The Garden of Eden and Other Criminal Delights

by Faye Kellerman

  Their union. It had been born, nurtured, and sustained via an underground roadway. Secretive . . . hidden from view. It was now time for them to board the El train.

  A group of rough-and-ready scouts taking a sunrise walk found the body in one of the many swollen creeks that snaked through the backwoods. A well-developed, well-nourished white female who wore a now-sodden black wool dress. The hem of the garment was caught on a craggy rock and kept her anchored as she bobbed in rhythm to the ripples in the water. The dress had risen above her hips, displaying colorless legs. Her black panty hose had puddled around her ankles, and there were no shoes on her feet. A black coat had been left about fifty yards to the right, crumpled in a pile of dead leaves. She wore jewelry but not in the normal fashion. A braided gold chain had been wound tightly around her neck, turning her face as shiny and purple as eggplant. No ID on the body. No purse in direct view.

  The county coroner—who also owned the Kenton, Missouri, mortuary—took the body’s temperature and shook his head when he read the results.

  “Been here overnight.”

  Deputy Jim Schultz rubbed itchy eyes and hiked his pants over an ever-growing gut. An old man’s move. Seeing this horror, he felt like an old man. “Overnight as in twelve hours, Cale, or overnight as in six hours?”

  “That sounds about right.”

  “What does?”

  “Six to twelve hours.” Cale shivered as he clumsily recorded the numbers. Not easy writing with gloves as big as catchers’ mitts. At least his hands were warm. “Ain’t no local, Jimbo.”

  “They never are,” Schultz remarked.

  As he stared at the inflated face, he rubbed his wool-gloved hands on his leather bomber jacket. Why did they always leave ’em on his turf? Something to do with the locale. St. Louis to Kenton was a straight highway ride of seventy-five miles. Made for perfect dumping ground. He called out, “Joe?”

  “Yo.” Joe was doing squats, trying to deliver warmth to his bony body.

  Schultz said, “Someone left a black coat, ’bout hunnerd, two hunnerd feet . . . under the copse of oaks. See it?”

  “Yeah, I see it.”

  “Go fetch it and rummage through the pockets. See if maybe we can find some ID somewhere. ’Cause I can’t find a purse.”

  “Murderer took it?”

  “Probably,” Schultz said. “Reckon not too many ladies travel without a purse.”

  Joe shook his head. “I don’t recognize her.”

  Cale said, “Jimbo and me already decided that she ain’t no local.”

  “I heartily concur with that,” Joe stated. “Poor thing. Whaddya do to get in a fix like this, sugar?”

  “Probably just in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Schultz said.

  “Want me to run it over the wire, boss?” Joe asked. “See if Medford or Athens reported someone missin’?”

  “First the coat, Joe.”

  “Ah . . . right.” The assistant deputy jogged over to the discarded item, desiccated brush crunching beneath his feet. Picked up the leaf-crusted coat and brushed it off. He checked the pockets, shook his head. “Nothin’ so far.”

  “Bring it here,” Schultz said.

  Joe walked back. “Nice coat. Better than the usual stuff they sell at Wal-Mart . . . or even Penney’s.” He read the label. With his bulging eyes, he looked like a preying mantis. “It’s got cashmere in it, Jimbo. Ten percent.”

  Schultz took the coat, looked for a department-store label. It had been ripped out. He also searched the oversize exterior pockets and found nothing except balls of lint. Ran his gloved hand over the satin lining, found a small notch. A tiny interior pocket—good for ticket stubs and not much else. He took off his gloves, dipped two meaty fingers inside the smooth material, and came up with a yellow slip of paper.

  A credit-card receipt from Macy’s.

  Schultz said, “Assuming this coat belongs to our lady, we got ourselves a name, folks. Ophelia Wells.”

  Schultz called it in to the St. Louis police.

  No one by that name had been reported missing. A moment later, SLPD had come up with an address and telephone number. Schultz called the number, but no one picked up the phone.

  He made it to the Gateway City shortly before noon. The day was cloudy and bitter, the gray sylvan landscape ceding to a lifeless inner-city winter. Ophelia Wells lived in one of the newer suburbs. SLPD had told Schultz to check in with them before he did anything, but he ignored their request. It was his body, he’d do it his way.

