Silent Witness (4 page)

Cochrane slid her a quizzical glance. “You practice psychobabble at OIG?”

“Actually,” she said, relieved that his tone was less acidic and hard, “I worked for the FBI for four years before taking the job at the DOD about a year ago. My specialty as a Jungian analyst was to help them rework
criminal profiles, mainly of bank robbers. When my husband, Mark, died unexpectedly of a heart attack at age forty, I quit the Bureau. We had met there, and I just couldn't deal with the memories. And to tell you the truth, I'd had it with criminal profiles.”

“I see,” Cochrane murmured. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at her.

Heartened by his mild expression of interest, Ellen dived in. “I had met June Catter, a senior investigator with the DOD. She was the one who suggested the analyst position with the OIG. It turned out to be a good fit. I had written my Ph.D. dissertation on the impact of job stress on military families. The service is a pretty terrorizing place for women and children. Especially those that have never been exposed to such a rigid way of living.”

“Isn't that the truth?” His hands tightened on the steering wheel.

Ellen waited, but realized he wasn't going to add anything. Cochrane's generous mouth was thinned again, the corners pulled in as if he was experiencing some kind of secret pain. His voice had an undercurrent of emotion. She almost asked what he was feeling, as was her custom as a psychologist, but her intuition warned her against it. He would take her interest as intrusion into his space.

Plunging ahead, Ellen said, “After graduating with a masters in psychotherapy, and while working for the FBI, I've continued following about seventy military
families and their lives for the last five years. I've done extensive, ongoing interviews with them. Right now, I'm in the process of writing a book. I hope to get a Jungian-oriented publisher to print my findings.”

“What's ‘Jungian,' anyway? I've heard of a lot of other breeds of shrinks, but not this particular variety of polecat.”

Ellen rolled her eyes and laughed lightly. He was teasing her, and hope blossomed in her heart. Maybe he would soften a little. “Carl Jung was a Swiss psychiatric pioneer. He worked with Freud, but went on to see the world a lot differently. In our training, we put great stock in dreams, intuition, symbols, myths and archetypes.” She paused for a moment. “I can tell you don't have much respect for therapists as a whole, Jungian or not.”

He eyed her critically. “My experiences with shrinks leave me a little jaded, Agent Tanner. I've seen these professionals act as ‘expert witnesses,' pumping out whatever the defense or prosecution wants a jury to hear. These so-called ‘degreed' people who eagerly testify are nothing more than trained hound dogs, in my book.” He shook his head. “I don't like psych types. I think they're in the business to straighten out their own screwed up heads and lives, if you ask me.”

Ellen resisted feeling angry at his critical comments. Her brain told her to stay objective. Her heart, however, was pounding. She felt assaulted by his nasty view of her profession. She steeled herself. “I see. Does that same analogy apply to your world, too?”

“What do you mean?”

Ellen shrugged delicately. “Did you became a lawyer to understand right from wrong? To ensure justice to the limits of the law?”

“My view on shrinks is just that, Agent Tanner. I don't like them. They deal in fluff as far as I'm concerned. I deal with facts. It's that simple, so don't read anything more into it.”

“You still haven't answered my question, Lieutenant.” Ellen met his slitted gray gaze. She wasn't about to let this testy officer pigeonhole her with his concept of a psychologist.

“What? About becoming a legal eagle to learn about justice?” His derisive chuckle filled the car. “Where I come from, right and wrong are black-and-white. There are no gray areas, no maybes. If a score can't be settled with talking, then a shotgun settles it.”

“I was merely taking your earlier generalization and applying it to lawyers. You've indicated that anyone entering my profession is basically crazy, that we've chosen a psychology career to learn how to become sane.”

“Reckon you're smarter than I gave you credit for, Agent Tanner. Score two points for your side.”

“I don't like being stereotyped, Lieutenant Cochrane. My work is very different from other forms of therapy within the psychiatric field.” Damn but he was stubborn and opinionated!

“Well, we may get the chance to see whose stereotype is correct.”

