The Esther Code

by Michael Danneman

  “I'm telling you these victims were marked. They have to be.” Jamie’s voice wavers. She wants so badly for this lead to be sound.

  “Like you said, the stiff may tell us more than the lab,” Phil says. He casts a sympathetic glance in Jamie’s direction, as he pulls into the hotel parking lot.

  “Let’s hope so; otherwise we’re at another dead end.”

  They walk into the hotel and check in. Together they walk down the hallway and find their rooms, next door to each other.

  “It’s been a long day, see you tomorrow morning,” Phil bids her, swiping his room key.

  “Agreed, goodnight,” Jamie wishes him back. Once in the door, she drops the handle of her suitcase and turns on the water to fill the bathtub. She then lets herself fall backward onto the mattress. After resting a few seconds, exhaling a few deep breaths, she pulls out her cell phone. She writes another text message to Chris, hoping this time to receive some sort of response.

  Without waiting for a reply, she slides into the bathtub and lets her tension melt into the hot water. After a good soak, she heads to bed. She is planning to wake up extra early, so she can get to the crime scene as soon as possible. Chris is clearly ignoring her. Jamie grunts angrily and throws her phone on the side table. She lies down and is asleep instantly, as soon as her head touches the pillow.

  * * * * *

  As usual, her cell phone alarm wakes her up. She turns on the news to help her get reoriented from all of the traveling. She is getting dressed when her phone rings. Jamie answers it, expecting Phil. She is surprised to hear Fredericks’s voice instead.

  “Ms. Golding, what is going on?” Fredericks demands over the phone.

  “I flew in last night to Atlanta. I haven’t seen the crime scene yet. The murder is definitely done by our perp. I will talk with the family and see the crime scene today. I’ll get you the report as soon as we get back,” Jamie lists off, undaunted by her superior’s tone.

  “Alright,” Fredericks replies curtly. “Bring me something I can use.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jamie promises, “I won’t let you down.”

  “Keep me updated.”

  “Right,” Jamie confirms to the dead phone connection. Now there is even more pressure for her to deliver.

  A fresh crime scene with untouched evidence might provide the answers Fredericks is demanding. But Jamie is still a little uneasy. None of the other crime scenes yielded either evidence or leads. What can I expect to turn up, especially after the other detectives, forensics teams, and crime scene investigators didn’t find anything? Maybe the family can provide her with the missing pieces she needs. Surely, Jamie will have something to bring to Fredericks by the end of the day. Surely.

  Heading downstairs to the hotel lobby, Jamie sees that Phil is already present and enjoying a toasted bagel from the continental breakfast. Jamie grabs a yogurt and a bagel for herself before joining him.

  Phil speaks first, updating Jamie on the plan. “I just got off the phone with Mrs. Rossi. She says we can come by anytime this morning. Nice lady, really. She was grateful that we gave her a warning call.”

  “It’s sad that bad things happen to good people,” Jamie remarks, before putting a spoonful of yogurt in her mouth.

  “Bad things happen to everyone; it’s just something we all have to deal with. I think Mrs. Rossi will be fine,” Phil counters, his aspect pensive. After a moment's pause, he stands. “Shall we?”

  Jamie gathers her bagel and yogurt and follows him out of the lobby area.

  Chapter 23

  Jamie picks out the Rossi home when they are still down the street. The giveaway is that the house is an epicenter of parked cars, eight or so, pulled into every available spot around the home and street. It looks like the house where the party is, but this is not the right type of celebration.

  “Must have lots of family,” Jamie speculates, stepping onto the curb.

  “‘Lots of family’ is an understatement,” Phil marvels, turning off the car engine and jumping out to follow Jamie.

  Jamie looks up at the house. She cannot see the front door, due to the mass of thick trees blocking her view. Before she can even take a few steps, a man in his fifties, slightly pudgy and looking very stern, marches determinedly up to her. He wears khaki pants and a plaid button-up, complete with pen in the breast pocket. Before Jamie and Phil can say a word, the man begins his tirade.

  “Peter Rossi—I’m his son—what can you tell me?” The words stream out of him. “When are they going to release the body—we have a funeral to plan—who is the sonofabitch who did this—is he arrested yet?”

