Before She Dies (9 page)

Read Before She Dies Online

Authors: Mary Burton

Tags: #Romance, #Suspense, #Fiction

BOOK: Before She Dies
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“I’m living vicariously through you, Danny-boy. My love life is a wasteland. Plus, I like to watch you get revved up when I mention her name. Charlotte. Charlotte. Charlotte.”
“Amusing.” He drove down the parkway and soon pulled up in front of the regional medical examiner’s office. “Do you remember that woman who was talking to Charlotte Wellington?”
“Tall, olive skin, dark hair.”
“Yeah. It strike you as odd that Wellington would be representing her?”
“She’s doing the pro bono thing more, I hear.”
“No, her partner is. She’s only committed to the Samantha White case.”
“So she’s doing another case. What’s the dif?”
“Wellington tensed up when the girl started talking to her. She looked almost ... sad.”
“Maybe she feels sorry for the girl.”
“It’s more than that.”
“How so?”
“Don’t know yet.” He parked the car and turned off the ignition. “I called in to the clerk of the court and got the girl’s name. Sooner Tate. Eighteen. Arrest report said she works for the carnival.”
“Really?”
“Got charged with shoplifting.”
“So how did she hook up with Wellington?”
“That’s the mystery. The clerk said Charlotte just appeared and told the judge she was counsel for the defense.”
“And why do you care?”
He shook his head. “Good question.”
“You just got out of a marriage with Ms. Career. Now you’re sniffing around another.”
“Doing no such thing.” Annoyance snapping, Rokov grabbed his notebook and got out. His partner had a knack for finding the right nerve and twisting.
“Good because the image of you two cuddling over wine ...” She pretended to shudder. “Twilight Zone.”
“We haven’t been on a date.” Technically true.
“Good because, dude, good working men and princesses don’t last.”
“You’re getting to be a pain, Sinclair.”
She grinned. “I do try.”
He opened the front door of the medical examiner’s office for her and she walked past. “Diane Young bills herself as a fortune teller. You believe in fortune tellers?”
She barked a laugh. “No and hell no. Tell me you don’t.”
“My grandmother is considered a Seer. Many in the Russian community come to see her for advice.”
“Ever occur to you that she’s just an experienced older woman with good common sense?”
“She told my cousin last year she’d have two boys before the year ended. We all laughed because Sue said she never wanted kids. She gave birth to twin boys last week.” They walked up to the front desk, showed their badges, and signed the visitor’s log. Rokov led the way to the elevators and punched the down button.
“I’ve met Sue. She talks tough but is a marshmallow when it comes to babies.”
“Grandmother said my brother would injure his leg when he went to college. He broke it in three places.”
“He was a soccer player. A forward center, if I remember. Not a stretch.”
“She said you will be married by this time next year.”
“Oh, she did?” Sinclair planted her hands on her hips. “So she tell you anything else about my Prince Charming?”
“No.”
“Too bad.” Sinclair folded her arms over her chest. “She’s got good instincts. Not special powers.”
“We’ll see.” The doors opened. “Time to go to work, Sinclair.”
They moved down the tiled hallway toward the double set of metal doors. The air had grown thicker with the scent of bleach and cleaners as they’d traveled deeper down the hallway. Above, a fluorescent light buzzed.
“Dr. Henson said she’d start the autopsy by five,” Rokov said.
Sinclair checked her watch. “Which is right about now.”
Rokov pushed through the door, and they found Dr. Henson standing beside the stainless steel gurney, which held the sheet-draped body of their victim. Henson’s red hair was tucked up in a surgical cap as green as the gown, which covered scrubs, and she wore gloves and booties over her feet. On the other side of the gurney was her similarly garbed, though short and heavier, assistant.
The gurney was situated over a drain and pushed close to a sink. The tiled back wall sported a stainless work counter outfitted with a gruesome collection of saws and other instruments.
Henson pulled back the sheet covering the victim. “Just in time, detectives. Suit up, and we can have a look at your victim.”
The detectives donned gowns and gloves and moved toward the table. Both stiffened just a little as Henson dragged the sheet from the victim’s naked body.
