"Exactly right. I think you're referring to gaping wounds as opposed to wounds where the edges remain closed. That's what I was just telling you— whethe , the edge is jagged or smooth, open or closed, depends on where on the body the cutting is done, as well as the instrument that's used. It's not a pre- or postmortem issue at all. You'll have to leave the question of postmortem stabbing to me. It's not that easy to ascertain. You need to go inside for that. And all cuts do not produce the same degree of bleeding. I'd say two knives, probably a boning-type knife with a slender blade and then maybe a thicker one. By the way, the body was exposed to water for no more than twenty minutes."
April exhaled. "The girl who found her said the shower was on. She was the one who turned it off just before calling 911. Can you confirm the time?"
"We'll do some tests, of course. Prepare to get into the shower for us," he joked.
"Ha-ha."
"But I'd say no more than twenty minutes," he said more seriously.
"That would pretty much let our three primary suspects off the hook," April told him.
"Then, you'd better start looking for someone else, because when I tell you skin has been underwater for twenty minutes or less, it's not going to mean thirty-eight. But don't pin me down on this right now. We'll test it out."
"Okay. What else can you tell me?"
"Well, I haven't seen the crime scene yet, have I? At this point I can just make a few guesses. Does that shower have a bench in it? Does it have steam or dry heat?"
"I believe steam," April confirmed.
"Okay, a slash on the triceps of the victim's right upper arm indicates she might have been lying down, possibly steaming at the time of the attack. The front of her right arm resting on her forehead may have covered her eyes. She was in repose."
"It's possible. If she didn't see the attack coming, steam would explain a lot of things." April made a note to test how long it took to make steam, and how dense it got. Every minute counted. Also, the sound made by the steam coming out of the pipe could have dulled her hearing. Sometimes it was a loud hiss.
"It looks to me like the killer may have entered the shower with the intention of stabbing her in the chest, and had not expected a fight."
"What makes you think that?"
"The killer didn't know anything about anatomy and wasn't very powerful. There were a lot of hesitation strikes," he said after a pause.
"Tell me more." That would let Remy off the hook. From butchering lessons, she knew anatomy very well. And as a trainer, Derek probably did, too. And Wayne was a chef.
"For now let's assume the first blow was deflected by the sudden movement of her arm. Maybe she heard something and started to get up. The kind of wounds she had suggests that she started fighting back right away, and the killer didn't know how to end the game. Just like not being able to make the point in tennis, he just struck again and again, without getting anywhere. Six blows hit bone or cartilage and didn't penetrate deep enough to do mortal injury. Furthermore the weapons did not twist inside the wounds, indicating the killer couldn't find soft tissue to penetrate and wasn't strong enough to muscle through cartilage and bone, especially with the victim in pretty good physical condition and fighting back."
"What about the eye?"
"Again, not that deep an incision. It looked horrible, but it didn't kill her. She might have been pushing the attacker away when that blow occurred, or she may have fallen. There would have been a good deal of bleeding at the time. Both the attacker and the victim would have been covered with it. The pattern of wounds suggests that the victim moved from side to side. The attacker may have had a weapon in each hand and stabbed with both hands."
"So the cause of death was . . . ?" April asked again.
"The fatal blow is situated between the fifth and sixth rib three-quarters of an inch from the inner side, three and a half inches from the middle line of the sternum. In other words, it missed the lung and penetrated the thoracic wall, and pericardium. He finally got lucky and penetrated her heart. Death at this point would have been instantaneous. I'm still working. I have to go now. No quotes, okay? This was entirely off the record."
"If he wasn't strong and didn't know how to do it, how did he end the game?"
"I'd say she fell, and was lying on her back at the time. The blade went in from above, and the killing cut was not the widest one. As I said, it was so perfect, it must have been a lucky shot."
"Right- or left-handed?"
"That's like asking what color the killer's hair is. I'm guessing two weapons, and I don't know which hand was the good one. You guys will have to act it out."
"One more thing."
