Authors: Nadja Bernitt
His mouth went slack and sadness clouded his face. He seemed vulnerable for an instant. And she wondered if maybe he’d turned to the law for some of the same reasons she had. To set things right and shed that awful feeling of helplessness.
They were quiet for a moment.
“Look,” he said, “about your dad. I don’t think he killed your mother. I did till the case got going. But I was young, gung ho. I never meant to… .” His words faded.
It wasn’t an apology, but it helped. “Thanks for that.”
The crowd had thinned, and she pointed to a bench overlooking the river. She took a seat at one end. He sat on the other.
“I’ve been thinking about the suspect’s physiological expertise, his sick preoccupation with bones. He has no problem with taking bodies apart and putting them back together.” She paused for effect. “Harold Graber was a medical student.”
He shook his head and said nothing, then gave her that here-we-go-again look. “I heard you the first time.”
“Well?” she asked.
“What’s his motive? Your mom didn’t clean out the birdcages the way he wanted?”
“No, but what if my mom quit? Say she’d had enough of him and his birds. Maybe it stoked his paranoia.”
“I doubt he’d care; the man’s a loner.”
“He’d care. The man keeps a photograph of her on his desk.”
Mendiola shot her a sideways glance. “Is there anything else I should know?”
She knew she should turn over Wheatley’s letter, but since he already believed Wheatley was guilty what did it matter? Regardless, she wasn’t ready. Also, there was Dillon’s lecture about disclosures and she didn’t want to stir up trouble her first day on the job. “I’m just saying, don’t rule it out.”
“Seemed to me your mom was pretty dedicated to the sanctuary.”
“But suppose for a minute she
had
quit, for whatever reason, and he totally lost it. Humor me, Mendiola. I’d like to talk to Graber again, get it on record. He fits the profile.”
“In some regards, yeah. But it’s still only some Quantico Ph. D’s guess. But what the hell, be my guest, talk to Graber, again.”
Obviously, he didn’t put much stock in her pick, but then she wasn’t sold on his, either.
He rose from the bench. “But before we tear-ass up to Idaho City, let’s think about Wheatley and his wife.”
“I’m up for that. Tina’s a very uptight woman, and I’d meant to ask, was she ever a suspect?”
“Her alibi was a religious conference in Salt Lake at the Mormon Temple. She was seen there every day. So, no.”
“But might she be a good candidate for the stalker?”
“Interesting.” His eyes narrowed in thought, creating a deep web of creases at the corners. “What say we check out the engineer and his wife? I know where she volunteers.”
“Where?”
“The same place Wheatley went when he twisted his ankle, St. Luke’s hospital. When we were at her house yesterday, she mentioned that she volunteers there.”
The day she’d confronted Wheatley, Tina had worn a pink hospital uniform, yet Meri Ann hadn’t made a connection.
Funny, the things she forgot.
# # #
Tina cinched the belt to her raincoat as she stepped into Robin’s reception area. He’d avoided her after the interrogation and come directly to the office without a word to her. He forced her to chase him down, as if she were the police.
“Is he still here, Elaine?”
The woman stood, her fleshy face showing surprise. “Afternoon, Mrs. Wheatley.” She shot a lightning glance at Robin’s closed door. “He’s awfully busy this morning.”
Tina held her head high, her eyes defiant. “Not in a meeting, is he?”
“Uh, no. Just trying to catch up. We’ve got two jobs to bid on next week.”
And
Robin
has
his
neck
in
a
noose
.
Tina glanced away, shuffling through the mail stacked on the counter, a bold declaration of her ownership. As Robin’s wife she had the right to touch anything in the office. She picked up an 8-1/2 x 11 yellow envelope from Van Dyke Studios, addressed to Robin. It said RUSH in the lower left-hand corner, DO NOT BEND underneath. “And what’s this?”
Elaine reached for it, but too late. Tina clamped the envelope under her arm and said, “I’ll take this in.”
She threw open his office door. He stood at his drafting board, startled, his eyes wide in surprise.
The
man
she
loved
.
“Robin.” She crossed to him, kissed his cheek and stroked the soft flesh on the back of his neck. “How did the interview go?”
“It’s over.” He gently pulled away. “I answered their questions.”
“I thought you’d come home afterward and tell me what happened. What you told them.” She tried to hide her hurt that he hadn’t turned to her, and worse, that he might have confided in Elaine instead. “You didn’t even call me.”
