“Pardon me if I shoot this bitch while you’re away,” Verona said, still raging.
“Is that a preferred method of psychiatric treatment?” I said with all manner of sarcasm.
I went out of the kitchen and located the basement door in the hallway between the kitchen and laundry room. I opened the door and found that it was utterly dark downstairs, so I felt around for the light switch, turned it on, and the basement was flooded in bright light. I started down the stairs.
Just as I got to the bottom, I heard whimpering off to my right and turned. There, wrapped in a rope harness and attached to a basement stanchion, was Elise. Her hair was matted and flattened against her face, and she was trembling. She had had a tough time of it down there, and my heart immediately went out to her.
I studied her before I approached. It appeared that she was, indeed, genuinely tied up against her will. So I walked over to her and lifted her chin so I could look into her eyes. She was squinting against the light and peered out at me through slits. "Mr. Gresham," she whispered. "Thank God you're here. That woman is crazy. Please do not turn your back on her. Please, take this terrible rope off of me."
Using my knife, I began to cut away the rope binding her to the stanchion.
Within moments, I had set her free, and she stood there, her head hung down and rubbing her wrists. She was unable to look me in the eyes, and I assumed she was in shock. And who wouldn't be?
"How long you been here?" I asked her.
She shook her head. "It feels like days. But maybe only two days. Honestly, I don't know because I haven't seen the sun since she brought me down here."
"How did she get you to her house? Did you come here on your own?"
"I fell for it again. She said that she had a check for me, and this time it was for real. I'm so desperate, Mr. Gresham, that I listened to her. I should never have. I will never listen to that horrible person again."
"Elise, I have a lot of questions for you. My investigator, Marcel, has been in Paris speaking with your mother. Much of what we know about you and what I have been told about you is contradicted by your mother. Plus, we know about the body in your condo.”
“What body? I moved out of there weeks ago. I’ve been telling everyone I couldn’t make the mortgage payments. It was the truth.”
“Well, you might say that, but your mother contradicts your story.”
"Mr. Gresham, my mother is in the early stages of dementia. She's not that bad yet that she can't watch my daughter. But the doctor says that in six more months, I won't be able to leave Çidde with her. It's sad, and I have no idea what she told you, but most of it shouldn't be believed. I'm sorry for what you've been through with her."
I didn’t believe a word of it—just a gut feeling. But now, I wanted to get back to Verona and call the cops. At the very least, there had been an assault with a deadly weapon and maybe a kidnapping. It was time to get the authorities involved.
“Is it safe to go upstairs? I'm dying for a bottle of water."
"Yes, it is. Let's go."
Which is when I made the mistake of leading the way. I wanted to be the first one back to Verona, so I went first. I didn't see her do it, but I know that Elise immediately went for a gun tucked under the first step on the stairs and pulled it out. Suddenly, she cried out at me, “Stop!"
I heard the command and turned to see, and as I did, the gun roared. The next thing I knew, I was pitching forward and falling down the stairs. The last thing I remember was hitting my head against the first step, and I was immediately unconscious.
From what Verona has told me, she heard the gunshot and then immediately moved to the stairway door but didn't show herself. Instead, she stood at the side, her back flattened against the wall. Then she waited. At that moment, Jennifer called out, "Elise! Do not come up! The bitch has a gun and will shoot you!"
Upon hearing this, Elise halted on the stairs and rushed back down to the basement floor. She then got behind the water heater and waited.
After several minutes, Verona dared to look down the stairs, and she saw me lying at the bottom of the stairs, obviously unconscious. She said she knew I had been shot, and it was only a short time until I bled out. So she could not wait.
Now it was a standoff—Elise hiding in the basement behind the water heater and Verona at the top of the stairs. Both women had a gun. And I was at the bottom of the stairs, bleeding and unconscious.
Verona told me she went to Jennifer, placed the gun's muzzle against her head, and demanded her phone. Jennifer told her it was inside her purse on the table. Verona retrieved the phone and immediately dialed 911. The 911 operator said she was dispatching EMTs and police and that Verona should take no further action. Verona returned to the basement door and took up her place there.
But then Elise called up to her, “Come down and drop your gun or I’m going to shoot your husband again. You have until the count of three. One—two—"
At that point, Verona cried out and told Elise to stop, that she was coming. She then made her way down the stairs, all the way to the bottom, and stood over me. She raised her gun and pointed it at the woman behind the water heater. "I’m not putting down my gun. You’re going to have to shoot me before I leave my husband.” Verona said she then knelt on the floor beside me and felt inside my shirt. I was soaked with blood where it was seeping out of my chest wound.
"I'm going to give you the chance to come out from behind that water heater, run upstairs with Jennifer, and flee before the police get here. But I'm not leaving this man’s side, and I'm not going to let you shoot him again. If you doubt me, then try me. But I'm pretty good with this gun, and I promise you that I will get a piece of you before you kill me."
"How do I know you won't shoot me if I come out?"
"You have my word. My word is good. I have no reason to want to shoot you. I don't even know you. Come out now, go up the stairs, get your friend, and flee. That is the best thing that is going to happen to you today."
