by Steven James
We’re working closely with the Denver Police Department on this case.”
“Benjamin Rhodes.” We shook hands, then he gestured toward the woman, who did not look happy to see me. “And this is Amy Lynn Greer. One of our top investigative reporters.”
Late twenties, sleep-deprived, pretty. She had kinkily curled brown hair and wore a hemp necklace, blue blouse, stylish shoes. I recognized her face from the picture that ran next to a weekly political column that I now realized was hers.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Greer,” I said. “I met your husband this morning.”
“Amy Lynn will do.” Her manner was curt. “I saw your photo come through the wire. Something about a shooting in Chicago yesterday?”
“Yes. It was tragic.” Not something I wanted to be reminded of. My eyes tipped past her to the desk. “Are those the flowers?”
Amy Lynn and Benjamin nodded.
Cheyenne stood quietly beside us. I assumed she’d been through introductions and had already taken some time to inspect the flowers.
The plants had narrow towers of purplish-white flowers and thick leaves. I leaned close and smelled a strong minty odor mixed with an underlying scent of the potting soil’s earthy decay. “Do we know what kind of flowers these are?”
Benjamin exchanged glances with Amy Lynn. “We’re not sure. We were going to call some people in, see if anyone on the floor was a gardener, but when Amy Lynn told Reggie about the note-”
“He asked me to keep it quiet,” she said.
“Good,” I said.
Earlier that day, on the way to Taylor’s house, Cheyenne had mentioned that both Heather Fain and Ahmed Mohammed Shokr had died of potassium chloride poisoning. I didn’t know what kind of flowers these were, or what they might be covered with, but I didn’t want to take any chances. “Have either of you two touched the plants?”
“I did, a little,” Amy Lynn replied. “Why?”
I didn’t want to scare her. “Probably should wash your hands.”
She looked at me nervously, then stepped out of the room, and I asked Benjamin, “How many people have handled the pot?”
“Well.” He looked a little nervous as well. “Amy Lynn, of course. Brett, one of our secretaries. The flower delivery guy who dropped it off. I’m the one who carried it in here.”
“Cheyenne,” I said. “Can you take Mr. Rhodes and talk with Brett, see if she can give us a description of the man who delivered the flowers? Find out if he said or did anything unusual.”
She flipped out her notebook and nodded toward the door. “Mr. Rhodes?”
“Of course.”
“And hands,” I said, “have everyone wash their-”
“Got it,” Cheyenne said.
They stepped into the hallway, I snapped on the pair of latex gloves I carry with me and carefully investigated the petals, then studied the stems to see if there was anything noteworthy about the flowers themselves. Finding nothing, I prodded softly at the dirt, looking for a black recording device like the one I’d found in Heather Fain’s mouth.
Nothing.
I heard Amy Lynn return.
“Where’s the note?” I asked.
She pointed to the corner of the desk. “Right there. It’s signed John.”
Picking it up, I read the inscription, then flipped it over and studied the card stock paper it was written on. The paper didn’t seem to have any distinctive or unique markings. It would be hard to trace.
“I Googled the phrase,” Amy Lynn said. “‘Must needs we tell of others’ tears?’ I didn’t find anything.”
“All right.” I set down the note. “Any friends named John? Any Johns in stories you’re currently working on?”
“I looked into that too.” She sounded impatient. “The only one I could come up with is John Beyer, the pitcher for the Rockies. I’m doing a piece on steroid use, but I can’t imagine how that might be related to the flowers.”
It sounded like a long shot to me, but we could send an officer to speak with him.
Carefully, I lifted the pot to investigate the bottom; found nothing unusual. Then I felt around the lip of the pot. I was circling the circumference with my finger when I heard the door swing open behind me. I assumed it was Cheyenne and Benjamin returning.
I caught myself verbalizing my thoughts, “Who are you, John? Why send these flowers?”
And someone said, “That’s basil.”
But it wasn’t Cheyenne’s or Benjamin’s voice.
It was Tessa’s.
I turned. “What are you doing up here?”
Her eyes were riveted on the flowers. “They were trying to tow the car.”
“What! Really? No, they weren’t.”
“OK, you got me, they weren’t-but you said ‘John’? Just a second ago?” She entered the office.
“You shouldn’t be up here.” I set down the pot. “You need to go back downstairs.”
“You say it’s basil?” Amy Lynn asked.
I stepped around the desk toward Tessa. She was staring at me, her eyes growing wide. “Seriously, you said John, right-‘Who are you, John?’”
“Yes.”
“Excuse me,” Amy Lynn said. “But you are…?”
“This is my stepdaughter, Tessa,” I said. Since this piece of evidence was apparently connected with the killings, I wanted to get Tessa out of here as quickly as I could. “Come on,” I told her. “We’re leaving.”
“It’s a pot of basil and the note’s from John…” Tessa said softly. The blood had drained from her face.
I looked at her quizzically. “Do you know something about this?”
“I need to go.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s a pot of basil,” she repeated, backing toward the door.
“A pot of basil,” I said. “Yes. OK. So what?”
She began to shake her head slowly. “You don’t understand. I gotta go. I’m gonna be sick.”