  Jamie remembers that name from the report. Peter Rossi is the son from Charlotte. Phil did not meet him the day before because Peter was at the coroner’s office harassing them about releasing the body. Jamie could already see that Peter would be a hindrance to the investigation.

  “Mr. Rossi. Phil Clark, Special Agent with the FBI. And this is Special Agent Golding. So sorry about your loss, Sir,” Phil introduces, putting a hand out cordially.

  “Oh my God! Forget the niceties! Answer my damn questions! When do I get to see the bastard who did this? When do we get the body? No one is telling us shit!” Peter shouts at Phil, ignoring the extended hand.

  All Jamie needs is someone who is borderline hysterical. She calmly explains, “The police and FBI are still doing their investigative work. Right now, the best way to help us is with your cooperation. When we have the answers, you will get the answers. It’s important that I speak with Mrs. Rossi first.”

  “Absolutely not!” Peter storms, his eyes bulging and the vessels in his neck distended. “She has been through enough damn harassment. The police fingerprinting her like some criminal! She is about to have a nervous breakdown. Shit! We need answers, not more questions! My brother is a lawyer; talk to him. He’s inside.”

  “Alright, we will speak first with your brother,” Phil assents, attempting to disarm the time bomb.

  Peter stalks up the driveway and onto a concrete path that leads to the front door. Jamie and Phil trail him closely, preparing themselves for another outburst. As soon as Peter walks in the front door, he proclaims, “Kent, the Feds are here!”

  Inside the elegant home, a crowd of people stands around, as if the funeral has already started. Mrs. Rossi sits in the middle of the group, at the kitchen table. In front of her, a photo album lies open. A granddaughter and daughter sit on either side of the old woman, whispering quietly to try to comfort her. A few people sitting at the table are busy conversing on their cell phones. As Jamie and Phil walk into the room, some members of the gathering rise from their chairs.

  Out of nowhere, Peter barks, “Don’t get excited; they don’t know shit!”

  A man on the back porch hastily ends his phone call when he catches sight of the agents entering the kitchen. He resembles Peter, but slightly taller and much leaner. Jamie assumes he must be the lawyer brother, and she hopes he might be the peacekeeper. He also wears khaki slacks, but with a designer polo shirt.

  “Hi, I’m Kent Rossi.”

  “Special Agent Phil Clark.”

  “You were here yesterday, right?” Kent asks Phil.

  “Yes. This is Special Agent Jamie Golding,” Phil informs the brother, who shakes Jamie’s hand.

  Jamie motions out of the room, requesting, “Can I speak with you alone?”

  “Sure,” Kent answers with a nod of his head.

  “Phil, could you do some crowd control, while I try and get the wife alone?” Jamie whispers with a hopeful smile.

  “Yeah, but you owe me one,” Phil admonishes her playfully. He turns to the crowd and announces, “I want to update you all on the case.”

  Jamie smirks as she follows Kent down the hallway to a formal dining room. She can only imagine what baloney Phil is going to have to give them until she finishes questioning the wife.

  Secluded in the dining room, Kent starts, “What can I do for you?”

  Jamie decide
s to be straightforward. “I need to talk to your mother. I know the stress and anxiety is high around here, but it's crucial that I speak with her, alone if possible. Can you make that happen?” she petitions him seriously.

  “Yeah, sure. Give me some time to set it up.”

  “First,” Jamie adds, stopping him from leaving, “could you show me where it happened?”

  “Yeah, this way,” Kent beckons. He leads Jamie out of the room and farther down the hallway.

  In the background, Jamie can hear Phil explaining that the Atlanta police are doing their best. He reiterates that the FBI is here to help, and imploring the family to be patient in allowing them to do their job. Several voices begin talking at once, but Phil speaks over them, urging them to stay in the room while Special Agent Golding examines the crime scene. He ends his briefing by inviting their questions.

  “Here...here it is,” Kent informs Jamie. His face is pale and tired.

