“I hope you’re not thinking raise.”
“I’m thinking short-story reading, Benjy. And wear a tie.”
She rang off. Ben barely had a chance to return to his work before Christina bolted through the door. “Ben, I’ve got something!”
“Is it catching?”
She whacked him across the face with a manila file. “I’m talking about the case. Ray Goldman.”
Ben’s interest level increased markedly. “What is it?”
“I pored over these files last night. Studying every possible aspect of the case.”
“What did you find?”
“The answer,” she said firmly. “The reason the evidence never added up. The reason there are so many questions that can’t be answered.”
“Okay, you’ve got my attention. What’s the answer?”
“The answer is this: There wasn’t a killer in the Faulkners’ living room all those years ago.” She paused, gripping Ben by the arm. “There were two.”
Mike Morelli wrapped his trench coat tightly around himself as he mounted the large stone steps. “Have I mentioned that I’m not happy about this?”
“All the way here,” Sergeant Baxter replied.
“Well . . . I’m not happy about it.”
“I remember. You’re one of those investigative detectives who prefers not to investigate.”
He pulled a crumpled sheet of notebook paper out of his pocket. “What’s this place called again?”
“Harvard Organ Clinic.”
“Associated with Harvard University?”
“Located on Harvard Avenue.”
“Right.” He glanced over his shoulder. So far, they’d made this entire trip with a minimum of conversation. Without even looking at each other. She was punishing him, he knew. And the worst of it was, he deserved it.
Mike pondered. Was this perhaps time to make some feeble attempt at reconciliation? It couldn’t hurt. “Baxter, you ever eat at St. Michael’s Alley?”
“Love the place. Great old English-pub decor. Dynamite baked Brie.”
“Yeah. Bass Ale on tap, too.” He stopped outside the revolving door. “You want, maybe, after we finish up here . . . ?”
“Love to. If you promise not to make any cracks about my panties.”
Mike clenched his eyes shut. “Deal.”
“Good. First round’s on me.”
“That works.” He pushed himself through the doors. “But I’m still not happy about this.”
Inside, they were greeted by Dr. Michael Palmetto. When they made the appointment, they’d established that he was the principal supervisor and also that he’d had a good deal of personal contact with Erin Faulkner.
Mike shook his hand—and was impressed. For a doctor, he had a hell of a grip. Now that Mike looked more carefully, he realized that the man was in seriously good shape. Strong muscles and a broad chest were evident, even through the de rigueur white lab coat.
“Thanks for agreeing to talk to us, Doctor.”
“Not at all.” He was a pleasant-looking man with a soothing creamy voice. His bedside manner must be four-star, Mike speculated. “We’re all very fond of Erin.”
“Of course.” Mike noted that he was using the present tense. Was the good doctor in some kind of denial? “How long had you known her?”
“Almost two years. Since she started at the clinic.”
“What did she do?” Baxter asked.
“Mostly clerical work. But I don’t want you to get the impression that she’s just a secretary. She’s ever so much more than that.”
“What, uh . . . are her duties?”
“Just about everything. Filing, books, photocopies, phone, coffee. But her greatest contribution is in the morale department. Sometimes our work can be . . . well, somewhat depressing. Dealing with serious disease and illness all day long. But Erin always makes us see the bright side of our work.”
“Doctor,” Mike cut in, “I can’t help but notice that you keep referring to her as if she were still here. Even though she’s . . . gone.”
“Gone?”
“Dead,” Mike said bluntly.
“Oh, but you see, that’s where you’re wrong, Officer. Erin Faulkner isn’t dead. She isn’t dead at all.”
“Two killers?” Ben was incredulous. “There’s no evidence of a second assailant.”
“I think there is.”
“Erin Faulkner only saw one.”
“Maybe the second killer was in another room. Maybe he arrived late. Maybe he was hiding. But he was there. I’m sure of it.”
“Christina . . .” Ben crossed the room, letting his fingers drift across his desktop. “If there was any evidence of a second assailant, don’t you think the police would’ve uncovered it before now?”
“Frankly, no. That notation in Frank Faulkner’s Filofax led the police to Ray almost immediately. Finding a gun in his possession convinced them he was the killer. I don’t think they ever looked for anyone else, and quite frankly, if they found evidence pointing to someone else, I’m not so sure they wouldn’t have buried it. You of all people know what measures law enforcement will take to prop up a case. Especially once they’ve convinced themselves that they’ve got the perp.”
“Still . . . a second killer? Who’s been totally overlooked?” Ben shook his head. “It’s hard to swallow. What’s your evidence?”
Christina opened her file folder and spread it across the desktop. “Evidence might be too strong a word. More like conjecture based on the facts.”
“Such as?”
“Look at this photo of Erin’s sister, taken at the crime scene.” She slid it across the desk. “Notice the skirt.”
Ben glanced down. “Hardly the place to be admiring someone’s fashion sense.”
“Don’t be a stooge. Look at it.” She pointed. “The skirt is lying smooth. Over her knees.”
“Okay. So?”
