“Beyond that,” he said, “just be in my office at eight A.M. sharp. And prepare to work your ass off.”
A cold rain started to fall. Andie popped her umbrella. “Need a ride to your car?”
“Nah. I’m just a half block away.” He turned.
“Isaac,” she said, stopping him. “Thank you.”
The rain was falling harder. He gave her a mock salute and dashed across the street. Andie watched from the curb. Halfway across, he slipped on the wet pavement, then raised a fist triumphantly as he regained his balance with hardly a break in stride.
B.J. Bond, she thought, smiling as she headed for her car.
Five
The police weren’t the help Gus had hoped they would be. To them, a thirty-five-year-old woman in a rocky marriage who was missing less than twenty-four hours seemed a more likely candidate for an extramarital affair than foul play. They did let him fill out a missing-persons report. Beyond that, Gus was pretty much on his own.
He canceled his Monday appointments and spent the morning and most of the afternoon trying to reconstruct Beth’s weekend. He called the credit card companies to see where she had charged things, then visited those stores and restaurants. It was privately embarrassing, but his most recent photograph of Beth was almost a year old; things had gotten that bad between them. Even so, one of the assistant managers at Nordstrom’s department store recognized her. She hadn’t seen Beth in weeks. No one else could even place her.
Around three o’clock he got an emergency call from one of those ever so considerate clients who just wouldn’t take “family crisis” for an answer. Two minutes turned into ten, ten into thirty-five. Gus finally had to fake a dead battery in his cell phone to shake free. He spent the balance of the afternoon at home making phone calls. Beth kept an address directory on their computer. He scrolled down the list alphabetically, calling each entry, asking if they’d seen her. The process became mechanical after a while, and he lost track of time. He was phoning the P’s when the doorbell rang.
Gus answered it. Carla was standing in the doorway with a covered dish.
“I brought Morgan dinner.”
Before he could even invite her inside, she was heading for the kitchen. Gus followed. “Okay if I eat some, too?”
The ribbing didn’t break the ice. He said, “Actually, Morgan’s having dinner over at a friend’s house. I’ve been making phone calls all day. I didn’t want her around.”
“Business never stops for you, does it?”
“It wasn’t business. I’ve been trying to find Beth.”
“Oh,” she said sheepishly. Her combativeness dropped a notch. “Actually, so have I.”
“Any luck?”
She laid her casserole on the counter and removed her gloves. “No. But that doesn’t mean anything. It hasn’t been that long.”
Gus looked away, then back. “Can I ask you something kind of personal?”
“It depends.”
“Just forget for a minute that you’re my sister. Put on your hat as Beth’s best friend.”
“Okay.”
“Lately, I can’t really say I’ve seen the two of you together all that much. Sometimes best friends can be like sisters. Sometimes it’s just a label. Were you and Beth close?”
She made a face, as if the question were complicated. “We were at one time.”
“But not lately?”
“We’ve been closer. There was no big blowout or anything. It’s like I told you this morning. Beth has been really unhappy the last few months. She was pretty unapproachable.”
Gus nodded. “That’s what I’m finding out. I’ve been going down her address book, calling all her friends. I haven’t talked to anyone who’s seen her or even talked to her on the phone in the past two months.”
“Maybe she was too embarrassed. Abused women often blame themselves.”
He turned away, exasperated. “I never laid a hand on Beth. I don’t know why she said that. Other than to hurt me.”
“Gus Wheatley a victim? I don’t think so. From what I saw of Beth lately, she was more likely to hurt herself than to hurt you.”
Their eyes locked, as if a light had just gone off. Each could tell exactly what the other was thinking. Gus said, “You don’t think—”
“God, I hope not.”
The phone rang. Gus grabbed it on the second ring. “Hello. Yes, this is he.” He started to pace, listening intently. The eyes widened with concern, borderline panic.
“I can be there in twenty minutes,” he said finally and hung up.
Carla seemed on the verge of explosion. “What?” she asked with urgency.
