by Leslie Nagel
“I thought the same thing,” John said. “Carter was convicted on a preponderance of circumstantial evidence. If this were my case? I’d probably be able to get it thrown out of court.”
“Moving on to the cause of death.” Sharon flipped a page. “Your victim died of intracranial bleeding due to a fractured skull. Skipping the jargon, her head was bashed in.”
Charley said, “Yousef claimed they struggled and Regan fell and hit her head on a landscape stone.”
Sharon snorted. “Well, that’s patently ridiculous. You can’t fall and crush the top of your skull.”
“Hang on, let’s be methodical about this.” Charley lay down on the grass. “Frankie? Did you bring it?”
“One murder weapon, courtesy of Lawrence Whittman.” Frankie fished a grapefruit out of an enormous handbag. “Practicing for when I have to lug one of those diaper bags around. Sharon, do you mind doing the honors? I can get down, but getting back up is another story.”
Sharon took the grapefruit, knelt, and held it against the top of Charley’s head. She glanced at the report again and moved the fruit an inch.
“Field reconstruction isn’t really my area. I’m more of a flesh-and-bone person.” She hummed and made another tiny adjustment. “This is about right. See? Unless the killer grabbed Regan’s ankles and performed a pile driver down onto the rock, then she didn’t die in a fall. How on earth could they have used that at trial?”
“They didn’t.” Charley sat up. “Yousef never went to trial. Once the hairs were matched to his DNA, the investigators accepted his confession. His story about Regan’s head wound was never challenged forensically. The prosecution’s theory in the original case against Carter was that they argued, then Carter picked up a stone and struck Regan in a rage. She dropped dead; he weighted down the body and rolled her into the pond.”
“Well, that’s a bit more like it, but I still don’t know…” Sharon bit her lip as she scanned the report, and then she looked up. “I’d like to reenact the death blow, if anyone’s game?”
“Are you kidding?” Frankie squealed. She and Vanessa bumped fists.
Sharon grinned. “Best book club ever. Now I need volunteers. According to this report, Regan was five feet, five inches tall.”
“Same as me.” Heddy stepped forward.
“Okay, you’re our victim. Next we have Carter, the presumed perpetrator. He was”—Sharon flipped a page—“six feet two, so we need somebody nine inches taller than Heddy.”
“I am six foot one,” Afiya offered.
“Close enough.” Under Sharon’s direction, Afiya moved to stand behind Heddy. Frankie handed her the grapefruit, Sharon indicated the proper spot on the top of Heddy’s skull, and Afiya mimed bringing the fruit down.
“This feels very awkward,” Afiya protested. “To hit the proper spot, I must stand so close that I am touching Heddy. Would a killer do this? Or else I must extend my arms, making it difficult to smash down with force.”
“Wouldn’t the natural thing be to strike at an angle, rather than straight down?” Charley asked. “Especially if the attacker was swinging an eleven-pound stone instead of two pounds of citrus.”
“It would. Damn,” Sharon muttered. “Wish I could see the skull. The crush pattern would reveal so much.” Her lips quirked as John raised his hand. “Yes, Counselor?”
“What if the victim was sitting down?”
Vanessa screwed up her face. “On the ground? No way. You don’t risk a damp, muddy backside when you’re about to elope.”
Then Charley snapped her fingers. “Of course!” She pulled the crime scene photos from her bag and shuffled through the stack. “Forty years ago, that bench over there was right here.”
Sharon nodded. “Let’s try that.”
Everyone trooped over to the bench, and Heddy sat with a graceful flutter of skirts.
“I am waiting for my lover,” she preened, “and I am looking very fine.”
“You are, indeed. Fee, assume the position.” As Afiya moved behind the bench and mimed bringing the grapefruit down on Heddy’s head, Sharon glanced between the autopsy report and the macabre tableau. “A little to the right,” she directed, and Afiya took a small step to her right. “Something is still off. Heddy, turn your head, like maybe you hear your attacker.” Heddy followed instructions as Afiya dutifully mimed bringing the fruit down again. Sharon huffed out a frustrated breath. “Based on this sketch and these photos, if Regan was sitting down, now the killer is too tall instead of not tall enough.”
