by Lauren Carr
Holding up her hands, Jessica shook her head. “I think I need to make you aware that Murphy is investigating Maureen Clark’s murder. All this stuff you’re telling me, I would need to pass on to him to help him with his case.”
Paige Graham’s mouth dropped open. Her eyes grew big. She dropped her margarita glass down onto the bar. “Seriously? Why would a navy lieutenant be investigating the murder of an army officer’s wife?”
“One of the victims was a naval petty officer,” Jessica said. “Evidence indicated that she was targeted so the navy took the case.”
Blinking, Paige turned to Natalie. “Did you know this?”
Natalie shook her head.
“Where is Murphy in this investigation?” Paige asked.
“I don’t know,” Jessica said. “He doesn’t discuss his work with me.”
“Well, needless to say,” Paige said, “many of the wives in the club are very nervous about this. If there’s anything that you can tell us, or that Murphy can tell you that you could pass on for me to offer—”
“It’s an active investigation,” Jessica said.
“It can be off the record.”
“No, Murphy can’t tell me anything,” Jessica said in a firm tone. “I’m sure you understand. How much can Sebastian tell you about his work?”
Paige’s eyes grew dark.
Slipping her hand over to grasp Paige’s wrist, Natalie said, “Jessica just said that the naval petty officer was the target. Considering that Mrs. Clark was an army officer’s wife, I think it is safe to assume that there was no connection between these two women. You could tell the wives in the club that sadly, most likely, Mrs. Clark’s murder was a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.” She offered a reassuring smile at both Jessica and Paige.
After a long silence, in which Jessica and Paige regarded each other, the older woman finally forced a smile on her face. “Sounds good to me.”
“Me too,” Jessica replied.
After slapping her cell phone down on the counter, Paige dug into her handbag for a business card.
Draining the last of her margarita, Natalie set down her glass. “How about if we go to the marina for lunch?”
“Oh my, I’m afraid I can’t join you ladies,” Paige announced while checking the screen of her cell phone. “I forgot all about a meeting with the literacy council. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask for a rain check.” After slipping off the bar stool, she slapped a business card on the counter. “Jessica, please be a dear and do keep me informed about your husband’s investigation—”
“But—” Jessica tried to argue.
“As a favor from one officer’s wife to another,” Paige said while rushing to the door. “We all have to stick together.” With a slam of the door, she was gone.
A long silence stretched between the two remaining women. With the arch of an eyebrow, Jessica cocked her head at the admiral’s wife.
“Paige Graham is an organizational whiz. Would you believe she chairs no less than five non-profit organizations?”
Shifting her weight to her other high-heel, Jessica arched the opposing eyebrow at her.
Shoving the empty margarita glass in her host’s direction, Natalie asked, “How about another round for the road?”
Chapter Twelve
Walter Reed Hospital: Morgue
Unlike the average person, Murphy Thornton was familiar with morgues and what happens during an autopsy. His second cousin, Dr. Tad MacMillan served as the medical exami`ner for Hancock County in his hometown of Chester, West Virginia. That being the case, Murphy had tagged along with his father to visit Tad at the morgue on more than one occasion.
In his fifties, Dr. Tad MacMillan was still a handsome, distinguished man who had an earned the reputation of being a ladies man—until he married in his late forties. Before settling down with a wife and baby, he rode motorcycles and lived simply in an apartment over a garage, even though he was the doctor to most of the citizens of his small town.
Therefore, when Boris introduced him to Dr. Walter Reed, the military’s medical examiner, Murphy’s shock was due to preconceived impressions left by his second cousin about what M.E.’s were like.
Connecting the name of the medical examiner to the hospital where they stood, Murphy looked down at the stooped over, gray-haired man who peered up at him from over his bifocals.
After a beat, the medical examiner replied to Murphy’s unspoken question, “No relation.”
“Huh?” Murphy uttered.
