by CJ Lyons
“And my first order is no more armchair sleuthing. I appreciate how people open up to you, but don’t go looking for trouble. Understand?”
“So you don’t want me to go back and talk to Risa again? I’m not sure she’s comfortable talking to you and, besides, she also asked me to look into her medical case.”
He arched an eyebrow.
“I know, I know,” she hastened to add. “You think I’m getting too involved. But besides her stalker and medical problems, Risa is also a key witness. No one knew Walt and Trudy better than she did. It would be good for her to trust me.”
“Okay,” he relented. “I’ll review the information Risa gave you. In the meantime, you can speak to her about the Orlys and her medical issues. But,” his tone underscored the word, “only as a prelude to her coming in for a more thorough formal interview first thing tomorrow and also opening a case on her stalker.” He glanced at the clock on the wall then pushed back his chair to stand. It was almost two o’clock, the time Trudy’s autopsy was scheduled to begin, and they both knew how punctual Ford Tierney was.
Leah mirrored his movements. “Hey, is something else going on? Other than Nate getting into trouble? You just don’t seem yourself today.”
He gave a small shake of his head and grabbed his raincoat, fisting the material in his clenched hand. “This day—” His gaze returned to the rain-darkened window. “I’m fine. Just a bad day is all.”
Seventeen
It was a little past two by the time Luka made it to the medical examiner’s offices in Good Sam’s basement. He’d stopped by the ICU on his way. Their little old lady, the victim of a vicious mugging, was still unconscious. But the good news was that her daughter had finally arrived from New Mexico. It was painful to confess to her that they had no firm leads yet, but Luka was glad that at least she wasn’t alone.
As he signed in at the morgue’s security desk, he braced himself for Ford Tierney’s lecture. It would begin with a dissertation on punctuality, segue into how lucky Cambria City PD and Craven County were to have a medical examiner, much less an assistant ME who was also board-certified in forensic pathology, and conclude with a final tirade on the idiocy of the two centuries-old system that left the vast majority of the state with undertakers or politicians elected to the position of coroner.
Didn’t matter how often he’d heard it before, Tierney would repeat his speech, exactly the same every time, and wouldn’t allow Luka a word in edgewise until he’d finished. Luka had learned to simply swallow his medicine with grace and goodwill. But today when he arrived at the autopsy suite’s observation room, there was a body wrapped in a sterile shroud on the stainless-steel table, but no sign of Tierney.
Luka glanced at the clock in surprise. Was the hyper-punctual medical examiner actually late? He smiled and began composing his own lecture on timeliness when Maggie Chen entered the suite and waved at him to join her. She tapped the intercom. “Ford got called away. But I’ve got something to show you.”
Luka made his way into the autopsy room and cloaked himself in a surgical gown and booties, then pulled on a face mask and gloves.
“Found a few things on my preliminary examination,” Maggie told him. “I’m thinking maybe you don’t need to wait for Ford to finish.”
That sounded promising, Luka thought as Maggie gently removed the shroud on the body. Trudy Orly had been positioned face down on the table, her forehead cradled on a curved stand. Her clothing had been removed and her hair cleaned of the blood and bone fragments left by her head injury. Maggie didn’t have to say anything—there was obvious bruising along the woman’s shoulder blades and the outer parts of both arms.
Bruising in the shape of a man’s hands as he shoved Trudy into a wall? “How old are these?” Luka asked, thinking of what Chaudhari had said about Walt shaking Trudy.
“Old. Maybe a week or so. But that’s not what I wanted to show you.”
“No bruises from today?” Luka didn’t bother to hide his disappointment.
“Nothing obvious. And I think I know why—also why no one heard her scream or shout as she fell.” Maggie turned the overhead lights off, grabbed a handheld alternative light source wand and handed Luka a pair of special filtered goggles. Then, with a flourish, she raised Trudy’s hair to reveal two small oval discolorations at the base of her scalp, on the opposite side from where her skull had been dented by its impact with the lobby floor.
“Are those what I think they are?”
“Stun gun. Not police issue—the prongs are too narrowly placed. I’ll try to get a manufacturer, but it might take a while.” She clicked the lights back on. “They’re fresh. Within minutes before death—Ford can confirm that she was still alive when she was stunned once he takes tissue samples.”
He handed her back the tinted goggles. “Maggie, you’re amazing. Anyone else would have missed those.” Luka ran his fingers along the back of his own neck. “Someone must have been very close to her. Very close.”
“Maybe someone she knew?” Maggie suggested. “My guess is, given the way they’re slightly off center, the killer stood right beside Trudy as they both faced the atrium. If she’d been afraid of this person, I can’t see her standing so close to them. Maybe they dropped something as a distraction, to get her to look down.”
“Then they stunned her.” Luka brought two fingers to the back of Maggie’s neck. “And as her body went limp—”
“He or she simply rolled her forward over the railing, let gravity do the work.”
“Which means there would be no bruising other than from impact.”
“And with the railing acting as a fulcrum, it wouldn’t take someone very strong at all. Man or woman. They’re easy to buy for personal defense. It could even have belonged to Trudy.”
