by Megan Goldin
‘You still take your coffee with two sugars?’ I asked as I handed Mike his takeout coffee and a handful of sugar sachets.
‘You’d think I’d know better, right?’ he said as he tore open a sachet of brown sugar.
I sat down in a blue upholstered chair by Mike’s desk. He had the build of a cyclist; thin and sinewy, with a slight tan from his daily ten-mile bike ride. He had thinning hair with a hint of silver. He handed me a thick bound booklet. It was 120 pages long, including an appendix of photographs and diagrams.
‘I’ll talk you through the highlights. You can read the full report later,’ Mike said as he opened his copy and took a sip of coffee. ‘The victim was female. She died approximately five years ago, give or take a few months either way. She was between thirty-five to forty years of age. Caucasian. Dark hair. Height would have been five foot nine. Weight, probably 130 to 150 pounds.’
‘Cause of death?’ I asked.
‘Indeterminate,’ he said. ‘My suspicion is that she was suffocated. There aren’t any obvious trauma injuries.’
‘Was there any sign of a struggle?’
‘There may have been, though probably nothing significant. It’s impossible to tell for sure due to the decomposition.’
I listened to his summary, taking notes in the margins of my copy of the report. When he was done, I put it down and sat forward in my chair for the business end of our conversation.
‘There’s a theory, Mike, favoured by Richmond police that if correct will close this case right now.’
‘And that theory is?’
‘That Edward Pitt murdered the Kellers Way victim. Mike, from what you’ve seen, is there any physical evidence that supports the theory that Pitt was the killer?’
Mike sighed. ‘Nobody is going to like the answer,’ he said, choosing his words carefully. ‘I know Pitt’s work. Up close and personal. I was in the task force. I performed some of the autopsies. Let me tell you something about Pitt. His victims had two distinct features.’
‘Which were?’
‘Pitt broke his victims’ fingers before he killed them. Sometimes he broke all their fingers, other times he broke a few of them. The Kellers Way victim had no breaks in any of her fingers.’
‘Maybe there was a reason. Maybe he didn’t have enough time,’ I suggested.
‘It’s not just that,’ Mike said with a dismissive wave. ‘The other defining feature is that Pitt stabbed all his victims as part of his killing ritual, usually in the stomach and chest. Due to the decomposed condition of the Kellers Way body, I can’t determine whether there were stab wounds in the tissue, but I should see indications of a blade hitting bone. There is no sign of any blade being used. I’ve reviewed the X-rays thoroughly. I don’t believe Edward Pitt had anything to do with the Kellers Way murder. If he did then he broke almost completely with his MO.’
‘Ok, so let’s say we both agree that Pitt had nothing to do with the Kellers Way vic. That brings us back to her identity,’ I said. ‘What are your thoughts on that, Mike?’
‘Short of DNA tests, I can’t say with certainty.’ He sighed. ‘In terms of a working theory, based on an initial analysis of the Kellers Way victim’s measurements and facial structure, and a study of the jewellery she was found wearing, I’d say your gut is probably right on this, Mel. I’m betting the woman they thought was Pitt’s final victim wasn’t killed by Pitt at all. She was killed by someone else. And it’s her body we found buried in Kellers Way.’
‘You know, Mike,’ I said, throwing my empty coffee cup straight into his waste paper bin, ‘I was really hoping you wouldn’t say that.’
I opened the case file of Pitt’s final victim. He’d confessed to abducting a local woman in a forest near our town, killing her at his lair in West Virginia and then burning her body in an oil drum. It was increasingly apparent that Pitt falsely confessed to this murder, in a failed bid to claim the reward money offered by the victim’s family. He wanted the money to fund his cancer treatment.
I contemplated the implications of turning a closed case into an active homicide investigation. Aside from the departmental politics, I’d have to contact this woman’s loved ones and tell them that in fact her murder was still unsolved and that we were reopening the case.
I removed a photo of the woman from the file. She had a serene smile and lush black hair that contrasted with the golden fall leaves of the oak tree behind her. Her eyes were filled with intelligence and a hint of amusement. It was the last photo taken of Laura West before she died.
