“Here it is,” Tiffany said, as she removed a square, flat cardboard box from her duffel bag. She stood and handed it to me. “Apple donuts. Marybeth gave them to me a couple of days ago to bring to you.”
Marybeth knew my weakness for the apple donuts made by a specific apple orchard outside of Rockford. She had sent some with Tiffany on her last trip as well. I took the box and stared at it. My nose tingled.
“Thanks,” I said, opening the box.
“I froze them yesterday, then packed the box. I hope they’ll be alright.”
The donuts were firm, but no longer frozen. “They’ll be fine.” The tingling in my nose was receding, and I turned my head into the wind to help dry my eyes. After a short moment, I turned back to Tiffany. “I’ll keep them in the fridge and when I want one, zap it a few seconds in the microwave. They’ll be perfect. Thanks.”
She put her hand on my shoulder. “You’re welcome. Oh, and Bill and Marybeth said they send you their love.”
Before my eyes could water again, I ushered Tiffany toward the bar for a beer.
Lester arrived with the rental as Tiffany and I returned, both of us sipping on Brights. Small pickup trucks were popular with dive tourists visiting Bonaire because the open bed made for easy loading and transporting of gear. Lester and Tiffany rented one from a place called Abby’s Seaside Truck Rental. Abby’s vehicles had ocean creatures painted on the tailgate.
Tiffany’s shoulders slumped when she saw the truck. “Crap. We got a seahorse. I asked for a turtle.”
Patting her on the shoulder, I said, “Yeah, but what a pretty seahorse it is.” She laughed and leaned against me for a moment.
Lester hadn’t gotten out and honked the horn. “Let’s go,” he yelled out the window.
Breaking it off with Tiffany, I walked to the Wrangler and got in behind the wheel. Tiffany got in on the passenger side.
“Shouldn’t you be riding with Lester, your boyfriend?”
“I guess not. He’s the one who said I should ride with you.”
I looked at her a moment, eventually shrugged, and pulled out of the parking lot.
Along the way, Tiffany talked about her two-year-old son, Ozzie. She said he was doing well and that her folks were watching him so that she could make the trip to Bonaire. I’d never asked Tiffany who Ozzie’s father was, figuring if she wanted me to know, she’d tell me. Unlike Bill and Marybeth, I had never met Ozzie.
We entered the office at the YellowRock, and Tiffany scurried over to Erika’s desk and they hugged. As Tiffany introduced Erika to Lester, I took a beer from the fridge and sat with my feet propped on my desk. Erika went through the mechanics of registering Tiffany and Lester and getting them squared away with keys and such. Lester had a litany of questions, and Erika showed great tolerance in answering them. I might not have been so patient.
After a few moments, and a short hug with Tiffany, I bolted up the stairs to my apartment, anticipating a freshly microwaved apple donut.
CHAPTER 7
I CHECKED EMAIL on the computer in my apartment, and one of them was from Penn. Larry David had come through much earlier than expected. Not sure how he did it and I didn’t care.
I moved the cursor over Penn’s email but didn’t click it open. Not right away. I hesitated, knowing what the photos would show. What I might see. This email was likely most, if not all, of the information Traverso’s team had on the case and could tell me a lot. My hand shook as I clicked the mouse.
The first of six attachments was labeled REPORT. The Rockford Police Department used a standard reporting form to record the facts, listed in chronological order, regarding the investigation of the case. The structure changed as deemed necessary by supervisors and management, who came and went every few years or so. This form was similar to the one I had used before my retirement and contained the same facts, albeit in a different layout.
Sections for a date, time, and incident-type told me nothing new; it matched the information from Traverso. Penn included an audio attachment of the 9-1-1 call made to the station.
“Anonymous call. We couldn’t trace it so probably a burner phone,” Traverso had said.
