by J. Bertrand
MONDAY, DECEMBER 7 — 2:34 P.M.
Always follow up. On everything. No exceptions. Good advice from the lips of Buddy Fitzpatrick, Irish Catholic cowboy and all around burnout, a self-proclaimed legend in HPD Homicide who actually had cleared more than his share of cases, though he didn’t exactly shine his last time out.
It was Fitzpatrick who ran the original investigation of Nicole Fauk’s murder into the ground, who infamously carried the case file over to the FBI field office and tried to sell her as yet another victim of the recently apprehended Railroad Killer. It was Fitzpatrick who had to come clean to then-Lieutenant Hedges about the fact he’d misplaced the file on his way back.
When I inherited that case a few hours before his retirement party, Fitzpatrick repeated the mantra in my ear, his breath thick with fumes: “Always follow up. On everything. No exceptions.”
If Buddy had lived by those words, he might have gone out under a brighter cloud.
With his slurry voice in my head, I work my way through Simone Walker’s phone records, matching numbers to names, breaking the news of her death to a few out-of-town friends she’d recently chatted with. There’s a cluster of calls to Young over two weeks’ time in November, corresponding to their night together. The only suspect number is a mobile phone with an 832 area code. When I dial it, a computerized voice repeats the number back. I leave my details and ask for a return call.
I work through the postmortem and the other forensics reports waiting on my desk. The only new information is Dr. Green’s speculative description of the murder weapon: a wide, single-edged blade approximately eight inches in length and quite sharp. Probably with a clip point. Perhaps a bowie or survival knife. Not something the killer would have found at the scene. He brought it with him, reinforcing the impression that this was a carefully planned crime.
Bad news on the Jason Young front, too. The nicks on his hands are consistent with the Silk Cut fight, and the blood on the shirt recovered in the washer isn’t Simone’s. Which means we have nothing tying him to the scene.
In the break room, Ordway gives me a sullen look. “You went without me.”
“You didn’t miss anything,” I say.
He shakes an inch of nondairy creamer into his mug, then adds a little coffee on top. When he’s finished, I do the same.
“Forensics isn’t putting any wind in my sails, and I just re-canvassed with Aguilar and got next to nothing. I hate to say it, but I’m running out of juice on this one.”
“What about your professor? I heard you had some questions about her.”
“I’ll do another interview, but it’s hard to believe she’d be up for something like this.”
He replies with a snort. “Because she’s a woman? That’s a very sexist attitude.”
“She doesn’t strike me as the praying mantis type. I’m gonna follow up, though, don’t worry. Always follow up on everything.”
“No exceptions,” he says.
We clink our mugs and go back to work.
The news reports on the sexual harassment case against Joy Hill make for interesting reading, though the juicy details were sealed as part of an out-of-court settlement. According to the plaintiff, Dr. Hill attempted to initiate “inappropriate relations” with twenty-year-old Shayna Zachariassen, a female undergraduate enrolled in one of her seminars. When Zachariassen rebuffed her, Hill accused the student of plagiarism on a term paper. To back up the charge, Hill supposedly substituted a doctored paper for the one the student actually turned in.
The story sounds bogus to me, a charade cooked up by a student caught cheating. To explain away the evidence—the plagiarized paper—she had to concoct a ridiculous scenario.
After the plagiarism accusation went public, Zachariassen disappeared. Her roommates contacted her parents, who initiated a police investigation. Twenty-four hours later, the girl reappeared unharmed.
Zachariassen claimed she was abducted in the University of Houston parking lot. A man came up behind her, putting a black hood over her head, and forced her inside the trunk of her own car. She was driven to what she believed was a motel, her wrists tied together and lashed to a chair. The whole time, her abductor never spoke. He turned up the television volume. She listened to news reports of her own disappearance. After a day in captivity, the phone rang and her abductor held a muffled conversation with the caller.
“Like he was getting instructions,” she said.
He put her back in her car and started driving. Afraid for her life, she begged him to let her go. Then the car stopped and the man got out. After a long silence, she got up the courage to remove the hood and her abductor was gone. She was sitting in the same part of the lot where she’d originally been kidnapped.
The Chronicle’s original coverage of the incident includes a quote from one of the detectives working the case, Theresa Cavallo, who offered boilerplate assurances that the girl’s story was being taken seriously. When the civil case made headlines a year later, no one from HPD was available for comment.
I haven’t talked to Cavallo in a while. I reach for my phone and dial her direct line.
“I’m looking at reports of an old case of yours,” I say. “What are you doing right now?”
She sighs. “Paperwork.”
“Perfect. How about a field trip?”
A pause. “Are you driving or am I?”
That’s what I like about Cavallo. Ready to drop everything at a moment’s notice, no explanation needed. My last ride in the passenger seat with Cavallo aged me ten years, so I volunteer as wheelman, telling her to meet me downstairs in ten minutes.
She’s waiting for me when I step off the elevator, looking sharp in a tailored pea coat. Curly tendrils of hair snake out in every direction. She greats me with a knowing smirk.
“Married life suits you, Cavallo.”
“Thanks,” she says. “I think.”