Ellen sat there, barely holding on to her rising temper. She realized again how Cochrane was projecting his anger and job stresses on her. “I know that we have different perspectives, Lieutenant, but with time I hope we can see the positive qualities we each bring to our team.”

Cochrane slowed down and took the Spring Street off-ramp that would take them into downtown La Mesa, a sleepy community northwest of San Diego. “Different perspectives, Agent Tanner? Try different worlds. Different realities.” He jabbed his finger toward the car window. “Right now I have a possible homicide on my hands. That's a reality, not a perspective. I'm not poking fun at you, your work or your degrees, but we have absolutely nothing in common. It's like trying to hitch a racehorse with a plow horse.”

Ellen heard the rest of his diatribe: that whatever her experience or knowledge, she could not help him in this investigation. Grimly, she retorted, “I learn fast, Lieutenant. And I don't intend to be a millstone around your neck on this homicide.”

“Possible homicide.”

“Okay, possible.” He wasn't going to give her an inch. Still, Ellen could swear she felt his interest in her, man to woman. It was a fleeting thing, but she'd sensed it a couple of times. There was a complex dance going on here and she felt swept up in it. She couldn't sort it out yet. Time with Cochrane would help. Ellen had to be patient, and remain open to him, even if he was constantly attacking her.

Cochrane braked the car and turned onto a quiet street off the main thoroughfare. “La Mesa is a small bedroom community. There are some wealthy people and a lot of middle class. There's also a Navy housing project for enlisted people within the city limits.” He pointed ahead. “This condominium complex is where our possible homicide lived. See how new and upscale it is? Looks like our Lieutenant Susan Kane was very good at managing her money to afford these kinds of digs on a naval salary. Or maybe she has a rich pa.”

Ellen glanced around at the Santa Fe–style architecture. The two-story stucco buildings were painted a pale pink and dressed up with red, Spanish tile roofs. “How can you say that? You don't know anything about her yet.”

Cochrane pulled into the street in front of the condo. As he did so, he saw two La Mesa police cruisers. Farther down the street, there was an ambulance with San Diego Medical Examiner printed on its side. “I know what lieutenants make, and judging by this ritzy place, Kane was either into something illegal, or came by the place through her rich family connections.”

Ellen stared at him. “How about she had a sugar daddy who kept her in the style she was accustomed to?”

Cochrane shut off the engine and released his seat belt. His mouth quirked. “Not bad, Agent Tanner. You surprise me. Maybe you aren't all fluff, after all. That's another possibility.”

Frowning, Ellen shook her head. “Why don't you consider the possibility she saved her money so she could afford something like this?”

“I reckon there's a slim chance of that. Since we have to work together for God knows how long, you might as well learn how I go about investigating. It's obvious you know nothing about death scenes. So today starts your OJT—on the job training,” he said, leaning over the seat to grab his briefcase.

“It's a step in the right direction.” At least Cochrane wasn't going to cut her out altogether and ignore her. “This is a two-way street, Lieutenant. I may not know about homicides or investigative techniques, but I have a fair amount of expertise in how people behave.”

“At a crime scene, that isn't going to be of much help,” he said, opening the door and climbing out. “The dead aren't talking.”

Ellen followed. The bright, warm June sunshine was blinding as they took the pale pink steps up to the front door. Breathlessly, she hitched her knapsack strap on her shoulder as they approached the police officer guarding the entrance. “Who has authority on this case?” she asked him.

“The L.M.P.D. I'm supposed to work with our civilian counterpart.”

Ellen hesitated, her voice becoming suddenly taut. “Is—is the body still in there?”
Oh, God! A body? No…not again! Not another one!
She couldn't handle it. She just couldn't. In that moment, Ellen felt her
whole world coming apart, leaving her cold and stricken.

“I reckon it is. You okay, Agent Tanner? You're looking kinda peaked to me.”

