Final Grave

by Nadja Bernitt

  She rubbed her hands together, warming them. “He’s expecting me. Is there a contamination list or something I need to sign?”

  “Guess you know the drill.” He opened the door to an SUV parked beside the sedan he’d been leaning on and retrieved a lined tablet.

  She signed her name, left Neles to his conversation, and started for the hill. Mendiola was already jogging down to meet her.

  His muscular shoulders rolled like a bear’s beneath his jacket, a red and black plaid that accented his dark hair and eyes. He stopped at the yellow crime-scene border, holding it up for her to pass underneath.

  “I thought it was you.”

  His eyes were red and she wondered if he’d stayed at the Basque Center after she’d left, maybe closed the bar and come directly here. She ducked under the tape. “Morning, Detective.”

  “Ma’am.” He touched the brim of his baseball cap. “Didn’t take you long. Must’ve been out the door when I called.”

  “From the looks of it, if I’d done more than brush my teeth, I’d have missed the show.” She said it to let him know she wanted to be a part of things from the outset, not as an afterthought.

  He managed a schoolboy shrug. “So what we have is a replay of Table Rock. Our perp leans to drama, hills, plateaus, and those fucking bones. He grimaced. “You get any sleep last night?”

  “Some.” Meri Ann glanced around. “Where’s Lieutenant Dillon?”

  He studied the dirt, drawing a line with the toe of his boot, the same way he had at Table Rock when she’d hit his discomfort zone. “Come and gone.”

  “I wanted to see her. You knew I did.”

  “Don’t get bent out of shape. I told her you want on the case.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She’ll see you this morning at nine in the office. Officially you’re not here. Understand?”

  So that’s why he hadn’t called earlier. “Thanks,” she said, hoping his stretching the rules was a sign of acceptance. He picked his way up the hill. She followed, stepping in Mendiola’s boot prints to avoid the slippery frost. It was steeper than she remembered and her loafers didn’t help. “You know who reported this?” she asked.

  “A young couple. Said they came to watch the stars or sunrise or whatever. They’d started to spread their blanket when they spotted the victim.”

  Her knees felt the pull as she climbed. By the time she’d reached the top, they felt like rubber. It wasn’t so much physical as it was emotional.

  A few remaining technicians worked in grids, scavenging for evidence. Two deputies and a man in civvies huddled around a floodlight and what must be the skeleton. She and Mendiola ambled over and joined the semicircle of observers.

  She took one look and placed a hand on her stomach. To some a skeleton might be easier viewing than a bloody body, bludgeoned flesh, or twisted limbs. Yet the calculated placement of these clean, silent bones chilled her beyond words.

  The skull grinned with a full set of teeth, and its two hollow orbs seemed to follow her. A part of her wanted to turn away, but she couldn’t. Her gaze fixed on a pair of hoop earrings, one on each side of the skull where the ears might have been. They were wide gold hoops the circumference of a nickel and studded with diamond chips, a matched set to her mother’s bracelet.

  She caught her breath and stepped closer, taking care not to touch anything. “Do you see the dent in the right earring? I bit it when I was a toddler. There is absolutely no doubt that those belonged to my mother.”

  She wanted to scoop them up, hold them to her. Instead she eased back beside Mendiola, enraged at the murdering slime who had done this—who was still doing this.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Fine,” she said, fighting to separate herself from futile emotion.

  Observe. Note detail. Pretend it has nothing to do with you.

  The mottled brown bones were two shades darker than the sandy loam beneath them, almost identical in color to the specimens in the lab. They were perfectly aligned, the skull resting on a rectangular piece of plaid wool. “Looks like the same fabric as Mom’s skirt.”

  Mendiola nodded. “Yes, ma’am, and the setup’s about what we found on Table Rock. Well, except for the skull. So we’ve got us two crime scenes, two sets of bones and both with your mom’s jewelry. I’m wondering who are these folks? Will the real Joanna Dunlap please stand up?” Mendiola bit his lip and said, “I didn’t mean—”

  “Forget it.” Black humor and homicide investigations fit like Halloween and black cats. Every cop did it. “I suppose you heard about the note the prowler left,” she said.

