by Megan Goldin
When the meeting with Howard came to a close I handed him a records request form, already filled out. All he had to do was sign.
He was in a bind. He could have stonewalled me. He could easily have delayed things a week or two by making me go through the official procedures, but I would have received the Pitt files in the end. I knew that. He knew that. We had a body lying in the morgue, most likely wearing jewellery that belonged to Pitt’s last known victim. Whichever way you looked at it, there was going to be scrutiny of the Pitt case. Temporarily blocking my investigation wasn’t going to get Captain Howard off the hook.
In the end, he did what I’d bet on when I decided to drive out to Richmond in the first place. He got ahead of the problem, in true political style, by becoming part of the solution. Captain Howard signed my request form and called ahead to get the boxes ready for me. He also made it crystal clear, off the record, that I owed him big time.
The boxes were waiting at the records department’s reception, just as he’d promised. I loaded them into my car and turned straight back home without stopping for lunch, even though my stomach was rumbling something awful.
I needed to get back to the office and work through the files as best I could before picking up Joe from baseball practice. I was determined to keep a close eye on my rebellious oldest son until things settled down for him at school.
The day before, I had told Joe what his teacher said in our meeting. ‘Big deal,’ he shrugged.
‘Who are these kids you’re hanging out with at the mall?’ I asked. Another shrug.
Then he let loose. After all, attack is the best defence, every teenager knows that. He told me that he hates it here. He wants to return to New York City. He wants his old friends back. The kids in this town are hicks. Why did I ever bring them here?
I barely slept that night, trying to figure things out. Perhaps he was right. Maybe we should go back. But what he really wanted, I knew this deep down in my heart, was his father.
This morning, I drove Joe and Sammy to school. Much to Joe’s embarrassment. I usually drop Sammy off in the mornings, but Joe likes to get to school himself.
Kids Joe’s age take the bus, ride their bike, or they walk. They never, ever get dropped off at school by their moms. That’s what Joe told me. I told him ‘tough luck’. Not only did I drop him off but I waited behind the wheel until he disappeared inside the front entrance of the main school building.
I was pleased to see him joined by two boys, good kids who had been his closest friends until a few months back he started complaining that they were geeky. I should have seen the writing on the wall back then. But if Joe was now back with the nerdy kids that had to be a good sign. Right?
Thanks to a clear run on the interstate on the way back from Richmond I arrived at the office in the early afternoon. It took five trips to haul the boxes from the car to my desk. I kind of wished Will was around to carry some of them. Those boxes were damn heavy. Still, I refused all offers of help on the way to and from the car. Ever since I was a rookie, I’ve made a point of never showing physical weakness to a male colleague. I carried every last box to my desk myself, even though I felt as if I might keel over by the end. In lieu of lunch I bought a candy bar from the vending machine and poured myself a coffee.
The top of the first box contained a file secured with an elastic band. Inside was a thick pile of photographs of Pitt’s victims. I flipped through them quickly. They were mostly personal photos, provided by the victims’ families for identification purposes. Among them was a photo of a woman with short strawberry blond hair and an exuberant smile. You could tell from her eyes that she didn’t have the faintest premonition of the brutal fate that awaited her. They never do.
It reminded me of a photo of Danny that I’d taken with an old Nikon during a hiking trip three weeks before he was killed. He was watching a goldfinch building a nest in a tree off the hiking trail. For the longest time I couldn’t look at that photo. The look of wonder on Danny’s face broke my heart. He loved life too much to lose his own.
I put the photographs to the side and opened the murder book. It’s a fancy name for a binder that consolidates the key leads in the case. It’s always a good starting point when revisiting an old case because it summarises all the information collected by the previous investigators.
‘Looks like you’ll be working through the night, detective.’ I looked up to see Lenny heading over to my desk. He was wearing a blue Hawaiian-print shirt and grass-stained pants that told me he’d come directly from his golf club.
‘Hey, Lenny, I didn’t expect you for another hour,’ I said as I closed the file. He pulled over a chair and sat alongside my desk.