  “Thanks.” Jamie looks at the ground where the body was found, and at the table on which the flowers were placed. The plush carpet betrays the killer, showing clear prints where his feet fell. Jamie tries to imagine the scene as it unfolded. In her mind, she sees the killer enter the front door, set the arrangement down, kill Mr. Rossi, and leave through the front door. That matches the report, which stated that there were no footprints found leading up the carpeted stairs, or in any other room in the house. The only footprints were those from the front door to the body, and back again.

  Approaching the front door, Jamie examines the round brass knob. The reports indicate that the prints on the door’s handle belonged to the victim and to Mrs. Rossi. After the killer entered the home, how did he exit without touching the inner doorknob? Jamie surmises that the door was left ajar on purpose. Posing as a floral delivery, the killer might have entered the home on the pretext of setting the flowers down for Mr. Rossi.

  Jamie briefly surveys each of the other rooms in the house. She is searching for something that might tell her about the victim. The family photos on the walls look normal. The books on the shelves do not stand out as particularly revealing. The plump, flowery, overstuffed couch makes the living room cozy, but it holds nothing special, as far as Jamie can see. Kent follows her from room to room, seemingly too tired to invest himself in her examination.

  “Did your father have a personal office or desk? “

  “Yeah, he has a little alcove in his bedroom where he kept his desk and important documents,” Kent recalls. “You don’t think someone in the family is responsible?”

  “No, I don’t believe any of your family is involved—especially not Mrs. Rossi. The FBI has seen some similar crimes lately,” Jamie discloses vaguely.

  “Really?”

  “Is there any way you could arrange for Mrs. Rossi to show me their bedroom?” Jamie requests delicately.

  Kent raises an eyebrow.

  “You’re welcome to join us, but not really anyone else,” Jamie clarifies.

  Kent bows his head in consent and leads the way back to the kitchen.

  Jamie hopes that Kent will be more cooperative if he feels included and trusted by the FBI agent. She follows him back down the hallway but hangs back from entering the kitchen.

  “Mom? Can I see you for a minute?”

  From her spot in the shadows of the hall, Jamie can see Peter as he instantly stands and demands, “What for? What’s this about?”

  Kent raises his hand like a stop sign. “Peter, don’t worry. It’s nothing. Please stay here, and I’ll handle this. Mom?”

  Peter’s face turns a dark red, but, as he looks around the room, he sees that others are glaring at him. He sits, sulking, glaring daggers at everyone and no one.

  “What do you do for a living?” Phil inquires politely of Peter, trying to distract him from his mother, who has gotten up from her chair and is disappearing down the hallway.

  Kent offers his mother his elbow, to help her walk. “Mom,” he addresses her gently, “this FBI agent needs to see your bedroom.”

  Startled, the old woman shoots a cautious look at her son, then over her shoulder, at Jamie.

  “I know this must be difficult, but it’s important that you show me your husband’s desk,” Jamie adds solemnly.

  “It’s alright. I understand,” Mrs. Rossi’s affirms quietly in a strong European accent.

  “I’ll be with you the whole time, Mom. It will be fine,” Kent tells her bracingly, helping her up the stairs.

  “Thanks, Kent, I appreciate your help. I can do the stairs by myself,” Mrs. Rossi assures him.

  Jamie follows them up and through a corridor to the master bedroom. The room smells like old things, which Jamie attributes to the antique bed and dresser. Even the desk in the alcove looks worn enough to have antique appeal. A couple of easy chairs sit next to the desk, facing each other. Across from the alcove, there is a spacious walk-in closet and, next to it, the entrance to the master bathroom. The bed sits in the middle of the room, against the wall opposite Jamie.

  “His desk is there,” Mrs. Rossi informs Jamie, pointing her bony, wrinkled finger. “Feel free to search it thoroughly, if it will help.”

  “Thank you. I will try not to disturb too many of his things,” Jamie promises, approaching the desk.

  “None of the drawers are locked, so you shouldn’t have any problems,” Mrs. Rossi continues, coming over to stand next to Jamie.

  Looking over the papers on the desk, Jamie does not immediately see anything that raises a red flag. There are passports in one drawer, along with some old letters.

  “I can’t believe he kept them,” Mrs. Rossi exclaims quietly, tears suddenly spilling from her eyes. She turns away, as though it is too much to bear.