  “Yup. More like an announcement. A few hours later and look what appears on the hill. Maybe he sees himself as God. Cocky bastard.”

  “At least identification of this one won’t take so long,” she said. “I’ll call Mom’s dentist for her records today.”

  Someone behind them said, “Hey, Jack.”

  Meri Ann turned and saw Joe Uberuaga from forensics. His mouth and dark mustache pulled into a straight line. “I’m back.”

  “I guess you didn’t go to Portland,” she said.

  “Nope. A last minute test for an attorney who’s a political hot-shot friend of a friend of the governor,” he said. “But it’s good I’m here. Did you say something about dental records?”

  “I’ll call my mother’s dentist.”

  “I’d appreciate that, ASAP. Give him my number. I’ll have a tech pick up the x-rays.” Uberuaga pointed with a nod. “Did you catch the skull?” He motioned for her and Mendiola to step closer. “We’re just about finished up but watch your feet.”

  He kneeled beside the skull and pointed to a line across the forehead. “See this cut line? It’s interrupted, but appears to circle the skull. I’m not sure what to make of it. It’s probably not the cause of death but some kind of superficial trauma. I’ll know better when I examine it under glass.” He pulled back and rested on his haunches. “All these bones remind me of medical school.” He looked right at her. “So, Detective Fehr, some folks bring rain when they visit, and you—”

  “I bring trouble.”

  A trio of deputies stood to her right. They conferred among themselves with their voices lowered, but still she heard. “They’ll make a movie from this one, count on it… .”

  It sickened her to think of a Hollywood version of her mother’s case. How did families of victims deal with this type of media hype?

  Uberuaga heard the deputies’ comments as well. “Don’t let them get to you. Nobody’s doing any casting yet.” He stood and dusted the knees of his Levis. “I’m heading for the lab, guys. The backlog’s killing me. But I’ll get right on this, run a mass spec on these bones for chemical composition and compare them with what we found at the first site. Should have the results later today if nothing else comes up.”

  Mendiola thanked his cousin and said goodbye.

  When it was just the two of them, she asked for his opinion”

  “I don’t know what to think, but I know where to start. Wheatley lives about three blocks from here.”

  “Wheatley?” she asked.

  Mendiola shot her a look. “Yeah.”

  But after talking to her mother’s friend and neighbor, Mrs. Johnson, Meri Ann felt certain her mother had truly loved Wheatley, that she trusted him enough to give up her life in Boise and move to Seattle with him. Wheatley’s affection struck her as real. “I’m not sold on him.”

  Uberuaga’s comment about medical school drifted back to her. It strengthened her suspicions of Graber. “What about Harold Graber. Have you talked to him lately?”

  Mendiola cocked his head. “The poor old codger with the eagle sanctuary? How do you know him?”

  “My mom volunteered at his sanctuary. I’m sure that’s somewhere in th
e case file. And he’s not poor if you mean pitiful and he’s not that old. He’s thinner than I remembered him but lean and strong. I saw him yesterday. I’d planned to talk to you about our conversation. But you weren’t answering your pager yesterday afternoon.”

  “Well, you saw me last night.”

  She’d been too preoccupied with the phone call to think of anything else. “When you consider all that happened yesterday is it any wonder I forgot.”

  He scratched the dark stubble on his chin. “Go back to this conversation with Graber. How did that happen, you ran into him on the street or went to his place in Idaho City?”

  “I drove up there yesterday morning.”

  Mendiola’s jaw tightened. “The hell you say.” He took her by the arm as if to lead her away. His grip was firm.

  She wrenched her arm back. His touching her had shocked her and from the look of him it had shocked him too. He mumbled “Excuse me.”

  She didn’t bother to acknowledge him. “There’s no law against me talking to my mom’s friends.”

  “We are off to one helluva a start.” His ruddy cheeks darkened to maroon. “Did you or did you not discuss the case with him?”

