Kitabı oku: «The Echo Killing: A gripping debut crime thriller you won’t be able to put down!», sayfa 5
Chapter Nine
Here’s a thing about crime scenes most people don’t know: they’re boring.
The vast majority of any reporter’s time at a crime scene is spent waiting around. First you wait for the detectives, then you wait for the forensics team, then you wait for the coroner. Sometimes, hours will pass before you’re even told what you’re waiting for.
At a crime scene this high profile, Harper knew she had time to burn. The forensics unit had just begun putting on their white moon suits when she stepped away from the crime tape. Nothing would be announced until they’d had a chance to examine the house.
As she hurried down the street, nobody noticed her departure. Everyone was still focused on the yellow house.
Around the corner, away from the gawkers and journalists, the neighborhood seemed calm and peaceful. But Harper wasn’t.
Despite her bravura performance with Miles, she was so nervous her stomach burned. She had to force her hands to unclench. She’d always pushed the limits but she’d never done anything like this before.
For one thing it was wildly, profoundly illegal.
If she got caught, the police would undoubtedly arrest her. The newspaper would be unlikely to bail her out because breaking the law was not part of her job description. Not overtly, anyway. Oh, they were happy to take advantage of it when she broke the rules and got a good story, but if she were ever truly busted for it, they’d let her hang.
And yet, she didn’t stop. She had to know.
In her mind, she kept seeing that girl in her school clothes, standing dazed and shocked in a protective phalanx of police.
She looked so small. So vulnerable.
Was that how she’d looked that day?
And Smith – what was he doing there? A single homicide, even in a neighborhood like this, ordinarily merited his oversight from a distance but not his physical presence. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him at a crime scene. Certainly not since he was promoted to lieutenant four years ago.
‘I’m a paper-pusher now,’ he’d told her at the time, pride in his voice. ‘I’m off the street at last. Got a chair that cost as much as I make in a week and a great big office, and by God, I’m going to use them.’
He’d been true to his word. Until now.
What if he was here because he had seen this once before?
The next street along was a perfect mirror image of Constance Street. The same brightly painted, over-priced houses with lush gardens behind low fences.
The blue paint on Number 3691 was perfect and its front garden was lavish. Fat, pink roses spilled over the glossy black bars of the wrought-iron fence in a fragrant tumble.
It was directly behind the murder scene.
If she stood on her toes, Harper could see the yellow house from the sidewalk.
Given the well-maintained look of the house, odds were ten to one the lawyer or banker who lived here was at work and the place was empty.
Or a trophy wife could be inside, watching cable and doing her nails.
There was only one way to find out.
Setting her jaw, Harper lifted the cool metal latch on the heavy gate and walked with purpose to the door. When she knocked, the sound echoed in the quiet street like a gunshot.
For a moment, she stood still, summoning an excuse, waiting for footsteps.
None came.
Just to be sure, she knocked again.
Still, nothing.
Pulling her phone from her pocket she called Miles.
He answered immediately.
‘I’m in,’ she said, hurrying down the steps toward the side of the house. ‘Do it now.’
There was a long silence.
‘You sure you want to do this?’ he asked.
‘I’m already doing it.’
Without waiting for his reply she hung up, setting the phone to silent before she shoved it into her pocket.
Back on Constance Street, Miles should now be going up to the officer standing guard and demanding to talk to a senior detective. He’d complain about the slow pace and lack of information. He’d get Natalie and Josh involved – it was never very hard to get them riled up about deadlines.
Hopefully, this would keep everyone busy out front, ensuring nobody wandered around to the back while she was there.
That was the plan, anyway.
The really terrible plan.
There was no gate between the front and back garden of number 3691. A narrow walkway led past a ginger hedge on the side of the house to the perfectly manicured back garden.
A patio table surrounded by six wicker chairs sat near the back door. A curving stone path led through lush daisies and climbing bougainvillea to where two pear trees bookended the yard right in front of the back fence.
Ducking behind one of the trees, Harper peered into the backyard of the murder house.
The garden across the fence wasn’t at all like the one in which she now stood. The lawn was neat, but unimaginative.
A purple bicycle leaned against the wall of the house near a rusted barbecue grill that looked like it hadn’t been used in quite a while.
This was the house of a single mom too busy to worry about gardening.
From here, Harper could see the murder house had big windows lining the rear wall and a back door with three steps leading down to the patio.