Who killed you, Laura?
Chapter Fifteen
Julie
Every two weeks, on a Tuesday evening, Matt comes home late after a faculty meeting. He usually arrives just past seven o’clock. Tonight he walks through the door after nine.
He throws his car keys in the drawer of the hall table and heads into the kitchen. His face is flushed. With guilt. And drink.
‘Dinner will be ready in a couple of minutes.’ My voice is wooden as I turn on the stove to heat up the food.
‘I’m not hungry,’ he says, leaning against the kitchen counter. ‘They brought in food for the faculty meeting.’ He avoids my eyes. Does he seriously think I can’t tell when he’s lying?
‘I waited for you for dinner.’ I keep up the charade as I dish up two serves. ‘So you might as well keep me company while I eat.’
I bring the plates to the dining table, which I’ve set with wine and cutlery. I pour us each a glass of white wine. Matt gives me a warning look, but for once he doesn’t try to argue. I drink my wine like it’s water just to annoy him. Two glasses in the space of five minutes. Its warmth spreads through my body. My inhibitions disappear.
‘Who was that girl at the lecture?’ My tone is matter-of-fact.
‘What girl?’
‘The girl you called down to the podium at the lecture today.’ I swirl my gnocchi around the blue-cheese sauce while I wait for his answer.
He takes a sip of wine and contemplates my loaded question.
‘There were a few students on the podium. I’m not sure which one you’re referring to.’ His voice is patient, as if he is talking to a child. ‘I often include students in demonstrations. It makes the lecture more engaging and it’s an effective teaching tool.’
‘There was a girl,’ I say slowly (I too can patronise), ‘who you brought down near the end. Black hair. Light blue cardigan. You asked her to memorise words you’d written on the whiteboard and then repeat them after watching a video of a train crash.’
‘Oh.’ His voice is over-dramatic as if hit by sudden recall. ‘That’s Emily.’
‘She’s very pretty,’ I say. ‘Seems smart, too.’
‘Why this sudden interest in my students?’ He puts down his fork. ‘You’re not jealous?’
‘Why would I be jealous of your student, Matt?’ I say sarcastically. ‘She’s stunning and smart. And she ogles you like a love-sick teenager.’
‘Rubbish,’ he says. ‘You’re far prettier. And I don’t think of my students like that.’
‘You thought of me like that,’ I point out.
‘A man’s allowed one exception to a long-standing rule,’ he says. ‘And technically, you weren’t my student at the time.’
‘Touché,’ I say as I lift a forkful of gnocchi into my mouth.
‘Emily is a grad student,’ he says in a reassuring tone that grates. ‘Nothing more, nothing less. Now your turn. Why did you really sit in on the lecture?’
‘I dropped by to bring you the papers you’d forgotten. You were teaching and I figured you wouldn’t mind if I listened to your lecture. Are you annoyed with me?’
‘I’m not annoyed,’ he says patiently. ‘I often get people sitting in on my lectures. There’s no reason why my wife can’t attend as well.’
‘My point exactly.’ I drain my third glass of wine. ‘So why are you making an issue of it?’
‘You’re right, Julie,’ he says. ‘I was overreacting. It’s ju
st that when you walked into the lecture hall, you disrupted my train of thought. You’re a distracting lady.’ He leans forward to kiss me. ‘You looked amazing today.’
‘Doesn’t she remind you of someone?’ I ask later, when we’re clearing up the dishes.
‘Who reminds me of someone?’
‘That girl from your lecture. Emily.’
‘No. Who is she supposed to remind me of?’ shrugs Matt.
‘Nothing, nobody,’ I mumble as I pile up the plates and take them to the kitchen.
When Matt goes upstairs to shower, I collect his clothes from the bathroom floor. I put my face into the fabric. The shirt smells of Matt’s distinctive scent. If I close my eyes and concentrate very hard, I can also smell the scent of another woman’s perfume. I put his clothes in the laundry basket and go through the connecting door into the garage where his car is parked.
