by Blake Pierce
David came back to the den entrance with a business card in his hand. Kate took it and saw that the card itself was designed to look like piano keys, with the name and number of the instructor situated on different keys.
“Thomas Knudsen,” Kate said. “You ever meet him?”
“Once. He was this really tall, very serious sort of man. Maybe about sixty years old if I had to guess. He was very pleasant, very happy.” It then seemed to dawn on him why they were suddenly so interested in his late wife’s piano lessons. He frowned and added: “No…no, I don’t know if that makes sense. Tom is…I don’t…well…”
Paulette took her brother by the arm and led him back toward the living room. “Agents, you can see he’s wrecked. I promise you, he will call with any other information he thinks of.”
“Thanks,” Kate said, already heading for the door. The door had barely closed behind Bannerman before the three of them started to work together a plan.
“Knudsen,” Bannerman said. “That’s a pretty unique name. What is it…Polish, maybe?”
“Danish,” DeMarco said.
“Whatever it is, it should make it very easy to locate him, even if he’s in Chicago.”
“I agree,” Kate said. They had made it down the porch steps and back to the patrol car. Kate continued talking as they piled into the car, Bannerman pulling away from the curb with a little squeal of tires. “We’ve got two avenues here, and we need to knock them out quickly,” she added.
Bannerman was already reaching for the little wireless mic attached to his dashboard. “I’ll have someone at the station run his name, get an address to go along with the phone number on the card. See if he has an arrest record.”
“We need to see if he’s worked with Marjorie Hix or Karen Hopkins, too,” DeMarco added.
“Sheriff, can you get your men on that while DeMarco and I pay Thomas Knudsen a visit?”
“Can do,” Bannerman said with a twinge of excitement. And with that, he clicked the mic on and put in a request for Knudsen’s home address and criminal record.
While Bannerman spoke to one of his officers, Kate looked at her phone and saw that it was 7:25. She was well aware that her time was running out and, with her time, perhaps the case. Hell, perhaps what remained of her little rebirthed career.
But she had to ignore that for now. Right now, there was just the case to focus on. She had to proceed as if they were on the verge of wrapping it and could not let the other drama she was currently dealing with get in the way.
That was, of course, easier said than done when she felt as if she was literally racing against the clock.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Kate and DeMarco made a quick stop at the station after having gotten their own car from the hotel. The Frankfield PD had already come through with quite a bit of information. They got their last bit, and perhaps the strongest, just as they were about to get back in the car and head to Knudsen’s house.
“Hold up, Agents,” Bannerman said, closing the door to the patrol car. He was speaking on the phone to someone, nodding enthusiastically. Kate couldn’t help but feel slightly hopeful as she saw the look of promise on the sheriff’s face. When he hung up and turned to them, that look of hope seemed magnified.
“Good news?” Kate asked.
“Good, and getting better. Thomas Knudsen does indeed have a criminal record. Petty misdemeanors, mostly. A bar fight a few years back, a domestic dispute with an ex-wife.”
“How is he managing to find clients for piano lessons with a history like that?”
“I was literally just told that he only accepts adults as students. He was apparently a very highly respected concert pianist in Denmark up until about fifteen years ago…not sure what happened to bring him to the states, though. Gerald Hopkins just told one of my guys over the phone that Knudsen charged Karen one hundred dollars per lesson.”
“So he did give lessons to at least one of the other victims,” DeMarco said.
“Yes. It’s been confirmed. And we’re trying to find out if there’s that same link with Marjorie Hix right now.”
“Thanks, Sheriff,” Kate said.
Kate closed the door and sped out of the parking lot. She could not help but smile a bit at the sound of her tires squelching on the asphalt as she turned out onto the street. The little jolt of euphoria made her feel, if only for a moment, like she was DeMarco’s age again, sniffing out the final stages of a case.
They sped out of Frankfield, heading in the direction of Chicago where, according to the address they had, they would turn off just shy of the city and drive into Chesterton. It was only a nineteen-minute drive but every minute that passed knocked that feeling of joy and youngness right out of Kate’s sails.
“This has got to be the guy,” DeMarco said as they turned off down a two-lane side street where modest homes lined the road. Off in the distance behind the homes, Lake Michigan sparkled almost magically in the morning sun.
“Seems to fit the bill,” Kate said, though she was not ready to go all-in just yet. “He had access to the houses and is definitely someone the women would invite in.”
“His record, though…it doesn’t really say murderer, does it?”
“I was thinking the same thing. But let’s just see what Mr. Knudsen has to say about that.”
As they neared the address, Kate could not help but press down on the accelerator. By the time they were on Knudsen’s street, she was doing sixty miles per hour down a street with a twenty-five-mile-per-hour limit. As they headed down this final street, the glimmer of Lake Michigan shrank quite a bit and the houses started to look a little less spectacular. Still, the yards were much larger and more open than any they had seen so far on this case, perhaps given the room to display the promise of the lake properties several blocks to the right.