Suspended from the ceiling was a microphone, which Dr. Henson could control with a pedal under the examine table. The doctor pressed the button with her foot and said in a clear voice, “It’s October nineteenth, five p.m. and I have in attendance, Detectives Jennifer Sinclair and Daniel Rokov with the Alexandria Police Department and my assistant, Nancy Farmer. I have rolled the victim’s prints and submitted them to forensics, and we are waiting for an identification.”
“We might have a possible on her identity,” Rokov said. “I’m waiting on a picture from DMV.”
Dr. Henson reviewed the victim’s stats for the tape recorder as she moved up to the head of the table. “There is trauma to her hands and feet, all caused by wooden stakes being driven through her extremities. Judging by the wounds, I’d say those assaults were done post mortem.”
“What about the tattoo on her head?” Rokov said.
“It’s fresh. There’s slight bruising around the letters, which tells me she was alive when this was done. The letters are in a crude block style.” She pulled a ruler from the exam tray. “And measure one-and-a-half inches in height. The letters stretch the full length of her forehead.”
Rokov drew in a breath at he stared at the dead woman’s pale, sunken face. The skin on the face was particularly thin so receiving a tattoo would have been painful. Judging by the thickness of the letters and the careful lines, he guessed the act took several hours. “What about cause of death?”
Dr. Henson shook her head. “No gun or knife wounds. Bruising around the throat but her windpipe is not crushed. There is water in her lungs. I’ll know better when I open her up and run blood tests.”
And so they stood watching the doctor complete a thorough external examination. She noted scars, bruises, other tattoos, moles, and any bit of information that could catch a killer. No telling what piece of evidence would be the one that would eventually catch the killer, so it all had to be collected and noted.
Henson studied the victim’s hand and then, using a clipper, snapped off bits of nails painted hot pink. She studied the nails under a microscope. “We might have a little DNA, folks. Looks like she might have scratched him.”
Rokov watched as she bagged the clippings. “Great. You think you can rush through the results?”
“Backlog is high now, but I’m sure I can make a compelling argument. Still, it will be at least a week.”
“As soon as you have DNA, I’ll run it through CODIS.” CODIS was a national database containing DNA profiles from unsolved crimes, missing persons, and the convicted. “The killer is so careful and practiced, I’ll bet money this is not his first time.”
Once the evidence had been tagged, the doctor continued with her external exam. Only when she’d inspected the body fully did she reach for her scalpel and make the Y-incision on the victim’s chest.
Though stoic, Rokov reminded himself that the body on the table no longer carried the soul or life of the woman. She felt nothing. She was beyond this world. And her body was no more than evidence that would help him catch her killer. And yet as the sharp tip of the blade breached the skin, he could not quite quell the anger and sense of violation. The killer had violated and terrorized her, and now it felt like they were doing the same.
Dr. Henson reported that the victim’s heart, lungs, liver, and other vital organs all were a healthy weight. When she opened the lungs, she said, “It looks like she drowned.”
“Drowned?”
“There is water here. But blood tests will give me a better idea.”
“Drowning has got to be one of the worst ways to die,” Sinclair whispered. “I nearly drowned as a kid, and I’ll never forget the sensation.”
Rokov glanced at his partner, and for the first time, she looked upset. However, a tender word would be met with scorn, so he ignored the comment. “She was drowned in one location, brought to the abandoned restaurant, and staked to the ground.” Rokov made notes in his book.
Dr. Henson continued her autopsy with a vaginal examination. For this Rokov did drop his gaze and waited to hear the doctor confirm what he already suspected.
“She was sexually assaulted,” Dr. Henson said.
Sinclair muttered an oath. “Any semen?”
“No. He was careful to use a condom. I would suggest that, based on the damage, he raped her several times.”
A heavy silence filled the room as she finished taking swabs and then covered up the lower half of the body. When Henson pronounced the autopsy complete, the detectives moved toward the door. They pulled off their scrubs, dumped them in a laundry bin, and moved into the hallway.
Sinclair pressed fingers to her temples. “He’s going to do it again.”
“What makes you say that?”
“He went after her like he was on some damn holy mission. And fanatics on a mission don’t stop at one.”