When we worked together on the Mayhew case, she was engaged to a soldier deployed in Iraq. He’d come back, tied the knot, and headed out for another hitch, this time in Afghanistan. That had to be hard, but we’ve never talked about it. That’s not the kind of relationship we have.
“Where are we going, anyway?” she asks.
“My alma mater. The University of Houston.”
In the car, I tell her about my homicide and the connection to Joy Hill, whose alibi for the time of the murder is that she was on campus all day. Then I share what I’ve gleaned about the sexual harassment suit. My skepticism about Zachariassen’s claims comes through loud and clear.
“Something did happen to her,” Cavallo says. “She took a lie detector test and passed.”
“Fair enough. But if you put her on the box, you must have had your doubts.”
“Bizarre as the story was, we all assumed she’d made it up. There was a history of emotional problems, depression. The plagiarism charge brought it all to a head. When she disappeared, the family feared suicide. So when she turned up, everybody was relieved, and yeah, the story sounded fishy, like she was trying to save face. But she insisted on it, March. And she had the hood.”
“Was there any physical evidence in her car?”
She shakes her head. “We collected some fibers, but never matched them to anything. No prints, nothing like that.”
“And later on, when you heard about the sexual harassment case, what did you think about that?”
“I’d interviewed the professor and there was definitely something weird about her.”
“Why’d you interview her?”
“Ah,” she says. “Part of the story that didn’t make it into the papers: Shayna accused her teacher of putting out a hit on her.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“When the police got involved, the professor was spooked and decided to call it off. That’s what the call Shayna overheard was about. Why are you laughing? Crazier things have happened. Like I said, she did pass the lie detector.”
“Maybe she was crazy, though. You
said she had problems.”
Cavallo nods stiffly. I can’t tell if she’s irritated with me or not. “According to the professor, Shayna had formed an unhealthy attachment to her. Dr. Hill saw herself as the victim in all this. All she’d done was turn in a cheater, and people were acting like she was responsible for this girl’s mental breakdown. I guess the lawsuit made her feel even more victimized . . . but it was dropped, right?”
“Settled out of court.”
“And now you’re looking at the professor as a suspect in your homicide?”
“Honestly?” I give her a noncommittal shrug. “I’m just hoping to check her off my list.”
Rising from a sea of blacktop lots, the stadium at the University of Houston is surrounded by glistening commuter cars that mostly clear out by late afternoon. On a map of the city’s crime stats, this area is ground zero, colored bright red, the highest rating on the chart. At one point the campus briefing for incoming freshmen included advice on what to do when being chased through the parking lot—Pull a security phone off the hook and keep running!—but the ratings have more to do with the surrounding neighborhoods than the campus itself.
Cavallo guides me behind the stadium to a line of trees marking the transition from pavement to deeply rutted grass and gravel. Since classes ended last week and final exams are coming up, there aren’t many cars this far back. The muddy ground is crosshatched with tire tracks, pools of stagnant water standing in the potholes.
“This is where Shayna was abducted,” Cavallo says. “After a night class, she had to walk back here alone.”
“But there were no witnesses, right? Nobody saw her being taken, nobody saw her being returned.”
“No, but UH security did several sweeps after she was reported missing and didn’t locate her car. So we at least know it wasn’t here.”
“She could have driven anywhere, though.”
We get out of the car and walk around a bit, but there’s nothing to see. Cavallo checks her watch a couple of times as I work things out in my head. At the same time Dr. Hill was having trouble with Zachariassen, a former student of hers from Poland named Agnieszka was living in her home, carrying on with her husband. After the harassment suit, he and the girl moved out and eventually split up, leaving Hill on her own. And she turns around and invites another girl, Simone Walker, to move in. Six months later, Simone is dead.
“Where’s Shayna Zachariassen now?” I ask.
Cavallo shrugs. “Do you keep up with people after a case is closed?”
“Only the dead ones.”
I motion her back into the car and we drive around the stadium, crossing Cullen to enter the campus proper at University Park. I snag a metered space near the Agnes Arnold Building. Since Cavallo doesn’t know the territory, I have to guide her now, taking the cut-through behind the Science building past the placid waters of the man-made lake where, in sunnier weather, students are prone to congregate by the hundreds.
It’s been a while since I was on campus. The squared concrete buildings, the aging modernist landscape, used to remind me of fascist architecture—an ironic association for a university. Now it seems almost futuristic. A vision of the future from the late sixties, anyway.
We climb the steps to the Roy Cullen Building, home of the English Department, ascending to the second floor. Dr. Hill’s office is tucked at the end of a short corridor. The door is shut. I knock, but there’s no reply.
“The department office is just down there,” I say, pointing to the far end of the main hallway. A glass wall partitions administrators and their secretaries from the rest of the building. “The problem is, I’m supposed to keep my inquiry low-key. If I go in, flash my badge, and start asking a bunch of questions, that’ll get back to the professor. You, on the other hand, could walk right in without raising suspicion.”
“And do what?” she asks.
“Do nothing. Just grab some forms to fill out and sit in the waiting area. See what the secretaries are talking about.”
She shakes her head at the idea.
