Bennett grabbed the edge of her lower lip with her teeth, working the flesh white with worry. “What a terrible way to die.”
“Was she alive when they put her on the fence?”
“I need to examine her to be sure, but the extension of her fingers tell me it’s very possible. There is also lividity in her hands, and that usually happens with hanging victims.”
Dear God. No one deserved to die like this.
“Did she say anything the other night to make you think she was a working girl?”
I shook my head. “She was the bartender at Gary’s, though. I hate to make generalizations, but a lot of those girls work the streets.” I thought about my conversations with Rhonda. She’d mentioned Sadie. Now that the case was officially reopened, I needed to follow up with her at some point in the day.
“Holy hell!” Both Bennett and I turned to see Harvey coming toward us. My stomach tightened and my shoulders stiffened at the sight of her. “What happened?”
Bennett used a hand to shield her eyes from the sun and looked up at Harvey. “It’s another woman from Gary’s. We’ll need your help to get her down.”
Harvey gave me a quick look from head to toe. “Another girl? What’s going on?” she asked.
“It’s not over, Harvey.” I couldn’t look at her as I spoke. “Not even close.”
*
It took the three of us and three crime scene techs to lift Rhonda off the fence and onto the gurney. Bennett wasn’t kidding about the severity of the rigor mortis. Rhonda’s body would not lie flat against the rolling gurney, and it was as if her arms were frozen above her head. Bennett positioned Rhonda on her side in order to do the preliminary exam, and I watched Bennett’s fingertips move quickly over the body. There were multiple abrasions, and the blood pooling caused a lot of the bruising to the face and limbs. Rhonda had been stabbed in the back twice. I wanted to grab something to cover Rhonda on the gurney; I wanted to help keep the damage to her body her own so that she could keep some semblance of dignity in this enormous mess. I turned away when Bennett punched the thermometer through Rhonda’s skin to get the temperature of the liver.
“She’s been dead anywhere between ten and twelve hours.”
Harvey looked at me. “I wonder if she was working last night.”
“Probably. Saturday nights are busy, and this would have been somewhere around one a.m. Seems early for her to knock off for the night.”
“Maybe she was with a john,” Harvey said. “Someone she met at Gary’s. We need to review the security footage from the bar.”
I looked closer at the stabs to the back. It was the same MO we’d been following with two of the other four victims. Could it be that the stabs represented the metaphorical saying—a stab in the back?
“The wound to the crown of the head left her unable to defend herself,” Bennett said. “It didn’t kill her, but knocked her out. I doubt she ever regained consciousness.”
“What about her hands?” I asked. “You said I could be wrong about the positioning of them. She could have been reaching for the ground?”
“Most likely that was the body’s way of fighting death on its own. When a person is rendered unconscious, the body will sometimes take steps on its own to save itself.” Bennett glanced up at me. “I’ll need to run more tests, but I doubt she felt much of anything after she fell unconscious.”
That, at least, was some good news. I never wanted victims to suffer and I hoped that Rhonda slipped painlessly into the grace of death. That was about the best anyone could hope for, given the circumstances.
Harvey and I stood by and watched as Bennett and the techs loaded the folding gurney into the van. We needed to meet with Captain Riley, and while we waited for him to spare a few moments, Harvey paced back and forth around me. She’d buzzed the back and sides of her hair since I’d last seen her, leaving her blond bangs long. She had them gelled away from her face, combed so carefully I could see the teeth tracks. She looked at me with her strong chin jutted out and hands on her slim hips. “Are you going to talk to me?”
“This proves Cooper didn’t kill those girls.”
Harvey rolled her eyes. “I meant about what happened. With us.”
“There’s nothing to say, Harvey.”
When she began an apology, I stopped her. “We’re both to blame. I had too much to drink. It’s all good, okay? Let’s just focus on the case.”
Harvey stared at me incredulously. “Why can’t we discuss it?”
I ignored her question. I refused to get personal with her at a crime scene. “It wasn’t Cooper, Harvey. He might have killed other girls, but not our women.”
Harvey, realizing she couldn’t change my mind, finally joined me in the work conversation. She looked back at the fence where Rhonda had been found. “Why the change in the positioning of the bodies? Why wasn’t Rhonda found in the river?”
“Because her death was a threat. It was a message to the Wallace Lake community. Her murder screams, If you stab us in the back by talking to the authorities, you’ll meet a similar tragic fate.”
Harvey ran her fingers through her gelled hair and looked around the crime scene. “As far as we know, the only authority Rhonda spoke to was you. Someone was watching at Gary’s the night of the celebration.”
I nodded. “Or someone watched the bar’s security recordings. Rhonda knew—she was terrified, Harvey.”
“We’ll need to get a formal statement from you for the record.”
I popped my knuckles one at a time, thinking through the last few days I’d spent in Wallace Lake. “The bar was open to everyone on the night of the celebration. But our people and his employees made up at least ninety percent of the crowd.”
Harvey nodded. “I see where you’re going with this. You think one of our people leaked the information.”
“It’s possible.”
“Hansen, I don’t even want to go there.”
