The Heights Page 11

  “One of the other detectives told me he has Asperger’s.”

  She nods. “Right. Do you know much about Asperger’s?”

  “A little. I have a friend who works with kids at the Clinic.” It’s not a total lie. Josh is a pediatric oncologist. I vaguely remember him having a patient who had Asperger’s about six months back.

  She keeps nodding, her ample chins following her head. “Mm-hmm. Well, Paul is very high functioning. See, our parents died when he was fourteen. I was already twenty by then.” She chuckles. “I’m not sure why they waited so long to have Paul, but you know how those things go.”

  I nod, hoping that this isn’t going to take the rest of the evening and wondering what their parents’ deaths have to do with Paul being high functioning.

  “He and Anders were good friends when they were boys,” she says. “They used to build things, study things together. I’ll never forget Paul’s elevator. He made it with an erector set and one of those big batteries. What are those called?” She holds her hands about four inches apart.

  “Dry cell?”

  She nods with enthusiasm and smiles for the first time since I’ve been here. “Yes, dry cell. It took him a month, but he built a working elevator. Anders was his assistant. At least that’s what they used to say. It was incredible that Paul would talk to him, since Paul has always had a hard time talking to anyone, especially boys his own age. That hasn’t changed.”

  It’s not lost on me that she’s talking about her fortysomething brother as if he’s a child, and I remember my own instinct when I was questioning Greenwade.

  “They made the elevator, built their own tree house, made all kinds of things. They can’t have been more than eight or nine when they made that elevator. That was when we knew Paul was good with tools, good with his hands. He can fix anything. See this watch?” She points at an old-looking watch on her wrist.

  I nod. Good enough with his hands to make bombs?

  “He fixed it right up. I thought it was broken forever.”

  “Ms. Butler, I don’t mean to rush you,” I say in my witness voice, “but—”

  “Oh, right. I know. I’m sorry. Once I get talking...” She takes another sip of her drink. “Anyway. I’m not sure why I’m telling you all of this. I guess I always hoped that Anders would ask Paul to come work with him, you know, at his business. Paul is so good with engines and things.” She blinks her watery eyes at me as though she’s deciding whether to continue.

  I try to look sympathetic, and I guess it works.

  “When they were fourteen, right before Mom and Dad died in the fire, Paul and Anders decided to make some bombs.”

  I raise my eyebrows and avoid making a show of the little swoosh of adrenaline that just hit me. Yup. I thought so. Could the transponder be some kind of detonator? I have to talk to Paul again.

  She waves her hands in front of her face. “Not bad bombs. Just boys being boys. They got caught blowing up mailboxes, shoeboxes, someone’s old doghouse, that kind of thing. They never hurt anyone. They were just experimenting.”

  Experimenting with bombs goes beyond kids playing together. “What happened with the bombs?” I ask. “How many bombs are we talking?”

  She purses her lips. “Well, I can’t say for sure. They got in trouble for the last five.”

  I slide my notebook and pen out of my jacket pocket. “What kind of trouble?”

  She shakes her head, and her chins follow. “I’d just as soon not say. It was a difficult time.”

  I sit forward in my chair. “What kind of trouble?” Juvenile records are sealed, and it would make my life a lot easier if she’d just spill.

  “They got in trouble with the police. And the FBI was involved, since mailboxes are federal.”

  “When was this, exactly?”

  “Paul was fourteen.” She closes her eyes and nods. “Yes, that’s right. It was the year before I married Patrick.” She gestures to a photo on her desk of a man with thick glasses and a graying red beard.

  “What happened, exactly?” I ask, wondering how she could possibly not remember when her parents died.

  She sighs. “It was a long time ago... But basically, they got caught blowing stuff up. It was the Cleveland Police who caught them. We were living on the West Side then, in Old Brooklyn.” She looks at me and blinks fast, like I should be proud of CDP or something.

  She continues. “Anders lived one street over. He and Paul used to play together all the time, from back when they were little boys. That summer was no different. In fact, our families were happy that they kept each other company. We had a shed out back that they called their ‘workshop.’”

  I write some of this down.

