Wrath in the Blood

by Ronald Watkins

  In more than one veterinarian office he was recognized and had to answer questions about the shooting. It was a long, uncomfortable day and by the time visiting hours arrived Goodnight was ready to hold Conchita's hand for the short minutes he was allowed. Her spirits were up and the nurse said she should be ready to come home in a day or two.

  When Goodnight arrived late at his house the telephone was ringing. The caller announced herself as Elizabeth Doney, a newspaper reporter. Goodnight recognized the name from that morning's article and from a message she had left previously on his answering machine.

  “I have no comment, ma'am,” he said politely.

  “I'm not calling about the shooting, Mr. Goodnight. It's something else. I understand you think Leah Swensen is alive and are conducting an investigation for the insurance company to find her. Can you confirm that?”

  “Where did you hear this?”

  She laughed lightly, sounding quite young. “I have my sources. Is it true?”

  His work with the National Insurance Crime Detection Institute had taught Goodnight to avoid publicity. The last thing an insurance company wanted was the spotlight on its investigations into possible fraud. “What is it you've been told?”

  “I have a source from a veterinarian who says you showed him the photograph of Leah Swensen and of her cat earlier today. He says you are trying to find either or both of them. I have another source who says you have reported to the insurance company that you believe Leah Swensen is alive. I think I can help you out here if you'll give this a chance. You know I'm running a story whether you talk to me or not because this is hot. But this is a time I really think publicity could be a help. Maybe someone has seen Leah Swensen.”

  Doney was right about running the story even if he stone walled her. He'd never had a good experience talking to a reporter before but he had seen how this kind of situation had developed in the past when no comment had been made. “It's true that I've reported to the insurance companies that I believe Leah Swensen is still alive and that I'm attempting to locate her. But this is all very preliminary. Publicity at this point could be disastrous. If she is alive I'm sure you wouldn't want to do anything to aid and abet her conduct.”

  “Have you talked to Jack Swensen?”

  “Yes, I saw him three days ago.”

  “And Swensen convinced you his wife's alive? Is that what happened? If that's what he thinks, why didn't he testify at his trial?”

  “You'll have to ask him that yourself. And no, he didn't persuade me his wife is alive, but he did shed some light on events that was helpful.”

  “So you think Leah Swensen staged her own death to commit insurance fraud?”

  “Not entirely. I think she did it to punish her husband first of all, and secondarily to collect a substantial insurance settlement.” The moment the words were out of his mouth he could hear the insurance company attorneys howling, but there it was.

  “How much money are we talking about?”

  “Her life was insured by three companies for four million, six hundred thousand dollars. That came out in the trial.”

  “How is Leah Swensen going to collect the money if she's supposed to be dead?”

  That was the problem with talking to reporters. They always ended up asking the wrong questions. “The beneficiary is Lana Dahl, who is identified as Leah Swensen's sister. So far I've been unable to find any record which suggests that Mrs. Swensen had a sister.”

  “So you think this Lana Dahl is really Leah Swensen?”

  “It's a possibility. I'd really rather not say anything more at this point.”

  “Just one more question. How could the police department conduct such an incompetent investigation, in your opinion?”

  “I don't think they did.”

  “But they missed the basic point, didn't they? According to you, there never was a murder. How could the detectives, let me see, Morrison and Kosack, how could they miss something so obvious?”

  “First of all it isn't all that obvious. Assuming I'm correct, Mrs. Swensen did a very clever job that fooled more people than two detectives. Second, Ruth Morrison and Tom Kosack are first class investigators who did a fine job. I've just been fortunate to stumble on information not available to them.”

  “What information is that?”

  “No comment.”

  “You can't really believe they did a good investigation, Ranger. They screwed up, right?”

  “I'm not saying that.”

  “No, but you and I both know you're thinking it.”

  ~

  The next morning Kosack was rereading the article a second time as Morrison entered the squad room. She threw her purse careening across the top of her desk in a surprising display of emotion then dropped into her chair. The other detectives in the room conspicuously busied themselves without making eye contact.

  Kosack popped an anti-acid, his third for the morning. “That fucking Ranger!” he muttered as he balled the newspaper up.

  “Watch your language, Tom.” Morrison slumped in her chair. “God, I feel low. Do you think he could be right?”

  “Hell, no! Of course he's not right! He's just trying to find some way to save his companies four and half million dollars, and if he can make us look bad in the meantime, why not? I tried to warn you about him but you wouldn't listen.”

  Morrison went to get coffee, then slowly walked back to her desk, stirring her cup as she did. “Let's assume he's right,” she said as she sat down.

  “Why? We worked that case backwards and forwards. Jack Swensen murdered his wife. Period.”

  “Goodnight knows something. Otherwise he would never have talked to this reporter.”

  “Have you ever seen Liz Doney? She looks 16 years old! I've got a daughter who looks older than her. Did you read this?” The wrinkled newspaper was spread open on his desk.