The fence between the two houses was about four-feet tall and chain link. That was normal around here – the summer humidity and heavy winter rains destroyed wood so quickly most people didn’t bother with it. Harper could make it over the fence easily.
The only problem was, now that she was here, all she could see was that she was about twenty long steps from getting arrested. There was no place to hide in that yard. And the hot sun reflected off the windows, making it impossible to see inside. There could have been fifty police looking out at her and she’d never know.
Biting her lip, she stood staring across the expanse of green grass.
She could turn around. Tell Miles she changed her mind. Go back to the crime tape and do her job.
But then she remembered that girl again – her achingly familiar look of despair.
She had to know what was in that house.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped on the raised roots of the nearest tree for a bit of height then, grasping the top of the fence, warm from the sun, she stuck the toe of one shoe into a chink in the fence and hoisted herself up, swinging a leg over the top and dropping down on the other side.
The jangle of the metal against the support poles seemed absolutely deafening. As soon as she landed, she crouched low and froze, eyes on the house, waiting to see if she’d been noticed.
There was no cover here. If she was going to be caught it would happen now.
Nothing moved. Nobody opened the back door. No one yelled a command.
Adrenaline gave her heart a kick. She had to run.
Keeping low, she sped across the grass.
It was no more than forty feet from the back of the garden to the house, but it seemed to take forever until she made it, pressing against the warm yellow siding between the door and the window.
There, she paused, breathing heavily.
It was strangely quiet. All the sounds of a normal afternoon were missing. No children laughed. No dogs barked. No cars rumbled by. She could hear her heart pounding, and her own rasping breaths.
It took a minute to steady her nerves enough to move again. Gritting her teeth, Harper inched along the wall to the window and stopped.
If this house was like the ones she knew, the kitchen would be here. All she needed to do was look into that window and she would know the truth. One way or another. If there was nothing there – if the murder scene were in the bedroom, or the living room – she was done here.
Steeling herself, she turned and took a sliding, sideways step to her left until she could see through the bottom sliver of window.
A uniformed policeman stood directly in front of her.
Harper jerked back, her heart pounding in her throat.
On the verge of panic, she stood stiffly, forehead pressing against the wall, nails digging into the yellow paint, breathing in the smell of dust and heat and her own fear.
It’s OK, she promised herself. It’s OK.
The cop’s back had been to her. There was no way he saw her.
Still, every muscle in her body tensed as she strained to hear what was happening.
There were no sounds of movement or alarm from inside the yellow house. Only the faint murmur of official voices, words too soft for her to make out.
Harper bit her lip hard, trying to decide what to do. A cop was right in front of the window. She was now at one hundred percent risk of getting caught.
But in that brief flashing view, she’d seen the kitchen. And something on the floor.
She couldn’t leave now. Not without knowing.
She took a strangled breath, hands clenching into fists against the sun-soaked wall. It took everything in her to slide back to the window and look again.
The policeman had shifted to the left. He was leaning back, his uniform dark against the glass. Harper could see past him on the right-hand side.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight to the shadowy interior.
It was a more modern kitchen than the one she’d grown up with, but not dissimilar – square and spacious. Cupboards – modern and expensive. A designer range, as big and glossy as a Land Rover.
Automatically, she noted indications of a struggle – chairs had been knocked over and the kitchen table had been shoved at an odd angle.
A cluster of men and women in white forensic suits stood over something on the floor. Harper recognized the chief coroner’s distinctive short, prematurely gray hair. She was studying something through a magnifying device and talking quietly to Detective Blazer, who crouched beside her, looking where she indicated, a notepad in one hand.
It was only when the coroner straightened to reach for another tool that Harper saw the body.
Her heart stopped beating.
It was her mother’s body.
The woman was naked, lying face down on the tile floor in a dark, viscous pool of blood. Against her paper-white skin, the wounds on her back and arms seemed lurid. Harper counted three stab wounds but, with all that blood, she knew there would be more on the other side.
One pale hand was flung out defensively to the side, delicate fingers reaching for something they would never touch. Her nails were painted pale pink.
Harper couldn’t tear her eyes away. She knew how cold that skin would feel if she touched it.
The woman’s wavy hair had been soaked in blood, making it hard to determine the color. It looked like red with streaks of gold.
The same as her mother’s hair.
Harper heard herself make a whimpering noise deep in her throat.
