by Blake Pierce
murdered? No…I don’t enjoy it, to be honest.”
“Mr. Knudsen,” DeMarco said, “if you did not kill those women, then
anything else you share with us—anything criminal—is not going to hurt. If
anything, some judges may see it as assistance to a case. Do you understand
that?”
“I did not kill them.”
“Help us believe you, then,” Kate said. “Because if there is anything worth
finding, Bannerman and his men will find it.”
Knudsen looked at both agents and then at the ceiling, casting his eyes
anywhere but the accusing eyes in front of him. “The cotton stalk…it was
stupid,” he said. His voice was no longer laced with so much anger, but now
harbored what sounded like genuine regret and embarrassment. It was one of
the quickest switches in emotion Kate had ever seen in an interrogation room,
making her wonder if Knudsen’s angry façade was mostly fake—all a show
to support the stereotypical introverted lifestyle of a musician.
“So why’d you take it?” DeMarco asked.
“I’m sure you know I have a record. Petty theft. Public disturbances and
things like that. Nothing serious. But the theft…I’ve been doing it since I was
a kid, you know? I never had issues with drinking, drugs, or sex. It was
always stealing. But I never stole anything major…just dumb shit here and
there.”
“Like what?” Kate asked.
“Like Karen’s cotton stalk. Like a pack of guitar strings when I was
touring with a small band in Denmark. A bottle of perfume from an old lover.
The most expensive thing I ever stole was an iPod off of someone on a plane
back in 2010 or so. It had dropped in the floor and I snatched it up. Serves me
right that it was filled with far too much of the garbage that serves as today’s
popular music, I suppose.”
“Did you take things from the homes of the other victims, Marjorie Hix
and Meredith Lowell?”
Knudsen frowned as he nodded. “I’ve taken something from every home
I’ve taught a lesson in. I took a few marbles from the Hix home—those
decorative kind of flat marbles people use to fill vases, you know?”
“And the Lowells?” DeMarco asked.
“She came to me for the lessons, remember? I never once went into her
home. Other homes I’ve instructed in, though—I’d take things like
magazines, little knickknack type things on their mantels, things like that.
Never anything big or worth getting into a fuss about.”
“Are these things hidden in your home, or sort of out in the open like the
cotton stalk?” Kate asked.
“No, they’re not locked away or anything. Marjorie’s marbles are located
on the kitchen counter, next to another client’s small creamer container that I
took from her kitchen.”
Kate relaxed a bit, feeling that his sudden surge of honesty toward these
things would have softened him up, making it easier for him to discuss other
things.
“Thanks for that,” Kate said, nodding to DeMarco. DeMarco took the hint
and stepped outside, already taking out her phone to call Bannerman and fill
him in. When DeMarco was out with the door closed behind her, Kate
pressed a bit harder. “All of that information, at first glance, would make
most assume that you are indeed the killer. Would you be able to give me alibis for the times in which the women were killed?”
“Who was the most recent?” Knudsen had resigned himself to defeat. He
did not seem interested in his lawyer anymore. He honestly didn’t seem too
concerned about much of anything. He looked lost, beaten, and like he just
wanted to go back home.
“Meredith Lowell. She was killed yesterday morning in her home. We
don’t have an approximate time, but it appears to have been done between
nine and eleven thirty in the morning.”
“I had three lessons yesterday morning, two at my home and the third out
in the city. The first was at six thirty, the second was at eight, and the one out in Chicago was at ten. Following that last lesson, I went to the Dusty Groove,
this record store that has a surprisingly impressive collection of classical on
vinyl.”
“Any idea when you got home?”
“Maybe noon? A little after, perhaps.”
“Would you be willing to give us the names of the clients you worked
with yesterday?”
Here, Knudsen looked a little more nervous. She thought she saw a twitch
of that anger creeping back in. “No, for that I really would prefer for my
lawyer to be here.”
Kate knew not to push again. She’d gotten more than she’d expected from
him—perhaps enough to eliminate him altogether, though that might not be
the case until they got the names of the clients.
“Did you buy anything at the record store?”
“Yes. Two albums.”
“How did you pay?”
“Cash. Straight out of one of the one-hundred-dollar bills I’d earned that
morning.”
“I don’t suppose you kept the receipt?”
“Maybe. If I did, it’s still in the pocket of the pants I wore yesterday.”
Kate didn’t bother pointing out that the receipt could very well be enough
to free him. There might be a time discrepancy—perhaps about half an hour
or so for him to have showed up at the Lowells’ before venturing into the city
—but she already knew that was a desperate grasp.
“Did you—”
“No more until my lawyer gets here.”