  Goodnight refused comment on the quality of the murder investigation conducted by city detectives Tom Kosack and Ruth Morrison, but sources in the County Attorney's office expressed confidence in them. However, prominent defense attorney Jerome Hozier said this would not be the first time the city's homicide squad conducted an improper and incomplete investigation.

  What the hell is that?”

  “Hozier's mad about the Frogman, that's all. We need to know what Goodnight has learned and you'll notice he didn't slam us in the paper. If he had said anything critical Doney would have jumped all over it.”

  “Saying our murder victim is alive and well, trying to collect insurance for her own murder, isn't a slam? And don't kid yourself. He's not about to tell us what he thinks he knows.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he's an asshole! That's why.”

  “If Leah Swensen's alive, if we were snookered, we need to be the first to know – not the last. I don't want to learn anything more about our investigation from the newspaper, all right? Tom, think a minute. If Ranger's right, then Paula Dinelli has been lying to us. Look how it's turned out for her. She's got the company. Then there's this business of the drive-by shooting.”

  “What business is that?”

  “If you're going to get surly I'm not going to talk to you. We have two descriptions of the car, vague but consistent in three details. Late model, four doors and one occupant. This was not your typical low-rider with four gang bangers hosing down a rival's house with automatics. This was more like a hit.”

  “Why would anyone want to kill Ranger?”

  “He's made more than his share of enemies over the years. I don't think his killing Emilio Lopez is related, that seems to be about Goodnight's new girlfriend, but we need to check it out. Tom, we weren't sent to this drive-by shooting by accident. Jackson thinks there may be a connection with the Swensen case.”

  “Mother fucking Jackson.”

  Morrison gave Kosack a grim smile. “He may very well be a mother fucker, I never asked, but he is the deputy chief of the central division and from what I recall once upon a time he wa
s a pretty good detective.”

  The telephone intercom rang and she answered it. “Yes? O.K.” Morrison hung up. “Guess who wants to see us?”

  “No-o!” Kosack buried his head in his arms.

  “Yes, indeedy. Our very own chief of police along with Clarence Jackson and I suspect when we arrive he will be joined by the County Attorney. Come, Mr. Kosack, let's go get our heads chopped off together. Try not to be too defensive.”

  ~

  Goodnight's NICDI supervisor, Al Schiffman, was on the telephone before he had finished coffee. Goodnight was reading Doney's article, amazed as ever at how the story came out.

  According to the newspaper he was bragging about how he was going to find the dead lady and show up the local cops. The last incorruptible ranger, a relic of the old West, against modern police techniques and contemporary forensic science. Where did they come up with this stuff?

  “The Associated Press has an article on line claiming you told a reporter there that Leah Swensen is still alive and you are going to prove it.”

  “I guess that's accurate enough. It's really not what I said. The reporter already had the story when she called. I tried to put a spin on it and suppress some information, but I see it didn't work. Sorry about the publicity, but there was nothing I could do to stop the story.”

  “Don't be sorry. It's too late for that. I'd suggest you not speak to any more reporters. But most of all I suggest you find Leah Swensen, before you get both our asses in a ringer.”

  “You got it.”

  “John,” Schiffman said quietly, “you can find her, can't you? I need reassurance here.”

  “I sure hope so.”

  “Damn! I was afraid you were going to say that.”

  ~

  The newspaper article made his search easier that day. Most of the veterinarian staffs had already talked about the case amongst themselves and were ready with answers before he arrived. Still, no one recalled either the cat or its mistress.

  Goodnight swung by his house for lunch and to check for messages. The tape was full of concerned citizens wanting to know what the reward was for information into the whereabouts of Leah Swensen. He didn't hear any help there, just avarice. That was about what he had expected.

  He made a sandwich he scarcely touched then decided to stick to what he was doing. He had visited 23 vet offices so far. That afternoon he went to 11 more without success. When he turned down his street just before dark he spotted the unmarked police car parked in front of his house.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The weather had at last broken for the season so Goodnight no longer maintained a pitcher of iced tea in his refrigerator. He poured himself coffee and a cup each for Morrison and Kosack then suggested they speak on the patio.

  Kosack was in a vile mood. “Where were you all day?” he demanded.

  “Working.”

  It was Morrison who opened her notebook, placing it on her lap. “I hope we can depend on your cooperation. You made some serious allegations in the newspaper this morning. I don't know why you couldn't have just brought your concerns directly to us.” Her azure eyes burned.

  “It wasn't my call, Ruth. The reporter already had the story and was going with it whether or not I spoke to her. I was intending to develop more evidence before coming to you but events got ahead of me. I'm real sorry about this.”

  Kosack grunted and scowled into his cup. Morrison gave Goodnight the fish eye. “So what is this new information you have that convinces you that Leah Swensen is alive?”

  Goodnight thought about Maria Peña and the need to protect her. “It began after I'd read the reports several times. It seemed to me that the case didn't ring true.”

  “How's a case supposed to 'ring', Ranger?” Kosack asked sarcastically. “What kind of bell does it sound like?”

  “Tom,” Morrison said without taking her eyes from Goodnight.

