Laura shook her head.
“That school should have a mandatory escort service for you young ladies. And I don’t mean after hours, I mean all the time. I’ve told that to the dean. If I’d had any sense, I’d have driven you to the lot that night, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Laura nodded. “You needn’t have worried about me. I turned right around and headed for the med school library.”
“What made you do that?” the younger detective asked.
“I had a presentation to prepare.”
Reynolds nodded. “When did you turn around? How far had you gone?”
“What? Oh, not even a block.”
Kaminsky swallowed the last of his pop and jumped in. “Did you see anything unusual? Did you hear anything?”
Laura paused. “No, it’s always pretty scary around the school and the hospital, but nothing unusual. When I eventually went home that evening, I got an escort and left by the exit on the other side of the building, my usual route to the student parking lot.”
Steve put a hand on Laura’s arm. “Laura, I never want you leaving alone. No matter what time. Promise me.”
The detectives alternated asking the same questions from multiple approaches. Did she hear a gunshot? See anyone running? Did she see anybody lurking around?
Laura sat quietly on the sofa while repeatedly denying that she saw or heard anything unusual. She strained to appear casual, secretly relieved that the cut on her lip had already healed. She reminded herself to be consistent as the men peppered her with questions. The last few questions became more direct, more intrusive. “Did anyone see you walk back in?”
“Well, I saw the chief of surgery, Dr. Monroe, in the doctor’s lot by the main door. Naturally, there were all kinds of people inside. Relatives visiting patients, that kind of thing. I saw people I knew in the library.”
“Exactly how far did you go toward the student lot? And how long do you think you were out there before coming back into the hospital?” Kaminsky pressed, his leg still bobbing.
“I don’t know exactly. I went straight to the library and worked there until I left to go home. Why are you asking me all of these questions?” Laura tried to keep both the irritation and the panic out of her voice as she tugged gently on Kevin’s plastic bottle, removing it from his mouth with calm deliberation and lifting the infant over her shoulder. A diversion to give herself a moment to get composed.
“We’re just trying to find out if you saw anything connected with this murder, ma’am,” Reynolds said more softly. “Now, is there anything you can recall about last Wednesday night that might help us?”
“I just don’t see why this is so important,” Steve began.
“Someone died. That’s important, Mr. Nelson,” Reynolds answered, “and we’re following up on leads. The shooting took place in the general time frame your wife left the hospital. If the shooter saw her, he might figure that she also saw him. I hope you understand this line of questioning is for her protection.”
“We appreciate that,” Steve said. “But my wife has already told you she saw nothing.”
Detective Reynolds scratched his head, got up and faced Laura directly. “I hope you’re not hiding anything out of fear, Mrs. Nelson, because if you saw someone, you’d be much better off letting us know now. Remember, I’m here to help you, not hurt you. I don’t want anything like this happening near the med school again. Not to you, not to Susan, not to anybody.”
“I saw nothing,” Laura repeated, her eyes averted.
Reynolds glanced at Kaminsky, then back at Laura. “My guess is somebody did. There were signs of a struggle. Like someone had been dragged. Might have been a sexual assault.” He stared at Laura’s blonde hair falling in waves to her shoulder.
“Oh,” was all she could think of to say. She made a mental note to toss out the shoes she’d been wearing that night. Her pantyhose and panties were long gone.
“To tell you the truth, we lost a lot of evidence because of the heavy rain. Body’d been out there a few hours, but there was still blood. Of course, we bagged the hands anyway.”
“What does that mean?” Laura asked picking up the empty plastic bottle and squeezing it with both hands.
“For testing. First we swab the hands for gunpowder residue, see if the guy maybe shot someone else. At the same time, we also check for anything lodged under fingernails.” Reynolds looked intently at Laura, holding the stare for an uncomfortably long time.
Laura forced herself to respond levelly. “So what did you find?”
“Investigation’s still ongoing,” Kaminsky dismissed her question, but Reynolds said, “Blood, not the victim’s, and fibers, not from his clothing.”