June 22

D
ISTRACTED BY
E
LLEN'S
sudden paleness, Cochrane showed his ID to the La Mesa cop, who went inside to tell Detective Jerry Gardella that they'd arrived. Ellen stood next to Jim, looking like the bleached bones of a dead seal he'd once seen on the beach—white and colorless. His hands itched to wrap around her shoulders and give her a squeeze of support. He wanted to tell her everything would be okay. But he knew it wouldn't be.

Somehow, he'd have to find a way to apologize for his boorish behavior earlier. A naval officer was a gentleman, not an angry boar running around hooking people with its deadly tusks.

A trim, tanned man, wearing stone-washed Levis and a red polo shirt, came out and shut the door to the condo behind him.

“Ah, the cavalry has arrived.” The man extended his hand. “Detective Jerry Gardella, La Mesa P.D. You Navy types from Giddings?”

Cochrane shook the detective's hand. “No, sir. JAG
legal officer Lieutenant Jim Cochrane.” He glanced to his right where Tanner stood, still white-faced. “This is my new partner, Agent Tanner, DOD, OIG.” They both showed him their IDs.

They exchanged business cards and Jim made a quick assessment of the detective. Gardella was fifty-something, five feet eight inches tall, with that famous California tan and trim physique that seemed to go with the state's image. He had dark brown eyes to match the short brown hair with silver at the temples. His mouth was thin, like the rest of him, and his demeanor low-key yet commanding.

“We're performing a witness check right now,” Gardella told him. “We'll give you anything we find.”

Jim nodded. “I'm appreciative, Detective. We'll do the same if we stumble upon anything.”

Gardella rubbed his hands together. “That's what I like—cooperation and teamwork. We're gonna get along just fine. Let's go in.”

Cochrane pulled out two sets of latex gloves from his pocket and instructed Ellen to put on a pair before entering. He did the same.

As they moved into the condo, Gardella motioned toward the hall. “The body's in the bedroom down at the end, on the left. The tech boys have done their work. We did a generalized search of the bedroom, and the other detectives are in the kitchen right now. The bottle she took the pills from is still on the bedstand. There's also one capsule on the carpet next to her bed, which we left in place.”

“We'll take some photos, measure a couple of things and keep out of your way. Did you find out anything else about that anonymous call that tipped you off to Kane's death?” Cochrane asked.

“The L.M.P.D. dispatcher received the 911 call at 3:10 a.m. The caller gave Susan Kane's name and address, said to get an ambulance over here in a hurry, and then hung up. I just sent the backup unit to that convenience store where the call originated. I'll talk to the person on duty to see if they saw anyone at their pay phone at that time.” Stifling a yawn, he continued, “I got here just after 6:00 a.m.”

“I see.” Cochrane slowly looked around the living room of the condo. The walls were painted a nondescript beige. The furniture was antique, obviously old and well cared for. The drapes at the front window were lacy—the only indication that a woman lived here and not a man. Jim glanced down at Ellen and observed her gazing around the room, her eyes wide with anxiety. Her hands were clasped and she seemed nervous. Again, he wanted to put his arm around her and give her solace. Maybe he should tell her to leave? But she had to learn the procedures.

“You any good with photography, Ellen?” he asked, still torn over what to do. Maybe putting her to work would get her mind off the fact she was going to see a dead body for the first time in her life.

Ellen jumped at the sound of his voice. “Me? No. I'm not very good with a camera. Why?” She could feel
snakes thrashing around in her gut. This was the
last
place she wanted to be. Her instinct was to run—as far away as she could. There was a dead body in the bedroom. How would she ever handle it? When she saw Jim giving her an odd look as he pulled out a compact camera, she knew she had to explain. Her voice came out raspy and tense. “I can't do it. At least…not today. Maybe on another case?”

“Sure, no problem. Let's check out the body of Lieutenant Kane.” Moving down the passageway toward the bedroom, Cochrane eyed all the impressive diplomas and awards hanging on one bulkhead.

