Текст книги "The Dead Will Tell: A Kate Burkholder Novel"

Автор книги: Linda Castillo

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

CHAPTER 14

The horizon is awash with Easter egg hues of lavender and orange when I park in front of the small boutique art gallery Jules Rutledge had owned and operated. It’s not yet 8 A.M., and around me, Painters Mill is opening for business. The lights are on in the bakery across the street, and the aroma of fresh-baked apple fritters rides the breeze. At the end of the block, I see Steve Ressler, the publisher of the Weekly Advocate newspaper, hightail it toward the front doors of his offices, a newspaper tented over his head in an attempt to stay dry.

I look at the darkened storefront of The Raspberry Leaf Gallery and I can’t help but think Julia Rutledge should be here instead of me, making coffee and preparing for another day. Instead, her body is on its way to the morgue and I’m here looking for clues that might tell me who hated her enough to murder her.

Grabbing my umbrella and my canvas equipment bag off the seat, I get out and jog to the sidewalk, where the striped overhead canopy shields me from the rain. I set down the bag, open it, and pull out shoe covers, gloves, and a disposable gown. Before going inside, I put on the protective gear, then pull the key chain from my pocket. The second key I try fits the door and I let myself in.

I find myself standing in a narrow space with gleaming hardwood floors and walls painted designer gray. Crisp white woodwork and wainscoting that looks original to the building. A good-size areca palm in a teal-colored pot sits near the window. The air smells the way an upscale art gallery should, with the faint aromas of bergamot and coffee and a hint of dark chocolate. In the far corner, a couple of sleek chairs with a retro ’60s-style fabric are grouped with a coffee table sporting an antique lamp. The long walls to my left and right are covered with paintings: There are a dozen or more oils on stretched canvas, a few photographs, and lots of acrylics in simple black frames. Each work of art has its own light. This morning, the lights are dark, as if in reverence to the absence of Julia Rutledge.

My shoe covers crackle as I venture deeper into the gallery. In the corner to my left, several canvases are set up on easels, and I remember reading in the local paper that Julia gave art classes here at the gallery one evening per week. A divider upon which an artist has painted a mural of an Amish horse and buggy trotting past a cemetery separates the showroom from the rear of the gallery. I walk past the divider. While the front section of the gallery is sleek and stylish, the rear is dedicated to the business side of running things. Ahead and to my right is a sink with a fat roll of paper towels mounted above it. There’s a shelf jammed with painting supplies and a glass-front cabinet filled with brushes and jars. The faint scent of turpentine laces the air. An espresso maker and a dozen or so colorful demitasse cups sit on the coffee station to my right. A door that’s been painted glossy red bears a sign that proclaims OFFICE.

I cross to the door and try the knob, but it’s locked. I dig for the keys and try several before locating the one that fits. The door opens to a small, cramped office. The lighting isn’t as good as it is up front. A high-end vacuum cleaner for hardwood floors sits in the corner. A pair of sneakers peeks out from under a battered wood desk set against the wall. A Tiffany lamp adorns the corner of the desk. Two lavender-colored folders are stacked neatly in the in-box. I pick up the top file and find credit card bills, gas bills, and an invoice from a local hardware store. The second file contains receipts from recent sales and photos of artwork.

I’m not sure exactly what I’m looking for. Chances are I won’t find a damn thing that will be helpful in terms of the case. But if I’ve learned anything in the years I’ve been a cop, it never hurts to look.

I decide to search the desk first, only to discover it’s locked, too. I go back to the key chain and try the smallest key, which fits. I tug open the pencil drawer. It contains a phone message pad. Yellow sticky notes. A roll of postage stamps. A tube of lip gloss. Letter opener in the shape of a Toledo sword. Finding nothing of interest, I go to the second drawer. I see a box of fine-point Sharpies. A tin of handmade thank-you cards. A small dictionary. Box of tissues. Hand cream. I’m about to go on to the file drawer when, tucked beneath a roll of utility tape, several pieces of lined notebook paper catch my attention.

I pull out the papers; there are four, each of them folded twice. Though I’m wearing latex gloves, I touch only the corners and unfold the first one. Scrawled in blue ink are the words: Dale sends his regards from hell.

Surprise rattles through me. Quickly, I go to the second note, unfold it, and read. I know you were there. I page to the next sheet. You could have stopped them. The final note contains a single word: Murderer.

The notes are cryptic, threatening, and frightening. Someone had been terrorizing Julia Rutledge. But who? And why?

I turn on the Tiffany lamp. Light rains down on the four letters lying side by side on the desktop. That’s when it strikes me that they’re similar to the ones Norm Johnston gave me earlier. They’re written on the same type of paper, the same color of ink, and I’m pretty sure that if that handwriting isn’t the same, it’s damn close.

