Most Wanted

by Lisa Scottoline

  “No.”

  “Can she give him an alibi for the other murders, Allen-Bogen and McLeane?”

  “I didn’t ask her, or him.”

  Griff snorted.

  “I’ll ask him next time.”

  “What about the new girlfriend? Can she give him an alibi for any of the murders?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t know about the new girlfriend until I met the old one—”

  “Find out.”

  “But I don’t know her. I’ll have to ask Zachary, unless your receptionist got the name of the woman who dropped off the cashier’s check.”

  “I have no receptionist.”

  “Whoever accepted the hand-delivery of the check, then.”

  “Phyllis? She’ll do me no favors. That woman is a harpy.”

  Christine let it go. “I’ll ask Zachary then.”

  “Don’t tell me what you’re going to do, do it. That’s why you make the big bucks.” Griff chuckled at his own joke.

  “Oh, you’re a laugh riot.” Christine accelerated. Traffic was thick but moving fast. If it stayed that way, she would make the vigil on time.

  “Did the old girlfriend talk to the police?”

  “No.” Christine considered telling Griff about the sex games that Zachary had tried, but she wasn’t sure if that fell into the category of good news. Also she didn’t want to give him a heart attack.

  “How about the new girlfriend? Did she talk to the police?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where are you?”

  “On the way back.”

  “Pick up a pizza, double cheese this time.”

  “I’m not going to the office. I’m on my way to the vigil for Gail Robinbrecht.” Christine checked the dashboard clock, which read 1:32. “It starts at three o’clock.”

  Griff sighed. “Okay. Good-bye and good luck—”

  “No, wait, don’t hang up. What happened today? You were going to meet with the detectives from Virginia and Maryland.”

  “I did.”

  “So?” Christine joined the fast-moving traffic past the City Avenue exit, where the highway expanded, heading west.

  “I also met with an A.D.A. from Chester County.”

  “So tell me what he said. This would be communicating. We’re communicating.”

  Griff groaned. “I don’t like to yap on the phone. I’ll tell you later.”

  “I don’t want to wait. Just give me the headline.” Christine figured that turnabout was fair play.

  “Bottom line, Chester County has significant trace evidence that ties Jeffcoat to Robinbrecht. They have his hair on her, fibers from his shirt on her, and they have his fingerprints on her skin and in her apartment.”

  “But that’s explainable,” Christine said, defensive. “He found her. He touched her. He’s been with her. He’s been in her apartment twice. He told me all about it, how her blood got on him. I saw those pictures, and there’s no blood on his uppers, which corroborates his story—”

  “No matter. Juries love hard evidence. He was found there and the knife and tourniquet are his merchandise. It’s strong circumstantial evidence.”

  “But Zachary’s boss told me that Brigham’s bone saws are available in any hospital and you can get the tourniquets anywhere.”

  “It’s not enough. Plus the Chester County coroner took a swab from Robinbrecht, and though the test results aren’t back yet, we know it is going to be Jeffcoat’s DNA. Again, it’s strong circumstantial evidence.”

  “So they had sex, he admits that.” Christine knew more about Zachary Jeffcoat’s DNA than Griff could imagine.

  “Still, DNA establishes the link, the connection.”

  Christine didn’t need that explained. She understood the connection at soul-level.

  “And now we know that it wasn’t his first visit to Robinbrecht’s apartment. They don’t know that we know that.”

  “What about Maryland? What did those detectives say?”

  “The murdered nurse was Susan Allen-Bogen at Bethesda General. Maryland can prove that Bethesda General is an account of Jeffcoat’s and that he was there that day, April 13, calling on them. Jeffcoat’s boss supplied copies of his hotel and gas reimbursement receipts. The police got him on EZ Pass cameras, and the hospital has him on its parking garage cameras.”

  Christine’s heart sank. “But why would Zachary put in for reimbursement on a trip in which he killed somebody?”

  “He has to. His boss knows he sent him there, and Jeffcoat regularly puts in for reimbursement. He wouldn’t be fooling anybody if he didn’t ask for reimbursement.”

