My mind moves on to Barbereaux. He has an alibi, but that doesn’t necessarily eliminate him as a suspect, mainly because I haven’t yet verified it. Glancing at my watch, I realize that’s something I might be able to get done yet tonight. Instead of making a left onto my street, I hang a U-turn and head east.
If you live in Painters Mill and you can afford it, the Maple Crest housing development is the epitome of location, location, location. The homes are spacious with large lots and lushly landscaped yards. A lighted waterfall cascading from a stone wall with the words Maple Crest etched into the rock greets me when I turn onto the smooth asphalt street.
Glenda Patterson lives in a stucco-and-brick ranch with high, arching windows and a giant maple tree that must have cost a small fortune to have planted. A sleek red Volvo sits in the driveway. The lights are on inside, so I pull in and park behind the car.
Patterson has her own interior design shop in Millersburg. She must be doing well, because a house like this one isn’t cheap. I knock and try to ignore the little voice in the back of my head telling me this is yet another exercise in futility.
A moment later the porch light flicks on. I sense someone checking me out through the peephole, so I face forward and give her a moment to identify me. An instant later, the door swings open and I find myself facing a petite blonde with huge baby-blue eyes and a mouth a lot of women would give a year’s salary to possess.
“Glenda Patterson?”
Those baby blues widen, and she cranes her head to look behind me. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, ma’am. Everything’s fine. I just need to ask you a few questions.”
“About what?”
“A case I’m working on.” I smile, trying to put her at ease. “I’m sorry about the late hour.”
She relaxes marginally and gives me a nervous laugh. “I’m not used to seeing the police on my doorstep.”
“I didn’t mean to alarm you.”
“It’s okay.” She steps aside. “Come in.”
The house is warm and smells of eucalyptus and lemon oil. The living room is tastefully decorated with a minimalist style and bold colors that run to the avant-garde. Teal walls contrast nicely with a sleek, black leather sofa. Two matching turquoise chairs sit adjacent to a stainless-steel-and-glass coffee table. Pillows with metallic stitching draw the silver theme back to the sofa. It’s an open concept home, and I can see the stainless-steel appliances and granite countertops of a state-of-the-art kitchen from where I stand.
“Nice place,” I say.
“Thank you.” She beams at the compliment. “This was my first big design project.”
I nod approvingly. “You’re good.”
“Thanks.” She flashes a professionally enhanced white smile. “I just opened my office six months ago.”
“Business must be good.”
“It is, after a bumpy start.” She motions toward the sofa. “Would you like to sit? I was just about to have a glass of pinot noir. Would you like one?”
I pat my badge. “Better not, since I’m on duty.”
“I understand.” She crosses to the counter that separates the kitchen from the living room and pours wine into a stemmed glass.
“Do you live here alone?” I ask.
Nodding, she turns back to me and sips. “Just me and Curly.”
“I take it Curly isn’t a man.”
She laughs. “He’s an eighteen-year-old Siamese that’s going senile. He’s around here somewhere.”
Since I’m not here to talk to the cat, I nod appropriately then get down to business. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the Plank family murders.”
“I heard about it on the news, actually. I almost can’t believe something so horrible could happen here in Painters Mill.” Her brows go together. “Is that why you’re here?”
I nod. “Where were you Sunday night?”
Her eyes widen. “Me?”
“Don’t be alarmed,” I say easily. “I’m just verifying some information.”
“Oh, well . . .” She takes another sip. “I was here.” Her eyes sharpen. “Is this about Scott?”
I ignore her question. “Were you alone?”
“I was with Scott Barbereaux,” she says. “He’s my boyfriend.”
“What time did he arrive?”
“Gosh, I don’t know.” She bites her lip, thinking. “I made dinner for him—salmon, I believe—then we watched a movie. He probably got here about six-thirty or so.”
“What time did he leave?”
“About seven-thirty the next morning.”
“So he spent the night?”
