by Warren Adler
As if to professionalize the idea, she actually called his office to determine whether or not her suspicion had any merit at all. There was always the possibility that he was on some extended vacation in some distant land, which would knock any presumption of guilt into a cocked hat.
The Supreme Court was in session and Justice Lipscomb was very much in evidence. It was, in fact, only two weeks past the second Monday in October. She did not give the receptionist her name.
"Phyla Herbert," Gail began with a crisp economy of language and presention. "Caucasian, twenty-four years old. Recent graduate of University of Chicago Law School. Apparently a whiz kid. Magna Cum Laude. Phi Beta Kappa. Law Review. Father with a prestigious law firm. Mother died when she was a teenager. She came to town Thursday night for a series of interviews. Met with people Friday at the Justice Department, Interior, the Energy Department. Also had scheduled appointments on Capitol Hill with two Illinois congressmen. Also had interviews set tomorrow and was scheduled to head home on Wednesday."
Gail paused for a moment and looked up, possibly to reassure herself of the chief's full attention, which was quickly confirmed. "Based upon Flannagan's assessment, the victim probably died late Saturday night. The rooms on either side of hers were not booked through the weekend. None of the other guests we managed to track down who were booked into rooms further down the corridor heard any uncommon sounds worth mentioning. She never used room service."
"Flannagan get anything more?" the Eggplant asked.
"Reports should be coming in shortly," Gail said.
"Did we get a modus operandi match?" the Eggplant asked. Gail turned to look at Fiona.
"Nothing of significance, Captain. A few open cases in southern Virginia, but they are prostitute kills, a completely different formula."
"Next-of-kin notified?"
"Afraid so," Gail sighed. "Always the worst part. The father is flying in from Chicago. I must warn you. He is very angry."
Ignoring the comment, the Eggplant fired a question at Fiona.
"Autopsy results?"
"Coming," Fiona said.
Earlier she had talked to Dr. Benson, whose caseload on this Monday was extraordinary. As she had known, he was going to do the job himself. The Herbert woman and the crime that had destroyed her fit into the category of a "must do" for him. His forensic detective work was an essential first step in bringing the perpetrator of such a crime to justice.
"There's more," Gail said with a sideward glance at Fiona, who nodded her permission.
"The father will be a problem. Apparently he put lots of muscle into arranging his daughter's foray into town. All of the interviews came down from the top. Thomas Herbert, as I've discovered, cuts a wide swath through Washington, official and nonofficial. He's one of those political power brokers, well connected to both parties."
The Eggplant shook his head with disgust.
"That's exactly what we need," the Eggplant said. "More pressure from the top."
"I'm sorry," Gail said. "But I thought you ought to know."
"I appreciate your concern, Officer Prentiss," the Eggplant said, with more resignation that sarcasm. "What other joyful news do you bring?"
Gail, not quite knowning how to interpret his comment, offered a half-smile.
"I spoke briefly to all the people she interviewed with. Just preliminary interviews. Two of the people were women. Strangers. The one at Justice was a man. A young hotshot, Phelps Barker. Father is a physician friend of Mr. Herbert's. He grew up with the victim."
"What was his reaction?"
"Shook up. We're seeing him tomorrow." She looked toward Fiona, who nodded. She felt an acute sense of irony, wondering if all the shoe-leathering and interviewing would, in the end, be merely red herrings, detours on the road to Farley Lipscomb. But one factor was obvious; their investigation would take them hopscotching along the "golden power grid."
At her father's knee, Fiona had learned what was meant by "the golden power grid." They were the connecting links through which the power flowed, not unlike the way electricity was distributed. People who were connected to people who were connected to people who made things happen.
They would be crisscrossing the circuitry that led through connectors of wealth and privilege, through corporations and law firms, country clubs, pockets of society connections, through interlocking political power links. They were all hooked together seamlessly along the grid. The energy generated along this grid pumped out rewards to those who knew the complex circuitry and how to move through it without being electrocuted.
Her father had once been part of it, and although he had finally been cast out of the net, Fiona had continued to maintain a connection to it through her childhood contacts. She was a well-accepted asset on the "A list" Washington social scene, a position she continued to cultivate. In her social circles, her profession was considered more exotic than déclassé, and her subtle knowledge of the grid structure gave her a special cachet.
She also had the means and the venue, her lovely house in prestigious Spring Valley, which she often threw open for a small dinner party or a larger cocktail bash, a necessary ritual to continue her level of acceptance on the social scene.
The Eggplant had no illusions about what he was up against when an investigation spilled into the power grid. Thomas Herbert, Fiona knew, would arrive like a bull in a china shop. Grief and outrage are powerful stimulants and he would use whatever muscle he could muster to light a fire under the investigation, a process that always resulted in more heat than light.
"Theories?" the Eggplant asked, shooting a glance at Fiona, who diverted her eyes momentarily, then forced herself to stand up to the question.
"So far, only the obvious," Fiona said, clearing her throat, trying to keep her voice from wavering. "The woman was probably consensual at first."
She felt Gail's sudden movement, the body language of disagreement. Earlier, she had not found the courage to broach the subject with her partner.
