Final Grave

by Nadja Bernitt

  “Your father.”

  She hardened herself. “Spouses always get a going over. I’ve done it, too, but with a modicum of sensitivity, and I back off when I see I’m wrong. You were a hundred percent wrong, Mendiola. My dad nearly died from grief and on top of it, the stress from your accusations. I blame you and the lead detective for Dad’s stroke.”

  “Come on Ms. Fehr, motive, means, and opportunity—nothing’s sacred, not the victim, not her husband, nada.” Mendiola rolled his dark eyes skyward, then back to her. “Personally, I think Dillon’s decision to let you in was premature.”

  “Well, I’m here. And while we’re at it, Mendiola, I prefer Detective Meri Ann Fehr when I’m introduced and Fehr for informal.”

  He quieted the keys. “Fehr. Yes, ma’am, Fehr.” He said it with a hint of a grin, a disrespectful shit-eating grin. He added, “Folks call me Jack, but Mendiola’s fine, too. As I said, I’m versatile.”

  He pivoted around and headed for his Blazer, tossing his keys in the air like a ball. She heard him say, “Fehr,” as he went.

  “Passive-aggressive jerk,” she said as she cranked her engine.

  She fumed, caught in a revelation of just how much he disliked her and just how much she disliked him.

  # # #

  Tina tossed the burnt bacon into the trash, but her eyes were on the detectives at the curb. Joanna Dunlap’s daughter had stood at her door, the walking embodiment of the plague. Tina felt like disinfecting the porch where the whore’s offspring had stood, but more pressing issues nagged her. What did they want with Robin?

  Tina headed to the basement. Robin had built a sanctuary for himself—private rooms where he escaped when Joanna’s cloud came over him. She’d hear his footsteps sneaking down the stairs when he thought she was asleep. It seemed unlikely, but she wondered if somehow he’d gone down there now, tricked her into thinking he’d gone running.

  She tapped on the door. “Robin, are you in there?” She jiggled the door handle. It was locked. He’d kept it locked since the day he found her rummaging through his files for letters from Joanna, photos in his darkroom.

  She placed her ear against the door and listened, but no papers shuffled, no pencils scratched, no music played. She hugged her arms and listened to the silence, felt the darkness come down like a curtain.

  Death must be cool like this, and peaceful. Die, a small voice said to her. He’s a killer, and he’s killing you. And he doesn’t even know it.

  It would be so easy to die, to exact revenge in the passive dark of eternity, to find peace from the torment. They’d never found Joanna’s grave, but Tina would have one. She clasped her hands and closed her eyes. “I’ll have a proper headstone to remind him, I am his wife in the eyes of God,” she said, as though there were someone there to hear her.

  She pictured Robin, sobbing over the fresh mound of earth. Hers at last. Robin’s family, their friends, the church elders, everyone would realize what he had done to her. He would beg forgiveness.

  She considered this for a few minutes, concluding the scheme lacked one critical measure of vengeance. Somehow she must include just punishment for Joanna’s child.

  Behold against this family I am devising evil, from which you cannot remove your necks; and you shall not walk haughtily, for it will be an evil time. Micah, 2:3

  She imagined the cool blue steel of Robin’s revolver in her hand and the arrogant expression on Meri Ann’s face turning to horror.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Meri Ann paced from one end of Becky’s kitchen to the other, the portable phone to her ear. She gave instructions to her family’s former dentist regarding her mother’s records. “Yes, a technician from the Bureau of Forensic Services will be there within the hour to pick them up… No, I really can’t discuss the case. Thanks very much.”

  She clicked off the phone and rubbed her stomach which gurgled in a language of its own. She hadn’t eaten a morsel all morning and she had been up since before dawn. This time her ex husband had nothing to do with her lack of appetite. In forty-five minutes she’d be sitting in Lt. Dillon’s office—and she hoped—officially on the case.

  She opened the bread drawer, looking for some easy sustenance and found the bakery goods she’d bought the day before. “Want a piece of toast? Or a blueberry muffin?” she called to Becky.

  “Hold on, kid. I’m trying to figure out how to open Meg’s e-mail.”

