by Elle Gray
Unfortunately for us, I don’t think his almost-obsessive cleanliness is going to be a factor in helping us find his killer. Of all the killers I’ve caught, I’ve never had one say to me that it was his victim’s housekeeping habits that marked him out for death. I look around the bedroom again and realize it’s what I don’t see that’s striking. I walk back out into the living room and scan the area with this new insight in my mind.
“What is it you don’t see?” I ask.
Astra, who’s busy combing through the books on the shelves—mostly medical texts—looking for things tucked inside the pages, looks up at me. She sets a book down and turns in a circle, a frown on her lips. Finally, she stops and looks at me.
“I don’t know. What is it that I’m supposed to be not seeing?”
“Anything personal,” I explain. “You couldn’t go a foot in his mom’s house without seeing a picture of Ben, or a photo of them together. Her walls were covered in personal mementos. But here? Not a thing.”
Astra looks around again and seems to notice what I’m saying. Aside from a few cheap prints that add some color to the walls, there is absolutely nothing in here. Not a single trace of his personality. It might not mean anything. Not everybody is going to have his mother’s overwhelming desire to cover her walls with captured moments. But knowing how close Ben and his mother were, it strikes me as more than a little strange.
“Huh. You’re right,” she says. “This does not feel like a twenty-five-year-old dude’s apartment—and trust me, I’ve seen plenty. There’s no dusty Xbox, or sneaker collection, or abandoned set of dumbbells. Or anything. Do you think it’s significant?”
I shrug. “It might be. It might not be,” I say. “It shows that his personality with the other students in the lab—distant, aloof, drab, even—extended to his apartment. It’s almost a forced effort to hide his personality from everybody.”
“Maybe he felt he had something to hide,” she postulates. “Could indicate shame. But shame about what? He got out of a bad situation and was making something of his life.”
“That’s the million-dollar question.”
As Astra turns back to the books, I walk into the bathroom. Just like everything else, the bathroom is excessively neat. Not a streak on the mirror or stray hair on the floor to be seen. The towels are all hung up on the bar and are evenly spaced, of course. I walk over to the cabinet and open it up, looking at the small collection of medicines—aspirin, antacids, melatonin, multi-purpose vitamins, Pepto—nothing too out of the ordinary. And like the food in his kitchen, everything is labeled with a bright sticker and the expiration date written in his hand.
I look at the cup and at the pair of toothbrushes inside, then at the bottles of contact lens solution, and a box of condoms that’s still unopened. If Grace was right and it was a girl who convinced him to get out of the gang life and into school, it doesn’t seem as if the two of them were having sex very often. That’s when my eyes drift back down to the toothbrushes—two of them. One with a blue grip, the other with a pink one. So, there was a girl in the picture.
I turn to walk out of the bathroom to talk to Astra when my eyes fall on a tapestry hanging on the wall in the corner, tucked discreetly behind the shower. I didn’t notice it when I walked in, because the door partially obscures it from view. But now that I see it, the tapestry strikes me as wholly incongruous with the rest of Ben’s apartment, which is bland and impersonal to the point that somebody could walk through and think it was a display unit shown to prospective tenants. The tapestry, though—a brightly colored mosaic that features a silhouette of the African continent—stands out like a sore thumb. It’s the only touch of personalization in the entire apartment.
I pull the tapestry aside and feel my eyes widen and my pulse start to race. This might be what I’m looking for to help bring the stereogram that is this case into focus.
“Astra, I think you should get in here,” I call.
As I take down the tapestry, she comes in, looks as I point,, and whistles low. “My, my my,” she says. “A secret room. How intriguing.”
“Right?” I reply.
“What do you think is in there?” she asks.
“Won’t know until we go in.”
“Do we need a warrant?”
I shake my head. “Grace gave us permission to search. That would include any hidden rooms we might find, I assume.”
Having taken down the tapestry, we are standing here looking at the door that was hidden behind it. I feel my adrenaline kicking into high gear but try to stave it off. There’s no point in getting excited until we see what’s in there. It could be nothing more than storage. We might go in there and find nothing but empty boxes. On the other hand, we could possibly go in there and find a treasure trove of stuff that will help us make a case.
But I’ve found it’s always best to temper your expectations and not get your hopes up too high, because when something doesn’t pan out, the crushing fall always sucks.
“Shall we find out what’s behind door number one?” Astra asks.
“Absolutely.”
I reach out and turn the knob, only to find that it’s locked. I try again, using a little more force this time, but the knob still won’t turn.
“Easy there, Wonder Woman. Wouldn’t want you ripping the door off the hinges or anything,” Astra cracks.
I step back, laughing, as she pulls a small leather case from her inside jacket pocket and kneels down in front of the door. She takes a couple of instruments out of the case and sets to work on the lock.
“Are you kidding me? Where did you learn how to pick a lock?” I ask.
“Same place I learned to hotwire a car,” she offers.
“You can hotwire a car?”
“In less than thirty seconds.”
“You’re lying,” I say.
“Want to bet on that?”
I look at her and hear the click of the lock. “I’m going to pass on that bet,” I say.
