There was also, even after the long time this warehouse had been out of use, a rather overwhelming smell of fish. I found myself breathing through my mouth.
“What are we looking for?” Ms. Washburn asked.
“Any trace of violence,” I suggested. “A dark stain on the floor or walls. Something that could have been used as a bludgeon.”
We walked farther into the center of the open space. “You don’t think the tire iron was the murder weapon?” Ms. Washburn said.
“I do not have enough information to form an opinion yet, but it seems unlikely to me.”
“That sounds like an opinion.”
I did not respond because I thought it might have been an attempt at banter, something which does not come naturally to me. I try to avoid it. Instead I diverted my attention to carefully scanning the floor for signs of Brett Fontaine’s murder. The odor in the air was not helping. I began to worry that I might vomit.
For the first six minutes there was nothing unusual Ms. Washburn or I noticed in the warehouse. A quick look behind the door of the office, which was unlocked, showed an absolutely empty room, not even a desk or chair. I made a mental note to check on the ownership of this building and how long it had lain dormant.
When we had split up to better cover the main floor Ms. Washburn called to me from the eastern side. “Samuel. I think I’ve got something.”
I walked to her side. It was a fairly sizable distance but I did not run as it was clear whatever Ms. Washburn had discovered would not be in danger of leaving anytime soon. When I got to her approximately thirteen seconds later I saw the evidence she had mentioned.
There was a distinct area indicating there had been a liquid on the floor and the stain was not very old. But more importantly there was also a metal grappling hook, the kind used to help workers move large crates more efficiently. It lay on the floor near the dark stain, which was approximately seventeen inches in diameter.
“Did you touch anything?” I asked Ms. Washburn.
She looked at me with a curled lip. “Of course not. This is not my first dead body, Samuel. With you it’s become a habit.”
I must have looked horrified because Ms. Washburn immediately touched my arm and said, “Oh Samuel, I didn’t mean anything by that. It was just a joke.”
It was best to shake my head to indicate her comment had not hurt me emotionally. “I think now we have a clear course of action,” I said. “Take two steps back and call the police.”
We took two steps back.
twenty-four
“How did you get in here?” Detective Jack Monroe did not sound pleased and he did not look pleased.
“The lock on the back door was broken,” Ms. Washburn interjected quickly. Of course what she said was true, but she left out the fact that she was the one who had broken it. “We came in to look around and found what you’re looking at now.”
Monroe looked down at what we believed to be a bloodstain and the grappling hook. “How do I know you didn’t bring it with you?” he asked.
I was momentarily stunned by the question but Ms. Washburn had no such hesitation. “Are you serious? You think we came here to plant evidence just so we could make your day more complicated?”
Monroe held up his hands defensively. “Easy, lady. I have to ask.”
It occurred to me that he did not in fact need to ask that question but there was no point in stating the obvious. “We have touched nothing,” I said.
“I would hope so,” Monroe answered. He bent at the knees and squatted next to the wet area, which had already been isolated with yellow police barrier tape. Two uniformed officers stood by. Monroe looked toward the door where Ms. Washburn had obliterated the handle to allow our entry. “Crime scene should be here any minute.”
“I thought Brett’s murder was a state case now,” Ms. Washburn said. She definitely knew that was not true. I wondered if she was trying to elicit information from Monroe that he would not otherwise divulge.
Monroe looked up at her with an odd expression I could not classify. “It would be the county’s Major Crimes unit and we haven’t been told that yet. So you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Ms. Washburn said. “So if the county’s going to get involved, why are you here?” She was unquestionably baiting Monroe.
He did look annoyed. “We don’t know what we have here yet,” he said. He pointed toward the outline on the floor. “This could be chocolate syrup for all we know.”
“It is not,” I said. “It is Brett Fontaine’s blood. He was killed here.”
Monroe, apparently satisfied that he had posed as a brilliant detective long enough, rose to his full height again and looked at me. “I’m a member of the New Brunswick Police Department and a detective,” he said. “I need concrete evidence before I can make a claim like that. I can’t just decide based on a hunch.”
There was much of his statement I could have questioned. For one thing, why evidence should be made exclusively of concrete was baffling. But I decided to concentrate on the thrust of Monroe’s argument, which I found particularly troublesome and possibly insulting.
“I am not operating on a hunch,” I told Monroe. “The presence of olive oil mixed with Mr. Fontaine’s blood, even in trace amounts, would lead us to this building, which was used as a warehouse for products packed in that substance. No doubt you have noticed the odor of fish in this facility.”
“So there’s olive oil in the ME’s report,” the detective said. “So what? He could have been killed at a pizzeria or there could have been olive oil spilled on the street where he was found. It didn’t even have to be that recent, if you’re making the argument that it was here. This place hasn’t been active in two years.”
Ms. Washburn stepped forward to confront Monroe. “That’s true, but there was so much olive oil spilled here over the years that it’s probably on every surface of this building. Right, Samuel?”
