He checked the second bedroom. Elise’s. A pile of clothing, loose hangers, and sweaters on hangers. Two khaki workshirts with stitching above the pockets that said LVP.
Then he went into the kitchen. A chest-type freezer. The next place to look, no doubt. He jerked and lifted the sizable lid. Four fifty-gallon garbage bags. Swollen and covered in frost. He brushed away the swirl of icy steam that arose, then unwrapped the plastic tie around bag 1.
Marcel had seen everything the world had to offer, so this horror was no surprise. He knew immediately what he had found.
Intestines, lower abdominal organs. He moved to the second bag. Limbs, arms, and legs hewn into pieces. Only one foot. Third bag, a mess of ribs and lungs, maybe the heart. He didn’t open the fourth bag. No need. How had things been so neatly cut down?
And cut apart by what? He looked around the room.
Back to the bathroom. Behind the door. The culprit: an electric knife, the kind used to carve the turkey for grandpa. Except this one was covered in matted blood. Would it be enough to cut apart the humerus? The tibia? The spine? Then he looked beneath the sink. A hacksaw with a bent blade but still functional. Blood caked in the joints. Joe had been handy around the house. Marcel could only imagine. It had done its work even with a bent blade—the proof was in the bags.
He returned to the kitchen and checked the trash beneath the sink. It was there as he had guessed it would be, a delivery receipt for a brand new chest-type freezer—torn in long shreds and wadded up. He quickly pieced it back together. The credit card used to purchase the freezer: Jennifer Ipswich.
He returned to the freezer and opened the fourth bag, knowing already what he would find. The dissection was exquisite, accomplished only by a trained surgeon, someone skilled in anatomical dissection. He stuck his hand down inside and pulled aside the brain.
Below that, the head. He was sure it was her, but he could only guess by looking at the head because there were no identifying marks.
And the face was missing.
65
Marcel
He returned to his hotel room. He called up Elise's call log from her cell phone records on that night on his laptop. He saw that no calls were listed but that a text had been made the next day. He went online, pulled up the records, and found the text.
Mother, I'm going to be leaving town today for several days. Please pick up Çidde from school. I'm very upset about Joseph's death, and I'm going off to mourn his death by myself. Please do not worry. I'm well and on my way to recovery. I just need time alone, and I will be out of touch for several days, maybe even a few weeks. I love you with all my heart and thank you for taking care of Çidde. Love, Elise.
Marcel continued studying the cell phone's call records. He saw that an earlier transmission was an email from the phone to Frank Wilder. She wanted to discuss hiring him for her husband's death.
He kept reading. Here was an email from Frank Wilder to Elise.
Dear Mrs. Ipswich. I would be delighted to help you with your case. Is there any chance you will be coming to the United States anytime soon? I highly recommend that you do and plan on staying a few days while I get a lawsuit pulled together, signed by you, and filed. Usually in these cases, we can expect maybe 3 to 6 months before resolution. But in your case, I will be asking for temporary orders, meaning I will be asking for temporary child support and your own support out of the proceeds of your deceased husband's life insurance. Please call my office and confirm that you will be coming into Chicago in the next few days. This is very important, and I urge you to make your travel arrangements and then call me. Yours sincerely, Frank Wilder, Attorney and Counselor at Law.
Marcel had searched Elise's flat and knew that the cell phone was missing, knew there was no iPad or laptop, and he decided the only record he would probably be able to obtain from her electronic communications was what he was looking at online.
He saw a subsequent call to Chicago, and he was certain the number called would be Wilder's office.
He kept looking, but his search abruptly ended on 22 December when all electronic activity ceased for 48 hours before resuming again. He muttered to himself, “It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out who was manning the phone at this point. One sick cookie."
He next placed a call to Michael Gresham and updated him. Gresham was saddened to hear about the Elise Ipswich result. Marcel told Michael that he would call the Paris police and report his find. He would place the call from the Ritz Hotel lobby phone, so they wouldn’t know his identity. Michael said he approved and told Marcel that he had several calls into the University of California at San Diego and some other contacts he had uncovered regarding Jennifer. Marcel would be updated upon his return.
Marcel hung up the phone, leaned forward in the chair, and placed his fingers on his closed eyes. He sighed and shook his head. He had seen similar, but he had never seen this. He was convinced an expert had performed the dissection.
An expert named Jennifer Ipswich.
He was now determined to place that carving knife in her hand.
It went without saying that Jennifer would have been wearing surgical gloves when she carved apart Elise Ipswich's body. Maybe even a rubber apron, and perhaps even clear goggles, because it would've been one hell of a mess, the body being fresh and very, very bloody.
In a ghoulish way, he had to admire the woman. There weren't many human beings that could dissect a person they had just murdered. Yes, it was a form of admiration that was very macabre, but it was also genuine. Marcel had killed close-up, blood up to his elbows, and he knew what it felt and smelled like.
This one was going to be a hard one to catch.
The experts always were.