Cheyenne and Benjamin appeared behind her, but she pushed past them and ran toward the newsroom.
“Was that Tessa?” Cheyenne asked.
“Yes.” I was on my way to the door.
“Is she OK?”
“I’m not sure.” I stepped past her. “I’ll be right back. Don’t let anyone else in this room.”
34
I caught up with Tessa at the elevators. She was pushing the “down” button over and over, her hand was shaking. “No,” she mumbled. “No, it’s not. It can’t be.”
“Tessa, do you know who sent those flowers?”
She shook her head. “Uh-uh.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“Keats.”
I noticed a trash can beside her. I tugged off the exam gloves I was still wearing and stuffed them inside it. “Keats?”
The doors opened and she hurried into the elevator. I joined her.
She punched “Level 1” four times and started muttering, “Yeah.. . I think Keats, or maybe Alexander.”
“Tessa-”
“But it doesn’t matter.” The doors closed and she stared at them, anxious, terrified. “It’s the same either way.”
Her intense reaction was really starting to worry me. “Calm down for a minute and just tell me what you’re thinking.”
She was tapping her right thumb and forefinger together rapidly. “You don’t think it’s… but then why would someone…?”
I gently put my hands on her shoulders, and when I did, she looked up into my eyes. “Please,” I said. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Finally, she drew in a deep but shaky breath and said, “There was an artist, right? John White Alexander. In like, I don’t know, 1896 or 1897 he painted a picture, it’s this famous picture called ‘Isabella and the Pot of Basil.’ John White Alexander, see? So that’s why John might refer to him.”
“OK, so-”
“But he based the painting on this poem by Keats, John Keats. So either way, it’s John. You know Keats,
the poet?”
“Yes.”
“The poem is about this woman. Her lover is killed and…”
I thought of Kelsey, her husband, all that had happened in the last two days.
“She digs him up and…”
The morgue.
The bodies.
Oh.
I felt a chill. Suddenly, I understood what Tessa was saying, realized why she’d reacted so strongly. “That’s enough. I can look it up-”
“The woman, she…” We arrived at the ground floor, and the elevator dinged.
“I understand. You don’t have to say anything else.”
But Tessa wasn’t listening to me. She was staring into space.
“They take it away from her. The pot, and then-”
“It’s OK. Shh…”
The elevator doors opened, but Tessa didn’t step off, she looked at me instead and bit her bottom lip. “Don’t tell me, OK? When you look. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know if I’m right.”
“OK. I promise.”
Tessa nodded and looked past me. “Dora’s here.”
I knew that Tessa was terribly upset and I wanted to be there for her, but I also needed to get back upstairs, especially if she was right about the pot. “Do you want me to come home with you?”
“No. I’m OK.”
We met Pandora Bender in the lobby near the front door, and she assured me she would stay with Tessa. “She’ll be all right with me, Mr. Bowers. Don’t worry.”
“Thank you, Dora,” I said, then turned to Tessa. “You’re sure you don’t need me?”
She nodded. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
I touched her arm softly. “Call me, all right? You say the word, I’ll come home.”
“I know.” Dora stepped toward the door, and Tessa mouthed to me, “Don’t tell me.”
“I won’t.”
They stepped outside, and I watched them through the darkened windows until they disappeared around the corner of the building. Then I returned to the fourth floor.
To look inside the pot.
35
Only Cheyenne and Amy Lynn were in the office when I arrived. Cheyenne explained that Rhodes had gone to meet with two of the board members, and I wasn’t sure if I was glad to hear that or not. I suspected they were discussing how to handle the release of information concerning the flowers, but I didn’t have time to deal with any of that right now.
Just one glance at the flowerpot told me it was the right size. I knew we needed to get it to the lab, but first I wanted to find out if Tessa’s guess was right, and sometimes I’m just not as patient as I should be. “Amy Lynn, can you give us a few minutes?”
She hesitated.
“Please go and wash your hands thoroughly.”
“But I already did.”
“Trust me.” I didn’t have another pair of gloves, but with the back of my hand, I pushed the pot into the center of Rhodes’s desk past his MacBook and its aquarium screen saver. “This plant may have substances on it that you would not want to accidentally ingest.”
After one last disgruntled look, she left and Cheyenne said, “What’s going on? Is Tessa all right?”
I carefully pressed the flowers to the side and observed that the dirt around the base of the plant was loose. “Can you lock the door?”
“Pat, what’s-”
“Please.”
I pulled out my TSAVO-Wraith and flicked out the blade. “She’s OK, Tessa is,” I said. “Thanks for asking.” I slid the knife’s tip gently into the dirt.
Cheyenne locked the door and then returned to my side. “What are you doing?”
I pushed aside a small triangle of moist soil. Based on the size of the pot I didn’t think I would need to dig too deeply. “There’s a painting.”
I brushed some more dirt away. Slid the blade of the knife about five centimeters into the soil. “And a poem by Keats… but the point is…”
As I pressed down, I felt the tip of the blade press against something that was not soil.
“… there was a woman who disinters…”
Folding up the knife, I slipped it into my pocket and then used my fingers to gently nudge the dirt away.
