Stephenson had begun to skim the report as Pete spoke. “And what about her husband, Martin?”
“His autopsy, I'm afraid, was not as straightforward. His ligature mark does angle upwards slightly on the back of his neck, which could be consistent with hanging. However, like Patricia, the lack of blood pooling above his ligature mark suggests the pressure around his neck was released shortly after death, which would be inconsistent with him hanging himself. Although, being that we found him on the floor, it's possible he fell from the chandelier not long after he asphyxiated. I suppose it will be up to you to determine if that chandelier could've held his weight long enough for that to have happened.
“Also like Patricia, he has scratches around the ligature on his neck. This could be consistent with defensive wounds in a homicidal strangulation, or he could've panicked at the last minute and tried to free himself from the cord around his neck.
“He sustained some bruising across his torso which appears to have occurred just prior to his death. But I'm unable to determine if this was a defensive wound he incurred in the process of killing his wife or if he was held down during a homicidal strangulation. There's more details in my report, but, for the time being, I've ruled Martin's manner of death as undetermined.”
Stephenson looked at the photo of Martin's body lying atop the metal autopsy table, the bruising across his middle exposed.
“Could his killer have pinned him down by wrapping his legs around Martin's chest while he strangled him from behind? If the killer was positioned slightly higher than Martin when he killed him, that could also account for why his ligature marks come up on the back of his neck.”
“I suppose that would be one plausible scenario,” Pete said. “I've finished the evidence collection process from both of the deceased, so they are ready for you to pick up and submit to the crime lab.”
Stephenson had investigated enough cases by now to know that this evidence collected by the ME would include clothes, hair samples, swabs, blood, nail clippings, and a DNA card from each of the victims.
“Great. I'll be right over.”
“Oh, good. I'm ready to get out of this place. I'd like to think I've done enough work for one weekend.”
“Wish I could say the same, but I've got a lot more still to be done.” This wasn't exactly true, but he wanted to sound normal. Truth was, he was grateful for the distraction his work had provided that weekend. “See you soon.”
He ended the call and dialed Adams.
“Is it morning already?” he asked, sounding groggy.
“Yes, and we've got an undetermined manner of death for Martin. Patricia's been ruled a homicide, but no surprise there.”
“Huh. Well, maybe you were right after all. I take it we're treating Martin's death as suspicious, then?”
“Sure are. I'll meet you at the station in half an hour. We've got some work to do.”
“Can't wait.”
Adams got to the Homicide Unit five minutes after Stephenson. He slapped the Sunday edition of The Seattle Times on Stephenson’s desk and waited for his partner to read the headline.
“This is thanks to our press release last night.” Adams sighed. “It’s all over the national news too. I told you the media was going to be in a frenzy over this case.”
“We had to do a press release. He’s a world-famous author.”
“I know. I just don’t like the added pressure.”
Stephenson scanned the news story before handing the paper back to Adams. “It doesn’t matter whether he’s famous or not. We were right to take the case, and we’ll treat it no different than any other.”
“I just hope we can solve it soon.”
They sat across from Daisy's sister, Emily, three hours later in what the detectives called the “soft room”. It was similar in size to their two interview rooms, but instead of stark white walls, a one-way mirror, and chairs that were bolted to the ground, the soft room provided neutral colors with painted walls, a carpeted floor, and multiple chairs that could be moved around.
Emily had come to the Homicide Unit on her own accord, tearfully asking to speak with them when she arrived. Stephenson set a cup of water on the table in front of her before taking his seat.
“Thank you,” she said.
She wore no makeup and looked about five years older than Daisy. Her eyes and nose were red from crying, and she dabbed her eyes with a tissue.
“So, you wanted to talk with us about Dwayne?” Stephenson asked.
She nodded. “He left a voicemail on my phone Thursday night threatening to kill Daisy.”
Stephenson and Adams exchanged a look.
“Do you still have the voicemail?” Adams asked.
“Yes.” She pulled her phone out of her purse. “He called me three times that night looking for Daisy, but I didn't answer. I was out of town. She must've told him that she was staying with me, but I had no idea where she was and didn't want to get in the middle of it. She would stay with me sometimes when she wanted to get away from him. I don't know where she was that night...” her voice broke into sobs. “Maybe if I'd answered and told him she was staying with me she'd still be alive.”
“This isn't your fault,” Stephenson said.
She wiped her face with her tissue after she placed her phone on the table and played the voicemail for them to hear.
Dwayne's voice came through the phone's speaker: Where's Daisy? I know she's not with you, that lying bitch! Tell me where she is. I'll kill her if she's with another guy. You tell her to call me—or she's dead.
“I didn't think he was serious. He and Daisy fought all the time. It was their normal. Don't get me wrong, I hated him. But I didn't think for a second that he'd actually kill her.”
Stephenson watched the color drain from her face. He recognized the look that washed over her as one he’d seen before on other victims’ family members. He pulled the garbage can beside her chair moments before she threw up. Most of her vomit made it into the can, but some splattered onto the beige carpet.
