Donovan had never been shy about the fact that he journaled. He used to talk about the process with their friends. He told them emptying his mind of what was there, regardless of topic or length, helped him sleep, so he did it every night, even when he was drunk, or so tired he couldn’t get the pen to run along the page properly.
That’s when Sam bought him the fountain pen. She thought it might be more fun for him to write with than a cheap blue Bic ballpoint.
Those close to him knew he wrote in Latin, but she couldn’t imagine him telling too many people that fact. Despite the teasing way he’d lorded it over them in school, to share such a detail with just anyone smacked of arrogance, and while Donovan had always had machismo to spare, he wasn’t a braggart.
Someone knew that he’d written down something incriminating, and had determined that they needed to stop him from sharing. So they broke into the house and stole the incriminating pages from the journal.
If she was right, if that theory held together, the culprit must be someone very close.
Or…when he received the note, he tore the pages out himself and destroyed them.
God, she felt like she was running in circles. She picked up her bags and started up the street, anxious to get back and look through the journal one more time. She couldn’t help but wonder again about the people he worked with at Raptor, and the men he’d served with. His death wasn’t random. Whoever had killed him was someone he knew well.
Sam needed to read Donovan’s journals from the time he was overseas with the unit comprised of the five men in the picture. See what story they had to tell. Susan had gone into the footlocker in the attic last night and pulled three dark red leather diaries from the pile. They were waiting for Sam back at the house.
The closer she got to the answers, the farther away she felt. But at least she had an idea of what to look for now. Leave it to Donovan to scatter a trail of bread crumbs, no matter how purposeful or unwittingly he’d done so.
Chapter Thirty-One
Washington, D.C.
Detective Darren Fletcher
“Thank you, Deputy. I’ll wait for that fax.”
Fletcher closed his cell phone and leaned back in his chair. The homicide offices were quiet now, in between shifts. He had space to think.
The folks from New Castle, supplemented by some crime scene techs from Roanoke, had turned out to be a rather quick and talented group; they’d finished the post and gotten the report done in the time it took Fletcher and Hart to get back to D.C. It helped that they had a pathologist on staff who was an expert in entomology. Through the insect activity on both bodies, the doctor had been able to pinpoint the time of death for William Everett to the previous Tuesday, a full three days before Donovan’s murder. That made it official; Billy Shakes was not their man.
The cause of death was listed as exsanguination. Method of death was probable suicide. They could not rule out intimidation or coercion, but there was no solid evidence to prove that scenario.
Except for one little detail. One little detail that could be used to suggest that all was not as it seemed.
The crime scene techs had retrieved a goodly amount of trace evidence, including a long dark hair from the wound in Mrs. Everett’s head, a hair that didn’t match either William, who was blond, or Mrs. Everett, who was steel gray. A hair with intact follicle, which would be used to find DNA. That hair, coupled with the time of the murder, gave Fletcher enough pause that he was unwilling to categorize the murder of Mrs. Everett the sole responsibility of William Everett, and instead added a possible third person to the mix. It was entirely possible that someone had killed Mrs. Everett, and when William arrived home to find his mother dead, he offed himself.
Or, which might be more logical, someone was waiting for him when he got back. Someone who didn’t want a witness to their conversation. Someone who was more than willing to take out an old woman so she wouldn’t get out of bed and overhear a personal tête-à-tête.
It did appear that Everett had slit his own wrists. There were hesitation cuts beginning an inch below his left palm, deep enough to bleed but not deep enough to hit the artery that would eventually let his life’s blood escape into the tub. It was possible that he was forced to use the razor on himself. His BAL was nearly three times the legal limit, which meant he’d gotten very drunk before he killed himself. Drunk, but probably not passed out: his liver showed a solid dive into cirrhosis. Billy Shakes was an alcoholic, and most likely a functioning one. His employer had been found; he worked the timber forests in North Carolina. The man was genuinely sorry to hear of Billy’s death, he was a good worker, one that kept everyone in stitches or tears as he acted out the great soliloquies from his favorite master, Shakespeare. Billy had been caught drinking on the job a few times, but a stiff reprimand had cured his foolishness.
No fresh granulomas had been found in his lungs, furthering the suicide theory. But there was no note. And more than that—there was no calendar, no mail with his name on it. Only a duffel bag full of clothes, enough for a week’s worth of changes. It seemed Everett had come home for a visit and stayed for a few days, which jived with his boss’s recollection that Billy had taken a week’s vacation to visit his sick mother.
But Mrs. Everett wasn’t sick.
Maybe he’d run home as an escape, thinking he could get clear of whatever trouble was hunting him down by hiding out in the holler with his mama’s shotgun to protect him. Not the most manly thing for an ex-Ranger to do, but people did crazy things when they were scared.
So what, or who, had managed to scare someone who’d spent the past decade tromping through the deep sand and unforgiving forests hunting terrorists? And had he killed himself, or been forced into that good night?