“What the hell is going on?” I whisper.

The only answer is the pound of rain against the roof and the echo of anxiety in my voice.

*   *   *

I try to reach Norm on his cell phone twice on my way to the Painters Mill City Building, where the town council meeting room and offices are located. When I call his office line directly, I’m informed by the administrative assistant that he called in sick this morning.

“Shit,” I mutter, and make a quick turn into the Dairy Dream, which is closed for the season, turn around, and head in the opposite direction. Worry nips at my heels as I head toward the Maple Crest subdivision where he lives, and I crank the speedometer up to sixty. The lighted waterfall cascading from atop a stone wall greets me as I make the turn into the subdivision. The homes are spacious and new here, the oversize lots professionally landscaped. My tires hiss against the wet blacktop as I look for Walnut Hill Lane. Another left, and I spot the stucco-and-stone ranch three houses down.

I park in the driveway, where rain beads on a Lexus with the dealership sticker still in the window, letting everyone know he’d laid down sixty thousand dollars for it. Or maybe that’s just my less-than-affectionate feelings for Norm shining through. Rain patters against my head and shoulders as I get out and start toward the door. I use the brass knocker, aware that my pulse is up and that I’m suddenly terrified I’ll find something inside besides an unpleasant conversation. I’m keenly aware of my hair getting wet. Damp soaking through my jacket to chill my shoulders and arms.

Relief slips through me when I hear the security chain and bolt lock disengage; then the door swings open. Norm Johnston stands just inside, frowning at me as if I’m some vagrant off the street, looking for a handout.

“I tried to reach you at the office and your cell,” I tell him.

“I called in sick,” he tells me. “There’s a security company coming out to install an alarm system.”

I nod. “I need to talk to you about those notes.”

“Why? Has something happened? Did you figure out who’s sending them?” His expression is frightened and grave as he ushers me into a foyer with a high ceiling from which a chandelier dangles. To my right, a glass-and-iron console table holds a porcelain vase filled with fresh flowers. Norm and his wife divorced shortly after their daughter’s death. Carol got the bank account and moved to Pittsburgh, where her parents live. Johnston got the house and the opportunity to live up to his reputation as a womanizer. I’m reminded that when it comes to murder, the deceased is rarely the only victim.

I follow him to a comfortable living room with leather furniture and an oversized wood coffee table. The flat screen is tuned to a morning television program out of Columbus.

“Have you received any more notes?” I ask.

“No. Why?”

“Jules Rutledge was murdered a few hours ago.”

“Wh—what?”

“She’d been receiving notes, Norm. Just like the ones you showed me.”

He stares at me, blinking, the color draining from his face. “But … Jules? Dead? How?”

“Stabbed to death. In her home.”

“Oh my God. Ohmigod.” He sets his hands on either side of his temples. I can’t tell if he’s trying to block out my voice and the news I’ve just relayed or deny that it’s happening.

“Norm, did you know them? Jules Rutledge and Dale Michaels?”

“No,” he says defensively.

“There’s got to be a connection. At least between you and Rutledge,” I say. “The notes you showed me are exactly the same as the ones I found at her gallery.”

“Oh Jesus,” he says. “Jesus.”

The pattern of denial is clear. Blue Branson. Julia Rutledge. Jerrold McCullough. And now Norm Johnston. Each of them adamantly denied being friends with the others. Why?

“Norm, if you knew them, now would be a good time to tell me,” I press. “Two people are dead and there’s no doubt in my mind there’s some connection to you.”

He tries to cover his discomfiture with a laugh, but this time the sound that squeezes from his throat more resembles a whimper. “Look, I may have had a beer or two with them, but I didn’t run with them. We weren’t friends.”

“You mean recently?”

“No. When we were young. High school, for chrissake.”

“So then, what’s the connection?”

“I don’t know. Maybe all of this is … random.”

“This is not random.” I take a breath, ratchet back my impatience with him, and soften my voice. “I can’t help you unless you help me.”

“What do you want from me?” he cries.

“The truth. All of it.”

“I’ve told you everything I know.”

I pause long enough to let him absorb everything that’s been said. “Norm, I haven’t put all of this together yet, but I think these two murders may be related to a cold case from back in 1979,” I tell him. “The Hochstetler case.”

“I remember it. That Amish family. But I was only a teenager at the time.”

“Did you know the Hochstetlers?”

He hesitates. “No.”

“Do you know anything about what happened the night that family was murdered?”

“Of course not.” He makes a sound of disbelief. “What the hell are you insinuating?”

“I’m not insinuating anything. I’m trying to solve two homicides, get a killer off the street, and maybe keep you safe in the process.”