“Maybe we’re wrong about the bench,” Frankie suggested.
Charley tapped her chin. “Maybe we are, but I don’t think so. If Regan wasn’t seated, wouldn’t it be more likely that she’d be pacing around? In that situation, it seems so unlikely that someone could’ve rushed up from behind and successfully killed her with a single blow.” She stepped forward. “I’m five nine. Let’s try that.” She moved behind Heddy, took the grapefruit from Afiya, and mimed bringing it down, with Heddy’s head slightly turned.
“Freeze!” Sharon commanded, and everyone froze. “Hold it just like that.” She began moving in a circle around the bench, consulting the report every couple of steps, as Charley and Heddy held their positions. “It’s perfect!” she declared at last. “An absolute perfect fit.”
Charley lowered her arms and Sharon continued. “I wouldn’t swear to it in court without more tests, but I will say it’s extremely likely that Regan was seated, and whoever struck her with the rock was about Charley’s height. Let’s say, given variations in shoes or whatever, the killer was between five feet eight and five feet ten inches tall.”
“The killer snuck up from behind?” Frankie asked. “That’s not the crime of passion the prosecution painted. And it’s not the accidental fall Yousef claimed, either.”
Vanessa held up a hand. “Guys. Yousef Alsayegh was six feet tall.”
“So, what are we saying?” Heddy asked.
There was silence as eight people stared at one another.
“You’ve just proved the innocence of yet another man,” John said at last. “Someone else, a person as yet unidentified but several inches shorter than Alsayegh, killed Regan Fletcher.”
Charley began to pace. “How long would it take to dig a rock out of the ground? A minute or two? And wouldn’t that make noise? And if Regan were seated where the bench used to be, she could see the entire pond where the stones were used, so I think that, I think…”
Her mind whirled as she envisioned the scene. A young girl, excited and nervous, perhaps pacing a bit at first, then sitting, waiting for her lover. A shadowy dark-haired figure, standing behind her with a rock…
Charley stopped and faced the group. “He—or she? We don’t actually know the murderer is a man. Or do we?” she asked Sharon.
“A seated victim, no struggle?” Sharon considered. “It’s impossible to be sure without precise forensic analysis, but I’ve seen worse cranial injuries inflicted by weapons much lighter than an eleven-pound stone, and by relatively weak attackers.”
“We keep an open mind,” Charley allowed. “My point is, man or woman, the killer had to have dug the rock up before Regan got here. It’s the only explanation. And that means the killer knew Regan was coming here, to Smith Gardens, and knew why she was coming.”
“But if the murder was premeditated,” Frankie reasoned, “why not bring a better weapon?”
“Because they didn’t plan to kill her until that night, maybe not even until they were on their way here. It’s not like the average person has access to a variety of weaponry.” As Charley spoke, she felt the rightness of her theory. “Something happened to trigger it. Regan was running away, leaving Oakwood, possibly forever. The killer saw her leave the game and knew what was happening.”
“But how would this person know?” Afiya wondered.
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Charley turned to Vanessa. “You’re an eighteen-year-old girl. Say you have this massive secret. Your life is about to change forever. What do you do?”
“Dumping the controlling parents and doing a Romeo and Juliet getaway with my smoking-hot college boyfriend?” Vanessa twirled her braid. “It would be tough not to blab. From what we’ve learned about Regan, the envy of her peers would be a huge part of the thrill.”
Charley gazed at the pond, placid in the summer heat. “We know she told Harding, which is yet another mark in favor of his being the murderer. Maybe she also told someone else, or someone overheard her telling Harding. Maybe he yelled or got loud, trying to talk her out of it.” She flapped a hand. “Not sure about that yet.”
“We can deduce something else,” John said. “She told this person at the football game or shortly before. That’s why the killer had to rely on a weapon of opportunity. They were at the game and couldn’t get away until it was over, or nearly so.”