  Goodnight continued. “I noticed that, excluding the physical evidence, you could divide the case into halves. Everything that made Jack Swensen look guilty could have originated with his wife. He says the life insurance was her idea. She said it was his. It works either way. She told her friends about his threats and the violence against her. In the case of Kathleen Ruman it was as if she made a point to talk about it. Kathleen told me that she didn't believe her.”

  “You're forgetting about Paula Dinelli.”

  “No, I'm not. You're right about her being an exception and that's why it looks increasingly like she may be involved.”

  “Ruman's a lush,” Kosack muttered.

  “What else?” Morrison asked, ignoring her partner.

  “Leah Swensen told her friends she was a battered woman. O.K. So why are there no bruises? It's possible he never hit her where it showed, but not likely.” Adrian Lyon distinctly recalls Leah Swensen told her she was bruised on the right side of her body. Jack Swensen is right handed, not left.”

  Kosack nearly shouted. “That's it? You trash our reputations in the newspaper and that's all you've got?” He looked ready to punch Goodnight.

  “Then there's the physical evidence. The tuft of hair found in the bedroom had dust on it, as if it had been laying around waiting to be planted.”

  “Dust?” Morrison said. “I don't recall any dust in the report.”

  “The word is 'particles', but it means 'dust.' If it had been pulled from her hair that night it would be clean, but it wasn't.”

  “What else?” Morrison asked as she made a note.

  Goodnight could say nothing about old and new blood. The detectives were going to have to learn that on their own, assuming they were interested and not just engaged in a whitewash.

  “Leah Swensen had a diabetic grandmother and was used to needles. I noticed in the report she was a blood donor for the year or two before she disappeared.”

  “Was murdered, Ranger. Was murdered! She didn't disappear!” Kosack snarled.

  “My point is she could have drained off her own blood then scattered it around the bedroom. She had been watching the procedure at the blood bank and would know how to do it.”

  “Are you forgetting the blood along the wall was in the characteristic pattern of a knife attack?” Morrison asked.

  “No, I'm not. Leah Swensen read true crime books. Had for years. Many of them have photographs of such patterns, as well as descriptions of where blood would usually be pooled in a knife attack. Ever since the O.J. Simpson trial knife murders have had wide exposure.”

  “There was more than a pint of blood in that room,” Kosack snapped. “More like two, even three pints. The lady would have been so faint she'd have passed out.”

  “She drew blood several weeks earlier and kept it in a refrigerator. It takes human blood more than a month to deteriorate if kept cold. Then she drew blood Monday morning and used the two batches to create her murder scene.”

  “You're guessing. What about the arguments? Everyone heard them.” Kosack was making an attempt and was calmer now but still noticeably angry.

  “She turned her stereo onto record then goaded her husband into a fight the first time. The second fight all she did was play the tape very loud while her husband was out of the house. She did the same thing when he went to the store to call Jodi Iverson. That time she knocked around some furniture for effect. It was the shortest fight because she had to turn the tape off when she spotted her husband coming home.”

  “What about the blood and hair in her husband's Jaguar? He took that to work,” Morrison asked.

  “She pricked her finger the night before after he was in bed and left the small smear you found. She pulled some hair from her head at the same time.”

  “That's crap!” Kosack shouted. “Just crap!!”

  “There's more about the car as well. When the shop detailed Swensen's Jaguar they recorded the odometer reading.”

  “That's in our report,” Morrison said.

  “Yes, it is. Then you two recorded the reading from the car the night you ques
tioned Swensen. The car had been driven 23 miles since it was worked on. Now, Swensen went to work and back to his house on Monday. That's 22 miles. The shop where he had the work done is just a half mile from his house, so that's another mile. The store is less than a quarter mile from the house so that's a half mile.”

  Morrison paled. She lay her pen down.

  “What's that supposed to mean?” Kosack demanded.

  “The Acura was clean,” Morrison answered grimly, “and the evidence says the Jaguar was used to transport the body. But all the mileage is accounted for.”

  Kosack reddened in the face. “So someone made a mistake. It happens. The shop recorded the wrong mileage, or he took a different route to work, a shorter one.”

  Goodnight continued. “Beyond the evidence there's Leah Swensen's character. Susan Merriott, her college friend, told me that Swensen once torched a boyfriend's car because she saw him with another woman. She had a history of being vengeful. And there's the cat.”

  “Cat?” Kosack nearly shouted. “What's a cat got to do with this?”

  “Leah Swensen adored her cat. And the cat is missing. He should still be in the area, but no one has the cat. Neither of you ever saw it. I think she took him with her.”

  “That's it? Because some cat wanders off you decide this isn't murder?” Kosack slammed his coffee mug down beside him, untouched, then prowled the patio, scowling.

  “Come on, Ranger,” Morrison said. “You've got more than this. You wouldn't go out on a limb if you didn't.”

  “That's all I can tell you about.”

  “You can be subpoenaed.”

  “For what? Jack Swensen's been convicted. What case would you subpoena me in without reopening the investigation on a closed murder? Have you talked to Dinelli yet?”