by Harlan Coben
Sleep came in fits and spurts. Gary contemplated doing something more, but that would only piss off Rebecca. She was a free spirit, and if there was a tension in their otherwise fulfilling relationship, it had to do with his relatively "traditional" lifestyle "clipping" her creative wings. Her terms.
So he gave her space. To unclip her wings or whatever.
By seven in the morning, concern had segued into something closer to genuine fear. Gary's call woke up Arturo Ramirez, Rebecca's gaunt, black-clad assistant.
"I just got in, "Arturo complained groggily.
Gary explained the situation. Arturo, who had fallen asleep in his clothes, did not bother changing. He ran out the door. Gary promised to meet him at the studio. He hopped on the downtown A.
Arturo arrived first and found the studio door ajar. He pushed it open.
"Rebecca?"
No answer. Arturo called her name again. Still no answer. He entered and scanned the studio. She wasn't there. He opened the darkroom door. The usual harsh smell of film-development acids still dominated, but there was something else, something faint and below the surface that still had the ability to make his hair stand on end.
Something distinctly human.
Gary rounded the corner in time to hear the scream.
Chapter 21
In the morning, I grabbed a bagel and headed west on Route 80 for forty-five minutes. Route 80 in New Jersey is a fairly nondescript strip of pavement. Once you get past Saddle Brook or so, the buildings pretty much vanish and you're faced with identical lines of trees on either side of the road. Only the interstate signs break up the monotony.
As I veered off exit 163 at a town called Gardensville, I slowed the car and looked out at the high grass. My heart started thumping. I had never been here before ' I'd purposely avoided this stretch of interstate for the past eight years ' but it was here, less than a hundred yards from where I now drove, that they found Elizabeth's body.
I checked the directions I'd printed off last night. The Sussex County coroner's office was on Mapquest.com, so I knew to the tenth of a kilometer how to get there. The building was a blinds closed storefront with no sign or window lettering, a plain brick rectangle with no frills, but then again, did you want any at a morgue? I arrived a few minutes before eight-thirty and pulled around back. The office was still locked up. Good.
A canary-yellow Cadillac Seville pulled into a spot marked Timothy Harper, County Medical Examiner. The man in the car stubbed out a cigarette ' it never ceases to amaze me how many M.E.'s smoke ' before he stepped out. Harper was my height, a shade under six feet, with olive skin and wispy gray hair. He saw me standing by the door and set his face. People didn't visit morgues first thing in the morning to hear good news.
He took his time approaching me. "Can I help you?" he said.
"Dr. Harper?"
"Yes, that's right."
"I'm Dr. David Beck." Doctor. So we were colleagues. "I'd like a moment of your time."
He didn't react to the name. He took out a key and unlocked the door. "Why don't we sit in my office?"
"Thank you."
I followed him down a corridor. Harper flicked light switches. The ceiling fluorescents popped on grudgingly and one at a time. The floor was scratched linoleum. The place looked less like a house of death than a faceless DMV office, but maybe that was the point. Our footsteps echoed, mixing with the buzzing from the lights as though keeping the beat. Harper picked up a stack of mail and quick-sorted it as we walked.
Harper's private office, too, was no-frills. There was the same metal desk you might find a teacher using in an elementary school. The chairs were over varnished wood, strictly functional. Several diplomas spotted one wall. He'd gone to medical school at Columbia, too, I saw, though he'd graduated almost twenty years before me. No family photographs, no golf trophy, no Lucite announcements, nothing personal. Visitors to this office were not in for pleasant chitchat. The last thing they needed to see was someone's smiling grandkids.
Harper folded his hands and put them on the desk. "What can I do for you, Dr. Beck?"
"Eight years ago," I began, "my wife was brought here. She was the victim of a serial killer known as KillRoy."
I'm not particularly good at reading faces. Eye contact has never been my forte. Body language means little to me. But as I watched Harper, I couldn't help but wonder what would make a practiced medical examiner, a man who oft dwelled in the world of the dead, blanch so.
