Using the light again to scan Halverson’s skin, we hose the body off and Izzy makes the usual Y-incision in the man’s torso. I am aware of Hurley standing off to the side, watching us and scowling as he chews at the inside of his cheek. I sense something is bothering him but figure it will be a waste of my time to ask him what it is. Hurley is definitely one of those close-to-the-vest, reticent types, a trait I find frustrating but, oddly enough, wildly attractive.
I soon forget about Hurley as I become engrossed in what Izzy and I are doing. We dissect the neck and chest cavity first, finding nothing of interest other than some minor lung scarring that is most likely the result of past bouts with pneumonia. We are about to start on the abdominal cavity when a woman with red, frizzy hair, pop-bottle-bottom glasses, and a face full of freckles appears in the doorway.
“Hey, Izzy,” she says.
“Hey, Cass. What’s up?”
Cass? I stare at the woman, then look over at Izzy, my eyes questioning. He smiles back at me over the top of his mask.
“Dom called,” the woman says, “He wants to know if you’ll have time for supper before you leave for Chicago tonight, or if he should fix you something to go.”
I gape at the woman in the doorway, unable to believe it is the same one I saw yesterday. Not only does she look completely different, her voice doesn’t sound the same. This woman speaks with a pronounced Southern accent.
“Tell him I’ll be home for dinner,” Izzy says. “Thanks, Cass.”
“You’re welcome.”
As soon as the woman is gone, I say, “No way is that the same woman I saw yesterday.”
“It is.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t get it.”
Izzy chuckles. “Cass belongs to a local theater group—the same one Dom’s in, in fact. That’s how I met her. As part of her actor’s training, she likes to try on a different persona each day. So she makes up characters, gets into the proper clothing, wig, and makeup, and then adopts whatever personality she thinks the character should have. The only thing that doesn’t change is her name. No matter what character she is, her name is always Cass. Even when she’s a man for a day.”
“She does men, too?”
“Yep, and quite convincingly, I might add.”
Hurley, who is standing off to the side listening to our exchange, says, “It sounds like one of those multiple-personality things to me.”
Izzy shakes his head. “Trust me, Cass is as sane as you and I and maybe saner than Mattie here.” He pauses and looks over at Hurley. “You have heard about the nipple incident, haven’t you?”
“Hey!” I grumble.
“Hey is right,” Izzy echoes. “Look at this.” He has just cut through the fibrous layer of tissue covering the abdominal cavity, thereby exposing the organs. “What do you see, Mattie?”
My eyes are immediately drawn to the liver, which is grossly misshapen, its surface covered with rounded bumps that look like fluid-filled blisters. “Bad liver,” I say. “Cysts?”
“That’s exactly what they are.” Izzy severs the necessary connections and hands me the organ so I can weigh it. While I do, he pushes aside the man’s intestines to expose a kidney. “Aha,” he says with an unmistakable grin, even though it is hidden behind his mask. “More of the same.”
I look at the kidney, and something clicks in my brain. My mind instantly makes the connection but then discards it almost as quickly. Surely it can’t be. But I remember my discussion with Arnie about Karen Owenby and her polycystic kidney disease. Her congenital polycystic kidney disease. What are the odds of these two people having the same rare inherited disease?
And then I remember how Mike Halverson seemed vaguely familiar to me when I first saw him. Now I know why. It isn’t because I’d met him before, it’s because I’d met a relative of his: Karen Owenby.
“We can’t know for sure,” Izzy cautions, sensing my excitement. “Not until we do a DNA test or find some other evidence to link the two.”
Hurley, who doesn’t catch the significance of the liver and kidney at all, looks at us with a puzzled expression. “What are you two talking about?” he asks. “Link who two?”
“Karen Owenby and Mr. Halverson here,” Izzy says. “They both have the same rare congenital disorder. There’s a possibility they may be related.”