“Wise choice.”
She turns the knob and pushes it inward, and we are immediately overcome by the smell of pot. It’s thick and earthy. I’m getting a contact high already.
“Holy cow,” she gasps.
She stands up and I follow her into the room. It’s not a large room—eight by eight at best. But there is a very sophisticated hydroponic trough system set along three of the walls, with large, lush, marijuana plants growing. There are powerful grow lights stationed above each of the troughs, making sure the plants get the light they need to thrive. And on the fourth wall, on both sides of the door, racks have been mounted to dry the weed. The racks are currently full of product, and although I’m no expert, I’m assuming the thick, bushy plants in the troughs are ready to be harvested.
“This is—something,” I note.
“This is every college kid’s idea of paradise,” Astra replies. “Do we have a drug test at work coming up anytime soon? If so, we’re screwed, because I think I’m stoned.”
I flash her a grin and walk over to a small desk stashed in the corner. The thing that catches my eye first is a picture in a small silver frame. It’s a photo of Ben and a woman who is half a foot shorter than him. She has long dark hair, golden skin, and wide, dark doe eyes. And the way she’s leaning into him, with his arms around her, tells me this is the mystery girl Ben’s mother told us about.
Besides the picture, there is a ledger on the desk that lists out the planting dates, harvest dates, yield of his crop, and estimated value. Ben was as meticulous about keeping his records as he was about keeping his house. And judging by the figures I’m seeing in his ledger, he was making a very good living. Scholarships paid for his schooling and I’m assuming a piece of his apartment as well, which means the money he was making from his weed business went straight into—something. He probably invested some of it back into his business, but I really want to look at his financials now. I want to see where all his money was going.
“You realize this puts
us back at the possibility that Ben’s murder was the result of a drug deal gone wrong, don’t you?” Astra asks.
“Yeah, the thought crossed my mind. That means we’re going to need to speak to the Kings again to see if they were keeping anything from us.”
“B—Ben’s dead?”
I pull my weapon and wheel around in one fluid movement, training the end of my pistol at the face of the man standing in the doorway.
Twenty-Three
Garden Village Apartments; Pullman, WA
Astra paces behind the couch and I pace in front of it, keeping the intruderfrom focusing on either one of us. It’s a common tactic we use that’s meant to keep a suspect on edge and unable to keep both of us in sight at any one time. My gut tells me this kid isn’t a threat to us. He’s tall and lanky—looks more the type to collect Pokémon cards than to gun down federal agents for fun. But my gut isn’t one hundred percent, and my experience has taught me that anybody can be a threat. All it takes is for your focus to slip for a nanosecond, and you’re bleeding out on the floor.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Dwight. Dwight Feeley,” he replies, a tremor in his voice. “And who are you? And what are you doing in Ben’s apartment?”
I flash him my badge. “I’m SSA Wilder. The woman behind you is Special Agent Russo, and I should inform you she is not only the fastest draw in all of Washington but is also the best shot as well. She could put a dot dead center in the back of your head before you fully get off that couch, so think before you act.”
“Or don’t,” Astra says. “It’s been a few weeks since I shot somebody and my trigger finger’s getting a little itchy.”
“See, now I know you guys are just messing with me. You’re just trying to intimidate me. Federal agents don’t run around just gunning people down. That’s not how it works. I’m not an idiot,” he says.
“Funny. I wasn’t there, but I heard that’s the same thing they said down in Waco. And at Ruby Ridge,” I snap.
The man on the couch shifts in his seat and looks at me, then tries to turn his head.
“Eyes forward,” Astra snaps, her voice cold as ice.
He snaps his head forward again. I have no reason to be torturing the kid this way other than the fact that he sneaked in and got the drop on us. And that irritates me. I don’t like getting caught unaware like that. And neither does Astra, so we mentally rough him up a bit before we launch into our questions, just to make ourselves feel a little better.
“So, what were you doing in here, Dwight Feeley?” I ask in my best official FBI voice.
“I—I saw the door was open. I thought Ben was home and I wanted to talk to him,” he stammers. “I haven’t seen him in a few days.”
“And you two are friends?” Astra asks, and when he starts to turn around to answer her, she barks at him. “Eyes forward.”
He turns to face me again, his face a mask of confusion and fear. He clearly has no idea what’s going on here. We’ve got him on edge.
“Can you tell me what’s going on here?” he asks.
“When was the last time you saw Ben?” I ask.
“I don’t know. It’s been like—a week? Something like that. I don’t know for sure,” he says. “And to answer your earlier question, yeah. We were friends. At least, to the extent anybody could be friends with Ben. He always kept most people at an arm’s distance, you know?”
“But you’re good enough friends that you can just walk in unannounced?” I ask.
He nods. “Well, yeah. I live next door. Met him the day he moved in,” he says. “We hang out pretty regularly.”
“You buy your weed from him?” Astra asks.
He opens his mouth to reply, then closes it again as if something had just occurred to him. “I uhhh… I think maybe I should talk to a lawyer.”
“Relax,” I tell him. “It’s legal. We couldn’t care less if you smoke weed or not. We’re not looking to jam anybody up over something like pot. That’s not why we’re here.”