Instantly, the policeman on the other side of the window shifted. Shuffling his feet, he began to turn around.
Panicking, Harper yanked back, flattening herself against the wall next to the window.
Her ribs closed around her lungs.
She closed her eyes against the blinding sun, and images of that day so long ago flooded back. Sliding in the blood. Hands ice-cold and slippery.
Mom? Mommy?
It felt like her chest was going to explode. She had to breathe. She had to get out of here.
Blindly, she stumbled across the back garden, her feet clumsy where earlier they’d been so swift. She was certain everyone on the block could hear her hammering heart. Her choking breaths.
When she reached the back fence she didn’t even slow down. Using her forward velocity to propel her, she leaped up, grabbing the bar at the top and vaulting over. The sharp points of metal were blades digging into the palms of her hands and she let go too early, landing badly in the pretty backyard on the other side. Her ankle twisted with a worrying crunch, sending her sprawling into the petunias.
For a moment, she lay there amid the colorful blooms, clutching her leg and breathing in sobbing gasps.
That body. That hand, reaching out.
This was no coincidence. That murder scene looked exactly like her mother’s murder in every way.
How was that possible?
Chapter Ten
When Harper limped back to the crime tape a few minutes later, the news crews were leaning against their vans, drinking coffee from cardboard cups.
Spotting her, Natalie’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What the hell happened to you?’
Harper had brushed as much of the dirt from her clothes as she could, but her ankle had begun to swell. She was hot and sweaty, her clothes clung to her back.
‘I tripped on a broken curb. Twisted my ankle.’ She made a vague gesture that she hoped said would-you-believe-it-what-a-day, and limped over to where Miles stood some distance away, watching this exchange without expression.
‘I assume that went as well as could be expected.’ His tone was dry.
‘It went fine,’ she said shortly. ‘How about at this end?’
He gave a one-shoulder shrug.
‘The TV crews are now very exercised about the lack of information.’ He gestured at her disheveled appearance. ‘What the hell happened back there? You look like you walked through a snake’s nest.’
‘I fell,’ she said, ‘coming back over the fence. That’s all.’
He stepped closer to her.
‘You got in the crime scene?’ His voice was barely above a whisper.
‘I got a look,’ she said. ‘I didn’t go in.’
He looked at her with reluctant curiosity.
‘What’d you see in there?’
In her mind Harper saw the pale body. The spreading pool of deep red. Her mother’s kitchen.
But she made herself think like a reporter.
‘The victim’s in the kitchen,’ she said evenly. ‘Looks like it’s the mother, as we thought. Seems to be only one victim – the coroner and Blazer were both in the room with her. The forensics unit is examining the body now.’
Miles knew her well enough to know she wasn’t telling him everything.
But when he spoke, all he said was, ‘She shot?’
‘Stabbed. Repeatedly.’
A flare of interest in his eyes.
‘Stabbing’s a personal crime,’ he mused, rubbing his jaw. ‘Crime of passion. They’ll be looking at the husband.’
‘I don’t think there is one.’
‘An ex-husband then. Or a boyfriend.’ He met her eyes. ‘You said this scene reminded you of another crime. Is it the same?’
Harper had promised him an explanation but now wasn’t the time to get into everything.
‘Looks a lot like it,’ she said. ‘Before I can be sure, though, I need to do some research.’ She paused. ‘The other crime … It’s an old one, Miles.’
‘How old?’
‘Fifteen years.’
His eyes left hers, sweeping down to the house in the distance.
‘Now why,’ he wondered aloud, ‘would someone kill and then not kill again for fifteen years?’
Harper didn’t reply. But it was a good question.
Why would her mother’s killer be back now? Where had he been for all these years?
Police had investigated her murder for months. Harper’s family had protected her as much as they could from what was happening but she’d known.
The investigation had torn her family to shreds. Leaving her with nothing.
And in the end, after all that, the killer got away.
‘Tell me about this old murder,’ Miles said. ‘Who was it? You would have been a child fifteen years ago.’
‘Not now.’ Harper’s reply was sharper than she intended.
When he shot her an exasperated look, she gestured at the crowds around them.
‘There’s too much going on, Miles. I promise I’ll explain. But let me do it later, OK?’
‘Fine with me.’ His tone was curt, but he seemed more perplexed than angry.
Suddenly, he straightened, hands reaching for his camera.
‘Looks like we’re about to find out something.’ He gestured with his chin.
