The Silenced Women

by Frederick Weisel

  “And a young woman. Eden something.”

  “Somers. Yeah, she’s smart.”

  “Martin says she’s pretty.”

  “I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “She’s just out of college, Katie. I’m her boss. You want to see my certificate in sexual harassment training? It’s around here somewhere.”

  “You weren’t that old when we were together.”

  “How about you? How’s Roger? Still helping the one percent keep its money?”

  “Roger’s firm specializes in trusts and wills. It’s what he does. You should talk to him sometime. He could help you do some planning.”

  “I don’t think planning’s where I need help.”

  “He’s my husband, Eddie. He’s not the enemy.”

  “If you say so.”

  “You always seem to forget.” Kate frowned. “You’re the one who left me. Not the other way around.”

  “I remember. I especially remember Sunday brunch. Shirred eggs with homemade salsa, sourdough toast.”

  “And two fingers of Alquimia tequila on ice.”

  “Good way to start the day.”

  Kate smiled. “As I recall, that’s not the first thing we did to start the day.”

  Mahler smiled back. For an instant, his memory pictured Kate pulling away her hair. Her face, with its soft, brown freckles, close to his own, her eyes shut as she leaned forward to kiss him.

  “Sometime,” Kate said, “you’re going to have to confront this thing and not make a joke about it.”

  “Let’s not go there. Not right now.”

  “Why do you think your life’s like this? Where do you think the migraines come from?”

  “Did you show up to bring me lunch or give me a hard time?”

  “It’s not about me, Eddie,” Kate said. “It never was. Your heart got broken two years ago, but not by me. I loved you. I always will. But you loved this work more than anything. That girl, the second one who was killed, she’s the one who broke your heart. After her, you couldn’t love this job anymore.”

  Mahler searched Kate’s eyes. “Wow,” he said quietly. “You are the same girl. Is that what you came to tell me?”

  “I’m sorry. That was a lot all at once. It didn’t come out right.” Kate pushed at her salad with her fork.

  They ate in silence.

  “Why do you stay?” Kate asked. “Do you know? You’re smarter than the people you work for, and you don’t understand the ones who work for you.”

  “It doesn’t feel finished. It’s hard to leave when it’s not finished.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s never finished.”

  “Yeah, but it feels close sometimes.”

  “What do you want, Eddie?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s a simple question. My therapist says we’re not grown-up until we can ask ourselves that question and honestly answer it.”

  “Your therapist?”

  “Yeah, I’m seeing somebody. Don’t change the subject. What do you want?”

  “To catch the guy who did this girl.”

  “No. Apart from that, apart from the job. What do you want?”

  “I have enough riddles in my life. I don’t need another one.”

  “This is the important question. What do you want? And don’t say something about getting rid of the designated hitter in the American League.”

  “I don’t know. By the way, I don’t want to get rid of the designated hitter. But, seriously, I don’t know the answer. What can I tell you?”

  Kate shook her head. “Did you really walk out of Truro’s press conference?”

  “I think so.”

  “Jesus, Eddie.”

  “The investigation’s all that matters. We do it right, no one’ll care about anything else.”

  “I know, and it’ll be different this time. You’ll get this guy.”

  “That’s what Martin says. He doesn’t think this one’s Partridge.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I can’t talk about it.”

  Kate reached her hand across the desk to hold Mahler’s. “Well, Eddie, you lead an unexamined life. But you’re a detective at heart, and I’m glad I’m not the one you’re after.”

  “Yeah,” Mahler said. “Let’s say that’s true.”

  (ii)

  (WEDNESDAY, 12:35 P.M.)

  “The agony of the leaves.” Tom Woodhouse poured steaming water into a porcelain pot. “That’s what tea drinkers call the unfurling of dry tea.” The retired detective smiled at Eden. They sat at a table on the deck behind his house.