“That’s right.”
“Did he leave at any time during the night?”
She gives me a distinctly feline smile. “No.”
“How long have you two been dating?”
“About six months now.”
“Do either of you date around?”
“We’re exclusive.”
“So you guys are pretty tight,” I state.
“Yes, I would say we’re tight.”
“Has he ever cheated on you?”
Her expression cools to just below the freezing point. “Look, is he in some kind of trouble?”
“Not at all. I just need to clear up a few things.”
“Well, your questions are kind of personal.”
“I apologize for that.” I pause. “Does he know a girl by the name of Mary Plank?”
“What?” She blinks at me. “The dead Amish girl? Are you serious?”
I nod to let her know I am. “Did he ever mention her?”
“I don’t even think he knew the Plank family.” She hesitates, an emotion I can’t quite identify clouding her features. “Did he?”
It’s an odd question coming from a woman who claimed just a moment ago that she and her lover were close, and I can’t help but wonder if Scott Barbereaux is one of those men who has a difficult time with monogamy.
“I believe he may have had contact with her through the shop where she worked,” I clarify.
Her eyes widen in a slightly different way, as if she’s deciphered some hidden meaning behind my answer, and I realize despite her beauty, her obvious talent and her lovely home, Glenda Patterson is a jealous woman.
“Contact?” she repeats. “What do you mean? What kind of contact?”
“I believe he delivers coffee to the shop.”
“Oh.” She looks at me as if I’ve played a dirty trick on her and she fell for it hook, line and sinker. “These questions don’t sound very routine, Chief Burkholder.”
“I’m just establishing an alibi.”
“Now you have it. He was with me. In bed. All night.” She motions toward the door with her empty wineglass. “It’s getting late.”
“Thank you for your time.” I start toward the door.
She trails me to the foyer. I open the door and step onto the porch. “Have a nice evening,” I say.
Glenda Patterson slams the door behind me without responding.
My house is tucked away on a good-size lot on the edge of town. It’s a small two-bedroom, one-bath ranch built back in the 1960s with hardwood floors and the original tile. A big maple tree stands like a sentry in the front yard. The backyard is shady with several black walnut trees. The grass needs mowing and the shutters could use a coat of paint. But this is my home, my refuge, and I’m unduly glad to be here tonight.
I park in the driveway and let myself in through the front door. The scents of candle wax, yesterday’s garbage and the lingering memory of Tomasetti greet me. Flipping on the light, I make my way to the bedroom and change into sweatpants and a T-shirt. I think about calling him as I make my way to the kitchen. But the thought makes me feel like a needy female, so I opt for my bottle of Absolut instead.
Like many cops I’ve known, I do some of my best thinking after I’ve had a few drinks. At least that’s what I tell myself. Tonight, my mind is on the Plank family. On Mary. On the accomplice I n
ow know exists. I can practically feel the son of a bitch slinking around town, smug in the knowledge that he got away with murder. The reality of that is like salt on a wound. I can’t get past it. I won’t because as surely as I’m standing here contemplating drinking myself into a stupor, I know someday he’ll kill again.
Snagging a tumbler from the cupboard, I pull the bottle from the cabinet above the refrigerator and pour three fingers into the glass. I take the first heady drink as I walk back into the living room. The evidence box marked T. Long Suicide waits for me next to the door. The last thing I want to do is look at the remaining four disks. I don’t have a choice.
I carry the box to my office. While my computer boots, I go back to the kitchen and retrieve the bottle of Absolut. I can’t watch the disks without the crutch of alcohol. The warm swirl of it melts around my brain as I drop the first disk into the drive. Settling into the chair behind my desk, I click Play.
The images I’ve grown to hate fill the screen. I see humanity at its worst. Evil in its most vile form. A young woman’s innocence shattered, her life stolen, her memory trampled upon. A culture raped for the sake of blood money. Still, I watch. I feel more than I should. And I hurt.