"I remember," he said softly.
"You did the autopsy?"
"Yes. Well, in part."
"In part?"
"Yes. The federal authorities were involved too. We worked on the case in tandem, though the FBI doesn't have coroners, so we took the lead."
"Back up a minute," I said. "Tell me what you saw when they first brought the body in."
Harper shifted in his seat. "May I ask why you want to know this?"
"I'm a grieving husband."
"It was eight years ago."
"We all grieve in our own way, Doctor."
"Yes, I'm sure that's true, but'"
"But what?"
"But I'd like to know what you want here."
I decided to take the direct route. "You take pictures of every corpse brought in here, right?"
He hesitated. I saw it. He saw me seeing it and cleared his throat. "Yes. Currently, we use digital technology. A digital camera, in other words. It allows us to store photographs and various images on a computer. We find it helpful for both diagnosis and cataloguing."
I nodded, not caring. He was chattering. When he didn't continue, I said, "Did you take pictures of my wife's autopsy?"
"Yes, of course. But ' how long ago did you say again?"
"Eight years."
"We would have taken Polaroids."
"And where would those Polaroids be right now, Doctor?"
"In the file."
I looked at the tall filing cabinet standing in the corner like a sentinel.
"Not in there," he added quickly. "Your wife's case is closed. Her killer was caught and convicted. Plus it was more than five years ago."
"So where would it be?"
"In a storage facility. In Layton."
"I'd like to see the photographs, if I could."
He jotted something down and nodded at the scrap of paper. "I'll look into it."
"Doctor?"
He looked up.
"You said you remember my wife."
"Well, yes, I mean, somewhat. We don't have many murders here, especially ones so high profile."
"Do you remember the condition of her body?"
"Not really. I mean, not details or anything."
"Do you remember who identified her?"
"You didn't?"
"No."
Harper scratched his temple. "Her father, wasn't it?"
"Do you remember how long it took for him to make an identification?"
"How long?"
"Was it immediate? Did it take a few minutes? Five minutes, ten minutes?"
"I really couldn't say."
"You don't remember if it was immediate or not?"
"I'm sorry, I don't."
"You just said this was a big case."
"Yes."
"Maybe your biggest?"
"We had that pizza delivery thrill kill a few years ago," he said. "But, yes, I'd say it was one of the biggest."
"And yet you don't remember if her father had trouble identifying the body?"
He didn't like that. "Dr. Beck, with all due respect, I don't see what you're getting at."
"I'm a grieving husband. I'm asking some simple questions."
"Your tone," he said. "It seems hostile."
"Should it be?"
"What on earth does that mean?"
"How did you know she was a victim of KillRoy's?"
"I didn't."
"So how did the feds get involved?"
"There were identifying marks'"
"You
mean that she was branded with the letter K?"
"Yes."
I was on a roll now, and it felt oddly right. "So the police brought her in. You started examining her. You spotted the letter K'"
"No, they were here right away. The federal authorities, I mean."
"Before the body got here?"
He looked up, either remembering or fabricating. "Or immediately thereafter. I don't remember."
"How did they know about the body so quickly?"
"I don't know."
"You have no idea?"
Harper folded his arms across his chest. "I might surmise that one of the officers on the scene spotted the branding and called the FBI. But that would only be an educated guess."
My beeper vibrated against my hip. I checked it. The clinic with an emergency.
"I'm sorry for your loss," he said in a practiced tone. "I understand the pain you must be going through, but I have a very busy schedule today. Perhaps you can make an appointment at a later date'"
"How long will it take you to get my wife's file?" I asked.
"I'm not even sure I can do that. I mean, I'll have to check'"
"The Freedom of Information Act."
"Pardon me?"
"I looked it up this morning. My wife's case is closed now. I have the right to view her file."
