Till Murder Do Us Part

by James Patterson

But what to do about his blood-soaked apartment?

  With the sun already peeking over the horizon, Mark passes a twenty-four-hour grocery store and gets an idea.

  He pulls over and pops inside to rent a carpet steamer.

  Back at his condo, Mark immediately gets to work. After a few hours of fastidious, frantic scrubbing, wiping, scouring, and bleaching, every inch of his place is spotless.

  Exhausted, drained, and shell-shocked, Mark collapses onto his couch.

  Shutting his eyes, he starts to pray, the weight of what he’s done only now slowly sinking in.

  In a matter of hours, Mark has gone from a follower of Christ to a killer of women.

  Chapter 21

  Early April, 1991

  Stepping off the plane at Lindbergh Field, Stephen Bergsten is hit with a crushing feeling of both urgency and dread.

  It’s been less than a month since his daughter Jessica moved to San Diego—and over two weeks since anyone has seen or heard from her.

  As he beelines to the kiosk to pick up his rental car, Stephen thinks back to late March, when Jessica first failed to return their calls. At first he wasn’t overly concerned, recalling how when he was Jessica’s age, chatting on the phone with his stuffy old parents wasn’t on his priority list, either, and certainly wouldn’t have been if he was also in the middle of moving to a new city, starting a new life. But the Bergstens quickly became alarmed enough about being unable to track Jessica down that on March 29, 1991, they filed a missing person report with the San Diego County Sheriff’s Department.

  Although Stephen would follow up with the California authorities constantly, sometimes multiple times a day, he was also dealing with other problems in Arizona. A powerful Tucson attorney, he recently learned that one of his biggest clients is facing a major investigation by an Arizona criminal drug task force, and rumors have been swirling that Stephen himself would be under federal investigation for money laundering. It’s all a bunch of baloney, but it’s been weighing on his mind.

  Frustrated because, time after time, the San Diego County Sheriff’s Department has told him that they still have zero leads in the case, Stephen decided to fly to California to look for Jessica himself.

  Despite being a lawyer, not a private investigator, Stephen knows the importance of gathering solid evidence. So his first stop is Jessica’s new apartment. After convincing the landlord to let him in, he gets a little choked up seeing how spare and empty the place still is. A couple of suitcases. Some cardboard boxes. Hardly any furniture. His daughter’s new life here has barely begun.

  Walking into the kitchen, Stephen notices that one of the only items Jessica seems to have unpacked is her leather-bound address book. It’s sitting on the ground by the phone, open to the G section. Stephen skims the page. There’s only one entry that isn’t for a friend or acquaintance in Arizona. Written in Jessica’s swooping cursive scrawl is the name Gator, followed by a San Diego address and phone number.

  “Sorry, Mr. B., I don’t know where she is.”

  Stephen stands at the front door of a Carlsbad apartment, where a lanky, bedraggled skater punk wearing a crucifix around his neck tells him that no, he hasn’t seen Jessica recently.

  “But you said you saw her a few weeks ago?” Stephen asks, guardedly hopeful.

  “Yeah. She called me. Said she’d just moved here and didn’t know anyone. We grabbed some lunch, then we said good-bye. That was it.”

  “And when was this exactly?”

  “Like I told you. A couple weeks ago.”

  “When?! I need to know precisely—it’s important! There’s a chance you might be the last person who saw my daughter alive. So think, damn it!”

  “Whoa—relax, dude! That’s the best I got. And a ‘Thank you’ might be nice.”

  Stephen stews. He digs his nails into his fists to keep himself from punching this snarky son of a bitch in the face. He came all the way over here hoping for some concrete information about his daughter. Instead all he’s gotten is attitude.

  “I’m trying to find my little girl,” he hisses, stepping in close to the young man. “And you want me to thank you? For wasting my time?!”

  “Forget it, Pops,” says the skater punk with a dismissive flick of his wrist. Before slamming the door in Stephen’s face, he adds, “Have a blessed day.”

