If She Fled

by Blake Pierce

  “What is it?” DeMarco asked.

  “This C…it’s dead. It’s not making a noise at all.”

  “Is that uncommon?”

  “It is for pianos that are in regular use. Someone like Karen Hopkins, who we know at least had a vague interest in playing, doesn’t strike me as someone that would allow her piano to be out of tune...much less suffering from a dead key. It’s almost like the wire has snapped.” She ran her fingers down a few scales on the keys, frowning. “And this C seems to be the only key with that problem.”

  “Sorry…but I don’t see how this is a big deal.”

  Kate hit the key again, her thoughts churning. “It might not be. But it could also be pretty damned big if…”

  “If what?”

  “Feel like a taking a trip over to the Hix residence?”

  “Will you be able to finally make some sense while we’re there?”

  “Hopefully.”

  “Then by all means, let’s go.”

  Kate realized she was likely coming off as distant and maybe even rude, but she didn’t care in that moment. A theory was piling up in her head and she feared if she spoke it out loud or did any sort of overthinking, it would unravel. But DeMarco, God bless her, was going along and simply trusting her—even if she was doing so in absolute silence as they got back into the car.

  ***

  Kate did not have a key for the Hix house so she had to call Bannerman to have an officer meet them. He did one better and met them himself just seven minutes after they arrived. He pulled in behind their car, giving the For Sale sign in the yard a curious glance. Kate gave it the same sort of stare. It had not been there when they had visited two days ago. Apparently, the realty company was trying to move fast.

  “You think you got something here?” Bannerman asked.

  “I don’t know yet. Just wanting to test out a theory.”

  “Well, I hope you have something because Knudsen’s place was a bust. We found everything you told us he mentioned. But there was no sign of a receipt from a record store.”

  “And he won’t give the names of his clients from yesterday morning until his lawyer gets there,” Kate said.

  “Still…pretty impressive you got what you did out of him.”

  With that, Bannerman unlocked the front door to the Hix residence and the three of them walked inside. Kate wasted no time, walking directly into the large room that wanted badly to be a den of some sort but looked more like a pretentious sitting room or study, tucked to the left of everything else in the open floor plan house.

  She was vaguely aware of Bannerman and DeMarco whispering to one another—likely Bannerman asking her partner what in the hell her older partner was doing. The piano had struck her as beautiful the first time and it did not disappoint as she sat down behind it. The baby grand Steinway seemed to make her feel taller, like she could play anything she wanted.

  She resisted the urge to try “Fur Elise” again. This time, she simply ran her fingers down the length of the keys, white and black alike. She tapped each note, listening for anything that might be off.

  A little more than halfway down, she was halted by another dead note. This time, because she was expecting it, the lack of music from the key felt irritating somehow—like scratching her nails down a chalkboard. Kate looked back down at the keys and, just like that, she knew her hunch was right.

  This missing note was a B—and it was the key directly beside the dead C she had found at the Hopkins residence.

  She felt DeMarco slowly approaching her from behind. “I know nothing about piano, but that was dead, right?”

  “Right. It was a B…the key directly beside the C that was off with Karen Hopkins’s piano.”

  Now Bannerman was beside her as well, looking down at the piano as if he thought it might come alive and bite him. “So what, exactly, does that mean?”

  “It means these women would have needed piano tuners or repairmen to come fix it. Hopkins I could let slide because she hadn’t been an active player in a year or more—at least that’s what I ascertained from Knudsen. But she might have been playing just for fun at home, I suppose. But we know that Marjorie Hix was actively taking lessons, and inside of her home, with Knudsen. Now, if that was the case, how could she possibly practice on a piano with a dead key?”

  “So you think we’re looking for someone who tunes pianos?”

  “Yeah, but not a fish,” DeMarco said. She was cringing as soon as it was out of her mouth. She gave a quick and embarrassed “I’m sorry” before looking at the floor.

  “Yes, a tuner or some sort of maintenance person. And while we’re looking for local piano tuners, I think I’d like to speak with the coroner.”

  “Why’s that?” Bannerman asked.

  “I’m wondering if it would be possible to strangle someone with a piece of piano wire.”

  With that comment in the air, they all looked at the piano with the same sort of caution Bannerman had given it moments ago.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The medical examiner in charge of the Hopkins and Hix cases had just started digging into the Lowell case. Meredith Lowell’s body was still on his table but he seemed hesitant to allow Kate and DeMarco into the room.

  “There are things I still don’t quite understand about the death,” he said. He was a rotund and rather short man named Fenn. Kate decided right away that she liked him simply because of his respect for the dead. She had encountered far too many MEs and coroners who were more than happy to show off the latest body.

  “Like what exactly?” DeMarco asked.

  They were standing outside of the examination room, Fenn standing directly in front of the door like some stout sentry.

  “Well, for one, what the hell was used to strangle her. It has definition to it that I’ve just never seen before.”

  “Then maybe we can help,” Kate said. “I have a theory I’m working on that could not only answer your question but, if I’m right, can probably make it much easier for us to find a killer.”