“I’m so sorry.” She covered her hand with her mouth as she looked down at the mess on the floor.
“Don’t be,” Stephenson said. “We know this is really difficult. And you’re doing great.”
“I just can’t believe she’s dead!” Emily burst into fresh tears and buried her face in her hands.
“Don't blame yourself.” Stephenson placed his hand on her arm. “You did the right thing by coming in. May we borrow your phone?”
With her hands still covering her face, she nodded.
“Is this the only voicemail Dwayne left you that night?”
“Yeah.”
“All right. We're just going to make a copy of it for evidence. Are you okay to wait here?”
She pulled her hands away from her face, exposing her red, tear-streaked cheeks. “Yes, that's fine.”
“We won't be too long.”
Stephenson picked up her phone and followed Adams out of the interview room.
Adams turned to Stephenson after they stepped out into the hall. “Well, it looks like we need to bring Dwayne in to have another chat. Maybe we won't be spending the entire weekend here after all.”
They went back to Dwayne's apartment and he agreed to ride back to the station with them to answer more questions. They brought him into Interview Room One. If he was aware that they were close to arresting him for murder, he didn't show it. It seemed that asking for a lawyer hadn't even entered his mind.
“We've confirmed your friends' address in West Seattle where you say you stayed last night,” Adams began. “We also tried calling both of their cells, but they were turned off. Based on their social media pages, it looks like they did in fact head to Canada for a week-long snowboarding trip like you said.”
“Okay. So why did I need to come in then?”
Adams cleared his throat. “Well, here's the thing Dwayne. Daisy probably died between the time you say you left your apartment and when you arrived at y
our friends' place. So, even if you did stay at their house, you still could've killed Daisy and dropped her body at Discovery Park before you went to their place.”
“We also know that your cell phone pinged a cell tower near Discovery Park around Daisy's time of death, which places you close to where her body was dumped. And we have your car on a traffic camera a mile away from the park at 10:37 p.m.,” Stephenson added.
“I didn't kill her,” Dwayne said matter-of-factly.
They played him a recording of the voicemail he'd left on Emily's phone Thursday night.
“Did you leave this voicemail on Daisy's sister's phone the other night?” Adams asked as the recording played.
“Yeah, but I didn't actually mean it! I was pissed, okay? She didn't come home that night, and I was worried she might've been with another guy. I just wanted her to come home. I swear.”
“Maybe you didn't mean to,” Stephenson said. “Like you said, you were pissed. If you explain it to us, we might be able to help you.”
“I didn't kill her!”
Dwayne stood up from the table.
“All right, calm down.” Adams put up his hands. “We're going to give you a little time to think and make sure there's nothing more you want to tell us. We'll be back in fifteen minutes, okay?”
“I've already told you everything.”
Dwayne paced back and forth in the small space.
The two detectives got up and started for the door. “We'll be back,” Stephenson said before leaving Dwayne alone in the interview room.
“I think we can get a confession out of him,” Adams said after Stephenson closed the door behind him. “He already admitted to striking Daisy and he hasn't asked for a lawyer. Hopefully, he'll open up when we go back in there.”
They walked back to their desks where they sat down across from each other.
“I'm thinking Dwayne probably strangled her at home and then dumped her body at the park,” Adams said.
Stephenson leaned back in his chair. “So, we have the neighbors hearing an argument between Dwayne and Daisy right before her time of death, a history of domestic disputes, Dwayne’s admission to hitting her, his threatening voicemail to Daisy's sister, traffic camera footage and a cell tower placing Dwayne near the location of where Daisy's body was dumped right around the time of her death, and her fingerprints and strands of hair inside his car. And he's got no alibi.”
“You still think there's a connection between Daisy's death and that couple in Madison Park?”
Stephenson sighed. “No. I think Daisy's killer is sitting in Interview One,” Stephenson said.
“I'll fill out the affidavit if you call the judge to get the arrest warrant. Then let's go back in there and see if we can make him crack.”
Dwayne hadn't exactly cracked, but they'd had enough on him to arrest him even without his confession.
“How about I take you out for a congratulatory beer since we closed our case?” Adams asked as they walked side by side through the parking garage.
“Thanks, but I'm pretty tired. I think I'll just head home.”
“Yeah, me too. But I plan on enjoying what's left of my Sunday. You should too. There's even still time for you to see your girlfriend.”
Stephenson didn't respond, and they walked in silence the rest of the way to their cars.
Adams stopped when he reached his car, parked across from Stephenson's. He pulled his keys from his pocket and looked up at his partner.
“You've been acting different this weekend. You sure you're okay?”
“Yeah. I'm fine, thanks.”
Adams stood still for a moment and looked like he was trying to read him. “Okay. I'll see you tomorrow.”
“See ya,” Stephenson said.
Adams watched his partner get into his car before he climbed into his own and followed Stephenson out of the parking garage.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Eric got up early Sunday morning and decided to go to his favorite café, The Streamliner, on Bainbridge Island for breakfast. He hoped that its organic coffee and buttermilk biscuits might help take his mind off Daisy. Maybe even clear his head enough to work on his book.