Luka made a note of that. If the stun gun was Trudy’s maybe they could track the purchase. Then he had another thought. “If strength and muscle coordination weren’t important, then even a man with Huntington’s could do it.”
“You’re thinking the husband?”
“He had motive—she wanted him out of the home, was looking into long-term care facilities.”
“Anyone could have done this,” she replied. “If Trudy let them get close enough.”
Which meant his list of suspects had narrowed considerably, limited to people with access to the Falconer and who Trudy would allow to enter her personal space. Putting Walt firmly at the top of his list. “Thanks, Maggie,” Luka told her as he shed his protective gear and headed through the doors. “I owe you one.”
“I’m keeping a tab,” she shouted back before the doors slid shut behind him.
Luka called Krichek as he walked back to his car and told him about Maggie’s findings.
“Gives us enough for a search warrant—including all of the Orlys’ electronics,” Krichek replied before Luka could give the order. “But if Walt is faking his symptoms, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave the stun gun in his apartment.”
“See if the judge will also cover the common areas inside the Falconer and get the uniforms on it. Make sure they don’t forget things like flowerpots, the elevator shaft.” He remembered what Leah had said about Cliff Vogel. The man would open up more to a woman than a man. “What’s Harper doing? She can join them, get that manager to show her every nook and cranny.”
“Harper’s downstairs working with the cyber guys now trying to track Trudy’s cell. And I just finished with the Orlys’ financials.”
“Anything?”
“Sorry, no.”
“What about those complaints from Risa Saliba?”
“Next on my to-do list. Oh, but the staties called, their lab says our hit and skip vehicle in the Gary Wagner case was a Dodge Ram. 2006 to 2010. They emailed you the full report.”
“Thanks. Ask Harper to—”
“Start compiling a list of registered owners. Already on it.”
Luka reached his car. “I’m heading back, be ready for a debrief in twenty
. Hopefully by the time we’re done, we’ll have the warrant.” He got into the car but didn’t turn it on right away.
That niggling feeling that he’d missed something had intensified. He replayed the few coherent parts of Walt’s interview while glancing at the crime scene photos and finally it clicked. Trudy’s keys were still hanging from the door to her apartment. He remembered the childproof guard on the inside doorknob. Maybe Walt wasn’t faking everything, and he really couldn’t open the door without assistance. Had he been waiting for her to unlock it? That would explain why her keys were left in the lock and why she’d abandoned her shopping and went to the railing, trying to corral her wayward husband. But it also meant Walt had to be prepared, waiting and ready to use the stun gun.
He imagined Trudy talking softly, trying to calm her husband, putting a hand on his arm, gently pulling him into a hug, telling him it was okay, everything was okay, and to come with her back into their apartment, back home. And as they embraced, Walt nuzzling her neck, lifting her hair off her collar, and hitting her with the stun gun. Trudy’s body stiffening, electricity sparking down her nerves. The effects would have only lasted a few seconds at most, but during that time she’d have been powerless.
Yet still conscious, still able to watch as her husband pushed her over the railing. Her last image, his face, watching her fall.
Eighteen
When Leah got back to her office, Monique had all the paperwork she’d missed from the morning ready and waiting for her. Monique practically herded Leah into her office, arranging the files in front of her in order of importance.
“Shouldn’t we be doing all this via computer?” Leah protested. “Instead of killing trees?”
“It’s a federal grant. Not sure they even know about computers.”
Ah, so Monique did have a sense of humor. “Sorry it’s so much work for you. But the money—”
“I’m the one who found the grant, told Dr. Toussaint about it. Otherwise he was going to shut us down.” Monique finished rearranging Leah’s desk and stood up straight. “Guess you could say it’s my fault you’re here.” She looked down at Leah with a stern frown. “We need to do this right, or we’ll lose the CIC.”
“I understand. I’ll make these my top priority,” Leah promised. “And I want to see if there’s a way we can chisel out the money to get a psychiatric social worker on the team—someone to do outreach in the field.”
“Build a real crisis response program. Not just someone riding with the cops, but training them and training the 911 dispatchers to triage crisis intervention calls direct to us. Then it would be the cops backing us up, not beckoning for us to come when they’re in too deep,” Monique replied.
“You’ve been thinking about this.”
“I’ve got a plan,” Monique answered. “Grew up in the Kingston Towers, saw how many times the cops made things worse when all people needed was someone to listen, to get them the help they needed.” She shrugged. “Not the fault of the police. They’re trained to use the tools at hand, meet violence with violence. But—”
“It’s not working. Not anymore. You’re right, Monique. We need to start with a fresh idea, focusing on what the people in the community need, then build a system that will really serve and protect them.” How many times had Leah had the same debate with her fellow ER physicians? Violence, drug use, mental health issues, economic inequality—they were all public health problems, not just laws broken.
Monique had her hand on the doorknob, eyes narrowed at Leah as if judging whether Leah would stand by her words. Finally, she nodded. “Once you’re finished with this first round of paperwork, I can take over. And I’ll get as much of it on the computer as possible.”