  Fenn looked back to the door and then sagged his shoulders. “Okay, it’s fine. Come on in. I’ve got the files on Marjorie Hix and Karen Hopkins up on my tablet, too. The wounds were so similar, I had to at least assume they were all connected.”

  “We’re certain they are,” Kate confirmed.

  The three of them stepped into the examination room where Meredith Lowell’s body lay face-up on Fenn’s table. There had been no autopsy yet, though most of the lights over the table had been directed to the wounds on her neck.

  Kate stepped up to the table with a great deal of respect; she had long ago come to the conclusion that you never truly got used to looking over a dead body with a critical eye. Even those with the most professional of approaches must also remember that this person had once been alive—a living, breathing mother or brother or sister or father. She noticed that once Fenn saw her tentative attitude toward Meredith’s body, he seemed to relax.

  “What was your first thought?” Kate asked him.

  “Honestly? A few years back I had a case where some guy strangled his neighbor to death with that plastic-looking weed-eater line. It looked quite similar to what we see here on Ms. Lowell’s neck.”

  “Are the abrasions on the necks of Hix and Hopkins entirely similar or are there differences?”

  Fenn smirked a bit and grabbed his tablet from the small counter on the backside of the room. “You know, there are some differences…though they are quite minute—so small that I didn’t even notice until I started looking through a magnifying lens. But before I get into those specifics, why don’t you tell me your theory?”

  Looking at the marks and abrasions on Meredith Lowell’s neck, Kate started to feel quite confident in her theory, right down to the dead notes on the pianos she had sat down behind this morning.

  “I wonder if it might be possible to strangle someone with piano wire. There are urban legends of assassins using it as a weapon of choice for garrote-sty
le killings, but I very seriously doubt we’re dealing with an assassin here.”

  “It would be very easy,” Fenn said, his eyes widening a bit at the possibility. “And it would explain the cuts on the neck of Karen Hopkins. With piano wire, if you squeeze tight enough, and, I imagine if there was some fight-back from the victim, piano wire would cut into flesh quite easily.”

  He showed Kate and DeMarco two pictures side by side on his tablet. One of them was labeled Hopkins, K; the other was Hix, M. Side by side, they did look identical.

  “Now, after magnifying these wounds, it becomes apparent that the weapon that was used was not the same in each case. When I got in there and measured, it was apparent that the weapon used for strangulation was different in each case, from Hopkins to Lowell. The wounds were getting a bit thicker with each death, but not by much, we’re talking millimeters here. But under magnification, it’s quite clear.”

  “Different notes,” Kate said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  DeMarco picked up on it, explaining as best she could with a dawning excitement in her eyes. “He used a different string with each woman.” She looked at Kate and said: “I have no idea how the inner workings of a piano are put together. Are the strings different sizes?”

  “I’m not sure,” Kate said, looking back to the fresh wounds on Meredith Lowell’s neck. “But…I know someone who would.”

  ***

  Kate and DeMarco stayed busy on the telephone as they drove back to the station to speak with Thomas Knudsen. DeMarco was behind the wheel, mainly because Kate was convinced DeMarco was a better driver under pressure than she was. That left Kate available to make a series of calls that she hoped would fill in some blanks before they spoke with Knudsen again.

  The first call she made was to Joseph Hix. When he answered the phone, it sounded like he had just woken up. It was a reminder to Kate that though she and DeMarco were being driven and motivated by these new breaks, she was still speaking with men who were grieving the loss of their wives.

  “Mr. Hix, it’s Agent Kate Wise,” she said. “I hate to bother you, but I have one very strange-sounding question for you…but a question that might help us figure out who killed your wife.”

  “Of course. What is it?”

  “Do you recall your wife ever mentioning the piano being out of tune?”

  “Yes, actually. Pretty recently, in fact.”

  “Do you know if she hired someone to fix it?”

  “I don’t…I don’t think so. She just complained about it being out of tune. If she hired a tuner, she did it without telling me. Which really wouldn’t be all that unusual.”

  “I see,” Kate said. “Well, thank you very much.”

  She ended that call and instantly flipped through the electronic files on her phone until she came to the number for David Lowell. It rang twice before it was answered by a familiar voice—Paulette Ivans, David’s sister.

  “This is David’s phone,” Paulette said. “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “Paulette, this is Agent Wise. I need to ask David a question.”

  “I don’t know that he’s up for it. He hasn’t slept well and I’m having to beg him to eat.”

  “I understand that, but this is just one question and it could be pivotal to finding out who killed his wife.”

  Paulette took a moment to consider, sighed, and then gave in. “One second.”

  There was some shuffling, a murmured conversation, and then David Lowell was on the line. His voice came out in an exhausted whisper when he said, “Agent Wise?”

  “Mr. Lowell, I’m so sorry to disturb you. But this is pressing and could be very important to the case. Can you remember any time in the recent past where Meredith might have mentioned needing someone to come tune the piano in your home?”

  “She did. I don’t know how long ago, though. Maybe a week. Maybe just a few days before…”

  “Mr. Lowell…did she ever hire anyone to actually come and do it?”

