A Clean Kill (25 page)

"We're ready for you now," someone said, and Lynn knew that it was Andrew's tum to look at the body.

"Lynn, could you wait downstairs? I'll be back with you later." The detective gave her a reassuring smile. "Thanks."

Lynn didn't want to see Andrew again, so she ducked through the door to the narrow back stairs and ran down to hide in her room two floors down.

Thirty-four

A
pril reached Woody at Midtown .North at eleven fifteen. "Where are you?" he asked.

"Alison Perkins is dead. Didn't anybody tell you?"

"Yeah, Sergeant Gelo just told me a little while ago. How can I help, boss?" he asked.

"Did you take photos of the people present in the crowd yesterday at the Wilson house?"

"Yes, ma'am, I did."

"Have you had them developed yet?"

"Yup, I've got them here. Are we looking for anybody in particular?" he asked.

"Not yet. You have notes from everyone you talked to yesterday?"

"Yes, you want me to come over?"

"Please, and bring your camera. I want you to take more pictures at the Perkins house. Let's see if there are any overlaps on the people hanging around today. Also, make copies of your report and bring it."

"Address?" he asked.

She gave him the address and dialed the medical examiner's office. It took a long time to get Dr.Gloss on the line. She refused to talk to anybody else.

"I guess I have to call you April Sanchez now. How's the bride doing?" he said when he finally answered the call.

"Great until yesterday," April said. "How about you?"

"Same." He sighed. "What's going on up there? I was working on the Wilson woman's brain and somebody comes in and tells me her friend is dead."

"It's a sad thing. Another young mother. About the same age as the Wilson woman. Also killed in her home—different COD here, but there are some similarities in the MO. We have to nail this one quickly."

"Well, naturally. Is that why no one's here?" he asked.

"Yeah, that's the reason," April said, even though
she
would have avoided the autopsy anyway. She was the opposite of her mother, who liked nothing more than watching surgery all day long. "What do you have to tell me about it?" She didn't want to fuss, but she was in kind of a hurry.

"Mrs. Wilson was a generally healthy, well-nourished woman . . ." he said slowly. "But it's taking time. There are a lot of things to consider here. I'm not nearly finished with everything yet. It's going to take a week or ten days for a full report."

"How about a few generalities, like your gross impression of the case—the COD, the weapon or weapons we should be looking for?"

"There are a few things that stand out. . . ." he said slowly. Then, after his initial reluctance, he went into great length about bones and ligaments— healed traverse fractures on Maddy's left radioulnar, something about the long external lateral ligaments of the right knee, and the something-something tendon of the popliteus muscle as well as calcareous material that was apparently forming on synovial fringes.

"What are they?" April interrupted finally. It was always difficult to contain a pathologist once he got going.

"I gather she was a skier," he said obliquely.

"Yes, she was a skier," April confirmed. It had been in all the news stories.

"Right. She had healed fractures in her left arm. Tom ligaments in both knees, as well as the beginnings of osteoarthritis in her knees and elbows. She would have been a candidate for knee replacements sometime down the line." He went on to comment on Maddy's teeth, which had been capped; her eyes, which had the benefit of fairly recent plastic surgery; and her nasal passages, which showed signs of disintegration, probably from frequent cocaine use.

"She must have been getting fairly regular nosebleeds," he finished.

"You're doing toxicology tests to determine alcohol and possible drug levels." It wasn't a question.

"Of course," he replied.

"Would any of the above bear any relation to her cause of death?" That wasn't really a question, either.

"No, not the cause of death. The presence of cocaine could have heightened her excitability, raised her blood pressure, done a lot of things that might have helped—or hindered—her defense against her attacker."

"What about COD?"

"She sustained multiple stab wounds to the chest, neck, eye. Deep gashes in her palms and the under-surface of her fingers indicate that she tried to grab a knife, and it was pulled away from her. She also has cuts on her right foot and leg, indicating she also attempted to kick a knife out of the attacker's hand."

"You said a knife. Can you tell what kind of knife was used, or if there was more than one?"

"April," he said sternly. "You know how difficult incised wounds are to analyze. A lot of things come into play—whether the cutting is done parallel to the lines of cleavage or across the lines of cleavage."

She was an experienced detective, but she did not know what cleavage he meant. "It looked like some of the cuts were made postmortem."

He snickered. "See, that's the mistake a lot of people make. I guess you don't know much about incised wounds."

"No, not like this, where there's no blood spatter. I've read some articles, but I'm not an expert," April said.

"Exactly right. I think you're referring to gaping wounds as opposed to wounds where the edges remain closed. That's what I was just telling you— whethe , the edge is jagged or smooth, open or closed, depends on where on the body the cutting is done, as well as the instrument that's used. It's not a pre- or postmortem issue at all. You'll have to leave the question of postmortem stabbing to me. It's not that easy to ascertain. You need to go inside for that. And all cuts do not produce the same degree of bleeding. I'd say two knives, probably a boning-type knife with a slender blade and then maybe a thicker one. By the way, the body was exposed to water for no more than twenty minutes."

April exhaled. "The girl who found her said the shower was on. She was the one who turned it off just before calling 911. Can you confirm the time?"

"We'll do some tests, of course. Prepare to get into the shower for us," he joked.

"Ha-ha."

"But I'd say no more than twenty minutes," he said more seriously.

"That would pretty much let our three primary suspects off the hook," April told him.