“There’s a physical resemblance,” I tell them. “I noticed it when I first met Halverson. He seemed familiar to me yet I couldn’t place him. Now I realize that the reason he seemed familiar was because he looks so much like Karen.”
“Okay,” Hurley says. “So we’re talking possibilities here, right? What kind of possibilities? Likely? Remote? What?”
“Hard to say with any certainty,” Izzy offers. “A rare congenital disorder like this could occur in two random, non-related people who just happen to live in a town the size of Sorenson, but I’d have to say that the odds are overwhelmingly against it. Statistically speaking, you’d stand a better chance of winning the lottery. And while I can’t vouch for the physical resemblance that Mattie noted, I’m inclined to trust her judgment on the matter. So I wouldn’t be at all surprised to discover that the two are brother and sister, given the closeness in their ages.”
“And both were killed with a .357,” Hurley muses. “Want to bet ballistics proves that both bullets came from the same gun? What a nice little package, eh?”
I have no idea what Hurley means and hesitate to ask since I don’t want to look stupid. For a brief second, vanity struggles with curiosity, my inherent nosiness emerging a clear winner seconds later. “What do you mean by ‘a nice little package’?” I ask.
Hurley’s baby blues take on the cold depth of glacial ice. “It means that someone wants us to think that Halverson here first killed Owenby and then killed himself, supposedly out of guilt or some need for self-punishment. The gun was left at the scene with the assumption that we’d make the connection.”
“Well, it does seem like a good motive for suicide,” I say. “A murder on the conscience plus a full-blown case of AIDS.”
“How do you know he had AIDS?” Hurley asks.
“We don’t,” Izzy says, giving me a cautioning look. “We’re running a test to be sure. But given that he has some of the classic physical signs of the disease, my—” He pauses, looks at me and smiles before continuing. “Our educated guess is that the test will be positive.”
“Okay,” Hurley says thoughtfully. “So how did he contract the disease? Blood transfusion? Dirty needle?” He pauses and looks at his shoes. “High-risk sex?”
Izzy chuckles. “It’s okay, Steve. You can say ‘gay’ in front of me. As a gay man, I’m keenly aware of the high prevalence of AIDS among gay men. All of us are, though unfortunately not all of us are careful enough to avoid high-risk activities.”
“Is there any way for you to know how this guy got it?” Hurley asks.
Izzy shakes his head. “Not with any certainty. But I can tell you that he doesn’t have any tracks or needle marks that would indicate either a past or a current drug problem. I can requisition his medical records to see if he’s had any blood transfusions in the past. He has no scars of any sort to indicate surgery or trauma, but those aren’t the only circumstances that might call for a transfusion. As for determining his lifestyle, you probably know best how to go about that.”
Hurley nods, a thoughtful look on his face.
The rest of the autopsy proves uneventful, the examination of the head wound providing nothing new. When we examine the contents of the vacuum bag, we find two hairs that—given Halverson’s baldness—are likely from someone else. But given where Halverson was lying—on a bathroom floor where stray hairs of all kinds are likely to be found—their significance as evidence is questionable. We have Arnie look at them anyway and he comes back with his report just as we are placing Halverson into a fresh body bag.
“We’ve got a match,” he announces. “Those hairs are id
entical to the ones that were taken from David Winston’s hairbrush a few days ago as well as one of the ones we found on Karen Owenby.”
I feel the stares of all three men in the room but avoid them and keep my eyes focused on Halverson’s body bag. My heart sinks as I realize this latest revelation further seals David’s fate. It isn’t definitive evidence, but it certainly strengthens the case against him.
Then my mind zeroes in on an alternate explanation and I raise my eyes to the others in the room. “Is it possible the hairs could have come from me?” I ask. “David was at my cottage with me for a while last night. Some of his hairs might have transferred to me, and then from me to the crime site.”
No one says anything but after a few seconds, Izzy shrugs. I take that as acknowledgment of the possibility. I expect to feel relief but it doesn’t come.