"I know. How deep is the cut? How long are the knives? What kind of knives? It's not one more thing—it's a dozen things, and I'm not answering yet." Then he answered. "Lying down, her breast would be flattened. The hilt didn't bruise her, so it didn't go all the way in. So the knife could be any size. Not serrated, though."
"Thanks for taking the call. It helped a lot," April said as she heard her name shouted from upstairs.
Thirty-five
After Wayne left the hotel, Remy was frightened by the police. A man who said he was a detective called and told her to stay where she was. Someone was coming by to pick her up.
"Why? am I being arrested?" she asked anxiously.
"No, no. Just an interview at this time," he said.
She called the agency immediately. No one was there, so she left a message for Jo Ellen to call her back on her cell phone when she got in. "It's an emergency," she said.
But the police didn't come, and Jo Ellen didn't return the call until almost noon. By then Angus and Bertie's grandmother had arrived and taken them to the park, and Remy had been in the hotel room alone for more than two hours. She had her knapsack packed and ready to go, but she didn't dare leave for either the police station or parts unknown without alerting Jo Ellen.
"I'm sorry I couldn't get back to you, Remy. You wouldn't believe how hectic my day has been," she said sternly when she finally returned the call. "I know all this has been difficult for you, but what's the big emergency?"
Jo Ellen—Miss Anderson to her staffers—never failed to acknowledge that certain aspects of working for her clients could be stressful at times. But being at the center of a murder case was more than just stressful. "I can't stay with . . . Mr. Wilson any longer," Remy started slowly. "I did my best for you, but this is too much."
"What's too much? Tell me everything," Jo Ellen said soothingly. "I'm here for you. You know that."
Remy had heard that before. She paced the living room of the suite, back and forth in front of the two windows, which had a good view of Central Park. "The police called me. They want to question me again. And Wayne freaked out this morning. 1 really thought he was going to hit me. I can't do this anymore. I'm sorry if I'm letting you down, but this isn't working." That was an understatement.
"Remy, have some understanding," Jo Ellen intoned self-righteously. "The poor man lost his wife."
Jo Ellen's knee-jerk reaction to everything was "Have some understanding." It didn't matter what was going on with her clients—an unwarranted temper tantrum, a missing tennis bracelet (perhaps lost in a taxi or on the sidewalk), a broken Ming vase (by a cat), refusal to give a hardworking employee vacation time or a raise for no reason at all..—she took their side in every dispute. Usually it was just maddening, but now it was dangerous. And she didn't even mention the police.
"I was understanding. I'm very sorry he lost his wife, but he didn't have to see it. He didn't have to hang around all day. I took the hit for everything. I was the one interviewed by the police practically all day yesterday, and they're not finished. They're focused on me. I need help, Miss Anderson. He has a lawyer. Maybe I need a lawyer—"
Jo Ellen cut her off. "You told me all that yesterday. Believe me, I'm sympathetic. But if you leave the Wilson household before this thing is settled, I'm just not sure what I can do for you. You'll have to relocate,
anyway, and I do have someone looking for a chef in the Bahamas. . . ."
Remy was appalled by this response. She was fearful that the police had a different kind of relocation in mind. And even if they didn't, the last thing she wanted was to be someone's chef in the Bahamas! She yearned for the glamour of a restaurant. She was quite fed up with Jo Ellen's coaching and considered saying, "I quit for you, too," but she didn't have a chance.
"What did you do to provoke him?" she demanded.
"Nothing. I went out for a walk. That's all," Remy said defensively. Jo Ellen always thought the worst of everybody.
"You left the children, and you know better than that."
"No, no. I didn't leave them. It was six-thirty in the morning. No one was up." Remy was reduced to defending herself to everyone. It was horrible.
"Well, where did you go, then? Haven't you learned anything I taught you? You're supposed to stay put. What happened last night? What did he do?" The questions came fast.
"He talked on the phone with some lawyer. I don't know, somebody Mr. Perkins got for him. He told Mr. Perkins he had to get rid of Lynn."