“Police found a body in Washington Park Arboretum. Looks to be a woman in her mid-thirties.”
She raised a hand to her mouth in horror. “Is it—”
“Don’t know. They want me to come down for an ID.” He swallowed hard, his voice cracking. “They think it could be Beth.”
Like most FBI agents, Andie didn’t often go to the medical examiner’s office. Barring some connection to the federal government or some congressionally legislated federal offense, dead bodies were basically a matter of state and local jurisdiction. Locals frequently did call upon the FBI for assistance in certain areas of expertise. The FBI crime lab, for one. Criminal profiling, for another. Andie didn’t need to be reminded, however, that the locals still ran the investigation, even after the FBI answered the call for assistance.
Fortunately, Andie had wasted no time reviewing the case files Isaac Underwood had given her. She was completely up to speed when he telephoned after dinner to tell her she needed to get down to the medical examiner’s office right away.
The King County Medical Examiner’s office was housed in the basement of the Harbor View Medical Center. Andie arrived a little after seven. One of the office attendants took her straight to the main examination room. A detective from the Seattle police department met her outside the door. He was a heavyset man with thinning brown hair and a broad, flat nose, like an ex-boxer.
“Andie Henning,” she said, introducing herself.
He seemed taken aback, as if the “Andie” he was expecting was Andy a man. “Dick Kessler,” he said as they shook hands. His tone was uninspired, like the beige and white office in which they stood.
“Isaac Underwood sends his regards.” He didn’t, really, but Andie could see from the immediate smile on Kessler’s face that the mere mention of her boss’s name was a sure ice breaker. Isaac had an excellent relationship with the Seattle police department; he had started his law enforcement career there.
“Good ol’ Isaac,” he said with a nostalgic smile. “What a kick it used to be watching that guy on the witness stand. Did you know he still holds the department record for the most cocky criminal defense lawyers chewed up and spit out?”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“Is he coming?”
“He sent me. Said he got a call saying you were doing an ID tonight on the latest body—the woman you thought might be connected to a serial killer. I was hoping I could talk you into putting it off until tomorrow morning, when our ISU profiler arrives from Quantico. She’ll be on a jet tonight.”
Kessler shook his head. “Can’t put it off. Wouldn’t be fair to the family. Assuming we have the right family.”
“Who’s coming down to make the ID?”
“Gus Wheatley. Big-shot lawyer downtown.”
“I’ve heard of him. What’s his relation to the victim?”
“He reported his wife missing this morning. Honestly, we didn’t do much with it. Not until this body was discovered.”
“What makes you think it’s her?”
“Not much so far. Unidentified white female. Mid-thirties. Brown hair. About a hundred twenty pounds. Could be her.”
“No driver’s license or other identification on the body, I presume.”
“No.”
“Clothing match?”
“Uh-uh. Body was found nu
de.”
“No other distinguishing physical characteristics?”
“We’ll need Mr. Wheatley’s help with that. It’s hard for us to say at this point. Birds and critters have already eaten away a good bit of the flesh. She’s a little taller than the height Mr. Wheatley reported for his wife, but the body could be somewhat elongated from hanging at the end of the rope.”
The door opened to the examination room. Dr. Rudolf Fitzsimmons, chief pathologist, stood in the open doorway. He had very blond hair, almost as white as his lab coat. The skin too was pasty. Andie had seen more color in cadavers. Too much time down here in the basement, she surmised. He invited them in with a wave of his arm.
“All set,” he said. “Would you like a preview?”
Kessler stepped aside, allowing Andie to enter first.
She was immediately struck by the cold and the lights. Autopsy rooms were like walking into Antarctica, bright and frigid. The body lay in the center of the room atop a stainless steel examining table. One leg, most of the torso, and the left side of the face were covered with white cloth, which didn’t strike Andie as standard procedure.
Dr. Fitzsimmons explained, “I’ve covered the more gruesome wounds for Mr. Wheatley’s benefit. No need to show a man which parts of his wife are now nourishing the wildlife at Washington Park.”