Fletcher was doing his best not to get frustrated. The case was turning into a sprawling, convoluted mess, spreading across multiple jurisdictions, diving in and out of logic. He had no way of knowing if he was dealing with a single killer or more. Whether the military angle was even relevant. Where the last piece of the puzzle was. All he knew for sure was things just weren’t adding up.
Hart had gone home for the day. He had a wife to go home to, a wife who wanted him there. Fletcher didn’t mind. Hart and Ginger were good people. He’d never begrudged his partner the family time Fletcher had so blatantly wasted when he had his own young family.
But that absence was felt keenly, because his partner wasn’t there to bounce things off of. The case was moving in fits and starts. He was missing something. He knew it was all there in front of him, he just needed to think about things the right way, and it would all fall into place. So he did what all good detectives do when they’re stuck. He went back to the beginning. Back to the original crime, the Donovan carjacking.
Donovan’s wife had told Fletcher he received a phone call, and skedaddled from the family outing. The number had been traced back to a disposable cell, which meant it could have come from anywhere. Susan Donovan said her husband had left her to go to work. Fletcher had been to Donovan’s office, and everyone he’d talked to there had denied calling the man in. He was off for the day. He’d made it clear he wasn’t to be disturbed.
That call was where it all started. So that’s where he needed to go.
Fletcher grabbed the phone and rang Susan Donovan.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Georgetown
Susan Donovan
Susan was reading a book to Ally and Vicky when she heard the door chimes. Muted footfalls followed, then the bell-like voice of her mother-in-law, Eleanor, drifted up from the foyer, followed by the deeper tones of Detective Fletcher. Susan sighed and handed the book to Ally, who took it self-importantly and turned to her little sister, more than happy to take over.
“I’ll be back in a bit, ladies. If you need anything, call from the landin
g. I bet Grammy will be up shortly.”
“Okay, Mommy,” they chimed in unison.
She watched them from the doorway for a moment, her perfect little angels, then took the stairs down. The terrible threesome, as she’d started thinking of them, were lined up in the kitchen, ready to dissect her words yet again.
God, she just wanted this over. Hiding out at Eleanor’s house, dreading the funeral tomorrow, trying to keep the girls entertained and sheltered from the reality of their father’s murder, wondering who had broken into her house, and why, was starting to take its toll. And the girls… Tomorrow was going to wrench all of them apart, but especially the children. It would tear asunder the basting stitches she’d put into their little psyches.
Susan had actually entertained the thought of not allowing them to attend, but Eleanor had talked her out of that. She made the entirely valid point that it was important for them to have some finality to the situation or else they might think he was coming back. Apparently Eleanor had lost her father at a young age and was never told the whole story, only that he’d gone away, and figuring out the truth when she was old enough to be cognizant of the realities of life and death had caused a permanent rift between her and her mother.
Susan thought the girls had a handle on things, albeit on a small scale—they’d lost multiple goldfish and a hamster and seemed to grasp the concept of death—but she wasn’t altogether sure they would understand that their daddy was never, ever coming back. This wasn’t like a deployment, when he’d go a few days without word, then show up in their Skype, smiling and freshly sunburned, with new shadows behind his eyes. For now, being away from home was causing more consternation than anything. They were both out of their routine, and that made for difficulties.
After tomorrow, things would have to go back to normal.
Her new normal.
At least that’s what she kept telling herself.
She entered the kitchen and the conversation stopped. The detective stepped forward and shook her hand. His was warm and dry, like he had a fever. She pulled away abruptly; she didn’t need to get sick, but he didn’t seem to notice. Or care.
“Thanks for letting me come over, Mrs. Donovan.”
“You’re welcome. Do you have news?”
“Some. I’ve just gotten back from New Castle, Virginia. We found William Everett. It looks like he committed suicide last week, prior to Major Donovan’s death.”
Susan rubbed her eyebrow, where a sudden headache had sprouted. Panicked confusion ran through her mind. What did that mean?
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” she managed. “But, Detective, please. Is that going to help solve Eddie’s case? What’s happening? Why was Eddie killed? Why were any of them killed?”
He held up his hands to placate her, which made her even more uneasy.
“Mrs. Donovan, that’s exactly what we’re trying to figure out. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to run through everything again. And have you tell me a bit more about the last man in the picture, Alexander Whitfield.”
“God, Xander’s not dead, too, is he?”
“We have no way of telling. We don’t know where he is. He has no address on record.”
Sam looked at Susan. “You didn’t tell him? About the Savage River?”
Fletcher straightened. “Where the sand came from? What about it?”
Susan shook her head. “No. We haven’t talked. I…I’m sorry, Detective. It slipped my mind. Xander lives somewhere near the Savage River.”
The detective’s face tightened. “Where, exactly?”
“I don’t know. We used to go up to the park to camp, and Eddie would go off and meet Xander somewhere to have coffee and talk. He never invited us along, said it was man time. So I’ve never met him, only seen the pictures.”
Susan saw Sam staring at her again. “What, Sam? What is it?”
“The nicknames. All the men in the picture went by nicknames, right?” Sam asked.
Fletcher perked up, too.
“Yes, they did. Nothing unusual there. Why?”
