Authors: Margarite St. John
The Art of Death (13 page)
Nut Bar
Monday, June 10, 2013
“Thanks for coming down,” Dave Powers said, eyeing Madeline Harrod with the skepticism inherent in his nature. Even innocent witnesses lied, evaded, forgot critical details, or invented “facts” to make their stories more credible. He had no reason to think Madeleine was a literal witness to anything, but if Madeleine was really “M,” the person Captain Ahab was following, then she might provide a lead to the mystery man -- if she told the truth.
Dave had met Madeleine half a dozen times when she was married to Steve Wright. In those days she had been a little plumper, less polished, much flashier in her makeup and clothes. Now, he noted, she was thinner and made up so skillfully she appeared to be
au naturel
. Stylish in the pretentious way of rich women slumming in thousand-dollar versions of their poorer sisters’ clothes, she was dressed casually in skintight designer jeans and a brown lambskin jacket over a plain white t-shirt. She wore no rings on her fingers, only little gold hoops in her ears and a diamond-studded watch on her wrist that looked like it could pay off his mortgage.
Her turquoise eyes, charmingly crinkled at the corners, and a tiny smile suggested that something struck her as amusing though she was too polite to point it out or laugh out loud. No doubt the workaday, somewhat chaotic appearance of the bullpen -- officers finger-pounding computers, phones ringing, evidence boxes piled here and there, chairs askew, a few civilians being interviewed -- was entertaining in a downscale way.
He disliked her on principle because she’d been Steve Wright’s first wife, a difficult woman who had made his friend’s life miserable for a few years, but as he’d trained himself to do, he kept his face impassive, his voice neutral. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“You look familiar,” she said.
“We met years ago when you were married to Steve.”
“Ah, that’s it. You never liked me, as I remember.”
Dave declined the opportunity to defend himself.
“And,” she continued, “I saw you at Steve’s Derby party, didn’t I?”
“I don’t know. Did you?”
“I’m sure. I never forget a handsome face.”
Dave silently took note of the obvious manipulation. First, put the other person on the defensive, then compliment him. “So . . . coffee?” he asked.
“Is it Starbucks?”
“No. It’s swill, but at least it’s -- I was going to say at least it’s hot but it isn’t.”
“I’ll pass,” she said graciously. She leaned down to dig in her tote. “In anticipation of that very thing, I brought Fuji water. . . . Anybody ever tell you you look like Denzel?”
“I’ve heard that a few times. Don’t see it myself.”
“
Training Day
is one of my favorite movies.”
“So you’re thinking I might be Denzel’s type of cop?”
“Of course not. Just making small talk.”
“Time for large talk then. You might be able to help me out.”
“About what?” Madeleine asked in her most ingratiating voice.
“The murder of Kimberly Swartz.”
“I wondered if that was the reason.”
“Ever hear of a guy called Captain Ahab?”
Madeleine smiled. “What is this? An American literature exam?”
Dave didn’t blink.
Madeleine pouted charmingly and raised her arm like a spring-arm responding to a favorite teacher. “I know, I know, Mr. Detective. Ask me. He’s a character in a classic novel by Herman Melville.
Moby Dick.
” Turning serious, she put her arm down. “I read it in a summer class I took for fun.”
“From what I’ve found out about Miss Swartz’s internet searches, she probably didn’t read classic novels. She told her friend this Ahab character was following you around.”
“Kimmie had a friend?”
Dave, already tired of this narcissist’s performance, waited her out.
“So, Mr. Detective, who told her that?”
“An anonymous friend. So how about it? Who’s Captain Ahab? Has he been following you around?”
Madeleine fixed her eyes on his face as if he were distracted by trivialities but she’d indulge him anyway. “I’ve seen him a few times.” She told him about her encounters with the ship captain in Indianapolis, first at an art gallery and then the next day in a hotel conference room where she was getting an award. She gave no details about the ship captain but had a lot to say about her one-woman show and then the award from the Association of Forensic Artists.
