by Julie Cave
“Yes, the bruising,” said Ferguson, nodding wisely.
“No, not quite,” corrected the medical examiner. “A bruise is essentially a break in blood vessels that allows blood to escape into surrounding tissue. This can happen after death. The only way to tell whether bruising was inflicted prior to death is the number of white blood cells present. A body still alive at the time of injury will send white blood cells to help heal the wound, whereas if the victim was dead at the time of injury, we would find a lower count of white blood cells. As an aside, the victim has two recently cracked teeth and one recently missing tooth. The tooth itself is still at the site of the crime or has been disposed of by the killer.” Dr. Campion looked up to ensure the agents understood.
“I also found two cracked ribs, with extensive bruising around the site.” Dr. Campion pulled the sheet farther down and pointed to the left side of the body. “However, a small clue which you might find interesting. In the absence of tool or weapon marks, I did see what I thought was a shoe print in the bruise patterning. I’ve photographed it. I obviously couldn’t tell you what type of shoe it would be, but there is no other consistent explanation for the pattern. Finally, all four fingers on his left hand were broken, all in roughly the same position, very recently.” He paused for a moment thoughtfully. “Yes, I believe that is the full catalogue of injuries. Do you have any questions?”
“No, thank you,” said Ferguson, sounding impressed.
“Excellent. Now, I did find some material underneath the victim’s fingernails and on several areas around the body, mostly glued into place by the drying blood. It doesn’t appear to be DNA material, but what it does look like is dirt.”
“Dirt?” Dinah asked, mystified.
“Yes. I’ll send it to the lab and hope that within the dirt, they can find some distinguishing characteristics,” explained Dr. Campion. “That might narrow down for you the area where the victim was killed.”
“Great, thanks,” said Ferguson.
“Anytime, Agents. I hope you catch the person responsible,” said Dr. Campion, leading them to the door. Suddenly he stopped, causing Dinah to bump into him.
“Oh! How forgetful of me. I have another small clue you might find helpful.” He hurried back to the body of Thomas Whitfield, with the agents following, and held up the right hand of the body. “I found, written in very small characters, what appears to be a cell phone number.”
Dinah peered closely at the hand. There was indeed writing in the webbing between the thumb and forefinger. The number would not have been visible in the normal position of the hand, and only became evident when the thumb and forefinger were stretched apart.
Dinah quickly copied the number down and thanked the medical examiner.
As they once again moved toward the exit, Ferguson asked, “So this Tyndale character was strangled with a wire too?”
Dr. Campion smiled. “Yes, he certainly was.”
“What was his crime?” asked Ferguson curiously.
“Well, he dared to translate the Bible from Latin to English,” said Dr. Campion. “In those days, the priests were the only ones with access to the Bible. The common man couldn’t speak or read Latin and had to rely on the priests to teach them. The church was extremely corrupt and taught their congregations many things contrary to the Bible. Tyndale, and other sympathizers at the time, decided it was time the common man was able to bypass the corrupt teaching of the church and access the Bible themselves.”
“I take it the church didn’t like it and killed him?” Ferguson asked.
“Extraordinary, isn’t it?” Dr. Campion shook his head. “Yet if it weren’t for Tyndale and his sympathizers, we might still not have the Bible in the English language. Thank goodness for the Reformation.”
They walked in silence to the front foyer. “Well, good luck with the case,” said Dr. Campion cheerfully. “Please call me if I can be of any further assistance.” He waved at them, and then disappeared back into the cold, steel bowels of the morgue.
The two agents walked back to the car, where Ferguson noticed Dinah staring at him.
“Well, I did tell you he was one of those born-agains, didn’t I?” he said defensively.
• • • •
When Dinah checked her cell phone on the way back from the morgue, she found three missed calls from the formidable Catherine Biscelli. She had called an emergency meeting of the board of regents and it would be held at 4 p.m. sharp. She spoke in short, sharp, irritable bursts that reminded Dinah of the noise stiletto heels made on the sidewalk.