Harper had to know that ' I wasn't the first person to ask for an autopsy file ' and he started nodding a little too vigorously. "Still, there are proper channels you have to go through, forms to fill out."
"Are you stalling?" I said.
"Excuse me?"
"My wife was the victim of a terrible crime."
"I understand that."
"And I have the right to view my wife's file. If you drag your feet on this, I'm going to wonder why. I've never spoken to the media about my wife or her killer. I'll gladly do so now. And we'll all be wondering why the local M.E. gave me such a hard time over such a simple request."
"That sounds like a threat, Dr. Beck."
I got to my feet. "I'll be back here tomorrow morning," I said. "Please have my wife's file ready."
I was taking action. It felt damn good.
Chapter 22
Detectives Roland Dimonte and Kevin Krinsky of the NYPD's homicide division arrived first on the scene, even before the uniforms. Dimonte, a greasy-haired man who favored hideous snakeskin boots and an over chewed toothpick, took the lead. He barked orders. The crime scene was immediately sealed. A few minutes later, lab technicians from the Crime Scene Unit skulked in and spread out.
"Isolate the witnesses," Dimonte said.
There were only two: the husband and the fey weirdo in black. Dimonte noted that the husband appeared distraught, though that could be an act. But first things first.
Dimonte, still chewing on the toothpick, took the fey weirdo ' his name, figures, was Arturo ' to the side. The kid looked pale. Normally, Dimonte would guess drugs, but the guy had tossed his cookies when he found the body.
"You okay?" Dimonte asked. Like he cared.
Arturo nodded.
Dimonte asked him if anything unusual had happened involving the victim lately. Yes, Arturo replied. What would that be? Rebecca got a phone call yesterday that disturbed her. Who called? Arturo was not sure, but an hour later ' maybe less, Arturo couldn't be sure ' a man stopped by to see Rebecca. When the man left, Rebecca was a wreck.
Do you remember the man's name?
"Beck," Arturo said. "She called the guy Beck."
Shauna put Mark's sheets in the dryer. Linda came up behind her.
"He's wetting his bed again," Linda said.
"God, you're perceptive."
"Don't be mean." Linda walked away. Shauna opened her mouth to apologize, but nothing came out. When she had moved out the first time ' the only time ' Mark had reacted badly. It started with bed-wetting. When she and Linda reunited, the bedwetting stopped. Until now.
"He knows what's going on," Linda said. "He can feel the tension."
"What do you want me to do about that, Linda?"
"Whatever we have to."
"I'm not moving out again. I promised."
"Clearly, that's not enough."
Shauna tossed a sheet of fabric softener into the dryer. Exhaustion lined her face. She didn't need this. She was a big-money model. She couldn't arrive at work with bags under her eyes or a lack of sheen in her hair. She didn't need this shit.
She was tired of it all. Tired of a domesticity that didn't sit well with her. Tired of the pressure from damn do-gooders. Forget the bigotry, that was easy. But the pressure on a lesbian couple with a child ' applied by supposedly well-meaning supporters ' was beyond suffocating. If the relationship failed, it was a failure for all lesbianism or some such crap, as though hetero couples never break up. Shauna was not a crusader. She knew that. Selfish or not, her happiness would not be sacrificed on the altar of "greater good."
She wondered if Linda felt the same way.
"I love you," Linda said.
"I love you too."
They looked at each other. Mark was wetting his bed again. Shauna wouldn't sacrifice herself for the greater good. But she would for Mark.
"So what do we do?" Linda asked.
"We work it out."
"You think we can?"
"You love me?"
"You know I do," Linda said.
"Do you still think I'm the most exciting, wonderful creature on God's green earth?"
"Oh, yeah," Linda said.
"Me too." Shauna smiled at her. "I'm a narcissistic pain in the ass."
"Oh, yeah."
"But I'm your narcissistic pain in the ass."
"Damn straight."
Shauna moved closer. "I'm not destined for a life of easy relationships. I'm volatile."