When Kate brought the car to a stop in front of Knudsen’s house, it was 8:11. There was a car already parked in front of the house, perhaps belonging to Knudsen. Both women stepped out of the car and hurried up the sidewalk to what was a cute yet very modest-looking home. It was still likely in the mid six figures but not quite as high end as the houses they had visited in Frankfield.
As they came up onto the porch, they could hear piano music before they even approached the door. It had a crystalline sort of sound that instantly impressed Kate. The notes came fast, almost mathematically, and though it was quite beautiful it sounded more technical than musical to her ear.
She and DeMarco both took a moment to brace themselves before Kate knocked. Kate could tell from DeMarco’s expression that she, too, felt that they could very well be on the precipice of breaking the case wide open—that they might have the murderer in custody within the next few minutes.
Kate knocked, but the piano music was loud enough to drown the knocking out. She knew it right away, so she knocked again. This time, it was harder and more persistent. The piano stopped and within seconds, they heard fast and thunderous footsteps nearing the door. When the door was answered it seemed to fly inward with a very tall and angry man standing on the other side. He was, as David Lowell had suggested, a bit on the older side, with several years on Kate.
“What could you possibly want this early in the morning?” the man said, his voice nearly in a shout. He was clearly angry, his eyes darting back and forth between them. Behind him, the piano music continued. He seemed to roll his eyes at it.
“Are you Thomas Knudsen?” Kate asked.
“I am. And currently, I am a very irate Thomas Knudsen. I am in the middle of a piano lesson and I had to stop to answer the door for such a stupid question.”
“Here’s a better one, then,” Kate said, taking out her ID and flashing it nearly in front of his face. “Could you make time to answer some questions for the FBI?”
With the anger still on his face, Knudsen took a small step back. He looked at the badge and then to Kate, sneering. “What the hell for?”
“We’d much rather discuss this inside,” Kate
said.
“As I said, I’m in the middle of a lesson.”
“Well, the lesson will have to be postponed. That, or we can just ask you a bunch of potentially damaging questions in front of your student.”
“About what, exactly?” Knudsen challenged. “What the hell does the FBI want with me?”
Kate looked behind him, into the hallway beyond, as if suggesting she really wanted to come inside.
“I suppose if I reject your request to come inside, you’ll eventually find your way in, through paperwork and phone calls to your superiors?”
“Yes. And the harder you make it for us, the harder we will make it for you.”
“Well, damn. There’s your answer then.” He grunted as he stood to the side. “Hurry in, then, if it’s so fucking important.”
Kate nearly got mouthy right back with him but decided to stay on the high road. His language reminded her of his past charges and she wanted him to think she and DeMarco were simply servants, timid and just doing their jobs. She wondered how much about himself he might reveal if she allowed him to rely on his anger without correcting him.
He stormed back into the hallway, waving them on as he passed. He walked with those same pissed off, thundering steps as he led them into a large room that held only a gorgeous piano and a couch. A woman of about twenty-five or so sat behind the piano, taking everything in with extreme worry on her face. Knudsen basically threw himself on the couch in a far-too-dramatic fashion and looked at the lady behind the piano.
“Courtney, I’m sorry but we’ll have to cancel the rest of the lesson. I’ll add the forty-five minutes to your next lesson and maybe I can even get one of these rude ladies to pay for it.”
“Do you—” the woman—Courtney, apparently—started to say.
“Not now, please,” Knudsen said. “Tomorrow, same time.”
“I have to work tomorrow morning.”
“Figure it out then,” he snapped. “It’s your forty-five minutes.”
Kate was about to interject, as he was nearly screaming at the poor woman. Courtney got up from the piano stool and made her exit, though. She barely looked at the agents as she made her way to the hall and toward the front door.
“I charge one hundred dollars per hour, per lesson,” Knudsen said. “Are one of you prepared to make that up to me?”
“No, I’m sorry,” Kate said sarcastically.
“It’s not even nine in the morning,” DeMarco said. “Isn’t it a little early for piano lessons?”
“To the untalented, sure. But studies have shown that the practice of any art—particularly music—is best done in the morning. The brain is more adaptable to the memory of it all. My first lesson this morning was at six o’clock.”
“Are all of your lessons out of your home?” Kate asked.
“No,” he said, looking at her as if she had just burped in his face. “That would be stupid. I do about half of my lessons here and half at the homes of my clients. But what care is that of yours?”
“I’m glad you asked,” DeMarco said.
“Mr. Knudsen,” Kate said, “can you confirm that you have students by the names of Karen Hopkins, Marjorie Hix, and Meredith Lowell?”
“Not in actuality. I have not worked with Karen Hopkins in almost a year. She was not very good and gave up. I think it saved the world several headaches, if I’m being honest. But yes, Meredith and Marjorie are current clients. I have a lesson with Marjorie Hix later today. Not that it’s any concern of yours. Is that why you’re here? To get some sort of odd roll call?”
“Mr. Knudsen, those three women have all been killed within the past ten days,” Kate said. “So it looks like your day just opened up a bit, huh?”
“What? This is a joke, yes?”
“No. All three of them are dead. And so far, the only concrete thing we have to link them all is that they took lessons with you.”