  He found the house, rapped his knuckles against the door. To his surprise, someone answered the knock. The man looked pissed as hell, though his anger turned to curiosity as he studied Schultz’s uniform.

  “Mr. Wells?” Schultz asked.

  “Yes?”

  “Deputy James Roy Schultz from the Kenton County Sheriff’s Department.” He flashed his badge. “May I come in for a moment?”

  “What is it?”

  “Mr. Wells, it’s awfully cold out here.”

  “Sorry . . .” Wells backed away from the door. “Come in.”

  Schultz entered, and Wells shut the door, offering his hand. “Brian Wells.”

  “Nice to know you, Mr. Wells.” Schultz shook hands, then set a plastic garbage bag down on the floor. He made himself comfortable on a sofa printed with geraniums. Wells took an armchair. The men sized each other up for a few moments, then Schultz began.

  “We found a body just inside Kenton’s city line . . . up in the woods. The victim’s a woman. I b’lieve her to be Ophelia Wells.”

  Brian’s eyes grew. He opened his mouth and closed it. His whisper was a hoarse “Whaaat?”

  Schultz asked, “Was she your wife, sir?”

  Wells was mute, stunned.

  “Mr. Wells?”

  Brian leaned forward. “Yes . . . yes, she’s my . . . Oh my . . . I can’t believe . . . Are you sure it’s Filly? I mean Ophelia. Are you sure it’s . . . ?”

  Schultz handed him the sanitized postmortem pictures. Brian turned his head away, muttered an “Oh God . . .”

  “Is it her, Mr. Wells?”

  Brian nodded quickly, tears in his eyes. Then he buried his face in his hands. “I . . . This is . . . Good Lord, what happened?”

  “Don’t rightly know yet,” Schultz said. “Any idea what she was doing in Kenton?”

  Immediately, Brian’s eyes turned menacing, darkening like a tornado sky. “No idea. My wife left me yesterday.”

  Silence. Then Schultz replied, “Left you?”

  “Yesterday,” Brian stated. “For another man.” He caught his breath. “I don’t know anything about him except his name—

  Justice C. Flatt. She met him in a chat room on the Internet. Filly has a computer down at work. They’ve been carrying on for quite a while, according to her Dear John note to me.”

  Brian inhaled, let it out slowly.

  “I guess this bastard Justice must live in Kenton. I mean . . . you don’t just wind up in a place like Kenton, do you?”

  Schultz kept his face expressionless. “No, you don’t. It’s a small hamlet.” Not much more than spit on a map. “Mr. Wells, I know everyone in Kenton, including the pets. Don’t know anyone who goes by the name Justice Flatt.”

  “So what was Filly doing there?”

  Schultz said, “Tell me more about this Justice Flatt.”

  “Don’t know a thing about him. Don’t know what he does, what he looks like . . . if he’s even a legitimate person. I mean, what kind of a name is Justice? I’m sure Filly was snowed by this asshole. Even if he is legitimate, he’s a homewrecker at best.”

  “You still got that Dear John note?”

  “I . . . I burned it.” Brian shrugged. “I was . . . furious. I didn’t know that . . .”

  “Mind if I have a look around?”

  “Not at all.”

  Cooperative but only up to a point. When Schultz started asking personal questions, Wells pulled back.

  “I don’t see
where my past relationship with my wife is any of your business.”

  “Your wife was murdered,” Schultz pointed out.

  “But I didn’t do it,” Wells said. “That’s all you have to know.” His hostility was frank. “You want a suspect, find this Justice guy. Probably some psycho. God, I can’t believe Filly would do a thing like that. She was always so . . . reasonable. Must have been some kind of midlife crisis.”

  He threw up his hands.

  “Not that any of this . . . matters . . . anymore . . . God, I’m completely . . . stunned.”

  Schultz had puttered around the house for the better part of two hours and yet he found nothing relating to Justice. Not much pertaining to Ophelia, either. When he asked Wells about the lack of his wife’s personal effects, Brian said that she had packed what she had wanted and he had tossed the rest out in a fit of rage.

