“And both were killed with a .357,” Hurley muses. “Want to bet ballistics proves that both bullets came from the same gun? What a nice little package, eh?”
I have no idea what Hurley means and hesitate to ask since I don’t want to look stupid. For a brief second, vanity struggles with curiosity, my inherent nosiness emerging a clear winner seconds later. “What do you mean by ‘a nice little package’?” I ask.
Hurley’s baby blues take on the cold depth of glacial ice. “It means that someone wants us to think that Halverson here first killed Owenby and then killed himself, supposedly out of guilt or some need for self-punishment. The gun was left at the scene with the assumption that we’d make the connection.”
“Well, it does seem like a good motive for suicide,” I say. “A murder on the conscience plus a full-blown case of AIDS.”
“How do you know he had AIDS?” Hurley asks.
“We don’t,” Izzy says, giving me a cautioning look. “We’re running a test to be sure. But given that he has some of the classic physical signs of the disease, my—” He pauses, looks at me and smiles before continuing. “Our educated guess is that the test will be positive.”
“Okay,” Hurley says thoughtfully. “So how did he contract the disease? Blood transfusion? Dirty needle?” He pauses and looks at his shoes. “High-risk sex?”
Izzy chuckles. “It’s okay, Steve. You can say ‘gay’ in front of me. As a gay man, I’m keenly aware of the high prevalence of AIDS among gay men. All of us are, though unfortunately not all of us are careful enough to avoid high-risk activities.”
“Is there any way for you to know how this guy got it?” Hurley asks.
Izzy shakes his head. “Not with any certainty. But I can tell you that he doesn’t have any tracks or needle marks that would indicate either a past or a current drug problem. I can requisition his medical records to see if he’s had any blood transfusions in the past. He has no scars of any sort to indicate surgery or trauma, but those aren’t the only circumstances that might call for a transfusion. As for determining his lifestyle, you probably know best how to go about that.”
Hurley nods, a thoughtful look on his face.
The rest of the autopsy proves uneventful, the examination of the head wound providing nothing new. When we examine the contents of the vacuum bag, we find two hairs that—given Halverson’s baldness—are likely from someone else. But given where Halverson was lying—on a bathroom floor where stray hairs of all kinds are likely to be found—their significance as evidence is questionable. We have Arnie look at them anyway and he comes back with his report just as we are placing Halverson into a fresh body bag.
“We’ve got a match,” he announces. “Those hairs are identical to the ones that were taken from David Winston’s hairbrush a few days ago as well as one of the ones we found on Karen Owenby.”
I feel the stares of all three men in the room but avoid them and keep my eyes focused on Halverson’s body bag. My heart sinks as I realize this latest revelation further seals David’s fate. It isn’t definitive evidence, but it certainly strengthens the case against him.
Then my mind zeroes in on an alternate explanation and I raise my eyes to the others in the room. “Is it possible the hairs could have come from me?” I ask. “David was at my cottage with me for a while last night. Some of his hairs might have transferred to me, and then from me to the crime site.”
No one says anything but after a few seconds, Izzy shrugs. I take that as acknowledgment of the possibility. I expect to feel relief but it doesn’t come.
Nothing is resolved. A DNA test will prove whether or not Halverson is related to Karen, but those results could take a week or longer. In the meantime, all I have are suspicions, doubts, and speculations. But I also have some ideas on how to turn my speculations into cold, hard facts.
But first, I need an accomplice.
Chapter 27
Before leaving the office, I remove my bandage and clean the stitches on my forehead. I think about leaving them uncovered, but they look too much like a hairy mole, so I trade in the big white bandage for a smaller, skin-toned Band-Aid.
I leave the office and drive over to Karen Owenby’s house. As I park at the end of the cul-de-sac in front of her house, I happen to glance out my side window and see a burgundy-and-gray van stopped in the middle of the street. In a flash I remember how a gray-and-burgundy van almost rear-ended Izzy and I on the night of the hospital shindig. And how there was one this morning at Lauren’s house, too. Now here is another one. It seems like too much of a coincidence to me. Or am I just being paranoid? I am considering walking up to it to see who is driving when it backs up several feet, makes a U-turn, and disappears back the way it came.
I turn my mind back to the task at hand, although I keep glancing up the street from time to time, half expecting the van to return. I study the other houses in the neighborhood, wondering which of them harbors the mystery caller who claimed to have seen David on the night of the murders. Given that Karen’s house is at the end of a cul-de-sac, it doesn’t make sense that the witness was simply driving by. And while I suppose it is possible the witness was merely a visitor to one of the other houses on the street, I figure it is far more likely to be someone who lives here.
According to Larry Johnson, my police-officer friend, the eyewitness said she recognized David because she was a patient of his. I jot down the numbers of all the houses, knowing there must be a way to find out who lives where. I’m thinking that if I compare those names to David’s patient roster, I might be able to find a connection.
With that done, I head out of town toward the village of Parsons and find the address Susan McNally listed on her ER record for her sister. It is a cozy little home in an older neighborhood: two-story, clapboard, with a small patch of lawn out front and another in back. I pull up to the curb and climb out of the car just in time to see a burgundy-and-gray van turning down a side street about a block behind me.
I freeze, my heart thumping so hard I fear it will leap from my chest. I wait, watching the surrounding streets for another five minutes, but I don’t see the van again. I realize I might be acting silly, but that doesn’t stop me from looking over my shoulder several times as I walk up to ring the doorbell.
The woman who answers is a freckle-faced, fiery-haired nymph, a tiny woman with a waist about as big around as a pencil. Her hair is a wild mass of curls, her eyes a color of green so vivid it has to come from contacts.
“Hi, can I help you?” she asks.
I have my badge out and show it to her, trying to adopt an official pose. “My name is Mattie Winston and I work in the Medical Examiner’s office. I’m looking for Susan McNally and was wondering if she might be staying here. I need to ask her some questions about the death of her roommate, Karen Owenby.”
The smile on the woman’s face evaporates. “The police have already questioned her several times. Can’t you get your information from them? Susan’s pretty upset by all of this. As I’m sure you can imagine.”
“I won’t be long, but I really do need to speak with her,” I push. “The focus of our investigation is a bit different from that of the police. They don’t always ask the right questions for what we need to know.”
If anything, the woman’s expression only grows more determined. “Susan is sleeping right now. Why don’t you call and make an appointment to meet with her?”
The implication—that I am rude to show up without calling first—is unmistakable. And hard to argue with. Tiny though she is, the woman before me looks to have a spine of steel and a determination to match. I am about to give in when a figure materializes like a poltergeist behind her. Actually, doppelganger would be a better term, since the two women are virtually identical. Twins.