“Detective Andrea Pearson,” the woman said. “Brookline PD.”
“Jane Rizzoli, Barry Frost,” said Jane. “Thanks for meeting us.”
They shook hands but wasted no time lingering in the thickening drizzle, and Pearson immediately led them up the steps to the front door of the house. It was a modest residence, with a small front yard dominated by paired forsythia bushes, their branches stripped of leaves by autumn. A scrap of police tape still clung to the porch railing, a bright warning flag that announced: Tragedy ahead.
“I have to say, I was startled to get your call,” Detective Pearson said as she pulled out the house key. “We haven’t been able to pry Jodi Underwood’s phone logs from her carrier yet, and her cell phone’s missing. So we had no idea that she and Mr. Gott traded phone calls.”
“You said her phone’s missing,” said Jane. “Was it stolen?”
“Along with other things.” Detective Pearson unlocked the door. “Robbery was the motive here. At least, that’s what we assumed.”
They stepped into the house, and Detective Pearson switched on the lights. Jane saw wood floors, a living room furnished with sleek Swedish minimalism, but no bloodstains. The only evidence that a crime had been committed here were the smudges of fingerprint powder.
“Her body was lying right here, near the front door,” said Detective Pearson. “After Jodi didn’t show up for work Monday morning, the school called her sister Sarah, who drove straight over. She was found around ten A.M. The body was dressed in pajamas and a robe. The cause of death was pretty obvious. There were ligature marks around her neck, and the ME agreed it was strangulation. The victim also had a bruise on her right temple, maybe from an initial blow to stun her. There was no evidence of sexual assault. It was a blitz attack, a rapid takedown that probably happened right after she opened the door.”
“You said she was wearing pajamas and a robe?” said Frost.
Pearson nodded. “The ME estimated time of death between eight P.M. and two A.M. If she made that phone call to Gott at nine forty-six P.M., that narrows down the time of death for us.”
“Assuming the call actually came from her and not someone else using her phone.”
Pearson paused. “That is a possibility, since her cell phone’s missing. Every call made to her on Monday morning went straight to voice mail, so whoever has it seems to have turned it off.”
“You said you thought that robbery was the motive. What else was taken?” asked Jane.
“According to her sister Sarah, the missing items include Jodi’s MacBook Air laptop, a camera, cell phone, and her purse. There have been other break-ins in this neighborhood, but those happened while the occupants were away. The same sorts of valuables were taken, mostly electronics.”
“Do you think this was the same perp?”
Detective Pearson didn’t answer right away, but stared down at the floor, as if she could still see Jodi Underwood’s body lying at her feet. A silvery curl of hair slid across her cheek, and she brushed it back. Looked at Jane. “I’m not sure. With the other burglaries, there were fingerprints left behind, obviously an amateur at work. But this crime scene, there was no evidence left behind. No fingerprints, no tool marks, no footwear evidence. It’s so clean, so efficient, it almost seems …”
“Professional.”
Detective Pearson nodded. “That’s why I’m intrigued by her phone calls with Leon Gott. Did that crime scene look like a targeted killing?”
“I don’t know about targeted,” said Jane. “But it was definitely not clean and efficient, like this one.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll send you the crime scene photos. I’m sure you’ll agree Leon Gott’s murder was quite a bit messier. And more grotesque.”
“So maybe there is no connection between these two cases,” said Detective Pearson. “But do you know why they exchanged phone calls? How did they know each other?”
“I have a hunch, but I’ll need to confirm it with Jodi’s sister. You said her name is Sarah?”
“She lives about a mile from here. I’ll give her a call and tell her we’re coming. Why don’t you follow me in your car?”
“My sister hated everything that Leon Gott stood for. His big-game hunting, his politics, but most of all the way he treated his son,” said Sarah. “I have no idea why he’d call Jodi. Or why she’d call him.”