"The man was obviously experienced in this type of sexual behavior." Fiona pointed to a photograph on the Eggplant's desk. "Note the proficiency of the knots that held her extremities. For this type of execution, the woman had to be docile and consenting."
"You think so?" Gail said cautiously. "I would have thought just the opposite."
"It's only a theory, Gail," Fiona said gently. "My guess is that he got her to allow him to immobolize her."
"You mean she allowed this psychopath to put her in this position. Look at the result."
"I don't believe she knew the full extent of what he was doing, where it was leading. Perhaps she had done this with him before." She felt her voice weaken and she coughed to mask the condition.
"My God," Gail said. "Look at those stab wounds."
"Doing that was probably the way he achieved orgasm."
"You don't think there was penetration?" Gail asked. Fiona avoided her gaze.
"We'll have to wait on that for the results of the autopsy," Fiona said.
She wanted to add more, like being certain that the woman's anus had been violated by some mechanical device that had caused bleeding. In her brief, very brief assessment of the body, she had noted the condition, masked by the blood that had cascaded over the body from the stab wounds.
"Why do you reject coercion, Fiona?" Gail asked diplomatically, obviously careful to show the proper humility of a junior. "Isn't it possible that her assailant had a gun or, most certainly, a knife that he would have used to terrorize her and make her do his bidding?"
"Oh, I didn't rule that out completely," Fiona admitted. "There were no obvious signs of a struggle and the neatness of her discarded clothes indicated that she might have taken them off with some care. She did have interviews scheduled for Monday. And from the way her clothes were arranged in the closet, she seemed rather fastidious."
"You have a point," Gail said, without rancor. Fiona could tell that she was not convinced.
"Also, note that the
clothes were not exactly casual for a daytime Saturday. A pair of jeans was hanging in the closet, which indicates that Flannagan's eyeball assessment of late Saturday night or early Sunday morning is on the money. She might have met someone or had a prearranged date with someone she had known." Fiona paused, choosing her words carefully, wondering if her subconscious was guiding her along a single path. "Or was a friend of the family."
"Some friend," the Eggplant muttered, his gaze washing over the picture.
Gail shrugged, as if she were unsure whether to challenge any of the assumptions in Fiona's theory. It was, Fiona knew, a deduction based upon her own experience. She had arranged her clothes neatly on the chair beside her when she had been ordered by Farley to undress.
"Do you really believe that someone as intelligent as Phyla Herbert could be talked into being a willing participant in this..." Gail began, then broke off the sentence and shook her head. It was obvious that such behavior was not in the range of Gail's experience. Indeed, Fiona realized, Gail would, no doubt, be astonished at the extent of the practice.
"Surely we can't discount that possibility, Gail," Fiona said patiently.
"I suppose we're too early in the game to discount any possibility," Gail replied, but without conviction.
"Are you theorizing that the perpetrator was someone she knew?" the Eggplant asked, obviously taking Fiona's theory with more seriousness than Gail.
"Maybe." She shot Gail a conciliatory glance. "We haven't accounted for all of her contacts, particularly in the evenings. Thursday, Friday or Saturday. Since her father was well connected, she might have attended a dinner or cocktail party thrown by mutual friends or business associates."
Fiona paused, watching Gail's reaction, pondering an idea that had suddenly jumped into her mind. Considering Gail's background, it would take a leap of faith for her to believe that a brilliant and well brought up woman like Phyla Herbert could associate with someone who got his kicks in this manner.
Gail, too, was the daughter of privilege and power. Having lived in Washington most of her life, Fiona was aware of the mores of the black hierarchy that had dominated black society in Washington for more than a hundred years.
This was a group more class conscious and tightly controlled than any society of privilege anywhere. Dominated by their own inter-connections and well-forged old family links, they were elitist, educated and successful. Fiona was certain that Gail had been a debutante in a "coming out" event that was one of the great seasonal traditions of this proud, prestigious, super-achieving and self-segregated group.
It was also a society known for its religious fervor and strict moralistic traditions. Church was part of its culture. It was only natural that Gail might reject the notion that Phyla Herbert knew her assailant. In an odd way Phyla might be, despite the racial difference, one of Gail's crowd.
"I'm not saying it's not possible," Gail said. "Anything is possible." She shook her head. "What you're also saying is that she was predisposed to participate in this disgusting perversion."
"It happens," Fiona said. "We all have our vulnerabilities." Had she gone too far? Was she actually trying to create the impression that there was a kind of normality in such a practice? Perhaps even justify her own past participation?
"I wonder," Gail said, with a smile to take the sting out of her rejection of Fiona's theory.
"When it comes to sex," Fiona said boldly, returning the smile, "people have their dirty little secrets."
Gail shrugged, leaving Fiona with the impression that Gail probably did not have any dirty little sex secrets.
Fiona sensed the Eggplant watching this byplay, his head swiveling from one to the other as if he were watching a tennis match. He was surprisingly quiet and intent.
"We've certainly seen enough of it in this business," he said. "Hard to figure how people get their jollies."
Gail frowned and shrugged and made no comment. But Fiona was not yet willing to let go of the subject.