“I had nothing to do with that.” His lips peel back, exposing small, artificially white teeth. “How dare you accuse me of—”

“I didn’t accuse you of anything.”

From two feet away, I can hear his molars grinding. “This is outrageous. I ask you for help, and you come into my home unannounced and start making wild accusations, all because you haven’t the slightest clue how to do your job! I’m a sitting member of the council, for God’s sake.”

“Norm, I need you to level with me. If there’s anything you’re not telling me, you need to come clean. Right now.”

He stares at me, his mouth open, his chest rising and falling. “I’ve told you everything I know.”

“I’m not going to let this go,” I tell him. “Do you understand?”

A quiver runs the length of his body. In the periphery of my vision, I see his right hand curl into a fist. And I know he’s struggling to control a temper run amok. That if he loses the battle, I’d better be prepared to defend myself. I’m not sure what it says about me, but I’m pretty sure I’d take a hit for the opportunity to arrest him.

“You fucking bitch. I’m sick and tired of your incompetence. First my daughter is killed because of you and now this. I swear to God, I’ll have your job for this.”

I try hard to let the words roll off me, especially the insinuation about my being responsible for the death of his daughter. But I don’t quite succeed. My heart is pounding; I can feel the pulse of it in my neck. Adrenaline jigs in my midsection, powerful enough to make my hands shake.

“You do what you have to do,” I tell him. “This isn’t going to go away.”

He strides to the door and opens it. “Get the fuck out of my house.”

I stand there for a moment, looking at him. “Watch yourself, Norm. I mean it.”

He snarls another expletive at me as I go through the door and step into the pouring rain.

CHAPTER 15

I’m nearly to the station when my phone erupts. I check the screen to see that I’ve received a text from the coroner: Michaels autopsy complete. Will be at my office until noon. Groaning inwardly, I make a U-turn and head back toward Pomerene Hospital.

No matter how many times I make this journey to the morgue, it never gets any easier. Dread is a dark and silent presence that steps onto the elevator and rides with me to the basement. The doors swish open to a tiled corridor. My boots echo as I pass a yellow and black biohazard sign and a plaque that reads: MORGUE AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL. At the end of the hallway, I push open dual swinging doors and traverse a second hall to the clerk’s desk, but Carmen is nowhere in sight. Early lunch, I think, and I’m reminded that I’ve yet to have coffee.

I go through a second set of swinging doors. The autopsy room is straight ahead. To my right is a small alcove, where the biohazard protection supplies are stored. I glance to my left and through the mini-blinds of his glassed-in office, I see Doc Coblentz sitting at his desk, eating a burger the size of a small tire.

I enter his office. “Sorry to interrupt,” I tell him, relieved he’s not eating in close proximity of a dead body.

“This is the only place I can enjoy red meat in peace.” He blots his mouth and rises. “My wife has me eating rabbit food. Beets and carrots.” He extends his hand and we shake.

“You work all night, Doc?”

He nods. “The dead are blissfully quiet.”

“Okay.” But I can’t help but grin. “You finished the Michaels autopsy?”

He sobers. “We just received Julia Rutledge.”

“Any idea when you might get to her?”

“As soon as I can.” Taking a final bite of the burger, he motions toward the alcove. “You know the drill.”

I go to the alcove, where his assistant has set out disposable shoe covers, a blue gown, hair cap, and latex gloves. Doc Coblentz is waiting when I emerge and, I find myself wondering how he does what he does. No matter how well prepared I think I am, I’m never ready to witness this cold and clinical side of death. While the blood and bodily fluids have been rinsed away, the incised skin hidden from view, there is no eradicating the hideousness. I can’t look at a body without thinking of the life that person lost or the loved ones he left behind.

Entering the autopsy room is like stepping into a cave where some grotesque beast stores its kills. Ensconced in gray ceramic tile, the room is maintained at a cool sixty-two degrees. But despite the state-of-the-art HVAC system, the smells of formalin and decaying flesh are ever-present reminders of why this place exists. It’s a large room, about twenty feet square. Stark fluorescent light pours down from several overhead lamps onto stainless steel counters. There are a dozen or so white plastic buckets. Gleaming instruments lie atop stainless steel trays, the uses of which I don’t want to ponder. Two deep sinks with arcing faucets are butted against the far wall, next to a scale used to weigh organs.

“What’s the cause of death?” I ask.

“Strangulation due to the compression of the carotid arteries causing global cerebral ischemia.”

I follow the doc to a gurney situated beneath a lamp that’s been pulled down close. A green sheet marred by several watery stains covers the body. I brace an instant before Doc Coblentz peels away the sheet.