"Yes, yes. I know all that. I'm completely fed up with you girls. In a hundred years, we've never had to face anything remotely like this. I'm distraught. You two are not making me look good. Where did you go?" She was back on that again.
"I didn't go anywhere in particular. I was upset. I had to get some fresh air and consider my options." Remy didn't want to tell her where she'd been. It was none of Jo Ellen's business.
"What options are you talking about?" Jo Ellen's voice became angry. It was plain she was just furious about everything.
"I don't know," Remy mumbled.
"That's exactly right—you don't know. I feel bitterly betrayed by you, Remy. I did everything you asked. I placed you with the exact person you wanted to meet. You could have gone another route and applied for a restaurant job, but you didn't want to do that. You wanted intimate access to the great Wayne Wilson himself. I gave you that. It turned out that you were very well liked there, but you messed up. You just couldn't be content. You had to push the envelope and go where you shouldn't go. You know that's against my express rules."
Remy gathered that she was talking about her and Wayne. "What did she say to you?" she asked meekly.
"If you're talking about Mrs. Wilson"—Jo Ellen blew air out of her mouth to express her frustration—"I'm just disgusted with you. I trusted you in a good home. But once you start alienating affections, you're done. I've told you that a thousand times. Don't mess with the husbands. Didn't I tell you that?"
"I didn't alienate his affections," Remy insisted.
"It was her perception, and she paid your salary."
Actually, Wayne paid her salary, but Remy wasn't about to correct her. "I'm sorry," she said meekly. "It wasn't a big deal, and I didn't mean to complicate things."
"Well, it was a big deal to her, and you complicated things. Now you have to stay where you are and behave yourself until I say that you can leave. I could make things very rough for you if you don't," she threatened. And then she said she had important things to do and hung up.
Where were the police? Where was refuge? What were her options? She had no idea. With the horrified feeling that she was trapped in a madhouse, Remy stood looking at the dead receiver. She was a soldier stuck in a war not of her own making, pinned in place, and watched from all sides. She didn't even know how to start planning. Finally she replaced the headset and did what she always did on occasions of deep stalemate— whatever was asked of her. She started tidying up the children's clothes. This time was no different from any other time in her life. No matter what her state of rebellion she always had trouble taking that first step. After a few minutes she turned on the "TV. On, the news she was shocked to see police outside of the Perkins house. Emergency vehicles. Reporters with video equipment. She stared in disbelief. It had happened again.
Thirty-six
It took all morning for the preliminary work on the Perkins house to be completed. The process of uncovering Alison Perkins's body took over an hour longer. At this point Mike was long gone and Minnow had left the building only to return later. April, however, felt that she owed it to Alison to stay with her body until it was tagged, bagged, and taken away. It seemed that every month that task took longer and longer as crime-scene techniques became more sophisticated. By the time the assistant from the medical examiner's office got to the Perkins house, one corner of the bedroom had a sizable pile of waste from packaged test materials. The room was gritty with powders, and the odor of ammonia lingered in the room.
When Sergeant Minnow entered the room for the first time, he'd wrinkled his nose. "What's that smell, poison?"
"Smells like household cleaner to me," said Igor, the more experienced half of the CSI team.
Minnow frowned at April as if to say, What are you still doing here?
She smiled benignly at him as she gathered her thoughts. She had the same sense now that she'd experienced yesterday, that someone was sending a message. The first body -had been washed in the shower, the second possibly with household cleanser. What was that about? She shook her head sadly. She needed to see Alison's body, and it was taking forever. Igor and Tam, a new face in the unit, peeled back Alison's bedspread centimeter by centimeter, carefully checking for foreign materials of any kind, stray fibers, hair, a broken nail— anything at all that might have been left behind by someone leaving the scene. They picked off tiny items with tweezers. Dog hairs, people hairs, threads, and feathers—something that looked like a scab, but Igor identified as "probably a booger."
