by Leslie Wolfe
“Yeah, right,” she laughed. “Wait until Michowsky sees me. He’ll be thrilled.” The sarcasm in her voice was unfiltered.
“Actually, he really would, you know. He thinks the world of you.”
Suicide
They made quick stops to change clothes on their way to the crime scene. Tess didn’t believe showing up in capris and a sports bra was suitable for a law enforcement agent investigating someone’s death. They moved quickly, and it didn’t add much of a delay to their arrival time.
With Fradella behind the wheel, driving to the North Palm Beach address, Tess reviewed the case details on the laptop, trying not to feel queasy from keeping her eyes locked onto the screen, while he took turn after turn above the speed limit.
“Our vic is Christina Bartlett, twenty-six, single,” Tess read from the screen, squinting in the bright sunlight. “She’s a model, works with a number of top-shelf fashion publications. Her mother, Iris, is a dentist, and her father, Sidney, an attorney. Clean record, no priors,” she added, not even realizing her voice had lost momentum, and her words had turned into barely intelligible mumbles as she typed a new search string into the computer.
Fradella shot her a quick glance as he approached a stop sign. “What’s up?”
“There’s something about her father, Sidney Bartlett. He seems so familiar; his name resonated in my mind, but I can’t place him. I ran his priors; he’s clean.” She sighed and looked at the street for a moment, absorbing the layout of the neighborhood. Neatly trimmed lawns, tall palm trees with clean trunks and glistening leaves, palmettos and flowering shrubs flanking alleys and driveways. Where did she know Sidney Bartlett from?
A quick internet search returned zero useful results; just corroborated what she’d learned from the database. Sidney was an attorney, a successful one with his own firm in partnership with two other names that came after his. Nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe her mind was playing a trick on her. Or maybe they’d crossed paths during a trial where she was called to testify.
One more turn, and Doc Rizza’s van came into sight and backed onto the driveway of a massive, single-story, brick house. Two police cars were still flashing their lights, and another van was parked farther down the street, bearing the insignia of the Crime Scene Unit.
Tess walked slowly toward the entrance, observing every detail. There were modern security cameras monitoring the front door, the sides of the lawn, and the driveway. Probably the back too. An eight-foot masonry fence surrounded the backyard, and beyond that, she could see the roof of a screened pool.
A pat on her shoulder disrupted her scrutiny.
“Special Agent Winnett,” Michowsky said, with a grin and a nod, “what an unexpected pleasure. Did Fradella bother to mention it’s a suicide?”
She gave him a quick hug. “Yeah, he did. I’m just tagging along, if you don’t mind.”
“Have at it,” he said, making an inviting gesture and letting her lead the way. “The more, the merrier,” he added, but a quick rise of his eyebrows said otherwise.
She walked carefully on the shiny marble floor, heading toward the living room, where distant, subdued chatter could be heard. A woman’s tearful voice kept saying something repeatedly, something Tess couldn’t hear clearly, not from where she was. As she entered the living room, she could understand the woman’s words better, but her attention was drawn to a large, framed picture of a young girl. Stunningly beautiful, the girl wore a rhinestone-studded crown over her long, blonde hair, and a white sateen sash across her body with the words Miss Florida USA printed in black, cursive letters.
“You have to tell them,” Dr. Bartlett was saying, wringing her hands in her lap. She was leaning back and forth, like a child in need of comfort. Tears rolled on her cheeks and stained her blouse, but she didn’t seem to mind. Her swollen eyes stared into her husband’s, pleading.
“Think about what you’re doing,” Mr. Bartlett replied. His chin trembled badly, and his voice was choked with tears. “Think about the media and everyone else. We can’t do that to her. Not now. Especially not now.”
Tess took a step toward them but then stopped. Better give them more time to process; there would be opportunities to ask questions later. She checked the time and calculated it had only been less than two hours since the 911 call was dispatched. Christina’s parents were still in shock.
She turned and followed a crime scene technician toward the back of the house. She slid on protective booties over her shoes before entering the bedroom and nodded a quick greeting toward the coroner’s assistant.
