Julie peered up a dark stairwell and found a light switch on the wall. She flicked it on and now had a view into a kitchen and a hallway space adjacent to the stairs. A coat rack stood by a door to what Julie thought was the garage. No men’s coats hung there, and the boot tray held only women’s shoes. The home was remarkably uncluttered and the décor suggested a lone female resident. If Julie had to take a guess, she would say Sherri Platt lived alone.
Julie searched for anything out of the ordinary, a sign of an intruder, something that might necessitate a hasty retreat. All appeared normal, except for the bloody paw prints that were harder to see on the carpeted stairwell. Julie followed them up.
“Sherri?” Julie’s voice sounded anxious. “Sherri, it’s me, it’s Julie from White Memorial. Are you all right? Please answer me.”
Julie’s voice sank into the upstairs gloom. She took each step slowly, pausing to listen. A faint meow emanated from a darkened doorway above. Julie picked up a sickly-sweet odor, a musty kind of smell. She gripped the handrail tight and felt a knowing in her gut. Something was horribly wrong here.
At the top of the stairwell Julie heard the cat’s meow coming from a darkened doorway. She reached into the doorway, feeling around blindly until her fingers found the light switch. A bright glow spilled out into the hallway and a blur shot from the door at Julie’s feet. She jumped, but relaxed when she saw it was just the orange cat with bloody paws.
Julie swallowed a breath and walked into the light. Sherri Platt lay facedown and spread-eagled on the floor. Her pink terrycloth bathrobe was splattered in crimson. The blood came from a hole blown through the back of Sherri’s skull. There was no weapon on the ground, but Julie did not think this was a self-inflicted injury. Sherri’s hair was matted and stuck together at the site of the wound.
Julie made a low moaning sound as she rushed to Sherri’s side. She did her best to avoid the blood, but it covered too much surface area around the body. Bloody paw prints marked the pristine tile like gruesome ink stamps. Sherri’s head was tilted to one side, her expression a blank. Areas on Sherri’s face were mottled with purplish markings, the result of lividity. Parts of her legs, visible where her bathrobe had splayed open, had the same ghastly shade.
Julie knelt at Sherri’s side and felt for a pulse. She found none. None was expected. The skin was cool to the touch, and Julie felt the stiffness of rigor mortis. The blue of Sherrie’s eyes had faded to the hue of a cataract and a dark stripe cut horizontally across the sclera. Tache noire, the black spot of death.
Julie stood shakily and turned to face the bathroom mirror. She drew in a ragged breath, eyes wide with horror reflected back at her. Written on the mirror in crude lettering with red lipstick were three unmistakable words.
FOR BRANDON STAHL
CHAPTER 36
Java du Jour, a new coffee shop that had opened near White Memorial, sold copies of The Boston Globe. Michelle bought one and brought it over to the table where Lucy and Julie sat sipping their morning coffee. The day after Sherri Platt’s murder, The Globe ran a feature front-page story. It had also made national news because of the macabre connection to Brandon Stahl. Three days later, the story was relegated to the Metro section of the Boston papers. Without leads, there was little to hold the interest of a media-saturated public with a short attention span. The national outlets left coverage to the local press. With no suspects, police had opened a tip line seeking the public’s help in finding the killer.
The going theory was that Sherri Platt was the victim of some zealot, one of Brandon Stahl’s supporters, a misguided defender of patient self-determination, who had developed a personal vendetta against Sherri because of her testimony. When Brandon lost his appeal this deranged individual snapped, and took revenge.
Many of the initial news reports included a photograph of Julie taken off the Internet without her knowledge or permission. Trevor was horrified and begged to stay home from school on Monday, anxious about all the attention he would receive. Julie relented, but had to go the police station for more interviews, so Trevor went to his father’s.
He spent the weekend with Julie, though. It was relatively quiet. Calls from reporters eventually died down. Julie told them what she had told the police, with a few omissions. The media hounds did not need to know of her ongoing takotsubo investigation. Even if she had conclusive evidence of some rare heart condition plaguing patients at White, Julie would never go to the press without good reason. She also kept secret her belief that Sherri Platt had lied on the witness stand during the Brandon Stahl trial.
Those details, and others, Julie shared with the police during hours of interviews. The detectives did not know what to make of the takotsubo connection among Sam Talbot, Donald Colchester, and Tommy Grasso. Nor did Julie get the sense they viewed William Colchester as a suspect. The timing of Sherri’s murder and Julie’s meeting with her was most likely coincidental, one detective had said.
Julie did not believe it for a second.
“The funeral is on Sunday,” Michelle noted as she skimmed the article. “Are you going?”
Julie’s face showed the strain of a string of difficult days. “Yes, of course,” she said. “I’m taking Jordan Cobb with me. He knew her-not well, but I think her murder really shook him up. I can’t get the image of that poor girl out of my mind. It’s just been awful.”
Lucy set down her coffee. “You still think William Colchester was behind it?”
“I do. To silence Sherri Platt,” Julie said. “She was going to open up to me; I’m sure of it. And I think that’s what got her killed. I think Colchester bribed her to lie on the witness stand. Heck, he tried to bribe me, said he would do something on his budget committee to benefit White Memorial, and then he told me people would get hurt if I didn’t back off.”
“When did he say that?” Lucy asked.
“He came to my home after I met with Jordan,” Julie said.
“And the police weren’t a little concerned about that?” Michelle’s sarcasm had bite.
“According to the detectives, Colchester had an alibi. He also said there’s been no communication or texts between Colchester and Sherri. They think there would have been something if he had offered Sherri a bribe. But I say, if Sherri was going to come clean about taking a bribe, it certainly gave Colchester a motive.”
Lucy made a look of disgust. “So a crooked state representative will get away with murder?”
“It’s possible,” Julie said. “The police have to do their jobs and I’ll do mine. There’s still a chance we can overturn Brandon’s murder conviction if we can somehow show there’s a pattern of rare heart attacks in seemingly healthy hearts.”
“Won’t explain the morphine, or Sherri’s testimony,” Michelle said.
“I don’t think anything can explain Sherri’s testimony now,” Julie answered.
Lucy said, “I looked at the medical record Jordan sent me to review.”
Julie shot Lucy a glance, her eyes showing concern. “You mean our helper. I don’t want his name getting out.”
“All secrets are safe with me,” Michelle said. “I feel a connection to this, too. I want to be of help.”
Julie gave Michelle’s arm a slight squeeze. Getting to know Michelle, the friendship that had formed, was one of the few bright spots to emerge in the aftermath of Sam’s accident.
“What’s your take on Tommy’s file?” Julie asked.
“My take is I’m not a cardiologist,” Lucy said. “How the heck did our helper learn so much?”