  Jamie picks up the letters. They are little love notes, from Mrs. Rossi to Mr. Rossi. None of them are postmarked. “They’re not letters…” Jamie observes, inviting Mrs. Rossi to explain. She turns to the old woman, one eyebrow arched questioningly.

  “No. I used to put one in his lunch every month, marking the date we were married. I never knew he kept them,” Mrs. Rossi says with difficulty. Her tears still fall, unabated.

  Kent puts his arms around his mother and lets her cry on his shoulder.

  Jamie is speechless as she returns to searching the desk. She cannot help but wonder if that kind of love could ever exist between Chris and herself. Trying to ignore her own emotions, Jamie refocuses on searching the desk. She finds a revolver in the second top drawer.

  “Does he own any other guns?” she asks without turning around, trying to intrude as little as possible.

  “He has a hunting rifle locked in a cabinet downstairs. He used to go on hunting trips every year.”

  The large file drawer at the bottom on the other side of the desk is filled with years of tax documents. Jamie pulls out one year’s taxes and looks for any LLCs or partnerships. There are none.

  “Did he have any business partners? Go into a real estate venture with someone?’

  “No, he has been retired for over twenty years.”

  “What kind of work did he do?”

  “He had his own business repairing and selling parts for electron microscopes,” Kent answers.

  Continuing her search through the desk, Jamie finds only sticky notes, pens, writing pads, paper clips. Everything seems to have its proper place. On the top of the desk are small drawers, which Jamie also digs through, only to find random keys, a collection of buttons, some forgotten pennies, and a few pins from the 1996 Olympics in Atlanta.

  In one small drawer, Jamie finds Mr. Rossi’s address book. Perfect. It might hold contacts that could connect him to the other victims. “I’m going to take this address book, Mrs. Rossi. I promise to return it when the investigation is over,” Jamie tells her, holding it out.

  “Okay, fine,” Mrs. Rossi consents. Her weeping has slowed, but her eyes are still teary.

  “He didn’t have a computer of some sort? Like a laptop?” Jamie wonders aloud, taking one
last look through the desk. She starts checking to make sure there are no false drawers or other hiding places that she missed.

  “Dad wasn’t exactly tech savvy. He hates…I mean, he hated computers.”

  “Right,” Jamie nods. Jamie’s grandparents are the same way.

  “Here, Mom, come sit down,” Kent urges, looking at his mother. Mrs. Rossi’s face is blanched and her eyes droopy, and she does not respond.

  “Is it okay if I have a look around the room?” Jamie asks politely.

  Mrs. Rossi shrugs and shakes her head again, almost completely indifferent to what is happening around her.

  “Mom?” Kent gently asks. He steers his mother into one of the maroon leather armchairs. Fetching her a blanket, Kent covers his mother’s lap, then stands behind her protectively.

  Jamie enters the master bathroom and searches the cabinets and drawers. In here, she also checks for false drawers and other hiding places. Searching through the toiletries, Jamie sees nothing unusual. She checks the walls for hidden places and finds none. Finishing the bathroom, Jamie heads back out to investigate the dresser.

  Mrs. Rossi watches Jamie sift through her personal belongings, but Jamie is sure the woman could not care less. The grief has completely eaten away her ability to feel. Jamie digs through an underwear drawer, only to find some jewelry in an old cigar box. None of the pieces stands out. She continues through the other drawers, but finds only the usual clothing, all folded neatly.

  Next, Jamie inspects the room, taking in each detail. She examines a picture of Mr. and Mrs. Rossi that must have been taken only a few years ago, as Mrs. Rossi does not look too different. Jamie turns to the wife and asks, “Where are you from? Originally.”

  A quiet pause, then Mrs. Rossi responds, “Poland.”

  “And Mr. Rossi? Where was he born?” Jamie pursues, picking up another photo of a grandchild from off of the dresser.

  “Italy,” Mrs. Rossi answers, her voice trembling.

  “Interesting. Where in Italy?” Jamie asks. She takes a seat in the easy chair across from Mrs. Rossi, feeling a bit of tension in the air between them.