Andie asked, “Do we have to bring the poor man right into the autopsy room to make the identification? It’s hard enough to see a loved one pulled out of a drawer in the morgue.”
“Ordinarily, I wouldn’t do this,” said Kessler. “But I don’t want to lose any more time in this case. I’ve asked Dr. Fitzsimmons to be prepared to proceed with the autopsy just as soon as Mr. Wheatley makes the identification.”
“If we could just wait twelve hours,” said Andie, “I think we would all benefit from Agent Santos’s examination of the body before autopsy.”
Kessler paused, thinking. “Well, perhaps we could postpone some of the more invasive procedures. But I would at least like Dr. Fitzsimmons to proceed far enough to rule out suicide. If we’re going to explore the possibility of a serial killer, we might as well know if this woman was in fact the victim of a homicide.”
“I can answer that question right now,” said the doctor.
Kessler looked at him curiously. “How?”
“Look here.” He shined a spotlight on the side of the victim’s neck. Both Andie and the detective walked toward the head of the table for a closer look. “See the narrow bruise around the neck?” asked the doctor. “It’s a straight line all the way around, matching the pressure of the rope. Those markings indicate strangulation by ligature. With a hanging, you typically have a very well-defined inverted V-shaped bruise. Think of the way the noose fits around the neck.”
Kessler said, “But she was found hanging in a tree. Why no inverted-V bruise?”
“Bruising requires blood flow,” said Andie.
“That’s exactly right.” The doctor seemed impressed.
Andie leaned over, inspecting the neck. “Doctor, are you saying she was dead before her body was strung up?”
“Yes. Strangled, to be precise.”
“So we’re not talking suicide?” said Kessler.
Dr. Fitzsimmons shook his head. “More likely homicide.”
Kessler nodded. “Committed by someone who wanted it to look like suicide.”
“Possibly.”
Andie rose, chilled by her thoughts. “Or by someone who delights in displaying his kill.”
Gus’s Mercedes cut across Seattle in record time. The attendant greeted him at the door and took him down the hall that led to the autopsy room. Gus had been expecting to go to the morgue and have his wife rolled out of a drawer, like on television. Lately, nothing had been going according to his expectations.
“Please wait here,” said the attendant as they reached the waiting room.
Gus sat alone on one of two Naugahyde chairs that shared a vintage seventies smoked-glass coffee table. The lighting was bad fluorescent, the kind that bothered the eyes. Gus had never practiced criminal law, but suddenly he had an appreciation for the stakes, the drama. He felt as though someone in the next room literally had life-or-death power over him. Yet it wasn’t as if the medical examiner had a juror’s prerogative to change the outcome. Either it was Beth or it wasn’t.
He’d know in a minute.
His mind flooded with fond thoughts for his wife. The romantic dinners in San Francisco while he was in law school. The weekend hikes around Mt. Rainier when they’d first moved to Seattle. Their honeymoon in Hawaii, cut short by a phone call from Gus’s supervising partner. The birth of their daughter, which had come two weeks early, while Gus was in Hong Kong on yet another business trip that Beth had begged him not to take. They’d loved each other once, though he couldn’t put his finger on the exact sad moment when she’d realized that he loved his job more.
“Mr. Wheatley?”
He rose eagerly.
“I’m Andie Henning, FBI.”
He stepped forward and shook her hand. “What’s the FBI doing here?”
“I’d like you to come inside and make the identification, if you can. I should warn you. The body is not in perfect condition. We’ve prepared it so that when Dr. Fitzsimmons pulls back the sheet, you’ll see only the right side of the head and face. I think that should be enough.”
Gus felt a lump in his throat. “Okay. Let’s do it.”