  She had crossed a professional boundary, yet the thought of an apology rankled her. “Mostly, I listened. Graber talked about Mom. And what I found significant was that he thought she was dead and that her bones had been found on Table Rock. Anyway, why shouldn’t I talk to him or anyone else I know?”

  “You are not officially on this case, yet.”

  “Okay, but things happen.”

  “Anything else you want to tell me?”

  “I’ve talked to Wheatley.”

  Mendiola closed his eyes briefly but he didn’t comment. His tight lips and glare said everything. He owned this case—at least he thought he did.

  Her relationship with him was complicated, more so now that she’d be working along side him. Her instincts told her it was time to mend bridges, not burn them. “You’re right,” she said in a humble tone. “I should have said something.”

  “And what if Wheatley’s the man who killed your mom, the one who wants you back here?” He pointed in the direction of the bones. “What if he orchestrated this scene and you’re playing his game?”

  But she would bet money in the bank that Wheatley had never played a game in his life, except for a game of love with her mother, one that he’d lost through no fault of his own. Pursuing Wheatley seemed a waste of time to her, but she owed it to Mendiola to explore his theory. “Okay by me. Let’s hear what he has to say.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Wheatley’s Dutch colonial sat back from the street, a meticulously neat house with a lawn so perfect it looked recently vacuumed. Everything was decorated for fall with bundles of dried corn stalks and orange ribbons. White, glossy shutters edged the windows on either side of a cardinal red front door, even the basement windows were curtained. It didn’t scream: a killer lives here.

  She and Mendiola had arrived in their respective vehicles. They’d parked at the curb, and with minimal conversation headed up the walkway and climbed the stairs to a porch. It stretched the width of the house, the depth generous enough to hold a half-dozen wicker rockers. It looked every bit as neat as the lawn.

  Mendiola rang the bell.

  She peeked through the door’s sidelight window. With the sun barely up it wasn’t easy to see. Still, a staircase was visible and a living room to the left of it. The dining room was to the right, and at the back of it she saw a sign of life. An archway opened into a well-lit kitchen. A woman’s shadow flickered on the wall.

  Mendiola rang the bell a second time. In seconds, Tina Wheatley’s angular frame moved through the dining room.

  Meri Ann stood firm with her knees locked, eager for the encounter.

  Tina opened the door and the smoky, salty-sweet scent of frying bacon wafted out. She couldn’t have been in the kitchen very long. Wet tendrils of her dark hair draped over her shoulders, as though she had recently taken a shower. Her eyes widened with disbelief, as though the presence of her two visitors was beyond comprehension. “Oh,” was all she said.

  “Morning, ma’am.” He showed his badge. “I’m Jack Mendiola with Ada County Sheriff’s Office. This is Meri Ann Fehr.”

  “What are you doing here? Is this something about Robin? Is he all right?”

  “As far as I know he is. We wanted to talk to Mr. Wheatley, ma’am. But it sounds like he’s not here.”

  “He’s out. He runs in the mornings. Usually leaves before I’m up.” Tina inched back, but didn’t invite them inside. One hand held the doorjamb, the other the door as if braced for an attack.

  Meri Ann struggled for a comparison between Tina and the woman on the street, the prowler, too. But her view had been from three stories up at the first sighting and she’d seen nothing but a flash of cloth at the second. The only time she’d knowingly faced Tina in the last fifteen years was in Wheatley’s office. Her threats, her wild eyes and her blustering movements were etched in Meri Ann’s memory and in no way compared to the calm, calculating woman in the doorway.

  “Where does he run?” she asked.

  Tina stiffened, as though the sound of Meri Ann’s voice grated on her. “Out of your jurisdiction, aren’t you?”

  “Ms. Fehr’s serving in an advisory capacity and we need your help. Can you tell us where we can find your husband?”

  Tina’s jaw moved from one side to the other as though she was chewing tough meat. “I don’t know where exactly.” Her hands waved in a flourish. “He runs down Harrison Boulevard. Around the neighborhood. The foothills, Camel’s Back Park.”

