“Not really.” The yellow teeth made her reel.
“That is a despicable thing to say,” she said. “Please let go of my hand.”
He lifted his hand and stood up. Then he leaned over and whispered to her. She could smell whiskey and tooth decay. “You may regret speaking to me in that manner. Good night, Emma.”
Phil sidled up. “Looks like you need another.”
“No, I think we’ll head home.”
“Stop it. Don’t let that pig get to you. Besides, he’s gone.”
“Thanks Phil, you always give me good advice. I think I will stay.”
No matter, Phil was already pouring her another IPA.
“Any of my predictions come true yet?” Emma knew what he was talking about.
“Stella Weeks hates me. But you weren’t quite right about that, because Stella’s always hated me. You know Stella, right?”
Phil guffawed. “The spark plug with tits? Sure do.”
The door to Group Therapy opened. It was the kind of place where everybody turned to check out a new arrival. Phil and Emma did too.
“Speaking of tits …” As he moved away, Phil added, “Good luck.”
Georgia, Will’s fraternal twin, marched straight toward her.
She stood squarely in Emma’s personal space. A sneer on her face.
Emma looked up at her from her barstool.
Georgia Foster was the fuck-up to Will’s success story. Georgia was nearly as tall as her brother, almost six feet, which made her an imposing woman. She was obsessed about her physique, Emma knew, and had the muscles to prove it. That night she wore a turquoise western-style shirt tapered to accentuate her skinny waist, a fashion mode not often seen in Hampshire. Her biceps strained the sleeves, and her mountainous boobs threatened to pop the front snaps open. Emma thought they looked as hard as boccie balls, but Will swore they were real.
Georgia didn’t hold back. “I still can’t understand why Will would want to leave a lovely wife like you.”
Sighing, Emma said, “I don’t want to fight with you. I really don’t.”
Georgia folded her arms across her ample chest, and, if possible, leaned even closer. “What if I do?”
“Do me a favor and let me finish my beer in peace.”
“No, I’m not done with you. Will is better off without you. I guarantee he’s in a better place, and thank heaven you don’t know where.”
Standing suddenly, Emma went toe-to-toe with Georgia. “Back off. I am so sick of your shit. Nobody—not Frank and Joan, and certainly not you—is more devastated about Will than I am. So, stuff that right up your ass.”
Georgia spat in Emma’s face, leaving a glob of phlegm on her cheek.
Georgia also spat the hideous word, “Cunt.”
Emma heard a low growl at her feet, but, before anything worse could happen, Georgia spun on her heel. Emma was tempted, but she chose not to follow.
Pushing people aside, Georgia stormed out of Group Therapy yelling “Get out of my fucking way!”
From behind the bar, Phil shouted, “Hey, no foul language in my bar, asshole!”
Between Wardlaw and Georgia, Emma had had enough. She signaled to Pepper and left without saying goodbye to Phil.
She drove directly into her garage, leaving the door open. Pepper jumped out and found a spot outside to do her business. Ten minutes later, Emma was under the covers, wishing that was where she’d been all evening. When she couldn’t sleep, she took one of Will’s leftover Ambiens.
Boom, she was in dreamland.
Emma recognized Will in the distance. He was at the first-class check-in station about to speak with a chicly-dressed Qantas employee, who wore a navy and red uniform with a splash of hot pink the same color as her lipstick.
Will was in the Tom Bradley International Terminal at LAX. Emma moved closer so she could hear. She stood behind a column and peeked through a potted plant, B-movie-style.
“Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin. May I see your passports please?”
Mrs.? Oh, Jesus.
Emma separated the plant’s leaves further. She didn’t care if Will saw her. She had to see what Mrs. Goodwin looked like.
“One way to Sydney? Is that correct?”
“That is true,” said Mrs. Goodwin in some sort of Scandinavian accent. Emma got a good look at her. She was stunning. Blonde hair done up in a French twist like she was in a goddamn wedding. There was a gold wedding band on her finger, guarded by a ring with a rock. She was trim, tall, and tanned. Honeymoon in the Seychelles? Bali? Phuket?
