by James Hayman
“Murdered?”
Maggie didn’t want to lie. Nixon might check with other sources. She left her response as “Most likely.”
“But not definitely? Perhaps you’d like to explain.”
“We’ve been told by a witness that back in the fall of 2001 or perhaps early winter of 2002 both Thorne and Loughlin were accused of raping a female freshman at a fraternity party that took place on the Holden campus at the Alpha Chi Delta house. The victim of the rape recently killed herself.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. How recently?”
“Last Christmas. It seems likely what happened to Thorne and Loughlin is related to that rape and subsequent suicide.”
“Retribution?”
“Exactly. It’s possible some other former students, also fraternity brothers, might have participated in the rape and therefore might also now be in danger. We need your help in confirming that Thorne and Loughlin were charged with rape and the name of the girl who claimed she was the victim. I’ll also need a list of all members of the Alpha Chi Delta fraternity in the fall of 2001 both to confirm what supposedly happened and to warn other potential victims.”
“So what you’re telling me is that you don’t even know the name of the student who was supposedly raped, nor the names of others who might have been involved?”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s why I need your help.”
“May I ask who this so-called witness is?”
Maggie had a strong feeling that unless she told Ann Nixon as much as she could, the president was likely to stonewall her. She might just stonewall her anyway. “Our witness is Joshua Thorne’s wife. According to Mrs. Thorne, Loughlin called her husband right after the holidays and told him about the suicide. Mrs. Thorne overheard the conversation. Afterward she questioned her husband, asking what it was all about. After some hesitation Thorne admitted having had sex with the girl. He also told his wife that Loughlin and several other members of the fraternity had sex with her as well. But he insisted it was all consensual. Police forces in both Portland and West Hartford, Connecticut, need your help in confirming or possibly refuting Mrs. Thorne’s account of the events.”
There was only silence on the other end. “President Nixon, are you still there?”
“I’m here. But I must tell you, Ms. Savage . . .”
“Detective Savage.”
“Detective Savage . . . that this all seems very flimsy. Based on nothing more than a secondhand account of something that may or may not have happened twelve years ago. And in addition to not knowing if Joshua Thorne is, in fact, dead you also don’t even know the supposed rape victim’s name.”
Maggie had a feeling she’d made a major tactical blunder in calling Nixon instead of the dean of students in the first place. But since she had, her only option was to press on.
“No. The only names we have are Thorne and Loughlin. We know Loughlin died under suspicious circumstances and we have strong physical evidence that Thorne has at least been kidnapped if not murdered. That is not a coincidence. It’s essential that we find out if these events are, as you suggested, retribution for a rape that may have taken place in the fall of 2001. That’s why I’m calling.”
“Before this goes any further, I have to ask you, how do I know you’re really a police officer and this isn’t just some kind of weird prank or publicity stunt?”
“Don’t you have caller ID?”
“Not on calls that come through the main switchboard.”
“I see. In that case I suggest we hang up and you place a call to the Portland Police Department. When you get through, ask for me, Detective Margaret Savage. S-A-V-A-G-E. I’m a senior investigator on all violent crimes that take place within the city of Portland.”
Nixon agreed. They both hung up. A minute later Maggie’s phone rang. “President Nixon?”
“Yes.”
“Is there any way you can give me the information I need?”
“I’m thinking about it—2001 was a long time ago. Well, before my time here. If there was a rape or even an accusation of rape, wouldn’t it have been reported to the Willardville police and wouldn’t they have the information you need?”
“My understanding is that the victim only reported the incident to Holden College administrators and was urged by them not to go to the police.”
“That’s a very serious allegation.”
“Rape is a very serious crime. Ms. Nixon, this is very important. The lives of other men . . .”
“Who may be rapists. Or not.”
“That’s not for us to judge without investigating further. In any case their lives may depend on whether or not we can warn them of the possible danger and capture a murderer before there are any more victims.”