When Dave asked for the dates of those encounters, Madeleine took her time extracting her iPhone and looking them up. Dave wondered why she was buying time. If the one-woman show and forensic artist award were as important as she made them sound, surely she knew the dates without refreshing her memory.
“May 10 and 11. Friday night and Saturday morning.”
“You ever see the guy before that?”
“No.”
“Tell me what you remember about his voice, his looks, his walk, his gestures, his body -- everything.”
“I don’t remember that much.”
He eyed her skeptically. “You’re an artist. You see things. Artists don’t forget details.”
She shrugged as if his questions were unimportant but she’d keep indulging him. “Funny eyes -- .”
“Funny eyes how?”
“Flat and hard like a stone, no light in them, couldn’t tell the color. Accusatory eyes.”
“Accusatory?”
“Like yours.”
Dave ignored that. “Voice?”
“Monotone, gender-neutral.”
“But he is a man?”
“Definitely.”
“Keep going with the details.”
“A little taller than me, walks like he’s attempting to keep his footing on a boat pitching in high seas. Big barrel-chest,” she said, drawing a shape in the air around her chest. “White hair, little tufts of whiskers near his sideburns. Very sunburned. That’s about it.”
“Clothes?”
“Navy blazer, big brass buttons, white trousers.”
“Age?
Madeleine closed her eyes in frustration. “Oh, I don’t know. His skin was leathery and he had crow’s feet but he might be younger than he looks. Fifty-something?”
“Is that a statement or a question?”
She frowned in frustration. “It’s a guess. He didn’t show me his driver’s license.”
Dave ignored the sarcasm. “Race?”
“White.”
Dave, who had been taking notes, sat back. “What did he say to you?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Dave asked, not bothering to hide his surprise.
“Nothing,” she said firmly. “Not a word.”
“Why was he following you? Or why do you think he was following you if he didn’t say a word?”
“No idea. . . . Well, one.”
“Which is what?”
“At the art gallery he suddenly grabbed my wrist so tight it left a mark.”
“Who did you report that to?”
“Nobody. Not security or the police, I mean. Of course, I told Anthony -- .”
“Dr. Beltrami.”
She nodded. “And a couple of other people -- Babette, Dr. Eagleton.”
“Who are they?”
“Babette owns the gallery. Dr. Eagleton is an art critic.” She held out her left wrist. “That was weeks ago, of course, so the mark is gone now. At the hotel, the same man showed up for my award, why I don’t know. He got to his feet to ask a question.”
“Which was?”
“Can’t remember.”
“Why?”
“I fainted.”
“Because of him?”
“No. I hadn’t eaten. I’d just made a PowerPoint presentation. I was exhausted.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“At the hotel in Indy.”
“Any other contact -- phone, mail, Twitter, Facebook?”
“No.”
“Does he have something to do with what happened to you at the Dunes on July 4, 1990?”
She shook her head in exasperation. “The Dunes! God, I wish I’d never tried to rescue that stupid girl. It was like stepping in tar you never get off your shoe.” She paused. “What’s Ahab have to do with Dunes anyway?”
“The victim mentioned -- .”
“Which victim?” Madeleine interjected.
“What do you mean, which victim? Are you calling Nicole a victim?”
Madeleine looked momentarily confused. “In a way. She was a victim of drowning, wasn’t she? . . . So we’re still talking about Kimmie,” Madeleine murmured.
“Yes,” Dave said. “Miss Swartz mentioned the Dunes to her friend.”
“What did she say about the Dunes?”
“Captain Ahab knew something about the Dunes but she didn’t say what.”
“That’s because there was nothing to say.”
“So why would she agree to meet Captain Ahab, do you think?”
“I didn’t know she did. Where’d she meet him?”
Dave let the silence bloom
Madeleine’s eyes widened. “At the cemetery? Is that who killed her?”
“That’s the question.”
“Anybody see him there?”
Dave looked at her impassively.