  “I don’t know. Not that I can remember. I actually…I’m pretty sure she didn’t. I just don’t know. I can maybe check her calendar or the bank account info to see if she paid anyone or…”

  He trailed off here, lost in the details of what had once seemed like nothing more than daily tasks.

  “If you happen to figure it out, that would be great. In the meantime, can I speak with your sister again?”

  “Sure,” he said, his voice barely audible. He sounded relieved to have escaped the conversation.

  “Hello?” Paulette asked moments later.

  “I do apologize for that. I asked him for information that I don’t think he’s currently capable of finding for me. Given that, I wonder if you might do me a favor. Could you look around the house—maybe on the kitchen bar or the fridge—and see if you can find a business card or scrawled note about a piano tuner?”

  “Um…okay?”

  “I know it sounds strange, but it would be an immense help.”

  “Okay,” Paulette said, though she sounded distant. “I’ll take a look.”

  “And one more thing…while I have you on the phone.”

  “What is it?”

  “This might sound equally odd, but could you go to the piano in the den?”

  “What for?”

  “Please…trust me. I need you to help me with a little experiment. Do you know how to play?”

  “Barely. A few lessons as a kid and nothing more.”

  “Do you know the basic location of the notes?”

  “More or less. What is this all about?”

  “I want you to start at the middle C and go a few keys over to the right, one by one. If you don’t find anything off there, do the same to the left.”

  “Are you serious right now?”

  “I am. And if you need an explanation, I can give it to you later. Right now, I just don’t have the time.”

  “Fine.”

  Kate did her best to ignore the skepticism in Paulette’s voice and listened as she walked her fingers down the notes of the treble scale. The ones to the right sounded fine, every single one of the six notes she played. She then stopped and then did the same on the opposite side of middle C just as Kate had asked. This time, after just two notes, including the middle C itself, there was a silent space. A dead note.

  “That’s the A, right?” Kate asked.

  “Yes. How the hell did you know?”

  Kate gave a quick thank you and ended the call. “We’ve got a dead note at the Lowell residence, too. The A this time.”

  “This is getting creepy,” DeMarco said.

  Kate nodded as she tried Gerald Hopkins’s number. His phone rang three times and then went to voicemail. Kate left a message, instructing him to call her with an urgent matter, and then ended that call, too.

  “All dead ends on the piano tuner front?”

  “Not totally dead. I spoke with Hix and Lowell. They both recalled their wives commenting that the pianos needed tuning, but they don’t remember anything ever actually being done about it.”

  “So their wives mentioned the need for them to be tuned but…”

  “But it was apparently never done. And that could be because the tuner came with no intention of tuning the pianos at all.”

  “So now we just need to find the tuner,” DeMarco commented.

  “And hopefully that’s another area our friend Thomas Knudsen can be of assistance.”

  The comment weighed heavy in the car as DeMarco continued to speed toward the station, her speed making Kate very aware that her time was quickly running out.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  When they got back to the station, Knudsen’s lawyer had still not arrived. Knudsen looked irritated and a bit bored when Kate and DeMarco entered the room. After a few seconds, though, he looked hopeful—like he hoped their return might mean that he could go free. As far as Kate was concerned, it was yet another sign of his innocence.

  “Mr. Knudsen,” Kate said, “I c
an understand that you are not happy with your situation. And, between you, myself, and Agent DeMarco, we have discovered a few things this morning that make me view you less and less as a suspect.”

  “Well, it’s about damned time,” he spat.

  Kate completely ignored this and went on. “Mr. Knudsen, we find ourselves in a position where you could help us. We need your expertise to clear up a few things that might help us nail down a killer.”

  “Help you? After the hell you’ve put me through this morning? Why in the hell would I do that?”

  “I think she just explained that,” DeMarco said. “To help us find a killer.”

  “Someone has killed three women for no good reason,” Kate said. “Three women that you knew. I would appreciate your help in answering just a few questions about what you do for a living. Is that really too much to ask?”

  Kate had delivered similar sentiments numerous times in her career and it almost always worked. The art of making someone feel that you will be lost without them tended to inflate the ego. And honestly, Kate didn’t even think it was necessary with Knudsen. The more certain he became that he was going to be let go, the more he seemed to soften up, making it clear that the tough guy asshole schtick really was mostly a front.

  “What do you need to know?” he asked.

  “Do you know of any piano tuners in the Frankfield area? Maybe even as far out as Chicago?”

  “Not personally. I’ve always tuned my own pianos; I have since I was a teenager.”

  “That’s almost as good,” DeMarco said. “What can you tell us about the strings inside? They’re all different sizes, right?”

  “Yes. Some of the differences in sizes are so minuscule, though, that you wouldn’t even notice it unless you were a real pro or knew what to look for.”

  “So let’s say you look at a C string, a B string, and an A string all from the same scale. The variation in the size of the wires might not be all that noticeable, right?”

  “Well, you might see a difference between the C and the A pretty easily if you even knew to look. Why are you asking me about this?”