Rokov often played devil’s advocate. “A bad breakup or divorce. Emotions run hot.”
“Hot? Shit. This goes beyond regular anger and frustration. This is crazy-guy behavior.”
“No argument.” Rokov’s cell buzzed. He removed it from the holster, and checked the caller’s identity. “It’s Kier.”
Detective Malcolm Kier was partnered with the senior member in the unit, Deacon Garrison. Kier hailed from the southern part of the state and last year had married Angie Carlson, Wellington’s associate.
Rokov opened his phone. “Rokov.”
“I got your DMV picture. Where are you?”
“Medical examiner’s office.”
“I’ll send it to your phone.”
“Thanks.”
“The magistrate says if the photo matches this victim, you’ll have your search warrant right away.”
“Good.” His phone beeped. The image of Diane Young’s driver’s license photo appeared on the screen.
He held the DMV photo next to the victim on Dr. Henson’s table. Dark eyebrows, round face, full lips. It was a match.
Rokov raised the phone to his ear. “Tell the magistrate the photo is a perfect match.”
“I’ll get the warrant,” Kier said.
He checked his watch. “It’s past seven so the traffic should be gone. I want to search her place tonight. The sooner we catch this nut, the better.”
Chapter 6
 
Tuesday, October 19, 7:30 p.m.
 
The detectives arrived at Diane Young’s house just after ten p.m. Forensic technicians were backlogged at another crime scene but had said they’d follow within the next half hour.
Diane Young lived on the top floor of a three-story brick apartment complex in New Market Apartments off Beauregard Street. The three-hundred-plus-unit complex was constructed mostly of brick and had plenty of grass and well-established trees for shade. Located on the border of the city of Alexandria and Arlington County, it had been built in the late seventies and was considered nice and affordable.
A single light illuminated the top level and the metal doors that led to the four different units. Each of the doors had either a wreath or a welcome sign, including Diane Young’s, which sported a piece of stained glass artwork fashioned into a half-moon.
Rokov pulled on his rubber gloves, and then using the master key from the complex manager, he opened the front door. He flipped on the light just inside the front door. He glanced inside the apartment, taking note of parquet floors that led to a galley kitchen, and then to a dining room.
An eleven-by-fourteen painting featuring the sun and the moon hung on the wall just inside the small foyer, and below it a small table sported a basket and a cell phone charger. No doubt, like him, Diane put her keys in the basket and her phone on the charger in the same place every time when she returned home.
“She’s got a thing for the sun and moon,” Sinclair said.
Rokov nodded. “Records show that she owned a business called Beyond. Apparently she reads horoscopes and tarot cards for Internet customers.”
Sinclair flipped on the lights in the kitchen. A pot rack filled with copper pans dangled from the ceiling, and a rich maple dinette set filled the corner nook. “Looks like business might have been good.”
“According to the city business license department, she made six figures last year. And the business owns three top-of-the-line computers, a scanner, and printer.”
Moving through the kitchen into the dining room, they noted the furniture was made of a rich fine-grained wood. A china cabinet was stocked with fine crystal and china. More paintings on the walls featured the sun and moon theme. They rounded a small corner and into the living room filled with a brown leather sofa, two club chairs, a coffee table, and a wide-screen television. An oval Oriental rug pulled the space together.
The magazines on the coffee table were neatly stacked. Rokov picked up a copy of a fashion magazine. Diane had dog-eared the pages of the articles she wanted to read. Not surprisingly, she’d made notes in the margins on the horoscope page. “
JV! Wrong! Too general.
Looks like she didn’t have much use for the monthly horoscope column.”
Sinclair picked up another magazine. “She’s done the same here. I guess she was always tracking the competition.”
Other than Diane’s notes in the magazines, the place was eerily put together. Not a pillow was out of place or a picture askew. “She liked things neat.”
Sinclair picked up a picture of Diane and another woman who shared her blue eyes and black hair. “Think this is her sister?”
Rokov glanced at the photo. “Good bet. I’ve got an officer trying to track down next of kin.”
