by Mary Burton
‘Time to pay Mr White a visit,’ Zack said.
Jacob’s jaw tightened and released. ‘Yeah.’
The case had all the hallmarks of a domestic murder. A pending divorce. A recent fight. The method of murder. And yet Jacob’s mind kept going back to the charm. Ruth. Jacob wouldn’t be satisfied until he found out who Ruth was.
‘Stop!’
It was just past two A.M. when Kendall sat up in bed. Her heart hammered in her chest and a sheen of sweat coated her body. For a moment her eyes searched the dark room and she struggled to figure out where she was. Slowly the familiar registered with her. This was her room, her bed.
She dragged a shaking hand through her hair and glanced at the digital clock by her bed. Two twenty-one. She’d been asleep just over an hour when the nightmare had woken her.
‘Damn.’
This dream was clearer and sharper than the others.
The terrified screams of a faceless woman echoed in her ears. The unknown woman begged for mercy and spoke of love as she wept.
The woman felt the presence of Evil pacing around her like a caged animal. Unbearable fear and sadness washed over Kendall, tightening her chest, making her barely able to breathe. She touched her fingertips to her face and realized that she had been crying in her sleep.
‘This is nuts.’ Her voice sounded hoarse.
Kendall swung her legs over the side of the bed. She switched on the bedside light. ‘It’s a dream. It’s a damn dream.’
But it had been so clear, and the feelings had been so real. She swallowed and stood. The wooden floor felt cold against her bare feet. She glanced longingly back at her bed but knew her body and mind were too keyed up to sleep.
Kendall pushed her feet into her slippers. ‘This is stupid. There is enough in the daily news to keep me up but I have to dream up phantoms.’
She padded down the hallway past her roommate’s closed door, careful to be quiet. She moved down the staircase, past the parlor and the dining room, and into the kitchen in the back of the house.
She flipped on the kitchen lights, which cast an anemic glow over scarred linoleum floors, chipped counters, and dated appliances.
She picked up the white teakettle on the stove. At the sink, she switched on the water, waited as the aging pipes trickled out a weak stream, and then filled the kettle. ‘The contractor can’t arrive soon enough,’ she muttered.
She set the kettle on the stove and switched on the front electric burner, which was the only one of the four that worked. Then she put a chamomile tea bag into a porcelain cup and drummed her fingers as she waited for the water to boil.
From the kitchen window above the sink, Kendall stared into her backyard and the alley and beyond that into the darkened house behind her. It had sat empty for the last few months. The sagging real estate market and the cold winter hadn’t helped sales. It would be nice to finally have someone move in.
The teakettle whistled, snapping her out of her thoughts. She turned to the stove and poured hot water into her cup.
She sat at the kitchen table and blew on the steaming mug. The worn walnut table had belonged to her mother. It didn’t fit into the design of the new kitchen but she planned to keep it anyway. Not in the kitchen, but somewhere in the house.
When she was a kid, there were nights when she didn’t sleep well. She used to go into her parents’ room and her mother would wake instantly. Her dad would grumble and ask her what was the matter. Her mother always told him to go back to sleep, and then Kendall and her mom would go to the kitchen and share tea. At eleven or twelve, drinking tea with Mom felt like such a grown-up thing to do.
Those were some of the best times she’d shared with her mother. During those nighttime sessions they’d talk about the boys at school. They’d gossip about the neighbors. Those were the moments when Kendall felt the most secure and most tempted to broach sensitive topics.
‘I hate my hair,’ twelve-year-old Kendall complained.
Irene set her cup of steaming tea on the table. She smiled, her brown eyes neutral. They’d had this conversation before and Irene understood now that no answer would be satisfactory to Kendall. ‘I like your hair.’
Kendall groaned and glanced at her tea, heavily laced with sugar and milk. ‘You always say that.’
Irene sipped her tea. ‘But it’s stunning. Rich dark brown, thick, lush. I would have killed for hair like that at your age.’
‘I like yours. I like blond better.’ Kendall really didn’t care about hair color. She was trying to ask without asking: Who do I look like? Where do I come from? Why was I given up for adoption at the age of three?