I don’t know what I’m expecting to find as I search Matt’s car. Condom wrappers, maybe. There’s nothing in the glove compartment or on the floor. I check the central console. Nothing except loose change. But when I slip my hand into the pocket on the driver’s door, I find a brass key with an engraving that says it’s the property of the university’s off-campus housing department.
He has a key to her apartment. I want to be sick, physically sick, on Matt’s Italian leather car seat. What has happened to us? We were never supposed to be this couple. We were supposed to have drawn the happily-ever-after card.
Damn Matt for making me take my meds. They leave me in a perpetual fog. They dull my senses. They give him the freedom to do whatever he likes; to cheat on me with impunity. I put the key back where I found it and return to the house. Matt’s in the kitchen frothing up milk for hot chocolate.
‘What were you doing in the garage?’ he asks.
‘I thought I left my car lights on.’
‘I would have told you if you had,’ he says, handing me a mug of hot chocolate. We sit on stools by the kitchen counter drinking from our steaming mugs.
‘Matt,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to take the pills anymore.’ There, I said it. I watch his face tighten in disapproval as I wait for his response. We’ve had this conversation so many times. It rarely ends well.
‘Julie,’ he says after a long pause. ‘We’ve discussed this before. The medication stabilises your mood. You can’t just go on and off this kind of medication like a yo-yo.’
‘I don’t have mood swings anymore. I needed medication after the haemorrhage. And maybe after Roxy. But I’m fine now. I really am.’
‘Why do you keep calling it a haemorrhage, Julie?’ He sounds annoyed. ‘It was a miscarriage.’
‘I know what it was, Matt,’ I snap. ‘I was there. I went through it.’ I take a deep breath to get hold of myself. ‘Look, all I want is for things to go back to normal between us. And they won’t if I’m taking those damn meds.’
‘Everything is fine between us. You’re getting yourself worked up about nothing.’ He pulls me to him. The stubble on his jaw brushes again my skin. The reassuring beat of his heart melts away my distrust.
‘Honey, you need to keep taking your medication,’ he says, using his finger to wipe away an errant tear running down my cheek. ‘To keep yourself healthy. For me. And for Alice.’ He kisses me; a long, lingering kiss.
It’s the first time in ages he has made the slightest effort to touch me with any tenderness. I wonder why? That makes me think of Emily. Later in our bedroom, as he makes love to me, I wonder who else’s lips he has kissed today and who else’s body he has thrust into.
When I hear his steady breathing in the middle of the night, I climb out of bed and sit on the edge of the mattress watching his hair rumpled and dark against the white of the pillow cover. His mouth is gently parted. I wish I knew what Matt dreams about. He knows everything about me; my deepest thoughts and my greatest fears. Yet he keeps so much of himself hidden.
I slide my hand under the mattress and remove the capsules that I’ve hidden there. Tonight he forgot to watch me taking them before we settled down to sleep. I flush the meds down the bathroom drain. Then I go downstairs to Matt’s study as quietly as possible. I’m super careful on the landing, where a loose floorboard always creaks. I sit on the soft leather chair at his desk and boot up his computer in the dark.
I try his usual passwords. Each time, I receive a prompt that tells me it’s not the right password. Finally, I think of another option. I type in a date; the date he married Laura. I press enter. The screen lights up. Rather than feeling elation at getting it right, it makes me miserable.
There’s not a day when Laura is not in our lives. Her memory defines our family. We live in the two-storey house she and Matt bought when they were first married. The home Laura furnished like a doll’s house. Except now I’m the doll. I cannot escape the fact that my house was once her home and my husband once belonged to her.
The very desk that I’m sitting at was once chosen by her, restored by her, put here for her husband to sit at and admire the tasteful selection of wall art that still hangs there today, mocking me from across the room. I would never have had the taste or imagination to decorate Matt’s study the way she did. She knew him so much better than I do. His taste. His moods. His desires. No matter how hard I try, I will always fall short of Laura.
I search Matt’s computer for his student files, which he’s downloaded into a folder. I quickly find the file for Emily. Emily Morrison is her full name. She’s a 23-year-old graduate student. Straight As. She’s from Long Island. This semester she’s doing four out of five courses with Matt. How nice for her. And how convenient that he’s also her faculty advisor.
