Protector. Part 10

"No, boss."

"That's what I thought. That's a possibility right there." Jane raised her eyebrows slightly as she entertained the idea of Emily standing in the dark recesses and watching her parents being butchered to death. "Come on up." Jane reluctantly joined Weyler upstairs. "The child's bedroom door was open when police arrived." Jane followed Weyler into the bedroom. He flicked on the light switch. They were greeted by plush ever-so-pink carpeting that complemented both the pale pink walls and rose print comforter edged with ivory lace. A curved section of carpeting was removed that trailed from the outside landing and into the closet. A trio of windows graced the wall in front of them. Jane couldn't help but notice that the center window had shoe scuff marks and a few scratches on the bottom section, telltale signs of Emily's nocturnal visits onto the roof. Sundry toys and dolls dotted the floor. A cream colored nightstand sat next to the bed. Upon it sat a small lamp with a lampshade that had cutouts of stars encircling it. Jane walked over to the lamp and turned it on while at the same time, turning off the light switch on the wall. Thanks to the innovative lampshade, a band of star shapes projected their illuminated bodies across the wall and ceiling.

"I guess this brings the stars inside," Jane said.

"That's nothing. The kid's got this projector called Starlight Starbright. They found her with it in the closet. It was turned off but when you put it on, these ethereal sounds come out of the speakers and it projects a revolving display of stars across the walls and ceiling. It's quite impressive." Weyler smiled. "Emily's very covetous of it. She carries it around in a little navy blue case."

Suddenly, a swath of dark blue flashed in front of Jane's eyes. It was the exact fragment of navy blue she'd seen before in the staccato blast of images. But this time she could clearly make out the outline of a carrying case. Jane closed her eyes, pressing the heel of her hand against her forehead.

Weyler observed Jane. "What's wrong?"

Jane kept her eyes closed, realizing that a fragmented connection had been made; a connection between a split-second of color and the accompanying image it belonged to. Jane felt her heart beat faster. At that moment, she was certain she was slipping out of her body and into a precarious dark hole where one questions their sanity. She opened her eyes, still feeling as if she were balancing between two realities. "It's nothing," Jane uttered, flicking on the bedroom light and turning to a side door. "That's the closet?"

"Yes." Weyler opened the closet door to reveal a single row of tightly packed clothing on one side, a neat line of shoes underneath and a bevy of oversized bed pillows scattered on the floor. "The door was slightly cracked. Emily was found completely buried in the center of the pillows. The patrol officer who came on scene didn't see her at first. He had his gun drawn as he searched the house. When he opened the closet, he had to look twice before he saw Emily staring straight at him with, what he called, a poker face. No emotion at all on her part. A box of coloring pencils were strewn across the floor right here." Weyler pointed to the front of the bedside table. We believe the perps caused that to happen when they b.u.mped against it. If you go into that closet and hunker down and crack the door just exactly like it was when they found her, it's possible to a.s.sume she had clear line of sight on their faces." Weyler directed Jane's attention to a three-inch square of pink carpeting in front of the table that had been removed. "Right here is where we found drops of blood that fell off one of the knives. We theorize the perp was standing still when the blood dropped from the knife tip. In other words, there could have been a good ten, fifteen, maybe twenty seconds of him standing in one spot in direct line with where Emily was hiding. Enough time for her to clearly see the perp."

"That's just wishful conjecture," Jane replied in a dismissive tone.

"It's a possibility, Jane."

Jane felt herself thankfully slide back into her body. She could now be all business again. "From what you said, the individual or individuals did not leave a trace of their presence, right?"

"Correct."

"So that means they probably covered their shoes to hide footprints, wore gloves and most likely covered their face with something to prevent us from finding sweat and hair and getting a DNA sample."

"That's what we're thinking up to this point."