Even without her spike heels (red leather), she would have been taller than Emma. Even without makeup, and she wore little, Mrs. Goodwin was more beautiful than any woman had a right to be. Her long straight nose, her turquoise eyes, her fulsome lips … she oozed perfection.
The Qantas lady said, “I’ll call the first-class lounge. It’s on the fifth floor. Let them know you’re coming.”
Will said, “That won’t be necessary, but thank you. We have a room at the Sheraton. Don’t we, love?” Mrs. Goodwin smiled. Her fucking teeth were perfect.
Will collected their boarding passes and passports. They left the terminal and caught a taxi. Emma followed their cab to the Sheraton on Airport Boulevard.
Emma was not a phobic person, but she suffered from a mild form of acrophobia. She was therefore proud that she was able to climb up to their sixth-floor balcony on the outside of the building. They hadn’t bothered to close the curtains, and Emma was shocked at the speed at which Will removed Mrs. Goodwin’s dress.
She wore the kind of underwear Emma knew Will loved, black and lacy. He had those off in a flash, too. Will’s pants quickly followed.
Her crotch was hairless, and naturally her boobs were perfect with zero sag and nipples that aimed impossibly toward the stars.
In a sudden violent motion, Will threw her over the edge of the bed. He slapped her ass hard and repeatedly, leaving red marks on her buttocks. He separated her ass cheeks and drilled into Mrs. Goodwin. Will kept pounding her until Emma couldn’t watch any more.
Emma backed up against the railing of the balcony. She felt herself falling, and she did nothing to save herself. Her spine bent over the balustrade, and she plunged toward the parking lot six floors below.
Her last thought before she hit the tarmac was, if only I’d known what Will wanted …
12
Fiskars
Emma woke with an Ambien hangover and unpleasant memories of the previous evening. Dick Wardlaw overtly harassing her. Her dustup with Georgia. She’d also had a disturbing dream about Will.
Over breakfast, Emma telephoned the state medical examiner.
Dr. Herbert Mittendorf was a well-known forensic pathologist, in Connecticut and beyond. He had testified at high profile criminal trials. Emma had seen him interviewed on television several times.
She identified herself.
“Yes, I read about you in the paper. You’re the new police chief in Hampshire. I knew your dad. He was a fine man. What can I do for you?”
“We had an untimely yesterday—”
“Yeah, I just read the police report. Suicide by hanging. We’ll do an autopsy because of the age of the deceased. My guys picked up the body.”
“There was something that bothered me, something I wonder if you’d take a close look at? Let me know what you think?”
“Hmm. So, you’re thinking there’s something hinky going on?”
“Well, as you know, Dr. Mittendorf, I’m new to the job. I feel I need to cover my bases.”
“What did you notice?”
She thought for a moment. “There was a mark on the deceased’s left ankle. I’m not even sure what it was, but I definitely smelled the ink from a Sharpie.”
“I use Sharpies all the time. I know what you mean about the smell. It’s distinctive.” She heard the shuffle of papers over the phone. “By the way, there’s no mention of the mark in the police report.”
“You�
��re kidding.”
“No, not kidding. No mention of a mark in the police report. I mean, you either saw it or you didn’t.”
“Who signed the report? I haven’t seen it yet.”
“Let’s see.” More shuffling. “It’s signed by Sergeant S. Weeks, badge number 41, and a Detective L. Buzzucano, badge number 32.”
“Okay, I’ll look into the omission.”
Even as she fumed, she tried to sound measured.
Mittendorf said, “I have an idea. Why don’t you come and observe the autopsy? Then, we can say hello properly. I’d like to put a face to Archie’s daughter. I admired your dad.”
Emma had never witnessed an autopsy. It was one thing to see your old boyfriend hanging from the rafters but quite another to see him being dissected. But she understood the imperatives of her new job.
“I’ll be there. Tell me when and where.”
“I’ve scheduled his procedure for tomorrow at 10:00 a.m.”
“Um, Dr. Mittendorf, I have a question for you of a personal nature.”
“Shoot.”
“Do you know of a good private investigator you could recommend?”
Mittendorf laughed. “Don’t you do your own investigations?”