A loud whistle came from somewhere in the cornfields. Barking dogs followed with the rustle and spread of corn stalks as an officer forced a path in the overgrown field.
“Get me an evidence bag!” an officer shouted. “I found a purse.”
I followed Harvey through a cornrow, the leaves of the stalks smacking against us as we headed toward the voices. Photographers followed. The drop location of the purse was probably the length of a soccer field from the fence line, and by the time Harvey and I arrived, a crime scene tech had already set up the numbered evidence markers for the photographs.
The worn purse was made out of blue jean material and reminded me of some sort of eighties fashion where everything was made out of parachute material or stonewashed denim. Once the photos were taken, I reached down for the purse with a gloved hand and slowly unzipped it. The photographer snapped off shots every few seconds.
There was nothing remarkable inside the purse: a half pack of cigarettes and a lighter with Gary’s Girls printed on it, a slim wallet with eight dollars and some change along with an expired driver’s license for Rhonda Betterly of Wallace Lake, Ohio, two four-by-six photographs of a child no older than ten, a pack of gum, and keys on a Daytona Beach keychain. I pulled out a patch of receipts from a side pocket, mostly for fast food and groceries, and lastly a folded but very familiar flyer.
Trying to kick a bad habit? Lost all your family and friends because of drugs? Need help and support? Heart to Heart Recovery is hear for you!
While the officers recorded all the contents of the purse and bagged it as evidence, my mind whirled with possible connections. Rhonda knew Joan Marco. She knew about the so-called sober living home. She knew Wilma Henderson, who had also been involved with Heart to Heart. It was possible that Rhonda had been helping Joan locate women for her sober home through the bar.
I’d spent time with Rhonda. Only a few minutes, yes, but enough for me to get a read on her. Rhonda struck me as an honest woman giving everything her best shot. She didn’t stand out to me as someone who would willing
ly send sick and needy addicts into the throes of a sober living home that might hurt them in some way. Her words to me in the bar had been laced with fear, but there was also something else: guilt. In order for her to take part in something she seemed to feel so guilty about, Joan Marco must have had something on Rhonda. Rhonda had to have done something she felt terrible about, possibly something illegal, and Joan most likely used it as a threat against her. That threat was probably made real for Rhonda once she realized that if she talked and Joan Marco found out, Rhonda might not see her child again.
Maybe I’d been giving Rhonda’s cryptic message too much thought; perhaps I was overthinking the simple. The secret she referred to could be hers.
Secrets aren’t buried very deep.
Was it possible that the message could have been a lot like the stabs Rhonda received in her back—literal, not figurative?
Chapter Nineteen
Day Eleven: 6:30 p.m.
Deceased bodies, Bennett told me, are full of great stories. I’d spent the late afternoon and evening in the coroner’s lab watching Bennett take Rhonda apart in order to listen to the stories her body had to tell. From the time Bennett unzipped Rhonda’s death bag to the moment Bennett stitched the body back together, Bennett translated for me the stories this body held.
Rhonda Betterly was only forty-three, which surprised me. I’d taken her for much older, and Rhonda’s life had apparently ground the youth out of her. Rhonda’s body, according to Bennett, contained all the signs of a woman who worked hard and played even harder. Drugs had a way of festering inside the soul and taking their time letting go. Bennett found scarring and damage typical with heroin abuse. Rhonda might have given up the drugs, but Bennett found evidence of active alcoholism through the severe swelling of Rhonda’s liver and the burns to her esophagus and stomach lining. In so many ways, Rhonda was very similar to the women who had been found along the Powell River: she worked at Gary’s, she had the matching tattoo, had been in some sort of recovery from drugs though continued to struggle with addiction, and she was known to sell her body for extra money. It was the very distinct difference in Rhonda that interested me most: she was much younger than the others. This fact left me with one of my nagging gut feelings that Rhonda Betterly had been important to the killer, at least at one point in time. Then something happened, something changed.
My suspicions were at least partly confirmed when Rhonda’s nine-year-old daughter was brought into the station by her aunt. The child spent most of her time at her Aunt Rebecca’s home, a preschool teacher at the local Presbyterian Church. To aid with the questioning, Captain Riley called in a child psychologist to interview her. Harvey, Riley, and I stood outside the one-way window and listened as the little girl detailed for the psychologist observations of her mother’s life. She knew her mother did bad things with men, and that she drank too much. The girl talked about her mother’s frightening drinking binges that ended with her mother coming into the girl’s room in the middle of the night and waking the child. Rhonda insisted on sleeping in the girl’s bed, holding the child tight in her arms, and sobbing into her neck slurred promises to keep the child safe. These episodes usually ended with her mother vomiting and/or blacking out, at which time the child crawled onto the floor to sleep. She knew her mommy needed help. She also knew her mommy wasn’t well, and she talked to the psychologist about her mother’s death much like an adult in a small body.
Rhonda’s daughter confirmed for us what I had already guessed: her mother had been close with Joan Marco until they had some sort of falling out a few years back. The child remembered Marco and her funny husband because she was nice and always gave her sweet treats like brownies and homemade cookies. She also remembered Marco taking her to a fresh patch of earth in her backyard and helping the woman to plant a garden full of tomatoes, zucchini, and squash. Her mother was happy with Marco, the girl said, and she finally stopped sticking needles into her arm. The girl and her mother regularly spent the night at the Marcos’ until one day they left and never went back.