"Okay, then you have to a.s.sume that certain things follow. First, they are professionals. They know the drill. They know what cops are gonna look for at a scene. Second, the killer or killers knew Emily existed or why would they bother to come upstairs? Oh, and by the way, Chris really f.u.c.ked up when he told the media that Emily was in this house during the murder! That's the kind of information the perps don't need to know! That's also the kind of info that'll keep that kid in protective custody for a lot longer!"

"Point noted, Detective," Weyler said wearily.

"So the killer or killers come up to this room. But Emily's not in her bed like she should be and it doesn't follow to them that she'd be anywhere else in this room. They figure the kid's not here. She's at a friend's house. End of story. They're hyped up. They just killed two people downstairs. They're flying a million miles an hour. Neither one of them is going to stand still after all that and contemplate what he just did, even if he thinks he's alone. They want out of here! But let's just say for the sake of argument that the killer or killers did stop for five or ten seconds. And, as luck would have it, they just happened to stand still right in line with Emily's point of view. So what? They're wearing masks! They could have stood in front of this door for hours and it still wouldn't make a d.a.m.n bit of difference because she couldn't see their faces anyway. In my opinion, I think the whole thing is far too speculative."

"It's only speculative if you're not willing to think outside the box. Remember, Detective, Emily's prints are on the staircase. And her b.l.o.o.d.y footprints trailed blood from the head of her mother's dead body, up those stairs and into this closet." Weyler waited for a response but was greeted with stony silence. He leaned closer to Jane. "She stood in their blood, Jane!"

"She saw her parents! That doesn't mean she saw the killers! Those two pieces of information don't fit together!"

"You just don't want them to fit."

Jane held firm. "They don't fit because they don't fit. Are we done in here?"

Weyler straightened his body and stared at Jane. "Let's go downstairs."

Jane followed Weyler down the stairs and into the living room. She spotted two rolled sleeping bags in the corner of the entry hall-one adult size and one child size. "Who was Emily going camping with?"

"Chris noted that. The neighbors said that Emily and her mother had just returned on May 22 from a nine day camping trip to Moab, Utah."

"They decide to go on a nine day camping trip in the middle of May while school is still in session?"

"Perhaps they wanted to avoid the summer rush of tourists."

"Why didn't David join them?"

"Maybe it was one of those mother/daughter bonding experiences."

Jane stared at the sleeping bags, feeling a nagging sense of something being off creep into her psyche. Weyler stood near the front door. "The front door was wide open when the next-door neighbor found the scene the following morning. Based upon the lividity of both victims, estimation of death is put between nine and eleven the previous evening. Both victims were dressed in street clothes and from all appearances, opened the door quite willingly to the suspects. So did the Lawrences know the perps? It's after nine in the evening. You're typically not going to open your door at that hour to somebody you don't know or you don't trust. Thus, we throw out the idea that this is a random crime."

"Okay."

"Take a look at the scene," Weyler pulled out several color photos from the large envelope and handed them to Jane. "The living room was in shambles. Lamps broken and overturned, there was an overstuffed chair that sat over there that was cut open with one of the knives. That white fluff in the one photo is the polyester filling from inside the chair. Most of the gla.s.s vases and knickknacks were either chipped or smashed. The scene was totally disorganized and trashed. Then of course, there's this."

Weyler handed a photo to Jane. It was a close up of the coffee table. A mound of five ounces of cocaine was piled on the table. Jane examined the photo closely then handed it back to Weyler. "That's convenient," Jane said with a smug look.

"How's that?"

"Look closely. It doesn't fit into the scene. It isn't affected by any of the surrounding debris. If this is a drug deal gone bad, the c.o.ke is already going to be on the table before the carnage starts. If it's already sitting there and all h.e.l.l breaks loose, the c.o.ke is not going to stay in a neat little mound! I'm telling you, after all the s.h.i.t went down, the c.o.ke got put there to throw us off."

"I'll have to think about that one."

"Hey, boss, I'm thinking outside the box!" Jane rejoined.

