The sweet relief was too disturbing to ponder a moment longer, so Archer tuned in to the classic rock station for the last three minutes of his commute before hunkering down in his office.
Westwick’s financial statements had just come in, so Archer got to work pouring over the old man’s books.
Whoa. Charlie had done very well for himself. The significance of his income and retirement were impressive but wise and timely investments had skyrocketed the man’s value, putting a whole new spin on motive for this case—the inheritance of a fortune.
Yet, even more surprising was the man’s modest budget and a lifestyle far below his means—a humble legacy very few in wealthy societies seem particularly fond of.
No matter the amount, money was always a strong motive. But even assuming those set to inherit didn’t know about the cancer, how many more years would a ninety-one-year-old man live, even one in the best health?
Charlie was a smart guy. Probably had an ironclad will that was, unfortunately, still under questionable lock and key. But it still didn’t make sense to off such an old man for money. Unless desperation called for immediate funds. Then again, if it was his family, why not just ask for the money?
Digging through the stack for another file, he pulled the background checks for the surviving Westwicks. Financial stability seemed to be a familial trait. He’d have more to work with once he met the rest of the Westwicks later today, but he had a feeling his suspect pool had just dwindled.
Archer’s phone rang. “Hayes.”
“Hi, Agent Hayes, this is Candice Stevens. I got a little more info on the Westwick case if you’ve got a second.”
“Yeah, what have you got for me?”
“You were right about the trace amount of adhesive found on the medial forearm near the wrist. It wasn’t inherently obvious to the naked eye because whoever did this wrapped cloth around the wrists before binding them with tape. From what we can tell, the killer used plain old wash cloths from the victim’s home.
“And before you ask, we know this because the mineral residue tells us that the towels were washed using water specifically from this area and the levels and chemicals from the detergent are an exact match for the victim’s clothes.” Candice waited a moment before dumbing it down for him. “Essentially he used cheap detergent and the water’s a perfect match, you following me, Agent Hayes?”
“Yeah sorry, I was just thinking. So whoever bound him wanted it to look like his wrists had never been restrained.” Archer understood from the placement of the body that the killer was trying to make it look like an accidental or natural death so this new piece of information was consistent.
“Right. Unfortunately we haven’t identified the exact strain of the anesthetic yet, but we are working on it and should have that information to you soon. Another thing we found, contrary to what we originally thought, was that Westwick did not fight back—as the bruising on his arms suggested. Turns out he was taking corticosteroids for his asthma and a hefty dose of anticoagulants that can cause easy bruising. That, plus the decreased amount of collagen and thinning in an elderly person’s skin and aging capillaries make bruising occur more readily with little force.”
“Meaning?”
“Well, I would say that the killer rendered the vic unconscious first and then gripped the arms and applied the towels and tape. Westwick obviously never woke up while the restraints were on otherwise there would be more significant trauma around the ligatures of the wrists while he tried to wriggle loose.
“We were also able to determine, not that it’s very helpful, that the killer is right handed and seemed to have surprised the vic from behind. Does that narrow it down enough for ya?” Her slight laugh betrayed her attempt to detach—a mechanism to help keep her sanity in such a horrific profession, no doubt.
He chuckled to lighten the mood. “Not so much right now, but you never know.”
“Well, that’s all I’ve got for you for now. I’ll let you know as soon as we identify the drug used.”
“Thanks, Candice. Good work.”
Two hours, six phone calls, and one enormous stack of files later, Archer’s back ached from hunching over his desk as he tortured over every detail he could find. He needed a break.
Giving in to a moment to stretch, he looked away from the bleeding words and spotted that crazy partner of his lurking in the sidelight of Archer’s closed office door.
With a beckon of his finger, Sal entered the office.
“Hey, Sal … what’s with the tie? It looks like its got hearts on it.” Archer couldn’t help the spreading smirk. The tie was ridiculous.
Feigning insult, Sal held out his loud tie and inspected it. “My adopted abuela gave this to me. Ordered it off the Home Shopping Network a few years ago, but I like it. It’s abstract—apparently you see what you wanna see. You got love on your mind, Hayes?” Sal quipped back.
Archer ignored his taunt. “Is your grandma in town or something? ’Cause that thing is brutal, and kinda girly.”
“Evade all you want brother, but this thing is cool. And it might as well be a Rorschach test for all the weird things people have said it looks like today. Sandy, the secretary, said it looked like kittens and yarn. She’s definitely a weird cat lady, have you seen the pictures on her desk? Her cats are all dressed up in little suits and wedding gowns and stuff. It ain’t right. And then one of the analysts, Garrett, said it looked like voodoo magic. That one creeped me out—I almost took it off after that. That guy’s got some kind of cult fetish. I’m surprised he has security clearance to get in the building. Dude’s a wack job.”
“Did you have a reason for coming in here, or are you just bored? Cause I can give you more work to do.”
Sal leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on the front of Archer’s desk. “Actually I called ‘Stink Eye’ Frank Snyder from the photo. He’s coming in this afternoon.”