I played the recording, all four seconds of it. Two dead bodies at Bill Ryberg’s house. You figure out the address. It sounded like a man’s voice, thick with no discernable accent. Not that of a harried friend or neighbor who happened to discover the bodies. The caller had a steady, almost clocklike cadence, every word pronounced and delivered with precision. I played it several times and couldn’t detect the caller making any attempt to disguise or mask his voice.
“No witnesses, of course,” Traverso had said, so the report didn’t include any witness statements.
As far as anyone knew, nothing was missing and no sign of forced entry. Nothing new—Traverso had mentioned all of this.
The report concluded with a disposition of Active, Open, which told me the department was actively working the case. The next step, currently in progress, was to canvass the neighborhood for statements or additional information and wait for completion of the link analysis process.
Penn included an attachment containing the crime scene sketch, a rough drawing made by an on-scene detective, as opposed to a detailed description—or scale sketch—created later by a draftsman. Well done, a sketch could be more descriptive than hundreds of words and was a crucial investigative aid. It showed the location of doors, windows, furniture, plants, room sizes, distances, and everything else in the vicinity of the crime scene.
In this situation, though, even a spectacular sketch would be of limited use to me. Not from lack of information or any flaw in the drawing, but because of how well I knew the crime scene and vicinity.
I’d been to the Ryberg home countless times and knew the room sizes and locations of all the doors and windows. The walls were yellow, the trim white, and the kitchen wallpaper above the cabinets faded and peeling. Pictures of distant family and friends lined the hallway. A bathroom light switch was installed upside down—toggle down for on; toggle up for off. Because the fridge door stuck shut, an extra nudge was needed to open it and grab a beer. Bill often joked about his right arm being stronger than his left based on the sheer number of times he had opened the refrigerator.
The only information I’d be able to glean from this sketch was the location and position of the victims—the spot where Bill and Marybeth fell.
I opened the attachment.
On the floor in the kitchen, in front of the fridge with the sticky door, were the outlines of two bodies. An M labeled one shape, and the other had an F. There was an X on the head portion of both, indicating headshots. The M structure overlaid the upper part of the F one. Bill was lying on top of Marybeth’s torso. In death, as in life, they were together.
I closed the attachment. It couldn’t tell me anything more.
For now, I skipped the attachment labeled BODIES and opened the one labeled SCENE. These were long-range shots of the Rybergs’ road, street signs, the exterior of the house from all sides, the neighbors’ houses, along with their front and back yards. The attachment included a series of 3D color-enhanced interior photos that echoed the crime scene sketch, showing the doors, windows, picture-laden hallway, kitchen area, and dinette table. A coffee mug and an open newspaper lay on the table.
A series of overlapping photos was used to establish the scale and dimension of the crime scene, creating a panoramic effect with a focus on the dinette and kitchen area where the bodies were found.
None of the photos revealed any useful information. The images were all too familiar—Bill and Marybeth’s home. On any given day, I could’ve taken the shots.
Except for one.
One photo caught my attention. It was a close-up shot of the newspaper on the table, opened to the used truck classifieds section. One of the ads was circled in dark red and read “Four-wheel drive. Call Bill.” The words “Four-wheel drive” were double underlined in red, but not the same red as the circle. Whereas
the ring was thicker and less defined, the double underline was precise, like a fine-point pen. The intent was clear, though, to highlight the ad.
The ad didn’t give a phone number, nor was there a make and model of vehicle. No description of the condition or the miles, year, or anything else that might entice a person to call.
Bill had a small pickup, but I couldn’t remember whether it was a four-wheel drive. Could be the newspaper messed up. Maybe Bill had checked the ad, caught the errors, and circled it as a reminder to call and have it corrected.
After studying the photo and considering the ad for a while longer, I moved on to the coroner’s report.
More precisely, Penn had sent the preliminary coroner’s report. The coroner would issue the final statement after completion of the autopsies. This initial report, written early in the investigation, contained mostly routine data such as the estimated time of death, cause, victims’ names, and their locations.
The cause of death, listed as a gunshot wound, or GSW, surprised me. Listed beside the GSW was the notation .357 MAG. Ballistics could never be so precise. The only way to determine it had been a .357 was to have the weapon.