Weyler looked tiredly at Jane, aware she was sarcastically referring to his earlier remark. "We questioned the neighbors about the Lawrence's overt behavior. They all reported the same thing. Nice couple. He liked to drink a lot at block parties but none of the conspicuous late night drug pickups were ever witnessed. And believe me, these people watch each other."

"There's a Hazel in every neighborhood . . ." Jane said.

"But take a good look at this." Weyler held up a large color photo of David Lawrence sprawled facedown across the living room floor. His throat is deeply slashed, exposing muscles and bone. "You tell me a hyped-up drug addict didn't carve up that man?" Weyler dropped the crime scene photo of David's b.l.o.o.d.y body onto the floor. "David fell here. Patricia was here," he dropped her photo less than three feet from the other one. "David was stabbed over ten times with a double edged knife. The first cut was to the throat, obviously to disengage him from saving his wife. The final kill was to his heart. Patricia Lawrence was stabbed with a single edged knife approximately seventy-five times. Her first cut was also to the throat. Not enough to kill her, but enough to knock the fight out of her. Half of her seventy-five stab wounds were to her face. This photo here shows how the knife entered her left eye and popped part of it out." Weyler layered the close-up photo of Patricia's face on top of her full body photo. Jane regarded the photos with cool detachment. "You want to hear Chris' theory?"

"Sure."

"One of the killers was a woman. The final kill to the heart on David Lawrence and the mutilation of his wife's face led him to that possibility."

"Both of those MOs can reflect a female killer but each was killed with a different knife. So, is Chris saying that two women did this?"

"He speculated it could be a jealous woman and a man."

"Oh, sure. David's having an affair with the woman and he won't divorce Patricia. So his lover hauls a.s.s over here in tow with her boyfriend or husband who conveniently just found out about the tryst and together they decide to take care of business in between snorts of cocaine. Yeah, that makes perfect sense. Or how about this? Maybe it's like a roaming Bonnie and Clyde duo? If so, 'Bonnie' must have the upper arm and wrist strength of a Romanian weight lifter to plunge that knife in Patricia's eye and pull it partly out of her head. Not to mention that Bonnie continues this onslaught seventy-five times on Patricia or over ten times on David. Now, there's a broad you want to have on your office softball team!"

"You can drop the sarcasm. What's your point?"

"A woman played no part in this murder. This is a professional kill. How many male/female teams are out there? I'm not saying that can't happen. I'm just saying it didn't happen here. The other reason I don't think a woman was involved is that pile of cocaine. If this was a drug deal gone bad-and I'm telling you it wasn't-no woman is going to forget what she came here for!

"So, it's two men."

"I don't know. Is it two men who know enough about the MO of a female killer that they consciously create the outward appearance of female involvement? And if so, why? That's on par with premeditated manipulation. Manipulation of us who are standing here and trying to figure out what the f.u.c.k happened! Boss, I know you don't want to hear this, but nothing fits in my opinion. The whole thing feels purposely disjointed. It's like three or four different murders that DH has investigated, but suddenly they're all wrapped up into one house. Is it a man making it look like a woman? Is it one person making it look like two? Is it two making it look like one? I don't know. All I know is that whatever it turns out to be, it's not at all what it seems." Jane's eyes rested upon the desk in the front hallway.

"What is it?" asked Weyler.

"My mother had a similar desk." Jane crossed toward the desk, gently skimming her finger against its rolled edges. "You don't see a lot of these."

"Are they worth a lot?"

"I don't know. They were more a novelty item. I used to call it the 'riddle desk.' "

"Why's that?"

"That's where the novelty part comes in. Every time you think you've found a drawer or cubbyhole, you get tricked. I'll show you. They must have hired world-cla.s.s artists to do the three dimensional designs because they're so lifelike. See these drawers?" Jane pointed to a series of four slender drawers aligned on the top left of the desk. "Try pulling one of them out."

Weyler reached over and tried to grab on to the k.n.o.b but then realized it was only painted on. "Humph!"

"Lifelike, eh? Try opening what looks like a cubbyhole, and it's not."

"What the h.e.l.l good is a desk you can't use?"