  Stephen gulps down his fury and gets back in his rental car. He heads to his next destination: a printshop downtown.

  He called ahead and made an appointment with a designer, who is now helping him create a simple black-and-white flyer with Jessica’s photo, along with her birthday, height, weight, and hair and eye color.

  Stephen dabs his eyes as he hands over the recent picture he and his wife picked out. In it, Jessica is standing alone in their kitchen. Her head is tilted slightly upward, her long blond locks cascading over her left shoulder. A carefree smile beams across her angelic face.

  Once he’s been handed a stack of a few thousand flyers, Stephen gets back in his rental car. He plans to spend the next few days crisscrossing San Diego, sticking them to every telephone pole, in every store window, and under every set of windshield wipers in the city.

  But first he leans forward, rests his head against the steering wheel, and weeps.

  Desperately hoping his little girl is still alive.

  Terrified he may be too late.

  Chapter 22

  April 10, 1991

  At this hour, Ralph Smith, a coroner investigator with the Imperial County Sheriff’s Office, would normally be heading home to have dinner with his wife and children. But today he knows he’ll be lucky if he makes it home before breakfast.

  It’s going to be a very long night.

  Driving west along Interstate 8, Smith takes in the final few moments of the stunning sunset, the sky a vibrant fuchsia and tangerine. Twenty minutes later, turning off the highway and onto a long, dusty dirt road, he sees red and blue: the flashing emergency lights of a fire truck, an ambulance, and five police cars parked up ahead.

  Smith pulls his white coroner’s van to a stop nearby. He shows his credentials to a middle-aged sheriff’s deputy, who leads him on foot even deeper into the desert flats.

  “A father and son found the remains a couple hours ago,” says the deputy.

  “What were they doing all the way out here?”

  “Rented some ATVs. Family vacation. They sped back into town and called it in.”

  “That’s too bad. Nothing ruins a holiday like finding a dead body.”

  “Body?” the deputy says grimly. “Not exactly.”

  The two soon reach a group of other uniformed deputies and plainclothes detectives, all clustered near a small ravine. Portable floodlights have been set up to illuminate this otherwise pitch-black patch of desert.

  After covering his brown leather loafers with blue protective booties and slipping on white latex gloves, Smith ducks under a strip of yellow police tape and begins to survey the scene.

  A human skeleton is lying supine in the sand.

  Its extremities are outstretched. Its marble-white skull is tilted slightly to the left. Its jaw is dangling open.

  Smith shuts his eyes for just a few seconds—his private way of paying the dead the briefest moment of respect—and sets to work.

  Drawing on his years of education and experience, he pads slowly around the remains, taking in all angles, crouching from time to time to inspect them more closely.

  The first thing Smith notices is that the bones are remarkably intact. That’s not surprising given the area’s hot, dry climate, but it’s still a rare sight to see.

  The next thing Smith observes is that the remains are female, his trained forensic eye quickly homing in on the more rounded mandible, the narrower shoulder girdle, the shorter rib cage, and the wider pelvic opening.

  “Any idea how he went?” asks the deputy, watching Smith from a few feet away.

  “She,” Smith corrects him. “And no. Won’t know for sure until the
autopsy, but I don’t see any obvious signs of foul play. No gunshot wound. No broken bones.”

  “You’re saying she died of natural causes? Come on.”

  “At this point? It’s too early to say much of anything.”

  But he can make a couple of educated deductions. Based on the state of the sutures in the woman’s skull—the jagged lines where bone plates grow more tightly fused as a person ages—Smith presumes that the woman was between eighteen and twenty-five years old when she died. And if he had to guess without measuring, he’d say she probably stood between five seven and five nine.

  “How long do you think she’s been out here?” asks the deputy.

  “Weeks at least. Maybe months. Hard to know for certain.”

  The deputy frowns, frustrated. “So who is she? Will we ever find out?”

  Smith is about to answer—to say that, though far from guaranteed, sometimes IDs can be made using dental records—when he stops, leans in closer to the remains, and lifts an eyebrow.