April glanced at her watch for the hundredth time. The minutes ticked away, postponing her long to-do list. She had that hair sample from the powder room in her purse. She had her own plans for it. She'd already raided all the hairbrushes in the house. It was too short and coarse for the little girls' hair. Too short for Lynn's as well. She'd made some notes to herself. Hair from the cleaning lady from yesterday? How long did it take for water drops in a sink to dry out? Could it still have been wet from the day before? Probably not. Maybe the killer's hair. What color?
Whoever it was had definitely been in Alison's closet, had been in the bathroom, had been in the sitting room. Lynn was sure the magazines had not been there earlier in the morning. Igor had tested them for prints, and all of them had been wiped clean. Maybe the exit path had been through the little sitting room, and the killer had stopped there to wash up. Another note to herself. Alison's rings were missing. What else?
Finally Igor and Tam lifted the rolled bedspread off the end of the bed and bagged it. By then there was no longer any doubt about the nature of Alison's death. Her body was clothed in a long white nightgown, carefully tucked around her ankles. Her hands were folded across her chest. The witnesses to the unveiling made a tableau around the bed— Sergeant Minnow, April, the assistant from the medical examiner's office, and Igor and Tam.
"Oh, Jesus," Minnow exclaimed.
The smell of ammonia was strong on the body, and it was clear that whatever mess Alison had made in dying had been washed away with household cleanser. Her body had been swabbed with it. The cameras started again, taking pictures of the dead woman from all angles.
"Some sick puppy, the person who did this," Minnow muttered.
No one else said anything. The assistant ME did a cursory examination of the victim's head, chest, arms, hands, and shoulders. There didn't appear to be any tissue under her fingernails, bruises on her neck, arms, shoulders, head. Just that horrible anguished face and the wide-open eyes. Her hands were paper-bagged anyway.
Minnow turned away. He was done there. "You got anything?" he asked April as they walked down the hall to the stairs.
She told him about her conversation with Lynn. "Was that guy who followed Remy one of your people?"
He laughed. "Uh-uh. Ours was a female. She didn't pick it up," he said with a moment of pride. "Yeah, we knew Remy came over here." Th
en he sobered quickly and ticked the events off on his fingers. "Let's get this straight. The two nannies meet for coffee at six forty-five. Yesterday's killer tells today's killer she's getting canned, so she offs her boss, too? What is this, the revenge of the nannies?"
April shook her head. "I'm seeing a small window of opportunity when someone close to the two victims knew they would be alone and vulnerable. Maddy Wilson was in her steam room relaxing after her workout. Her husband and her nanny were off together in his restaurant. We've got some witnesses to that. We talked to the chef last night. Wilson was taking inventory. Remy was with him. This morning, Alison had taken a tranquilizer, or possibly two, as was her habit when she'd abused too much. Yesterday was a stressful day for her, and she'd done too much cocaine, I'm guessing. She was popping Vicodin to come down and had gone back to bed for a nap. Again, Lynn was out taking the girls to play school. So in that window, I'm seeing someone else."
"Then you don't think it was either of the nannies?" Minnow said. They started down the stairs to the living-room floor.
"Remy was not truthful in her interviews, but I believe that was because she was having an affair with her boss," April said.
"In my book that's a motive."
April shook her head. "It's a reason to feel guilty."
"Sounds like a motive to me, but okay, have it your own way," he said as if he would never let that happen. "Just for the sake of conversation let's eliminate the nannies. Who then . . . the trainer?" He scratched his head as if he didn't like that idea.
"Well, no. I spoke to Dr. Gloss. He said Maddy Wilson's body was exposed to the hot shower for less than twenty minutes. That would eliminate him."
"No way!" he exclaimed.
"Working backward. Derek was in the deli at nine-oh-five and in his gym at nine fifteen. If Remy found the body and turned off the shower at nine forty-five, the attack would have happened after he left." It wasn't rocket science.
"You spoke to the ME?" Minnow said, sounding surprised.
A Clean Kill Page 18