  “Why should she remain a part of the home she left?” Wells seemed to be trying to control his temper. “If I were you, I’d try Filly’s work. She probably has stuff in her desk drawers. That’s where she probably wrote most of her notes to this bastard.”

  Schultz nodded. “I hate to ask you about this, but we’re going to need someone to identify the body.”

  Wells closed his eyes. “When?”

  “I could pick you up in a couple of hours.”

  Wells opened his eyes and nodded. “Fine.”

  Schultz rose, picked up his plastic bag, then took out the contents. A black coat. He handed it to Wells. “Recognize this?”

  Wells took the coat, felt it, smelled it. Again tears formed in his eyes. “It’s . . . hers. Filly’s.”

  “You’re sure?” Schultz asked. “Check it real carefully.”

  Wells examined the coat, inside as well as outside. Attentively, Schultz watched him.

  Finally, Wells handed it back. “As far as I can tell, it’s hers. She had a coat just like this. But I can’t say beyond a doubt.” He made a swipe at the wetness on his cheeks. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours, then?”

  Schultz hesitated just a moment before he patted Wells on the back. Then he left.

  After rifling through Ophelia’s desk, Schultz came up empty-handed. There was some flotsam and jetsam, but again, nothing personal. No communications, memos, faxes, e-mails, or notes from Ophelia’s elusive cyberlover. Closing the last drawer, Schultz decided to ask the boss a few questions.

  Over to the boss’s office, the door marked with a gold nameplate—C. L. TAFT. Taft was an abrupt, rude man. His eyes were fierce and his temper was short. He sat behind a desk piled high with paper. He said, “Truthfully, I don’t give a damn about Ophelia Wells.”

  Schultz gave Taft a noncommittal look. “I heard ’bout what she did to you.”

  Taft’s brows raised noticeably. “Good news travels fast.”

  Schultz said, “Someone did that to me, I’d kill the bitch.”

  Taft’s eyes narrowed. “I would have loved to kill the bitch. But I didn’t.”

  Schultz said, “So you don’t mind my asking where you were last night.”

  “I mind your questions, but I’ll answer them anyway. I was up all night, poring over these ludicrous charges that were thrown at me . . . by her.”

  “You’re saying they’re not true?”

  “Most definitely they are not true. Ophelia is a very, very sick girl.”

  She’s more than sick, Schultz thought. She’s dead. Still, Taft’s use of the present tense was interesting. Killers usually talked in past tense. “Were you alone all last night?”

  “Yes. But I did make phone calls to my lawyer. At around eleven, then again at two or three in the morning. I’m sure you’ll verify that.”

  “Doesn’t answer where you were between eleven P.M. and two in the morning.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Taft answered breezily.

  Schultz regarded him. “Lucky for you that she died. With no one to press the charges, most likely they’ll be dropped.”

  Taft’s smile was owlish. “I don’t like your insinuations, and I don’t like you. For that matter, I didn’t like Ophelia. A goldbrick. Always fooling around on the computer instead of using it. If she had worked more, she wouldn’t have gotten herself into this fix.”

  “You’re saying it was her fault she was murdered?”

  Taft made a face. “You’re twisting my words.”

  “How ’bout a straight question, then? I couldn’t find anything in her desk drawers. Did you go through them, sir?”

  Taft tightened his fists. “What are you getting at?”

  Schultz said, “You were accused of harassment by this woman. According to her coworkers, Ophelia documented many of the charges. Know what I think? I think you took some pertinent material out of her desk but left behind other things to make it look like you didn’t take out pertinent material.”

  “Get out of here!”

  “You want to add a murder charge in addition to your other pile of woes, be my guest.”

  “Murder charge . . .” Taft turned pale. “I didn’t kill her!”

  “But you did mess around with her desk.”

  The boss turned quiet.

  Schultz said, “Show me what you removed. Might give me a clue as to who did this.”

  Slowly, the boss rose, went over to a locked cabinet. He took out a key, opened the drawer, and removed a file. “Here.” He gave the papers to Schultz.

  Materials documenting harassment. Schultz started to page through them.