"But you can use it. You just have to know what b.u.t.tons to push."

"b.u.t.tons?"

"They're hidden. I'm not exactly sure where they are on this one. My mom's had a couple on the side and some underneath." Jane moved her face closer to the surface of the desk, slowly running her index finger along the middle of the desk. "You just gotta look real closely and if you're lucky . . ." With that, her finger wedged into an indentation in the desk and the front door popped out like a cashier's drawer. "Abracadabra!"

"Anything interesting in there?"

Jane rummaged through the near empty drawer and came up with a handful of paper clips, pencils and erasers. She slid the flat of her hand beneath the underside of the desk. "Sometimes if you feel underneath the front of the desk, you might find a little depression . . . like there." She pushed her finger into the depression and a quick click-click sound triggered the two smaller front side drawers to unlatch. Jane pulled them both out to find them completely empty. "Have you ever seen a cleaner desk than this one?"

"I don't get it. It's got all these secret compartments and hidden b.u.t.tons, how do you find anything? How do you know where they all are?"

"Only the owner of the desk knows what b.u.t.ton goes with what drawer. The rest of us just go about blindly."

Weyler eyed the five wooden compartments that lined the top of the desk. "Are those real?"

"Yeah. My mom's desk had seven of them. One for every day of the week. I used to leave her a little piece of paper in one of those slots every day with a message on it. You know, 'Hi, Mom,' 'Have a good day,' 'Please get well,'" Jane's voice trailed off.

Weyler broke the silence. "You oughta take your mom's desk down to that Antiques Roadshow on PBS when it comes to Denver. Maybe it's worth something."

Jane stiffened. "It's long gone. Dad sold it two days after she died. He got a whole forty bucks for it," Jane declared sarcastically. She turned away from the desk and sauntered into the living room. After surveying the area, she let out a deep sigh. "What do you know about David Lawrence?"

Weyler pulled a small notepad from his jacket pocket and flipped it open, scanning the scribbles. "He was a.s.sistant VP of Technical Development for Crimson Technology in Denver."

"What's Crimson Technology?"

"It's an Internet networking firm. They're troubleshooters. David was apparently the quintessential computer geek. But in the words of one employee our detectives talked to, he was a 'geek who made it good.' This same guy said David reminded him of someone who was awkward and an outsider, but a guy who carefully rose to the top of his company. Someone who could afford to send his daughter to a private school."

Jane brushed up against the Lawrences' gla.s.sed liquor cabinet. "You said, 'carefully rose to the top.' Why 'carefully? '"

"I'm going by the words used to describe David." Weyler read from the pad. "'Careful,' 'Methodical,' 'Deliberate,' 'Safe.' One woman at the company threw in the word 'boring.' He arrived at the office at 8:30 a.m. and left promptly at 6:00. Kept a tidy desk, emptied his 'in' box every day, left nary a sc.r.a.p of refuse on his office carpet."

Jane stared at the liquor cabinet in a daze. She was taking in every word but, at the same time, developing an internal sense for David Lawrence.

"Bank accounts?"

"We checked. No unusually large deposits or withdrawals. He paid his credit cards in full and always at least ten days before they were due. No debt, except for his mortgage. His new Audi was paid off as was his wife's brand-new Toyota 4-Runner."

"Other women in his life?"

Weyler smiled. "We asked about that and we were laughed at."

"Why can't a rich computer geek have an affair?"

"They can. But David Lawrence did not."

"What about the hard drive on his home computer? His personal e-mails?"

"Chris said there was nothing incriminating."

"So, after all the prelim, n.o.body found anything odd?"

"The only somewhat odd comment one of his coworkers made was that for a couple months this spring, David was acting . . . how did he say it . . ." Weyler referred to his notes. "Like a guy who finally got picked for the school team."

"What does that mean?"