“Premeditated,” Afiya murmured, “but only for an hour or two.”
“Sitting in the stands,” Frankie said softly.
“Or photographing the game from the sidelines,” Vanessa muttered.
“Or performing his custodial duties,” Heddy suggested.
Sharon nodded. “Stewing and waiting and watching Regan.”
“Watching until Regan leaves.” Charley sank down on the bench beside Heddy as she worked it out in her mind. “She cuts through the tunnel, stopping to change clothes and swap packs. It’s dark and cramped down there, so it takes her a little time. Between the dark and her nerves, she misses the journal when she swaps packs. Meanwhile, the killer follows her out of the stadium. Regan’s nowhere in sight, but he knows where she’s headed, and he beats her to Smith Gardens. He’s decided it has to be murder. There’s no time to get a weapon, so when he sees the stones, he digs one up and hides. A few minutes later Regan comes in. She sits down, he steps forward, and he strikes.”
“So if it wasn’t Carter or Yousef, who killed Regan?” Heddy asked.
Frankie said pointedly, “Harding Knox is about five foot ten. So is Merritt Vance, for that matter.”
“Charley?”
Everyone turned as Mitch Cooper came across the lawn at a fast walk, a tall safety officer with ginger hair close on his heels. As they approached, Charley recognized the uniformed officer as Kyle Cutter. Mitch was dressed in pressed slacks and a short-sleeved polo shirt that bore the crest of the Oakwood Safety Department. Both men wore frowns that hinted this was not a social call.
“Paul told me you were here,” Mitch said. “He’s at the scene of a traffic accident.”
“Yes, we saw him earlier, when he—” Charley’s stomach dropped. “Someone died in that crash. Mitch, who is it?”
The young detective’s expression became even more grim. “The victim is your friend, Berkeley Dye.”
Chapter 16
After a stunned beat of silence, everyone began exclaiming and talking at once. Everyone except Charley. Without a word, she stood and headed for the exit.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Mitch demanded.
“I need to see the scene.”
“And do what?” Mitch laid a hand on her arm. “Setting aside the fact that Marc will literally kill me if I take you there, there’s nothing to be done. It was an accident.”
Charley pulled away. “An accident. Seriously? We’ve just determined that Regan Fletcher’s killer may still be at large, and the man who’s been investigating her murder conveniently dies in an accident? Fine. Call Paul and ask him—” She thought a moment. “Ask him two questions. Please, Mitch? After all the times I’ve helped the police, can’t you give me that much?”
Mitch hesitated, then made the call. While he waited, his gaze landed on Vanessa, and he gave a quick nod. “How’s it going?” She reddened, but for once remained quiet.
Standing a few paces away, Kyle’s attention was also riveted on Vanessa, who seemed utterly oblivious to his presence. He glanced between her and Mitch. Then he nodded once, as if confirming something he’d already known.
“Paul? Yeah, I’m here. She’s…” Mitch’s eyes met Charley’s. “She says if you’ll answer two questions, she’ll stay away.” He nodded. “You’re on speaker.” He held up his cellphone and the group fell silent, listening.
“First, how was he killed?” Charley asked. “Describe the method.”
They heard a heavy sigh come over the line. “Only because we owe you, and I really do not want you to see this in person.” Paul sounded unhappy. “There’s a pretty sharp gradient where Ridgeway curves as it skirts around Houk Stream Park. Dye parked his van on the berm. The parking brake must’ve slipped, the van rolled and”—he cleared his throat—“and it crushed him against a tree. Looks like Dye had only been dead a few minutes when someone drove by and called nine-one-one. First responder found the engine running, headlights on. He backed up the van, checked for vitals, and called it in.”
“Against a tree?” Charley shook her head in confusion. “What on earth was he doing? Damn it, I need to see—”
“Second question, Charley.” Paul’s voice was stern.
She huffed. “Fine. Look in his van. Is anything missing?”
“That’s hard to say without an inventory.” Pause. “But they can’t find a cellphone.”