She said Elise stood and came around the water heater at that point, holding her gun and pointing it at Verona's chest. Verona kept her weapon trained on Elise and turned as Elise passed her by and headed up the stairs.
Verona, for probably the first time in her life, was not a woman of her word.
Taking careful aim, she trained her gun on Elise's back between her shoulder blades and pulled the trigger. Elise's arms flew out, and she fell backward down the stairs, coming to a rest on the third step. She didn't move, and Verona said she knew she was dead. Verona then dropped to her knees and placed her hand solidly against the wound on my chest. She said she didn't move even when she heard the EMTs come charging in. She called to them, and they double-timed down the stairs. I was tended to and then transported to the hospital.
Jennifer, while Verona was occupied on the stairs, made her getaway.
She even took her backpack. And Elise’s briefcase with its safe.
With the help of Elise’s ID and passport, she made it to Europe.
There was a funeral to attend.
74
Paris
The family and friends and believers were gathered together in the meetinghouse. All wore white, and all were prepared to hear the spiritual leader speak. There was no crying as crying was frowned upon. The deceased had been identified by her fingerprints and returned to her friends and family in Paris. The body parts had been collected up and wrapped in three sheets, as was the custom. The service began in a somber, dignified manner.
It was only when the service was underway that a figure dressed in black entered through the back of the meetinghouse and began walking to the room's front. Halfway there, the figure stopped and pulled down the veil in a very practiced manner. She then continued to the front of the room, on past the very front row until she had approached the body in its shroud. She then turned and faced the assembled mourners. She pulled aside her veil and, as one, they saw her face.
She touched the shrouded remains.
Several women stood and began screaming and pointing their fingers at the lone figure. Two men rushed forward and seized her by the arms but had no idea what else to do with her and only stood there with her as the mourners turned away to avoid looking at her. Someone had the presence of mind to pull out their cell phone and call the police. She was restrained until the police came, and, as he walked up to her, one of the gendarmes choked up and vomited on the spot. With great apologies, he pulled out a handkerchief, wiped his mouth, and went ahead with his partner to seize the visitor in black.
The two gendarmes tugged and pulled the figure in black from the front of the meeting hall. They dragged her down the aisle and back outside to their waiting vehicle.
They put her in the back and began asking questions. Remarkably enough, she made no effort to disguise who she was or what she was doing there.
When they were done talking with her and writing out her full name, address, and all of her digits, they finally asked why she had done what she had done.
To which she replied, "I only came to say goodbye to my friends and family."
Then she began snipping stitches.
75
Michael
Three months later, I was up and around and pretty much recovered from having a bullet pass through my lung. Breathing could be difficult at times of exertion, such as long runs, but I quickly recovered each time within four or five minutes.
Elise had died at the scene as soon as the bullet struck her. Her body was prepared and returned to Paris to be claimed by her mother. Her daughter, Çidde, had been placed with the grandmother by social services. It was just as well because Çidde had already spent long periods with her grandmother. Moreover, her grandmother was a young fifty and mentally fit according to social services with no deficits.
Jennifer, however, was yet to be dealt with. After Marcel met with the French authorities, Jennifer was indicted for the murder of Karrol, the Egyptian terrorist. The arrest and court followed very smoothly as the French government already had Jennifer snugged away in a psychiatric hospital just outside of Paris in a green valley surrounded with oak and sumac and fields of wheat. Her hosts said she was very happy there and was writing a book on childhood diseases from ticks. An amateurish oil painting of her Qing vase hung at her desk.
In France, the Court of Assize sat in France's departments with original and appellate jurisdiction over crimes or serious felonies. It was usually composed of three judges and nine jurors. The prosecutors were in touch with me and had informally requested that Marcel and I attend her trial and give testimony. Formally, they issued subpoenas to us, which could've been ignored, but which Marcel and I, of course, agreed to honor.
We arrived in France on a sweltering day in May. The traffic was unbearable, and the sweat rolled down your arms. We had each brought a summer-weight suit and non-wrinkle white shirts. The trial was scheduled to start Monday, and our arrival was two days prior, so the prosecutors met with us and sandpapered our testimony.
After preparing to testify, we were taken to the medical investigators’ suite and introduced to Docteur Seurat, a master criminologist, and physician. He was a tidy man, elderly, carefully manicured nose and ear hairs. He was bald from the ears up but wore a goatee to prove he still had it but in a different measure than the rest of the choir. He ushered us right into his small workroom piled high with medical charts, radiologic films, miscellaneous skeletal parts, and coffee cups half full of black liquid and cigarette butts. He swept aside a place on his conference table and set a laptop computer in the center. He informed us we were about to be introduced to the mainstay of the prosecution's case.
In not very good English, he said to us, “The password is green poo." He referred to the laptop computer, which he had now booted up and prepared for a demonstration.
I said, “Are you serious, 'green poo?'"
"Oui, Monsieur, she is a docteur, and she has told us she spent her days treating green poo in her infant patients.”
"Whatever," I said.