"Then, you'd better start looking for someone else, because when I tell you skin has been underwater for twenty minutes or less, it's not going to mean thirty-eight. But don't pin me down on this right now. We'll test it out."

"Okay. What else can you tell me?"

"Well, I haven't seen the crime scene yet, have I? At this point I can just make a few guesses. Does that shower have a bench in it? Does it have steam or dry heat?"

"I believe steam," April confirmed.

"Okay, a slash on the triceps of the victim's right upper arm indicates she might have been lying down, possibly steaming at the time of the attack. The front of her right arm resting on her forehead may have covered her eyes. She was in repose."

"It's possible. If she didn't see the attack coming, steam would explain a lot of things." April made a note to test how long it took to make steam, and how dense it got. Every minute counted. Also, the sound made by the steam coming out of the pipe could have dulled her hearing. Sometimes it was a loud hiss.

"It looks to me like the killer may have entered the shower with the intention of stabbing her in the chest, and had not expected a fight."

"What makes you think that?"

"The killer didn't know anything about anatomy and wasn't very powerful. There were a lot of hesitation strikes," he said after a pause.

"Tell me more." That would let Remy off the hook. From butchering lessons, she knew anatomy very well. And as a trainer, Derek probably did, too. And Wayne was a chef.

"For now let's assume the first blow was deflected by the sudden movement of her arm. Maybe she heard something and started to get up. The kind of wounds she had suggests that she started fighting back right away, and the killer didn't know how to end the game. Just like not being able to make the point in tennis, he just struck again and again, without getting anywhere. Six blows hit bone or cartilage and didn't penetrate deep enough to do mortal injury. Furthermore the weapons did not twist inside the wounds, indicating the killer couldn't find soft tissue to penetrate and wasn't strong enough to muscle through cartilage and bone, especially with the victim in pretty good physical condition and fighting back."

"What about the eye?"

"Again, not that deep an incision. It looked horrible, but it didn't kill her. She might have been pushing the attacker away when that blow occurred, or she may have fallen. There would have been a good deal of bleeding at the time. Both the attacker and the victim would have been covered with it. The pattern of wounds suggests that the victim moved from side to side. The attacker may have had a weapon in each hand and stabbed with both hands."

"So the cause of death was . . . ?" April asked again.

"The fatal blow is situated between the fifth and sixth rib three-quarters of an inch from the inner side, three and a half inches from the middle line of the sternum. In other words, it missed the lung and penetrated the thoracic wall, and pericardium. He finally got lucky and penetrated her heart. Death at this point would have been instantaneous. I'm still working. I have to go now. No quotes, okay? This was entirely off the record."

"If he wasn't strong and didn't know how to do it, how did he end the game?"

"I'd say she fell, and was lying on her back at the time. The blade went in from above, and the killing cut was not the widest one. As I said, it was so perfect, it must have been a lucky shot."

"Right- or left-handed?"

"That's like asking what color the killer's hair is. I'm guessing two weapons, and I don't know which hand was the good one. You guys will have to act it out."

"One more thing."

"I know. How deep is the cut? How long are the knives? What kind of knives? It's not one more thing—it's a dozen things, and I'm not answering yet." Then he answered. "Lying down, her breast would be flattened. The hilt didn't bruise her, so it didn't go all the way in. So the knife could be any size. Not serrated, though."

"Thanks for taking the call. It helped a lot," April said as she heard her name shouted from upstairs.

Thirty-five

A
fter Wayne left the hotel, Remy was frightened by the police. A man who said he was a detective called and told her to stay where she was. Someone was coming by to pick her up.

"Why? am I being arrested?" she asked anxiously.

"No, no. Just an interview at this time," he said.

She called the agency immediately. No one was there, so she left a message for Jo Ellen to call her back on her cell phone when she got in. "It's an emergency," she said.

But the police didn't come, and Jo Ellen didn't return the call until almost noon. By then Angus and Bertie's grandmother had arrived and taken them to the park, and Remy had been in the hotel room alone for more than two hours. She had her knapsack packed and ready to go, but she didn't dare leave for either the police station or parts unknown without alerting Jo Ellen.

"I'm sorry I couldn't get back to you, Remy. You wouldn't believe how hectic my day has been," she said sternly when she finally returned the call. "I know all this has been difficult for you, but what's the big emergency?"

Jo Ellen—Miss Anderson to her staffers—never failed to acknowledge that certain aspects of working for her clients
could
be stressful at times. But being at the center of a murder case was more than just stressful. "I can't stay with . . . Mr. Wilson any longer," Remy started slowly. "I did my best for you, but this is too much."

"What's too much? Tell me everything," Jo Ellen said soothingly. "I'm here for you. You know that."

Remy had heard that before. She paced the living room of the suite, back and forth in front of the two windows, which had a good view of Central Park. "The police called me. They want to question me again. And Wayne freaked out this morning. 1 really thought he was going to hit me. I can't do this anymore. I'm sorry if I'm letting you down, but this isn't working." That was an understatement.

"Remy, have some understanding," Jo Ellen intoned self-righteously. "The poor man lost his wife."

Jo Ellen's knee-jerk reaction to everything was "Have some understanding." It didn't matter what was going on with her clients—an unwarranted temper tantrum, a missing tennis bracelet (perhaps lost in a taxi or on the sidewalk), a broken Ming vase (by a cat), refusal to give a hardworking employee vacation time or a raise for no reason at all..—she took their side in every dispute. Usually it was just maddening, but now it was dangerous. And she didn't even mention the police.