"He walked around with a c.o.c.ky strut. The fellow wondered if David had landed another promotion and was keeping it quiet. We asked about a promotion and there was none. Apparently, the c.o.c.ksure att.i.tude didn't last more than six weeks. He suddenly became edgy and anxious with his coworkers. Talked on his phone in hushed tones. Seemed preoccupied at staff meetings. Showed up at work smelling obviously of whiskey."

Jane took Weyler's comment as a backhanded, personal affront. "He showed up at 8:30 and left at 6:00 and paid his bills ten days before they were due. Who gives a s.h.i.t what he does on his off time? Alcohol isn't illegal."

"But cocaine is."

Jane chuckled. "A by-the-book computer nerd turns into a c.o.kehead overnight?"

"It's not impossible."

"No, it's not. But the way everything is laying out around this strange scenario, it's too convenient-too 'Movie of the Week.' Calculating outsider who hasn't a blemish on his record, in the s.p.a.ce of a month or two, decides to turn to cocaine to . . . what? To add excitement to his regimented life? And then, he screws up a huge score with his dealer inside his own house and he and his wife pay with their lives. Pure fiction! Boss, the missing chunks in this case are so big that trains could drive through them! No one point leads effortlessly to the other." Jane approached Weyler, joining him on the landing near the front door. "Why does a careful, boring, financially secure computer geek who's an outsider get slaughtered alongside his lovely wife? What is David's dirty little secret?"

"What do you mean?"

"Everyone's got at least one dirty little secret. And those who say they don't, have some of the best secrets. The Lawrences might have looked clean to their neighbors at block parties, but most people judge you by your outward appearance. And even then, people don't really pay attention. The neighbors know that Patricia and Emily are away on an off-season, nine-day camping trip during school but no one asks 'Why?' It's not about seeing the little things as much as it's about feeling the little things. It's listening to the s.p.a.ces in between the words. It's understanding what a lie sounds like. It's taking a step back and watching. Let's face it, boss, everyone is far too busy to sit back and watch! The Lawrences may look clean on paper, but it's what they whisper to each other in bed. It's what they scream at each other when their kid is at a friend's house. It's what they don't write on the Christmas card letter. It's the dark, rotten family secret that everybody has but no one talks about. Because, if anybody really knew your little secret, you'd be an outcast. And n.o.body wants to risk that. I don't know what their secret was, but I know it wasn't cocaine." Jane casually turned her gaze to the rest of the room. "Well, you asked for my a.s.sessment and my a.s.sessment is . . ." Jane found her gut tightening. She tried to cover it up but the visceral response was overwhelming. She walked away from Weyler, trying to get centered. The more she looked around the room, the deeper her gut moved into it. Holding back was pointless because it only seemed to deepen her attachment. It was as though she could almost hear the walls talking, vibrating, whispering, longing to blare out what they saw. Suddenly, a splash of blood flashed in front of Jane's vision. In less than a second, Emily's face appeared through the disappearing crimson haze. Then, unexpectedly, Emily's face warped into Amy Stover. Her pleading eyes beckoned Jane as her deafening scream pierced the room. Jane grasped her forehead to shut out the disturbing hallucination. Icy sweat beaded across her face and neck. She needed a drink and looked at her watch. It was 11:00 a.m. If she left the house now, she could be downing a bottle of Jack Daniels in less than twenty minutes. "My a.s.sessment is that we don't have all the pieces," Jane said urgently. "And the kid probably doesn't either." Weyler remained silent, staring intently at Jane. She avoided eye contact as she moved to the front door. Pursing her lips, Jane turned to him with an indignant air. "What?"

"Are you done bulls.h.i.ting me?"

Jane anger peaked. "Look, what the f.u.c.k do you want me to tell you? You got no prints except for the occupants . . . no incriminating evidence . . . no witnesses."

"We do have a witness."

"We don't!" Jane felt cornered. She started to open the front door when Weyler moved quickly and slammed it shut with the flat of his hand.

"What are you so d.a.m.ned afraid of?" Weyler yelled.

"The truth!"

"The truth is all I care about! But sometimes it's better to let certain things stay buried in people."