The bedroom was large and bright, with white furniture and pink bedsheets; a princess setting, most likely reminiscent of Christina’s childhood. However, Christina was not a child anymore; she was a grown woman, as proven by scattered lingerie in black lace and a portrait of her, slender and sexy and tan in a minimalistic bikini, beaming in the arms of a dark-haired man. The man had a look of arrogance on his face, expressing pride of ownership rather than love, the way a new owner looks at his brand-new sports car. The same man’s photo was framed on the night table, and, for some reason, Tess stared at that photo, postponing the moment she’d have to look at Christina’s lifeless body. Even if self-inflicted, death was deeply disturbing, maybe even more.
Doc Rizza bent over Christina’s body, probably measuring her liver temperature, then straightened his back with a groan, grabbing his right side with a latex-gloved hand. Then he removed his gloves and ran his hand through the unruly tuft of graying hair that still clung to his balding head.
“Hey, Doc,” Tess said, noticing the small sweat beads forming on his forehead. The man was one step away from having a stroke. His clammy skin was stained with blotches of dark red, a clear indicator of hypertension. She thought of mentioning it, but then decided otherwise; after all, he was a doctor; he definitely knew about it. Rumor had it that, since the death of his wife a few years back, the doctor opted more and more in favor of liquid dinners, and that choice of lifestyle was starting to take its toll. Nevertheless, he was still the best coroner Tess had ever worked with.
“Hey,” he replied, not taking his eyes off Christina’s body. “I’m about to issue a preliminary ruling of suicide. No need for feds this time. You can have your weekend back.”
“I’m not here officially, Doc,” she replied, almost apologetically. “Suicide, you say?”
He shrugged and gestured toward the scattered empty bottles of prescription pills. “No signs of trauma whatsoever. I’ll know more after I finish my exam, but for now the findings are consistent with suicide.”
“What did she take?” Michowsky asked.
“Whatever she could find in the house,” Doc replied. “Better said, everything she found in the house.” He slid a fresh glove on his hand and picked up the empty prescription bottles, one by one, reading the labels before letting them drop inside small evidence bags. “Her father’s prescriptions of a beta blocker and an ACE inhibitor; that’s Inderal and Accupril, respectively. Then her mother’s benzodiazepine, or Restoril if you care to know the brand,” he added, letting the last of the empty, orange bottles fall into an evidence bag.
“Do you know how many she took?” Michowsky asked.
“All three prescriptions were ninety-day refills,” Fradella replied after reading the labels. “The dates on the bottles indicate these were refilled last week, so they should’ve been nearly full.”
“I’ll be able to approximate, based on what I find in her stomach and the tox screen,” Doc Rizza added. “But I can tell you this much: this girl wanted to die. It wasn’t a cry for help gone wrong. She took all the pills, to the last one, and that takes willpower.”
“Why is that?” Fradella asked.
“The willpower?” Doc Rizza asked, and Fradella nodded. “The human body protects itself against poisons, inducing defensive vomiting whenever a poison is ingested. After she took the first few pills, she fought one hell of an urge to vomit. That’s how determined she was t
o die.”
“Any idea why she killed herself?” Michowsky asked.
“That’s your job, Detective,” Doc Rizza replied. “I’m ready to move her, if you are.”
“Would you give me another minute?” Tess asked.
Doc Rizza moved to the side, making room for Tess to approach the body.
Christina lay on her side, her pale lips slightly parted, as if she slept peacefully, no longer touched by breath. Waves of golden hair surrounded her head like an aura, spread on the pillow, clinging to her shoulders. Her feet touched the floor, as if she’d been too weak to pull them onto the bed. She wore green pajamas with teddy bears, a young girl’s PJs. There was no sadness, no depression lingering in the room, in the clothes she wore, in the setting. Whatever pushed Christina to take her own life had been sudden.