“… the body of her lover.”
Beneath my finger I felt something soft and cool and fleshy.
Cheyenne was staring at the place in the pot where I’d been digging. “Pat, you’re not saying…”
I pushed more dirt aside, and the scent of basil was no longer the most overpowering odor in the room.
Just enough of the pot’s contents were visible.
Tessa had been right.
“Oh…” Cheyenne’s voice trailed off.
“Yes,” I said. “It’s Travis Nash.”
36
43 minutes later
The pot and soil lay on the far end of the steel examination table.
Travis Nash’s head lay in front of us.
After delivering the pot to headquarters, Cheyenne had swung me home so I could pick up my car and check on Tessa, but she and Dora hadn’t arrived yet. So, we’d returned to police headquarters in our respective cars, parked in HQ’s underground parking garage, and then hurried to join the team in the lab.
Now, two forensics specialists were studying the head, carefully using toothbrushes to clear dots of soil from the open, staring eyes.
Jake was speaking quietly with a third lab worker in the corner of the room. The door opened, and Kurt entered.
“Reggie here yet?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No.”
“Did CSU find anything at the morgue?” Cheyenne asked.
Kurt strode toward us. He stared grimly at the examination table. “He used the sink, we know that. Didn’t leave any prints on the door handles and managed to get into and out of the building without showing up on any of the hospital’s security cameras. I assigned an officer to compare the suspect list with the roster of hospital employees to see if it gives us any leads.”
“Good,” I replied, although I wasn’t sure the suspect list was going to be much help.
As investigations like this progress and people call in with tips, names are added to the list of potential suspects generated by the evidentiary aspects of each crime scene. The list usually grows exponentially with time. When I’d read the case files on the drive to Taylor’s earlier in the day, there were already 180 names on the list. I’ve worked cases with tens, even hundreds of thousands of names on the list, and I had a feeling the number of suspects for this case was going to grow quite a bit before it began to shrink. Sometimes the lists are beneficial, but many times the killer’s name never even appears, or if it does, it’s often buried so deeply in the stack that it gets overlooked.
Reggie arrived, and Kurt began to have words with him on the far side of the room.
As I watched the forensic technicians work, I began to feel useless standing around here, and anxious to move forward on this case-and now at least there were some specific leads to research.
That message: Must needs we tell of others’ tears?
The pot of basil.
The Keats and Alexander connection.
I heard the exchange between Kurt and Reggie growing louder, but I was only able to catch bits and fragments of their conversation. Something about Reggie’s wife, Amy Lynn.
Then Reggie raised his voice. “I know, but I can stay with her.”
“That’s not enough.” Kurt’s tone was sinewy and strong. “We’re going to do whatever we need to do to protect her.”
“I’m aware of that. But Amy Lynn-”
Before he could finish, Kurt led him into the hall to continue their conversation out of earshot. Obviously, the two of them were not in agreement on how to best protect Reggie’s wife now that the killer had sent her the basil, marking her as a potential victim.
We needed to move on this case before the killer had a chance to make that happen.
“All right,” I said to Jake and Cheyenne. “It’
s time for me to go.”
“And do what?” Jake asked.
“I think we should start with the Keats poem and the paintings of John Alexander. The victims so far have been posed, their murders so unusual that I’m wondering if maybe the killer is reenacting other violent poems or portraying other paintings.”
“Hmm,” Jake said. “To create some kind of gallery of portraits of the dead.”
“Maybe.”
Cheyenne looked around the room. “Well, for the moment there’s nothing more for us to do here. We can use the conference room on the sixth floor. The computers up there are actually less than a decade old.”
“I’ll come too,” Jake said. “Give me a few minutes, though.” He was staring at the head. “Then I’ll be right up.”
Cheyenne and I left and found Kurt just outside the door, alone. Reggie was already halfway down the hall. I watched him for a moment and let my gaze become a question for Kurt.
“He wants to let Amy Lynn keep working,” he said. “We’ve assigned an officer to her, but I think we should move her into protective custody. The note, the pot-they connect her to the case. I don’t like it.” He paused. “I want her safe.”
“You need to ask Amy Lynn,” Cheyenne said. “Not her husband. It’s not your call or Reggie’s. It’s hers.”
She was right, of course, but from my brief meeting with Amy Lynn I didn’t get the sense that she was the cautious type. I couldn’t see her choosing protective custody.
Kurt let out a thin sigh. “Point taken.”
Cheyenne told Kurt where we were going, and he said he’d join us as soon as he’d spoken with Amy Lynn.
Then, as we left, I glanced back into the forensics lab and saw Jake Vanderveld leaning over, staring intently into Travis Nash’s lifeless eyes. It looked like he was whispering to himself.
But maybe he was whispering to the ears of the dead.
And I couldn’t help but wonder what he might possibly be saying.
Amy Lynn Greer didn’t like the fact that no one would tell her why the police and FBI were in such a hurry to remove the flowers after the teenage girl told them it was a pot of basil, or why they’d stationed an officer right outside her door, and she let Benjamin Rhodes know it.