“He dug deep enough, he even notched the number-four vertebra from the front.” Mike handed Garik the flashlight and let him get a good look. “Scissors don’t slice neatly like a knife or a garrote. Look at where he cut off her hair. He got a pretty good chunk of flesh, too. He killed her, then he killed her again. This was a crime of passion and rage. No wonder Elizabeth Banner was traumatized.”
“That she was.” Garik indicated the area with the hair. “Foster said there was hair at the crime scene he didn’t report.”
“What a dumbshit.” Mike put his hands in his pockets, and shrugged. “But do you really think that would have made any difference to the verdict?”
“Maybe not, but I’m sure happier when I know the work was done competently.”
“I heard that was one of the things you yelled at Foster about.” Mike rocked back and forth on his heels. “That, and you pretty much accused him of killing Misty himself.”
“I didn’t accuse him, exactly,” Garik corrected. “I asked where he was when she was murdered and how he got there so fast after the call came in.”
Mike couldn’t contain his sarcasm. “No, that’s not an accusation. Not at all. Garik, Foster’s really not a good guy. He’s always been weird and he’s getting weirder, and he … Well. You know he never liked you. You stick around here, and at the best, you’re going to have more traffic tickets than you can pay.”
“Probably.” Garik shrugged back at Mike, but the memory of this afternoon’s scene on the highway made his temper simmer.
“You’re not going to back down,” Mike said.
“No.”
“Look, I’ve studied the case. Everyone in law enforcement has studied the case.” Mike counted off the salient points on his fingers. “Charles Banner was on the scene. He had motivation. He was covered with blood. He was holding the scissors. Hell, his fingerprints were all over the scissors.”
“But were they the only fingerprints? I read the reports. I can’t find that Foster bothered to check.” Garik waited a heartbeat. “If only I could see the original evidence…”
Mike pointedly ignored that. “Who do you think did this?” He took the flashlight back and pointed it at Misty’s torn throat.
“Probably Charles Banner.” Probably. “But as I said, I prefer competent work on behalf of law enforcement. Where is the evidence, do you know?”
Reluctantly, Mike said, “Local evidence stays here in the courthouse, in the evidence room.”
“Really?” Garik couldn’t believe his luck. “It’s right here?”
“You going to break in?” Mike sounded hopeful.
“Not me.” Garik lifted his eyebrows, tilted his head, and smiled at Mike.
Mike retreated. “No. No way. Not me. I’ve got a wife with an expensive underwear habit to support, and I like it that way.”
Garik advanced. “What if Misty’s lover killed her, and he’s still hanging around? That’s someone with a lot of fury simmering. What if he hates blondes? Isn’t your wife blond?”
“Sometimes. Depends on what her and her hairdresser are up to this week.” Mike dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “But Garik, that’s the only murder there’s been in this town, so even if it’s not Charles Banner, whoever it is is never going to kill again, or he’s moved on, or he went nuts, or he drove into the ocean. He’s not around anymore.”
“Or the discovery of Misty Banner’s body is going to scare him and bring him out of hiding.”
“No, I’m not stealing evidence for you. No, no, no!” Mike’s voice got louder with each repetition.
Which meant he was tempted. So Garik backed off. “Okay! You don’t have to sound like a reluctant virgin. I’ll do it myself.”
“Don’t get caught.”
“I won’t if you give me your keys.”
“Yeah, that’ll get me off the hook. Anyway, I don’t have the keys for the evidence room. And honest, Garik, I don’t think you ought to break in. I’m telling you…” Mike stopped talking. He put his hands in his pockets again. He shifted from foot to foot, avoided Garik’s gaze.
“Men’s room’s up the stairs,” Garik said.
“It’s not that.” As if he’d made a decision, Mike set his chin. “You’ve been in on a few autopsies in your time?”
“A few. I do everything in my power to avoid them. Afterwards I have nightmares, and the dead are always, like, talking to me.” Garik shuddered.
“The dead talk to me, too, if I examine them correctly.” Mike shut the drawer, hiding Misty from sight. He pulled a couple of latex gloves out of a box on his desk and said, “Come and look at this.” He opened another drawer.