The agents drove directly to the main complex of the Smithsonian where the meeting would be held, arriving a half hour early. They immediately asked for Catherine Biscelli.
The Director of Public Affairs had her curly hair pulled back from her face with a headband, which served to make the planes of her face seem more angular and severe.
Ferguson took the lead. “Thanks for organizing the meeting so quickly,” he said warmly. “We were just wondering if you could take us through who the board of regents are and what their roles are before we meet them.”
Catherine Biscelli left the room and arrived back several moments later with an organizational chart.
“The head of the institution is the secretary,” she said without preamble. “The board of regents is appointed by Congress and is responsible for the overall administration of the institution. The board reports to Congress on a semi-regular basis.”
She flipped open the organizational chart to show the members of the board.
“The current members are Supreme Court Chief Justice and Chancellor Maxwell Pryor; the vice president of the United States, Charles Ransome; Senator Rosa Rubelli from the state of Massachusetts; Senator David Winters from the state of California; Senator John Buchanan from the state of New England; Congressmen Philip Constance, Peter Norfolk, and Tony Zullo from the states of North Carolina, Ohio, and Wyoming respectively; the CEO of the Washington Philharmonic Orchestra, Penelope Bright; Ken MacIntyre, the CEO and president of Seismic Corporation; Anne Dryzak, CEO of the Fidelity Trust Financial Group; Carlos Benes, president of Benes Logistics and Transport Corporation; and Carol Meyes, chairwoman of the charity Bravehearts.” Catherine Biscelli stopped to take a breath.
Ferguson whistled. “Wow, there are some heavy hitters there.”
“That’s why the majority of the board will be joining us via teleconference,” said Catherine shortly. “It was the only way I could organize this meeting.”
There was a long silence as Catherine busied herself dialing in the conference number. Dinah watched the other woman through narrowed eyes.
“You know,” said Dinah at length, “I’m really very surprised that you haven’t asked about the circumstances of Thomas’s death.”
Catherine flushed. “There are some things I don’t want to know,” she said acidly, “if I am to sleep soundly at night.”
The door opened and a tall, very thin woman with short gray hair, square glasses, and shockingly pink lipstick entered.
“Dah-ling!” she exclaimed, bestowing Catherine Biscelli with a fake air kiss. “Dreadful, isn’t it? I do wish we could meet under more pleasant circumstances.”
Catherine motioned toward the two agents. “These are special agents Ferguson and Harris from the FBI,” she said. “This is Penelope Bright, from the Philharmonic Orchestra.”
Penelope Bright offered a bony hand to shake. “I’d normally tell you that it’s a pleasure to meet you, but it really isn’t.”
She was cut off by another entrance, this time a small, compact man with dark features and hair, a trim moustache, and an expensive suit. Catherine made the introductions again as Carlos Benes, the president of his own logistics and transport company. As the third and final delegate made her way into the room — Carol Meyers, a grandmotherly woman with wavy gray hair and a pleasant face — the telephone crackled into life as the remaining board members dialed into the conference.
“Th
anks to all for making the time to be part of this meeting,” Catherine began. “You are all aware that our secretary, Thomas Whitfield, has been missing for several days and we recently discovered he’d been murdered. It is because of this tragic turn that I introduce you to special agents Ferguson and Harris from the FBI, who will be handling the investigation.”
Ferguson kicked Dinah under the table to warn her not to speak. “I’d like to reiterate Ms. Biscelli’s appreciation for making the time to talk to us,” he said. “The purpose of this meeting is simply to gather as much information as we can about Thomas Whitfield that might lead to his killer. If you have anything to say, could you please identify yourself first for the benefit of the group before speaking. Shall we proceed?”
There were no objections.
“Okay. Under what circumstances was Thomas Whitfield appointed to the position of secretary?”