“Ha! ‘Stink Eye,’ good one. What time?”
“Around three.”
Archer scrolled through the schedule on his phone to double check his other appointments. “You’re gonna have to fly solo on this one. I’ve got Westwick’s son at one and his grandson at three.”
“Okay, I’ll let you know how it goes.”
Archer nodded in agreement. “Any word back on the mystery note? I put in a new search red flagging Reamus.”
“Nah, nothing’s back on that yet, but I think the team cracked Westwick’s journal code. Wanna go check it out?”
A yawn garbled the first few words of his response, “Yeah, but I need to grab some coffee first, I’ll meet you down there in five.” Archer stood and strode out, doubling back a second later when Sal didn’t follow. “What are you doing?”
“Dude, this chair is comfy and you said you needed five minutes. I’m relaxing. You should try it sometime.” Sal reclined, bracing his hands behind his head.
Such was Archer’s day. And it wasn’t even noon.
“So, anything useful from these?” Archer tapped the pile of notebooks.
Wayne, the analyst/code-breaking guru, shoved his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose, a chronic habit due to his hyperhidrosis. Why a genius problem solver with a severe sweating problem didn’t get contacts was beyond comprehension.
“Well, it would help if we knew more about what we’re looking for. There are a lot of journals here. They appear to be your average case logs, system checks, and daily activities logs ranging from his time in the battalion until he retired. There were a few experimental ideas in there, a couple of them pertaining to aviation weaponry, but nothing that we know of that has ever been produced. We have some engineering experts needling through the information we couldn’t make sense of.”
Using his stout index finger, Wayne pushed his glasses up again. “There was also one
personal reflections journal from the past year. But that one mainly contained a lot of ramblings about his transformation experience of knowing a ‘Lord and Savior’ and some neighbor girl who helped him find his ‘way back.’”
Wayne shook his head as if not knowing what to make of that, his glasses worming down the slope again, barely hanging on to the dripping tip of his nose.
“Wayne, have you ever considered contacts?”
Archer choked back a laugh, barely. Sal could be so dense for a guy whose skills of observation made him almost psychic.
The thin metal bridge was forced up Wayne’s nose again, magnifying perplexed eyes. “Why?”
Sal pinched his lips to keep himself together. Shaking his head, he shrugged. “No reason.”
Archer coughed to cover his laugh as the glasses went down again. “Nice work, Wayne. As your guys are combing through, have them keep a look out for some specifics—the captain in charge—Reamus, any other names from the battalion portrayed unfavorably, Frank Snyder, and anything pertaining to Westwick’s family or his finances. That’ll be all for now.” As soon as Archer and Sal found themselves behind the elevator doors they both unleashed the delayed laughter, riling more hilarity with additional good-natured impersonations of their more curious coworkers until Archer’s sides hurt.
Schooling their expressions when the doors opened on their floor, they found John and Sarah Westwick poised at the receptionist’s desk. The clean-cut Docker’s ad model in his early sixties and his homemaker wife, decked out in a Jackie Kennedy inspired suit and a clichéd strand of pearls, followed Archer and Sal into the conference room and settled across the table.
“First, we would like to offer our condolences on the loss of your father.” Archer spoke with sincerity, attempting to establish a comfortable atmosphere for the grieving family.
John Westwick nodded, his distinguished grays glinting against the florescent lights. “It sure has been a shock, but we appreciate it.” Reaching over, he covered his wife’s hand.
The simple affectionate act sent Archer’s scattered brain to Sadieland. He’d touched her hand last night. Such a common, benign gesture that shouldn’t have registered on his radar, except with Sadie common became extraordinary.
“Any news on the investigation? We are anxious to put this all behind us so Pop can rest in peace.”
“I understand, Mr. Westwick, and we are doing everything we can. When was the last time you spoke with your father?”
“About two weeks before I received a call about his passing, so about three weeks ago now. Wow, it doesn’t seem like that long. I remember because he had called and left a couple messages on my cell. I was at a medical conference in Arizona and called him from the airport when I was on my way home.”
“Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t realize you were a doctor.” Archer looked over his notes and chided himself for misaddressing the man.
Sadie could have been a doctor—Stop it, Hayes.
“It’s no problem. You can just call me John if you like.” The man was the picture of composure. They both were. Even their posture was immaculate.
“Okay John, what type of medicine do you practice?”
“I have a family practice just outside Chicago in Schaumburg, Illinois.”
If he was a doctor, he’d have access to drugs. “Do you have in your office, or currently have access to, any anesthetic types of drugs?”
John’s thick brow twisted, the tendons in his neck pronounced as he swallowed. “Well, I’m not an anesthesiologist but on rare occasion I might have use for a mild anesthetic. If we have any, it’s been a while since I’ve used it. I’d have to ask my staff.”
A sudden unease buzzed in the air. Something had him riled so Archer hung back, letting the tension germinate.
His eyes shifted from Archer to Sal and back. “What’s this about?”
Archer slid a notepad across the table. “John, could you please write down the name and number of your office manager?”