A cluster of police had left the house and was heading for the crime tape.
Detective Blazer strode ahead of the others, his sharply structured face somber. Two less senior detectives walked behind him, along with a few uniformed cops.
Miles was already shooting pictures as the group ducked under the crime tape. The TV crews hustled to shift camera tripods into place. Josh and Natalie held out fur-covered microphones, like gigantic caterpillars, to catch his words.
Pulling a notebook from her pocket, Harper limped past the neighbors crowding around to eavesdrop, until she stood next to Natalie.
When everyone was still, Blazer spoke in a cool flat tone.
‘This afternoon at 3:30 p.m., the body of a deceased person was discovered at 3691 Constance Street. The body has been identified as that of one Marie Whitney, thirty-four years old, resident of said address. Cause of death is still being investigated by forensic units, but the weapon used appears to be a bladed instrument. The case is being treated as a homicide.’
The crowd of neighbors gave a collective gasp and drew closer together – shutting the reporters out. Harper heard someone say, ‘Oh, sweet Jesus.’
Glancing up, Blazer frowned.
‘The time of death is estimated between eleven hundred and fourteen hundred hours. We would like anyone in the area who saw or heard anything suspicious at that time to contact the Savannah Police.’
He put his notebook away. It was a remarkably short statement, under the circumstances.
‘That’s it?’ Josh looked around the team of detectives.
Blazer’s brow lowered. ‘Print it the way I said it.’
‘I don’t print anything,’ Josh reminded him tartly. ‘I put it on television.’
Blazer glowered at him.
‘May I remind you a woman was murdered today?’ he said. ‘Can’t you behave with decorum for five minutes?’
‘Detective Blazer, please forgive my colleague from Channel 5.’ Natalie deployed her most winsome look. ‘Could you, perhaps, tell us about the girl we saw earlier? Is she related to the victim?’
Nobody could resist Natalie when she was on her game, not even Blazer. His expression softened infinitesimally.
‘All I can tell you is that she is the daughter of the victim,’ he said. ‘And she’s safe and unharmed.’
‘Could you tell us her name?’ Natalie asked hopefully.
Blazer had clearly anticipated this. ‘Her name is Camille Whitney.’
Josh leaned forward, jutting his microphone out. ‘Did she discover the body?’
Blazer fixed him with an icy stare.
‘I can’t tell you any more than that at this time.’ His gaze swung back to Natalie. ‘I’m sure you’ll appreciate this is a delicate situation and we want to keep everyone – particularly children – as safe as possible.’
‘Detective.’ Harper angled herself forward. ‘Have you got any suspects?’
He glanced at her without interest. ‘We’re not yet ready to divulge that information.’
‘Could you tell us more about the crime?’ Harper tried again. ‘Were there signs of a struggle? Do you suspect a relative?’
Blazer’s jaw tightened. ‘It’s too early for this. Give us some time to do our jobs here, would you?’
‘We’re trying to do our jobs, too, Detective,’ Josh reminded him.
By then, though, Blazer had had enough.
‘Thank you for your cooperation,’ he said pointedly.
Ducking under the crime tape, he stalked back towards the yellow house, the other detectives following a short distance behind.
‘Thanks so much, Sergeant,’ Natalie called after him.
As he rolled the microphone cable around his arm, Josh shot her a withering look.
‘Kiss ass.’
Natalie smiled beatifically.
‘Of course you can kiss my ass if you’d like, Josh. All of Channel 5 can.’
‘Seriously, though.’ Josh tilted his head at the retreating backs of the police officials. ‘What was that about? He didn’t give us anything.’
Miles appeared at Harper’s side, his phone in one hand. The puzzled look he’d worn since she’d insisted on seeing the crime scene was still there.
‘That’s all we’re going to get out here, today, I reckon. I’m heading back to the newsroom,’ he said, distance in his voice. ‘Baxter wants you in, too. Says you need the story before six for the website.’
She nodded. ‘On my way.’
He paused, staring down at the yellow house. ‘That was a short statement, wasn’t it? He didn’t say much.’
Grabbing her keys, Harper turned to limp to her car.
‘He said plenty.’
Back at the newsroom, she wrote up a quick article for the early edition. Miles sat a few desks away from her, pointedly not looking at her as he edited his photos. Harper knew she’d have to give him some sort of explanation for what had transpired out on Constance Street, but there wasn’t time now.