  “When I was on the job, I drank coffee,” he said. “But after I retired, I tried tea. Now it’s all I drink. Chinese black tea, called Keemun Mao Feng. Grows on the hillsides of the Anhui Province, between the Yellow Mountains and the Yangtze River.”

  He arranged a cup and saucer for Eden and one for himself.

  Woodhouse noticed Eden looking at his hands. “Arthritis,” he said. “More like claws than fingers, aren’t they? Still work, though, mostly.”

  The old man poured milk into each cup and poured the tea on top of it. “Researchers at Loughborough University in the English Midlands found that putting the milk in first prevents the hot tea from caramelizing the milk fat and spoiling the tea’s flavor. Only in England would someone actually study that.”

  He sat back in his chair and faced Eden. “But you didn’t come here to listen to me talk about tea. I read the files you emailed—your analysis of the victims. You’ve made real progress. What do you need from me?”

  “Anything you can tell me about Irwin Partridge. I understand you interviewed him more than anyone else.”

  “Yes, that was my sad privilege. He is not a likable man. Uneducated, incurious. But very quick mentally, the sort of intelligence that’s mostly smart-ass. I’m sure he was, or is, capable of anything.”

  “You believed he killed Michelle Foss and Susan Hart?”

  “No doubt, whatsoever. And from what you told me on the phone, that girl in Vallejo, Beth Hunter.”

  Eden looked at the neatly tended beds of white daisies and red mums bordering the yard. Some sense of beauty and order had survived Woodhouse’s career as a homicide cop. “But we don’t have any forensics that connect Partridge to the murders.”

  “No. He was careful, which probably means it wasn’t his first time. He chose victims in circumstances where he knew he wouldn’t be seen. I’d also guess he studied the setting and movements of people for days before the murders. Wore gloves, destroyed his clothes afterward. All that good stuff.”

  “According to the files, he was a suspect early on, for the first girl, Michelle Foss?”

  “Yeah, he was in our records for an assault, where no charges were filed.” Woodhouse drank from his cup. “But it put him on a short list of local guys to look at. At the time of the Foss murder, a woman riding a bike in the park said she saw a man standing on a trail that goes up to the water tanks where Foss was killed. Even ID’d Partridge in a photo array. But the witness was riding past him and didn’t get a good look. And she got scared; I think she found out her ID was all we had, and she didn’t want the responsibility.”

  “But you talked to Partridge?”

  “I interrogated him.” Woodhouse raised one finger. “What stood out for me was what he didn’t say. Most guys in that situation tell you where they were at the time of the crime and deny their involvement. Partridge did neither until he was asked.”

  Eden picked up her cup and sipped the tea. “But you couldn’t put him at the scene?” She hoped Woodhouse wouldn’t interpret her questions as criticism.

  “He was a delivery guy for an auto parts store. For some reason, the store didn’t keep logs of his deliveries or where he
was. We looked at the mileage on his car, but it was inconclusive.”

  “So not enough to hold him?”

  Woodhouse shrugged. “No, but ultimately it wasn’t our decision. It was the DA’s call. Guy named Michael Nugent. At the end of his term. The year before, a case went south on him. So, for this thing, he told us he needed more evidence. Told us to go out and get something else. Of course, at the time, we didn’t know the second killing would happen. Afterward, Nugent and the chief at that time, Frank Stone, hinted to their contacts in the press that the investigative team opposed holding Partridge after the first homicide. Unidentified source dropped Eddie’s name. Said he choked.”

  “And in the second case, you had the shoe print on the victim’s leg?”

  “I thought it was worth something. The lawyers thought it was weak. It was partial and not a clear match to Partridge’s boots.”

  Eden heard resignation in Woodhouse’s voice. “Did you notice in the Foss and Hart murders, the cord was wrapped around their necks three and a half times?”

  “Yeah. It’s an odd pattern. Not a coincidence, I’d guess. You have any ideas about it?”