"You're sexy as hell when you're volatile," Linda said.
"And even when I'm not."
"Shut up and kiss me."
The downstairs door buzzer sounded. Linda looked at Shauna. Shauna shrugged. Linda pressed the intercom and said, "Yes?"
"Is this Linda Beck?"
"Who is this?"
"I'm Special Agent Kimberly Green with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I'm with my partner, Special Agent Rick Peck. We'd like to come up and ask you some questions."
Shauna leaned over before Linda could respond. "Our attorney's name is Hester Crimstein," she shouted into the intercom. "You can call her."
"You're not suspects in any crime. We just want to ask you some questions'"
"Hester Crimstein," Shauna interrupted. "I'm sure you have her number. Have a really special day."
Shauna released the button. Linda looked at her. "What the hell was that?"
"Your brother's in trouble."
"What?"
"Sit down," Shauna said. "We need to talk."
Raisa Markov, a nurse who cared for Dr. Beck's grandfather, answered the firm knock. Special agents Carlson and Stone, now working in conjunction with NYPD detectives Dimonte and Krinsky, handed her the document.
"Federal warrant," Carlson announced.
Raisa stepped aside without reacting. She had grown up in the Soviet Union. Police aggression did not faze her.
Eight of Carlson's men flooded into the Beck abode and fanned out.
"I want everything videotaped," Carlson called out. "No mistakes."
They were moving fast in the hope of staying a half-step ahead of Hester Crimstein. Carlson knew that Crimstein, like many a natty defense attorney in this post-OJ era, clung to the claims of police incompetence and/or misconduct like a desperate suitor. Carlson, a rather natty law enforcement officer in his own right, would not let that happen here. Every step/movement/breath would be documented and corroborated.
When Carlson and Stone first burst into Rebecca Schayes's studio, Dimonte had not been happy to see him. There had been the usual local-cops-versus-feds macho-turf posturing. Few things unify the FBI and the local authorities, especially in a big city like New York.<
br />
But Hester Crimstein was one of those things.
Both sides knew that Crimstein was a master obscurer and publicity hound. The world would be watching. No one wanted to screw up. That was the driving force here. So they forged an alliance with all the trust of a Palestinian-Israeli handshake, because in the end, both sides knew that they needed to gather and nail down the evidence fast ' before Crimstein mucked up the waters.
The feds had gotten the search warrant. For them, it was a simple matter of walking across Federal Plaza to the southern district federal court. If Dimonte and the NYPD had wanted to get one, they'd have had to go to the county courthouse in New Jersey ' too much time with Hester Crimstein lurking at their heels.
"Agent Carlson!"
The shout came from the street corner. Carlson sprinted outside, Stone waddling behind him. Dimonte and Krinsky followed. At the curb, a young federal agent stood next to an open trash canister.
"What is it?" Carlson asked.
"Might be nothing, sir, but..." The young federal agent pointed down to what looked like a hastily discarded pair of latex gloves.
"Bag them," Carlson said. "I want a gun residue test done right away." Carlson looked over to Dimonte. Time for more cooperation ' this time, via competition. "How long will it take to get done at your lab?"
"A day," Dimonte said. He had a fresh toothpick in his mouth now and was working it over pretty well. "Maybe two."
"No good. We'll have to fly the samples down to our lab at Quantico."
"Like hell you will," Dimonte snapped.
"We agreed to go with what's fastest."
"Staying here is fastest," Dimonte said. "I'll see to that."
Carlson nodded. It was as he expected. If you wanted the local cops to make the case a big-time priority, threaten to take it away from them. Competition. It was a good thing.
Half an hour later, they heard another cry, this time coming from the garage. Again they sprinted in that direction.
Stone whistled low. Dimonte stared. Carlson bent down for a better look.
There, under the newspapers in a recycle bin, sat a nine millimeter handgun. A quick sniff told them the gun had recently been fired.
Stone turned to Carlson. He made sure that his smile was off camera.