by Blake Pierce
before she was killed. If they truly believed Ashley Watts might be the killer,
it would be pertinent information to share, but as it stood, Kate did not see the
sense in putting him through such pain.
“We found it odd, too,” DeMarco said, picking up on Kate’s hesitation.
“We’re working to get it figured out with them.”
“Do you recall how she was acting before you left for work yesterday?”
Kate asked.
“She seemed normal. Perfectly fine. We…we made love before I left for
work. We were excited because it was going to be a short day at work for me.
We had plans for a date last night and…”
Kate could already sense that this little interview was going to be quick.
She did not think David Lowell was going to make it very long.
“Mr. Lowell, how would you describe your marriage? Was it happy?
Were there issues or strain?”
“We were very happy. Sure, I caught flak from people for being
significantly older, but that was about it. Meredith seemed happy. And she
made me happy.”
“He’s right,” Paulette said from the edge of the room. “They were one of those couples that other couples hated to be around. They were annoyingly
cute together.”
“Yeah, I guess we were,” Lowell agreed.
“What can you tell us about Meredith?” Kate asked. “What was she like?
What interests and hobbies did she have? If we can find a link between her
and the other two women who were murdered, it may help point us toward a
suspect.”
“Meredith was…well, she was a delight. God, she was such a light. ”
As he chewed on his own words, Kate started to feel uncomfortable.
Clearly he knew nothing about her other side—the side that had quick sex
sessions with the delivery man every chance she could.
“She was a very big reader,” Lowell went on. “She tore through about
three books a month. Sometimes more. She was very interested in learning
how to cook, though she would be the first to tell you she was never very
good at it. She was a fan of classical music, something that always surprised
me because she also likes nineties hip-hop. A weird combination, you know?
But I think classical was her favorite. It’s actually one of the things that drew
me to her.”
“How did you meet?” DeMarco asked.
“At a tacky bar down in Miami. I was on vacation and she was just sort of
journeying around from place to place, taking a break from community
college. It was a piano bar, right before it was closing up. I was headed out
and heard someone sort of trying to play this classical piece that sounded
familiar. I went to see who was playing it, and there she was. Her and a friend
were sitting on the piano bench and Meredith was clumsily trying to play a
song that I later figured out was Debussy’s ‘Clair de Lune.’ And that was
it…”
“Did she live in Florida or did she just go to school there?” Kate asked.
“She was born and raised in Mississippi. Did some community college and
hated it. When I met her, she said she was in between classes.”
“Was she not working as of late?”
“Not really. She did some virtual assistant work when she could find it. I
had a friend set her up with this eBay business where she would buy stuff dirt
cheap from resellers, catalogue them, and then sell them. But she was the one
that wanted that. She insisted on it. I told her I didn’t want my wife working
if she didn’t want to. I wanted her to have a life of luxury.”
“And she was okay with that?”
“Most of the time. Sometimes I think she got restless and bored…but I think,
overall, she was happy.”
Restless and bored, Kate thought. Two key ingredients for a spouse
looking around for something else to do…namely an affair.
Lowell lowered his head and took in a shuddering breath. A little sob
came out and at first it seemed like that was the end of it. But then Kate saw
the tremors and noticed that he would not look back up at them.
The interview was over. It had been all too brief, but Kate figured that was
fine for now. For David Lowell to have been so oblivious to his wife’s secret
life, she doubted he’d be of much use for the remainder of the case anyway.
But it was more than just a dent in the case; it was a dent in Kate trying to
find a reason to buck against Duran’s order to return back to DC.
Paulette gave Kate and DeMarco a little nod toward the hallway. Kate
nodded as Bannerman was already headed out of the room to give Lowell his
space.
“Thanks for your time, Mr. Lowell,” Kate said as she and DeMarco
walked out of the room. “Please give us a call if you happen to think of
anything else that might help.”
He was only able to give a weak nod as he gave in to his grief and let out a
wail. He kicked helplessly at the floor, letting out his frustration in any way
possible.
As Kate followed behind DeMarco toward the front door, she looked to
the left, toward the den. There, the couch that Watts and Meredith Lowell had
had sex on sat like some quiet witness. Kate frowned at it and then continued
on her way to the door.
After two steps, she stopped. She cocked her head, as if listening for some
idea that might be hovering in the air, and then stepped back toward the den.
She gazed into the room, past the couch and the bookshelves, her eyes
landing on the larger item in the room.
“DeMarco?”
“Yeah?” she asked, pausing at the front door as Bannerman held it open
for her.
“The Hopkins residence…there was a piano, right?”