Tess could visualize her sitting on the side of the bed, swallowing fistfuls of pills one after another, washing them down with sparkling water. An empty bottle had rolled under the night table, and a half-empty one stood next to the framed photo on the lacquered finish, the cap removed. The water had been cold, fresh out of the fridge; condensation had stained the shiny surface of the night table, leaving a circle of swollen wood, probably permanent damage, a reminder of her demise.
Then she must’ve grown weak so quickly that she let herself fall onto her side, unable to do more. Had she wanted to scream for help? Had she changed her mind in those final moments?
Tess pulled some gloves on and examined Christina’s hands. Perfect manicure, not even a crack in her fingernails. Fresh coat of nail polish, covered by a transparent layer of protective gloss. She examined the cuticles closely and saw no growth between the cuticle and the polish layer. There wasn’t any erosion on the tips of her fingernails either. The same woman who killed herself a few hours earlier had applied fresh nail polish the day before.
“Time of death, Doc?” she asked, still studying Christina’s hands.
“I’d put it at 3:30AM.”
“How did she die, considering what she took?”
“It depends on the number of pills she took from each bottle, but there are only two possible scenarios. If the sedative acted first, she fell asleep, then went into cardiogenic shock. If the Inderal acted first, she could’ve gone into seizures, then faded away when the Restoril hit.”
“How about the third? What was it—”
“Accupril,” Doc Rizza replied. “It contributed to the onset of cardiogenic shock.”
“Are these drugs common?” Fradella asked.
“They’re among the most prescribed drugs in America,” Doc replied. “The mother most likely struggles with perimenopausal insomnia, and the father battles hypertension. Nothing out of the ordinary. I don’t see anything suspicious here; I’ll confirm my findings once I have her on my table.”
He beckoned his assistant, who pushed a stretcher through the door, then unzipped a body bag. Tess stepped to the side, watching them load Christina’s body and roll it out of the room, but she remained there, staring at the princess bed adorned in pink sheets.
“It’s a suicide,” Michowsky said, touching her arm in passing. “Come on, let’s get going. The unis have the statements.”
“I’m staying,” she replied. “She killed herself for a reason. I thought you wanted to know why.”
The Parents
A uniformed cop stood by the living room entrance, notepad in hand, but Tess waved him away with a hand gesture. Most of the Crime Scene Unit had gone already; she, Michowsky, and Fradella were among the last ones left. Doc Rizza’s van had pulled away from the driveway, taking Christina Bartlett’s body with it and causing her mother to break down in bitter sobs against her husband’s chest, as they sat on a sofa in the living room. This time, Sidney Bartlett didn’t fight back his tears; he let them fall, squeezing his eyes shut as if rejecting a reality that was too painful to bear.
Tess approached the couple and cleared her throat quietly to get their attention.
“Dr. Bartlett, if I may,” she said, speaking softly.
Mr. Bartlett was the first to look at her. “Who are you?”
Forgetting she wasn’t there in any official capacity, she pulled out her wallet and showed her ID. “Special Agent Tess Winnett, FBI.”
“FBI?” Dr. Bartlett reacted, turning toward her and examining her with swollen, tear-filled eyes. “Why is the FBI looking into a suicide?”
Iris pulled slightly closer to her husband, as if seeking his protection, then grabbed his hand and squeezed it quickly, while both exchanged a quick glance. That was an interesting reaction, definitely something worth exploring. Why would the two be concerned about having the FBI look into their daughter’s death?
Tess decided to play down their fears but made a mental note to examine their backgrounds more closely. The two definitely had something to hide.
“The FBI isn’t looking into your daughter’s death, Doctor. I was working on a case with Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Office when the call came in. Since I’m here, I might as well help.”
“I see,” she replied, unconvinced.
“Please accept my deepest sympathies,” Tess added.
“Thank you,” she replied, reaching for a Kleenex from the box lying on the coffee table. “Tell me, Agent, what can we do for you?”
“We’d like to understand what drove your daughter’s decision to end her life. Are you aware of any—”
“Her death came as a complete surprise to us,” Mr. Bartlett said. “It’s probably something we’ll never comprehend. Such a decision… can’t easily be understood.”