‘The grass is always greener.’ Irene smiled stiffly, realizing instantly where this was headed. She didn’t like this topic and avoided it at all costs.
In the last year, Kendall had really zeroed in on the differences between them. Her mother was short, pale, blond and gained weight even when she walked by food. Kendall, even at twelve, was taller than her mother; her skin was olive, not pale; and her long, limber body suggested she had a lot of growing to do. Her parents liked puzzles and books. Kendall craved continued action.
Night-and-day differences weren’t the only reminders of the never discussed adoption. ‘The Gallery of Kendall,’ as her father jokingly called the dozens of framed pictures of Kendall in their house, documented all of her achievements: dance recitals, visits to Santa, even Easter egg hunts. But all the pictures were taken after Kendall had turned three. Once when a neighbor had asked about the lack of baby pictures, Irene Shaw had lied and blamed the discrepancy on a house fire that had destroyed all their pictures.
‘I wish I looked more like you,’ Kendall said, trying a different tactic.
Irene set her cup down. ‘Good heavens, why? Honey, you are stunning.’
‘Yeah, but my skin is so dark compared to yours.’
Irene frowned into her cup. Then in an about-face, she smiled brightly. ‘You know what we should do first thing in the morning? Go shopping. I saw the cutest dress that would look perfect on you.’
Her mother knew the right buttons. Her daughter, unlike her, loved pretty clothes and shoes. Shopping always distracted Kendall. However, this time the not-so-subtle evasion wasn’t lost on Kendall. She understood without hearing the words that she’d get no answers. She dropped the subject.
Later, she went to her father and asked him about her adoption. ‘You know this kind of talk upsets your mother.’
‘But why don’t we ever talk about it? Is something wrong with me? Was my birth mother some space alien freak?’
Tenderness in his eyes, he patted her on the shoulder. ‘You are perfect and don’t you ever believe different. Mom and I love you and that’s all you need to worry about.’
Her father had been dead ten years and her mother had been gone a year now. There was no one left to hurt or disappoint.
And yet Kendall hadn’t initiated a search of her birth parents and hadn’t told anyone, including Nicole, she was adopted.
Questions about her birth mother had never left her. But even as an adult, voicing questions about her birth family left her feeling disloyal and afraid.
Kendall traced the rim of her porcelain cup with the tip of her index finger. She sipped her tea.
She made her living asking questions, digging into people’s lives and turning the news into stories people enjoyed. But she couldn’t ask the most basic questions about her own past. Where had she come from? Where had she lived the first three years of her life?
Kendall rubbed her itchy eyes. The weight of it all suddenly felt so heavy on her shoulders. ‘Sleep. I desperately need sleep.’
So far she’d been able to hide the dark circles under her eyes with makeup. But soon the television cameras would betray her sleepless nights no matter how much foundation she caked on.
Rising, Kendall moved to the sink. She poured her tea down the drain, rinsed out the cup, and set it on the counter.
‘This is ridiculous. It doesn’t
matter where I came from. I had great parents and I have a great life. The past simply doesn’t matter.’
But deep inside her, she sensed that it did.
Chapter Five
Thursday, January 10, 10:12 A.M.
The last forty-eight hours had been frustrating. Jacob and Zack had tracked down Phil White’s town house, but there’d been no sign of him and neighbors reported they’d not seen him since Friday morning. They’d learned from his boss at the cable company that he was on vacation, but no one seemed to know where he’d gone or how to reach him.
Interviewing Jackie White’s church friends and coworkers had been just as elusive. She was an intensely private woman, and though all seemed to like her no one really knew much about her. Her cell phone records, bank statements, and credit report showed nothing out of the ordinary.
Jacob had gotten a call from the medical examiner’s office this morning. Jackie White’s autopsy was happening today.
As Jacob and Zack strode into the medical examiner’s office, Jacob felt himself tensing. Death was a part of his job but he didn’t like this place. The tile floor. The chrome. The smell. The place had an eerie feeling that he’d never grown comfortable with.
