The Only Suspect

by Jonnie Jacobs

  “We could plan a service for late in the week then. There’d be time to get the word out.”

  I nodded without enthusiasm. When Lisa died, her parents took over making all the arrangements. Maybe it was because they still considered her to be “their baby.” Or maybe it was because they’d hadn’t really liked me from the start, and knowing that the cops regarded me as a potential suspect didn’t exactly win them over. Bottom line was, they never consulted me about any of it. Funeral, burial, obituary, they ignored me and handled it all. It rankled at the time, but now the idea of planning a service seemed overwhelming to me.

  “It doesn’t have to be elaborate,” Dad said, as if he’d been reading my mind. “Chase and I can help.”

  “Thanks. I don’t know that I’m up to doing it myself.”

  “You going to notify her folks?”

  “I probably should.” Maureen might have been estranged from them, but they were her parents. There was a bitter irony in the fact that my first contact with them would be word of her death.

  “They must be mighty terrible people for a daughter to cut them out of her life that way.”

  “Not everyone’s as lucky as me and Chase.” I patted my father’s gnarled hand. He put his free hand on top of mine and held it there for a moment.

  “Do you even know how to reach them?” Dad asked.

  “Not directly, but I might be able to track them down.” I didn’t know where Maureen’s parents lived, or if they were even alive still. But I did know she’d gone to high school in Rochester, New York, and that her father’s name was Ted. It was someplace to start.

  “Why don’t you do it now and get it over with,” Dad suggested.

  I nodded half-heartedly.

  Because the police had confiscated my computer, I was stuck calling long-distance information. There were no listings for Ted, Theodore, or Edward Brown, but I did get numbers for two T. Browns.

  That was the easy part. I stared at the telephone for a long time, rehearsing what I would say. How did you introduce yourself to your father-in-law and in the next breath tell him his daughter was dead? Even a mighty terrible person, to use my dad’s phrase, would have difficulty receiving a call like that.

  Finally, I took a breath and dialed the first number. A woman picked up. I asked for Ted.

  “There’s no one here by that name.”

  “I’m trying to locate a Ted Brown who had a daughter by the name of Maureen.” When she didn’t jump in, I added, “Are you by any chance related?”

  “Afraid not. I’m Tina. My dad’s Bob, and my brother is Hank. No Maureen in our family.”

  I apologized for bothering her and tried the second number. I got an answering machine that told me I had reached the Brown residence. I hung up then thought better and dialed again. This time I left my name and number with the message that I wanted to speak to Ted Brown on a matter of some urgency.

  CHAPTER 29

  Hannah craved a cigarette. Quitting was a good idea in theory, but what difference did it really make? If she didn’t die of lung cancer or breast cancer, she’d die of something else. Maureen Russell hadn’t smoked, and she was dead, wasn’t she?

  Hannah was reaching into her desk drawer for the pack of Marlboros when Dallas looked up and addressed her across their abutting metal desks. “Let’s have him take a lie-detector test.”

  “Sam Russell?”

  “No,” he replied, laying on the sarcasm, “the pope.”

  She glared at him. “You expect me to read your mind?”

  “There are times it would be helpful.” He gave her a cocky grin. “And times it would definitely not be a good idea.”

  “We discussed this already. The results wouldn’t be admissible in court. We’d still have to put together a case.”

  “It might turn the pressure up a bit,” Dallas said. “Maybe force a confession or make him nervous enough he’d trip himself up.”

  Hannah clutched the cigarette pack longingly. Her mind was already halfway out the door. “What if he sailed through with flying colors?” she asked.

  “You think that’s what would happen?”

  Hannah wasn’t sure anymore. Wasn’t sure why there was a part of her still wanting to believe Sam was innocent.

  “What did you learn from Ben Albright?” she asked instead. Dallas had finally gotten through to him that morning.