“Tell me about Christina,” Tess said, taking a seat on the opposite sofa, on the edge of the soft leather cushion, and leaning forward toward them, ready to listen.
“She was amazing. Hard-working, dedicated, an overachiever since the first day she set foot in school.” Dr. Bartlett patted her eyes with the now-moist tissue, then took another one from the box. “She… didn’t deserve this,” she added, sending her husband a furtive glance.
Fradella walked the room slowly along the walls, inspecting every window and making notes of the locations of all surveillance cameras. There were plenty of those; Mr. Bartlett didn’t cut any corners on his home security. He beckoned Michowsky and the two of them whispered something in a quick exchange, pointing at the back door and the two security cameras that monitored that particular point of access.
“Has anything happened to her recently?” Tess asked, not taking her eyes off the mother’s face.
Based on what Tess had overheard earlier, Christina’s mother wanted to share something with the investigators, but her husband opposed the idea. She could try to separate the two and question Dr. Bartlett in private but, judging by the way she squeezed her husband’s hand, that could prove difficult.
Dr. Bartlett lowered her head.
“Nothing happened,” Mr. Bartlett replied in her stead. “She traveled a lot, worked long hours.”
“How about a boyfriend?” Tess asked, remembering the photos in Christina’s bedroom.
“Pat,” Dr. Bartlett replied. “An ambitious young man,” she added, then closed her eyes briefly. “They were engaged to be married. He doesn’t know yet.”
“Pat?” Michowsky asked, notepad in hand, as he walked toward them.
“Pat Gallagher,” Mr. Bartlett replied. “He’s a Realtor, commercial real estate, high-value properties.”
“Anyone else in your daughter’s life?” Michowsky asked, approaching the Bartletts. “Anyone who was close enough to either cause this or know what did?”
The Bartletts looked briefly at each other.
“She was close friends with a male model, a colleague of hers, Santiago Flores,” Dr. Bartlett replied. “Santiago is in love with my daughter, but her heart belongs to Pat.” Dr. Bartlett covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a renewed sob. “Was… I—I can’t speak of her in past tense… I just can’t.”
“It’s all right,” Tess replied
. An unwanted thought crossed through her mind, as she said the words meant to bring comfort. Nothing was ever going to be all right for the Bartletts again, no matter what she said. “Is it possible Santiago was jealous? Felt rejected?”
“No, he’s nothing like that,” Dr. Bartlett whispered, then stared pleadingly into her husband’s eyes. Mr. Bartlett stood and turned toward the window, avoiding her glance. She lowered her head, defeated again in whatever silent battle the two were fighting.
“Why are you looking for suspects when there are none, Agent, um, what was it?”
“Winnett, sir,” Tess replied, surprised by the force in the man’s pushback. “And while there might not be any suspects, I’ll be perfectly honest with you and tell you that I’m not seeing what I normally see in suicide cases.”
Bartlett frowned and approached her. “What do you mean?”
“Before someone takes their own life, they go through a period of interiorized struggle. In some cases, there’s depression, sadness, the loss of a loved one, or news of a terminal disease. In other cases, there’s despair, the inability to live one’s life on one’s terms. All this interiorized struggle leaves evidence for us to find. I believe that whatever caused your daughter to end her life was sudden and so powerful that her decision came quickly, as if no other alternative was left. I, for one, would like to know what happened, sir, and I hope you’ll agree with me.”
Tess could read the man’s anguish in the way his jaws tensed, tugging at the corners of his tight lips and pulling them down.
“Tell them, Sidney, please,” Dr. Bartlett pleaded. “They’ll find out anyway.”
Tess turned toward her. “Tell us what?”
Sidney Bartlett let out a long, pained sigh, then lowered his eyes. “Last night she received a text message, while we were sitting at the dinner table. Someone had posted on the internet some horrible images of her, taken here, in our house, in her own bedroom.”
Without a word, Dr. Bartlett handed Tess an iPhone. The messenger app was already open on the screen. The message contained a link, and Tess tapped on it.