“To the Walter Reed this hospital is named after,” the old man said while peering up into Murphy’s face. “I’m no relation. Total coincidence. Though, it could be the higher up’s sense of humor that they gave me the job.”
When Dr. Walter Reed stood up on his toes to examine his face more closely, Murphy backed up a step.
“Did Hamilton say your name was Thornton?” Dr. Reed asked.
“Yes,” Murphy said, “Lieutenant Murphy Thornton.”
“Thornton?” Dr. Reed murmured while cocking his head to and fro. Magnified by the thick lenses of his eyeglasses, his eyes blinked repeatedly while he studied Murphy’s face.
Struck with a thought, Murphy opened his mouth at the same time Dr. Reed asked, “Was your father in the navy? JAG!”
“Joshua Thornton.” Murphy nodded his head with a grin. “Commander Joshua Thornton.”
With a crippled finger, Dr. Reed tapped Murphy on the chest. He smiled so broadly that his face wrinkled up into a maze of smile lines. “I knew your father. From West Virginia.”
“That’s right.”
“You’re the spittin’ image of him.” With a chuckle, he turned to Boris. “There’s no basis for denying paternity here. Jury would take one look and know which tree this nut fell from.”
Boris joined in the old man’s laughter while Murphy’s cheeks turned pink. Embarrassed wasn’t the word to describe his feelings. He was proud when compared to his father, whose reputation was long remembered in the navy.
“Brilliant man,” Dr. Reed said while nodding his head up and down. “Are you a chip off the old block?”
“I hope so.”
“We’ll see.” With a wave of his hand, he gestured for them to follow him out of his office into the morgue, where he had five gurneys filled with bodies covered with white sheets.
Several inches shorter than Murphy and Boris, Dr. Reed moved with the speed and grace of a giant turtle. His stooped back gave him the appearance of one standing upright on its hind legs.
Anxious to find out if the doctor had learned anything during the autopsies, Murphy had to rein in his impatience, while following the medical examiner to the first gurney. There he picked up a clipboard that hung from a hook on the side of the metal table.
“Donna Crenshaw,” the medical examiner read. “Shot five times. Forty-five caliber slugs. They broke up upon impact. No useful parts for ballistics comparisons, I’m sorry to say.”
“Were the bullets hollow-point?” Murphy asked.
“Not just hollow-point,” the doctor replied. “Hollow-cavity. From looking at the bits that I removed from Ms. Crenshaw, the hollow dominated the volume of the bullet to cause extreme expansion or fragmentation upon impact.”
“Not the average twenty-two that a lady would carry for protection against a carjacker,” Boris said.
“More like a pro looking to make sure his target didn’t survive,” Murphy said.
Dr. Reed tottered around to the next gurney. “Same type of bullets were used on Francine Baxter. None of the fragments were whole enough for a ballistic comparison, but the way the bullets broke up, in my professional opinion, they were the same type. Most likely the same weapon was used.”
Murphy moved around to the last three gurneys. “But the killer poisoned these three?”
“Sodium M
onofluoroacetate,” Dr. Reed stated in a tone devoid of emotion. “Colorless, odorless and tasteless poison used to kill rats and coyotes. All three ingested enough to kill a grizzly bear.”
“There was a punch bowl at the scene,” Murphy said.
“Could have been in that,” Dr. Reed said. “The poison would have acted in less than an hour from ingesting it. The symptoms generally progress from fairly benign–abdominal pain, nausea, sweating, and confusion–to alarming–muscle twitches and seizures–to life-threatening–cardiac abnormalities.”
“In which case, in a somewhat social setting, they would not have realized they had been poisoned until it was too late,” Murphy said. “Each of them would have suffered nicely thinking she’d just come down with a slight bug—until she saw one of the other women collapse.”
“Why?” Boris asked. “Why not shoot them like—”
“Because it was only one killer,” Murphy said while slowly shaking a finger at each one of the three gurneys. “There were three of them.” He rushed over to the gurney containing Francine Baxter’s body. “Our killer got to Francine’s home early. Shot her. And then answered the door when the others arrived.”