“Yes. No doubt each of us will have a very thin coating on the soles of our shoes when we leave here today. Perhaps an examination of Mr. Fontaine’s shoes on the day he died will indicate he was here as well.”
“Finding that grappling hook doesn’t prove anything,” Monroe said. Perhaps he was changing the subject to learn something or to avoid discussing olive oil any further. “Fontaine was killed with something much more blunt than that thing.”
“You’ll notice the stain on the hook shows on its handle,” I pointed out. “I believe the killer used it backward, holding the sharp point in his or her hand and the larger end as a bludgeon. I think a forensic examination of the wounds will bear out my contention that Mr. Fontaine was not killed with a tire iron.”
Monroe’s lips became thin; he was pressing them together. “I think I’ve learned all I can from you two,” he said after a sizable pause. “You can go.”
As we walked out Ms. Washburn said quietly to me, “I guess you got him madder than I did.”
We were back outside and in Ms. Washburn’s Kia Spectra shortly thereafter. “Detective Monroe has an odd tendency to reward any assistance we give him with scorn,” I said as Ms. Washburn started the engine.
“Some people have difficulty getting in touch with complicated emotions,” she answered, and then we did not speak because she was driving.
We returned briefly to the Questions Answered office because we had not been there at all today. Much of our business can be done with the use of smartphones and Ms. Washburn’s laptop computer when there is a Wi-Fi signal nearby, but being in our headquarters makes things easier and more efficient. I do not like to stay away from the office for an extended period of time for fear I have missed something, or that a potential client might walk in off the street. Or more accurately, the parking lot.
I did a few quick calculations on the question of the world circumnavigation
while Ms. Washburn spoke on the phone to Virginia Fontaine to keep her abreast of our progress. She made an appointment to see Ms. Fontaine the next morning and another to talk to Leon Rabinski again regarding his alleged affair with Virginia. I could hear her side of the conversation as I worked on my desktop computer.
When she had completed her calls I suggested we drive back to my home, as Ms. Washburn was still staying there for security purposes. Ms. Washburn had suggested returning to her apartment because there had been no further communication from the person pretending to be the spirit of Melanie Mason, but I was wary of making assumptions and said she should stay at least one more night.
“All right,” Ms. Washburn said, “but I’m not making you sleep on the sofa again.” I assumed she would change her thinking on the subject and did not object, waiting for the subject to be broached again later in the evening.
“You made two appointments for interviews tomorrow morning,” I said as we left the office. “Are you assuming we will conduct those sessions separately?”
“That was the plan, wasn’t it?”
“I will have to ask Mike the taxicab driver if he is available at that time,” I mused aloud. Ms. Washburn simply nodded; yes, that was what I would need to do.
When we arrived at my home, Mother had not yet finished preparing our dinner. Ms. Washburn said in a voice my parents could not hear that it would be rude to excuse ourselves and go to my attic apartment. That was typically my custom when there was an interval like this, but I acceded to her view and sat with Ms. Washburn and Reuben Hoenig in the living room where Mother, with the kitchen door swung open, could hear the conversation.
Ms. Washburn recounted the afternoon’s activities. There was no comment from Reuben, although he looked interested, but Mother sounded aghast. “You broke into a warehouse?”
“It was an abandoned warehouse, and we needed to observe a crime scene the police had not yet discovered,” I explained. Ms. Washburn signaled to me with her hands palms up and raised them, indicating I had not spoke loudly enough for Mother to hear, so I repeated what I’d said at a higher volume.
“You didn’t have to yell,” Mother said from the kitchen. I resolved to practice modulating my voice more stringently.
“So you broke the case for the cops,” Reuben said. He rarely looked at me but often at Ms. Washburn, whom he appeared to find fascinating.
“We do not break cases; we answer questions,” I told him. I had made similar statements to him on eight previous occasions. “And in this instance, we merely located the scene of the crime. We still do not have enough information to form a theory on its perpetrator or perpetrators.”
“Well, what about that?” Reuben asked.
“We still have to gather a good deal of data,” I explained. “Officer Palumbo should soon have some information on the electronic equipment Mike and I found at the gravesite. And we will continue to talk to those who knew Brett Fontaine, although I’d like to concentrate on those who also knew Virginia’s first husband, William Klein.”
“That means we have to find Anthony Deane,” Ms. Washburn said. “And he seems to be very serious about not being found. I’ve looked up everyone with that name I can find and there are none listed in New Jersey. We know he had a stand in a farmers’ market in Metuchen years ago, but we don’t know if he still lives here and neither does his fraternity brother Peter Belson.”
Reuben seemed to ruminate on the problem. “From what you told me the person who thinks this Deane guy killed both husbands is the high school friend … Donna?”
“Debbie Sampras,” Ms. Washburn corrected him.
Reuben pointed at her like a teacher whose student has found the correct answer. He snapped his fingers. “Debbie Sampras,” he said. “What do you know about her?”
“Ms. Washburn interviewed her in person,” I said. “I’m sure it was a very thorough conversation based on her recounting.”