‘God, I hate the smell of this place,’ Zack muttered.
Jacob inhaled through his mouth. ‘I hear ya.’
The detectives pushed through the double doors into the autopsy room. The tile floor had a drain in the center. Adjustable lights hung over five different chrome examining tables, all of which were empty except the one where Dr Alex Butler stood.
Dr Butler was young, not much older than thirty. He was tall, lean and had a thick stock of blond hair cut into a crew cut. Blue eyes reflected intelligence. He’d finished medical school at age twenty and some called him Doogie Howser. He’d spent several years working in Hawaii for the federal government helping to identify the remains of missing U.S. servicemen. He had become an expert known worldwide and could have worked anywhere.
Dr Butler turned and glanced at his gloved hands. ‘Detectives Warwick and Kier. I’d shake your hand, but …’
‘No problem, Dr Butler,’ Jacob said. It felt odd calling the guy doctor. He didn’t look old enough to drive. ‘What do you have?’
‘I’m glad you arrived before I finished.’ Dr Butler stepped aside and Jackie White’s nude body came into view. Her chest was open via the coroner’s signature Y-cut. Her vital organs had been removed. Her hair was brushed off her face.
Zack expelled a breath.
Jacob clenched his teeth, determined to view the body as nothing more than evidence.
Dr Butler looked nonplussed over the woman lying on the metal table behind him. This was business as usual to him.
‘What can you tell us?’ Jacob’s voice sounded rusty. Already he was anxious to get out of the room.
‘Strangulation was the cause of death.’ He took the victim’s head and turned her face away from them, exposing her pale neck, marred by finger bruises on both sides. ‘As you can see by the bruising he used both hands. Also, the hyoid bone was broken, as is common in the case of hanging and strangulation. When the bone breaks, asphyxiation occurs.’
Jacob’s impatience rose. Dr Butler was detailing what they’d already suspected. ‘What’s special about this case?’
‘The killer had to have been a powerful person. Her larynx was nearly crushed. And it appears he strangled her from behind. See the finger marks? They point forward.’
Dr Butler moved to the body’s raw wrists. He lifted her arm. ‘These marks were made over several days. She was trying to get loose. There are also rub marks on her ankles and at the base of her spine.’
‘The spine?’ Jacob asked.
Dr Butler rested his hands on his hips. ‘My guess is that the killer tied her to a straight-backed chair with sturdy arms. The hard chair back would have rubbed into her skin after a couple of days. Also notice the lividity – these purplish, red marks.’ When death occurred blood settled at the lowest portion of the body. ‘The markings occur in her feet, the underside of her forearms, and her backside, suggesting she was sitting after she died.’
‘Lividity doesn’t happen for at least thirty minutes,’ Jacob said.
Dr Butler nodded. ‘But hers is so dark I think the killer kept her tied to the chair for at least three to four hours.’
The killer had kept her dead body with him. Why? ‘When do you think she died?’ Jacob asked.
‘Her liver temp was forty degrees. That’s a drop of fifty-nine degrees. Assuming she lost a degree and a half per hour, and it was a constant thirty degrees outside, I’d say she’s been dead roughly forty hours.’
‘Death occurred roughly around six p.m. on Sunday?’ Zack asked.
Dr Butler nodded. ‘Give or take.’
Jacob checked his notes. The timeline he’d been able to establish so far didn’t fit what Dr Butler was telling him. ‘We stopped by the victim’s office yesterday. The office manager said White e-mailed in on Sunday morning and said she’d have to take Monday off.’
Dr Butler shook his head. ‘That doesn’t fit what I’ve found. If I had to guess, I’d say she was restrained on Saturday.’
‘So the killer sent the e-mails?’ Zack speculated.
‘Maybe,’ Jacob said.
‘Signs of sexual assault?’ Zack asked.
Dr Butler shook his head. ‘None. And frankly, I was expecting it. Preliminary tox screens show that she was loaded with barbiturates.’
‘Like a date-rape drug?’