  “The Russells have been to his house a couple of times—hospital events with a lot of people in attendance. Albright says he and Sam Russell are colleagues but not friends. Different interests, different circles, that sort of thing. He saw Maureen only at social functions and couldn’t recall that he’d ever had a real conversation with her. Lots of people knew about the wine cellar, he said. Every time he had a party, he’d have to give a tour of it.”

  “Poor guy.”

  Dallas laughed. “That was my feeling. He struck me as a bit pompous. Turns out we were right about the temperature, by the way. The setting was lower than Albright left it. He seemed as upset about that as the body.”

  “What about access to the house?” Hannah asked.

  “Except for Season and his cleaning lady, he can’t recall anyone who would have a key, especially not his ex-wife. Not his daughters either. But he’s got a spare in his desk at the hospital and another hidden in the garden. Both accounted for, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t borrowed. And when he changes into his scrubs for surgery, he leaves his whole danged key ring in his trousers pocket in the locker room.”

  So Sam might have had access to a key, Hannah thought, but he wouldn’t be the only one. “Anything on Albright or the dinner guests?”

  “Carla’s following up on that. So far, nothing that raises suspicion. Oh, and none of them were down in the carport, so we can eliminate them as sources for the shoe print.”

  “It’s not Sam’s size either,” she pointed out.

  Dallas nodded but didn’t seem much interested.

  Hannah was tempted to press him about Carla—what, if anything, was going on between the two of them?—but just then the lieutenant’s administrative assistant, Jolene, appeared at their desks. “Morrissy wants to see you two,” she said with a smack of her ever-present chewing gum. “Now.”

  Hannah reluctantly relinquished her grasp on the pack of Marlboros. Damn. If Dallas hadn’t interrupted her with that business about the lie-detector test, she’d be outside right now enjoying a smoke. Their meeting with the lieutenant would just have had to wait.

  Or he’d have talked to Dallas without her, which was not a reassuring thought. She respected the lieutenant’s judgment, but if he had input only from Dallas, he wouldn’t get a clear understanding of the case.

  Hannah sighed, reached for her notebook and pen. “Shall we?”

  Lieutenant Morrissy was seated at his desk, phone pressed to his ear, but he waved them into his office and gestured for them to have a seat.

  He was in his late forties, only ten years older than Hannah, but she thought of him as being of another generation. He had two grown daughters and a grandchild, with another on the way. His head was mostly bald, his face was ruddy, and his middle thick enough that his shirt pulled at the buttons.

  Hannah imagined that at one time he’d been an excellent cop, and he was still a fair and reasonable supervisor. But he liked things quiet and orderly. These days he seemed more comfortable in the world of community relations than heavy crime.

  “Yes, absolutely,” the lieutenant said into the phone. “Will do.” He hung up and turned to glower at Hannah and Dallas. “Well?”

  He’d called them there, Hannah thought. Shouldn’t they be the ones throwing the Well in his direction?

  “You wanted to see us,” Dallas offered.

  “The Maureen Russell case. Are we anywhere close to making an arrest?”

  “No,” Hannah said, at the same time as Dallas said, “Yes.”

  Morrissy groaned. “Christ, don’t tell me it’s one of those. It hasn’t even
been forty-eight hours since the body was discovered, and already I’ve heard from the chief, the DA, and half a dozen of the local media. Craig Jones from the Monte Vista Monitor has been practically sitting on my desk waiting for a statement. Some television station out of San Francisco even wanted a live interview.”

  Hannah had caught the story on a radio broadcast out of Sacramento, and she’d skimmed the newspaper accounts, which made the front page both yesterday and today. Word had finally gotten out not only about Maureen Russell’s death but that she was the second of Sam’s wives to have died under suspicious, and similar, circumstances. It was the kind of story reporters loved, even if it meant rehashing the same stuff over and over.

  “I’m scheduled to go on vacation in ten days,” Morrissy grumbled. “Hawaii. Beth will have my hide if I don’t make it.”

  His phone rang. He picked up the receiver and punched the intercom. “Hold my calls, will you, Jolene? Yes, even the ones on my private line.” He slammed the receiver back into its cradle. “Well,” he said again, more calmly this time. “What do we have?”