  “It was late summer, maybe mid-August. Right before the boys were going back to school. All I remember was that I got home from work—I still lived at home then, cause it was before I married Patrick—and the police were there. They arrested Paul and Anders. There was a lot of hullabaloo. Mom was upset, and Dad was angry. Everyone kept trying to tell the police that Paul wasn’t like you and me, but they took him in, anyway.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “I don’t know. Some FBI people came and scared Mom and Dad, saying that these were federal charges and they might charge the boys as adults. It was some kind of crackdown.”

  There’s no way in hell anyone would charge a couple of fourteen-year-olds as adults for blowing up mailboxes unless the kids had priors. I make a note of this. “Do you remember if Paul served any time?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t remember exactly what happened, but he was home the next day. Anders wasn’t, though. He ended up having to do community service. That was when he and Paul grew apart.” She shakes her head. “It was so sad. We only reconnected when his dad, and then his mom, died several years back. He brings them flowers every month,” she reminds me.

  But Andersen’s once-a-month visit coincided with the murder of Heather Martin and the subsequent bomb in her vehicle. I’m a cop. Coincidence troubles me. “When was Andersen here last?” I already know the answer, but I want to see if she does too.

  She narrows her eyes. “Come to think of it, he was here on Saturday afternoon.”

  Good thing I have that appointment with him tomorrow. “Are he and Paul friends now?” I ask, remembering that Greenwade called him “Mr. Andersen” at the crime scene.

  “You’d have to ask Paul. I try not to micromanage.”

  “You said there was a fire that killed your parents. I’m sorry to ask, but can you tell me more about that?”

  She looks surprised. “What would that possibly have to do with your murder investigation?” She takes a haughty breath. “I’ve already said too much.”

  “Can you tell me about the fire?” I repeat, following a hunch. “Look, I’ll be honest. It’s public record if there were fatalities. So you’d be saving me some time, but—”

  “Oh, you police and your public records.” For some reason, she makes air quotes around “public records.” Then she apparently reconsiders as I open my mouth to thank her for her time. “There was a fire. Paul was at school, and I was at work. We never could figure out why they were at home during the day like that or why they didn’t get out. That’s all I know about that.”

  “Was Anders at school too?”

  “I’m sure of it. Anders always did well in school.” She says it as if it’s enough to rule him out as an arsonist, bomber, or murderer.

  “How did his parents die?”

  “His mother died of cancer years ago, when he was still in the service. His father died in a hunting accident about five years later.”

  I thank her for her time, and she heaves herself out of her chair and back to the filing cabinet.

  “Will you be here tomorrow in case I have more questions?”

  She closes the filing cabinet drawer in what looks to be a deliberate show of patience. She takes a deep breath and puts her hands on her ample hips. She’s done with m
e, and I can tell before she opens her mouth. “I’ve already answered questions.” Again with the air quotes, but this time they correspond to “questions.” “Questions from you people, questions from reporters. Questions from people whose loved ones are buried here. Questions from people who aren’t sure they want to keep the plots they’re paying for, given that someone was murdered here.”

  “I’ll leave my card. My cell phone number is on the back. If you think of anything, call.”

  She titters, and I leave. I want to go talk to Greenwade now, but I know better—I need my partner with me.

  In the car, I send Roberts an email asking him to find anything he can on the bombs when he gets in tomorrow.

  Then I text Cora to see if she’s still awake, but she doesn’t reply, so I hit the gym for a quick run then head home, where I busy myself by learning all about the house fire that killed Jean and Henry Greenwade as I consume twice my bourbon ration for the day. Possible arson, the report says. The bodies were too burned to know if they were dead before someone started the fire. The newspaper article mentions that two juveniles were questioned in connection with the fire, but no charges were filed.

  CHAPTER 11

  I bolt upright in bed, faintly aware of the sound of my own screaming. My hands are in fists, and every muscle in my body is so tense it aches. I shake my head and open my eyes. It’s still dark. I grope around for my phone and look at the clock. Tuesday, October 28, 4:14 a.m. No messages or missed calls.

  I’m supposed to get up and write it down the way Dr. Shue wants me to, the way I’ve been working on. Apparently, writing it down will help me to change the narrative or something.

  After I shot Arsalan, I had a nightmare almost every time I slept, which wasn’t often. It probably sounds promising that it’s been a while, that the nightmares have tapered off, and that overall, they’ve become less about my tragic recent past and more about my tragic future.