‘I see it went well in Richmond,’ he said, tapping the files covering my desk.
‘Thanks to your advice on handling Howard. He was touchy as hell just like you said he’d be.’
‘Guys like that need their egos massaged, or else they shut you out,’ he said.
‘Well, I don’t know about massaging his ego,’ I said, ‘but I got what I wanted.’
I passed Lenny a black-and-white photograph of a dark-haired woman with a warm smile and restless eyes. It was the same photograph that Captain Howard had shown me in his office.
‘What do you remember about Pitt’s last victim?’ I asked. ‘The one whose body was burned.’
‘More than I care to.’ Lenny sighed. ‘She was one of my last cases.’
‘Can you get me up to speed on her disappearance? There’s not a lot of nuance in the case notes from what I’ve seen so far,’ I said.
‘I’ll tell you what I remember.’ Lenny’s chair creaked as he leaned forward to examine the photo.
‘She was a professor at the university,’ he said. ‘Fulbright scholar. A list of awards as long as my arm. It was a big deal when she went missing. The students held candlelight vigils. They gave out fliers all over town. Put up posters. Doorknocking. You name it, they did it,’ Lenny said. ‘She was popular. Widely respected.’
‘It says here she went shopping and never came back,’ I said.
‘Her disappearance was reported the following day. The car was found a few days later, abandoned about twenty miles out of town. There were no bloodstains. No signs of a struggle. It looked as if she’d been changing a flat tyre when she was taken. We’d probably have never found her killer if Pitt hadn’t confessed to her murder along with all the others. He told us where the body was. We found it. And the case was closed.’
‘Her jewellery was never recovered? That never troubled you?’
‘Pitt claimed he sold her jewellery in Atlantic City to cover gambling debts. I went up there to look, but I couldn’t find a trace. It was always an outside chance. Those pawn shops turn over gold jewellery fast, and they’re lax with their record keeping.’
‘Was forensics able to confirm the identity of the burned body?’ I asked the question that had been on my mind for much of the drive back from Richmond.
‘The body was practically incinerated,’ he answered. ‘Pitt doused it with highly flammable liquid and burned it in an oil drum. There wasn’t much left. And what was there was useless for identification purposes. The fire destroyed the DNA. In the end, it was the coroner who called it.’
‘What about the victim’s family? Didn’t they fight the decision to close the case even though there was no DNA confirmation?’ Usually, families of victims hold on to the smallest scrap of hope until they get indisputable evidence that their loved one is no longer alive.
‘We found the charred remains of a woman in a burnt-out oil barrel just like Pitt said. He flat-out confessed to her murder,’ Lenny said. ‘The coroner ruled that she was murdered by Pitt. The remains, or what was left of them, were handed over to the family for burial. They got their closure.’
‘Back up for a second,’ I said. ‘What do you mean it was clear from the way the car was left that she was abducted?’
‘The car had been wiped clean,’ Lenny sai
d simply.
‘I didn’t see that in the file.’ I flicked through the pages. ‘So you didn’t even find the victim’s prints in the car?’
‘The killer had gone through the car with a bottle of cleaning spray and a rag. He cleaned everything; door handles, seatbelts, dashboard. Best damn car detailing job that I’d ever seen. We found not a scrap of evidence that anyone had been in the car.’
‘I don’t get it,’ I said, standing up and checking through the files littering my desk until I found the one that I wanted. ‘Pitt had no criminal record. He wasn’t in the system. Why would he go to the trouble of removing all his prints? Lenny, it doesn’t make sense that a killer without a criminal record, not even a traffic infringement, would cover up so thoroughly.’
‘Pitt might not have known that his prints weren’t in the system. He might have decided that it was better to be safe than sorry,’ suggested Lenny.
Anything was possible. I had to look at the case from the vantage point of the original investigators. Hindsight can be deceptive.
‘Look,’ said Lenny. ‘Pitt died before he answered a long list of questions. There’s no doubt there was plenty we never found out. That’s why I suggested you get the case files from Richmond. There are inconsistencies. And because the jewellery you showed me last time, from the Kellers Way victim, reminded me of the Pitt case.’