  “Well, the important thing is that Zachary doesn’t know Susan Allen-Bogen. He never met her. He never met either of the other nurses.”

  “They have him in an elevator talking to Allen-Bogen, three hours before she was murdered. The security camera in the elevator got the footage.”

  “Really?” Christine asked, aghast. “Did they show you this footage?”

  “No, of course not. They told me they have it. I believe them even though they’re prosecutors.”

  Christine tried to understand the legal procedure. “Why do they tell you what their proof is, in advance?”

  “They do it to persuade me to let them talk to Jeffcoat. I got my free discovery, then I said no.”

  Christine wondered if Zachary had lied about knowing Susan Allen-Bogen or if there was another explanation. “Maybe Zachary didn’t remember meeting Allen-Bogen. Maybe he didn’t even get her name. It’s circumstantial.”

  “Uh-huh.” Griff was noncommittal. “Except that it’s the same pattern as Robinbrecht. He met her in the cafeteria that day, no text or phone call, and he shows up at her house that night. And Allen-Bogen was killed the same way, with the same MO, using the Brigham knife and tourniquet.”

  Christine didn’t bother to tell him that it was a metacarpal saw. “Do they have trace evidence in Maryland, like they have in Chester County?”

  “Don’t know yet. They’re waiting on the results to see if it’s a match.”

  “How about Virginia?”

  “Virginia can prove that Jeffcoat was at Newport News Hospital the day Lynn McLeane was murdered, January 12. Found killed with the same MO in her apartment, in bed. They can prove that the hospital is one of Jeffcoat’s accounts, and his boss has already turned over the hotel receipts Jeffcoat turned in. They have the camera in the parking lot that got his license plate. So did the EZ Pass.”

  “But can they link Zachary to McLeane? He doesn’t know her.”

  “They have him on security footage talking to her in the cafeteria line, the morning of the day she was murdered. They said he was very chatty.”

  “Do they have audio?”

  Griff sighed heavily. “Of course not. What do you expect? A body mike?”

  Christine’s heart sank. “But once again, we don’t know if he actually knew McLeane. He’ll admit that he talks to nurses in the cafeterias. He hits on nurses at his accounts. We don’t know if he remembers McLeane’s name or actually knew her, much less went back to her apartment and murdered her.”

  “Uh-huh,” Griff said again.

  “What about the hard evidence, or trace evidence, or whatever it’s called?”

  “The tests take longer, and they’re waiting for the results.”

  Christine tried to put it all together. There were too many facts to analyze on the fly, and her gut was churning. She had believed Zachary when he said he didn’t know Allen-Bogen or McLeane. So either he lied or made a simple mistake. “So what does this mean for Zachary?”

  “Bottom line, Virginia, Maryland, and Pennsylvania feel very good about their cases against Jeffcoat. They ‘like him,’ which is police-talk for they believe he’s the Nurse Murderer. The fact that he was in all three hospitals on the day the three nurses were murdered, and were seen with him, is strong circumstantial evidence. It won’t get to our jury, but it’s enough to get the FBI and the other two jurisdicti
ons champing at the bit.”

  Christine’s mind reeled. Even if Zachary hadn’t lied, he was in worse trouble than ever. “What did the FBI have to say? Did they meet with you?”

  “No. The FBI doesn’t meet with defense counsel.”

  “Then how do you know what they said?”

  “The detectives from Maryland and Virginia told me, trying to make me shake in my boots.” Griff chuckled. “The Feds are on board, lending them a profiler out of the Philly office.”

  “What did the profiler say, did they tell you?”

  “The profile they developed is that the killer likes and respects women. He gets along great with them. The praying hands is a reference to nurses as angels on earth. They think he’s a ladies’ man.”

  Christine listened, disturbed. The description fit Zachary to a T. “But if he likes nurses so much, why does he kill them?”

  “Because they’re not appreciated on earth. They’re too good for this mundane world. That’s why he does no sexual violence, unusual for a serial murderer. He delivers them to heaven. That’s what the profiler thinks.”

  Christine couldn’t begin to wrap her mind around the twisted logic. She didn’t know if it sounded like Zachary. “What do you think?”