“Okay.”
She got up and started for the door and was surprised when Knudsen
spoke up before she could so much as reach for the handle.
“I could have handled it better,” he said. “You two, arresting me. I sort of
backed up…panicked. I knew the theft was dumb and…I don’t know. I’ve
never been able to beat it. It’s fucking embarrassing. It’s…”
He stopped here and waved her away dismissively. Kate finally made it
out the door, stepping out into the hallway where DeMarco was giving
Bannerman the specifics. Kate sighed and gave her a quick shake of the head.
DeMarco wrapped up the call quickly, the frown on her face an indication
that she understood what Kate’s shake of the head meant.
“What did you get?”
“Enough to know he’s not the killer. A bit of a bipolar asshole, sure. But
not the killer. I imagine Bannerman and his men will have enough to back
that up by the end of the day. Do you mind calling him back and asking him
to check the dirty clothes? Look for a pair of jeans. Check the front pockets
for a receipt from a record store yesterday.”
With that instruction, DeMarco’s face fell slightly as she understood that
they would soon be back to ground zero, with no clues or worthwhile leads.
Kate realized it, too. She now had a little less than three hours before Duran
would be on to her and, she feared, this little experiment with a resurrected
career would be over.
“You know,” DeMarco said as the phone rang in her ear, “as far as I’m
concerned, he’s our guy. Until some damning piece of evidence comes
forward…”
She stopped here as Bannerman answered the call on the
other end. Kate
understood her optimism and wished she felt the same. But as it stood, she
felt certain Knudsen was not their man. Still, she could not help but think of
those three pianos, parked in each house like hidden giants, out in the open
yet overlooked, quiet but with a story to tell.
Slowly, she started down the hallway toward the exit. She waved
DeMarco along with her and her partner reluctantly followed. She was
growing irritated now, and not doing much to hide the fact.
Kate didn’t blame her. Duran basically had DeMarco babysitting her and
she was trying to be a friend by doing a lousy job. So far, Kate had been
doing nothing but making her regret that.
When they had reached the parking lot and headed for the car, DeMarco’s
second call with Bannerman was over. “Where are we going?” DeMarco
asked.
“To check on a hunch.”
“You sure it’s not just grasping at invisible straws so you don’t get reamed
out in three hours?”
The comment stung but Kate figured she deserved it. “No,” she said,
shrugging the sting away. “Can I ask you to just trust me on something?”
“On what? Kate, where the hell are we going?”
“To look at some pianos.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
When Kate knocked on the door of the Hopkins home fifteen minutes
later, she did not expect an answer, and she did not get one. There were no
vehicles in the driveway and the place had the same feel she had gotten from
the Lowell house yesterday—the feeling of sorrow and abandonment.
She had held on to the key Bannerman had given them when they had first
met. It was hard to think that it had only been a few days ago. When she
unlocked the door and stepped inside, she gave a cautionary “Hello” to
anyone who might be inside. The only thing that came back to her was a
hollow noise that was not quite her echo.
“Even if Knudsen turns out not to be the killer,” Kate said, “the fact
remains that there was a piano in each home. It may seem like a small detail
at first but, really, what is the percentage of homes you visit that have a
piano?”
“I don’t know,” DeMarco said. “I’ve never really thought of it. Far less
than half, for sure.”
They stepped into the den and strode over to the piano. As Kate stood
beside it, she peered into the room directly attached to the den—the room that
had once been an office for Karen Hopkins. From where she stood, she could
see the vase containing the cotton stalks in the corner, a few of the stalks
broken off.
“You know much about pianos?” Kate asked DeMarco.
“Virtually nothing. Not even Chopsticks.”
“I tinkered with it for a while when I was a kid,” Kate said. She started to
circle the piano, a little disappointed in herself that she had nearly overlooked
the damned thing the first time they had visited. She did remember being a bit
awestruck by the piano in the Hix home—a baby grand Steinway.
“Is this a nice one?” DeMarco asked.
Kate sat down at the bench behind the keys. The cover was raised, the
keys exposed and inviting. “I’m not too sure. It looks to be of a good quality.
I’d hate to guess on the price, though.”
“What are we looking for?” DeMarco asked. “Or was I right? Are you
just…grasping?”
“There might be some grasping,” Kate admitted.
She sighed and rested her fingers on the keys. The feel of it brought a
smile to her face. She had not even attempted to play in over ten years.
Lazily, almost as if mocking her younger self, she slowly started to plink
away at the first few notes of Beethoven’s “Fur Elise.” Her smile widened as
the notes came out. She played slowly, messing up a few notes almost right
away. It was not at all like riding a bicycle; apparently, you did not retain
much, especially over the span of thirty-five years or so.