‘As far as I’m concerned, the key question right now is whether Pitt killed the Kellers Way victim. Is that what you think happened, Lenny?’
‘It’s possible,’ he shrugged. ‘Maybe the Kellers Way victim was Pitt’s girlfriend, or a working girl that he was infatuated with. Maybe he gave her jewellery as a gift, jewellery taken from the body of the victim that he burned.’
‘He wouldn’t do that.’ I wasn’t certain of much in the case, but I was absolutely sure of that point. ‘According to the file, Pitt’s financial situation was dire. Between jobs, he sometimes ate at soup kitchens. A man who is flat broke, who at times can’t afford a proper meal, would not leave gold jewellery on a victim’s body. Even if she was his ex-girlfriend.’
‘You could be right,’ said Lenny. ‘I’m not saying you aren’t.’
‘And if I am right then there is a natural conclusion, isn’t there, Lenny?’ I needed him to confirm what I was thinking. That they’d botched the identification of Pitt’s last victim. That she wasn’t who they thought she was.
‘If your hunch is right then one thing is for sure,’ Lenny responded. ‘We all screwed up. Me, Richmond police, and the coroner.’
I was interrupted by the insistent ring of my phone.
‘Yeah,’ I answered, mouthing an apology to Lenny.
‘Mom.’ Silence. ‘It’s me. Joe.’ My son’s voice was shaky. ‘Mom, I, can you —’ His incoherent words were cut off by sobs as he broke down.
‘Joe,’ I said. ‘Joe.’ I tried to keep my own voice steady. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m at Nelson,’ he sobbed. My mind ticked over, trying to figure out why my teenage son was in a town all the way on the other side of the county when he should have been in his classroom at school.
‘Hello, ma’am.’ A new voice. Gruff. Official.
‘Your son was brought in this afternoon. We’ll need you to be present when we question him.’
Chapter Thirteen
Julie
I press Matt’s business shirt to my face and get the faintest whiff of a perfume scented with honeysuckle. Ever since our argument, he’s been coming home late with alcohol on his breath and the milky scent of an unfamiliar soap on his skin. He always has a ready excuse: a racquetball game he’d forgotten to mention, a faculty meeting that ran over time, a post-grad student having a meltdown. There’s always an explanation. It never rings true.
Been there, done that, I want to tell him. But I say nothing, because once I mention his infidelities there’s no going back. No way to pretend they never happened. No way to pretend our marriage is anything other than flawed, and broken, and littered with lies.
I spray stain remover on his shirt collar to remove a lipstick smudge. Not mine. I wear coral, which suits my blond hair. This lipstick shade is a deep red, perfect for a girl with long, black hair. I feel a wave of nausea, and something else. Blind panic.
I furiously rub the fabric to remove the stubborn smudge. I’ve turned a blind eye to Matt’s affairs before. But this one, this one is different. That girl flirting with him at the lecture was the image of Laura at the same age, the age when they first met. He sees her as his second chance. Where does that leave me?
I throw Matt’s shirt into the laundry sink to soak. I refuse to sit at home playing the helpless housewife when I should be staking my claim.
Thirty minutes later, I’m at the university, heading to the auditorium where Matt is lecturing. I buy two coffees from a vending machine in the lobby. I take a deep breath outside the wood-panelled door and walk in like it’s the most natural thing in the world for me to turn up unannounced at my husband’s psychology lecture. Nobody notices. They’re watching Matt. He paces as he talks. Hands in pockets. The velvet timbre of his voice keeps everyone enthralled.
Usually when I sneak into his lectures I sit anonymously in a dark corner so I won’t be seen. This time I want Matt to know that I’m here. I want him to know that I am watching. I want them to know too; all those sycophantic girls who follow my husband’s every gesture with predatory eyes.
I inhale nervously and walk towards the lectern. My high-heeled boots click loudly as I cross the floor. It gets their attention. When I reach the podium, I smile and put the coffee cup on the table for Matt. I turn back and take an empty seat near the door.