Madeleine pursed her lips and said in a mocking tone, “It’s under investigation, I suppose, so you can’t tell me anything. Right?”
Without mockery, Dave repeated her words back to her. “It’s under investigation.”
“So tell me this, Mr. Detective, should I be afraid he’ll do the same thing to me as he did to Kimmie?”
“We don’t know that he did anything to Miss Swartz.”
She bent down to pick up her tote, signaling the interview was over. “That’s an understatement. If I understand you, the only reason you think Captain Ahab might have murdered Kimmie is because of something she told a friend -- her anonymous friend.”
“So you don’t think he could have had anything to do with Ms. Swartz.”
“I didn’t say that. Maybe he did. But don’t base your theory on anything Kimmie said. Let me tell you something about her. She was a human nut bar, brittle on the outside, gooey on the inside. I paid her to come to my house on Sundays for salon services because I felt sorry for her, she was so pathetic.”
“So you’re not afraid of Captain Ahab?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Did he accuse you of injuring Nicole Whitehead and faking your efforts to save her from drowning?”
Madeleine didn’t move a muscle but her look was contemptuous. “He didn’t accuse me of anything, let alone something that defamatory. I told you, he never said a word to me.”
“I understand you own Appledorn Exploratorium. Is that right?”
Madeleine smiled. “Yes. We make facial reconstruction kits and scientific toys. They look very realistic.”
“Do you make plastic guns or other weapons?”
“No. We could make them, because we have the latest stereolithography.”
“Which is what?”
Her condescension was palpable. “3-D printers to the layman. I use my personal printer for forensic reconstructions. At Appledorn Exploratorium, we have the new MCOR IRIS which prints in color.”
“Any reason you don’t make guns?”
“I grew up with guns and I’m not afraid of them, but guns aren’t toys and we don’t want to confuse our primary market, which is science students and teachers, not terrorists and drug couriers. We could make real guns that fire, but then the federal regulations and insurance requirements would change for us. . . . Why? Is your department going to get with the 21st century? Maybe start manufacturing your own guns? I can give you pointers if you need them.” She looked at his messy desk, then around the room with contempt. “And I’m sure you need them. Pointers, I mean.” Hoisting her tote to her shoulder, Madeleine got to her feet.
“One last question, Madeleine. Where were you very early in the morning of Monday, May 20?”
“What day was that?”
“The day Ms. Swartz was shot in the cemetery.”
She rolled her eyes. “How early?”
“Between five and eight.”
“In bed. Asleep.”
“At the farm?”
“No.”
“Then where?”
“That’s very personal.”
“Murder is personal.”
She rolled her eyes again. “At Anthony’s apartment.”
“He was there too?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he now? We’ve been trying to contact him for a week.”
“Why?”
“He was her therapist, right?”
“Psychiatrist,” she corrected.
“There’s a rumor that she was unhappy with his services and was threatening to make trouble for him.”
“Since when do you listen to rumors?”
“I listen to everything until I get to the truth. As her psychiatrist, he might know something.”
“Not about the murder, that’s for sure.”
“Nevertheless, do you know where we can find him?”
“No fair, Mr. Detective. You already asked the last question.”
“Humor me.”
“He’s at a conference out west somewhere but off the top of my head I can’t remember where.”
Dave nodded toward her tote. “You wanna check your iPhone?”
“No.” Madeleine pirouetted as if at the end of a runway, her suddenly friendly look at odds with her next words, which were spoken in the voice of a spiteful little girl. “I do not like thee, Dr. Fell. The reason why, I cannot tell.”
Dave eyed her quizzically.
“An old nursery rhyme, Mr. Detective. You don’t like me and I
really
don’t like you.”
Volcano
Monday, June 10, 2013
When his shift was over, Dave called Sheila, his wife, to say he was having drinks with a colleague and might have a bite to eat, so don’t hold dinner.
Then he drove to the Sycamore Hills Golf Club. He found Walter Richardson in the Grill Room at a corner table for four. “Somebody joining us?” Dave asked.