“I’m not questioning your work, Janet,” Reuben said. “I’m saying someone who’s that anxious to pin two murders on another person just because she thinks he had a crush on the woman in the middle probably has her own agenda.”
“We have not ruled anyone out as a suspect,” I reminded Reuben.
“No, of course not.” He moved his head back and forth, nodding almost to the side as if considering and agreeing at the same time. “Do we know anyone else who knew them both in high school?”
“We?” I said.
Ms. Washburn quickly responded, perhaps in an attempt (which, if so, was successful) to distract from my question. “I’ve looked through the class roster but I haven’t found anyone else who seems to have kept in touch with Brett Fontaine,” she said. “There certainly weren’t any other high school friends at his memorial service.”
“Maybe what you need is somebody who kept in touch with this Debbie Sampras,” Reuben suggested. “They might know more about her thinking and how she really felt about the guy who died.”
“Are you suggesting that Debbie Sampras killed Brett Fontaine out of jealousy?” I asked. “Is it your assertion that just because they were of opposite sexes they couldn’t simply have been platonic friends?”
Reuben sat back in his chair. “Samuel, I’m surprised at you. It’s obvious we don’t have enough facts yet to form a coherent theory; you said so yourself. I’m trying to suggest an area you don’t seem to have pursued yet because you have been looking elsewhere.”
Ms. Washburn looked thoughtful. “I can see who Debbie’s friends are on Facebook. Maybe some of them are mutual friends of Brett Fontaine’s. His page hasn’t been deleted yet.” She reached for her laptop computer.
“That can wait until after dinner.” Mother appeared in the kitchen doorway. “I made brisket.” I must have looked slightly panicked. “Don’t worry, Samuel. There’s something for you too.”
As we stood to walk to the dining room, where I had helped Mother set the table, Reuben stroked his chin and asked, “You’re splitting up for these meetings with people tomorrow?” Only his tone indicated to me he was asking a question.
“Yes. Ms. Washburn and I have concluded that we can be more efficient if we sometimes divide the interviews.”
Reuben looked at me with an expression I could not decipher. “How are you going to get to yours?” he asked.
“I will contact my friend Mike the taxicab driver,” I said. “He might be available.”
Reuben waved a hand to declare the matter settled. “I’ll drive you,” he said.
“I think that’s a very good idea,” Ms. Washburn said, smiling.
I did not know what food Mother had prepared for me, but my appetite was fading.
twenty-five
“Why did you marry my mother?” I asked Reuben Hoenig.
We were sitting in the front seat of my mother’s car in the parking lot of a Dunkin’ Donuts across the street from the Union Township police headquarters. Officer Palumbo had left strict instructions to wait here until he could make his way to us because he did not want his extracurricular investigation known by his colleagues in the police department. So far we had been waiting seven minutes in silence, which I was now breaking.
Reuben looked at me with a questioning expression. “I loved her,” he said. I waited for a more detailed explanation but apparently he felt that statement was sufficient.
“And yet you left her for twenty-seven years,” I pointed out.
“I still loved her. It was a different set of circumstances that made me go. It had nothing to do with the feelings we had for each other.” Reuben sat back in the driver’s seat and stretched his neck a bit, first to the right to face me and then to the left to look out the window. “I understand why you’re angry with me, Samuel, and I don’t blame you. If my father had done to me what I did to you, I’d have been just as mad.”
He was missing the point, as he had i
n virtually every conversation we’d had since his return. “This is not about me and it’s certainly not about me being angry with you,” I told Reuben. “I am trying to understand how you decided to marry a woman because you loved her enough to commit to a lifetime together, but found that emotion did not stay strong enough to keep you with her for a very long period of time.”
“It was because I loved her that I left.”
That made no sense at all but I had no time to respond because I noticed Officer Palumbo walking toward the parking lot. He had told me to meet him inside the Dunkin’ Donuts but I do not drink coffee and had no desire for a doughnut this early in the day. I’d chosen to wait outside until he was visible. Now I stepped out of the car and walked to the entrance of the store.
I arrived at the door almost exactly as Palumbo did the same. “Go inside,” he hissed at me. “I told you to wait inside.”
“I didn’t want a coffee.”
“Just go in.”
I did as he instructed, grateful that Reuben had not—as he’d suggested on the ride here, despite my obvious discomfort about conversing while the vehicle was in motion—accompanied me inside. Palumbo took up a position in the line, which was currently three customers long including him, and indicated I should stay behind him, which I did.
As he waited his turn (something I had seen other uniformed officers eschew in other such establishments before), Palumbo spoke to me quietly without looking back. “I looked into the electronics you gave me,” he said. “You’re lucky. It’s a very specific and limited brand. There isn’t much of that stuff sold in this country, let alone in the state.”
Assuming I should not respond verbally I nodded and waited for Palumbo to say more. He was not looking in my direction, however, so he did not see the signal. “Do you hear me?” he asked.
The Question of the Dead Mistress Page 18