  Meri Ann went to her and clicked on the message.

  “Oh,” Becky said sheepishly. “I forget how easy it is.”

  Meri Ann gave her a pat on the back and returned to the kitchen. She toasted two slices of the bulgar wheat bread. The act seemed normal enough. But her fingers felt like butterflies, as she buttered the toast, and the first bite stuck in her throat.

  She might be physically at Becky’s, but her mind was still at Camel’s Back park, haunted by the skull and those hideous, vacant orbs. It could be anyone’s skull, perhaps her mother’s. Short of archeological anthropologists who reconstruct facial features from skeletal remains, who could tell? She traced the line of her jaw, felt the skull beneath her skin—hers like all the others.

  “The toast smells good.” Drawn to the toaster, Becky slathered her piece with butter and jam. “You might convert me to health foods yet. Make Meg happy if you did. By the way, she says to tell you her closet is your closet. You know, if you need clothes to wear to work at the Sheriff’s office?”

  Meri Ann looked down at her weary khakis, and though she wasn’t a clothes horse herself, she enjoyed the thought of something else to wear to the office. “That’s very generous of her, and actually I do need something other than the same pants I’ve worn for the last two days.”

  “Maybe something warmer,” Becky said.

  Meri Ann pushed her half-eaten piece of toast aside. “Guess I’m not that hungry.”

  Becky reached for it and ate it as well as her own. “I’m starving. Must be nerves. I still can’t believe this is happening in Boise. If it were New York City, I’d take it in stride, say what do you expect?”

  “I know. The crime scene shook me, Becky. Try to imagine a skull with Mom’s earrings.”

  “I’d be scared. Do cops get scared?”

  “Sure they do, which is not all bad. Fear pumps up your adrenaline, keeps you alert. It’s part of self-preservation and normal.”

  The idea of normal buzzed in her head. In the aftermath of her mom’s disappearance she sometimes thought her mother had been killed. She considered an accident, or a rape or robbery gone bad or a crime of passion. She had never considered a serial or repeat killer. “Two victims,” she said.

  Becky shivered. “I’m scared for you. And me.”

  If only she knew the degree of danger they were in. How she wished she had some encouragement for Becky. “Whoever it is doesn’t want you.”

  “Great, just great. When will it be over?”

  “We don’t know. But at least with me working the case, they’ll have another person to check facts and do interviews.”

  “You know, kid, this whole thing freaks me out. Let’s talk about something else, okay? Come on. I’ll show you Meg’s closet.”

  Meg’s mini-boutique gave her more options than she’d imagined possible. She ended up with black corduroy jeans and a moss-green sweater.

  Becky met her at the downstairs door and handed her a camel hair coat. From its length it had to be Meg’s.

  “No, Becky, I can’t wear her good coat.”

  “Trust me, she’s bought two more since this one. Maybe it’ll lift your spirits.”

  “And I was worried about yours.” Meri Ann draped the coat over her shoulders.

  Becky stood back, stroked her chin. “Hot damn. Some detective, watch out Mendiola. Is he cute?”

  “I thought he was
good-looking the first time I saw him. Then I smelled his whiskey breath. That was at eight in the morning. Not that I begrudge anyone the right to a work-night party, but his seems to be every night. His personal life takes precedence over work.” Meri Ann was ready to go on but Becky’s held up her hand like a traffic cop.

  Meri Ann laughed at her outburst. “I am such a bitch. I suppose he’s okay. I just want Superman working this case.”

  “So you’ll be Superwoman.” Becky gave her a thumbs-up.

  Meri Ann left feeling lighter than she had all morning. She drove down the lane with the radio loud enough to please Becky.

  At a quarter to nine, she stepped into the Ada County detective section. Neles and another fellow she’d seen at the morning’s crime scene glanced up from the open seating area. Meri Ann nodded good morning, as did they. Mendiola, on the other hand, barely acknowledged her.

  She tapped on Dillon’s glass door.

  The lieutenant wore a loose-fitting blue sweater that matched her eyes, a soft feminine touch, but her military stance indicated business.