I looked at the crime scene sketch again. The table was sketched out, surrounded by four chairs. Sketched on the table was a rectangle with the letters NP, and near the NP were the letters CM. The NP and CM corresponded to the newspaper and coffee mug shown sitting on the table in the photos I had seen earlier. On the sketch of the table, near the CM, was the letter G. I couldn’t remember anything from the images that a G might represent.
I reopened the attachment labeled SCENE and paged through the photos looking for the one of the dinette table. It showed the newspaper and a coffee mug, but no other section of the table. Nothing showing its entirety, just the one showing part of it.
G could have stood for gun and would have made sense. They’d need the gun to list the GSW as a .357 Magnum. I made a note to ask Penn about that and the ad.
I dreaded the last attachment the most, the one labeled BODIES. Stalling for time, I went to the microwave and zapped another apple donut. My hand trembled. Before sitting back at the desk, I stood over the laptop, staring at the screen.
The attachment had two dozen photos of Bill and Marybeth lying on the kitchen floor in their own blood. The pictures showed multiple angles and various distances. All the photos contained the same subject matter—the dead bodies of my friends.
I clicked through at a steady pace—slow enough to get a sense of what was in the frame, but quick enough not to dwell on them. Bill and I hadn’t seen one another since my retirement, and neither of us were Facebook types, nor did we send a lot of photos back and forth, so I was surprised at how much grayer and thinner his hair had become. Marybeth had emailed me a picture of her and Bill from a few years ago, an anniversary or birthday party or something. Comparing that photo and the one taken at the crime scene, it appeared Bill might’ve put on a few pounds since then, even with his healthier lifestyle.
Criticizing a friend’s appearance based on photos of his dead body was cold, but I chalked it up to a weird, internal defense mechanism on my part, something deep inside my psyche trying desperately to convince me none of this was real. Create as much distance as possible.
I rapidly clicked through the pictures of Marybeth’s face and head. She had taken pride in her appearance and always looked her best for Bill. Crime scene photos weren’t a fair way to remember her.
None of these photographs should’ve caught me off guard. I was a cop and had seen this stuff before. But the last one was the kicker, the one that jolted me. I’d seen the sketch of the crime scene and knew it to be a representation of Bill and Marybeth’s bodies.
But a sketch and a photograph are two different things.
I froze and gasped at the same time. I stood and paced the floor a few moments, using my sleeve to wipe a tear before continuing.
The photo was from the front at a forty-five-degree angle with the intent to show the upper portions of their bodies. It showed Bill and Marybeth the way they had fallen. He was on top of her from the waist up, his legs twisted, sticking out at a strange angle. Their faces—what remained of them—were in the center of the frame.
The focus and detail were good. Too good.
I put my elbows on the table and rested my chin in the palms of my hands with my fingers over my cheeks and stared at the picture. Not sure how long I held that position, but long enough for my donut to begin to go stale.
How had things come to this? Two friends lost to murder. Two friends I’d never see or talk to again.
I touched the screen, moving my fingers along the edges of their faces several times. Finally, with a deep sigh and feeling as if I were saying goodbye, I closed the attachment.
CHAPTER 8
TIFFANY AND I had agreed that she and Lester would rendezvous with me midmorning the next day, load our gear into my Wrangler, and head to the dock to do their first scuba dive. They arrived later than we had planned, but “midmorning” on Bonaire is very ambiguous. Setting the clock to Island Time is almost automatic.
Strange, and maybe out of place, diving less than forty-eight hours after learning of Bill and Marybeth, but I hoped the dive would be a diversion from all the questions bouncing through my head. Still wasn’t sure how—or when—to tell Tiffany. Telling her needed to be done, but right now didn’t seem right, although I didn’t know what “right” would feel like. Or when it would come.