66
Michael
While Marcel was away in Paris, I was doing my own investigating by telephone. I called San Diego, looking for Jennifer's early boyfriend, David Goldman. He was the UCSD medical student she had been living with for a while. Goldman was the psych tech who had told Jennifer he had seen her rapid cycling. Because of his encouragement (Or threats to leave her. That was always unclear), she had gone to see her first psychiatrist. We knew the rest of the story from there, Marcel having obtained that doctor’s records, and we knew that she had been medicated with antipsychotics. But what about Goldman? Just on the off chance, I wanted to know what had become of David Goldman, MD.
So, I set about searching.
First, I called the UCSD med school to obtain his current address. The California medical society maintained a public record of all physicians licensed in the state. Their professional address and phone number were included in the directory. However, there was no David Goldman among the thousands of names.
It puzzled me, yet I knew Goldman might have settled elsewhere and not even been practicing medicine in California, in which case his name would not be included in that directory.
What to do?
Just on a hunch, I went online and looked up the Health and Human Services Agency of the County of San Diego. Death certificates were available for public view. I began searching. I found his death certificate. Then I found a police report. Sure enough, my hunch paid off. David Goldman had died during a home invasion at his residence in Pacific Beach, San Diego County, California.
The strangest part of all?
The home invasion consisted of just one person entering.
A woman. Who escaped into the night by running along the beach into a waiting vehicle and roared away toward Los Angeles.
My pulse quickened. A little voice rose up in my mind.
We were on the right path in so many, many ways.
67
Michael
Following up on my work on David Goldman in California, I wrote my memo to the file. As I typed, I received an email. It was a forwarded email from Jennifer Ipswich. The original email being delivered by Jennifer was from my wife, Verona, to Jennifer. The email read:
Jennifer, I know that you are lonely and are loo
king to make contact with Michael. You must stop all of your efforts with my husband, or I will come after you. I have watched you come and go at your job and come and go at your home, and I know your habits. I also know about your children. I'm going to hunt you down, and I'm going to teach you a lesson. You can make this right by sending me the sum of $100,000 in care of my husband, Michael. You won't be safe from me until you send me this amount. I'm not kidding about this, and I'm not fooling around. Verona Gresham, wife of Michael Gresham.
For just one second, I was shocked. But in the next second, I saw right through the hoax. Nevertheless, I called her on the phone to make sure she was all right.
"Verona, I've just received a phony email that pretends to be sent by you to Jennifer Ipswich."
"Honey, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I have not sent any emails to Jennifer Ipswich and never would. Let's talk about this when you get home tonight."
“Of course, you didn’t. But I’m uneasy. I want you to keep an eye on the kids and maybe pick them up yourself rather than the bus.”
“Will do. I can handle this. I’ll see you tonight."
“I’ll see you then. In the meantime, please keep the kids home until you and I have had a chance to talk. Goodbye."
I read the email again. I studied the metadata at the top of the email. It told me that the email came from an IP registered to Verona. Jennifer had opened an email account in my wife's name and had emailed herself and forwarded it to me.
I called the office number for Jennifer. I was told she was busy with patients. I was told she had also left specific instructions to interrupt her if I called. The receptionist said she would be on the line in just a few moments. So, I waited. Perhaps two minutes later, Jennifer answered my call.
"Michael, how sweet of you to call. I know you withdrew from my case, and I know that you're finished with me. So you must be calling about that email your wife sent to me. Have you spoken with her? Can you believe this? She's threatening me!”
"I know what you’ve done, Jennifer. And it's not going to work."
"Michael, I don't know what you're talking about. What is it you think I've done?"
"I know that you’ve opened an email account in my wife's name. In your own twisted way, you’ve sent an email from that phony account to yourself and have now forwarded that email to me. Well, it's not going to work. You've outdone yourself this time, thinking you know my wife that well. Verona would never write that email. I'm going to tell you this one time. If this continues, or if you ever send me another such email or text or correspondence pretending to be from my wife, I'm going to drag your ass into court and stomp all over it. Do we understand each other?"
"Michael, Darling, I know you're upset. You’re just going to have to accept that your wife is not all you think she is. Please consider this and don't hesitate to call me if you want to talk. Thank you now, but I have patients to attend. Goodbye, Michael."
She hung up on me.
68
Michael
I went home that night with a heavy heart. Marcel had called me, so I knew what he had found at Elise's home. We were both distraught and sad. Marcel, who had once worked as a London police officer, had "worked" the scene at Elise's house. He had been unable to connect Jennifer to the hack job and the scene by any piece of evidence. The only exception might be fingerprints, but we both already knew she was too smart not to wear gloves. We were going to have to catch her in some other way. We didn't know how yet, but the hunt was just beginning to send her to prison.
Marcel had described to me in detail what he had found at Elise's home. I knew the foot was missing, which sickened me to think of, but we had seen the photographs and I was somewhat steeled against that.