Andie led him inside. Gus felt a definite chill on his face and hands, but the change in room temperature barely fazed him. He entered slowly, one step at a time, eyes fixed ahead on the stainless steel table in the center of the room. Beneath the bright lights, a clean white sheet covered the body. It seemed to rise for one breast but not for the other. Likewise with the feet. His hands shook. That must have been what Agent Henning had meant when she’d said the body wasn’t perfect.
He stopped beside the autopsy table. Andie was to his right. Detective Kessler stood on the other side, beside Dr. Fitzsimmons.
“Are you ready, Mr. Wheatley?” asked Andie.
He blinked nervously, then nodded.
Dr. Fitzsimmons pulled back the sheet, exposing the head.
Gus’s eyes filled with tears. He could barely speak. “It’s not Beth,” he said, then quickly turned away.
Six
Andie watched from behind as Gus headed for the door. The transformation had been sudden and remarkable. One moment a bundle of nerves bouncing off the walls; the next, a beaten man sinking through the floor. For friends and relatives, accounting for a missing loved one was always the same painful roller coaster.
It certainly put a screwed-up wedding in perspective.
“Mr. Wheatley?” she said as Gus opened the door.
He stopped in the doorway. “Yes?”
“Would you mind waiting in the lobby for a few minutes? Detective Kessler and I will be right with you.”
He hesitated. “I’d really just like to pick up my daughter and go home.”
“Just five minutes. Promise.”
Gus nodded, then left the room.
Detective Kessler looked at her quizzically from across the table. “Just let the guy go. I can do the paperwork later.”
“This isn’t about paperwork. I have some things I’d like to ask him about his wife.”
“Now? Why?”
“I don’t want to speak out of turn,” said Andie. “Agent Santos is the expert, and she’ll give us her views tomorrow. But just look at what you’ve got so far. Three homicide victims. All strangled, with evidence of overkill. The first two are like a pair—almost identical. The third is a woman in her mid-thirties.”
She glanced at the body before her. “If you look at the state of decomposition, I think we all suspected this wasn’t Beth Wheatley. As I’m sure Dr. Fitzsimmons will attest, it’s not easy to pinpoint the time of death on a body that has been exposed to animals and the elements. But if I had to guess, I’d say this woman was
dead before Beth Wheatley disappeared on Sunday.”
“Probably a fair assumption,” said the doctor.
“So?” asked Kessler.
Andie continued. “We may be dealing with—I don’t know what you’d call them. Bookend homicides. The first two are men who match each other, like bookends. The third is a woman who has nothing in common with the men, other than the strangulation and overkill. But she does happen to bear a physical resemblance to Beth Wheatley, who disappeared yesterday.”
“You’re thinking Beth Wheatley is this woman’s bookend, as you call it?”
“I’m saying it’s possible. That’s why we need to find out more about Mrs. Wheatley. Her daily routine, her lifestyle. As much as we can learn. Once we have a better understanding of who Beth Wheatley is,” she said, glancing at the body, “I think we’ll have a much easier time figuring out who this is.”
Kessler scratched his head, mulling it over. “Sounds like the kind of thing an FBI agent would come up with.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing. If you want to ask Wheatley some questions, be my guest. But excuse me if I don’t jump in with both feet.”
His cynicism was annoying, but as she started toward the door she could think only of the beleaguered man in the waiting room. She stopped for a moment and looked Kessler in the eye. “You know, Dick, I hope you’re right. I hope my bookend theory is full of shit. Because if it’s not, this is one hell of a good news, bad news scenario.”
Kessler got her drift. “Good news, Mr. Wheatley. That’s not your wife stretched out on the table.”
“But the bad news is, it probably will be.” She opened the door, and they entered the waiting room.
She decided to interview him right where he was, in the waiting room. It was private enough and would feel less like an interrogation. Andie was big on not making victims feel like suspects.
Gus remained seated on the couch. Andie and Kessler pulled up chairs, facing him. Andie spared him the “bookend” theory. His nightmare was bad enough already. No need to subject him to police speculation about a serial killer who likes his victims in matching pairs.
Under Cover of Darkness Page 4