“I can answer that. Chief Justice Maxwell Pryor speaking. I championed him and recommended him to the rest of the board,” said a booming, deep voice. “The last secretary retired three years ago and I had started to look for replacements. I was looking specifically for someone with a scientific background. Thomas Whitfield had been getting quite a lot of press at the time for his anthropological work, and from what I could see, he seemed to be articulate and intelligent. I interviewed him and then the board interviewed him. We all agreed he was an excellent candidate and appointed him.”
“Were there any disgruntled applicants who may have resented Mr. Whitfield’s appointment?”
The chief justice barked a laugh. “No, it wasn’t exactly a position that is advertised and applicants send in their resumes. No one can apply for the position unless invited by the board. In this instance, we didn’t interview any other applicants.”
Dinah wrote this down, thinking it was odd that Thomas Whitfield had been given the position with apparent ease.
“In case you’re wondering,” Maxwell Pryor continued, “our method is to invite applicants individually. If Thomas Whitfield had declined, we would have moved on to the next potential candidate. We didn’t have multiple applicants at the same time.”
“Okay,” agreed Ferguson. “Was there any time during his serving as the secretary when he had trouble with any members of the public or press?”
“No,” said Catherine Biscelli promptly. “Everything the secretary does and says is carefully controlled by my office. We handle his official duties, speeches, and media commitments.” She paused and added condescendingly, “I think all of the board members will agree that the position of secretary of the Smithsonian is hardly a contentious or controversial one.”
Ferguson, to his credit, didn’t bite. Dinah knew she would have. “Does anyone know if Mr. Whitfield had any personal problems?”
There was a general mumble in the negative. “I can’t speak for everyone,” said Penelope Bright. “But my relationship with Mr. Whitfield was purely professional. He didn’t come across as the sort of person who might confide his personal issues to just anyone. He seemed to be a very controlled, very private person.” After a beat, Penelope said, “Sorry, that was me. Penelope.”
There was another mumble of general consensus.
Ferguson tried a different tack. “Did any of you have any conflict with Mr. Whitfield?”
This time there were several definite denials. Ferguson glanced at Dinah. If there was conflict between members of the board and the secretary, nobody was owning up to it.
“Are any of you aware of any groups who may wish the Smithsonian harm?”
“This is Vice President Charles Ransome,” said a smooth alto voice. “You can check with your terrorism unit. There are always fringe groups who wish to cause harm to American interests. I am not at liberty to speak about these on an open line. However, we have no specific intelligence relating to a threat against the Smithsonian at this time.”
Dinah rolled her eyes at the uninformative politician’s reply.
Ferguson added a few more questions but the board was unable to help. Dinah got the feeling that, like many professional relationships, nobody in the Smithsonian organization truly knew Thomas Whitfield.
Dinah couldn’t shake the brief conversation she’d had with Lara, Mr. Whitfield’s personal assistant, nor could she shake the sensation that the board of regents weren’t being completely honest.
As the meeting adjourned, Dinah couldn’t help but wonder if the death of Thomas Whitfield was part of something much larger — something that the board of regents were willing to lie to protect.
The question was — what was it?
• • • •
When Dinah arrived back at her desk, she found it increasingly difficult to concentrate. She had been awake for far too long and she decided to go home. She took with her the copies of Thomas Whitfield’s credit card statements. She had to find out what was nagging the back of her mind. It must have been important.
Back at her apartment, over a strong coffee, she pored over the statements again. What on earth did Michigan, California, and Minnesota have in common? Was Thomas’s trip to Colorado related in any way?
There were no unusual receipts at any of the places he’d visited — just motel rooms, rental cars, the occasional meal. Dinah couldn’t get a feel for what Thomas Whitfield had actually been doing on his trips.
After a while, her head started to ache and her eyeballs felt rough and scratchy. She knew she would be too tired to make the link herself tonight but decided to give her computer a chance to solve the mystery.
She plugged in her laptop, and googled the three states. The results were enormous and too far-reaching, so she refined her search to the cities Thomas had flown into. Again, the results were too general. They ranged from official tourist sites to comments dredged up from a chat room somewhere in cyberspace.