They sat in Sarah’s tidy living room where the furniture was all blond wood and glass. It was apparent the two sisters shared similar tastes, right down to the Swedish-chic sensibilities. They resembled each other, too, both of them with curly red hair and swan necks. But unlike Jodi’s smiling Facebook photo, Sarah’s face was a snapshot of exhaustion. She’d brought out a tray of tea and cookies for her three visitors, but her own cup sat cooling and untouched. Though she was thirty-eight, in the gray light of the window she looked older, as if grief had exerted its own form of gravity on her face, drooping down the corners of her mouth, her eyes.
Detective Pearson and Sarah already knew each other and had bonded over Jodi’s death, so Jane and Frost deferred to Pearson for the first few questions.
“These phone calls may have nothing to do with Jodi’s murder, Sarah,” said Pearson. “But the coincidence is certainly striking. Did Jodi mention Leon Gott at all in the past few weeks?”
“No. Not in the past months or years, either. After she lost Elliot, there was no reason to talk about his father.”
“What did she say about Leon Gott?”
“She said he was the world’s most despicable dad. Jodi and Elliot lived together for about two years, so she heard a lot about Leon. How he loved his guns more than his own family. How he took Elliot hunting one day, when Elliot was only thirteen. Told him to gut the deer, and when Elliot refused, Leon called him a faggot.”
“How awful.”
“Leon’s wife left him right after that, taking Elliot with her. Best thing she could have done as a mother. Too bad she didn’t do it earlier.”
“And did Elliot have much contact with his father?”
“Sporadically. Jodi told me that the last call Leon made to Elliot was on his birthday, but it was a short conversation. Elliot tried to keep it civil, but he had to hang up when his dad started bad-mouthing his dead mother. A month later, Elliot left for Africa. It was his dream trip, something he’d planned for years. Thank God Jodi couldn’t get vacation time to go with him, or she might be …” Sarah’s head drooped and she looked down at her untouched cup of tea.
“After Elliot vanished,” said Detective Pearson, “did Jodi have any contact with Leon?”
Sarah nodded. “A few times. It took losing his son for him to realize what an ass he’d been as a father. My sister was such a good soul and she tried to offer him some sort of comfort. They’d never gotten along, but after Elliot’s memorial service, she wrote Leon a card. Even printed and framed the very last photo of Elliot, taken while he was in Africa. She gave that photo to Leon, and was surprised when she got a thank-you note from him. But after that, they fell out of touch. As far as I know, they hadn’t spoken in years.”
Up till now Jane had sat silent as Detective Pearson led the interview. Now she couldn’t help but interject.
“Did your sister have other photos of Elliot in Africa?”
Sarah gave her a puzzled look. “A few. He sent them all from his cell phone while he was traveling. His camera was never found, so those cell phone shots are the only ones there are from his trip.”
“Did you see them?”
“Yes. They were just typical travel shots. Photos of his flight, tourist spots in Cape Town. Nothing memorable.” She gave a sad laugh. “Elliot wasn’t a particularly good photographer.”
Detective Pearson frowned at Jane. “Is there a reason you’re asking about his Africa photos?”
“We spoke to a witness who was at Gott’s house around two thirty on Sunday. He heard Gott talking on the phone, telling someone he wanted all of Elliot�
�s photos from Africa. Based on the time of the call, that conversation would have been with Jodi.” Jane looked at Sarah. “Why would Leon want those photos?”
“I have no idea. Guilt?”
“About what?”
“About all the ways he could have been a better father. All the mistakes he made, the people he hurt. Maybe he was finally thinking about the son he’d ignored all those years.”
That’s what Jerry O’Brien had told them as well, that Leon Gott had recently grown obsessed about his son’s disappearance. With old age came regrets and thoughts of what one should have done, but for Leon there would never be a chance to heal the rift with Elliot. Alone in that house, with only a dog and two cats for company, did he suddenly realize what poor substitutes they were for the love of a son?
“That’s all I can tell you about Leon Gott,” said Sarah. “I met him just once, at Elliot’s memorial service six years ago. I never saw him again.”