“No. Just wanted a little privacy. What are you having? Bourbon on the rocks is my poison.”
“A beer is fine.” Dave looked around. “I’ve never been here in the Grill Room before. How long have you been a member?”
“Less than a year. I never belonged to a club or even played golf until I retired. I like it more than I thought I would.”
“My wife is a member at the Gretna Green Golf and Tennis Club, a perk of her job at Summit Academy.”
“That’s quite a perk. What’s the connection?”
“My friend Steve Wright, you remember him from the Fetters scandal,” -- Walter nodded -- “owns Gretna Green. His wife, Lexie, owns Summit Academy, where my wife is president. . . . You want the truth?”
“I don’t know,” Walter said, smiling. “Do I?”
“It wouldn’t look good to my superiors to be a member, not on my salary and with some of the cases I’ve worked, so Steve and Lexie arranged everything so I’m not the member. But I play golf there a lot. Steve and I are old friends from high school. In those days, he pitched baseball and I played football, but neither’s a sport for old men.”
“You’re not old by my standards. I have three kids older than you.”
“In my book, thirty-six is old for football. Anyway, after college both Steve and I took up golf. Now I wish I played the circuit.”
“You’re that good, Dave?”
“No. That’s the problem,” he said, drawing a laugh from Walter. “I’m just not a fan of nine to five.”
“Glad to hear you’re not a pro. Maybe you’ll join me this summer for a few rounds here. Jack Nicklaus designed the course, you know. I’m still a duffer myself, so I don’t do the course credit.”
“I’ve played here but I haven’t broken any records either,” Dave said, itching to shift topics, ready to get to the one on both their minds. “So, what’s an ex-CIA investigator think of Ms. Madeleine Harrod?”
Dave and Walter had met earlier in the year when they were separately investigating murders, one old and two fresh, that appeared to be unrelated but turned out to be connected in the oddest way. After retiring from the CIA, Walter had moved to Fort Wayne, where his wife’s sister and brother lived, and set up as a private investigator with expertise in industrial espionage. The work he’d done on the cold murder case was a gift from the heart to the mother of a murdered girl. The two men had exchanged information that led to the murderer’s identity.
Dave and Walter could hardly be more different. With his pink cheeks, gray eyes, and flyaway white hair, Walter looked like a clerk in a toy store, not a tough CIA investigator whose laser vision penetrated the darkest corners of the criminal mind. Dave, on the other hand, still looked like the rugged, unflappable football player he had been in high school and college.
Except for being white and a bit pudgy, Walter reminded Dave of his father, who was a Chief Warrant Officer in the U.S. Navy, currently deployed on an aircraft carrier. Both older men had the ramrod bearing of the military and a shoeshine that reflected sunlight all 93 million miles back to its source. Both hid a steely confidence and a strong respect for discipline behind an amiable exterior. That amiable exterior was a source of great confusion to the sluggards and malingerers who reported to Chief Warrant Officer Burgo Powers and to the sly leakers and turncoats who found themselves in the orbit of Walter Richardson, Counterintelligence Analyst.
Once the murder cases Dave and Walter had been working on were wrapped up in March, the two men had compared notes on several occasions. In the course of their exchanges, Walter said enough about CIA techniques to make Dave aware that he had a lot to learn. The fact that Walter was retired and old enough to be his father removed any strain of competition. And the complementary fact that Dave was eager to be the best of the best at crime investigation and showed no hint of defensiveness or hurt pride nudged Walter into the role of unofficial mentor.
So, as part of refining his interviewing techniques Dave had invited Walter to sit in the bullpen at an empty desk as if he were just another plainclothes police officer when Madeleine Harrod came to call. Walter had a perfect view of the woman, saw every gesture and heard every word. He’d googled her ahead of time, checked out her web site and blogs, got his wife to friend Ms. Harrod on her Facebook page, and did some standard background checks.
After Madeleine Harrod left the police station, Walter exited without conferring with Dave. They would wait until Dave’s shift ended to dissect what happened.