Still, the practical work of putting together the scant facts the police had been willing to share steadied her. When she finished writing, though, the article was far too short. She needed to know more.
Pushing other papers out of the way, Harper flipped through her notes from the crime scene. Hadn’t the neighbors said Whitney worked at a university?
Savannah had two colleges – the Savannah College of Art and Design and Savannah State University. The art school was downtown, not far from where Harper lived. It was funky and modern, populated mostly by tattooed kids from wealthy northern families.
The university was out in the suburbs. It attracted working-class Georgia kids looking for a smaller school closer to home than UGA in Athens.
Harper wasn’t immediately certain which one the neighbors meant.
With quick sure movements, she typed Whitney’s name and the name of the local college into the computer. The search brought up a page on the Savannah State University website with an image of a slim, polished woman. Her shoulder-length hair was honey blonde, forming a striking contrast with her warm, brown eyes. She had a wide, Miss America smile.
Under her picture the caption read: ‘Marie Whitney, Vice Chair for Development and Enrichment’.
Leaning closer, Harper stared at the image. It was hard to believe this was the same woman she’d seen earlier that day.
Death takes away everything that makes you distinctive. Everything that makes you who you are.
Dead, Whitney had been anonymous. Pale skin on the cold floor – a hand reaching out imploringly.
Alive, she’d looked electric. She was almost hypnotically beautiful – cinnamon eyes and flawless golden skin warm and glowing with life.
If Harper was looking for parallels between Whitney and her mother, she wasn’t going to find any in their appearance.
Her mother had been beautiful, yes. But Harper could hardly remember a time when she wore makeup. Her long red hair had usually been twisted up and held haphazardly in place with a paintbrush or pencil. She’d favored faded jeans with torn knees and was usually barefoot when she worked.
There was nothing to connect her, physically at least, to this polished woman.
Still, there were obvious elements linking the two. They were both in their thirties. Both were mothers. Both were about the same age when they were killed. Both were stabbed multiple times in their homes in daylight crimes. Both were found naked, on the kitchen floor. Both were discovered by their twelve-year-old daughters after school.
It wasn’t enough to go on and Harper knew it. But it wasn’t nothing, either.
‘Is that her?’
Baxter’s sharp voice made Harper jump. The editor had walked up without her noticing. She peered over her shoulder at the image on the screen.
‘Uh … Yeah. That’s her,’ Harper said, clearing her throat. ‘I’m trying to figure out what Development and Enrichment means.’
‘Money,’ Baxter said. ‘It’s a long-winded way of saying “fund-raising”.’ She straightened. ‘Find DJ and get him to call the university and ask permission for us to use that.’ The editor tapped her fingertip against Marie Whitney’s face. ‘Tell him to get a high-res version for print. I’ll let art know.’
She hustled off, her low heels clicking on the terrazzo floor.
When she was gone, Harper didn’t immediately search for DJ. Instead, she searched for more information on Whitney.
She was mentioned in a few articles about the college, mostly as a minor player. There was only one piece of any length – an over-excited article in the university newspaper, The Caller. It had been written two years earlier and was headlined: Whitney Brings in Big Bucks.
Fundraiser extraordinaire, Marie Whitney, 32, is being credited with organizing a campaign that has so far brought a whopping $4.3 million to the school’s coffers.
Whitney has arranged gala balls, celebrity concerts and art sales, together with an online campaign. Thanks in large part to her efforts, the school has exceeded its annual fundraising goal of $3.8 million by over half a million dollars.
Ever cheerful, Whitney is popular with other workers in the Development Office, for her bubbly personality as well as her can-do attitude.
‘Everyone loves Marie,’ her boss Ellen Janeworth said, when interviewed. ‘She’s a dream to work with. There’s nothing she won’t do for the university.’
Whitney told us she was delighted by her recent success.
‘I loved my time at college,’ she said, smiling. ‘It was the high point of my life. I want to make sure future students – including my own daughter – have the chances I had.’
The article was illustrated with a candid picture of Marie, standing on the portico of the university’s administration building. She wore a white pencil skirt and a blue, snug-fitting top. Her skin was unlined. Her lipstick was a conservative, delicate pink. She was smiling that same perfect smile.
Harper stared at that picture for a long time.
There was so much that didn’t make sense. What connected Whitney to her mother? Who would have wanted to kill both of them?
And, if the same person killed them both, what had made him come back now?