“There was, yes. The Hix family, too.”
“That’s what I thought…”
DeMarco walked back to join her, looking into the den. The piano sat near
the back of the room, pushed into the corner with just enough room for
someone to get on the bench behind it.
“What is it?” Paulette asked, coming up behind them.
“David said Meredith played a bit of piano,” Kate said. “Did she play
regularly?”
“I don’t think so,” Paulette said. “In fact, I doubt it. She was taking lessons
from someone in the area from what David tells me.”
“Any idea how long?”
Before she could answer, David came to the arched doorway of the living
room. He did not step into the hallway, but leaned against the wall as if he
might fall over. “About a month or so now,” he said, apparently having heard
the conversation.
“Do you have a name and number for the instructor?” Kate asked. She
could sense DeMarco and Bannerman tensing up behind her, sensing that
they may have just accidentally stumbled across a new lead.
“One second,” he said. When he pushed himself away from the wall, he
seemed to glide. He looked like he was being pushed gently down the hall
rather than walking.
“You think there’s something to this?” Paulette asked. “Did the other two
women take piano lessons?”
Kate did not answer, as she did not want to give a hope that might not
exist. But she could see the dens and livin
g areas of those other two houses,
could see the pianos situated in her mind as if she were standing on those
rooms. Sure, it could be a coincidence, but it would have to be a damned
strong one.
David came back to the den entrance with a business card in his hand.
Kate took it and saw that the card itself was designed to look like piano keys,
with the name and number of the instructor situated on different keys.
“Thomas Knudsen,” Kate said. “You ever meet him?”
“Once. He was this really tall, very serious sort of man. Maybe about sixty
years old if I had to guess. He was very pleasant, very happy.” It then seemed
to dawn on him why they were suddenly so interested in his late wife’s piano
lessons. He frowned and added: “No…no, I don’t know if that makes sense.
Tom is…I don’t…well…”
Paulette took her brother by the arm and led him back toward the living room. “Agents, you can see he’s wrecked. I promise you, he will call with
any other information he thinks of.”
“Thanks,” Kate said, already heading for the door. The door had barely
closed behind Bannerman before the three of them started to work together a
plan.
“Knudsen,” Bannerman said. “That’s a pretty unique name. What is it…
Polish, maybe?”
“Danish,” DeMarco said.
“Whatever it is, it should make it very easy to locate him, even if he’s in
Chicago.”
“I agree,” Kate said. They had made it down the porch steps and back to
the patrol car. Kate continued talking as they piled into the car, Bannerman
pulling away from the curb with a little squeal of tires. “We’ve got two
avenues here, and we need to knock them out quickly,” she added.
Bannerman was already reaching for the little wireless mic attached to his
dashboard. “I’ll have someone at the station run his name, get an address to
go along with the phone number on the card. See if he has an arrest record.”
“We need to see if he’s worked with Marjorie Hix or Karen Hopkins, too,”
DeMarco added.
“Sheriff, can you get your men on that while DeMarco and I pay Thomas
Knudsen a visit?”
“Can do,” Bannerman said with a twinge of excitement. And with that, he
clicked the mic on and put in a request for Knudsen’s home address and
criminal record.
While Bannerman spoke to one of his officers, Kate looked at her phone
and saw that it was 7:25. She was well aware that her time was running out
and, with her time, perhaps the case. Hell, perhaps what remained of her little
rebirthed career.
But she had to ignore that for now. Right now, there was just the case to
focus on. She had to proceed as if they were on the verge of wrapping it and
could not let the other drama she was currently dealing with get in the way.
That was, of course, easier said than done when she felt as if she was
literally racing against the clock.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Kate and DeMarco made a quick stop at the station after having gotten
their own car from the hotel. The Frankfield PD had already come through
with quite a bit of information. They got their last bit, and perhaps the
strongest, just as they were about to get back in the car and head to
Knudsen’s house.
“Hold up, Agents,” Bannerman said, closing the door to the patrol car. He
was speaking on the phone to someone, nodding enthusiastically. Kate
couldn’t help but feel slightly hopeful as she saw the look of promise on the
sheriff’s face. When he hung up and turned to them, that look of hope seemed
magnified.
“Good news?” Kate asked.
“Good, and getting better. Thomas Knudsen does indeed have a criminal
record. Petty misdemeanors, mostly. A bar fight a few years back, a domestic
dispute with an ex-wife.”
“How is he managing to find clients for piano lessons with a history like
that?”