“Wouldn’t they think something was up if someone other than Francine Baxter answered the door, especially if they were conspiring against someone capable of doing this?” Boris asked.
“Could have pretended to be Francine’s husband,” Dr. Reed said. “My wife is always running out to get ice cream or something or other right before the book club comes over. So there I am answering the door and entertaining the old hens until she gets back.”
“Francine Baxter was a widow,” Murphy said.
“But according to our information, none of these women knew each other,” Boris said. “So the killer could have used any cover to explain his being there. Brother. Friend. Neighbor.”
“Could have even claimed to be Francine herself,” Murphy said. “Killer could have been a woman. If she was pretending to be the hostess who was a partner in their cause, they would have trusted her enough to drink the punch packed full of poison—”
“They all drank it,” Boris said. “They died.”
“But Donna Crenshaw was running late,” Murphy said. “The killer intercepted her texted message. So he or she had to wait for Donna. When Donna arrived, she saw all the dead bodies and the killer had no option for quietly poisoning her. He or she had to shoot her.” His tone filled with sadness. “Leaving Izzy an orphan.”
“What’s an Izzy?” Dr. Reed asked.
“Donna Crenshaw’s daughter,” Murphy said.
There was a moment of silence before Dr. Reed asked, “Adopted, right?”
His eyebrows furrowing, Murphy turned to him. “No.”
Dr. Reed pointed at the body under the sheet. “This woman suffered from one of the most severe cases of endometriosis that I’ve ever seen. Untreated. Her ovaries were filled with cysts. She was totally infertile and I saw no evidence during my exam to indicate that her uterus had ever carried a child. This woman never gave birth.”
“She has a daughter,” Murphy insisted.
“Maybe she does,” Dr. Reed said with a shake of his head, “but that daughter didn’t come from this woman’s womb. I’d stake my medical license on it.”
“Maybe Izzy was adopted,” Boris suggested during their drive back to the Pentagon from Walter Reed Hospital.
Having taken his SUV, Murphy was at the wheel while Boris admired the leather upholstery and other features of the luxurious vehicle. Behind the wheel of the SUV, Murphy put on his dark driving glasses to block out the bright May afternoon sun.
Shaking his head, Murphy replied, “Why would Donna Crenshaw make up such a horrible lie about being raped and the rapist getting off for it?”
After a long hesitation, Boris said, “Maybe it wasn’t Donna Crenshaw who lied.”
Murphy cast a glance in his direction.
“Izzy’s a child,” Boris said. “No family and her single mother had to work hard to make ends meet. She probably got lonely—”
“Lying for attention?” Murphy shook his head. “Her mother was murdered. She’s getting plenty of attention. Izzy really believes her birth father was a rapist and that’s because Donna Crenshaw told her that.”
“Well, according to Dr. Reed, that’s not possible because Donna Crenshaw was sterile and had never carried a baby to term.”
“We need to talk to Izzy,” Murphy said.
“If Izzy is telling the truth as she knows it,” Boris said, “then talking to her isn’t going to do any good. For one, she’s been through enough. She just lost her only family. To tell her in the midst of all this that this woman she thought was her mother wasn’t—”
“You’re right,” Murphy agreed.
“We need to find out who her biological parents are,” Boris said. “For all we know, Izzy was stolen as a baby. Donna Crenshaw could be one of those crazy women who wanted to have a baby of her own. She was infertile, and so she stole Izzy.” He allowed himself to grin. “If that’s the case, there’s probably a couple of parents out there searching for her. It’s simple enough to do. Our crime scene investigators collected her DNA this morning to use as an exclusionary sample. We’ll simply run it through the system to see if she’s in the missing children’s database.”
“If she is, then something good can come from these murders.” Murphy’s cell phone rang. The screen on the vehicle console read: “Tristan.”