The first disk plays out. I slide the second into the drive and hit Play. Mary tries to cover her nudeness, but she’s too uncoordinated from whatever drug was pumped into her. The man in the mask enters the screen. I see her revulsion, I feel that same terrible revulsion in my own heart. I watch as Long overpowers her. Then she’s facedown with her hands and feet tied to the head and footboards.
I don’t want to see what happens next. I don’t want to know what he did to this young girl. I don’t want to imagine the shame and self-hate she must have experienced afterward. I can only hope she was so drugged she didn’t remember all of it.
Closing my eyes, I put my face in my hands. The gunshot snap of a strap against flesh jolts me. I look at my monitor over the tops of my fingers. Long whips her buttocks with some type of leather-covered bat. A riding crop, I realize. I flinch at the sound of the blows. They are not the fake strikes of some second-rate porn actor wannabe. Long hits her hard, putting some muscle into it. He’s hurting her. Leaving welts that bloom quickly into bruises.
“Dear God,” I whisper.
Briefly, I wonder why she didn’t write about this in her diary. Then I realize if she’d been drugged, there’s a possibility she didn’t remember. I can only guess about the rest of it, but I suspect when she noticed the bruises on her body, she went into denial. Or maybe she was simply too ashamed and depressed to acknowledge just how awful and hopeless her life had become.
The next video is every bit as disturbing and offensive. It takes place in a nondescript room. A red-and-white comforter is spread out on a concrete floor. Once again Long wears the mask. His jeans are pushed down to his knees, and Mary Plank’s plain dress is hiked up to her waist. They engage in intercourse, changing positions several times. When Long is finished, he rises, tugs up his jeans. Mary lies on the comforter, struggling to pull down her dress. Her heavy-lidded eyes stay on Long.
The mask toward the camera, he crosses to Mary. The camera pans in on her for a close-up. I see a hand on her upraised knee, pulling her legs apart. Something pings in my brain. I click Stop and freeze the frame. Long is standing on the far side of Mary. His hands are on his penis. Where did the other hand come from? Using the mouse, I back up a frame. Three more clicks and the hand comes back into view.
I set down my glass hard. I move the frames forward. Click. Click. Click. Long is standing on the other side of Mary. I click backward. The hand on Mary’s knee looms into view. It’s on the near side of Mary. The overall size of the hand, the wrinkling and size of the knuckles, and the blunt-cut nails tell me it’s a male hand.
And it doesn’t belong to Todd Long.
It’s my first undisputable proof that there’s an accomplice.
“I see you, you son of a bitch,” I whisper.
I know it’s possible Long cut footage or otherwise edited the disk, and it only appears that while he’s standing on the far side of Mary, that hand is on her knee. I start clicking the mouse, trying to figure out how to enlarge the image. I can stumble through most computer programs, but by no means am I a whiz. The alcohol isn’t helping. But I need a closer look at the hand to see if there are any identifying marks.
The computer isn’t cooperating. I try a dozen ways to enlarge the image, but each time I lose too much resolution. I save the image to the hard drive and open it using different software. Finally, I succeed and almost immediately find what I’m looking for. Between the thumb and index finger, a scar the size of a dime stands out against tanned skin. I try to recall if Long had such a scar, but I don’t remember seeing one.
Before I even realize why I’m reaching for the phone, I’m dialing Doc Coblentz’s number. A sleepy-sounding woman answers on the sixth ring. A quick glance at my computer monitor tells me it’s almost midnight.
Hoping I sound sober, I ask for the doctor.
“Please tell me you don’t have another body,” Doc Coblentz says without preamble.
“Just a question,” I say quickly.
He grunts and I imagine him pushing himself to a sitting position. “By all means ask away,” he snaps.
“I’m reviewing some of the disks we found at the Todd Long suicide.”
The doc cuts in, perturbed. “And you’re doing that this time of night because . . .”