“Well, she was neat and clean,” he noted, glancing back at Ellen. The Queen Anne cherry desk was not only highly polished and dust free, but not a scrap of paper cluttered it. At the end of the passageway, he discovered the master bedroom. He knew Ellen was watching him for a reaction when they entered, but he donned his usual expressionless mask.

The medical examiner, a man in his late fifties with graying hair and wire-rim glasses, stood in the corner of the room writing notes on a clipboard. A police officer was on his hands and knees on the opposite side of the bed, obviously still looking for evidence. By law, there had to be an officer in the room with the body until it was removed to the morgue on the M.E.'s order.

Jim introduced themselves to both officials. The M.E., John Williams, grunted his name and gave a perfunctory smile, then continued with his notes. The po
lice officer gave them permission to examine the crime scene.

Lieutenant Susan Kane lay on a flowery print comforter on a canopy bed, on her right side. She was in her dress white uniform. Her dark brown hair was regulation short. What struck Cochrane the most was that Kane looked like a perfect wax museum replica of a human being—not a dead body. Her uniform was spotless and pressed to perfection. She wore white heels, her slender, nylon-clad legs drawn up toward her body in a semifetal position. As his gaze ranged upward, he shook his head. In her arms was a large brown teddy bear. Of all things.

Something didn't jibe in Jim's mind. Here was a hotshot Navy pilot and instructor at Top Gun, the cream of the naval fighter community, dead, with a teddy bear tightly pressed to her breast, her arms wrapped around it as if she had been clinging to the bear for dear life.

Susan Kane was prettier than most. She was tall and slender, her face oval with a slightly stubborn chin, full lips now parted in death, and thick brown lashes that fanned out across her cheeks. The M.E. had placed tape across her eyelids. People died with their eyes open, not shut, Jim knew.

He heard Ellen give a strangled croak, and glanced over at her. “You okay?”

She touched her throat with her fingertips and stared at the dead officer. She opened her mouth, but when no sound issued forth she shut it again. Obviously want
ing to cry, she turned away and tried to take several deep, steadying breaths. It was obvious to Jim that his new partner was not going to get through this today.

Lifting the D-70 Nikon, Cochrane took several shots from different angles, careful where he stepped in the bedroom. “You get used to it after a while,” he growled softly, taking the barb out of his tone. The bedroom reminded him of some fantasy land of long ago. Certainly not the bedroom of a modern-day jet jock.

Rubbing her moist brow, Ellen muttered, “I'll never get used to this. It's awful….” She pressed her hand to her stomach, unable to watch what Jim was doing. She heard a number of clicks of the camera as he continued to take photos. How could he be so calm?

Bothered by Ellen's frozen-deer-in-the-headlights response, Jim took a photo of the Queen Anne table that served as a bedstand. He noted a white handkerchief edged with delicate lace in Kane's right hand. Had she used it while crying? He was sure she had, and anguish tugged in the region of his heart.

Susan Kane looked peaceful in repose, and Cochrane thought what a shame it was to waste such a young life. The tragedy shook him. It shouldn't have, but it did. Was it her ethereal look, even in death? The fact that she was holding that ridiculous teddy bear? The bedroom's decor, too, hinted at a bygone era, and perhaps a romantic side she probably hid from the prying eyes of the military.

He heard Ellen gulp noisily and make another at
tempt to speak. Bothered that she was upset, he tightened his lips to hold back emotions of his own he hadn't expected to feel. It simply wasn't a professional reaction.

Keeping his voice gentle, he turned to her. “Why don't you join Detective Gardella out in the living room?”

“Thank you. I will….” Ellen said, then quickly left.

Cochrane moved to the bed. He knelt down and took a close-up photo of Susan Kane, from the waist up, then several more of her face and neck. Something was badly out of kilter with this scenario.
Was
it a suicide? A homicide made to look like a suicide? Why the hell was she clutching a very old, obviously very worn, much-loved teddy bear in her arms?

His daughter, Merry, had a teddy bear that was her “blanky,” a source of security. She went nowhere without her beloved Pooh Bear, which he'd brought to the hospital two days after she was born. Merry had grown up with that now-ragged bear. Had this old stuffed animal that Susan Kane held meant the same thing to her? What was the story behind the bear? Was there a story at all?