“Then why are you here?” he asks.
I hold the picture frame I’d taken from the secret room out so Dwight can see it. He looks at the photo and I see the flash of recognition in his eyes I was looking for.
“Who’s the girl?” I ask.
“Ben’s girlfriend.”
“Don’t get cute,” Astra snaps. “Because I know where to hit you so it’ll cause you pain but not leave a mark.”
Astra is clearly still annoyed by the fact that he sneaked up on us and is unwilling to let it go just yet. I have to fight to keep the smile off my face.
“His girlfriend. What’s her name?” I ask.
“It’s Chloe. I don’t know her last name,” he says.
“Sounds like you two were real tight.”
He finally turns around, glaring at her. “Ben is a good guy and he’s my friend. But he’s secretive, okay? He has like this double life, and if you aren’t in the circle, you don’t get all the details,” he snaps back at her. “And so far as I know, only he and Chloe are in that circle.”
Astra gives him a nod, then turns away and starts to pace again. It’s obvious Dwight has some measure of friendship with Ben, which I can respect. But I also get the idea that he’s withholding. That he’s got some information he’s not sharing with us. Probably because Ben asked him to keep it to himself. I can tell that he’s not the type who goes around spreading other people’s business for sport. He’s loyal. But that also tells me I need to give him something to get something back from him.
“Listen, Dwight. I have some bad news,” I say. “Ben’s dead. He was murdered. So it’s—”
“What?” he gasps. “No. You’re wrong. It can’t be.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s true.”
“The DNA is conclusive,” Astra adds.
“DNA? You had to match him through DNA?” Dwight asks and I can see him turning it over in his mind. “That means you couldn’t ID him physically?”
“Criminal Justice major?” I raise an eyebrow.
He nods. “How’d you know? Are you guys watching me, too?”
I shake my head. “No, just an educated guess,” I say. “But listen, we’re trying to find out who did this to him. Do you know of anybody who might have wanted to hurt Ben? Anybody he had a problem with? Did he mention any fights or—”
“No, nothing like that. Everybody—”
“Liked Ben,” I finish for him. “Yeah, so we’ve heard.”
“It’s true. He was quiet and, you know, private and all. But he was a good guy,” he says.
“Even though he had a double life?” Astra asks. “How do you know he wasn’t some hardcore thug in his other life?”
“Because I know he wasn’t. I may not have known everything about him, but I did know him well enough to know he wasn’t like that,” he snaps. “His double life revolved around Chloe. He was insistent they keep it all on the down-low. Swore me to secrecy about her.”
I find that bit interesting. He led a double life primarily, it seems, to keep his relationship with this girl out of the public eye. He was secretive about her. That explains why he had her photo hidden away in that secret room. It was his way of maintaining that mirror life he was living. I don’t know what it means yet, but I know it’s significant.
“Alright, what do you know about this Chloe?” I ask. “I know she was a secret, but surely you know something about her.”
He shakes his head. “All I know is she goes to some private school somewhere around here. It’s why he chose Washington State—he said he wanted to be close to her.”
“That’s good, Dwight,” Astra tells him. “That’s very helpful. Do you know anything else about her? Anything at all, no matter how small or insignificant you might think it is.”
He screws up his face, trying to think about it. But I know he’s struggling with his grief, which makes thinking a Herculean task. Been there, done that, and it sucks. He finally shakes his head.
�
��I really don’t know anything about her. I never really spoke to her other than to say hi in passing,” he shrugs. “She’s pretty and they were totally in love. That’s about all I know.”
“How do you know they were in love?” Astra asks.
“You could see it in the way they looked at each other. You just know,” he says, then his eyes widen as fear washes across his face. “Oh, God. Is she alright? Was she—”
I shake my head. “We don’t know. We know she wasn’t with him when he was found,” I tell him. “But other than that, we don’t know.”
“But we will be looking into it,” Astra adds.
Dwight buries his face in his hands and rocks back and forth on the couch. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe he’s gone,” he repeats over and over to himself.
I feel bad for the kid. He genuinely seems to have had some kind of connection to Ben. Strange and tenuous, given how secretive Ben apparently was, but still. Friendships come in all different shapes and sizes. Who am I to judge? Nobody, that’s who. I’ve certainly had a few unconventional friendships in my day.
Dwight stops rocking and looks up at me. His eyes are rimmed red and are shimmering with tears. I feel terrible for him.
“Listen, this is probably going to be a stupid question, but—I already gave Ben some money for the weed that’s drying on the rack. Would it be possible for you two to look the other way for a few minutes? Today just turned out to be a crapfest and I’d kinda like to just—go somewhere else. For a little while, anyway.”
I look at Astra, who seems to be fighting to keep from laughing out loud. She just gives me a shrug. I mean, I know I shouldn’t. All the weed in there should be tagged for evidence. On the other hand, nobody even knows it’s in there right now, so it’s not as if it’s cataloged or anything. As a law enforcement officer, I should say no. I absolutely know that. But as a human being who has been known to self-medicate once in a while—though only with booze—I get where he’s coming from.