  “I’m still working on it. You saw the cut on Susan Hart’s lower back, the signature?”

  “I did, although I don’t think I ever knew what it meant. Didn’t matter anyway. By then it was panic time. Nugent had us chasing our tails. We looked at Susan Hart’s boyfriend, then a boy who lived on the street with the Foss girl. Next, it was a couple of locals with sexual assault charges. Then we had a gang shooting on the west side with a child victim. So that was the new big headline. Two years went by. Everyone forgot the girls in the park. Sometimes it happens like that.”

  “If we can tie Partridge to any of the signature killings,” Eden said, “we might be able to link him to the others.”

  “What do we know about killers who use signatures?” Woodhouse seemed enlivened again.

  “Extremely rare,” Eden said. “One or two percent of all homicides.”

  “What else?”

  “In their study of serial killings, the researchers Hawthorne and Weeks at the University of Chicago believe many signatures are—”

  Woodhouse held up his hand and smiled. “Let’s put aside the academics for one minute. I was raised a Roman Catholic. Served as an altar boy at Saint Anne’s, down in the city. My church believes the killing of another human being is a sin. The malice of the sin is its violation of the supreme ownership of God over the lives of his creatures. Some killers, especially the deliberate ones, believe themselves to be God, and the ones who leave signatures believe it more than others. They sign their work like it was a creative act.”

  “It’s an act of arrogance,” Eden said.

  “Yes, young lady, and that word arrogance is interesting, isn’t it? Ninth-grade Religious Studies class. Fifty years ago, and I still remember it. Sister Anne-Marie taught us the Latin root—rogare, which means to ask or beg. Rogation is prayer. But ar-ro-gance is the inverse; it means to presume to not need prayer. What does that tell you? To not need prayer. That’s the sort of killer we’re looking for. But man, of course, is imperfect. He always makes a mistake, and that’s where someone as smart as you comes in.”

  Eden stared at Woodhouse. He had the same intelligence as her FBI mentors. But he was gentler, too, and not possessed by the need to prove his indifference to the horror of the work. “But we still don’t have any hard evidence.”

  “My late wife, Linda, was a spiritual person. Not a churchgoer as such, but she prayed every morning before she started her day. After thirty-five years of police work, I found it difficult sometimes to believe in the grace of God. Linda had the faith, even after the chemotherapy. She told me once she believed the souls of homicide victims are at work to help cops like us to see what we need to know. You think that’s possible?”

  Eden blushed. “It doesn’t feel like it today, Mr. Woodhouse. I guess I’m not sure where I’d go to find what they had to tell me.”

  “They come to you, Miss Somers. They come to you. According to Linda, we just need to have faith. You’re still young. You can afford faith.” Woodhouse looked at Eden. “But you’ve already seen something in another case, haven’t you? Something dark, was it?”

  Eden ignored the question and drank from her cup.

  “As the newest member of Eddie’s team, what do you think your contribution will be?” Woodhouse asked. “Each of us has a gift. What’s your gift?”

  “I’m not sure I have one. I was trained to look at evidence, that’s all.”

  “That’s a rare gift, believe me. You’re different from the ones Eddie usually hires. When I see you, I think Eddie hasn’t given up.”

  “I honestly don’t know why Lieutenant Mahler hired me. He doesn’t seem interested in my background.”

  “Oh, he’s interested, all right. If he wasn’t, he would have already reassigned you.”

  “He sure doesn’t say much.”

  “The Susan Hart case did a number on Eddie. In this job, you see a good deal of loss, terrible things done to people, families who’ll never be the same. But that case was different. Somewhere in there, I think Eddie forgot what his job was. Thought he was supposed to save people, not catch their killers.”

  Woodhouse held his cup close to his nose and smelled the tea. “But back to Partridge,” he said after a moment. “My advice: follow where he’s gone. Guys like him can’t stop, once they start. Where’s he gone the last three years?”

  “He never left Santa Rosa.”