After a brief silence, Ann Nixon told Maggie she’d see what she could find out. “Our records are quite good and our dean of students has been in the job for over twenty years. I’ll get some answers and call you back.”
“If you don’t mind I’d rather talk to the dean myself.”
“I’m afraid I do mind. I want to speak to the dean before you talk to him or anyone else here at Holden. And if you want my cooperation, I’d suggest you don’t try calling him behind my back.”
Maggie thought about arguing but in the end decided it wouldn’t get her anywhere. “Okay. Fine. But please call back as soon as you can.”
“I’ll let you know.”
She and Ann Nixon exchanged cell numbers and e-mail addresses and Maggie hung up.
Chapter 16
MAGGIE LOOKED UP to find McCabe standing by her desk. They both said, “Guess what?” at pretty much the same time.
“You first,” said Maggie.
“The Port Grill maintains video surveillance of the bar.”
“Really? That’s good news. I wouldn’t have thought that likely.”
“Me either. But I’ve got last night’s disk right here. Video only. No sound. Also last night’s bartender, a woman named Andie Barrett, remembers both Thorne and Wilcox well. Ishkowitz is working with her on an Identi-Kit sketch of Wilcox right now.”
“That’s good news.”
“Yeah. Let’s go see what we can see on the video.”
They both headed for the conference room. McCabe stuck the disk into the DVD player and was about to press Play.
“Before you do that,” said Maggie.
“What?”
Maggie spent the next ten minutes replaying her conversations with Detective Toni Bernstein and Ann Nixon. “If Bernstein can set up a meeting, I’m heading down to West Hartford tonight to talk to Loughlin’s wife and maybe the two guys who were with Loughlin the night he was killed.”
“And, of course, staying at Motel 6?”
“Sadly.”
“At least we’ll find out if Tom Bodett is telling the truth or not.”
“What do you mean?”
“Y’know.” McCabe lowered his voice. “‘This is Tom Bodett for Motel 6 and we’ll leave the light on for you.’”
“Did it ever occur to you, McCabe, that the fact you remember not just complete scripts of old movies but also every commercial ever written can be a real pain in the butt for people who don’t care about that stuff?”
McCabe grinned. “Yeah, I know. Anyway, what do you think Mrs. Loughlin can add to the brew?”
“We’ll see if Charlie told her more about the rape than Josh told Rachel. If we’re lucky she’ll have the names of some of the other frat brothers who followed Loughlin in the roughriders club. After that, whether or not Nixon cooperates, I’ll most likely continue on to Willardville first thing in the morning and start asking questions. Maybe take Bernstein with me.”
McCabe listened and then nodded. “Okay. Works for me.” He then gave her a quick summary of his conversation with Andie Barrett. “Now let’s go look at the video. Maybe we’ll get to see what Norah Wilcox looks like.”
The screen came to life. A down angle shot of a modestly crowded bar. Both the color and
video resolution were surprisingly good for a surveillance camera but mostly all they could see was tops of heads and backs and partial side views of the faces of people sitting at a crowded bar. Andie Barrett, the sole bartender, could be seen working the bar, smiling and chatting as she filled orders. The time code on the bottom left read 5:52:30 P.M.
McCabe jumped to 9:30:00 P.M. The bar had emptied out and Andie had started tidying up. At 9:32:17 Joshua Thorne entered frame. He walked to the corner barstool, removed his suit jacket and draped it over the back of the stool and sat down. Since the far end of the Port Grill bar turned a ninety-degree curve, the camera provided Maggie and McCabe with a decent view of Thorne’s face. Andie approached. He smiled and gave her his order. She turned, grabbed a bottle of what looked like Grey Goose vodka. Threw some ice cubes into a cocktail shaker and poured what looked like a generous measure of booze. Josh spoke, Andie shrugged, grinned and added a second measure. She shook the drink and then poured it into a martini glass and placed it in front of him along with a bowl of what looked like nuts. She set the shaker, which probably still contained a decent slug of booze, under the bar where Thorne was sitting.