Her legs felt weak, and she sat on the arm of a leather chair beside his desk. It was then she noticed the room seemed changed. He’d hung his old photographs, the black and whites ones taken at the extreme end of the day. Their focus was as sharp as their pencil black frames—stunning, yet she drew back at the sight of them.
“I thought you’d taken those down for good and were finally through with that.” She snapped the Van Dyke envelope from under her arm, glared at it. “Don’t tell me this is more of the same.”
“Tina, please.”
She tore it open, and slid out a dozen glossy black and white shots taken at the same place on the Boise River as the photos on the wall. It was a place he’d frequented with Joanna. Tina remembered it well. She’d followed him there seventeen years ago and seen him with her.
“I was at the Park Center offices for a meeting. I—” He threw his hands in the air. “I don’t have to explain every minute of my life to you.”
“It’s called a compulsive fetish. You’re sick. Sick.” She hungrily sorted through the photographs.
He bolted to her, grabbed her wrists. “Let me have those.”
He held on, twisting, tightening his grip. He whipped her in one direction, then the other. She lost her balance, fell to her knees. “You’re hurting me.”
“Drop them.” His hands were vices, his breath hot on her face.
She gasped in pain as her fingers went rigid. The prints fell to the floor. She was still on her knees, staring in disbelief at one of the photographs.
Robin stared at it, too, the one with a woman in it. She sat on a tree stump beside the river, elbow on knee, head on hand, posed like Rodin’s Thinker. The figure wasn’t much more than a silhouette in the landscape. Yet distinctive. Tina peered closer, whispered. “My God, it’s Joanna.”
Then she saw who it really was. She moaned, covered her mouth with her hand.
“It’s not what you think,” he said. “It happened by chance. The Albertson’s meeting was over, the warehouse project defunct. It depressed me. I happened to have the old view camera with me. I went down to the river and there she was.”
“You think you can torture me, that you’ll never pay for your sins? Have you forgotten the Ten Commandments? Thou shalt not—”
“Shut up! I can’t take it anymore.” He covered his ears.
Tina rose, placing her face inches from his. “Meri Ann is not her mother, Robin. She is merely a mortal icon.”
She vowed to make him understand.
S
t. Luke’s Hospital, like so much of Boise, was con-
structed of red brick the color of oxidized iron.
“Quite a complex these days,” Meri Ann said to Mendiola as they passed through the sliding glass entry into the main lobby. The attractive mix of chrome, rosewood paneling and highly polished floors appeared more like a corporate headquarters than a hospital. But of course, the unit where Tina Wheatley volunteered would be filled with patients, the buzz of nurses, and the smell of medicines and cleaning chemicals—that and the smell of institutional food, which reminded her of Campbell soup.
They headed for the reception desk and a queue of five waiting to talk to a petite older woman wearing granny glasses. Everything about her was crisp: her movements, her short white hair and her pink starched cotton uniform. In less than a minute it was their turn.
Mendiola leaned across the counter and kissed the woman on the cheek. “Thought I might catch you here.”
“Jack, honey!” Her jet-black eyes brightened. “Honestly. Take off that foolish baseball cap.”
He took it off, folded it and shoved it into his back pocket. “Aunt Sylvie’s my dad’s sister.”
The woman cast a sweet smile first at Meri Ann, then at her nephew. “And tell me, who is this young woman?”
Meri Ann caught Sylvie’s drift, a clue Mendiola’s personal hell might include a failed relationship. Otherwise, why would his aunt be so curious? Why would he blush?
Mendiola hurriedly introduced her as Detective Meri Ann Fehr from Florida. “We’re working a case together.”
“Oh, I see. Welcome to Idaho, dear. It must be very important for you to come all this way.” She took Meri Ann’s hand, gave it a quick squeeze. “Is your victim in St. Luke’s?”
“No,” Meri Ann said.
“We’re here to ask you a few questions about one of your volunteers,” Mendiola explained. “Can you wrangle a few minutes from your post?”
“Anything to help you, Jack, even if you’re stingy with your visits.” She shook her finger at him.
“I’ll do better, I promise.” A grade-school grin spread across his face.
Sylvie tsked, as though she were on to him. “Just let me get someone down to reception.” She picked up the phone, made arrangements.