“Think about how she died, Ben. She was beaten and stabbed repeatedly. There was evidence of sexual assault. What are the odds that her skirt would be lying down smooth over her legs?”
Ben stared at the picture. “I admit it’s unlikely. But it’s hardly proof of a second perp. The killer probably pulled her skirt down.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. To cover up the assault, maybe.”
“Look at this crime scene, Ben. Does this look like the work of someone who was concerned about appearances?”
“Okay, what else?”
“The baby.”
“The baby was killed.”
“Right. But not like the others. The body was found facedown, in his crib in the nursery. Tucked under a blanket.”
“So what’s your point?”
“Why isn’t the baby in the living room with the others? Part of this grand grotesque tableau.”
“There’s no way of knowing. This maniac wasn’t acting rationally.”
“He wasn’t acting with much gentility, either. But for some reason, he took the trouble to go clear across the house and tuck the baby into its crib. After it was dead.”
“Maybe the baby was always in the crib. Maybe he killed the baby right there.”
“Nope. No blood in the crib.” She paused, letting the wheels in Ben’s brain turn for a few moments.
“So you’re saying . . .”
“I think the infant was killed in the living room with the rest of the family. Remember, Erin said her mother brought the baby into the house when they got home, with the other children. I think a second person picked that baby up and carried him to his crib. After he’d been killed.”
Ben pushed back in his chair. “Christina, you know I’ve always admired your insight. Always trusted your instincts. But this time, I think you’re grasping at straws. And I don’t think your theory, even if it were true, explains anything.”
“You’re wrong. It explains the greatest mystery of the whole case.”
“Which is?”
She flipped through t
he file and yanked out another black-and-white photo. “Why Erin was left in the cellar.”
“I don’t follow.”
“It’s obvious the killer was some kind of sadistic sex pervert. It’s obvious he separated and restrained Erin because he had some vile special plan for her. But he never went down to get her. And he never killed her. He left a critical witness alive.”
“He probably assumed she would starve to death in the cellar.”
“If he wanted her dead, why not kill her? He killed all the others!”
Ben batted a finger against his lips. “So you’re saying the second man intervened?”
“Exactly.”
“Why? Because they were running out of time? They weren’t. The murders weren’t discovered for days.”
“Look at all the evidence, Ben. There’s a clear pattern.”
“Pattern of what?”
Christina leaned across his desk. “I think the second man—unlike the first—had a conscience.”
Mike was relieved when Dr. Palmetto escorted the two of them back to his office. He needed a chair, preferably a well-padded chair, for this conversation.
“So you’re saying Erin isn’t dead?”
“Not at all.”
“Well, I’ve got bad news for you, Doctor. ’Cause I’ve seen the corpse.”
Baxter glared at him.
“I’m not talking about her corporeal shell. I’m talking about her inner essence. What makes Erin Erin. Her body may have ceased to function, but I can assure you that Erin is still alive and well.”
Mike felt his feet itching, a sure sign that he was becoming impatient. “Are you some kind of . . . born-again Christian or something?”
“Actually, I’m a Buddhist. We’re only born once.”
“A Buddhist. And Buddhists believe . . .”
“ . . . that the soul is eternal.”
“Cool. But you understand that Erin . . . er, her corporeal shell is no more.”
“Of course.”
“So let’s talk about that.” He glanced at his partner. “Baxter? Why don’t you start?” She was the one who wanted to do this interview. Damned if he was going to spend the day quizzing some flaky Buddhist spare-parts doc.
Baxter straightened in her chair. “We wondered if you might have any insight regarding Erin’s . . . unfortunate passing.”
Palmetto appeared nonplussed. “It was suicide, wasn’t it?”
“That’s a possibility.” She gave Mike the eye. “Although not the only one.”
“Seems likely, though,” Palmetto said. “Given her background.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m sure you already know about the tragedy in her past. I’m sure you’re also familiar with the survivor-guilt syndrome. Why me? Why me and not them? It’s all too common.”
“And do you think Erin suffered from this?”
“I know she did. It plagued her. Part of the reason she came to work here was that, having had so much of death, she wanted to be involved with life. She wanted to be a part of our ongoing lifesaving efforts.”
“She ever talk about committing suicide?”
“Not in so many words. But there were hints. Strong hints, actually.”
“Doctor,” Mike said, “had she attempted suicide before? To your knowledge.”
Palmetto thought carefully before answering. “I believe she did. There was an incident. . . .” He paused. “Perhaps I’ve said too much.”
“There’s no such thing,” Baxter insisted. “We’re all just trying to learn the truth.”
“Yes. Well, I heard about a time from her friend Sheila. Sheila Knight. She was often here, picking Erin up for lunch and so forth. In a private moment, Sheila told me that she had once found Erin at home alone, having consumed a bottle of vodka and far too many sleeping pills. She was able to rouse Erin—in the shower—but it worried her. She asked me to please keep an eye on Erin and to . . . well.”
“Make sure she didn’t have access to any pills?”
Palmetto nodded.
“Did you see Erin on the day she . . . passed?”
“I did. And I talked to her, for some time. She seemed troubled.”