Thorne raised his glass, took a sip, licked his lips and said something to Andie, who was still standing nearby. Complimenting her on her mixology skills? Possibly. Andie leaned in and for the next ten minutes they talked.
“He’s asking her if she wants to meet him at the Regency after she closes up,” said McCabe.
“Yeah, he’s on the make, all right,” said Maggie. “And from her body language I’d say if he wants her, he’s got her.”
Thorne finished what was in his glass. Andie refilled it from the shaker under the bar. He picked up the refilled glass and toasted her with a tilt of the head.
“Yeah, she’s an eager little thing,” said McCabe. “Offered me a drink on the house when I was over there asking her questions.”
“Cute freckle-faced bartender meets handsome hunk of a cop?” asked Maggie. “How could she resist? I mean, really, McCabe, how could any girl?”
McCabe gave Maggie a wicked smile and handed her the cocktail napkin with Andie’s phone number on it. “She even slipped this in my pocket.”
Maggie just rolled her eyes and tossed the napkin in the trash.
Meanwhile the video kept playing. When the time code reached 9:55:42 Thorne’s eyes shifted away from Andie toward the entrance. The camera caught the side and then the back of an elegant blonde entering the frame. Andie turned to see what or who had distracted her wannabe friend’s attention. The blonde’s head turned slightly toward Thorne and then away. She took off her jacket and slipped it over a barstool three down from Thorne. Throughout the sequence no more than a sliver of her face was visible.
“Okay,” said McCabe, “so far all we can tell is Norah’s blonde, dresses chic, has great legs and a good figure. At least from the rear.”
“All of which Andie already told you.”
“Yup.”
Norah sat down. Andie came over. Josh turned in the direction of the camera as he focused his attention on what they were saying. Andie nodded, said something, probably warning Norah that the Port Grill was closing in twenty-five minutes. She then grabbed a rectangular bottle from the lineup at the back of the bar and started making a Double Cross martini for Wilcox. Thorne finished his drink and came around the bar to where Norah was seated. As she turned toward him her face completely disappeared from view. All they could see was shoulder-length blond hair.
Thorne and Wilcox talked for a minute. Andie made Thorne a drink with the Double Cross vodka. Norah raised her glass to clink Thorne’s. There was no wedding band on Wilcox’s left hand. Just what looked like a fancy gold watch on her wrist. “So far none of this is helpful,” said McCabe. “Given the clarity of the shot, I’d hoped we’d at least get a look at her face. It’s almost like she knows the damned camera’s there.”
“No. It’s just the natural angle given that Thorne’s sitting to her left.”
“Let’s fast-forward and see if we can get a face shot when they get up to go.” It only took a few seconds to reach 10:22:36 on the video. Norah was putting on her jacket. Thorne was fetching his. And then they both started toward the exit. The best they could do was a less than one-quarter view of her left cheek just before she exited frame. McCabe moved the video to the frame that gave them the best look and froze it there.
“Not great.”
“Okay. She’s a dirty blonde. I guess in both senses of the word. She has expensive taste in clothes and, I think, high cheekbones. We ought to see what Starbucks can do to give us anything more specific.”
“I doubt there’s a whole lot more for him to get. Let’s see how Dave is doing with his sketch.”
McCabe called. Ishkowitz told him he was just finishing up with Andie. “She’s done a real good job. Notices facial details a whole lot better than most people.”
McCabe suspected Andie had also studied Norah’s face last night in the bar a whole lot more than most people. “E-mail me the sketch, would you, Dave?”
They went back to McCabe’s desk. Maggie pulled her chair over and sat beside him as McCabe downloaded the image attached to Ishkowitz’s e-mail. A full face drawing of an attractive blonde woman with light colored eyes and a long, narrow face was looking back at them.
McCabe studied the image. “Gillian Anderson,” he said.
“What?”
McCabe didn’t answer, just grabbed his phone and called Ishkowitz back. “Did Andie Barrett leave yet?”