  Taft said, “I have a meeting to attend. I’ll be back in around a half hour.”

  Schultz nodded. A half hour should give him time to look things over.

  All packed up by the time Taft came back. Nothing so lucky as to give them Justice Flatt on a silver platter. But Schultz did find an unsigned fax from Jordon, Missouri, a rustic small burg around a hundred miles south of Kenton. A picturesque place used by campers and tourists in the summer. The letter was graphic, hence the lack of signature. Schultz showed it to Taft. “Do you know who wrote this to Ophelia?”

  The boss read it, turned red and indignant. “No, I do not!”

  “Then why’d you pull it from the file?”

  Taft seemed to stumble. “Because . . . she accused me of harassing her. For all I know, she was planning to use this letter against me. A letter I didn’t even write! Look, Sheriff, I don’t owe you anything. I sure don’t owe her anything. So will you kindly leave?”

  “One more thing.” Schultz took out the coat, gave it to Taft. “This look familiar at all?”

  “This coat? It’s a woman’s coat.”

  “Yes, it is. Have you ever seen it before?”

  “I couldn’t absolutely swear to that. But it looks unfamiliar to me.”

  “Check it out carefully . . . you know, go through the pockets.”

  Taft made a few perfunctory gestures, handed it back to Schultz. “What? Is it Ophelia’s coat?”

  “Yes.”

  Taft shrugged. “Anything else?”

  Schultz shook his head.

  Dry-eyed, Wells identified the body. “It’s her.” He turned away. “When are you going to release the body?”

  “She’s a murder victim, Mr. Wells. An autopsy has to be done.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “The point is, it’ll give us information as to who might have killed her.”

  “But she’s still dead.” Wells heaved his big shoulders.

  Schultz looked at him. “Don’t you want to know who killed her? Don’t you want to see him punished?”

  “Justice system’s a sham,” Wells said. “Justice . . . Justice . . . both of them are bastards.”

  Schultz said, “You’ll have to fill out some paperwork to get the whole ball rolling. Want to start on it now?”

  Wells shrugged. “Why not?”

  Showing no anxiety. Either Wells was a psycho, or he was numb. Schultz said, “So you don’t know anything about this Justice Flatt?”

  “I told y
ou, no.”

  “Well, what did Ophelia say ’bout him when she wrote you that note?”

  “She wrote mostly about us . . . about how our passion had died, how our marriage was a shell. That it wasn’t good for either of us to go on. Then she said she’d found someone who was impetuous and passionate . . . spontaneous. That she needed to be with him . . .” Wells broke into tears. “Oh God, poor Ophelia. Poor, poor Ophelia.”

  And he cried with what looked like true grief.

  Schultz poured him a cup of coffee, then left him drowning in sorrow and official paperwork. Told him if he had any questions, to ask Cale.

  Straight on to Jordon, the Ford passing miles of skeletal forest poking through carpets of compost and detritus. A leaden sky held storm clouds, and the air, though clean, looked dirty. Whipping down the highway, Schultz made it in less than an hour. He managed to get there before the official building closed.

  He went through the property tax files, which listed the names of the owners of residences.

  No Justice C. Flatt.

  A dead end.

  Hitting your head against a wall.

  A solid, hard, flat wall. As in a solid, hard, Flatt wall.

  Justice C. Flatt.

  As Wells had stated, Justice Flatt was a weird name. Probably made up by some psycho.

  Flatt.

  Conjuring up images of being one-dimensional . . . robotic . . . emotionless.

  Ironic because Ophelia had left her husband for someone she had deemed passionate, impetuous, spontaneous.

  Or was something amiss?

  Had Brian Wells found out about his wife’s dalliances on the Net? Was he trying to woo her back, using this Flatt character? Or could he have been trying to get even with Ophelia for straying over the wires?

  Was Flatt a deliberate play on words?

  A husband’s final declaration?

  You want passion, baby, I’ll give you passion. Passion from the man you labeled passionless.

  Still, Schultz didn’t figure Wells as a killer. The deputy had gone through all the pockets of Ophelia’s coat, including the small inside slit. The slit where he had found the credit-card receipt. It wouldn’t have made sense for Wells to leave that.