  To his surprise, he now sees that the woman’s feet, one calf, and both hands appear to be partially preserved. There may even be enough mummified skin remaining that Smith can manage to lift some usable fingerprints back at his lab.

  “We don’t know who she is yet,” Smith answers the deputy. “But I have a feeling we will soon.”

  His initial inspection complete, Smith stands and marches back to his van. He’s got photos to take, paperwork to fill out, calls to make. He’s looking at at least a few more hours of work here on scene, and still more once the body is transported to the morgue. No way he’s going to get to see his kids tonight before they go to sleep.

  But they may just catch a glimpse of him.

  As he nears his vehicle, Smith spots a second van farther down the road: a news van from a local San Diego affiliate. A cameraman and female reporter are already filming and speaking with a senior deputy.

  Clearly word of the skeleton’s discovery has already started to spread. And if Smith’s years of working as a coroner have taught him anything, finding decomposed remains—especially those belonging to a young woman—is always a very big story.

  Chapter 23

  Early May, 1991

  Hey, do you guys have a few minutes to hear about the Lord?”

  Standing outside a 7-Eleven in Carlsbad, Augie Constantino is trying to talk to a mixed-gender group of teenagers exiting the store.

  “Get lost,” one of them says.

  “I used to be lost. But then I found my way. Through God.” Augie holds out a business card. “Here. If any of you ever need someone to talk to, I run a youth crisis hotline out of the basement of my church.”

  “Bro, the only crisis I see is your haircut!”

  The teens snicker and move on. Augie sighs, disappointed but undeterred—especially when he spots Mark Rogowski riding toward him on his skateboard.

  “You’re late, man!” Augie yells to him, jokingly.

  “I thought our souls were eternal. What’s the rush?”

  The two friends laugh, hug, and set about witnessing together, here at one of their new favorite spots.

  About an hour later, a sun-kissed brunette who looks to be in her early twenties exits the convenience store carrying a bright red slushy and a salted soft pretzel. She’s wearing a tank top and a tiny miniskirt—or a “towel,” as Augie likes to call such scandalously skimpy articles of clothing.

  Both Augie and Mark notice the young woman right away. Mark puts on a charming smile and starts to approach. But Augie holds out his hand: I got this one.

  “Excuse me, miss?” Augie politely calls to her. “Why don’t you go put some more clothes on, and when you come back, I’d like to talk to you about Christ.”

  The young woman recoils. “What did you just say to me?”

  Augie backpedals. “I…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you. But you’re wearing a provocative outfit, and we live in an evil world. I’m worried about you—that’s all.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t be. I’m just fine. I don’t need Jesus in my life. I don’t have a thing to worry about.”

  Augie points to the phone booth in front of the 7-Eleven. Its outside is plastered with papers, ads, and flyers, all fluttering in the ocean breeze.

  “Oh, really?” he asks. “What about that girl?”

  One of the posters, tattered and faded from days in the sun, says MISSING PERSON. Beneath the text is a picture of a pretty young blonde, smiling big, and beneath that, a phone number and address to contact for any information.

  “That girl,” Augie continues, “probably thought she had nothing to worry about, either.” Earnest and ardent, his voice begins to rise. “But where is she now? She could have gotten involved in drugs! Pornography! Maybe she’s dead!”

  The miniskirt girl waves Augie away like a gnat. “Maybe you should mind your own business, you creep,” she says, and then gets into a nearby car and drives off.

  Augie sighs deeply and shakes his head. “When did having some modesty become such a terrible thing? And how about showing a little compassion for a missing girl in need—a girl in trouble?”

  Augie turns back to Mark, expecting agreement.

  Instead he sees his friend staring vacantly at the missing person poster.

  “You okay there, buddy?” Augie asks.

  “Huh? Yeah, I’m fine,” Mark says after a few seconds. “Completely fine.”

  Augie isn’t convinced but doesn’t push it. Instead he walks over to the phone booth, looks more closely at the flyer, and then starts to carefully take it down.