“I was literally just told that he only accepts adults as students. He was
apparently a very highly respected concert pianist in Denmark up until about
fifteen years ago…not sure what happened to bring him to the states, though.
Gerald Hopkins just told one of my guys over the phone that Knudsen
charged Karen one hundred dollars per lesson.”
“So he did give lessons to at least one of the other victims,” DeMarco said.
“Yes. It’s been confirmed. And we’re trying to find out if there’s that
same link with Marjorie Hix right now.”
“Thanks, Sheriff,” Kate said.
Kate closed the door and sped out of the parking lot. She could not help
but smile a bit at the sound of her tires squelching on the asphalt as she
turned out onto the street. The little jolt of euphoria made her feel, if only for a moment, like she was DeMarco’s age again, sniffing out the final stages of
a case.
They sped out of Frankfield, heading in the direction of Chicago where,
according to the address they had, they would turn off just shy of the city and
drive into Chesterton. It was only a nineteen-minute drive but every minute that passed knocked that feeling of joy and youngness right out of Kate’s
sails.
“This has got to be the guy,” DeMarco said as they turned off down a two-
lane side street where modest homes lined the road. Off in the distance
behind the homes, Lake Michigan sparkled almost magically in the morning
sun.
“Seems to fit the bill,” Kate said, though she was not ready to go all-in just
yet. “He had access to the houses and is definitely someone the women
would invite in.”
“His record, though…it doesn’t really say murderer, does it?”
“I was thinking the same thing. But let’s just see what Mr. Knudsen has to
say about that.”
As they neared the address, Kate could not help but press down on the
accelerator. By the time they were on Knudsen’s street, she was doing sixty
miles per hour down a street with a twenty-five-mile-per-hour limit. As they
headed down this final street, the glimmer of Lake Michigan shrank quite a
bit and the houses started to look a little less spectacular. Still, the yards were much larger and more open than any they had seen so far on this case,
perhaps given the room to display the promise of the lake properties several
blocks to the right.
When Kate brought the car to a stop in front of Knudsen’s house, it was
8:11. There was a car already parked in front of the house, perhaps belonging
to Knudsen. Both women stepped out of the car and hurried up the sidewalk
to what was a cute yet very modest-looking home. It was still likely in the
mid six figures but not quite as high end as the houses they had visited in
Frankfield.
As they came up onto the porch, they could hear piano music before they
even approached the door. It had a crystalline sort of sound that instantly
impressed Kate. The notes came fast, almost mathematically, and though it
was quite beautiful it sounded more technical than musical to her ear.
She and DeMarco both took a moment to brace themselves before Kate
knocked. Kate could tell from DeMarco’s expression that she, too, felt that
they could very well be on the precipice of breaking the case wide open—that
they might have the murderer in custody within the next few minutes.
Kate knocked, but the piano music was loud enough to drown the
knocking out. She knew it right away, so she knocked again. This time, it was harder and more persistent. The piano stopped and within seconds, they heard
fast and thunderous footsteps nearing the door. When the door was answered
it seemed to fly inward with a very tall and angry man standing on the other
side. He was, as David Lowell had suggested, a bit on the older side, with
several years on Kate.
“What could you possibly want this early in the morning?” the man said,
his voice nearly in a shout. He was clearly angry, his eyes darting back and
forth between them. Behind him, the piano music continued. He seemed to
roll his eyes at it.
“Are you Thomas Knudsen?” Kate asked.
“I am. And currently, I am a very irate Thomas Knudsen. I am in the
middle of a piano lesson and I had to stop to answer the door for such a
stupid question.”
“Here’s a better one, then,” Kate said, taking out her ID and flashing it
nearly in front of his face. “Could you make time to answer some questions
for the FBI?”
With the anger still on his face, Knudsen took a small step back. He
looked at the badge and then to Kate, sneering. “What the hell for?”
“We’d much rather discuss this inside,” Kate said.
“As I said, I’m in the middle of a lesson.”
“Well, the lesson will have to be postponed. That, or we can just ask you a
bunch of potentially damaging questions in front of your student.”
“About what, exactly?” Knudsen challenged. “What the hell does the FBI
want with me?”
Kate looked behind him, into the hallway beyond, as if suggesting she
really wanted to come inside.
“I suppose if I reject your request to come inside, you’ll eventually find
your way in, through paperwork and phone calls to your superiors?”
“Yes. And the harder you make it for us, the harder we will make it for
you.”
“Well, damn. There’s your answer then.” He grunted as he stood to the
side. “Hurry in, then, if it’s so fucking important.”
Kate nearly got mouthy right back with him but decided to stay on the