I check his calendar. They have a regular meeting on Fridays at 4.15 p.m. Matt sees all the students he is advising back to back. Each one gets a thirty-minute block on a Friday afternoon. Emily’s slot is the last for the day. Now I know why he always comes home late on a Friday, face flushed, hair rumpled.
I scroll through his emails to see if there are any messages from Emily. I am looking for written confirmation of their affair. There’s none in his inbox. I check his deleted items. There’s nothing from Emily. There is, however, an email from the university office sent that afternoon saying: ‘Please be advised that tonight’s faculty meeting has been cancelled as several staff members are attending conferences out of town.’ Matt was not at a faculty meeting this evening. Another lie. Another cover-up for his affair with Emily.
I find it strange that there’s not a single message from Emily in any of his email folders. Not even in his archived or deleted items. She is, after all, his student. Rather than allay my fears, the absence of any correspondence between them whatsoever makes me more suspicious. Matt must have an email account that he keeps secret. How else would he communicate with her?
I’ve already checked his phone and it’s clean. I sign into my own Facebook account to look her up, now that I have her full name. There are several people by the name Emily Morrison. Only one is a student at the university. I click on that profile. It’s illustrated by a grainy photograph of a young woman in a soft pink ballet leotard with her leg extended on a dance bar. She’s a dancer as well as an honor student. The perfect package.
Her profile says she’s ‘in a relationship’. She doesn’t say with whom. I scroll through her recent photographs to find out. There is an assortment of photos with her college friends. There’s a selfie outside the stage door at Lincoln Center holding an autographed program of Swan Lake. And a whole lot of photos of her family: at the Thanksgiving table, by the Christmas tree, on vacation in the Bahamas. Then there is a myriad of photos of artfully plated food at restaurants.
Emily has documented so much of her life; from the sublime to the mundane. Yet there is not a single photograph of her mysterious boyfriend. ‘In a relationship.’ I am incensed that she deems fucking my husband to be a relationship.
I return to Emily’s student files. I copy her class schedule and save it in my own email’s d
raft folder. I also copy her cellphone number and a street address back in Long Island. There’s no information about her local campus address. When I’ve copied everything from Matt’s laptop I can find on the subject of Emily Morrison, I sign out of Facebook and delete my browsing history.
I crawl back into bed. Matt instinctively pulls me to him. ‘Where were you?’ he mumbles in his sleep.
Chapter Sixteen
Mel
After dinner, I left my kids at home watching TV and drove to the most expensive neighbourhood in town. I pulled up outside a Georgian-style home with neatly clipped hedges and a black wrought-iron fence. The two-storey house was at the top of a cul-de-sac.
I arrived with a swab kit and an envelope filled with photographs. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I was apprehensive. For one thing, it’s a bitch to reopen a closed case. Aside from the red tape, it makes enemies. Captain Howard in Richmond, for one. He was going to be a body short in the Pitt case. And he was going to blame me for it, especially if it meant a judicial review of the original case. Especially if there was blowback.
Captain Howard was the least of my problems that night. There are few things more excruciating than having to explain to the next of kin that there may have been a screw up in the investigation of their loved one’s murder. Well, in truth there was one thing worse: telling a victim’s family they might have buried the wrong body in the family plot. I’d be giving a double dose of bad news that night and I wasn’t looking forward to it.
In an ideal world, I’d have had definitive answers on the victim’s identity before I even arrived to talk with her family, because the lab would have crossmatched Laura West’s DNA with the DNA of the Kellers Way victim.
In the real world of screw ups, I’d been unable to get that DNA crossmatch because we no longer had Laura West’s DNA in the system. We also didn’t have any personal effects that might have contained DNA traces, such as her hairbrush or toothbrush. As bad luck would have it, an entire box of Laura West’s possessions had been thrown out of the evidence repository five months earlier. It was a closed case and everything had been purged from the system and the archives. Space costs money. Not surprisingly, I was mad as hell when I heard that piece of news.