“This is something that the department has already investigated, now a cold case,” she said vaguely.
“That sounds mysterious. Although I have never had cause to hire an investigator,” he said archly, “I know a guy whom other people respect. Name’s Mark Byrne, based in Hartford. I’m sure you can find him online.” Emma could hear someone speaking in the background. “Whoops, gotta go. See you tomorrow.”
She didn’t bother to replace the receiver before making her next call.
“Weeks,” Stella answered.
“Sergeant Weeks ...” She usually called her Stella. “... this is the chief. Why didn’t you include a description and photograph of the mark on Ethan Jackson’s ankle in your report? And, secondly, why didn’t I see your report before it went out? Lastly, why did I have to find this out from Dr. Mittendorf?”
“Like I told you, Chief, Buzz and I didn’t think it was worth mentioning. I mean, why make this a big deal? The dude’s got a mark on his ankle, but he’s still swinging in the wind. Know what I mean?”
“In the future, I want to see every report you write before you fax it out of this office.”
“Okey dokey, ma’am. Is that all?”
Emma hung up. Pepper snorted as if she had been following the conversation. She gave Pepper a scratch on her backside with the toe of her boot, which made Emma feel marginally less annoyed. But Stella remained the pebble in her shoe.
Stella would drive her crazy if she let her. Her talent for finding which of Emma’s buttons to press was uncanny. In retaliation, Emma pushed Sergeant Weeks firmly out of her mind.
Emma felt the need to get back to what made her hurt deep inside.
She knew it was time—one more time—to look into Will’s disappearance. For his sake and for hers. She couldn’t give up yet. Will was the sinkhole in her life. God, I miss him, she thought.
The irony was she could not have taken the P.I. route with Archie still alive. He would have been furious that she’d consider employing a private detective over their own police force.
She found Byrne’s number on switchboard.com.
He answered in a gravelly voice, “This is Mark Byrne. Who’s calling?” He sounded like pastrami on rye with a kosher dill pickle spear.
She explained that she was interested in finding a private investigator and why. He agreed to drive to Hampshire and meet with her. But he said, “I’ve got to be honest with you, Chief, if you cops can’t find him, I’m not sure what I can do, but I’ll give it a try.”
She couldn’t blame Mark Byrne for not sounding enthusiastic, but somehow Emma felt better for the call.
It was a forty-minute drive to the state medical examiner’s office. The entire way her brain swam with grotesque images of squishy organs floating in pools of blood. She had read about the famous Y-incision in Kay Scarpetta novels. She feared it would be quite another matter to witness one.
Dr. Mittendorf’s office was in a modern glass and granite building. It was Tuesday morning, a few minutes before ten o’clock. Dr. Mittendorf’s assistant led her down a long hallway. They passed a leggy blonde woman, whom Emma couldn’t help but stare at. She was attractive, and she wore a gray T-shirt with OCME Investigator silkscreened front and back. The assistant noticed and said to Emma, “Maria’s one of our Medicolegal Death Investigators.”
“No kidding.”
“Actually, it’s a very important job,” she said huffily. “Our investigators are highly trained and important members of our team.”
“I didn’t mean any disrespect.”
The assistant deposited her in a small room outside Mittendorf’s office, where she was asked to wait. Piles of magazines, People, Martha Stewart Living, and Architectural Digest, littered the coffee table just like at her gynecologist’s office.
After a short wait, Dr. Mittendorf greeted her. “So, you are Archie’s daughter! I’m so happy to meet you. Follow me.” He was an older man with shiny button eyes, longish white hair, and a ruddy face.
He led her down another long hall to a flight of stairs that descended to the basement. He stopped in front of a small open-doored closet. Dr. Mittendorf handed her a yellow gown with built-in plastic booties, nitrile gloves, a face mask, and a paper bonnet. She had the devil of a time getting her cop shoes into the booties. Being nervous didn’t help.
Mittendorf smiled and held out his hand to help her balance. “Have you ever been to an autopsy before?” He glanced at her face and continued without pause, “Obviously not. Well, don’t you worry, we’ll take it slow, see how you’re making out. Don’t be embarrassed if you need to leave. Everyone reacts differently. Here let me help you.” She was struggling to tie the paper strings of her mask behind her head. “There, how’s that?”