John stared at the notepad, making no effort to reach for the pen. Sarah squeezed her husband’s hand in support.
After John signed with his right hand, Sal grabbed the sheet and exited the room to make the call while Archer continued with his questioning.
“John, the killer injected an anesthetic into your father’s neck. We believe that that injection resulted in his death.”
“You think I killed my own father?” John gritted out with tightly reined violence.
Archer kept his voice even. “You’re not on trial here, John. I’m just trying to get to the bottom of this. I have to consider everyone until I can prove otherwise. I hope you understand. It’s protocol.”
Sarah patted her husband’s hand in a calming gesture. “Honey, he’s just doing his job. We don’t have anything to hide.”
John nodded and a sigh settled his tense shoulders. “Sorry, I’m just trying to wrap my brain around all this.”
Archer knew he needed to tread lightly. If they lawyered up he might not get anything useful. “I know this is frustrating but can anyone account for your whereabouts between four and eight the morning your father was killed?”
“I was at home in bed with my wife.” John growled
They could always track credit card transactions for the day and other things if need be, so Archer figured he should steer clear of antagonizing the man, for now. “Were you aware of your father’s medical condition?”
“You mean the high blood pressure and the asthma?” His puzzlement seemed genuine.
There were several aspects of Archer’s job he didn’t care for. Delivering bad news was at the top of that list. “Your father was diagnosed with stage four adenocarcinoma of the liver. He was dying.”
John shook his head. “No. He never even drank—he would have told me. I would have been here to help, I—” His voice fractured and he shook his head again, not bothering to continue.
“I’m very sorry.” Archer lifted the carafe in the center of the table, poured two glasses of water, and slid them in front of the Westwicks, giving John a few moments to collect himself. “That is part of the reason why this case is so baffling. Not only was your father in advanced years, but he wouldn’t have lived much longer with this diagnosis. This is not information that would have been impossible to come by with the right motivation.”
John sipped from the glass of water, cleared his throat and drilled holes into Archer’s eyes with his hardened stare. “What can I do? What do you need to know about him?”
Sarah’s dainty voice cut in, petting her husband’s arm to soothe the visibly tensed muscles. “Despite the distance, John and Charlie were very close.”
Hmm. His reaction to the sickness was more telling than when Archer had implied his involvement in murder. Interesting. “Well for starters, did you know of any enemies your father had?”
“You mean from the war? Reamus and his son … James, with the threats.”
“You know about your father’s time in the war?” This Archer wasn’t expecting. The shroud of secrecy with the journals hinted that the history had been well contained.
“When I was a little kid he used to tell me stories about this hero who found the greatest treasure, and who battled the enemy with intelligence instead of physical strength. When I got older I started asking questions about what had been real and what had been fiction. That’s when he told me about the problems with the combat planes and what he did to try and stop it.”
John sighed, his thumb smoothed over his wife’s hand. “He named me John after his brother who died. All those years he carried the blame for someone else’s mistakes. “Do I think Reamus is capable of killing my dad?” He nodded, fury building behind his muddy-brown eyes. “He killed my uncle and ten other soldiers without an ounce of remorse. In my opinion, if a man can do th
at he’s capable of anything.”
The interview continued until Sal poked his head back in and nodded. “That should be all for now. Thank you so much for your cooperation. We’ll be in touch.” Archer stood and shook both of their hands before showing them to the elevator.
They had stepped inside but John held the door open. “We’ll be in town for a few more days. Let me know if there is anything else we can do to help.”
Archer nodded, waited for the doors to close, and then immediately sought out Sal. “So?”
Sal swiveled around in his chair. “I spoke with the office manager who was a real pill.” He waited. “Ha! Pill, get it?”
Archer motioned in a circle urging Sal to get on with it.
“So then, I called in a favor to Judge Harlow, who by the way, totally has the hots for me—thinks I look like Enrique Iglesias.” With a bounce of his eyebrows, Sal gave a proud grin. “Girlfriend issued me a warrant. Chicago field office is sending someone over to collect samples for the lab to compare.” Sal’s voice turned serious. “You really think he did it?”
Reviewing his initial impressions of John Westwick, Archer wasn’t sold. John seemed to genuinely care for his father. He was staid but he also had a volatile fuse on his anger with the right provocation. “If I were a bettin’ man … he didn’t do it. But you never know.”
“What do you mean, you always know.”
“You want some advice, Sal? Don’t get cocky. The second you start thinking you have all the answers is exactly when you don’t. Cocky agents get distracted, make mistakes, and most of those mistakes aren’t ones you wanna have to live with.”
Sal’s ever present smirk tweaked into a grim line. The next hard lesson forming on Archer’s tongue dried up. The look on Sal’s face conceding that Archer had scared the rookie enough for one day.
“You’ve gotta get ready to question Stink Eye, and I’ve got the grandson. Meet me in my office when you’re done, and we’ll go over what we learn.”
When Fall Fades (The Girl Next Door Series Book 1) Page 16