  “The husband looks good for it,” Dallas said.

  Morrissy turned to Hannah with an inquiring look.

  “With all due respect,” she said, “we only found Mrs. Russell’s body Saturday night. We’re still in the early stages of our investigation.”

  Dallas rested an elbow on the arm of his chair. “He was guilty before; he’s guilty now. Nobody’s unlucky enough to lose two wives to chance murders.”

  “You’re passing on the party guests?” the lieutenant asked. The light on his phone blinked. He ignored it.

  “For the time being.”

  “She’d been dead for a couple of days by the time they found her,” Hannah added. “And none of them except the hostess of the party even knew the owner.”

  “She’s the one with a key, isn’t she?”

  Hannah nodded. “But in terms of a suspect, she’s not even close.”

  For once, Dallas agreed with her. “The woman’s got a solid reputation and no ties to either of the Russells.”

  “She’s a real-estate agent. She’s got access to lots of houses.”

  Morrissy eyed the red light on his phone. It was blinking again. “What does Bones say?”

  “Officially, nothing yet,” Hannah reported. “The autopsy was only this morning.” One advantage of a high-profile case was that the medical examiner handled their requests promptly. Under other circumstances, they might have had to wait several more days.

  Hannah had forced herself to attend the autopsy because she’d learned over the years she could sometimes pick up details that never made it into the written report. And she got the information sooner too, which was an advantage in itself. But watching took its toll. It wasn’t so much the snipping of flesh and sawing of bone that got to Hannah, though the physical details sometimes made her queasy. What weighed on her had more to do with the metaphysics of life and death, and the fine, ephemeral line between them.

  “Bones is estimating she died anywhere from four to eight days ago,” Hannah told the lieutenant. “It’s difficult to be more precise because of the cool temperature in the cellar. Still, there was significant decomposition. She’d been dead some time.”

  Hannah’s mind flashed on a vision of Maureen Russell’s bloated and lifeless body laid out on the stainless-steel autopsy table. “Bones says she was killed somewhere other than the cellar, then moved.”

  Dallas rolled his shoulders. “The timing puts a total kibosh on Sam Russell’s kidnapping story.”

  “Sam could be the victim of a hoax,” Hannah said. “It wouldn’t be the first time some lowlife took advantage of news about a missing person to extort money.”

  “He claims to have talked to her on the phone on Friday.” Dallas looked from Hannah to Morrissy. “Kind of hard to do if she was dead.”

  “Could have been a tape. Or someone who sounded like her. Or possibly Bones is mistaken about the timing.” Although Hannah doubted that. Despite his nonchalant and sometimes irreverent manner, Bones knew his business.

  “How’d our victim die?” Morrissy asked.

  Hannah answered. “She was strangled. Looks like the killer used something soft. Bones thought maybe a necktie or scarf. There were lacerations on her throat and chest, apparently inflicted post-mortem. And trauma to the left side of her head, like she’d been hit with a blunt object. That happened while she was still alive.”

  “Defense wounds?”

  Hannah shook her head. “Fingernail scrapings were clean too.”

  “Anything useful from the scene itself?”

  “A couple of acrylic fibers on her sweater,” Dallas said. “Navy blue. The kind that might have come from a fleece jacket or blanket.”

  “Any blue fleece turn up in your search of the Russell house or car?”

  “No, but Sam wouldn’t keep something like that around,” Dallas pointed out. “He’d know it would link him to the murder. We found a handwritten note in Maureen Russell’s pocket. Some numbers—maybe an apartment number or something. Could have been there for ages and have nothing to do with her murder.”

  “There was also a recent footprint in the carport by the door leading into Albright’s house,” Hannah added. “Appears to be a man’s boot, size eleven. Sam’s a size ten, and so is Albright, the guy who owns the house.”

  “Anything that ties the print to the killing?” Morrissy asked.