Packed in a mesh bag, most of my gear sat in the same area of the Wrangler as Tiffany and Lester’s. My swim fins were too large to fit in the bag, so I had laid them alongside. They were oversized, purchased several years ago in a drunken state of testosterone-fueled machoism. If needed, the larger size provided additional power, thus speed, underwater.
Tiffany placed a hand on one of my fins. “Nice fins,” she said.
“I can chase down a dolphin with those monsters,” I said.
“Yeah, right.” Her eyes widened. “But it’d be cool to try.”
“What about oxygen tanks?” Lester asked.
Tiffany elbowed Lester in the ribs. “They’re not oxygen tanks,” she said.
Lester rolled his eyes. “What fucking ever,” he said.
Tiffany was correct, and Lester’s question—not to mention his attitude—gave me pause. An experienced diver wouldn’t refer to them as oxygen tanks. The tanks contained air, not oxygen. Two different gases.
“Jan has those on the boat. All included with the price,” I said.
We piled into the Wrangler and headed for the pier.
“How’s the nose?” I asked Lester.
“Fine,” he said with a shrug. “No different than yesterday.”
“Remember, the nose plays an important part in scuba. As we descend in the water, the pressure on your ears will increase. To help clear the pressure—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Scuba 101,” Lester said.
I sighed and tried again. “When you pinch your nose and try to breathe through it to clear the pressure, signal me if you have any problems. We don’t want any trouble, especially on your first dive.”
Tiffany placed a hand on Lester’s shoulder. “I’ll be there, too. If you need help, let me know.”
Lester brushed her hand away. “I’ll be fine, for God’s sake.” He tried to pinch his nose, his hand jerking away like he had touched a hot plate. Under his breath, I heard, “Shit.”
We parked in the gravel alongside the road near one of the northern piers. Jan stood on the shore-end of the dock waving, a massive smile on his sun-wrinkled face. Over the years, Jan’s skin had developed an all-over honey-brown color, which brought out the blue of his eyes.
He wore an untucked white button-down shirt with the sleeves cut off and a pair of red, knee-length swim shorts. His white beachcomber hat was wrinkled, stained with salt, and pulled low on his head to keep from being blown off. No shoes, sandals, or flip-flops. Ever.
I heaved the me
sh bag over my shoulder and grabbed my fins. Tiffany and Lester grabbed their gear, and we marched toward the dock and Jan’s outstretched hand.
“Good to see you, my friend,” he said, slapping me on the shoulder.
After I introduced Tiffany to Jan, he proceeded to give her the customary Dutch three-kiss greeting on the cheek. I smiled. Tiffany, like most Americans, became uncomfortable having her personal space violated with a series of kisses—not to mention from someone she had met just a few moments ago. Her cheeks flushed and she tried to hide a sheepish grin. I puckered my lips at her.
“Your name is Jan?” Lester asked. “What kind of name is that?”
Tiffany jabbed Lester in the side with her elbow. “Lester,” she said with clenched teeth.
Jan stiffened, narrowed his eyes at Lester. “Yes. Jan. It is Dutch.”
I wedged myself partway between Lester and Jan. “It’s pronounced like John,” I said to Lester, “except with a Y instead of a J. It’s the Dutch version of John.”
Lester shook his head. “Whatever.”
Jan stared at Lester a moment, then turned and led us to his boat, The Dutchman’s Pleasure. “Let’s get your gear loaded and get out on the water.”
The boat rocked in the light waves as Tiffany, Lester, and I handed our gear over the boat rail to Jan. We couldn’t board until Jan stowed the gear and gave us his standard safety speech.
After a ten-minute briefing on emergency procedures, basic radio operation, where to stand, where not to stand, first aid equipment, and a host of other items, Jan helped Tiffany and Lester step aboard. He started the engines, and I untied the mooring lines, tossed them onto the boat’s deck, and jumped aboard as we eased away from the dock. Tiffany and Lester sat near the stern in the blazing heat, each with a water bottle in hand. I stood next to Jan on the helmsman’s deck, protected from the sun by the overhead canopy.
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