Kate thought the shock on his face was genuine, but the anger and pompousness he had displayed since the moment they arrived was still very much on his face. “So then how can I help?” He paused here, as if letting the news truly catch up to him for the first time. “Karen was…well, she was a very nice woman. She had talent but was afraid to really dig it up…”
“We need to know when you last saw each woman, for starters,” DeMarco said.
“I saw Marjorie just four days ago. She was here, right there on that bench, for a lesson.”
“Did you ever go to her house for lessons?”
“No. It’s always been here.”
“And what about the others?”
“For Meredith and Karen, I did go to their homes. But as I said, it’s been almost a year since I last saw Karen Hopkins.”
“Do you have any proof of that?”
Again, he looked to Kate as if she had done something offensive. He let out a nervous laugh and said: “How am I supposed to prove that I have not seen someone?”
“Did the lessons end mutually, on a good foot?”
“Yes, it was her decision. She felt the money could be spent better elsewhere.”
“What about Meredith Lowell?” DeMarco asked. “When did you last visit her home to give lessons?”
“Last week. Thursday, I believe.”
“Did any of your clients give you passcodes or other access to their security systems?”
Genuinely confused now, Knudsen got to his feet and scowled at them. “Of course not. I’m a piano teacher, not a repairman. And quite honestly…I see where this line of questioning is headed. And it’s beyond insulting.”
Kate nodded, but slowly made her way over to the piano. She had taken a few lessons as a kid before she realized she did not have the patience or, quite frankly, the musical aptitude to be any good. She knew very little about the instrument, but the one in Knudsen’s house was gorgeous. It was an older model Bosendorfer—a model Knudsen must have continuously poured money into in order to keep it sounding like it had when she and DeMarco had heard it from the porch. There was a single piece of sheet music on the holder above the keys. Kate couldn’t even begin to read it, as it was far too complicated.
She paused, though, as she spotted three other items on the thin ledge that held the sheet music stand. There was a small, finely polished white seashell, the kind you could buy for a buck at any beach gift shop. There was also some old, faded coin—a buffalo nickel, she saw upon closer inspection. The third item cause her a moment of pause, one she could tell right away alarmed Knudsen.
And it should have.
It was the top portion of a stalk of cotton. While the cotton itself appeared to be real, the stalk on which it had been placed was very fake. It was the same sort that stocked the shelves of just about every hobby and craft store in the country.
And it was the exact same kind that Karen Hopkins had in her office. Kate could remember being drawn to the fake stalks as she and DeMarco had first investigated Karen Hopkins’s office.
“This cotton seems rather random,” Kate said. “You want to tell me where it came from?”
For the first time since they had arrived, Knudsen seemed to be shaken. He shook his head and took a step towards the wall.
“It was just a random thing I picked up at a craft store.”
“It also happens to be the exact same fake cotton plant that sat in the office of Karen Hopkins. Did you know that?”
“Actually, yes, I did know that. And I see what you are insinuating…”
“Do you?”
He sighed here, doing a very good job of trying to play the victim. “So what if I did take it from Karen Hopkins’s house? It’s just a piece of fake cotton plant…”
“That’s right. But as I said, the plant is in her office, where she died. The piano is in a completely different room. So why would you have any need to go into her office?”
“No reason, I just…”
He trailed off here, taking another step back. DeMarco followed him this time, keeping the same distance between them
. Kate noted that now that he was truly worked up and starting to worry, she could hear a bit of a Danish accent coming out. She hadn’t noticed one at all up until this point.
“Mr. Knudsen, we need you to come with us,” DeMarco said. “Peacefully and cooperatively would be preferred.”
“I think not. I’ve done nothing. I took a fragment of fake plant. How in the hell does that link me to a murder?”
He didn’t realize it, but the rhetorical question was pretty damaging on his part. Kate took a few steps forward as she and DeMarco triangulated on him while he continued to back himself into a corner. He started to look around for a means of escape but realized that his two errant steps backward had screwed him up quite badly.
In the end, he apparently decided that given he already had a record, there was no reason to fight. He simply bowed his head and offered his wrists. “Fine,” he said with a shaky breath. “Fuck both of you, by the way.”
“Very classy of you,” Kate said, more than happy to take out her cuffs and apply them to his offered wrists.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Thomas Knudsen did not say a single word on the way from his home in Chesterton to the Frankfield police department. He was as still as a concrete slab as they transported him. DeMarco called Bannerman and gave him the update and in return, Bannerman told them a bit more information he and the police had dug up on Thomas Knudsen.
Knudsen left Denmark sixteen years ago after a brutally bad marriage that ended in a case of domestic violence. It truly was a shame, as he had been one of the country’s foremost pianists, filling in on orchestras and playing infamous locations and venues for government-funded events. He had been in the studio with one of Denmark’s most famous vocalists when his marriage had gone south, and after he’d come out of the mess of the divorce and the legal proceedings, he had come to America and lived in obscurity. He’d played in a few jazz bands in the New York area before ultimately choosing a quiet life by the Great Lakes, where he had floated around the Chicago area, ultimately landing in Chesterton seven years ago. He’d been teaching piano lessons all that time, also working on some freelance work for small film studios.