  “I think I missed lunch. I’m hungry. I’m hanging up.”

  “Okay, good-bye,” Christine said, but Griff had already hung up.

  Christine hung up, her thoughts racing. Could it be a coincidence that Zachary was in the same three places at the wrong time? How unlucky was he? Was he being framed? It horrified her to think that he really was a serial killer, but she knew she had to allow it as a possibility.

  She tried to focus on the road. Traffic was speeding. She still couldn’t bring herself to believe that Zachary was guilty. She didn’t want to believe that the father of her baby could be so evil, so depraved. She squeezed the steering wheel to hold fast to something palpable, to tether herself to reality.

  She headed west, driving into the hot white sun.

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chesterbrook Hospital was a massive modern complex of boxy tan buildings with orange tile rooftops, sprawling with associated medical offices, blood-testing labs, a physical rehab center, and parking lots and garages. Christine got out of the car and joined the stragglers heading to the vigil. She was running late because traffic had turned heavy, so she’d parked in the ER lot, which was the closest to the vigil, which was being held outdoors, behind the hospital, on the South Lawn.

  The sky had clouded over, which seemed appropriate for such a solemn occasion, and Christine walked along the walkway, following people to the South Lawn. A hospital employee stationed at the lawn entrance handed her a bottle of water, a white program, and a white ribbon, which she didn’t have time to pin to her dress. Even if she had, it would have felt wrong. She thought about using a blue Porta John on the route, but it reeked, and she was late.

  She entered the South Lawn, a lush green carpet where a few hundred people stood facing a temporary wooden stage with forest-green skirting and a matching backdrop covered with CBH logos. At its center was a podium with a microphone, several folding chairs with seated men and women in suits, and uniformed West Chester police officers, in front of an American flag and a forest-green flag bearing the hospital logo.

  Christine joined the back of the crowd, looking around. She’d come hoping to learn more about Gail Robinbrecht, and hospital employees were out in such force that they looked like an army of lab coats, blue, green, and maroon scrubs, green lanyards, and clogs. Everyone wore a white ribbon, and each face bore the traces of sadness. There were fresh tears from nurses who must’ve known Gail personally, and still others who carried green balloons and homemade posters with Gail’s picture: GAIL, WE MISS YOU! FOREVER IN OUR HEARTS! CBH FOREVER RIP GAIL.

  Christine caught snippets of conversation around her, either from employees talking about Gail—“dedicated nurse,” “so sweet,” “still can’t believe it,” “seems unreal”—or talking about Zachary, who had become the focus of their collective anger—“heartless bastard,” “sick pervert,” “they should fry him,” “he’ll never hurt anyone else.” She felt like an interloper among them, her white ribbon tucked into her purse and the child of the man they all hated growing inside her very body.

  The program got underway, and two massive screens flanking the stage came to life, broadcasting a magnified close-up of the speaker, a middle-aged man in a gray suit, at the podium. Some of the crowd ahead of Christine surged forward for a center view of the stage, but others flowed around the right side of the stage, settling for a parallax view, if closer to the front. She joined the latter group and noticed a group of downcast nurses in patterned scrubs in the front row of the crowd, their arms linked together as they stood. Among them she recognized the older nurse and the younger Asian nurse from the memorial, and Christine realized that they were the orthopedic surgery unit, where Gail had worked. Next to them was a reserved section, cordoned off by a green sash, which held a grief-stricken older couple who had to be Gail’s parents, sitting with their other family and friends. They raised their glistening eyes to the stage when the man at the podium tapped the microphone.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” he began to say, his voice solemn. He had on rimless glasses and a shaven head, a masculine look he managed to pull off. “My name is Dr. Adam Verbena, CEO of Chesterbrook Hospital, and I welcome you to this program, at which we will remember one of our dearest colleagues, nurse Gail Robinbrecht. Gail worked for the past nine years in our orthopedic surgery unit and was beloved by all of us and by her patients. Today will be a celebration of her life and of all she gave to those around her, because that’s what nurses do, and that’s the way she would’ve wanted it, as those of you who knew her the best will agree.”