“Thanks, Monique.” Leah wasn’t sure, but she might be more intimidated by Monique now. Because now she didn’t dare to let her down. “Maybe we could do lunch sometime? Go over your ideas, then create an official proposal, see what everyone else thinks?”
“Sure thing.” Monique stepped over the threshold, then turned back. “Of all the docs they could have stuck us with, guess you’re not so bad.” She closed the door before Leah could reply.
Basking in the glow of Monique’s approval, Leah quickly went through the paperwork. Most of it was authorizations for database collection and other file sharing of grant documents, so Monique was right: in the future they could avoid paperwork. Shaking her head at the irony—paperwork so they wouldn’t need paperwork—Leah signed all the areas Monique had highlighted for her, and began to read the areas where Monique had filled in the grant’s mission statement, purpose, financial plan, workplace safeguards, harassment policy, and quickly felt her eyes glaze over out of sheer boredom. All this tedious minutia had accompanied the original grant application so why were they now making them repeat everything?
She gave the finished stack back to Monique. “Good work.”
Monique simply nodded, busy typing a report from one of the sexual assault nurses. Leah retreated back to her office, but made a note to find a way to give Monique a raise. She opened her laptop, tempted by Risa’s research on her stalker, but instead began sorting through Risa’s medical records. Once she had them in chronological order, she settled in and began reading.
At first, Risa’s physicians seemed confident that they could find a diagnosis. But as test after test came back, each contradicting the last one, their tone grew almost angry, as if Risa were somehow to blame for their inability to find an answer.
Risa’s symptoms were consistent: muscle weakness, diffuse pain, tremors, nausea, vomiting, severe fatigue, headaches, weight loss, a rash that came and went. All symptoms of a myriad of possible diagnoses. But when her physicians tested her, trying to pinpoint the exact cause, the test results were conflicting. First, she’d have an abnormally low sodium along with a metabolic acidosis, then, a few weeks later her sodium would be normal and the acidosis resolved but her liver functions would be elevated.
By the time she’d reached the end of the files, Leah understood the frustration that bled through the physicians’ clinical notes. Risa’s story never changed, but somehow her lab results were all over the place, totally inconsistent one visit to the next. Two of the specialists even suggested Munchausen syndrome—a psychological disorder when patients either lied about symptoms or produced them by ingesting various substances or via artificial means.
The more Leah read, the more she heard Luka’s voice in the back of her mind, telling her to look at all possibilities, even the ones she did not like. Like the possibility of Risa faking both her illness and her stalker.
Leah closed her laptop with a sigh. She needed Ian’s files on Risa, needed to see what he’d written, needed to read between the lines. Risa might be able to fool doctors—if she was faking her symptoms—but no way in hell would she be able to fool Ian.
It was time. Time to go home.
Nineteen
When Luka arrived back at the police department, Krichek was at his desk on the phone and Harper was nowhere to be seen, so he parked himself in his office and caught up with his emails and reports.
The first was Ahearn blasting him for not making the sergeants’ meeting and implying that he was inclined to favor McKinley’s take on what had happened this morning. Thankfully, Leah’s email with the recording of her interview with Risa Saliba along with a summary report was also in his inbox, allowing him to dispatch the problem quickly, cc’ing both Ahearn and McKinley as well as the commander in charge of patrol. Let them sort it out upstairs, he thought.
Leah had also forwarded Risa’s emails and attachments with her files on her stalker. Luka should have been writing his own reports on the Orly death as well as his other open cases, but couldn’t help but take a peek. That one quick look soon turned into a journey down a rabbit hole as he skimmed the dozens of emails, Risa’s notes, and then her database.
He read the stalker’s emails first, fascinated by the psychology of the writer. More than simple narcissism, they rev
ealed a depraved egotism typical of psychopaths. Yet, somehow, the stalker also seemed to genuinely care about Risa.
Then he turned to Risa’s notes and research. She’d collected an overwhelming amount of data. After almost an hour, he closed all the files and sat back, wondering if he’d gotten everything wrong. This level of obsession was dangerous, even in someone healthy.
Not Risa’s stalker’s obsession with her, rather Risa’s obsession with her stalker. It was statistically unlikely that an actual serial killer was behind the letters. Certainly, the letters contained no real evidence. How could a seasoned investigative journalist not see that? Maybe she was desperate to regain the spotlight, win another Pulitzer and return to her former glory?
As he clicked through the myriad of tabs in Risa’s database he wondered if maybe it wasn’t Walt faking his symptoms, but Risa. After all, who better to get close to Trudy outside her apartment than her neighbor, the one who helped her with Walt? And the stun gun changed everything about the mechanics of the crime—their killer didn’t have to be stronger than Trudy Orly, only quicker. He made a note to ask Leah more about Risa’s medical condition, see if her symptoms could be fabricated.
Before he could take his musings farther, Krichek and Harper waved at him through the glass wall of his office. Luka nodded to the conference room where they’d have space to work, grabbed his laptop and a notepad and joined them there.
Krichek sprawled in his chair, a smirk on his face, but it was Harper who was doing the victory dance.
“Warrants come through?” Luka asked as he slid into his seat.
“Got patrol searching for the phone and the stun gun,” Krichek answered. “Also have the financials and—”