Sometime later, he heard footsteps enter the bedroom.

“Uhh…” Ellen stood unsteadily, her hands gripping the door frame. “Sorry to bother you….”

Cochrane turned to find she was now a pale green. “Yes?”

“Detective Gardella said the search in the kitchen turned up nothing.” Ellen gulped loudly again and pressed one hand across her mouth.

“Okay. Do yourself a favor, Ellen—go heave your guts out and then come back in here and help me?” He wanted to tell her to just leave and not come back at all, but she was supposed to learn procedures, not be missing in action. Internally, Jim hurt for her, and it nagged him he couldn't give her the solace she needed.

Ellen blanched even more, turned on her heel and disappeared. Nearly running down the hall, she barely made it to the bathroom in time.

Cochrane felt a twinge of conscience. Why was he so het up, so angry? It wasn't Ellen's fault that she'd been sent out here from D.C. She'd lost her husband. Maybe she'd found him dead? And maybe that's why she was so upset having to see a body today? Jim didn't know. Muttering a curse, he finished taking necessary photos.

The M.E. closed his notebook and came around the bed. The pathetically gaunt man introduced himself and pointed to the body. “You done?”

“Yes, sir.”

With another grunt, the M.E. walked closer to the bed. Gently, he grasped one of the teddy bear's ears and eased the toy from Kane's arms. He would place the bear in a brown paper evidence bag for Gardella, although Cochrane was sure it was an extraneous piece of evidence that would just gather dust in the L.M.P.D.
holding locker. The M.E. left the room, and Jim followed. As he passed a closed door, he heard Ellen retching, and felt like hell for her. He wanted to do something to help her.

The past two years since the divorce had been grim ones, with him acting like a polecat more times than he wanted to admit. He wasn't the fun person he once was in the JAG office. The country boy from Missouri, who used to always have an easy smile to cheer up the gloomiest comrade-at-arms, had been missing in action. He'd gone from a joker to a joke. Most of the people in his office avoided him now, and Jim didn't blame them. The divorce had been hell. His love for Jodi had died like a vine cut off at its root. Not seeing Merry every day broke his heart. He could hardly stand being away from his daughter.

To hell with it.
He walked quickly back to the bathroom. After knocking on the door, Jim eased it open. Ellen Tanner was on her knees, hugging the commode, her face pale, the coppery freckles across her cheeks standing out in sharp relief.

“Hold on,” he murmured, touching her shoulder gently as he moved past her. He grabbed a washcloth, wet it in the sink and squeezed it out. “Here, wipe your mouth.” His fingers tingled as her shaking, clammy hand met his. Jim found a glass and filled it with tepid water.

Ellen sat there, sniffing and coughing. Huge tears rolled down her face. Setting the glass aside, Jim took
the cloth from her and rinsed it beneath a stream of warm water. After wringing it out again, he pressed it against her dark, anguished eyes, then gently wiped her face. Just that little contact sent a frisson of yearning across his heart. It had been a long time since he'd touched a woman, and it sent an ache through him, one so acute he didn't know how to react.

“Th-thanks…” Ellen murmured. Oh! How she needed this kind of care and attention right now. She was starved for a little humanity from Cochrane. And he wasn't disappointing her.

“Dress you up, can't take you anywhere, gal,” Jim teased huskily.
Damn!
Where had that endearment come from? To him, “gal” was a term for one's sweetheart. Flustered, he muttered, “Stay where you are.”

He handed her the glass and she took it in a shaky hand. Tears continued to spill from her eyes. She took a gulp of the water and rinsed out her mouth. Jim leaned down and patted her shoulder awkwardly.

“It's gonna be okay,” he soothed. “Sorry I've been acting like a bear with a toothache toward you. Just take your time coming out. First time you see a body, you see a lot of the bathroom, too.”
So much for hearts and flowers, Cochrane. That sounded real understanding.