  “Hey—stop. What are you doing?” Mark asks, a hint of distress in his voice.

  “I want to remember to pray for her later,” Augie replies. “Her name is Jessica. And wherever she may be, she could use some extra love and grace.”

  Augie gently folds the sheet into quarters and places it between two pages of his red-leather Bible.

  Mark watches with what appears to be growing discomfort and then drops his skateboard. “Screw this,” he scoffs. “I’m going home.”

  Augie is very much taken aback by his friend’s unexpected reaction, and can only watch in confusion as Mark keeps skating away.

  Chapter 24

  Later that week

  ‘When Judas, who had betrayed him, saw that Jesus was condemned, he was seized with remorse and returned the thirty pieces of silver to the chief priests and the elders.’”

  Augie looks at the intimate group of Calvary Chapel worshippers seated around his living room this afternoon. All, including him, are holding a Bible.

  “Who’d like to continue?” he asks. “Mark?”

  Mark clears his throat and reads aloud: “‘“I have sinned,” he said, “for I have”’”—he shifts in his seat—“‘“for I have betrayed innocent blood.” “What is that to us?” they replied. “That’s your responsibility.” So Judas threw the money into the temple and left. Then he went away…and hanged himself.’”

  Augie nods a thanks to Mark and closes his Bible. Then he asks the room, “Now why do you think Judas reacted the way he did when he learned Jesus would be crucified, and how can this story help us live our own lives?”

  For the next thirty minutes, the group engages in a thoughtful conversation about this controversial biblical figure. They discuss the meaning of Judas’s betrayal. His possible possession by the devil. And ultimately, his suicide.

  At one point, Augie refers to Judas as “the great pretender,” because while the apostle might have claimed to be a follower of Jesus, clearly that was a big, fat lie.

  “Personally, I think it’s completely normal to have spiritual doubts,” Augie says, “to question the teachings of scripture. But to betray Christ on such a deep level? That’s a step too far. And look what happened to Judas. I think someone upstairs agreed.”

  The Bible study group ends, but as everyone files out, Augie pulls Mark aside.

  “You doing okay, brother?” he asks warmly. “You’re u
sually such an active participant in our group. You seemed pretty quiet tonight. Something on your mind?”

  Mark stammers a bit and then says, “Sorry. Nah, I’m all good. Just tired, I guess.”

  Augie looks closely at his friend, trying to get a read on him. He can tell that something’s been troubling Mark. But he can’t figure out what.

  “Would you like to stay for dinner? We’re making spaghetti and meat—”

  “Italian? Uh…no…I can’t. But thanks, Augie. Maybe another time.”

  Later that night, at around eleven o’clock, Augie and his wife are getting ready for bed when they hear a thunderous pounding on their front door.

  Augie cautiously goes to open the door. To his shock, standing there is Mark, looking like an absolute mess. His hair is disheveled. His face is puffy and red. His cheeks are streaked with tears. And his breath reeks of alcohol.

  “Mark?! What happened?”

  “Hey, dude,” Mark says with a sniffle. Looking both dazed and jumpy, disoriented and on edge, he wanders inside and sinks down on Augie’s couch.

  “I’m Judas, Augie!” he wails. “That’s what happened. I’m Judas Iscariot!”

  Augie hurries over and sits next to Mark. “What do you mean, you’re Judas? What are you talking about?”

  But Mark doesn’t answer. He rests his head in his hands and starts to sob.

  “It’s all right, Mark. Everything’s going to be okay,” Augie says, still confused but trying to be reassuring. “Why don’t we pray together? Maybe that will make you feel better.” Augie takes Mark’s hand and says, “Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name. Your kingdom come, your will be done…”

  By the end of the Lord’s Prayer, Mark does indeed seem calmer and more grounded. He wipes his nose. He blots his eyes.

  And comes clean.

  “So…you know that skeleton they found near Ocotillo that was on the news a couple weeks ago? And you know the missing girl on that flyer at 7-Eleven? Well…that was me.”

  Augie tilts his head. “I don’t understand. What was you?”