But the face. Oh, my God, she had peeled away her face. My mind was racing, worried at what else she might have in mind. Marcel felt the same way. In the morning, we were going to talk about setting up a meeting with the French police and presenting our evidence about Jennifer Ipswich. We had the connection of the foot photograph. We had the connection of the taxi evidence on the night of Elise's disappearance when Jennifer had followed Elise home. And we had the evidence of the facial dissection that only a skilled surgeon could perform. The face is very irregular in shape and would've been extremely difficult to dissect away from the skull. So, we had that, too. To my way of thinking, it was time to make our presentation to the Paris police and see where it went. I was convinced we had no other choice, but I still wanted to get Marcel's take on it.
When I arrived home, I was greeted by a very upset Verona. She was flailing about emotionally, and I knew something like this had never happened to her before. I was all about apologizing for the fact that my law practice had in its strange way of invading our home.
We went back over the brick through the window, and I took care not to tell her about Marcel's findings in Paris. There was no need for details. I talked around the edges of what was going on. Then we discussed the children’s safety. We had already discussed the security efforts I’d made and the bodyguards that were now keeping their distance but following all family members at all times. I explained that each child had a bodyguard wherever they went. I explained that she did, too. "What about you?" she asked me. "Do you have a bodyguard, too?"
"Yes, I do. So does Marcel. If something does happen, we want someone there as a witness, if nothing else."
"Michael, the woman is in so much pain. Someone has got to stop her. I'm going to write her an email and tell her that I will not abide any threats against my children. I'm going to tell her that she is going to jeopardize her life if she does any such thing. I was so slow on the pick-up, too. Totally blew right past me: she’s your client, my patient. Slick.”
"Please don't. You’ll only incite her further."
"You know me, and you know my background. I’m Russian, and I cannot be bullied. She is making a huge mistake, using my name in a phony email. I’m not going to put up with that another second. Plus, I want to talk to her. I think I can help before this goes any further.”
"Please, let me handle this. It's my problem, not yours. Everyone under our roof is safe. I'm going to keep it that way, and there's no need for you to inject yourself into this."
"I’m going to message her so that she knows I know. And I’m going to try to make an appointment to talk. Before she gets hurt.”
“No, I’m telling you to stay away. You don’t have the whole story, and she’s dangerous.”
I knew there was no sense in arguing with her further. Verona could be very headstrong when she got underway. She wasn’t a person to be poked and prodded. She was the proverbial sleeping bear. Once awakened, she could be incredibly tough and aggressive. It just might be, I was thinking, that Jennifer Ipswich had crossed the line she never should've crossed. Or it might be Verona could save her from doing any more damage. She could be extremely persuasive.
More than ever, I was convinced it was time to take action in Paris. Something had to be done. Something had to be done to keep Verona out of this.
Time was of the essence.
69
Lakeside
It was ten o'clock at night when the green and yellow taxi arrived in Evanston from O'Hare airport. The taxi took Lake Avenue down to Sheridan Road, right two blocks, and stopped in front of the address at the blond brick home that the passenger was looking for on East Germaine.
She paid the driver and climbed out with her backpack and rolling CPA case. Even though it was night, the stars were out, and she could see Lake Michigan between the houses just beyond Gilson Park.
She had studied the map and knew the area well. Like everything she did, her journey was planned out, and her surroundings memorized. She knew that off to her right and down about one mile was the Michigan Shores Club, where her husband and Jennifer would have enjoyed upscale dining and dancing. Off to her left were the CTA Purple Line, the Metra, and downtown Evanston shops and restaurants.
She felt a
pang in her heart. There had been a time she would've died to live in such a place. But no longer. Now she only wanted to leave the United States, leave France, and sneak into Spain and fade into the shadows.
She climbed the steps to the front door and knocked. She had to smile. The two physicians referred to this place as their fishing camp, which had to be the biggest joke of all the fishing camp jokes, given that it had last sold for $3.6 million.
She was just about to repeat knocking when the door opened, and there stood Jennifer. She had not turned on the porch light, and the visitor’s face could not be seen from the street or any of the surrounding homes. The visitor was ushered inside, and the door immediately shut behind her. The two women went into the kitchen, and Jennifer opened the refrigerator and handed a bottle of water to the newcomer. They then went into the dining room, where the newcomer dropped her bag, and Jennifer brought the CPA case.
“It’s inside?” asked Jennifer.
“Safe and sound inside a safe. Fits perfectly inside.”
Jennifer opened the CPA bag and withdrew the heavy safe. The newcomer spun the combination back and forth, opening the safe. Jennifer reached inside with both hands and lifted.
“My precious one,” said Jennifer. She held the Qing vase up to the light. “Not a mark. Except for the missing dorsal fin. That’s how I know it’s mine.”
“Then we’re good?”
“We’re good. The money is in my backpack. I’ll give it to you,”
“Then I’m ready for Spain.”
Jennifer nodded. She took a drink of her bottle of water and said, “You will change your name, your looks, and disappear with the money.”
Girl, Under Oath (Michael Gresham Series) Page 21