“Why?” the psychologist asked.
The little girl shrugged. “Mommy said something bad happened. She said she needed to keep me safe. So I started staying with Aunt Becca a lot after that.”
“Do you know where the bad thing happened? Did you see something bad?”
The girl paused, holding a doll in her arms like a baby, and said, “Outside in the night.”
“Outside the house?”
The girl nodded. “In the yard. Only my mommy and Joan came back.”
“What do you mean? Who was left behind?”
“The man,” the little girl said, rocking the doll back and forth in her arms. “The funny man.”
Harvey stepped away from the window and gave me a look.
“Yep,” I said. “I heard it, too.”
“What’s going on?” Riley asked.
Harvey explained to Riley about the absentee husband Joan had explained away during our visit.
Riley turned to me. “You think he’s buried in the backyard?”
“Joan Marco fits the general profile of a black widow,” I said. “They generally keep their victims close to gloat over what they’ve done. And the house is located in a relatively new development. No one would question why the Marcos were working on the house or the yard.”
“We’ll need a warrant. I’m sure she won’t agree to let us dig up her place without one.”
“She’ll be pleasant to work with, though,” I said. “It’s all smoke and mirrors with that one. Look for a money trail. See if the husband is still getting any sort of assistance checks.”
He shook his head. “Richardson ran a zoning check—you were right, that property is zoned for a recovery residence. But where was the money coming from for these residents? Someone had to be paying for the women. Why would the Marcos open their home to these women if not for money?”
“That’s what we are working on, sir,” I said.
Riley groaned. “We’ll need a warrant for the Marco property, and it’s Sunday. You know how hard that will be,” Riley said. “We have the girl’s statement and yours from the interview—it’s flimsy and generally wouldn’t fly with the judge, but given the new murder victim and the press crawling up our ass, we have a chance.”
While Captain Riley made a call, I stepped closer to the window. I watched the little girl playing with the doll on her lap. Her mother had clearly gone to the Marcos’ home to get clean—the timing made sense based on Bennett’s autopsy findings. Marco must have offered some sort of shelter and makeshift safe house to these women to kick drugs. Quitting heroin or any form of opiate was never pretty, and I doubted Joan Marco simply offered her home up to these women out of the goodness of her heart. She wanted something from each of the residents in return. Maybe that had been the cause of the falling out Rhonda had with Joan—Rhonda wasn’t willing to do what was asked of her.
There was only one person I could think of who could possibly answer some of these questions. I left Harvey and Riley, both on their cells, and made my way to one of the occupied holding rooms. Once again I was defying Sanders’s orders, going off and working alone. At least I had the good sense to flip on the room’s recording devices.
Rebecca Betterly looked up when I pushed through the metal door, her face swollen and red with grief. She gratefully accepted the cold bottle of water I offered and immediately put it against her cheek.
“I can’t stop crying,” she told me from across the table. “I can’t decide which is worse—losing my only sister like this or my niece saying to me that she wasn’t surprised her mommy had to leave this world. She expected it—that’s a lot for a little one to live with.”
“It is.” I took a drink from my own bottle of water. “She’s so lucky to have an aunt like you. I’d be willing to bet if Rhonda knew she was dying, she found great comfort in the fact that you were taking care of her daughter.”
My words provoked a fresh set of tears
from Rebecca. “I’m so sorry,” I told her. “Rhonda didn’t deserve this. The only way I know how to make sense of it is to look for the person who did it, and to find some kind of justice for your sister. Will you help me?”
Rebecca dabbed her cheeks with a tissue and looked at me. “What do you mean? How can I help you? I don’t know anything.”
“Well,” I said, “I need to know more about what has been going on in Rhonda’s life these past five years or so. Did you know that your sister was an addict?”
After a moment, Rebecca finally said, “How did you know?”
“Her body. She has many of the signs of long-term alcohol abuse and there is damage from heroin abuse. When did she finally kick the heroin?”
“I’d say it’s been about five years now. I heard it was bad—I never knew because I was away at college. When I came back, she was living with the Marcos.”
“And she got clean there?”
Rebecca nodded. “From what I could tell, both Rhonda and my niece were happy and healthy living with the Marcos. I was grateful to the couple for all their help.”
“What caused them to leave the Marcos’ home?”
A darkness crossed Rebecca’s face, a shadow regarding the past. Her brow furrowed. “Do you think the Marcos are involved with what happened to Rhonda?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “When someone is murdered in such a horrible manner, it generally is about something personal. I need to look at all the relationships in Rhonda’s past, so I’m starting with where she got clean. There’s a reason, though, why your niece isn’t surprised her mommy is dead. What did Rhonda tell your niece? What did she tell you?”
Rebecca worried a tissue to shreds in her hands. I could almost see the gears in her mind turning, evaluating the risks of whether or not she should talk to me. I waited her out from across the table, sipping my water, and tapping my boot against the carpeted floor.
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