Dinah finally tried the combination of cities and towns where Thomas had actually stayed in motels.
The minute the results came back, the link between all four trips was obvious. Dinah sat thinking about it for a moment, mentally kicking herself for not making the connection herself.
His first trip to Colorado had been to Littleton, where at Columbine High School two teenaged boys had killed 11 classmates and wounded 28, before taking their own lives. This had been where Thomas Whitfield’s niece, Rebecca, had lost her life.
Apparently inspired by what he’d seen there, in 2000 he’d flown to Detroit, Michigan, and driven to the township of Mount Morris, where at the Buell Elementary School the youngest school shooter in history took the life of a six-year-old girl.
In 2001 he’d flown to San Diego, California, to visit the city of Santee, where at the Santana High School a 15-year-old boy had killed 2 and wounded 13.
In 2003 he’d flown into St. Cloud, Minnesota, to visit the city of Cold Spring, where at the Ricori High School a 15-year-old boy had killed two classmates, one of whom had allegedly been mean to him.
Thomas Whitfield had been visiting the sites of school shootings, including Columbine where he had been touched personally by tragedy. Had he been doing research for a new paper? Was he trying to understand what made a young person snap so violently and unpredictably? Was he trying to somehow assuage guilt over his own niece’s death?
What relevance did these trips have to his own death?
Dinah was frustrated. She had made the link between the trips and found a common denominator. In the grand scheme of things, though, she had no idea what it all meant.
Still deep in thought, Dinah opened the refrigerator door to pour herself a glass of wine and discovered she didn’t have any.
She sighed and picked up her keys. There was a liquor store about a block away, and although Dinah couldn’t have felt less energized after her day, she decided to walk down to pick up a few bottles.
Outside, a freezing wind was busy beginning its first winter chore — stripping the trees of any leaves. Dinah tried to shrug herself deeper into her jacket to ward off the cold
, but the wind was the sort to bite and tear at flesh with little regard for the clothes one might be wearing.
Behind her, the engine of a plain white van kicked into life and began to slowly cruise down the street, careful not to get too close to its quarry.
Dinah was preoccupied with the school shooting mystery. Although the shootings had garnered intense media scrutiny at the time, the fickle public had moved on. It appeared that Thomas Whitfield had not been able to move on — had the death of his niece affected him so greatly? Did he feel a compulsion to lend a sympathetic shoulder to the townspeople of a newly bereaved community? And, in any case, what did it matter? The perpetrators of those terrible crimes were either dead or apprehended. They were by no means sophisticated offenders.
Inside the liquor store, Dinah found her favorite white wine was discounted so she bought three bottles. To keep her mind from spinning its wheels on Thomas Whitfield, she envisaged the taste of the first sweet mouthful.
On her way home, she bent her head down because of the intense wind and didn’t see the white van inching closer to her. She also didn’t see the long, dark muzzle pointing directly at her from the window of the van or hear the clicks that were taken from only several feet away.
In fact, Dinah had no idea of the transaction that had just taken place and would only find out the following morning when, with a vague headache and dry mouth, she would pick up the morning paper and find a blown-up picture of herself on the front page of the Post.
By then, the rest of the city would have seen the picture of her walking against the wind in a thin coat carrying a bag full of alcohol. They would have read the headlines that screamed that the lead investigator in Thomas Whitfield’s murder was a drunk. They would have read that it was not the first time she had showed poor judgment. They would read that, in fact, the last time she had showed poor judgment, she had been responsible for someone’s death. They would read that in that sorry incident, she had been found to have an elevated blood alcohol reading and was immediately suspended. Why was it, the article queried, that the FBI tolerated drunkenness in their agents — worse, promoted agents with a history of alcohol abuse back into positions of authority? The article finished by demanding a complete overhaul of the FBI’s policy with relation to agents caught abusing drugs and alcohol.