Walking through a victim’s home always left Rokov feeling like the interloper. A week ago, Diane had been alive and well and sitting on this couch, watching TV, eating a snack, and marking up her magazines. Now she lay in the morgue, a Y-incision on her chest, waiting for next of kin to claim her. “Let’s have a look at the back two rooms.”
The first room, listed as the unit’s den, was set up as a bedroom. A twin bed, covered in a silk comforter, hugged one wall. Beside the bed stood a nightstand with a pair of glasses, a half glass of water, and a bottle of sedatives. Pink slippers peeked out from under the bed. The room’s small closet was crammed full of her clothes and shoes.
Rokov picked up the pill bottle made out to Diane Young, prescribed by a Dr. Wexler seven days ago. He opened the bottle. Only three pills remained. “She’s taken more than her share in the last week.”
“What or who could have stressed her?”
“That might be the million-dollar question.”
The next room, considered the master bedroom, had been set up as an office. The walls were covered with astrological charts, stars, moons, and inspirational quotes. In the center of it all was a circular desk equipped with three top-of-the-line laptops. In the corner was a high-capacity printer and fax machine and next to it a shredder. A lush purple carpet warmed the floor, and a pale plum coated the walls.
“So she’s all about tradition in the other rooms, but here it looks a little like a mystic’s shop.”
“That’s what she was for lack of a better description.” He sat down in Diane’s chair and glanced at the blotter covered with jotted notes. Most of the notes were restaurant names and numbers. “Most of these places offer takeout. I bet she almost never cooked.”
“Welcome to my world.”
Rokov shook his head as he clicked on the computer. The screen popped up and immediately requested a password. “Looks like we’ll have to wait for the computer guys to do their thing.”
Rokov heard the squeak of the front door and immediately he and Sinclair drew their weapons and moved toward the hallway. Adrenaline popped and snapped through his body. Forensics was expected but he never assumed a visitor was a friend until confirmed. It wouldn’t be the first time a murderer had returned to collect damning evidence.
“Hello! Diane. Are you here?”
The woman’s tentative voice gave him pause as it bounced off the walls and down the hallway. The voice was tinged with fear and worry.
Rokov rounded the corner, his gun in hand. “Alexandria Police. Identify yourself.”
The woman screamed and jumped back. Her gaze darted between Rokov and Sinclair. “Who are you?”
Immediately, he recognized the woman from the framed photo on Diane’s end table. He lowered the tip of his gun but maintained a firm grip. “Alexandria Police. I’m Detective Rokov and this is my partner, Detective Sinclair. Please identify yourself.”
Dark hair swept over narrow shoulders and accentuated pale, pale skin. Frown lines etched her forehead, and her lips were drawn and thin. “I’m Suzanne Young. I’m Diane’s sister. What are you doing here?”
Rokov let out a breath and lowered his gun. He pulled out his badge and showed it to her. “Ma’am, may I see some identification?”
He tucked his badge back in his pocket as she fumbled in a sac purse and dug out a black wallet. With trembling fingers, she pulled out her driver’s license and handed it to him. Her name was listed as Suzanne Elizabeth Young, aged twenty-six of Arlington, Virginia. He handed the license back to her and holstered his weapon. Sinclair did the same.
Suzanne gripped the wallet in her fist as she stared at them. “What are you doing in my sister’s apartment?”
“Why don’t you come into the living room and have a seat?” Sinclair said. The detective could hold her own with the department’s toughest cop or face down any assailant and still possessed a surprising knack for dealing with victims and their families.
“Lady, I do not want to sit down,” Suzanne said. Tears welled in her eyes. “What are you doing here?”
Death notices were never easy, and Rokov had learned years ago from a veteran detective to make them as quick as possible. “Ms. Young, your sister’s body was found early this morning in an abandoned building. She’d been murdered.” The gruesome details would eventually be revealed to Suzanne, but for now he’d spare her.
Tears spilled down her cheeks. “What do you mean, she’s dead? You’ve got it wrong. Diane cannot be dead.”
“We’re very certain, ma’am,” Rokov said.
“How can you be certain?”
Sinclair stepped toward her. “She was wearing a very distinctive red jacket. We located the seller, and he gave us your sister’s name. The woman we have in the morgue matches your sister’s DMV photo.”