“Nope. But she’s just about to.”
“Would you ask her if she could stop up here for a minute? You come too.”
He could hear Ishkowitz asking and Andie saying sure.
“What was that all about,” asked Maggie after McCabe hung up.
“From this drawing Norah looks a lot like Gillian Anderson. You know, the actress from The X-Files?”
McCabe Googled Anderson’s name and pulled up a straight-on head shot. He took a screen grab of the Anderson shot and put the two images side by side on the screen. The resemblance was obvious. Wilcox’s blonde hair framed her face in the same graceful waves as Anderson’s. She had the same straight features and light colored eyes.
The elevator doors opened and Andie stepped out and looked around. McCabe called her over.
“Where’s Dave?”
“He said he’d be right up.”
McCabe made introductions, then got up and asked Andie to sit in his chair.
“What do you see?” asked McCabe
“That’s Gillian Anderson, right? The actress. From The X-Files.”
“Remind you of anyone else?” asked McCabe.
Andie leaned in toward the screen and studied the Anderson photo. “Yeah,” she said with a big smile. “Norah Wilcox.”
“You think that really is a picture of Norah?”
“No. There are some differences but it’s pretty damned close. That is Gillian Anderson, isn’t it?”
“Would you say the face is exactly like Norah’s?”
“No. It’s not like they’re twins or anything. But the shape of their faces is nearly the same. But Norah’s cheeks are very slightly fuller. And her cheekbones more pronounced.”
Dave Ishkowitz moved in behind McCabe.
“Then the mouth. Norah’s lips are fuller than Anderson’s. But the smile is very similar. And the hair’s the right color and the cut’s pretty close.”
“How about differences?”
“Norah has higher cheekbones. Not a lot higher. Just a little. Also I’d say Norah looks younger. At least in that photo, which must be pretty recent.”
“A lot younger?”
Andie shrugged. “No. I don’t know when that picture was taken but I think Gillian Anderson has got to be forty-something by now.”
“Forty-six,” said McCabe. “You think if someone saw that photo they’d think it was Norah?”
“I don’t know. Like I said, they’re not tw
ins. But the photo looks a lot more like Norah than the sketch.”
“Partly that’s because it’s a photo,” said Ishkowitz, “and not a computer sketch.”
“Anyway, I’ve gotta go,” said Andie. “I’ve already been here longer than you told Sarah.”
McCabe walked her to the elevator.
“When do you get off work tonight?” he asked.
Andie smiled. “Around eleven. Call me.”
“You’re free?”
“I am.”
“Then I will call,” said McCabe. “I want you to come back here and do some more work helping Dave Photoshop that image.”
“Oh,” said Andie, trying to hide her disappointment. “Sure, I guess so.” The elevator doors closed over Andie’s face just as her smile morphed into a frown.
McCabe went back to where Maggie and Ishkowitz were still comparing the Identi-Kit sketch with the photo of Anderson. “Dave, I just asked Andie to come back here when she finishes work tonight at eleven. I need you to take the Anderson pic and Photoshop it till we get to a point where Andie says, ‘Hey, that’s not Gillian Anderson, that’s Norah Wilcox!’ If it works we put it out as the photo of our suspect.”
Chapter 17
MAGGIE SAID SHE was going home to pack a bag for her road trip. McCabe told her to check in when she got there. After she left he gave the Bickles’ cell numbers another try. There was still no answer from Bob Bickle’s phone. But Brenda picked up hers.
“Hello. Who’s this?” The voice sounded like Brenda was at least in her seventies. Maybe older.
“Is this Mrs. Bickle?”
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
“Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe of the Portland Police Department.”
“Cops?”
“That’s right. I need to ask you some questions.”
“What kinda questions?”
“Are you and your husband the owners of the house located at 339 Hartley Street in Portland?”
“Oh, crap. Bobby, it’s the cops from Portland. Somethin’ about the house. What, did somebody try to break in or something?”