She played no more than ten seconds of the song before she gave up. Just
as she did, though, she hit a key that did not make a sound. It was almost as if
her finger had skipped over it. She hit the key again and got the same thing.
A dead note. Maybe she was grasping. Maybe she was…
She looked back down at the keys. She reached back down and hit the key
in question for a third time, middle C. It was indeed dead—not making the
slightest sound other than some sad little thump inside the body.
“What is it?” DeMarco asked.
“This C…it’s dead. It’s not making a noise at all.”
“Is that uncommon?”
“It is for pianos that are in regular use. Someone like Karen Hopkins, who
we know at least had a vague interest in playing, doesn’t strike me as
someone that would allow her piano to be out of tune...much less suffering
from a dead key. It’s almost like the wire has snapped.” She ran her fingers
down a few scales on the keys, frowning. “And this C seems to be the only
key with that problem.”
“Sorry…but I don’t see how this is a big deal.”
Kate hit the key again, her thoughts churning. “It might not be. But it
could also be pretty damned big if…”
“If what?”
“Feel like a taking a trip over to the Hix residence?”
“Will you be able to finally make some sense while we’re there?”
“Hopefully.”
“Then by all means, let’s go.”
Kate realized she was likely coming off as distant and maybe even rude,
but she didn’t care in that moment. A theory was piling up in her head and
she feared if she spoke it out loud or did any sort of overthinking, it would
unravel. But DeMarco, God bless her, was going along and simply trusting
her—even if she was doing so in absolute silence as they got back into the car.
***
Kate did not have a key for the Hix house so she had to call Bannerman to
have an officer meet them. He did one better and met them himself just seven
minutes after they arrived. He pulled in behind their car, giving the For Sale sign in the yard a curious glance. Kate gave it the same sort of stare. It had
not been there when they had visited two days ago. Apparently, the realty
company was trying to move fast.
“You think you got something here?” Bannerman asked.
“I don’t know yet. Just wanting to test out a theory.”
“Well, I hope you have something because Knudsen’s place was a bust.
We found everything you told us he mentioned. But there was no sign of a
receipt from a record store.”
“And he won’t give the names of his clients from yesterday morning until
his lawyer gets there,” Kate said.
“Still…pretty impressive you got what you did out of him.”
With that, Bannerman unlocked the front door to the Hix residence and the
three of them walked inside. Kate wasted no time, walking directly into the
large room that wanted badly to be a den of some sort but looked more like a
pretentious sitting room or study, tucked to the left of everything else in the
open floor plan house.
She was vaguely aware of Bannerman and DeMarco whispering to one
another—likely Bannerma
n asking her partner what in the hell her older
partner was doing. The piano had struck her as beautiful the first time and it
did not disappoint as she sat down behind it. The baby grand Steinway
seemed to make her feel taller, like she could play anything she wanted.
She resisted the urge to try “Fur Elise” again. This time, she simply ran
her fingers down the length of the keys, white and black alike. She tapped
each note, listening for anything that might be off.
A little more than halfway down, she was halted by another dead note.
This time, because she was expecting it, the lack of music from the key felt
irritating somehow—like scratching her nails down a chalkboard. Kate
looked back down at the keys and, just like that, she knew her hunch was
right.
This missing note was a B—and it was the key directly beside the dead C
she had found at the Hopkins residence.
She felt DeMarco slowly approaching her from behind. “I know nothing
about piano, but that was dead, right?”
“Right. It was a B…the key directly beside the C that was off with Karen
Hopkins’s piano.”
Now Bannerman was beside her as well, looking down at the piano as if
he thought it might come alive and bite him. “So what, exactly, does that
mean?”
“It means these women would have needed piano tuners or repairmen to
come fix it. Hopkins I could let slide because she hadn’t been an active player
in a year or more—at least that’s what I ascertained from Knudsen. But she
might have been playing just for fun at home, I suppose. But we know that
Marjorie Hix was actively taking lessons, and inside of her home, with
Knudsen. Now, if that was the case, how could she possibly practice on a
piano with a dead key?”
“So you think we’re looking for someone who tunes pianos?”
“Yeah, but not a fish,” DeMarco said. She was cringing as soon as it was
out of her mouth. She gave a quick and embarrassed “I’m sorry” before
looking at the floor.
“Yes, a tuner or some sort of maintenance person. And while we’re
looking for local piano tuners, I think I’d like to speak with the coroner.”
“Why’s that?” Bannerman asked.
“I’m wondering if it would be possible to strangle someone with a piece of
