Tell No One
“Yes, of course. But—how long ago did you say again?”
“Eight years.”
“We would have taken Polaroids.”
“And where would those Polaroids be right now, Doctor?”
“In the file.”
I looked at the tall filing cabinet standing in the corner like a sentinel.
“Not in there,” he added quickly. “Your wife’s case is closed. Her killer was caught and convicted. Plus it was more than five years ago.”
“So where would it be?”
“In a storage facility. In Layton.”
“I’d like to see the photographs, if I could.”
He jotted something down and nodded at the scrap of paper. “I’ll look into it.”
“Doctor?”
He looked up.
“You said you remember my wife.”
“Well, yes, I mean, somewhat. We don’t have many murders here, especially ones so high profile.”
“Do you remember the condition of her body?”
“Not really. I mean, not details or anything.”
“Do you remember who identified her?”
“You didn’t?”
“No.”
Harper scratched his temple. “Her father, wasn’t it?”
“Do you remember how long it took for him to make an identification?”
“How long?”
“Was it immediate? Did it take a few minutes? Five minutes, ten minutes?”
“I really couldn’t say.”
“You don’t remember if it was immediate or not?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t.”
“You just said this was a big case.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe your biggest?”
“We had that pizza delivery thrill kill a few years ago,” he said. “But, yes, I’d say it was one of the biggest.”
“And yet you don’t remember if her father had trouble identifying the body?”
He didn’t like that. “Dr. Beck, with all due respect, I don’t see what you’re getting at.”
“I’m a grieving husband. I’m asking some simple questions.”
“Your tone,” he said. “It seems hostile.”
“Should it be?”
“What on earth does that mean?”
“How did you know she was a victim of KillRoy’s?”
“I didn’t.”
“So how did the feds get involved?”
“There were identifying marks—”
“You mean that she was branded with the letter K?”
“Yes.”
I was on a roll now, and it felt oddly right. “So the police brought her in. You started examining her. You spotted the letter K—”
“No, they were here right away. The federal authorities, I mean.”
“Before the body got here?”
He looked up, either remembering or fabricating. “Or immediately thereafter. I don’t remember.”
“How did they know about the body so quickly?”
“I don’t know.”
“You have no idea?”
Harper folded his arms across his chest. “I might surmise that one of the officers on the scene spotted the branding and called the FBI. But that would only be an educated guess.”
My beeper vibrated against my hip. I checked it. The clinic with an emergency.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said in a practiced tone. “I understand the pain you must be going through, but I have a very busy schedule today. Perhaps you can make an appointment at a later date—”
“How long will it take you to get my wife’s file?” I asked.
“I’m not even sure I can do that. I mean, I’ll have to check—”
“The Freedom of Information Act.”
“Pardon me?”
“I looked it up this morning. My wife’s case is closed now. I have the right to view her file.”
Harper had to know that—I wasn’t the first person to ask for an autopsy file—and he started nodding a little too vigorously. “Still, there are proper channels you have to go through, forms to fill out.”
“Are you stalling?” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“My wife was the victim of a terrible crime.”
“I understand that.”
“And I have the right to view my wife’s file. If you drag your feet on this, I’m going to wonder why. I’ve never spoken to the media about my wife or her killer. I’ll gladly do so now. And we’ll all be wondering why the local M.E. gave me such a hard time over such a simple request.”
“That sounds like a threat, Dr. Beck.”
I got to my feet. “I’ll be back here tomorrow morning,” I said. “Please have my wife’s file ready.”
I was taking action. It felt damn good.
22
Detectives Roland Dimonte and Kevin Krinsky of the NYPD’s homicide division arrived first on the scene, even before the uniforms. Dimonte, a greasy-haired man who favored hideous snakeskin boots and an overchewed toothpick, took the lead. He barked orders. The crime scene was immediately sealed. A few minutes later, lab technicians from the Crime Scene Unit skulked in and spread out.
“Isolate the witnesses,” Dimonte said.
There were only two: the husband and the fey weirdo in black. Dimonte noted that the husband appeared distraught, though that could be an act. But first things first.
Dimonte, still chewing on the toothpick, took the fey weirdo—his name, figures, was Arturo—to the side. The kid looked pale. Normally, Dimonte would guess drugs, but the guy had tossed his cookies when he found the body.
“You okay?” Dimonte asked. Like he cared.
Arturo nodded.
Dimonte asked him if anything unusual had happened involving the victim lately. Yes, Arturo replied. What would that be? Rebecca got a phone call yesterday that disturbed her. Who called? Arturo was not sure, but an hour later—maybe less, Arturo couldn’t be sure—a man stopped by to see Rebecca. When the man left, Rebecca was a wreck.
Do you remember the man’s name?
“Beck,” Arturo said. “She called the guy Beck.”
Shauna put Mark’s sheets in the dryer. Linda came up behind her.
“He’s wetting his bed again,” Linda said.
“God, you’re perceptive.”
“Don’t be mean.” Linda walked away. Shauna opened her mouth to apologize, but nothing came out. When she had moved out the first time—the only time—Mark had reacted badly. It started with bed-wetting. When she and Linda reunited, the bed-wetting stopped. Until now.