I steel myself against the sight of the massive Y-incision cut into Dale Michaels’s torso. The flesh is blue gray with a sprinkling of silver hair on a chest that’s sunken and bony. A few inches above his navel, a neat red hole the size of my pinkie stands out in stark contrast against the pasty skin.

“So he was still alive when he was hanged from those rafters?” I ask.

“Correct. There was a good bit of bleeding from both gunshot wounds, which tells me the heart was still beating when he sustained them.”

“There were two gunshot wounds?”

“Sorry to do this to you, Chief, but you need to see this.” He draws the sheet down to mid-thigh, revealing more of Dale Michaels than I ever wanted to see. A shriveled penis and scrotum are nestled in silvery pubic hair. There’s a wound there, too, and I can barely force myself to look. My eyes skim over jutting hip bones and the tops of skinny thighs. But Michaels was not a thin man. The abdomen bulges and is slightly gelatinous with fat.

The urge to look away is powerful, but despite my aversion, I don’t.

“For simplicity’s sake, I’ll refer to them as Wound One and Wound Two.” Using a wooden, cotton-tipped swab, he indicates the hole near the navel. “On Wound One, we’ve got an entry wound here. The slug penetrated the stomach wall between the greater curvature and the pyloric canal and lodged near the spine.”

“Did it paralyze him?”

“Probably not, but the trauma so close to the spinal cord may have temporarily immobilized him.”

“Looks like a small caliber.” But I’m finding it increasingly difficult to focus on Dale Michaels’s brutalized body. “A .22 or maybe a .25.” I look over at him. “Is the slug intact?”

“I have one slug, which I’ve bagged for you. The other was a through and through.”

I make a mental note to get with the CSU that processed the scene. If the second slug wasn’t found inside the body, maybe it’s still at the scene, in a wall or in the ground.

“Going on to Wound Two.” Using the swab as a pointer, he indicates the hole near the groin. “The missile entered the anterior aspect of the left thigh, just to the left of the genitalia. It fractured the superior ramus of the pubis, tore through the neck of the bladder, and left the body through the perineum, compromising the entire genitourinary tract.”

“Jesus,” I hear myself say, but I’m keenly aware that the buzzing of the overhead lights seems inordinately loud as I stare down at a hole the color of raw meat. Despite the chill, I feel sweat break out on the back of my neck.

I swallow hard. “So there’s no slug for the second wound.”

“Correct.”

“Was he alive when he sustained it?”

“Yes.” Doc Coblentz shifts his attention to the neck. “Interestingly, the vertebrae are free of any fractures.” He indicates the throat area, where the rope dug a deep groove into the flesh.

“What does that mean?” I ask, but I already know.

“I would venture to guess he was hoisted up from the ground as opposed to being dropped down from the rafters,” he tells me. “Unconsciousness would have occurred in a relatively short period of time, probably one or two minutes. Death occurred when the oxygen and blood flow to the brain were cut off. Most of the damage you see here occurred postmortem, gravity working against the weight of his body.”

I think about that for a moment. “Would he have survived the gunshot wounds if he hadn’t been hanged?”

“Well, both were serious, penetrating wounds. But there were no major arteries involved. Hemorrhage was present, but not life threatening. If he’d received prompt medical attention, and barring any preexisting medical conditions, he would have survived.”

Some of the tension leaves me when he pulls the sheet up and covers the body.

“Any sign that he was engaged in a struggle or physical confrontation?”

“No.”

“Tox?”

“Won’t be back for two or three days.”

“What about that Amish doll, Doc? Do you know if it was put into his throat before or after his death?”

“Before. There were abrasions on the upper part of the pharynx, along with a minute amount of bleeding. It wouldn’t have been a comfortable ordeal for the victim.”

“I get the sense there was a lot of rage involved with this crime.”

“I agree.” He shrugs. “The level of brutality…”

I think about that a moment and then ask, “Do you have anything preliminary on Julia Rutledge?”

Doc Coblentz shakes his head. “I performed a cursory exam upon her arrival. As you’ve probably already deduced, she sustained several stab wounds, including a deep chest wound. I can’t give you a cause of death until I get her on the table.”

“What about the object in the wound?”

He turns to a stainless tray on the counter behind him and picks up a plastic evidence bag. “I knew you’d want to see it, so I extracted it first thing.”

It’s an Amish peg doll exactly like the one we found in Dale Michaels’s mouth. I know what’s inscribed into the base before I look: HOCHSTETLER. I pass the bag back to the doc.

“I’ll get it couriered to the lab ASAP,” he tells me.

I thank him and start toward the alcove. As I remove the biohazard gear and toss it into the receptacle, it strikes me that for the first time in the course of my career, the autopsy of a murder victim has raised more questions than it answered.