The last glimmer of twilight had faded and it was now dark outside the window. In the warm glow of a lamp, Sarah’s face seemed to have shed a few years and she looked younger, more animated. Perhaps it was because she’d moved beyond the role of grief-stricken sister and was now engaged in the puzzle of her sister’s final hours and why they involved Leon Gott. “You said he called Jodi at two thirty,” said Sarah, and she looked at Detective Pearson. “She would still have been down in Plymouth. At the conference.”
Detective Pearson said to Jane and Frost: “We tried to reconstruct Jodi’s last day. We know she was at a library conference on Sunday. It ended at five P.M., so she probably got home after dinnertime. Which may be why she called Gott back so late, at nine forty-six.”
“We know he called her about the photos at two thirty,” said Jane. “So I’m assuming she called him back that night about the same matter. Maybe to tell him she’d found Elliot’s …” Jane paused. Looked at Sarah. “Where did your sister store those photos of Elliot’s Africa trip?”
“They were digital files, so she would have kept them on her laptop.”
Jane and Detective Pearson looked at each other. “Which is now missing,” said Jane.
Outside, the three detectives stood shivering in the dampness as they quietly conferred by their parked cars.
“We’ll send you our notes, and we’d appreciate it if you send us yours,” Jane said.
“Certainly. But I’m still not clear what it is we’re chasing.”
“Neither am I,” admitted Jane. “But it feels like there’s something here. Something to do with Elliot’s photos in Africa.”
“You heard how Sarah described them. They were typical tourist shots, nothing remarkable.”
“To her, anyway.”
“And they’re from six years ago. Why would anyone care about them now?”
“I don’t know. I’m just going on a …”
“Hunch?”
The word made Jane pause. She thought of her conversation with Maura earlier that day, when she had brushed off Maura’s instincts about the newly excavated skeleton. When it comes to hunches, she thought, we only trust our own. Even if we’re no better at defending them.
Detective Pearson brushed back a strand of rain-glistened hair and sighed. “Well, it can’t hurt to share information. It’s a nice change. Usually, the boys want to use my notes, but they won’t share theirs.” She looked at Frost. “Not to cast aspersions on the guys.”
Jane laughed. “This guy’s different. He shares everything, except his potato chips.”
“Which you just steal anyway,” said Frost.
“I’ll email you what I’ve got as soon as I get home,” said Detective Pearson. “You can get Jodi’s autopsy report directly from the ME.”
“Which doc did it?”
“I’m not familiar with all the pathologists there. It was a big man. Big voice.”
“Sounds like Dr. Bristol,” said Frost.
“Yes, that’s his name. Dr. Bristol. He did her autopsy last Tuesday.” Pearson took out her car keys. “There were no surprises.”
Sixteen
That was the thing about surprises; you never knew when one would turn up that could change the course of an investigation.
Jane devoted the next afternoon to hunting for just such a surprise among the files that Andrea Pearson had emailed her. Sitting at her computer, the remains of her lunch scattered across her desk, she clicked through page after page of witness statements and Detective Pearson’s notes. Jodi Underwood had lived in the same Brookline house for eight years, a house she’d inherited from her parents, and was known to be a quiet and considerate neighbor. She had no enemies and no current boyfriends. On the night of her murder, none of the neighbors recalled hearing any screams or loud noises, nothing to indicate someone was fighting for her life.
A blitz attack was what Pearson called it, a takedown so rapid that the victim had no chance to fight back. The crime scene photos supported Pearson’s description. Jodi’s body was found in the foyer lying on her back with one arm stretched toward the front door, as if to pull herself out and over the threshold. She was dressed in striped pajamas and a dark blue robe. One slipper was still on her left foot; the other lay only a few inches away. Jane had slipper scuffs just like them, tan suede with fleece on the inside, ordered from L.L.Bean. She’d never again be able to wear them without thinking of this photo of a dead woman’s feet.