“You could have made a mistake.”
“It’s no mistake. We’ve taken prints and plan to match them to ones found in this apartment.”
Suzanne dragged trembling hands through dark hair that looked so much like her sister’s. “There has got to be a mistake.”
“No mistake,” Rokov said.
She looked to the picture taken of the two sisters. Her eyes brightened as if clinging to a happier memory. “We had that picture taken this past summer. Diane almost never got out of her apartment and I was able to coax her out. We went into Washington, had lunch, and saw a show.”
“You said she didn’t go out much?” Rokov said.
“Her work kept her busy.”
Sinclair closed the gap between her and Suzanne and cupped her elbow with her hand. “Come and sit down. Let me get you a glass of water.”
Suzanne allowed the detective to lead her onto the living room sofa. Rokov went into the kitchen and pulled a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water. He moved into the living room and handed it to Suzanne, who accepted it with trembling hands. She made no move to drink the water but held the glass tight.
Pale and fragile
would have described her best right now.
“Can you tell us a little bit more about what your sister did?” Rokov took a seat in one of the club chairs. Knowing his height could be intimidating, he leaned forward and dropped his gaze a fraction.
“She ran a website.”
“
Beyond,
” Sinclair said.
“That’s right. She read cards and did charts. She’d become widely popular in the last year. Hits on her site were over a half a million last month.”
Rokov had never heard of
Beyond,
but knew that rate of visitation would have put her on a lot of people’s radar. “Is that why she didn’t go out much?”
Her gaze shifted slightly as she stared at the water glass. “She said it was the work that kept her here in the apartment. She said she always had more and more requests to fill. She said it was all she could do to keep up.”
“But work wasn’t the only reason she stayed in the apartment.”
When Suzanne raised her gaze, he knew he’d hit a nerve. “It started a couple of years ago.”
“What started?” he coaxed.
“She got more and more nervous about driving on the Beltway. She said the traffic was driving her nuts. That’s when she founded
Beyond
. She’d work on the site on weekends and evenings. It seemed to really calm her nerves so I thought it was great. And then the site took off and she was able to quit her job as a secretary and devote all her time to it. She was so happy that I didn’t really put two and two together. Then one day I asked her if she wanted to get lunch in two weeks, and she said she’d likely have far too much work to make it. That’s when I realized she had a problem.”
“There were sedatives on her nightstand.”
“She needed those to sleep and to just walk to the mailbox.”
“The bottle was almost empty.”
“She’d said on the phone last week that she’d been considering meeting one of her clients for a date. He e-mailed her a lot, and she was kinda falling for him.”
“You know who this guy was?” Rokov said.
“No. She just mentioned him in passing. He said he wanted to take her to the carnival that had just arrived in town. He was really into astrology and energy healing. It never occurred to me that she’d really go on a date.” Suzanne shook her head. “I should have pushed this homebound thing more with Diane. I talked to several doctors about her and even a lawyer. They all said she was over twenty-one, was working steadily, and didn’t appear to be a danger to herself. They said there wasn’t anything I could really do unless she tried to hurt herself.”
“She ever try to hurt herself?” Rokov said.
“No. Never. Diane really did enjoy this world she’d created. Here, she said, she was the queen.”
Someone or something had coaxed her outside. “Did she have any tattoos?”
“Yeah. A few. She had a snake on her arm and two bands around her ankle. There is also a long string of stars tattoo at the base of her spine.”
All matched the autopsy findings. “Any words?” “Like what?”
“Any kind.”
“No.”
“When we found your sister, she had the word
Witch
tattooed on her forehead.”
Suzanne frowned. “Diane did not have the word
Witch
on her forehead. Are you really sure you have the right person?”
“Yes, ma’am. Very sure.” Had Diane summoned the courage to get out of her apartment in the last week and get the tattoo or had the killer done it?
“She had a thing about the skin on her face. It was part of her getting out of the house problem. She didn’t want the sun to ruin her skin. She took pride in how smooth and pale it was.” Her eyes watered up again. “Do you think whoever killed her did that to her?”

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