Nothing is resolved. A DNA test will prove whether or not Halverson is related to Karen, but those results could take a week or longer. In the meantime, all I have are suspicions, doubts, and speculations. But I also have some ideas on how to turn my speculations into cold, hard facts.
But first, I need an accomplice.
Chapter 27
Before leaving the office, I remove my bandage and clean the stitches on my forehead. I think about leaving them uncovered, but they look too much like a hairy mole, so I trade in the big white bandage for a smaller, skin-toned Band-Aid.
I leave the office and drive over to Karen Owenby’s house. As I park at the end of the cul-de-sac in front of her house, I happen to glance out my side window and see a burgundy-and-gray van stopped in the middle of the street. In a flash I remember how a gray-and-burgundy van almost rear-ended Izzy and I on the night of the hospital shindig. And how there was one this morning at Lauren’s house, too. Now here is another one. It seems like too much of a coincidence to me. Or am I just being paranoid? I am considering walking up to it to see who is driving when it backs up several feet, makes a U-turn, and disappears back the way it came.
I turn my mind back to the task at hand, although I keep glancing up the street from time to time, half expecting the van to return. I study the other houses in the neighborhood, wondering which of them harbors the mystery caller who claimed to have seen David on the night of the murders. Given that Karen’s house is at the end of a cul-de-sac, it doesn’t make sense that the witness was simply driving by. And while I suppose it is possible the witness was merely a visitor to one of the other houses on the street, I figure it is far more likely to be someone who lives here.
According to Larry Johnson, my police-officer friend, the eyewitness said she recognized David because she was a patient of his. I jot down the numbers of all the houses, knowing there must be a way to find out who lives where. I’m thinking that if I compare those names to David’s patient roster, I might be able to find a connection.
With that done, I head out of town toward the village of Parsons and find the address Susan McNally listed on her ER record for her sister. It is a cozy little home in an older neighborhood: two-story, clapboard, with a small patch of lawn out front and another in back. I pull up to the curb and climb out of the car just in time to see a burgundy-and-gray van turning down a side street about a block behind me.
I freeze, my heart thumping so hard I fear it will leap from my chest. I wait, watching the surrounding streets for another five minutes, but I don’t see the van again. I realize I might be acting silly, but that doesn’t stop me from looking over my shoulder several times as I walk up to ring the doorbell.
The woman who answers is a freckle-faced, fiery-haired nymph, a tiny woman with a waist about as big around as a pencil. Her hair is a wild mass of curls, her eyes a color of green so vivid it has to come from contacts.
“Hi, can I help you?” she asks.
I have my badge out and show it to her, trying to adopt an official pose. “My name is Mattie Winston and I work in the Medical Examiner’s office. I’m looking for Susan McNally and was wondering if she might be staying here. I need to ask her some questions about the death of her roommate, Karen Owenby.”
The smile on the woman’s face evaporates. “The police have already questioned her several times. Can’t you get your information from them? Susan’s pretty upset by all of this. As I’m sure you can imagine.”
“I won’t be long, but I really do need to speak with her,” I push. “The focus of our investigation is a bit different from that of the police. They don’t always ask the right questions for what we need to know.”
If anything, the woman’s expression only grows more determined. “Susan is sleeping right now. Why don’t you call and make an appointment to meet with her?”
The implication—that I am rude to show up without calling first—is unmistakable. And hard to argue with. Tiny though she is, the woman before me looks to have a spine of steel and a determination to match. I am about to give in when a figure materializes like a poltergeist behind her. Actually, doppelganger would be a better term, since the two women are virtually identical. Twins.
“It’s okay, Shannon,” says the second woman. “I’ll talk to her.”
Shannon gives me a disgusted look that makes her opinion of the situation crystal-clear. I ignore her and focus on Susan instead.
“Did you say your name was Winston?” Susan asks me.