“Well, that’s all very interesting, detectives, but it’s got nothing to do with us,” said Steve, standing up abruptly.
Reynolds crossed his arms over his chest. “We also found the bullet at the site. You don’t own a thirty-eight caliber gun, do you, Mrs. Nelson?”
“A gun? No, I don’t,” Laura said quickly, getting up to stand by Steve. That was true; it was Steve’s gun, wasn’t it? By then she was thinking of the red sweater. She’d have to get rid of it and the skirt.
Reynolds’ intense black eyes did not waver. “Okay, folks. Give us a call if anything comes to mind about that Wednesday night, even if you think it might be trivial.”
“Thanks for the pop,” he called as he and Kaminsky headed out the door.
In the Chevy, Reynolds frowned.
“So whattaya think?” Kaminsky asked as they drove away. “Anything strike you as off?”
“Not exactly.”
“That blonde hair though. First glance, looks like it could be a match to the strands we found.”
“Sure. And a match to the thousands of other blondes in the city.”
“So whatta we got?”
“What we’ve got is a beat-up thirty-eight that went through the victim’s skull.”
“Okay, the victim. Who saw him last? Hospital security. We talked to them separately, right? Stories gibe perfectly. The Diggs kid mouths off. They escort him out, thinking he’s just a punk. Kid disappears, winds up dead an hour later. Pants down to his thighs. End of story.”
“End of his life, you mean,” Reynolds added. “So the kid runs off and grabs a woman? Maybe a girlfriend pops him off? A prostitute? Like maybe the kid doesn’t pay up and the pimp offs him?”
“Or a stranger? Like you’d expect with a rape, right?” Kaminsky said. “Only our boy ends up the victim.”
“Gotta be sexual assault. They found juice on his skivvies, like he lost it not too long before he bought it, too.”
“Right. So maybe it’s a rape. There’s his juice and somebody’s vaginal fluid. He’s got a blade, but it’s tucked away in his pocket ’cause he doesn’t think he’ll need it. Looks like maybe the woman was carryin’, surprises him with the thirty-eight when he’s not payin’ attention, and he ends up dead.”
“Which means we’ve got a murder victim and a rape victim,” Reynolds said.
“Maybe a third party to make it complicated. Say the girl gets raped. Boyfriend shows up. Pops the perp.”
“We already checked out the hospitals. Plenty of rapes. Nothing fits. So what do we really have?”
“We’ve got B-negative blood embedded under a nail on the left hand,” Kaminsky summarized. “Victim’s O-neg. And red cotton fibers and a long blonde hair.”
“All of which puts us nowhere.” Reynolds shook his head. “1300 Beaubien won’t be happy. Crazy the politics now. Congress and the President breathing down our necks for what went wrong. Governor Romney looking for the Republican nomination next year.”
“Mayor’s on the hot seat.” Kaminsky smirked.
“You voted for Cavanaugh, did you not?”
“Sure did. Thought he was gonna make real progress, then look what happened. Fuckin’ city’ll never get over it.”
Reynolds stared out the car window. �
��Maybe so, ’Minsky, but politics or no politics, we’ve got our jobs to do. Let’s head over to the kid’s neighborhood again and see what we find. Buddies, girlfriends, whatever. The kid had a family, right? His brother’s layin’ in a hospital bed right now. We’ve got plenty of other people to talk to.”
“What about the Nelson woman?”
“Good question. Check out the library story. Before that, she was in class with my daughter. That I know.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Later that night, the cold steel blade of a knife cut through her throat. All five layers of the skin slit, muscles severed, the jugular sliced. It was so quick compared to the hours of meticulous dissection they’d afforded Harry’s neck. Laura tried to scream, but the big, muscular hand firmly cupped her mouth so no sound could emerge. The faint glow of the moon exposed the glint of the blade dripping blood. Anticipating excruciating pain, she was incredulous as death came quickly, and she floated upward.