"On the other hand, if she had just met this person, hadn't known him before, he might have sensed in her such a predisposition," Fiona said.
"You think that's possible?"
"Birds of a feather," Fiona said.
"Out of my realm of experience," Gail admitted. It seemed to signal a kind of retreat.
"There's still other scenarios," Fiona said cautiously, aware of her deliberate manipulation. "Take this one. Phyla is out with some silver-tongued, awesomely important man, who can truly help her career. She's bright, ambitious, perhaps 'All About Eve' ambitious. She consents to go to bed with the man. Maybe is even more aggressive than that. She invites the man to go to bed with her. She consents to go along with his ... with his brand of kink. It gets out of hand. Voila."
"I don't know," Gail said, shaking her head. "It seems ... well ... considering her education and class ... culturally out of sync."
There it was, Fiona decided. The heart of Gail's reticence. It was still too early in their relationship to have any real insight about Gail Prentiss. But Fiona felt she had come a long way in only one day. She realized, too, that she would have to be extremely guarded in providing any sisterly revelations, especially of the kind that had been filling her mind all day.
Fiona noted that the Eggplant had nodded his head after Gail had made her point. It was clear that he was deeply impressed by her and Fiona was certain that the racial kinship was a source of pride to him in a father-daughter sort of way. It struck her then that, despite the physical awesomeness of Gail Prentiss, she seemed to radiate a tenderness and warmth that was often absent in upwardly mobile career cops, black or white. It was a surprise to her that the Eggplant's attitude toward her also seemed warmer, as if he felt more comfortable with her than with most women, including Fiona.
Yet despite her own kindly feelings about Gail, Fiona did sense in herself a twinge of jealousy. And regret. What Gail had was inborn and uncontrived, a soothing force embedded in her own nature. Fiona generated heat wherever she alighted. Gail had the gift of relating.
"Perhaps the Herbert woman let ambition rule her better judgment," Fiona speculated further, but without conviction.
"That's a tough one, Fiona," Gail said.
"That's why I'm inclined to stand by consensual," Fiona said, coming back to that again, wondering if she was, in her desire to plant the idea in their minds, overstating.
"I'm not there yet, Fiona," Gail said. In her own way she was as relentless as Fiona.
Fiona tried to appear laid back, as if she had merely voiced casual speculations.
"Sexual perversion is a very complex subject," Fiona said, pushing ahead, like a bulldozer preparing the road before the asphalt was poured. She hoped she had assumed a pedagogic air. "I'm inclined to believe that people who practice specific perversions, in this case, bondage, sadism, masochism or whatever, know enough of the code words to find and communicate with each other."
"Her father may not appreciate that kind of analysis," the Eggplant said. "I would appreciate it, FitzGerald, if you didn't make my life more difficult for me than it is."
"Believe me, Chief," Fiona sighed, "we'll walk on eggshells with the man." She glanced toward Gail, who nodded.
"I'm glad you understand that, Sergeant," the Eggplant said.
"But I'm not ready to deny the theory. Not yet."
Enough, Fiona rebuked herself.
"Just bring me the killer and an airtight case," the Eggplant said, standing up. It was his way of announcing that the meeting was over. "And keep me apprised."
He was remarkably taciturn for a man beset by problems at every turn. Fiona wondered if the pressure of the job was making him lose his edge.
"I still feel she was coerced," Gail said, when they left the Eggplant's office, revealing the obsessive durability of her logic. Fiona decided that it was not the time to totally challenge her thesis. Not yet.
There was a subtext here, Fiona knew. The Eggplant had to be pleased with his decision to pair two women to
investigate crimes against women. In this pairing, Fiona suspected that the Eggplant had been more lucky than prescient.
He might have expected bickering, backbiting, hysterics and emotion to surface quickly in such a relationship, maybe even a down-and-dirty cat fight. Perhaps he wanted an example that might offer a vital comment that mirrored his opinion about women in a police setting, especially in the homicide environment.
The fact was that he was getting something exactly opposite to his expectations and he seemed, inexplicably, to be reveling in it, a condition that meant he was on the verge of taking credit for introducing what others might think was a brilliant idea.
Despite their different vantage points, both she and Gail were viewing the crime through the eyes of the victim, which was the object of the exercise. On that score Fiona seemed to have the advantage. After all, she'd been there.
As Fiona expected, Flannagan's tech boys found a plethora of potential "clues" and a sparse collection of latent prints. A place of transiency, like a hotel room, was a difficult place to pinpoint a perpetrator through circumstantial evidence. Remnants of human hair, as well as other signs of successive human occupation, were everywhere.
Then there was the time-and-motion pressure on the tech boys. In the murder capital of the world, they were vastly overworked and it was impossible for anyone in the chain-of-evidence identification process to be as thorough as homicide detectives would have liked.
"I'm afraid there won't be much to go on here," Fiona said, handing the report to Gail. Fiona expressed her disappointment, although it provided yet another addition to her theory. Farley Lipscomb, a former prosecutor in his early days, would have the know-how to be quite scrupulous in removing evidence, wiping down the room carefully to eliminate everything but the most microscopic clues.
"There still might be some latents," Gail said hopefully.