  “Sure, he’s lived here, but where’s he gone?”

  Eden looked back at him. Then she folded her notebook and stood to leave.

  “One other thing, Miss Somers,” Woodhouse said. “I read your analysis of the ideal body type for all the victims. You realize you fit that, right? Indulge an old cop. Until this is over, keep your doors locked. House and car.”

  Eden smiled and realized too late he was serious.

  He stared back. “Best to be safe, dear.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  (i)

  (WEDNESDAY, 2:06 P.M.)

  Frames stopped Rivas at the doorway of the interview room. “How do you want to do this? Maximization? Reid Technique?”

  Rivas turned to face Frames. “How about we keep it simple? Craig Lerner said this guy was spending his lunch hour mussing up the victim’s hair. Let’s see where that ended up.”

  “No, really? Mahler gave me crap for the first Lerner interview. The second time, in Lerner’s office, I was winging it. I didn’t know the plan. I need to know the plan.”

  “What I said is the plan.”

  Frames raised both hands. “What is it with you guys and forethought? I’m just asking for some forethought. Is that such a terrible thing?”

  As they entered the room, Christopher Bennett stood. He smoothed the front of his necktie and fastened the top button of his suit jacket. “I told the officer downstairs, if I’d known the young woman in the park was Ms. Durand, I’d have come in right away. I’m obviously happy to help.” He smiled and sat down.

  Rivas and Frames sat facing him across the table. “Dr. Bennett, it’s standard procedure to record a conversation of this nature,” Rivas said. “Do you understand?”

  “Sure. Sure,” Bennett said. “No problem.”

  Rivas switched on the recorder and noted the date, time, and the names of those present. “Before we start, do you understand that you’re free to leave at any time?”

  “Okay. Good to know.”

  “And, I need to ask if you’d like a lawyer present.”

  “Lawyer? Wow, that sounds serious. No, I don’t think I need a lawyer. Not for what those guys charge. I honestly don’t have all that much to say.”

  “All right. Let’s start with how you knew Ms. Durand.”

  “Sure thing. Crai
g Lerner did ad buys for my dental practice for a few years. Last fall he suggested I refresh my website and Facebook pages for a bump in online traffic. We decided to shoot a couple videos about the innovative things I’m doing with dental implants. Anyway, Ms. Durand was the in-house artist on the project. She came up with the initial design for the home page and worked with the contractors.”

  Frames worried about his encounter with Rivas at the door. An instructor at the academy once said many older cops don’t see themselves as teachers, and that anyone new to the job has to take the initiative to watch and learn. But how was he supposed to do that if he didn’t know the plan? “So you met her at Mr. Lerner’s company?” Frames asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Where, exactly?”

  “Where? You mean, in which room? In the conference room, I guess. Or maybe in Craig’s office. I don’t remember. Is that important?”

  “How many times?” Rivas asked.

  “I really have no idea. I run a small business and take an active role in my advertising. So I’m, you know, always—”

  “Did she ever come to your office?” Frames asked.

  “My office? Why on earth would she do that? I told you, she just worked on the website design. From what I saw, she was a competent graphic designer. Most of my…contact…was with Craig.”

  “Did you go out to lunch with Ms. Durand?” Rivas asked.

  Bennett shifted in his chair. “We may have. With Craig, of course. Working lunches, that sort of thing. I really don’t understand what you want. Like I said, I didn’t know her that well.”

  “Did you talk to Ms. Durand about things outside your ad campaign?”

  “Small talk. Usual stuff. She seemed like a nice young woman. This terrible thing that’s happened is—wait. I remember I talked to her one time about art. She showed me a few of her paintings. I’m no expert, but I thought they were pretty good.”

  Frames noticed how Rivas sat motionless and stared at Bennett. “Where’d that happen?” he asked.

  “What do you mean? I have to say, these questions are odd. I don’t really feel comfortable—”