“Yes. Mattie Winston. I work with—”
“Yes, I heard you tell Shannon. But your interest in this is more than just professional, I’d wager. David Winston is your husband, isn’t he?”
Busted.
“Yes. Almost ex-husband, though.”
Susan flashes me an ironic smile. “I would imagine so.” She steps around her sister and onto the porch. “Let’s walk,” she says. “Shannon’s kids have big ears and I don’t want them to hear what I have to say.”
I can feel Shannon’s eyes burning little holes into my back as I step off the porch with Susan. Since I’m not sure just how much Susan knows about Karen at this point, I decide to start with a general question and see what she offers before getting specific. “How long were you and Karen roommates?”
“Not long. Six months. There was someone else before me but I gather that she and Karen didn’t get along too well.”
“How did you know Karen?”
“I didn’t. I answered an ad she placed in the paper. We met, seemed to hit it off, and I moved in a week later. Frankly, I was desperate. I had to move out of my old apartment because the owner had sold the building and I had nowhere to go. What Karen proposed was the perfect solution, one I could afford. I sensed early on that something wasn’t quite right with the woman, but I wasn’t in any position to be picky.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, that whole impostor thing.”
So she did know.
“I don’t get it,” she goes on. “I mean, I always thought Karen was a bit strange, but I never suspected anything like that.”
“I’m not sure anyone did. Do you know if she owned the house?”
Susan shakes her head. “I assumed so at first, but it turns out she was just renting the place. The owner is willing to let me stay there, though I’m not sure I want to at this point. And I don’t know how long it will be closed off for the police investigation.”
“You work at a bank, right?”
She nods, shooting me a wary glance before looking away again. I notice that her eyes are a more natural shade of green than her sister’s.
“Did you have a feel for Karen’s financial situation at all? Was there anything unusual you were aware of?”
She hesitates, as if unsure of her answer. “Funny you should ask that,” she says finally. “Money was a subject Karen didn’t like to discuss. There were times when I saw her counting wads of it—tens, twenties, even hundreds. Yet she always seemed broke and the balance in her checkbook was always low.”
She pauses, giving me a sidelong glance. “I’m not usually a nosy person. I try to respect other people’s priva
cy,” she says. “But I knew something was going on with Karen and was worried that she might be dealing drugs or something like that. I work at Community Bank and Karen is a customer there. So I sort of peeked at her account activity one day while I was at work.”
“And?”
“And all she ever deposited were her paychecks. Every two weeks. No unexpected withdrawals, no savings, no investments that I know of. So where did all that cash come from? And where did it go?”
“You have an idea, don’t you?”
We have reached a corner and stop there by some unspoken agreement. Susan looks at me and nods, then drops her gaze to her feet. “I think she was blackmailing someone.”
“Any idea who?”
“I thought at one time that it might have been your husband,” she says, giving me a quick, guilty look. “I overheard her on the phone one night threatening to squeal to the wife of whoever she was talking to about his fooling around.”
“Did you tell all of this to the cops?”
“Not all of it. I told them that she’d been seeing your hus–David. But I didn’t think of the money thing until recently, the past day or so. I’ve been so…upset by the murder that I haven’t been thinking straight. Besides, I knew they’d look at her financial stuff as a matter of course anyway, and if anyone found out I’d looked at Karen’s account the way I did, I could get fired.” She gives me a fearful, pleading look.
“I won’t tell anyone,” I assure her. “In fact, our entire conversation is just between the two of us.”
“Thanks.”
“The police said there was an anonymous caller, a woman, who claims to have seen David at your and Karen’s house the night of the murder. Was that you by any chance?”
She frowns and shakes her head. “No. I was gone all night. I wasn’t even in town. My boyfriend lives in Madison. I went there to stay with him for a few days. I had Monday and Tuesday off but I was scheduled to return to work on Wednesday. Rather than fight the rush hour traffic in the morning, I decided to come home Tuesday night. I’d just gotten home when I found Karen.”
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