“Berkeley definitely had one,” Charley declared. “He texted Marc that he was meeting someone. I’ll bet the killer called him and lured him out there, then stole the cellphone to cover his tracks. Whoever it was must not know about pulling phone records, or else they hoped the police would believe it was an accident.” She was struck by a thought. “Is there a box of papers? Berkeley’s typed manuscript was in that van last night.”
“Nope. No box. The side door was open, probably sprang free on impact.”
“How convenient,” Frankie muttered.
Mitch started to pull his cellphone back, but Charley held up a hand. “Please, I need a third question. I think I can visualize the location, and there’s nothing there, right? It’s parkland, just trees sloping down to the stream. Will you please describe exactly what Dye was doing at the moment of impact? Was he digging? Climbing? Kneeling? Running away?”
“Hang on, the body was already moved when I got here.” As they waited, Charley fought the urge to pace. Thunder rumbled, and they heard its diminished echo through the cellphone’s tiny speaker.
“Ms. Carpenter? Barbara Prince speaking.”
Mitch almost dropped his cellphone in surprise as Charley’s hand flew to her mouth.
“Chief Prince? I am so sorry, ma’am!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t mean to get Detective Brixton in trouble. I only—”
“No one’s in trouble.” Prince’s voice sounded friendly enough. Charley pictured the new chief: a veteran cop in her early fifties; trim build; short, iron gray hair; a direct green-eyed gaze that inspired trust but also made clear that BS would not be tolerated. “My detective informs me that you have information relevant to the death of Berkeley Dye? That you believe this might be a homicide?”
“Yes, ma’am, I do.” Charley took a deep breath. “Before I explain, could I get the answer to the last question I asked Paul? What was Berkeley doing when he died?”
“The victim was kneeling,” Prince said without hesitation. “The tree he was pinned against is hollow, with a cavity about four feet deep. He had his arm down inside it up to the shoulder. An officer checked inside, looking for the cellphone, but all she found was a flat packet of folded newspaper about three inches square, tied with some type of rough cord. There was nothing inside the packet.”
“A hollow tree?” Charley turned and stared at the other members of her book club. Each reflected her own dawning comprehension.
“That’s what I said.” A muffled voice asked a questi
on; Prince spoke a sharp command in reply, then asked Charley, “Dare I hope this strange situation makes sense to you? Is this murder?”
“It does make sense. And yes, I’m pretty certain Berkeley Dye was murdered.” As succinctly as possible, Charley ran down the discovery of Regan’s journal and the fact that she and Carter had communicated in code. “You already know about the break-in at my home. I’m sure it’s all connected. The thing is, Regan and Carter used dead letter drops, and one was supposedly in a hollow tree. I’ll bet whoever broke into my home is the same person who lured Berkeley to his death. They told him they’d found that dead letter drop. If they also said something was still in there, he’d have come running first and asked questions later.”
Afiya folded her arms. “I think we know what that poor man was hoping to find.”
“Berkeley was as hung up on that missing necklace story as you are, Fee.” This time, Charley wasn’t making a joke about it. “He’s kneeling, reaching, trying to fish out this fake paper bait, and someone slips the brake on the van, maybe gives it a little help, and it rolls and kills him.”
“Pretty chancy,” John remarked. “How could they be sure he’d be killed?”
Prince cleared her throat. “I’m familiar with the Fletcher case, of course. Detective Brixton has told me a bit about what you’ve been up to, but it sounds like there’s a lot more to the story. Unfortunately, I don’t have time to hear it right now.” She paused. “Ms. Carpenter, I respect your judgment. You’ve aided this department with discretion and bravery many times, and you’ve never steered us wrong.”
Charley felt her cheeks turn pink. “Thank you, ma’am,” she said as her friends nodded their approval.
“Therefore,” Prince continued, “I will classify Berkeley Dye’s death as suspicious. That will jump up any evidence we find to priority status at the crime lab, and it should be enough to get a warrant for Dye’s cellphone records. Detective Cooper?”