  “No, but the carport is the most direct way to get to the wine cellar from outside. And none of the house guests entered or left that way.”

  Morrissy rubbed his fleshy cheek. “Do we have anything useful?”

  “We found a towel in Sam’s laundry with what looked like blood on it. Forensics team is on it. They’re also going over the items we collected, both at the scene and as a result of our search of Sam’s house and car,” Dallas said. “The car alone had enough odd and ends to keep them busy for a bit. Point to note though: he had it washed right after she disappeared.”

  The lieutenant frowned. “What do we have on him?”

  “The marriage might have been headed south,” Dallas explained. “We suspect the wife was in touch with a divorce attorney. And Sam’s story doesn’t add up. Says he last saw her Sunday morning when he left for the hospital, but no one remembers seeing him there. He bought flowers Sunday morning at a place that’s on the other side of town from the hospital and his home. What’s more, the house where the body was found belongs to one of the other doctors at the hospital. Sam’s been to the house in the past and could get access to a key through the doctors’ locker room.”

  “Nothing that ties him directly to the crime though?”

  “Not directly, no. We’re hoping there’ll be something yet in the items seized during the search.”

  “Is the flower stand anywhere near Albright’s place?” Morrissy asked.

  Dallas shook his head. “Albright lives out beyond the hospital.”

  “So according to your theory, Sam is no more likely to have been there Sunday morning than at the hospital?”

  “Sam and his wife were no-shows for their dinner reservation Saturday night,” Dallas pointed out. “Sam says they changed their minds about going out, but it seems to me there’s a good chance whatever happened, happened Saturday evening, not Sunday.”

  Morrissy looked about to speak when Dallas continued. “Rick Thompson from the canine unit thinks Maureen Russell last left the Russell residence through the garage. My theory is she and Sam drove off together, then he whacked her.”

  “But why?” Hannah asked. She’d kept quiet as long as she could. “Except for one possible visit—and I stress possible—to an attorney who handles divorces, we haven’t seen anything to indicate the marriage was less than solid.”

  Dallas continued as though she hadn’t spoken. His voice grew more animated as he expounded on his theory. “He dumps her in Albright’s wine cellar—he knows the guy is in Italy and the body’s not
going to turn up. He reports her missing because that’s what a good husband does, right? As soon as he sees we’re looking at him, he concocts this intruder story. Then he comes up with the kidnap idea. He feeds you the story of the ransom call, Hannah, and figures in a couple of days he’ll collect the body from the wine cellar and dump it somewhere in the hills. He’s hoping by the time she’s discovered, we’ll have a hard time proving when she was actually killed.”

  He paused for a moment, cracked his knuckle, and smiled. “Might have worked if the dinner guests hadn’t gone looking for wine.”

  “If he planned it so carefully,” Hannah asked, “why did he fail to pick up his daughter Sunday morning? And why back himself into a story about being at the hospital if he wasn’t?”

  Morrissy looked to Hannah. “What do you think happened?”

  “I haven’t worked out a detailed scenario the way Dallas has.” She didn’t want to sound antagonistic, but she was afraid the words came out that way. “I agree that Sam isn’t being totally honest with us, but given what happened with his first wife, it’s understandable.”

  “To the contrary,” Morrissy said. “I should think that if he’s innocent, he’d want to cooperate fully and clear his name.”

  “Not if he was also innocent the first time,” Hannah pointed out. “He was one juror away from conviction. That’s got to shake his faith in the system.”

  Dallas crinked his neck. “And if he was guilty then?”

  “Then why risk killing a second wife?”

  “Because he did get away with it before.”

  Morrissy’s phone light was blinking again. He glanced at it, then at his watch. “Anything else?”

  Neither Dallas nor Hannah spoke up.

  “Okay, I think we’ve about covered it for now. We’re getting a lot of scrutiny on this one. Let’s make sure we move with care. But I’d like to get it wrapped up too. If the husband’s our guy, let’s bring in the DA and see if we can put together a case. Dallas, that’s your thought, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Hannah?”