“I don’t know what to say.” I almost asked her how she was doing, but I could already tell by the look on her face.
“There’s very little to say.”
It surprised me that she was bringing any of this up to me, but I realized almost immediately that there must be a professional reason rather than just a personal one. “You said ‘so it seems.’ Were there any unusual circumstances surrounding his death?”
It took her a moment to reply, and when she did, she didn’t address my question. “My brother is eight years younger than I am. When I was a freshman in high school our mother overdosed and died. We’re not sure if it was intentional or not. She was an alcoholic. You see, depression runs in our family. So, my brother — Corey — he takes medication for it; has been since he was in college. We aren’t as close as… well, as we could be, but… Well, frankly, we aren’t very close at all.”
“So you think it was the depression, perhaps? That’s what led him to do it?”
“I’m looking into the possibility that his medication might influence people who take it to have suicidal thoughts. You’ve seen ads on television warning about that sort of thing? Yes?”
“Where they list all the potential side effects of the drugs.”
“That’s right.”
“Did he ever attempt suicide before?”
“Not that I know of.” She rose and walked toward the window where I’d found her when I first came in. “As I’m sure you’re aware, stabbing yourself in the abdomen is a more common way of committing suicide in certain Asian countries than it is in North America. It’s possible, of course, that Corey took his own life, but the method he chose is so culturally atypical that I would like to have someone with more experience in homicide investigations than the local authorities take a look at the police reports. That’s why I called you in.”
“What do we know about the scene?”
“The knife he used was from a matching set in his kitchen. I asked the Atlanta Police Department to look for prints there, as well as on the doorknobs, the light switches, the usual.”
“Anything?”
She shook her head. “Nothing so far, and there was no sign of forced entry. He’s a large man and would have been difficult to overpower. There was no sign of a struggle.”
I processed that. “What did Corey do for a living? As far as you’re aware, was he involved in anything illegal? Anyone out there who might want to harm him?”
“He works for a small law firm, lives alone, no children, no spouse, no criminal record.” She kept referring to him in the present tense, something so many family members do subconsciously in the days after they lose someone close. It was hard hearing it coming from Margaret. Not surprisingly, it didn’t appear that she was aware she was doing it.
“But,” she said, “as I mentioned earlier, we aren’t very close. I have no idea if he’s involved in anything illegal or if he’s made any enemies.”
“What exactly would you like me to look for?”
“Review the autopsy reports, the police report, find out… well, whatever you can.”
I didn’t want this to come out wrong, but the answer might help me if I was really going to do this. “Of course, I’ll do whatever I can, but—”
“But you’re wondering why I’m asking you to do this. Why you.” She left off saying anything about our working relationship in the past.
“Yes.”
“Especially with Lien-hua in the hospital and with the Basque case landing in your lap.”
“Yes.”
“Quite simply, because I don’t know anyone who’s better at noticing when things don’t fit together than you are. I can have the New Agents Unit Chief assign another instructor to take over your classes for the rest of the week. But I’ll leave this up to you.”
Everything about this conversation was starkly different from our normal, somewhat forced exchanges, and that told me how important all of this was for her.
“Yes. I’d like to help. I’ll do it.”
A nod. “I’ll have the Atlanta PD send you their files.”
In this line of work you never really have the luxury of working only one case at a time. It’s almost like having three or four pots on the stove. You have the burners turned on higher in the front and the water in those pots is at a high boil, but there are always other pots there, simmering in the background.
As you wrap up one case and get moving on others, it’s as if you’re shifting the pots around, sliding off the ones in front and bringing up others from the back to take their place.
And right now it looked like the two cases that were on the front burners were the investigation into locating Basque and unraveling what had happened to Corey Wellington.
I took Margaret up on her offer to have someone else teach my classes for the next couple days. She gave me her private cell number, thanked me, then abruptly told me she needed to go. She shook my hand and insisted that I have Lien-hua contact her personally if she needed anything.
This was a different Margaret from the one I knew, and I hoped the change hadn’t come just as a result of Corey’s death. To me, that seemed too tragic and sad.
It was close to three o’clock, and, still wanting to keep a close eye on Tessa, I headed to the school to meet up with her. The whole way I tried to wrap my mind around what Margaret had told me.
Was it really possible that the brother of the FBI’s Director had been murdered in a way made to look like a suicide? Or was it just the medication or depression?
She’d said that she had entrusted me with this because I was better than anyone else she knew at noticing when things didn’t fit together.
Well, let’s see if I could live up to her expectations.
35
“It’s because of Basque, right?” Tessa asked me as we walked toward her car. “That’s what all this is about — the school cop showing up? That’s why you want to drive me home?”
It seemed like the time to be candid and straightforward. “Basque sent me a message.”
“A threat against me?”
“An apparent threat against the people I know. Those under my care. Until we catch him I’m going to do whatever’s necessary to protect you.”
A look that I wasn’t able to read crossed her face. “You know what? That annoys me and also makes me feel safe at the same time.”
“I appreciate that.” We crossed the street. “So did you tell Thacker you aren’t going to do that graduation speech?”
She was quiet. “Actually, let’s not go there right now.”
She gestured toward her car, the black VW Beetle she’d bought — or at least, I’d helped her buy — when we moved to DC in January. “I’ve got something I want to do for Lien-hua. I guess we could take two cars, but it’ll save gas if we left one here, picked it up later.”
“What is it you want to do?”
“Something to tide us over until supper. I’ll explain on the way.”
We took my car. For some reason I’m just not into being seen in a Beetle.
All afternoon Richard had been thinking about the fable he’d sent to Patrick. In the story, the snake continues to attack the farmer’s sheep.
And in just over twenty-four hours, he was planning to do precisely that.
As he considered everything, he came up with a number of ways to gain a child’s trust, but he had definitely ruled one out.
Dressing up as a clown.
No, he couldn’t figure out why anyone hoping to work with children would do that.
When he was doing research on John Gacy, the question had really intrigued him.
John Wayne Gacy was the serial killer from Chicago back in the 1970s who would dress up like a clown and volunteer at hospitals and perform at children’s birthday parties.