Jennifer had been extradited for the murder of the Egyptian Karrol, plus she was charged with Maltraitance d'un cadavre—loosely translated to mean the mistreatment of a cadaver. I wasn’t sure what they had in mind for that other than the bags of bones. Were they mistreated? After death, it gets rather semantic, no?
I was about to find out.
Docteur Seurat typed a few words on the keyboard of what turned out to be Jennifer's laptop. He then turned the screen almost to us but then delayed, telling us we must prepare our eyes for what we were about to see.
He said, “I’ve watched this woman testify. She hardens and resists certain questions like a stone—the questions that might send her to prison. She softens and welcomes certain questions like butter—the questions that illuminate the love she had for Joseph Ipswich, the man who died in her bed the night of their fifteenth anniversary. And notice that I refer to it as ‘her’ bed. This isn’t accidental. Jennifer owns and inhabits every space of the marriage like it was made just for her to try on and wear as if Joseph—Joe—were a person she could wear. Still don’t believe me? Let me show you the next picture and the next. Here is the first look.”
He swung the laptop screen into view.
The picture was clear, and we studied it for several moments before looking up. "What in God's name?" Marcel muttered. “Next slide, please.”
The médecin nodded but continued to allow us to examine the photograph.
When he made the picture full-screen, neither of us could take our eyes from it. Sitting against a wall was Jennifer with her arm around a dark woman whose head was tossed back and, where her face had been, there was a surgical field. You’ve seen a mound of beef liver at your butcher shop?
We studied the picture and realized that the object Jennifer was holding in her hand was a scalpel. On the other side of the woman—unbelievably—sat Elise with her back against the wall as well. Then we looked again and saw that Elise was holding a tattoo pen. She was holding it against the dark woman's ankle and grinning menacingly. Then I looked closer.
The foot was standing upright. It had been sawed away from the leg bone and was standing on its own.
“Marcel,” I said slowly, “they were together. Maybe all along.” It all came crashing down on me, and I saw the entire movie in my head. “It started the first time they met. They both wanted the Qing vase. So they set up the burglary. They didn’t fight back and forth like they’ve told everyone. They were way down the road on that, way smarter than we gave them credit for. Out front, they fought and resisted, but then they had their night at the Hemingway in the Ritz Hotel. That was a celebration.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” said Marcel. “It might have also been an attempted murder. Remember, Jennifer wanted everything for herself, and there was insurance money Jennifer received for the vase's theft. It wouldn’t surprise me if she went there to murder Elise instead of giving her the insurance money so they’d be even.”
“And instead, they murdered the girl.”
Docteur Seurat was quick to say, “The dead woman. She was long associated with a terrorist cell here in Paris. We believe she was after Elise for totally unrelated reasons. Or perhaps she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Either way, these two laid hands on her. Terrorism could take a lesson.”
Marcel said, “Two women who loved their husband. I’ve seen lots of weird shit, but nothing like this. Wait, there was one in Africa—”
I broke in, “But why would they go to this length?” I still wasn’t satisfied.
“This one-”—the doctor was indicating Jennifer—“does it because she can. I’ll explain after the next photo.”
“What about the face?” I asked the Frenchman. “Where is the face?”
The médecin nodded and went to the next picture. This time it was the same setup, but it wasn’t. Jennifer was looking at the camera—same clothes, same blond hair as the last picture.
But the face.
The face would cause me to jerk upright in bed for many months after in a cold sweat, panting hard, for Jennifer was wearing the dead girl’s face, the face of Karrol.
“That can’t—”
“Oh, yes, but it is,” said the médecin.
He enlarged the picture to show us. The face was sewn in place with stitches, the kind used to close a surgeon’s incision. The eyes sagged sadly. The eyebrows looked to be in a constant rage as they compressed together with the facial tissue’s loss of moisture. Where there were once teeth, now there were two more lips open and smiling. Smiling with Jennifer’s teeth. And the living eyes—the eyes of a child needing approval. And I recalled the first time I had laid eyes upon her, there, at the swimming pool, the tiniest of white flecks encircling her face: scars. She had sewn herself before.
I jerked my eyes away and fought down nausea. Marcel clasped the back of my neck with his hand. “Easy.”
Our guide, the docteur, continued with his talk.
“Assuming another’s identity. That is part of her illness,” said the gentleman. “She has cooperated with us, psychiatrists. It’s gone on for a long time. She yearns to take on the life of other people. This is the heart of your subject. Incidentally, we caught her when she turned up at the funeral of her victim, Karrol. Jennifer was wearing the face to that occasion. Her excuse to the gendarmes was that she only wanted to say goodbye to her friends and family. She insisted she was Karrol come to her own funeral. Everyone there fled at the sight of her.”
“Son of a b—” Marcel muttered. “No, no, not right.”
I looked closer. “Wait. The wrist. Show me that closeup, please.”
The picture quadrupled in size. “Now to the left,” I requested.
The picture jumped to the left—Jennifer’s wrist. Besides wearing the dead woman’s face, Jennifer was wearing Verona’s missing watch.
Girl, Under Oath (Michael Gresham Series) Page 24