“I have to take this,” Murphy told Boris before pressing the hands-free answer button. After connecting the call to his brother-in-law, he asked, “What have you got for me?”
“Her name is Emily Dolan,” Tristan said. “She’s an assistant manager at Starbucks in Seven Corners, Virginia. That’s her day job. Actually, her night job …” He clarified, “Late day. She works the afternoon and evening shift.”
“Which leaves her plenty of time to tail me during the day,” Murphy noted.
“Tail?” Boris turned around in his seat to study the cars behind them out the rear window. “Are we being tailed?”
“Who’s that?” Tristan asked.
“Who are you and how do you know we’re being tailed?” Boris countered.
“Boris,” Murphy answered, “this is Tristan Faraday, my brother-in-law. Tristan, this is Boris, the deputy chief of the Naval Criminal investigation staff.”
“How does he know we’re being tailed and who’s tailing us?” Boris asked Murphy.
“We’re not being tailed,” Murphy said. “I was being tailed and I had been since yesterday, but I’m not being tailed now. Believe me, if I was, I’d know it. She followed me to work this morning, but she wasn’t there when we left.”
“That’s because she’s at work,” Tristan said. “We’ve all got to work for a living. You can find her at Starbucks … at least that’s where her cell phone is.”
“You’re tracking her cell phone?” Boris asked. “Do you have a warrant to do that?”
“Murphy made me!”
“Have you got anything else on Emily Dolan, Tristan?” Murphy interrupted to ask while easing onto the on ramp to cross the Fourteenth Street Bridge into Virginia.
“Plenty,” Tristan replied. “She graduated less than two years ago from George Mason University—”
“Did you say George Mason?” Boris tapped Murphy on the arm. “Francine Baxter taught at George Mason University.”
“I know,” Murphy replied.
“Double degree,” Tristan replied. “Bachelors of Science and Arts. Communications and business management. Minor in political science. But, this is where you have trouble, Murph … and probably you, too, Boris. … She’s a blogger who has acquired quite a following—a big hard left following—anti-law enforcement and anti-military. In other words, she’s not your friend.”
“What ma
de her target me to follow?” Murphy asked while trying to concentrate on the heavy traffic swarming around him on the bridge. “Does this have anything to do with—”
“Maybe,” Tristan interrupted. “I checked out her blog and the last few days she has been talking up quite a buzz about breaking a huge news story about a giant conspiracy and cover-up involving the United States military. Kept telling her followers to stay tuned for her exclusive news-breaking story.”
“That must be why she was following me. She saw me at the scene of the murders and thinks I’m involved in the conspiracy and cover-up.” Murphy felt his throat tighten. “When is she planning to break the story?”
“Today,” Tristan said. “It hasn’t posted yet, though. I’m sending the link to her blog to your phone. It’s been getting a lot of traffic. She’s a pretty popular blogger. Her blog gets a hundred thousand hits a month.”
“That’s very helpful,” Murphy said. “Thanks, Tristan.”
“So Monique’s staying,” Tristan said rather than asked.
“Just keep her locked up.” Murphy disconnected the call.
With wide eyes, Boris asked, “Who’s Monique and why does she have to stay locked up?”
“She’s Tristan’s creepy friend.”
The two men held up their badges for the guards at the security gates to take them into the parking lot for the Pentagon.
“Emily Dolan,” Boris Hamilton repeated the name while typing in the name for the blog on his tablet. “What does she have to do with this case?”
While pulling into an empty parking space, Murphy said, “Francine Baxter taught business courses at the same university where Dolan graduated.” He turned off the SUV.
“Should be easy enough to confirm or deny that connection,” Boris said. “We just need a warrant to check the class rosters for the courses Baxter taught.”
After slipping out of the driver’s seat, Murphy put on his navy hat and made a quick check to make sure his uniform was smooth and straight. The last thing he wanted was to be stopped by a superior officer in the Pentagon corridor and dressed down for leaving his fly open. “Considering that all of these women are in some way connected to the army—”