Her spirit drifted over the room and lingered as her body was displayed in a simple ivory-colored casket. She was wearing her violet knit dress with the high neckline that covered the horrible slash across her throat. Her hair looked okay, except the part was on the wrong side. She doubted that anyone would notice the difference, but it would feel odd if she were still alive.
Steve stood stoically as he greeted the procession of relatives, friends, and classmates. His eyes were red and puffy. He was dressed in his dark blue suit and the new tie she’d given him for his birthday. Everybody talked in hushed voices. Everything seemed sad, but rather serene. Then what was so terribly wrong? She answered her own question. She couldn’t see Mikey or Kevin anywhere. She needed to find them, but she couldn’t penetrate the thick cloud down there. The harder she tried the farther away she drifted.
Laura awoke — soaked in sweat, tears covering her cheeks. She struggled to fight off the memory of death. Steve had awakened and propped himself up to hold her as she sobbed. The nightmare lingered stubbornly as she lay against him, finally quieting down. Slowly, reality seeped through the fog and her resolve reappeared. Had she said anything out loud?
When Steve went back to sleep, Laura crept into the kids’ closet and retrieved the gun. It felt cold and heavy as she held it with two hands, turning it over. She should have paid more attention when Steve tried to teach her about guns. She’d so objected to carrying one, she’d tuned his instructions out. She didn’t know about bullets and shells and how bullets were traced to guns. She didn’t know whether she should try to take out the remaining bullets. Even if she dared to try, how would she explain the missing bullets to Steve? Even worse, the single missing bullet? No, she’d have to keep the gun hidden. Replacing the thirty-eight in the kids’ closet, Laura padded to her own closet, reached into the far corner, and pulled out the red sweater and filthy skirt. She stuffed them in a plastic bag and for a minute thought about putting the gun in there too. But how could she explain a missing gun to Steve? So she took the heinous bag and shoved it into the middle of the accumulated week’s trash. Pickup was early tomorrow. She’d put the can out before she left for school and hope to God that it disappeared forever in some dump.
When Laura returned to bed, Steve stirred. “Feeling better now, babe?” he groaned, flopping over, resuming an irregular snore.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
DECEMBER 1967
The winter had begun as it always did, crisp autumn nights followed by a stretch of Indian summer before a white Thanksgiving. As Christmas approached, the great expanse of Michigan was blanketed in snow. In Detroit, the bitterly cold nights sent much of the city’s population indoors, allowing a false sense of security amid the hushed downtown streets for the first time since the riots.
David Monroe arrived home in Grosse Point Shores earlier than usual. He’d settled into his favorite leather easy chair in the study, wondering if he had the energy to start a fire. After four months the surgical service at City Hospital had drifted back to normal. Still incredibly busy, but the last of the riot victims had finally been discharged, except for Anthony Diggs who had died that morning.
Surprised at the depth of his grief over the poor Diggs kid, David felt inadequate, almost despondent. If the kid had been logged into the ER and treated promptly, could he have been saved? No, he answered his own question. The bullet had destroyed too much brain tissue. Still, David felt personally responsible for the breech of protocol during that chaotic night. And now, after dedicating his life to making City Hospital’s trauma care the best in the world, the hospital’s reputation might be tainted. He blamed himself; he should have been more discreet. Instead, he’d openly chastised that intern, a pudgy woman with brassy blonde hair, who’d bungled Digg’s intubation. Instead of slipping the plastic tube in the trachea, she’d shoved it into the esophagus, depriving the boy’s lungs of oxygen. David learned later that Digg’s brother had been watching. The brother had heard him tell the intern, “Inconceivable that this could happen in this ER. Criminal. If this boy lives, he’ll be brain dead.”
Well at least the mother would not have to deal with his medical expenses, and so far that nun hadn’t filed a lawsuit or gone to the media.
“David, you’re home early,” Cynthia’s voice interrupted. “Is everything okay?”