She moved on to the autopsy report, dictated by Maura’s colleague, Dr. Bristol. Abe Bristol was a larger-than-life personality with a loud laugh and big appetites and sloppy eating habits, but in the morgue he was every bit as detail-minded as Maura. Though the ligature was not found at the scene, the bruises on the victim’s neck told Bristol that cord and not wire was used. Time of death was sometime between eight P.M. and two A.M.
Jane clicked through pages describing the internal organs (all healthy) and the genital exam (no evidence of trauma or recent sexual activity). No surprises yet.
She moved on to the list of clothing: women’s striped pajamas, top and bottom, 100 percent cotton, size small. Bathrobe, dark-blue velour, size small. Women’s fleece slipper scuffs, size seven, brand: L.L.Bean.
She clicked to the next page. Scanned down the list of trace evidence that had been turned over to the crime lab and saw the usual fingernail clippings, combed pubic hairs, orifice swabs. Then she focused on the items at the bottom of the page.
Three hair strands, white/gray, possibly animal, approximately three to four centimeters long. Collected from victim’s bathrobe, near hem.
Possibly animal.
Jane thought of Jodi’s stark wood floors and sleek Swedish furniture, trying to recall seeing any signs that a house pet lived there. A cat, perhaps, who’d brushed up against that blue velour bathrobe. She picked up the phone and called Jodi’s sister.
“She loved animals, but she didn’t have any pets, unless you count that goldfish who died a few months ago,” Sarah said.
“She never had a dog or a cat?” Jane said.
“She couldn’t. She was so allergic that if she just got near a cat, she’d start to wheeze.” Sarah gave a sad laugh. “When she was a kid, she dreamed of being a veterinarian and she volunteered at the local animal hospital. That’s when she got her first asthma attack.”
“Did she own any fur coats? Maybe something with rabbit or mink?”
“Not a chance. Jodi belonged to PETA.”
Jane hung up and stared at the words on her computer. Three hairs, possibly animal.
And she thought: Leon Gott had cats.
“These three hair strands present an interesting puzzle,” said Erin Volchko. A veteran Boston PD criminalist specializing in hair and fibers, Erin had tutored dozens of detectives over the years, guiding them through the intricate analysis of carpet fibers and hair strands, pointing out the differences between wool versus cotton, synthetic versus natural, plucked hair versus cut. Although Jane had peered into the microscope many times, examining strands from co
untless crime scenes, she would never have Erin’s knack for distinguishing one strand from another; all blond hairs looked alike to Jane.
“I’ve got one of the hairs under the scope now,” said Erin. “Have a seat and I’ll show you my problem.”
Jane settled on the lab stool and looked into the double-headed teaching microscope. Through the eyepieces, she saw a strand that stretched diagonally across the field of view.
“This is Strand Number One collected from Ms. Underwood’s blue bathrobe,” said Erin, looking through the other pair of eyepieces. “Color: white. Curvature: straight. Length: three centimeters. You can see the cuticle, cortex, and medulla very clearly. Focus first on the color. See how it’s not quite uniform? It seems to get paler as you reach the tip, a feature that’s called banding. Natural human hair tends to be of uniform color throughout the entire strand, so this is the first clue we’re dealing with something that’s not human. Now look at the medulla, the central pipeline running through the length of the strand. This medulla is wider than in human hair.”
“So what kind of hair is this?”
“The outer layer of cuticle gives us a pretty good idea. I’ve taken photomicrographs. Let me show you.” Erin swiveled around to the computer on her desk and tapped on the keyboard. A magnified image of the hair appeared on-screen. The surface of the strand was covered with slender triangular scales, layered like armor.
“I’d describe these scales as spinous,” said Erin. “See how they lift up slightly, as if about to peel away, like little petals? I love how intricate everything looks under high magnification. A whole new universe that we can’t see with the naked eye.” Erin smiled at the screen as if viewing a foreign city she wished she could visit. Trapped all day in this windowless room, her crime beat was these microscopic landscapes of keratin and protein.
“So what does it mean?” asked Jane. “The fact it’s got spinous scales?”
Die Again: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel Page 14