Meri Ann tried unsuccessfully to imagine Aunt Pauline radiating Sylvie’s warmth. “What a lovely woman,” she whispered to Mendiola. “But I didn’t expect to meet more of your family. You’ve got more relatives than the Kennedys.”
“And I’m not above pulling in favors.” He nodded in his aunt’s direction. “Her mind works better than Elmer’s Glue. You’ll be surprised what sticks with her.”
“I expect great things,” Meri Ann said.
“Elmer’s Glue, good grief,” Sylvie said. “Enough of that. Just follow me. She strode ahead, leading them through a maze of corridors. Her rounded shoulders and slim, slightly bowed legs showed her age, yet she moved at a speedy clip arriving at a quiet alcove beside a chapel.
“We won’t be bothered here. Come and sit.” She settled herself into an upholstered chair beneath an immense painting of Saint Teresa, clutching hand to heart. “Now, what’s the big secret?” she asked, eyes as alert and dark as her nephew’s.
Mendiola removed his cap from his pocket and took a seat facing his aunt. Meri Ann sat beside him, their three sets of knees nearly touching.
“Do you know a Tina Wheatley?” he asked.
Sylvie nodded slowly. “She’s married to an engineer. Mormon, very strict with herself. A good woman at heart. She volunteers on Mondays and Thursdays and visits children of her faith.”
Meri Ann shifted in her seat, bothered by another image of Tina, a woman unable to cope with her rage. She asked, “Is that all Mrs. Wheatley does, visit patients?”
“That’s all now, but Tina was a nurse before she got married. A registered nurse and a good one. She worked in the OR for a while, and the things she did… .” Sylvie leaned in Meri Ann’s direction. “She knew more than some of the doctors.”
“Imagine that.” Meri Ann concealed her surprise at the extent of Tina’s medical background. The aggressive woman would surely know enough about skeletal structure to set up the scenes at Table Rock and Camel’s Back Park. And Tina Wheatley’s tall robust build added to the possibility that she could easily overpower a smaller woman. Meri Ann wondered if the thought crossed Mendiola’s mind as well. He made no comment, so she continued with Sylvie. “I’ve spoken to Mrs. Wheatley several times, and got the feeling she’s upset.”
“Oh, yes.” Sylvie smoothed her dress. “She carries a heavy burden and can be quite brusque. She sees an analyst once a week. The poor woman has problems. But when she’s with patients, I see her warmth. She’s devoted to service.”
Mendiola toyed with the brim of his baseball cap, eyes narrowed in thought. “Does Mrs. Wheatley ever speak about her husband?” He’d returned to his favorite suspect.
Sylvie’s small chest filled with a deep breath. “She boasts about his success, and it seems to me that she’s terribly proud of him. He has two offices, one here and one in Twin Falls. Tina is from Bliss, you know? And that’s right around the corner. Anyway, I get the impression that he’s gone a lot.”
Meri Ann backtracked and rephrased her query in stronger language. “Do you think Tina Wheatley is mentally stable?”
“I didn’t mean to imply she’s crazy just because she sees a psychologist,” Sylvie said, “She’s lonely. I hear her on the phone sometimes, not that I eavesdrop. But I can’t help but hear when she’s sitting beside me. She’ll call Robin at home or the office. And always says, ‘I love you’ three or four times before hanging up. If you ask me, he’s not saying it back. I’m old enough to know the sound of a woman begging for love.”
“Mr. Wheatley is a murder suspect in the Dunlap disappearance,” Mendiola said.
Sylvie looked from Meri Ann to her nephew. “Isn’t that over with?”
“Afraid not,” Meri Ann said.
“I’ll be.” Sylvie folded her arms, as if in protest. “I’d like to forget that awful case. Robin Wheatley worked here twenty-five-years-ago, when I first started. Such a handsome young man. Smart, too. Surely he couldn’t be in trouble.”
“Excuse me,” Meri Ann said. “He worked here at St. Luke’s?”
“Oh, yes, he did. He drove an ambulance. Two summers while he was at the University of Idaho. It’s where he met Tina, and let me tell you, tongues wagged over that romance. She was the cutest little RN. Well, not little, Tina was never that, but she was young and full of life. Wore her hair just above the shoulders like yours.” Sylvie nodded at Meri Ann. “Now she wears it long; I’d say a little too long for someone her age. Her style has changed, her personality too.”
Finding out your husband loves another woman will do that. Meri Ann felt an unexpected twinge of empathy.