For an instant, the beauty of her smile and the playfulness in her voice almost took me in, but I caught something in her eyes-a calculation behind the seductiveness-that made me bite my tongue. Even candor was just another pose for this woman.
“This peninsula is crawling with sexual predators,” I said. “How come you never looked at anyone else?”
Her eyes narrowed; her lips tightened. “Excuse me?”
“I think Jefferts is guilty, but I also question whether he got a fair trial.”
Instantly, she began oozing venom again. “I’ve devoted my career to punishing men who victimize women. I’m the president of the Coalition to Prevent Domestic Violence. I volunteer at shelters for battered women. So don’t talk to me about that sick predator’s rights. I got into this job to put scum like Erland Jefferts behind bars.”
I sensed that this was just the beginning of what was meant to be a longer tirade, but luckily for me, Menario and Baker appeared again, walking side by side out of the deepening shadows. They were both short guys, but while the detective was all muscle, the sheriff was as soft as an eclair.
“Well?” Her voice echoed loudly through the woods.
Menario was the one who answered. “From the blood splatter, Kitteridge says it could be a suicide.”
“What?” I said.
“The angle of the wound suggests he might have cut his throat with his right hand,” he explained.
“It’s a ridiculous theory,” spat Dudley Baker. The sound of his voice seemed to startle us, as if a dog had been given the gift of speech. “What kind of person cuts his own throat to commit suicide?”
Danica settled back on her boot heels. “The kind of person who rapes a girl, smothers her with tape, and then cuts an obscenity into her skin.”
“It’s only a preliminary assessment,” Menario said.
“An assessment that makes no sense!”
For the first time, I was impressed with my new sheriff. The puffy little man was voicing my exact objections to Kitteridge’s theory.
“Calm down, Dudley. I’m not saying it’s what definitely happened.”
In the dim light of the trees, Baker’s photochromatic glasses had grown clear, and his eyes were wide and fierce. “Are you prepared to tell the media that Hans Westergaard raped and murdered his girlfriend in a manner identical to the Donnatelli homicide, and then he drove to the exact spot Erland Jefferts was arrested, only to commit suicide?”
“Maybe Westergaard had some sort of fascination with the Donnatelli case,” offered Danica. “It could have been a sex game that went wrong, and he killed himself out of remorse.”
“That’s absurd.”
“For whatever it’s worth, there’s an empty bottle of brandy in the vehicle,” Menario told Danica. “The guy was pickled when he died.”
I had a sudden memory of Jill Westergaard’s frantic voice and tear-filled eyes. From the first, she’d believed her husband was a victim. I owed her an apology.
A cell phone rang among us. All three of my colleagues reached instinctively for their pockets. It turned out to be Danica Marshall’s BlackBerry. She didn’t bother to excuse herself, just walked behind my Jeep, out of earshot.
“Come on, Menario,” I said softly after she’d left. “You know this thing is a crock.”
“Stay out of this, Bowditch.”
“Let him talk,” said Baker.
“You’re a professional,” I continued, trying some flattery for a change. “This setup with the Range Rover is obviously meant to distract you from the real killer.”
The detective crossed his powerful forearms. “Are you guys deaf? I’m just reporting what Kitteridge told me offhand. Nothing has been decided here.”
“Both Marshall and Kitteridge have an interest in closing this case.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“Neither of them wants the Erland Jefferts investigation dredged up again. We all know they cut corners to convict him. The last thing they want is for the media to start asking overdue questions or for Jefferts to get a new trial.”
“That’s right,” said the sheriff, flying his J-Team flag for the first time. “They have a conflict of interest.”
“I can’t believe I’m listening to this baloney,” said Menario with palpable heat. “You think the state medical examiner is going to call a homicide a suicide to save himself from embarrassment? I’ve known Walt for fifteen years.”
I decided to play my trump card. “Don’t let a murderer outsmart you.”
Menario didn’t answer. His face was brutal with anger, but I thought I detected some doubt in his rapid blinking.
“I said the case was still open,” he replied finally.
Danica had finished her call and strode purposely back to us with a down-turned mouth. Whatever news she’d just gotten hadn’t been happy. “That was the attorney general,” she said. “He wants a full status report. I have to drive back to Augusta.”
“We’ve got to wait on the autopsy anyway,” said Menario.
Danica glared at me with those magnetic eyes of hers; no matter how hard you fought, they inevitably pulled you into them. “Don’t be surprised if you get a personal call from the AG,” she warned me. “He’s as puzzled as the rest of us why you keep popping up at crime scenes before anyone else does.”
The prospect of that conversation gave me heartburn. Being hauled in front of the attorney general was not my idea of fun. Lieutenant Malcomb had already warned me about meddling in this case. There was a good chance I could be fired here.
“I’m prepared to justify my actions,” I said flatly.
“That’s good,” Menario said. “Because you’re going back to the sheriff’s office now to give another statement. You’re going to be there awhile.”
30
Darkness was falling by the time I finally left the sheriff’s office. I’d just given my statement to a young detective with the same crew cut, musculature, and bad attitude as his boss. I knew that I had embarrassed Menario’s team by finding Hans Westergaard, but I wasn’t going to make excuses for using my brain.
As I stepped outside, I saw a bird shoot up from the alders across the parking lot. It rocketed high into the air and then came spiraling down, making a twittering call that sounded like a rapidly dripping faucet. It was a male woodcock showing off for the females. Every species has its own bizarre mating ritual.
It took me a few minutes to muster the courage, but I finally called Sarah.
“Where are you?” she asked with audible concern and anger.
“I’m at the Knox County sheriff’s office.”
“Why? Did something happen to you?”
“Something happened, but not to me.” The only thing to do was explain my day from the start. “Please listen to the whole story before you get mad at me.”
Needless to say, I didn’t get very far.
“Wait a minute,” she said, interrupting me. “You mean you’ve been driving with a broken hand? Mike, you’re taking Vicodin.”
“I know it sounds bad, but let me explain.”
I tried to paint my crusade in a positive light, but I received no understanding or forgiveness for my efforts.
“Mike, this is just so amazingly self-destructive,” she said. “It’s everything I asked you not to do.”
I confessed that none of it probably made sense.
“You shouldn’t drive while you’re taking a narcotic,” she said. “I’m going to come get you.”
“I haven’t taken a pill in hours.”
“Just come home, then. And do not take another Vicodin. Your judgment sucks enough as it is.”
“I love you,” I said.
“So you keep telling me.”
Whoever killed Hans Westergaard and Ashley Kim was still at large.
I believed Menario when he said that Dr. Walter Kitteridge would never submit a dishonest autopsy report, but if Bell’s files proved anything, it was that Maine’s elderly medical examiner was prone to lapses in concentration. I had less faith that Danica Marshall would conduct an objective investigation. Her career would be ruined if it came out that she’d railroaded Erland Jefferts while the actual murderer escaped, only to kill again seven years later.