No, David wanted to say. Everything’s not okay. I’m depressed. I’m not happy. I don’t know why I came home early tonight. But he said nothing.
“Kate Davis just dropped me off. I didn’t expect you, but I am glad you’re here,” she said while removing her cashmere coat and holding it out for the maid. “We have to talk, but I need to change. Dinner’s at seven.”
They sat on opposite sides of the lavish sofa in the drawing room of their mansion after an evening meal. Cynthia again brought up plans for an Aruba getaway.
“Cynthia, it’s just not possible.”
“Darling, I just don’t understand. The med school is closed, is it not?”
“That doesn’t mean I’m free.”
“You told me yourself, the students have all gone home. Everybody has gone home. It’s a week before Christmas. Normal people rest and relax with their families. Don’t tell me you can’t get coverage for the surgical schedule. That’s absurd.”
“Families,” David echoed. “Except you have no use for mine.”
“Let’s not get into that.” Cynthia pushed back her shining hair. “I’ve already booked our flights. We leave for Aruba on the 27th. That way we can still go the Yacht Club on Christmas Eve and, if you insist, to Nick and Denise’s on Christmas. We’ll be in the islands in plenty of time for a New Year’s Eve party the Wilson’s are throwing. I bought a sensational new gown!”
“I told you before, I just can’t spare the time.”
“Explain to me exactly why?” Cynthia’s voice now at a shrill pitch. “We didn’t take one trip the entire fall.”
“Sorry, not this year.”
“Well, we need to get away. All you think about is that hospital.”
“I have responsibilities, you know that.”
“I’m thinking about us. Maybe it’s time to try,” her voice became softer. She leaned forward and said, “I’m telling you, David, this is really important for us.” She let the “us” linger.
Ten years earlier, when they first dated, he had found her manipulative side amusing. Cynthia, the prima donna of Grosse Pointe Shores, and he, the idealistic young doctor. As he lifted his brandy snifter, his glance fell on the shadows in the corner; David wondered if he had ever really loved her. At that moment he was aware that he felt both pity for and guilt about Cynthia.
“What could be so important to us?” He gazed absently at the Manet on the wall in back of her.
Cynthia glared at him. “You just don’t understand.”
“Don’t understand what?”
“What’s at stake.”
The lights were dim, and the candles on the coffee table flickered.
“What are you talking about?”
David felt a pang of sadness while he studied Cynthia’s profile. What’s at stake is that you can’t make me trade my responsibilities for a beach vacation. Had they grown so far apart that they’d lost all semblance of communication?
“Oh, what does it matter? My friends are right.” Cynthia was almost screaming. “You don’t give a damn about me. You’re too busy feeding your perverted obsession with those naïve little nurses who treat you like a God.”
David’s clenched his fists, but he kept his tone placating, patronizing. “Cynthia, it’s late. Let’s not quarrel.” He rose and started up the spiral staircase. When they so chose, which was often now, they slept in separate suites.
“You ruined my life,” she said softly. “Now that Daddy’s gone, what is there to live for?”
“Cynthia, stop talking like that.”
David grabbed the back of an armchair. After her father died, Cynthia had threatened suicide a few times when she did not get her way. Although he considered her earlier threats a mere ploy for attention, he had taken precautions to keep all sedative medication in the house to a minimum. Because they kept no guns, he felt relatively secure. Right now she was just blowing off steam because she wasn’t getting her way. He’d come to realize that he should never have married her.
If only they had had a child. And now, years had passed, David’s dream of children had faded, replaced by bitterness. Standing in the living room of his opulent home, David felt suddenly desolate. His life, so carefully planned, so full of the promise, was empty.
He dimmed the lights and watched in silence as Cynthia stood up and brushed past him at the foot of the stairs. “You’ll be sorry,” she seethed. “I was really going to do it this time. For you.”
David opened his mouth but no words came. As he stood in the dark foyer watching Cynthia climb the staircase, he was too drained to repress the memory of the darkest moment in his life.
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