Dr Butler nodded. ‘That was my thought. The drug would have made her pliable.’ He turned the inside of the victim’s pale arm upward. Needle marks peppered the points around her blue-green veins. ‘This was done over a couple of days.’
‘How long before we know what was injected into her?’ Zack asked.
‘A couple of weeks.’
‘And there’s a possibility she did this to herself?’ Jacob challenged.
‘I don’t think so.’ Dr Butler shook his head. ‘That’s why I opened her up. Her heart was a normal weight and size, as was her liver. Have a look.’
Jacob braced and leaned forward.
Zack held up his hand. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’
Dr Butler shrugged. ‘This woman took very good care of herself. Good weight, firm muscles, healthy heart, no signs of cigarette smoking in the lungs. Good teeth. She did not use drugs.’
Jacob flexed his fingers. For an instant his gaze darted to the victim’s pale, still face. He thought about the picture taken of her last Halloween. Smiling. Vibrant. Alive. ‘So how the hell does she end up tied to a chair, loaded full of drugs, strangled, and dumped like yesterday’s garbage?’
‘Have you talked to her husband yet?’ Dr Butler asked. ‘The majority of the women I see murdered are killed by someone they know.’
Zack put his hands in his pockets and rattled the change. ‘We’re still looking for him.’
Tess pushed through the doors to the autopsy room. Her tight frown mimicked her brother’s. Her long dark hair was tied back. She wore khakis and a dark shirt. Dark circles smudged the delicate skin under her eyes, a sign she’d been up last night working on this case. ‘Your office said I could find you here. I had to be down here anyway and thought I’d be able to catch you.’
The doctor’s gaze darted to Tess. For just an instant, he stared before looking away.
Zack nodded to his sister. ‘Did you find anything unusual on the body?’
She opened the file in her hands. ‘There wasn’t much. But I did find carpet fibers on the left side of her coat.’
‘The left side?’ Dr Butler asked.
Tess shrugged. ‘As if she’d been dragged over the carpet.’
The doctor nodded. ‘Explains the hint of rash on her left arm.’
‘What can you tell us about the fibers?’ Jacob asked.
Tess glanced at her notes. ‘Standard-grade carpet. Very new. And they were pink.’
�
��Pink?’ Zack and Jacob had searched the victim’s premises late into the night, along with another member of the forensics team, who had sealed the house indefinitely. ‘When we went through her house there was no sign of pink.’
Zack nodded. ‘Beige, browns, and antique whites. No color at all.’
‘Has her car been found yet?’ Tess asked.
‘No,’ Jacob said. ‘But her boss reported that it was a black Jetta, beige interior, Virginia plates.’
Tess flipped through her notes. ‘There was no skin under her nails. No chemicals on her clothes. No fingerprints on her belt buckle.’
Jacob’s cell phone vibrated on his hip. He glanced at the number. ‘Excuse me.’ He walked to the corner of the room and flipped open the phone. ‘Warwick.’
He listened as the patrolman assigned to White’s house reported that Phil White had returned home minutes ago. ‘Good. Make sure he doesn’t leave.’ He glanced at Zack. ‘The husband is home.’
Zack nodded. ‘Let’s go.’
*
‘Brett, I just got an anonymous text message. The sender tells me he knows the name of the dead woman found by the river,’ Kendall said as she poked her head in his office.
He lifted his gaze from Wednesday night’s copy. ‘What’s her name?’
She flicked the edge of the sticky note in her hand with her index finger. She’d received tips like this before but they always left her questioning the sender’s agenda. ‘According to my source her name is Jackie White. I did a quick check and found that she lives on Mayberry Drive and is a secretary at Trainer Engineering. Thirty-eight years old. Separated.’ Ferreting out facts quickly was her specialty. She handed him the note.
Brett glanced at the address of Jackie’s employer and her home address. He checked his watch. ‘Both places are close. You could make it by both locations before deadline if you hustle. We have five hours to air.’
‘I want to talk to the husband.’
He seemed pleased by her assertiveness. ‘Go for it. Where’s Mike?’
She smiled, pleased with herself. ‘Outside warming up the van.’