Quickly, I tell him about the hand and the scar. “I was wondering if you recall a scar like that on Todd Long’s right hand.”
“I’ll have to look at my report.” He sighs, resigned to getting up. “Give me a minute to grab the file.”
I hear shuffling on the other end of the line. The crackle of paper sounds and then the doc is back on the phone. “I’ve got a post mortem photo with a pretty good view of the right hand. There is no scar, Kate.”
“Thanks, Doc. I owe you one.”
“I’ll settle for a good night’s sleep.” He hangs up.
I dial Tomasetti’s number without setting down the phone. He answers on the fourth ring with a groggy snap of his name. It surprises me because he’s usually awake at this hour.
“I’m sorry to wake you,” I begin.
“I like it when you call me in the middle of the night.” His voice is deep and low. “What’s up?”
I tell him about the hand and scar.
“Are you sure Long didn’t have a scar?”
“I just verified it with the coroner.”
“I guess now all you have to do is find the man who belongs to the hand,” he says.
“I could circulate the photo and ask for the public’s help.”
“If he catches wind of it, he might run. The guy’s facing life in prison. Maybe the death penalty.”
“Pretty strong motivation.” I think about my options. “I could circulate the photo to area physicians.”
“Hit or miss at best. Guys that age don’t go to the doctor.”
Silence fills the line between us. I can practically hear our thought processes, like static voices zinging between us. But it’s the overtones of our more private thoughts that dominate.
“You go through all the disks?” he asks.
“Twice.”
“How much vodka did that take?”
I glance at the bottle. “A lot.”
“If I can get away, do you want me to come back down?”
“You have a meeting with the deputy superintendent, remember?”
“Won’t be the first meeting I’ve missed.”
“Tomasetti, I don’t want you jeopardizing your career for this.”
He sighs, a long, drawn out sound that makes me wish he was here. “Or your case.”
“I want you to come down.” My voice quiets. “But for all the wrong reasons.”
“You mean not necessarily for my cop skills?”
“That, too.”
We fall silent,
then Tomasetti asks. “Have you had any luck identifying the location where these videos were taped?”
“There’s nothing distinguishable. I could probably send out a couple of guys to canvass some of the area motels, try to match up the décor. See if we can get a name that way.”
“Probably didn’t use a real name,” he says. “One of the clerks might recognize Mary Plank from a photo. If they have security cameras, you’ll have even more to go on. Might be worth a shot, Kate.”
I like the way he says my name. I want to say more, but the words aren’t there. I want to ask about the panic attacks. His job. I want to tell him I miss him. I want him to tell me he’s going to be all right. Instead, I tell him about Billy Zook’s inability to help us with the sketch.
“I talked to Deborah Kim when she got back.” He sighs. “Composite would have been a nice break.”
“Billy was the one I chased that night in the rain.” Across from me, my computer screen blinks into screensaver mode.
“If he’s a peeper, his being there makes sense.”
“Had the killers seen him that night, they probably would have killed him, too.”
“Right along with the others.”
I think about Billy Zook and all the ways his involvement might have played out. All the ways a composite sketch would have helped. I feel like I’m on the verge of some discovery—some breakthrough—but my mind hasn’t quite figured it out yet.
“What if Billy had identified the accomplice?” I ask.
“He didn’t.”
“Hypothetically speaking, what if he had?”
“Hypothetically speaking, we’d identify the son of a bitch and make the arrest.”
“What if the killer knew there was a witness?”
“Kate, are you going somewhere with this?”
“I’m not sure.” But my mind is spinning, taking me through some of the possibilities of what might have happened if Billy had been able to give us a decent composite. All the ways I could use the information to my advantage. “If Billy was a viable witness and the killer knew it, do you think it’s conceivable that Billy could be in danger?”
“It’s conceivable. Killers have been known to kill witnesses. But we’re playing what-ifs.” He pauses. “Should I be worried about something?”