Fully gowned, they pushed through a set of swinging doors. She didn’t know exactly what she was expecting. Perhaps a small, quiet room with a human-sized stainless-steel sink and lots of knives, scalpels, and other tools of the trade.
Instead, Emma walked into a chaotic factory. Gleaming white walls, about a million watts of fluorescent candle-power, and she counted five autopsies being performed simultaneously by five teams. “Believer” by Imagine Dragons pounded from a boom box. Corpses in body bags on rolling gurneys were parked every which way. They reminded her of an RV park after a tornado. Behind them was a massive refrigerator door covered with cartoons. Medical examiner humor, she supposed. In the far corner of the room was a human skeleton hanging by a hook screwed into its skull. The skeleton wore a lab coat and a face mask.
A photographer on a rolling ladder was shooting pictures of a corpse she recognized, Ethan Jackson.
Mittendorf said, “Welcome to our little world.”
Surprisingly, the room didn’t smell. No fecal matter, no formaldehyde. Ethan’s living room had smelled worse than the autopsy room did. She followed Mittendorf to Ethan’s body. Emma averted her eyes from the work going on around her. She felt queasy and labored to will the sensation away. Sweat drenched her back and armpits.
Mittendorf pointed to Ethan’s neck. “You can see the ligature marks from the rope here.” Ethan’s gruesome necklace had turned the reddish-brown color of a horse chestnut. He moved Ethan’s head to the side. “This is the furrow.” He pointed to a bruised channel from Ethan’s neck up the side of his head. “This proves he was not garroted.”
Emma studied Ethan’s neck with horrid fascination.
“The victim may have had some medical training, or he did a lot of Googling,” Mittendorf said, “because he mimicked a ‘judicial hanging,’ which the British invented in 1872 to afford victims a more humane death. Here, Emma, you can see the hyperflexion of the neck caused by the British-style eyelet.” He pointed. “He positioned the noose under the left angl
e of the jaw. That, combined with the drop, serves to jerk the person’s head backwards and sideways, which causes fractures of the neck vertebrae—ideally between C2 and C3. It leads to immediate unconsciousness and not the agonizingly slow death of asphyxiation. I’m guessing when we open him up, that’s precisely what we’ll find.”
“Oh.”
Mittendorf spent more time examining the ligature marks around Ethan’s neck, while Jennifer, the photographer, took photographs.
“Okay, Jen, that’s enough for now. Let’s move him to my station.” To Emma, he said, “We’ll do a head-to-toe under the lights. Look at your Sharpie mark.”
Two assistants wheeled the body over to the work station. They hefted it over the railing of the stainless-steel sink and dropped him. His head thunked on the steel. Emma recoiled, until she thought about it. Get over yourself. Ethan’s dead. He’s just a lump of skin, bones, and meat.
She thought that her revised reaction would help steel her for the cutting to come. She hoped so. She wasn’t looking forward to First Cut.
Dr. Mittendorf started a thorough head-to-toe examination.
Emma held her breath when he finally reached Ethan’s left ankle.
“Ah, here it is.” An assistant handed him a magnifier with a circle of LEDs around the lens. “I have to agree with you, Emma, this is indeed strange.” As she had the previous day, he sniffed the mark. “I don’t smell anything, but that is not surprising after twenty-four hours, give or take. It does look like the mark a Sharpie can make, the approximate width anyway.” He removed a Sharpie from the pocket of his scrub suit and drew a 7 on his wrist. He held his wrist next to Ethan’s ankle. “Well, damned if they’re not identical. I’ll send the ink to the lab, but dollars to donuts, Emma, I think you’re right. But it doesn’t answer the Why, does it?”
He asked Jennifer to take some more photos. She had a special, macro lens with a large circular flash mounted around the front of it.
Dr. Mittendorf finally arrived at Ethan’s feet, which he examined as carefully as every other inch of his body. He even checked between his toes, splaying them apart two-by-two.
Ever So Silent Page 7