Garik stared at the body of a shriveled old woman. “Who’s that?”
“Foster’s mother.”
“His mother?” Garik searched his memory, and remembered an ancient sighting of her driving herself to church. “God, it is her, isn’t it? She looks like hell.”
“Dehydrated. After the earthquake, Foster didn’t go home. Finally when he did, and this was last night, he found her crushed under the refrigerator. Took three men to lift it off so I could drag her out.”
“She was dead?”
“Yes, and a long, painful, unpleasant death it was. Internal bleeding, bruising from being battered with cans, cuts from the broken dishes.”
“The day I came into town, she texted him while we were talking.” Garik remembered the way Foster had acted when the call came through. “He never went to check on her?”
“It gets better.” Mike flicked on his flashlight and carefully rolled Mrs. Foster to one side. “I couldn’t quite figure out what caused bleeding on her skull, lower right, so I shaved her hair and took a look.”
Garik looked at the dent. “What caused that?”
“Not a can.”
“The shape looks like the butt of a revolver.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Garik put the clues together. “The old battle-ax wasn’t quite dead when he found her, and he wasn’t taking any chances she might survive.”
“Pretty much what I thought, too.”
The two men looked at each other.
“I never really imagined Foster did kill Misty, because I was thinking if it wasn’t Charles, it was definitely the lover. And I don’t believe Foster ever slept with a woman in his whole life.” An ugly thought wormed its way into Garik’s brain. “But I never considered the fact he was raised by a religious fanatic. Like you said, he’s weird. Maybe he’s more than weird. Maybe he’s a sociopath. Say his mean old mother knew about the affair, and she carried on about sin and adultery. Maybe Foster figured God wanted him to kill the adulteress.”
Mike watched him, jaw dropped. “No wonder you’re in the FBI! You’ve got the most suspicious mind of any person I ever met.”
“Yes, I do have a suspicious mind, but I’m not with the FBI anymore,” Garik said absently. “Or rather, I’m on leave.”
“But you love the FBI! Why would you go on leave?”
“I didn’t
go
on leave. I was
put
on leave. Because I lost my temper.” And not even Elizabeth’s assurances had eased his guilt.
“Does Foster know you’re on leave?” Mike asked.
Garik snorted. “Of course. He makes it his business to know all the crapass stuff he can use for leverage.”
“Against you.”
“Against everyone. Foster is one of those guys who likes to have the upper hand.”
Mike groped his own throat, as if he could feel a noose tightening. “I don’t disagree. That’s why I don’t think you ought to be pissing off Dennis Foster. Not when we’re trapped in this town. Not when he holds all the power. The guy is most likely off his rocker.”
Garik stared at the skinny, naked, bruised body of Foster’s mother, and contemplated the surprising multitude of options he had to consider about the murder of Misty Banner. “Rage or cold-blooded murder. Which is worse? And did the same man do them both?”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Another shadow fell across Elizabeth’s table.
This time she looked up immediately and in alarm.
A pleasant-looking young man, about her age, stood with his hand on the chair Andrew Marrero had so recently vacated.
“Do you mind if I join you?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but sat down.
“Do I know you?” She was pretty sure she had never met him.
“I’m Noah Griffin.” He used his fingers to push his shock of brown hair, tipped with blond, across his forehead and over to one side. “I’m a reporter and I’m doing a news story on the earthquake and tsunami. I understand you’re the expert.”
Elizabeth didn’t have any warm memories of reporters—on the tenth anniversary of her mother’s death, one had popped up and caught her as she left school, and badgered her all the way home, asking what she remembered of the day, recounting the events as they were believed to have unfolded in an effort to make her talk.
Her aunt had been furious, then ended up giving an interview, rehashing her niece’s mental problems, and creating even more trouble at school and at home for ugly duckling Elizabeth.
But this guy looked nice, not obnoxious, and more important, he was asking about the tsunami. So, cautiously, she said, “I’m not
the
expert. I’m
an
expert.”
“That’s not the way I understand it. I heard you were the only one of that research team who was in town when the earthquake hit. I heard you took some great footage of the tsunami.”
He knew too much, and that made her feel squiggly. “How did you hear that?”
