomach. There was something like grief in his eyes as well. Coletti was relieved to see that. It meant that Ellison had feelings.
The detective rang the bell, and one of the autopsy technicians opened the steel double doors. He was bald and black and had been there for twenty years. He’d seen everything there was to see, including every body that had come in during the Angel of Death case. He was happy to see Mike Coletti.
“What’s up, Old Man?” the technician said as Ellison followed the detective inside. “I thought they’d send that young guy down here again.”
“No, you’re stuck with me, Simon.” The two of them shook hands. “This is Ellison Bailey. He’s here to identify his wife’s body and look at her personal effects.”
“Okay.” The technician went into the small office near the door and took out the book where they documented personal effects. He scrolled down to a number in the second column and wrote it on a slip of paper. A few seconds later, the medical examiner’s investigator came down on the elevator.
“How are you?” the investigator said to Coletti as the technician handed him the paper containing the number.
“I’m fine,” Coletti said, turning to Clarissa’s husband. “This is Ellison Bailey.”
The investigator spoke with practiced sympathy. “I’m sorry to have to meet you under these circumstances, Mr. Bailey, but I’m going to need you to step over here and look up at the monitor when you’re ready.”
Ellison took a deep breath and did as he was asked. A second later, the technician turned on the screen. Clarissa’s face appeared. Her hair only partially covered the stitching around her forehead from one of the autopsy incisions. The other stitching down the middle of her chest was clearly visible. She was lying flat on a gurney, and her gray, mud-flecked hair was spread out around her head. Her face was so white it looked almost blue, and her lips were smeared with black dirt. Ellison felt his legs buckle slightly, but Coletti reached out to steady him.
Clarissa’s husband stared at her dead face for a few seconds more. “That’s her,” he croaked before turning away from th
e screen.
Coletti watched him carefully. He had seen murderous husbands before, and Ellison Bailey didn’t fit the bill. There was clearly something bothering Ellison, though, and it was more than just the smell of formaldehyde.
After Ellison ID’d the body, the investigator went into the office and beckoned for Coletti to join him. The autopsy technician took Ellison into a smaller room where a television was tuned to a Nicole Kidman movie.
The investigator closed the door and turned to Coletti. “Listen, I don’t know how much you want the husband to know, but when the doctor examined Mrs. Bailey, he found gunpowder residue on her right sleeve and some bruising on the webbing between her thumb and index finger.”
“So are you saying…”
“I’m saying that if anybody fired a gun this morning at the cemetery, it probably was Clarissa Bailey.”
Coletti looked confused. “But the crime scene guys didn’t find a gun or bullet casing at the scene.”
“The doctor didn’t find a bullet in her body when he did the autopsy, either,” the investigator said. “All he found was the dirt stuffed down her throat. This is going to be declared a homicide, and the official cause of death will be asphyxiation.”
“No big surprise there,” Coletti said.
“We were surprised by one thing, though,” said the investigator. “Hold on a minute, I’ll get the doctor to show you.”
The investigator went to the back of the room, unlocked a door, and went inside to open the safe where the clothing from homicides was kept. When he returned with Clarissa’s belongings in a paper shopping bag, he gestured for Coletti to follow him.
They left the office and walked down the hall to the back of the building, passing the freezer where the freshly dead shared space with bodies frozen in varying states of decomposition. They passed the autopsy rooms with their stainless-steel tables and scalpels and bone-cutting saws. They walked down the hall with its spotless floors and bright lights, and still, Coletti marveled at the smell of death lingering in the air.
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