  She motioned to Meri Ann. “Come on in.”

  Dillon poked a yellow pencil at an unruly IN basket. “I’m buried in paper. Some days seems like all I do is sign my name on reports, fill out schedules, and handle personnel issues. I miss the field work. Then I go out on a case, like today, and think reports aren’t so bad. We got ourselves a mess out there.” Dillon indicated a sturdy oak chair at the side of her desk. “Have a seat.”

  Meri Ann folded her coat over the chair-back and sat down. “The scene at Camel’s Back made my skin crawl.”

  “And it doesn’t stop with the bones,” Dillon said. “I hear someone’s watching your house.”

  “Looks like it. I’ve seen the woman and so has my friend. There’s no explanation for her presence and, of course, last night went beyond looking.”

  Dillon ran the eraser end of her pencil around her lips. “I’ve ordered an extra patrol to swing by. We’re short staffed, like the rest of the world, but you’ll get four or five passes a night. I’m not ready to put the house under 24-hour surveillance.”

  “I understand.” She squared her shoulders and came to the point. “As Mendiola told you, I’d like to work the case.”

  Dillon rocked back and propped her feet on the edge of an open drawer. Her eyes held steady. “I suppose he told you I’m okay with that?”

  “He told me this morning. It means a lot to me. I appreciate—”

  “Don’t bother with thanks. I’ve got an agenda. Having a trained detective on my staff and not my budget works for me. You’re also a calling card for our suspect. Someone’s made contact by phone. On that note, I’d be crazy not to take you and crazier not to fess up to the pitfalls. You’ve got an agenda, too. You’re personally involved and according to your boss in Sarasota, you are one hard-headed woman.”

  The thought of Dillon conferring with Pitelli sent a rush of blood to Meri Ann’s face. “He said that?”

  “And that you work your butt off, that you’ve got a good record and are up for promotion. You could lose that, you know.”

  How many times did she need to be reminded? “So I understand.”

  “I’m hoping you do; because if you screw up on my turf, if you don’t play by my rules, you’re back to Balmyland whether they want you or not.”

  “I’ve no problem with that.”

  “Good. Now, I’d like to hear your ideas on the case, like what’s going on?”

  “For what it’s worth,” Meri Ann said, “about two weeks ago, a Sarasota TV station asked for an interview. They were doing an in-depth look at female detectives and my boss volunteered me. The station sent a film crew to the Y where I was teaching a woman’s self-defense class. The network picked up the spot on Good Morning America.”

  Dillon chewed on her pencil. “And this preceded the discovery on Table Rock? Well, kiss my face. What does Jack think?”

  Meri Ann had meant to tell him as they were leaving Wheatley’s house but then they’d had words. She shifted uneasily. “It didn’t occur to me until this morning.”

  “I see.” Dillon glanced out her interior window in Mendiola’s direction. “By the by, you report to Jack, not me. He reports to me. I’m not saying you can’t come to me, but don’t do it without good reason. I’m a stickler for procedure, and I don’t want him any more upset than he already is over sharing his turf. I’m thinking you understand.”

  Every office delineates pecking order, but in light of the recent tension between Mendiola and her, the idea stuck in her craw. She slowly nodded.

  “Rule one: you and Jack are in my face on a regular basis with anything pertinent to the case. Failure to communicate is not tolerated.”

  Dillon went on, “I don’t deal with emotional outbursts, lack of objectivity, or… or vengeance. You do not seek and find the killer and exact your own personal vengeance. Vengeance is not yours, saith me.” She pointed the pencil at Meri Ann. “Got that?”

  Meri Ann thought back to the crime scene and her fury over the person who set it up, turned her mother’s murder into a macabre game. Sure, she prayed for revenge and the pleasure of exacting sweet justice from a sick killer. But she accepted the rules. “I respect the law,” she said.

  “That’s all I ask.” Dillon studied her for a moment. “Okay,” she finally said. “Here’s how it works. Technically you do not have jurisdiction outside of Florida. You can investigate, accompany, and write arrest warrants, etc., but you cannot make an arrest alone. You’ll need Jack or one of us along.” Dillon eased back in her chair.