“Rainbow is a big cheerleader of yours.” He saluted Rainbow with two fingers to his forehead.
Rainbow nodded genially.
Elizabeth relaxed and admitted, “I did get some great footage.”
“Could I see it?”
She debated whether she should show him.
Andrew wanted her to keep the footage secret.
But what harm could it do to show it to this reporter? Especially when her father’s reaction to the footage and Elizabeth’s commentary had been so positive. And regardless of what Andrew said, she knew showing the video to the world was the best thing she could do for the Banner research site.
Her excitement, so recently snuffed by Andrew, revived.
After all, she hadn’t really agreed to keep it secret. She had merely sort of agreed to not post it online or send it to the Geological Society of America.
Reaching into her bag, she pulled out her laptop. She placed it so they could both see the screen. “Watch this!” She kept the volume down and watched the tsunami unfold again, transfixed by the majesty and excitement. She didn’t notice that Noah watched her as much as he watched the film, or that the other customers craned their necks. She didn’t notice that Rainbow came to stand at the end of the table to watch and listen, too, her mouth curved in a half-smile.
After ten minutes, Noah pushed
OFF
and turned to face Elizabeth. “Look, I have some contacts in the news and on the Discovery Channel. They’d kill to have this, and you’re a natural. Why don’t I get ahold of them?”
“I had planned to turn the film over to the Geological Society of America, then send it to … I don’t know, some science channel. But the head of our project arrived this morning.” She realized her lips were stiff and the words came with formal reluctance. “After reviewing my work, he suggested I not post the film.”
“The head of your project.” Noah got a nasty smile on his face. “That would be Andrew Marrero?”
The reporter had done his research. “Yes. That’s him.”
“Andrew Marrero suggested you not release this? May I ask why?” Noah lightly touched her hand.
He had a way of making her feel as if she knew him, as if she could confide in him. “Many years ago, my mother was killed and her body disappeared. I just found her body, and Mr. Marrero said bringing myself to the public’s attention now would stir up all the old news stories and make it difficult for me to work.”
Rainbow gave an explosive snort and walked away.
“I’m forced to agree with
her
.” Noah tilted his head toward Rainbow. “That’s bullshit. This is brilliant stuff. You’re succinct, well spoken, you know how to explain stuff in layman’s terms. You’ve got a great on-air voice. You deserve recognition for your work.”
“I’ll get that recognition. Just … not right now.” She was trying to convince herself as much as him.
Rainbow came back with a baloney sandwich on wheat, a pickle, and a canned Coke. She placed them in front of Noah. “Can I get you something else?”
“No, thanks. One sandwich is my limit.” He waited until she had gone before saying, “Are you very upset about finding your mother’s body?”
“At the time, I was. Now I’m mostly glad to know that after law enforcement studies her, I’ll be able to lay her to rest.” Talking to Noah was like talking to a long-lost brother. “Death rituals facilitate the grieving process, and I believe performing those rituals would be healthy for both me and my father.”
“Your father killed her, right?”
A week ago, she would have said yes, and with assurance. Now she said, “He was convicted of the crime.”
“I read the reports. You saw the crime.” Noah popped the top on his Coke. “Did he do it?”
“I don’t remember.”
“He denied doing it. But then he would, wouldn’t he?” Noah shot the questions at her as if he had the right to know.
That made her withdraw into the cool, logical façade she wore so well. “Yes. Sadly, he’s suffering from Alzheimer’s and doesn’t remember that my mother is dead at all, although he does remember their relationship. When I spoke to him this morning, he told me about their early time together. I hope he can continue to recall what their marriage was like; it will shed some light on what happened to her.”
Noah’s eyes grew wide and intent. “It sounds as if you don’t believe he killed your mother.”
“Anyone who knows my father well doesn’t believe he did it. So perhaps there is room for doubt.” She was proud of her levelheaded response.
Noah picked up the sandwich and took a big bite. “Who do you think is guilty?”
“I don’t have any idea.”
He chewed, swallowed. “Her lover?”
“I don’t know who that is or even if there really was a lover. That was rumor, wasn’t it? And the issue was never addressed during the trial.” Which, come to think of it, was illogical. Had her father’s attorney been so incompetent?