  Christine glanced at the orthopedic surgery nurses, who nodded in approval, and there were sniffles throughout the crowd. Everyone faced front, except for a handful of children who fidgeted, and Christine realized that the public must have been invited. Older people sat on folding chairs that had been set up on the other side of the crowd, and she spotted a hugely pregnant woman sitting with them, wondering how she felt. Off to the side, she recognized the group of Gail’s neighbors, sitting together: Kimberly and Lainey with their neighbor Dom, Rachel the brunette horsewoman with her boyfriend, Jerri the Indian-American wife, who had seen Zachary in Gail’s kitchen, sitting with her husband, and Phil the good-looking WCU student with the headphones, sitting with his girlfriend and his roommates, who lived two doors down from Gail.

  On the stage, Dr. Verbena was saying, “Today, we will have only three speakers, after Father Lipinski leads us in a moment of silence. You will then hear from Dr. Milton Cohen, CEO of the Suburban Health System, Dr. Grant Hallstead, Chief of Orthopedic Surgery, and Ms. Rita Kaplan, Chief of Nursing, who will recall the day that she hired the young Gail Robinbrecht.” Dr. Verbena stepped aside. “Father Lipinski, would you lead us in a moment of silence before your speech?”

  Christine took a sip of water, and when her stomach growled unhappily, she found herself wondering how long the program would be. She was regretting not having used the Porta John on the walk down. She looked around for another, but the only one was way in the far back of the crowd and the line was long.

  A black-robed Father Lipinski came to the podium, then adjusted the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, friends of the hospital community and neighbors, please join me in a moment of silence for Gail Robinbrecht.”

  Everyone’s head bowed, and Christine felt vaguely dizzy as she looked down, noticing that her feet were swelling, puffing out of her espadrilles. It must have been due to all the running around she was doing, though it hadn’t happened before. She thought the books had said that her feet wouldn’t swell until the eighth or ninth month.

  The moment of silence ended, and Father Lipinski continued, “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. At times like this, it is difficult to trust i
n God’s wisdom, for one of our brightest lights has been taken from us. In addition, at times like this, we may find ourselves questioning His ways…”

  Christine began to lose focus as the pastor spoke, and her thoughts strayed to the evidence against Zachary and how he’d been filmed talking to Allen-Bogen and McLeane, though he’d told her he didn’t know them. There was too much evidence to dismiss, even though Christine didn’t want him to be guilty, with every fiber of her being. She shifted on her feet, which were beginning to ache.

  Father Lipinski ceded the podium to Dr. Milton Cohen, who was tall and good-looking in a corporate way, with dark hair going silvery gray at the temples. He began to speak, and Christine tried to pay attention, his speech sounding sadly like the others; “wonderful nurse,” “always a smile,” “upbeat attitude,” “made every patient feel special.”

  Christine started looking around for a bathroom, noticing that the physical rehab building was across the parking lot, not that far. Its entrance hall was a box of glass, and she could see hospital personnel and people in street clothes inside the lobby. The first floor had to have a bathroom, but she didn’t know if she could sneak away from the vigil without being noticed or rude. She tried to hang in and pay attention.

  The next speaker was Dr. Grant Hallstead, and he was younger than she would have expected for someone so responsible. His light reddish hair was cut in layers, and his eyes were brilliant blue, magnified on the screen. He spoke with a preppy accent, his vowels plummy as he added to the consensus; “an excellent nurse,” “brought cheer to our unit,” “always a kind word,” “took extra shifts even when she wasn’t asked,” “had a brilliant future stolen from her.”

  Christine couldn’t pay attention because her bladder was filling. She had to get to a bathroom, and the physical rehab building was the closest. She backed away from the crowd and hustled past the stage, noticing more men and women in suits conferring in low tones behind the green curtain.

  She hurried off the grass, reached the concrete sidewalk, and scooted through the parking lot of the physical rehab building, ducking a passing Cadillac. She made a beeline for the entrance, threw open the glass door, and mouthed to the security guard, “Ladies’ room?”