That would mesh with what Ben told him, Mike thought. “What was her problem?”
“I don’t know exactly. But she was very depressed. I wondered at times if she might not be bipolar. When she was down, she was all the way down.”
“So when you heard that she had died, a probable suicide—”
“I wasn’t surprised. Saddened, yes. But surprised, no.” He pointed to a large banker’s box in the corner. “I had everything on and in her desk carefully stored. I thought you might want to look at it.”
“Thank you, Doctor. You were right.” Mike scanned the framed documents and diplomas hovering about. “What exactly is it you do here, Doctor?”
“We provide organs for those who need them. For transplants. We’re the top legitimate source in the Southwest.”
“And where do you get the organs?”
“Wherever we can. From those who are about to die, mostly. Those who have been generous enough to donate their organs.”
“That must be rewarding work.”
“It is. As Erin herself once said, it is literally snatching life from the jaws of death.”
Mike pondered a moment. “You said you were the top legitimate source for organs. There’s a pretty sizable black market, isn’t there?”
Palmetto’s eyes darkened. “I’m afraid so.”
“Don’t like competition?”
“Not the illegal kind. Those people don’t obey the law. Often the organs are stored improperly or transported poorly. Ruined.”
“Still, if I needed a kidney and couldn’t get one through you—”
“You’d be willing to deal with anyone. Yes, I realize that. But you should also understand—” He stopped, reframed his thoughts. “There are all kinds of dark rumors about where—and how—the black market gets its organs.”
“Was Erin involved in the procurement of organs?”
“Depends on what you mean. Some aspects still must be handled by a doctor or other trained professional. But Erin was very much involved in our work. Particularly when there was a family involved. And there almost always is, of course.”
He drew in his breath. “When Erin knew there was someone out there who needed an organ, she let no path go unchecked. She made it her personal quest to find what they needed.” He paused, and his voice grew silent. “You can see why we all loved her.”
Mike remained silent. Professional or not, he found himself touched by the man’s obvious grief. And he noticed that, at last, the doctor had referred to Erin in the past tense. But he kept the observation to himself.
Ben pressed his fingers against his forehead. “So if I follow this correctly, you’re saying the second killer was basically a stand-up guy?”
“Well, compared to his partner,” Christina replied.
“Then why would he be at the Faulkners’ house in the first place?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t want to be. Maybe he was forced. Maybe he was there for some other reason. But he was there—and he appears to have been doing whatever he could to make the situation better.”
“He did damn little enough.”
“Granted. But he was still there. I think we should tell the police.”
Ben frowned. “To what end? They’re not going to believe you. And they’re not going to reopen the case. They got a conviction, remember?”
“Then I’ll call some of my journalistic buddies. Karen, or LeAnne, or—”
“The police are never going to admit they made a mistake. And even if you get everyone convinced there was a second person on the scene, the police will just say Ray was one of the two and execute him all the quicker. In a way, you might be playing into their hands—it’s a lot easier to believe Ray was your killer with the conscience than that he was a solo psychopath. Either way—it doesn
’t help Ray.”
“Unless we find the second person, or for that matter, the first. And find out what happened.”
“Which we’ve never even gotten close to doing before.”
“Because we never really understood what was happening before. Now we do. A little better, anyway.” She closed the file. “And that, for the first time, gives us a fighting chance.”
At St. Michael’s Alley, seated in a back booth that resembled two high-backed church pews from an eighteenth-century English chapel, Mike and Sergeant Baxter began rummaging through the contents of Erin Faulkner’s desk.
“Erin kept busy,” Baxter remarked. Mike was impressed at how she managed to simultaneously consume the baked Brie, the stuffed mushrooms, the pâté, and her white wine—without getting any of it on the evidence. A hardy appetite had Sergeant Baxter. And good table manners, too. “Looks like she had at least fourteen ongoing seriously urgent organ searches.”
“Hell of a line of work,” Mike said, between beer and pretzels. “You can see how doing that sort of thing day after day could cause a serious depression.”
“Are you still insisting on your pathetic suicide theory? Just because she was in an emotional line of work? You’re such an . . . investigative opportunist.”
“Dr. Palmetto thinks I’m right.”
“Dr. Palmetto thinks she’s still alive in Nirvana or whatever. I’m more interested in reality.”
“The reality is, Erin Faulkner killed herself.” Mike polished off his beer and signaled for a second. “Look, Baxter—I don’t know why you keep pushing this. Maybe this is some feminist sisterhood thing. Or it’s that you want to make a good impression in Tulsa. Or that you’re just plain obstinate.”
“All three.”
“But you’re barking up the wrong tree. You want to prove yourself—let’s get a real case.”
“This is a real case.”
“I mean, a homicide. As in, Major Mike Morelli of the homicide department.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re such a jerk.”
“Did you know there was a murder in Broken Arrow last night? Some old guy on his way back from the Y. And they assigned it to Prescott. The biggest idiot on the force. Catch a murderer? He couldn’t catch a cold! But he got the case. And you know why he got it?” Mike rose an inch off of his bench. “Because we were still mucking around with this suicide!”
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