I look my ice-blond best with my hair brushed into a slick knot and light makeup on my face. I wear taupe pants and a cream silk shirt with an azure scarf tied around my neck in the style made famous by Grace Kelly; all that’s missing are the oversized sunglasses. I’m marking my territory. That’s why I’m here. Pissing on a tree like a dog. I’m here to make sure they know Matt’s mine.
We made up the day after the argument. Make-up sex. Me on top, riding him until he fell back onto his pillow exhausted. I collapsed on his chest. Twenty-four hours of the silent treatment was quite enough. I know how to get things back on track.
‘Sorry,’ I told him afterwards. ‘It was completely out of character. I lost track of time. You know that I adore Alice. It will never happen again.’ I curled up in his arms thinking that everything was fine.
Except there was wariness in his eyes the next morning. He tried to hide it but I could tell. He skipped breakfast and instead drank a mug of coffee, leaning against the kitchen counter. He mumbled something about being late and rushed out of the house. I happened to know his first class wasn’t until after lunch. I wondered who else might have some free time that morning. He kissed me as he left, a pathetic effort at pretending we were back to normal.
So here I am at his lecture; a human ‘trespassers will be prosecuted’ sign. Every now and then his female groupies steal sideways glances at me. They’re sizing me up. I smile serenely. It’s why I am here looking my kick-ass best. Why would a man with a wife this hot want to stray? That’s the question I want all of them to ask themselves the next time they try to catch his eye.
Matt lifts the coffee cup towards me in a gesture of gratitude before taking a sip. His eyes are hard. He’s pissed as hell that I’m here. I smile innocently.
He’s a performer. You have to give him that. When he turns it on, he lights up the room. His light-hearted jokes keep stupid smiles permanently stuck on his students’ faces. They don’t take their eyes off him, not even to check their cellphones. He has them all in the palm of his hand. And doesn’t he just know it.
The lecture hall is almost full. I’ve heard that students fight to get a place in Matt’s courses, especially girls. The seventy–thirty female-to-male ratio in the auditorium is confirmation.
Matt wears a bottle green blazer and dark pants. He
uses his frameless glasses like an actor on a stage. He takes them off, waves them to emphasise a point, folds them and tucks them in his front shirt pocket, then puts them on again to read something in his notes. Each time, the faint click of the glasses frames opening and shutting fills the lecture hall with anticipation.
He doesn’t even need reading glasses. They’re like everything else in his life: an illusion. The loving father, devoted husband, empathetic therapist.
Today he’s playing professor. He’s charismatic, amusing, incredibly engaging. He revels in this role. That’s why he refuses to dye his hair even though grey flecks are breaking out amid the brown strands. I bought him hair dye from a specialty store in town where the shop assistant matched the shade to a strand I pulled from his hairbrush. He flatly refuses to use it. You know what, I’ll forgive him the hair dye if the grey strands discourage these college girls from acting on their crushes.
He asks two students onto the podium to illustrate a point about cognitive function. He gives them word games to play. Soon the room is filled with laughter as the students struggle to list the days of the week in alphabetical order.
With me watching, Matt is on his best behaviour. He tries hard not to look at the girl from last time; the girl with dark hair whose lipstick stained the shirt collar currently soaking in my laundry sink. Laura’s clone. His eyes are drawn to her despite himself. She wears a pale blue cardigan with a tight black leotard underneath that exposes a sliver of cleavage. She puts up her hand with a studied elegance. She speaks loudly and confidently, though she blushes slightly under his attentive gaze.
‘Good question, Emily,’ Matt says, a little too enthusiastically. His students’ eyes turn to me again to see my reaction. They know that something is going on between the two of them. Why else would they be watching my response so closely?
‘I was hoping someone would ask me that question because it brings us to an interesting topic that I saved for last,’ says Matt. ‘Emily, since you asked the question you should come down and participate in this next exercise.’ I watch their eyes connect for a millisecond. They give each other a look so intimate that it makes me shudder. I swallow hard and keep the serene smile fixed on my face like it’s been pasted on with superglue. Everyone is watching. I won’t let them see my humiliation.