“‘BS.’ Remember? The little doodle in Eddie’s calendar that I thought looked like a cross? Didn’t you say William Everett was called Billy Shakes?”
Susan nodded. “Yes. But if he committed suicide, and Eddie knew about it, wouldn’t he tell me that one of his good friends had died?”
Fletcher passed his hands over his face as if scrubbing away his frustration. “That’s one helluva good question, Mrs. Donovan. Can you ladies clue me in to what you’re talking about?”
“I’ll show you,” Susan said. The journals and Eddie’s nearly empty day runner were sitting on the kitchen table. She retrieved them and pointed out the spot on the calendar, then showed him Eddie’s journal.
“I see,” Fletcher said. “That’s very interesting. Was William Everett in touch with your husband?”
Susan shook head. “Not that I know of. But, Detective, he was a grown man. He didn’t tell me about everything. Certainly not about who called him on any given day, unless it related to the family.”
“Well, in a way, he did,” Sam said. “The journal. May I see it again?”
Susan handed it to Sam, who flipped back to the corresponding date. “I think I figured out what I was overlooking… .”
The detective was obviously lost. Susan explained it to him quickly. “My husband keeps a journal, but it’s in Latin. Sam has been translating. So far she hasn’t found anything relevant to the case.”
Sam shook her head. “Until now. Look. Last Tuesday has a notation that’s out of the ordinary. Remember I told you Eddie had slipped in words that looked out of place? I realized earlier today that they’re memories. It’s his own brand of shorthand. And using the nicknames as a guide…” Her eyes skimmed the page, and even Susan felt her eagerness.
“Here it is. He’s crushed by the news of a close friend’s death. He’s talking about them. About the day the five of them met. They were all in the same unit on his last tour. He was confident they’d work well together. When I first read it I thought it said that he was shaky about remembering the details, but I misinterpreted. He’s talking about his memories of Shakes, and how much Billy Shakes’s death upset him. And the section starts with ‘Mutant in touch.’”
“Mutant in touch?” Fletcher asked.
“That was Xander’s nickname,” Susan replied.
“Yes, I know. And he lives somewhere near the Savage River?” Fletcher asked.
“Yes,” Susan answered. “But there’s no way he’d be involved in this.”
Fletcher’s eyes grew bright. “I need everything you know about this man, Mrs. Donovan. Everything. I’m afraid he’s our last viable option.”
“Option for what?” Susan asked.
“Mrs. Donovan, sometimes logic trumps everything else in a murder case. It’s becoming rather clear that Alexander Whitfield is involved in your husband’s death.”
“There’s no way. Xander is a good man. The way Eddie talked about him… No. I can’t believe that.”
Susan hated this. Jesus God, she hated this. All of Eddie’s friends dead, and the one left was the one Eddie had the utmost respect for.
“Mrs. Donovan, I’m sorry. I’m not accusing him of anything, not yet. I just need to know what his connection is to the past few weeks of your husband’s life. So if you’ll indulge me, I’d like to start at the beginning. Let’s go over it all again. Tell me about that phone call he received, the one that came on the day he was murdered.”
Susan thought back, as painful as it was. Admitting to Sam that she’d been upset with Donovan, that their last words had been slung in anger, made her feel better temporarily, but the guilt was crawling back in. Having to share this with the detective, and Eddie’s m
other, was making it even worse.
“I thought it was work calling. He answered, said, ‘Now?’ then hung up and said he had to go.”
“Who from work? Did he say? The last call to his cell was from a blocked number. Everyone I talked to at the Raptor offices said they hadn’t been in touch. They all check out—no call was made to your husband’s phone from their offices. So why did you think it was work related?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say. I…I was upset with him, asked him to blow it off, and he just shut down. He did that sometimes. Especially when we talked about work. Just got cold and turned off. ”
“So the call could have been from anyone. You just assumed it was from work.”
“Yes, but…I’m so confused. He was killed near his office, right? Where else would he have been going?”
“These are all valid questions, Mrs. Donovan, and I’m doing my best to find out the answers. Did your husband like his job?”
“I think so. He seemed to. I wanted him to quit, but I already told you that.”
“Tell me again,” Fletcher said.
Susan leaned against the granite counter. She wasn’t terribly proud of how she felt, but she was trying to do what was best for her family.
“He’d done his time. Three tours. And he was finally out. But then he went to work for Raptor, with a bunch of his ex-Army buddies. I felt like Raptor was too close to the military, and I wanted him all the way out. But working there, that kept his hand in the game. They send contractors over to the war zones to manage transitional training for the Iraqi and Afghan governments. Even if the war was over tomorrow and all the troops came home, Raptor’s operators would still be there to help train people, rebuild the infrastructure, all of that.”
“But he didn’t travel overseas.”
“Not to the Middle East, no. Eddie was responsible for security for the people who came over here. Allan Culpepper kept him jumping all the time. He’s the heart of Raptor. That’s who I’d assumed called. It would take a lot for Eddie to be pulled away. He’d promised us the afternoon. It had been arranged for weeks.”
A Deeper Darkness Page 16