  “I understand,” Meri Ann said.

  “I’ll work your butt off. And another thing. You and Jack got a ton of personal baggage between you. I sure as hell know his. I’m learning about yours—the loss of your mother, the emotional shit this case must be stirring up. I also know you’re going through a divorce.”

  Meri Ann wanted to throttle Pitelli for telling her. She squirmed in her chair, feeling a red heat radiate from her cheeks and ears. “He said that, too?”

  “Maybe he wanted me to go easy.” Dillon’s mouth pulled at one corner, like she wanted to smile. “Just relax, all right? The good news is, I don’t gossip. No one in this office knows what I discussed with your boss. Same for Jack, if he wants to share his dirty laundry, that’s his business. My job’s keeping a handle on things. Okay, Fehr. Hear that’s what you like to be called.”

  Meri Ann nodded, eager to move on to the reason she’d put her life on hold. “I’m ready to work.”

  “Then let me call Jack.” Dillon grabbed the armrests on her chair and pushed up. “He’s a good detective, one of my best. He’s not always so pissed at everyone, just going through his own personal hell at the moment. But trust him to do the right thing.”

  Dillon whipped her door open. “Hey, Jack. Get yourself in here a minute. Neles, you too.”

  Meri Ann twisted around, catching Mendiola as he sauntered across the room.

  “Hey,” he said, as he stepped through the door.

  He didn’t take the chair beside hers. He chose to lean against Dillon’s credenza, arms folded, muscled legs crossed. The pointy toes of his boots still carried traces of tan loam from the hilltop. He looked like he’d shaved, but not much else. If anything, the bags under his eyes sagged more than when she had seen him last. Dillon’s earlier comments about him piqued Meri Ann’s curiosity, and she briefly wondered about Mendiola’s personal hell.

  Neles came in two seconds later. He settled his lean frame into the extra chair beside Meri Ann’s. He looked to Mendiola, as if he wanted an explanation.

  Dillon reached over and swung the door shut. “Detective Fehr is assigned to the Dunlap case, Neles.”

  He nodded in Meri Ann’s direction. “We got us a ton of weird on this one, huh?”r />
  Like choreographed Rockettes, one head after the other bobbed confirmation. It stopped with Dillon.

  The lieutenant picked up her pencil and slapped it on the palm of her hand. “Any word on Wheatley?”

  Mendiola shook his head. “Nothing yet, but we’re watching his house. Neles says the lab’s cast two of the most recent footprints at the scene.”

  Neles straightened in his chair. “Yesterday’s rain made it easy.”

  “I’m gonna cut to the chase here,” Dillon said. “So if you’ll excuse me, Neles.”

  Meri Ann found it interesting that Neles hadn’t made eye contact with his boss, at least not for any length of time. Yet he paid deference to everything she said. She might have missed a personal relationship between her mom and Wheatley but not this one.

  Dillon slid her gaze to Meri Ann. “I’ve called a friend of mine, Buddy Simmons, at the FBI at Quantico in Virginia. He’s a profiler, and I asked him what he thought about a killer waiting so many years between kills.”

  Meri Ann had wondered herself. She leaned forward.

  “He says these freaks, UNSUBs, meaning unidentified subjects, can kill once, twice, a hundred times. On rare occasions, one might quit after the first incident. But most of them don’t quit until they die, or they’re caught. The length of time between kills varies. It doesn’t always happen, bing, bing, bing.”

  “Obsession is key,” she continued. “Interpersonal violent crimes happen when these freaks get their jollies preying on innocent folks. What makes these guys click on is a precipitating factor. Like trouble at home, loss of a spouse. Or sometimes a visual factor. Something triggers their need to exert power over someone or some situation, like maybe a victim’s daughter appearing on national television.”

  Meri Ann’s heartbeat quickened as she thought about the killer watching her on television.

  Mendiola unfolded his arms. “Excuse me?”

  Dillon said, “You do the honors, Fehr.”

  Meri Ann humbly explained about her television interview. “I didn’t connect the two events until today.”