“Give them some time,” I say. “Let them get used to you being in there. Once you’ve got all you’re going to get, ask them if Dr. Hill is around. Say you had an appointment Saturday, but she wasn’t here. See how they answer.”
“Is this why you brought me? To do your legwork? All the sudden I’m remembering what it was like to work with you. And the memories aren’t pleasant.”
“You loved it, Cavallo. It was pure excitement.”
“Right. Getting shot was exciting.”
Getting shot. Last time around, we traded gunfire with a rogue officer named Tony Salazar and his accomplice. I put the sidekick down and wounded Salazar mortally. Cavallo and I came out unscathed, or so it seemed. Afterward, though, Bascombe dug a spent round out of Cavallo’s ballistic vest. It was a scary moment. No wonder she didn’t jump at the opportunity to transfer to Homicide.
“Don’t remind me,” I say. “Look, nobody’s gonna shoot at you in there. The worst that can happen is that they’ll use a thesaurus on you. You’re a tough cop. You can handle that.”
“And what will you be doing?”
“I’ll be outside by the fountain, soaking up some rays.”
Twenty minutes later, she comes outside with a stack of papers in her hand, striding toward the concrete bench where I’ve set up camp. Cavallo’s got a stride to her, a long-legged, intimidating walk that says she’d just as soon trample obstacles as cut around them. The same kind of confidence Charlotte had when I first met her, only with Cavallo being a cop, it’s more a physical than an intellectual thing. She stands over me, hands on hips, triumphant and challenging at the same time.
“How’d it go?”
She jabs the papers at me. “I signed up for a full load next semester.”
“Anything else?”
“Quite a bit, actually.” She sits next to me on the bench. “I did what you said and hung around for a bit. They picked up the conversation and sure enough, they were talking about the girl who got murdered at Dr. Joy’s house. That’s what they call her: Dr. Joy.” She smirks. “It sounds like there was some kind of job opening in the office, and Dr. Joy tried to get your victim the position, only she missed the interview. And apparently there was a scene earlier today.”
“What kind of scene?”
“Dr. Joy bawled out one of the secretaries, that’s all I know. I got the impression the departmental staff doesn’t like the professor all that much. I also got the impression she doesn’t usually keep office hours on Saturdays. When I asked, they looked surprised. They didn’t see her . . . but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t there.”
I nod slowly. “She could get into her office without them noticing. Still, that’s great work. Maybe it’s time to interview Dr. Hill again. What do you think about tagging along? I’d like a second opinion.”
“Don’t you have a partner, March?”
“Aguilar’s not the most talkative man, in case you don’t remember. Plus, you have some background with her. If she remembers you, that might shake her up.”
“I do actually have work of my own.”
“Tell you what,” I say. “Come with me to see Dr. Hill, and afterward we’ll grab some dinner with Charlotte. She’d love to see you again, and it’ll save you having to order pizza and veg out in front of the television.”
“That’s your idea of how I spend my off-hours?”
“Isn’t it?”
She ignores the question. “How’s Carter doing? Are they still living in that garage apartment of yours?”
“You’ve just reminded me. Now you really do need to come home with me. I talked to Carter this morning, and guess what he said? He and Gina are having a baby.”
She breaks out in a smile. “That’s great.”
“So you’re in? I’ll call Charlotte right now.”
“Fine. I’m in.”
It takes a few minutes to get my wife on the phone. I tell her Cavallo was asking about them
all and I suggested dinner so we could all catch up. Surprised, she agrees to book a table somewhere and make sure Carter and Gina are onboard. We settle on seven o’clock, which will give us time to swing by Dr. Hill’s house again and try to catch her at home.
As we walk back to the car, my phone rings.
It’s Joy Hill.
“I’m sorry I didn’t return your message sooner,” she says, “but I’ve only just gotten home.”
“I’d like to swing by, if you don’t mind.”
“Detective,” she says. “Something strange just happened. A man I’ve never seen before came to the door. I thought he might be one of you people—that’s the only reason I answered the knock. But he asked for Simone. He said he’d been trying to call her, but she wasn’t answering.”
“Did you get his name?”
“Oh,” she says. “I didn’t think to ask. It happened so fast. When I told him what happened to her, he pushed inside the house. He was calling her name up the stairs, like he didn’t believe me, and then he broke down and started crying.”
“He cried?”
“He was sobbing. He said she was going to have his baby, Detective.”
“A baby?”
Cavallo raises an eyebrow at me.
“Over and over he kept saying it. Then all the sudden he got up and left. It was very disturbing.”
“He’s gone now? How long ago did he leave?”
“He just left. I called you immediately.”
“I’m coming right over.”
I toss the keys to Cavallo, who’ll get us there quicker, and drop into the passenger seat. I dial the medical examiner’s office. The switchboard puts me through to Dr. Green’s voicemail. I dial back and she does it again.
“Do you have Sheila Green’s direct number?” I ask Cavallo. Unlike me, she has a good relationship with the doctor. She tosses her phone over, telling me to scroll through the saved numbers. Seconds later, Dr. Green picks up the line.
“Hey, girl, what’s going on?”
“It’s Roland March,” I say. “I have an urgent question for you.”