With his laptop bag slung over his shoulder, Eric made his way down the steep, city street to the ferry. A light mist was falling, but he didn’t mind. He needed to get out of his apartment.
The ferry ride was uneventful. He sat inside and stared out the window at the calm water that shone a cobalt blue in the winter morning light.
Only a short walk from the ferry, The Streamliner was busy as usual when he stepped inside.
It was more American diner than Australian café, but there was a quaintness about it that reminded him of his home country. Although, it had grown busier in recent years. Its notoriety for good food and local feel had caused it to become a tourist destination.
He took a seat at the counter and ordered the breakfast special. He sipped his steaming coffee and was about to open his laptop when he realized he was in no state to write. Or, for that matter, to eat. His grief was just too strong.
His eyes wandered to The Seattle Times on the counter to his left.
“Care to read it?” his fellow diner patron asked, motioning toward the paper. “I’m all done.”
“Thanks,” he said.
He slid the paper toward him as the man stood from his seat. He held up the front page.
NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR MARTIN WATTS AND WIFE FOUND DEAD IN SEATTLE HOME
They must be mistaken. How had I not known this? Why hadn’t Patricia ever told me? He racked his brain through all their sessions. Strangely, he couldn’t recall much of anything other than the murder of her brother and her never-ending complaints about her husband. So, maybe she had mentioned it. His mind might’ve just been elsewhere.
He moved his attention back to the paper and read through the entire article. The police hadn’t yet released their cause of death. But, according to the article, they were treating both deaths as suspicious. Eric wondered what that meant exactly. Hopefully, they were just waiting on official autopsy results to announce it as a murder-suicide.
Apparently, Martin was a famous man. Not only were most of his books New York Times bestsellers, but many of them had also been made into high-earning film adaptations. None that Eric had seen, however, being that they were all romance.
He looked for an article on Daisy’s death and was saddened to find it all the way back on page 8. His breakfast arrived and he set down the paper, still blown away that he had killed a bestselling author without even knowing it. He supposed it was one way to get rid of some competition. The scandal of Martin’s death would undoubtedly boost his book sales for the short term, but Eric hoped people would’ve forgotten about him by the time his own book was released.
Despite having no appetite since he’d heard of Daisy’s death, his poached eggs and buttermilk biscuits looked incredibly delicious. Before he knew it, his plate was empty. Eric set down his fork and looked again at Martin’s headline. He sighed, wondering how many million copies Martin Watts would sell today.
If only he could be on the front page of The Seattle Times. In a way, he was famous already. The man who killed Martin Watts. Too bad the world would never know.
Seeing the media craze over Martin’s death had helped take his mind off Daisy, but by the time he got back to his apartment she had crept back into his mind. Eric spent the rest of Sunday moping around his apartment, trying to get her out of his head so he could make progress on his manuscript. He needed to write while Patricia and Martin’s murders were fresh in his mind. After finishing his hour of yoga, he went to work on the novel.
His thoughts drifted between his book and his secretary for the rest of the day. In his grief over Daisy, he kept thinking back to his ex-wife, Stella. Gorgeous Stella.
They married young. She had been nineteen and he had been twenty. They had some pressure from their families, he supposed, because Stella had gotten pregnant. B
ut that wasn't the only reason they got married. In fact, it only made them happier. They were madly in love, and he had been planning on marrying her one day anyway.
She was a professional surfer, which made her a local celebrity in their hometown. She’d even won some international competitions by the time they got married, and her name was becoming well-known in more than just Australia.
Stella's family despised him for getting her pregnant, as if he'd ruined her life. Although they hated him, they thought them getting married was the right thing to do.
They were married on the beach in Nelson Bay, the small coastal town in Eastern Australia where both Stella and he had lived their entire lives. He replayed the day in his mind like a scene from a movie. It was January, in the middle of a heat wave. How he missed January in Australia. Stella looked radiant. He remembered sweating through his suit, looking at her and thinking he was the luckiest man alive.
Poor Stella must have been sweltering in the heat, being pregnant, but she didn't complain. She had never looked happier. The ceremony was small, private, and low-budget, with just their families and a few close friends. The minister finally pronounced them man and wife, which they sealed with a tender kiss.
Afterward, Stella grabbed his hand with a twinkle in her eye and pulled him toward the turquoise water. She kicked off her heels when they reached the waves. She waded into the water, pulling him along behind her. Before he knew it, they were swimming side by side in the refreshing sea, he in his suit and she in her wedding gown. Dolphins surfaced not far from where they swam. Thinking back on that day still made him smile.
When Stella lost the baby only a couple weeks later, they were devastated. This made her family hate him even more. Eric was sure that her sister or parents tried to talk her into divorcing him at that point. But he knew that he didn't have to worry. The love they shared was real. They tried to get pregnant again over the next few years, but never did. Even though they weren't without their problems, they were very much in love. Or, so he had thought. Their life together was as close to perfect as one could get. Until the day she left and never came back.
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