Now, they were ready, out of the hearing of Dave’s boss, Captain Schmoll.
Walter signaled for another round of drinks. He sat back with a bemused look. “She has a nice firm round ass, right?”
“Walter, you dog!”
“My three kids weren’t virgin births, Dave. And I take it your kid wasn’t either.”
“What gave me away?”
“The way you watched her leave.”
“Strictly professional.”
“And I’m Cary Grant. . . . The woman is a living volcano, hot magma and ash bubbling -- no, heaving -- just below the surface.”
“All those technical words, Walter, you sound exactly like a psychiatrist.”
“I’ve rarely seen that much repressed fury in a woman.”
“About what?”
“I’d say, the hand life dealt her.”
“She’s rich and beautiful and always lands on her feet. She lives by the rule that if she makes just one person miserable in a day, she hasn’t lived in vain. So it doesn’t look like a bad hand from where I’m sitting.”
“From where she’s sitting, her life is second-rate. A good painter but not an excellent one. An award-winning forensic artist but not internationally recognized. A businesswoman but not yet on the Big Board. And she’s had a lot of losses. Her friend at the Dunes, her mother when she was only thirteen, three husbands in quick succession, and God knows who else.”
“Oh,” Dave objected, “how many people are first-rate? How many mortals skate through life with never a terrible loss or disappointment?”
“By definition, very few, but she believes she’s due a lot more recognition for what’s she achieved.” Walter tapped the table. “Does Captain Ahab exist?”
Dave looked as startled as he felt. “What? Why . . . ?”
“She’s afraid of him because he grabbed her arm, she faints when he rises to ask her a question, she wonders if he killed her friend. But she dismisses the Swartz girl’s suspicion because she’s a nut bar. Then she never implored you for protection. Strange, don’t you think?”
“I noticed that. Lots of contradictions.”
“She had to look up the dates of her show and award but not where she was the morning Miss Swartz was murdered. First she pretended not to connect the date and then immediately knew where she was, though she apparently sometimes sleeps at the farm, sometimes with her doctor friend, sometimes out of town.”
“I noticed that too.”
“That woman is stuffed with secrets. No one gesture gives the game away, but she’s constantly moving, changing positions, suppressing gestures, flipping from one mood to another, alternately forthcoming and tight-lipped. The gestures and facial expressions don’t match her words. . . . You ever hear the theory that we live in only one of untold trillions of universes, intersecting through invisible membranes, different laws of physics in each?”
Dave frowned. “No.”
“I’m a fan of Neil deGrasse Tyson, an astrophysicist on one of the cable channels. Watch him sometime. He’s a black guy whose specialty is black holes. Something amusing about that, I suppose, like a dentist named Dr. Paine. What Tyson has to say makes you think. And what I’m thinking is, Madeleine Harrod passes back and forth through the membrane from this universe to another one without even knowing it.”
“I’d like to claim I’m following you, but I’m not.”
“On her toy company blog she says that the lives she’s lived before, which she’s experienced through regression analysis, are the inspiration for some of those toy kits she sells. On her blog about painting, she says she never portrays a living person because that would be stealing the person’s soul. On her blog about forensic facial reconstructions, she waxes on and on about how she ‘sees’ a complete face once she has one or two details.”
“I think I see where you’re going.”
Pleased, Walter nodded. “Not many westerners believe in reincarnation the way she does. Civilized people don’t worry about being photographed or painted. Believing invisible worlds exist, like heaven and hell, is common, but actually ‘seeing’ the invisible is the prerogative of saints and lunatics.”
“We know she’s not a saint.”
“Exactly,” Walter said. “Madeleine Harrod may have been wired a little strangely even before the trauma at the Dunes, but I suspect it marked her for life.”
For the next two hours, while they savored Turkey Hot Browns, Walter and Dave traded observations about Madeleine Harrod, as well as about black holes, invisible membranes, Captain Ahab, murders in cemeteries, and other mysteries of the universe.