  Mendiola shot Meri Ann a sideways glance. “What time did he leave?”

  “His usual time I suppose, six or six-thirty. Oh, dear, the stove.” Tina turned, hurried in the direction of the kitchen. The bacon smelled burned.

  Mendiola opened the screen door. “Wait here while I give Mrs. Wheatley my card.” The door banged behind him as he went inside.

  Meri Ann took a seat in one of the wicker chairs on the porch. Tina’s comment about being out of her jurisdiction struck a vague connection between Sarasota and Boise. The discovery on Table Rock happened on the heels of her interview on national television. Had the killer seen the program? If he had that might have triggered his need to relive the murder? Murders, she corrected, admitting the possibility of a serial or multiple murderer on the loose.

  The front door opened and banged shut behind Mendiola, his cellular phone to his ear. “. . . Well, get someone here in the next few minutes. I’ll wait.” He clicked the phone off and clipped it onto his belt.

  “Fifteen years ago, I dealt with Wheatley, and here I am again.”

  She thought this over, trying to reconcile Wheatley’s sincerity as she had seen it, yet considering his involvement with her mother. Could it be what she first suspected, a typical foiled love affair. The race isn’t always to the swift, but you bet them that way. And husbands or lovers don’t always murder their wives or lovers, but you bet them that way. So why couldn’t she?

  “He seems like the perfect suspect,” she said, “and it’s odd he’s not here. But I can’t see him setting up these crime scenes.”

  “Why, because he’s got a perfect house? Reality check, Detective: the man engineered Albertson’s corporate offices. It’s an easy stretch to say he’s capable of laying out a partial skeleton. Especially if he’s done it more than once.”

  That gave her the creeps but not enough to shut her up. “Camel’s Back Park is around the corner, practically in his backyard. As you pointed out so well, the man’s not stupid.”

  “Well, ma’am, here in Boise we read close proximity as opportunity.” He sounded every bit as testy as she’d been earlier that morning.

  “And what about his wif
e? Maybe she hates him enough to set him up. He did her wrong, didn’t he?”

  “Mrs. Wheatley had an alibi, a religious retreat in Salt Lake.”

  She doubted the alibi was foolproof, with Salt Lake a forty-five-minute flight from Boise. She wondered who if anyone watches over devout parishioners while they wander around meditating. The question wasn’t worth pursuing at the moment. Tina wasn’t her first pick.

  Meri Ann shrugged. “I just want you to expand the possibilities and acknowledge other suspects with motive. Actually, I like Graber. I like him a lot. He’s a recluse and a hunter. He was a medical student.” Even as she said it, she realized how weak the case sounded. “And don’t forget he thinks the bones on Table Rock were my mother’s.”

  “So? He guessed right—if those are her bones. Don’t worry your head about Graber,” he said. “The old coot’s clever as a fox, but he had nothing to do with your mom’s disappearance. Very tight alibi.

  “Where was he?”

  “Taking care of an injured neighbor who lives a ten miles north of him even further up in the hills. Try to understand, the man had no definitive motive.”

  “But you didn’t really investigate it.”

  “No, ma’am. We had—”

  “Wheatley.”

  “That’s right.” His lips pressed tight together in a thin, dark line.

  “I understand the need to question Wheatley,” she said, “but I don’t think he warrants sole consideration.” She tempered her comment. “I’m just voicing an opinion.”

  He shoved his hands into his front pockets. “You forget this case was worked, reworked, and worked again.”

  “What are you telling me, that after fifteen years you can’t take a fresh perspective?”

  He removed his keys from his pocket. They jingled in his hand, and he used one to scratch his chin. “Maybe you’re too close to the case, ma’am. I appreciate that reality is a pretty hard pill to swallow.”

  “Just tell me, Mendiola. How many suspects did you have, Wheatley, Wheatley, and who?” But she’d spoken too soon, and she counted the beats until he said it.