  This one wasn’t about me killing another human being, and it wasn’t the gallows dream. It was about my little sister’s murder and my dad hanging himself, which he did when I was twelve, only I was the detective assigned to the investigation, and nothing made sense. I take a couple of deep breaths and try to push the image out of my head.

  I email Shue and ask to schedule an appointment then get up, close the window so the rain doesn’t come in, and trudge to the dining room to write in my stupid composition book.

  Ivan skitters into the dining room ahead of me, so I feed him before sitting down to record the dream. I sigh, wondering if I’ll ever be right in the head or if this is going to go on until I die.

  I close the notebook and slide it to the edge of the table before going back into the kitchen, where I make a pot of coffee and watch it drip into the carafe until there’s enough to fill my mug. I step over to the window in the kitchen and gaze out over the parking lot. My car is in its regular spot, and I briefly consider getting a new one—the thing is over fifteen years old, and it’s starting to look it.

  I set down the coffee cup and stretch my shoulders, deciding what workout to do today. My yoga mat is in the corner—I don’t hate yoga nearly as much as I thought I would. I drag the mat into the living room, do fifteen minutes of sun salutations while Ivan circles the mat and meows as though he’s still starving, and try to make my mind as blank as possible.

  Then I flip on the ridiculously loud stereo that I got myself for my birthday in August and set my phone to play a psychedelic rock song I’ve become obsessed with while I brush my teeth and get dressed. On my way to the gym, I contemplate the likelihood that Anders Andersen and Paul Greenwade were the two juveniles questioned in the deaths of Greenwade’s parents. Greenwade certainly doesn’t seem like someone who would kill his parents, but first impressions aren’t always accurate. We’ll need to talk to him again. His relationship with Andersen, combined with the fact that Andersen was an explosives expert, gives us some interesting circumstantial evidence.

  I power through my workout, shower, dress for work, and text Goran: Pick me up in the parking lot.

  “Morning, sunshine,” I say as I get in. “I talked to Sims. There’s an explanation for that murder book, so you can unbunch your undies.”

  I fill him in, and he seems relieved. I also tell him what I gleaned from my conversation with Bobbie Butler, and he agrees that we’ll follow up with Paul Greenwade.

  Fifteen minutes later, we’re making small talk as we walk to the morgue, which is housed in the basement of the brand-spanking-new steel-and-glass county crime lab. We sign in with Security then wait in the airy lobby for ten minutes before an assistant comes to get us, and I wonder, not for the first time, why autopsies always happen in basements. I suppose it would freak people out to stumble upon a postmortem from outside, but that’s why there are blinds and privacy glass, and here they even have the fancy shades that close automatically when the sun hits them, not that the sun shines all that often in this town.

  It’s cold in the autopsy suite, and I pull my jacket around me. Watson hits a button on a remote control, powering on the video and audio recording, then pulls a white sheet off the naked corpse. Heather Martin’s body occupies one of three stainless-steel tables, each with its own floor drain beneath. I glance through the glass to the viewing area, but the lights are off—something about saving electricity—so I see all three of our reflections. Goran and I look tired.

  At some point before Watson opens her up—external examinations are just as important as what he’ll find inside—he rolls her over and points at the bruising on her back. “Looks like some sort of cylindrical object.”

  “What, like a baseball bat?” Goran asks.

  “Or a chair leg?” I add.

  Watson shakes his head. “I’m guessing something narrower. Maybe some sort of rebar or ground stake.”

  “What, like what you use to prop up a fence?” Goran asks.

  “Yes, but smooth. Not notched like those are. And look at this.” He gestures at striations on her wrists.

  “What, handcuffs?” I ask.

  He nods. “Not police-issue, though, I don’t think.”

  Bondage tape at the scene. Black rope with complicated knots. Handcuffs that aren’t police-issue. A black business card with only a phone number that requires voice verification to connect to anyone. This could be a bondage thing, some kind of S and M gone bad. But that would be atypical. I took a class in college about the sociology of sexuality and learned all about how BDSM is actually safe, based in consent, that kind of thing.

  I need to talk to Jo again about that other evidence, anyway. “What about the chair leg?” I ask.

  I cringe when Watson tells me.

  The color drains from Goran’s face too.

  “My guess is that it caused a lot of internal damage. There would have been a lot of bleeding prior to the beating. It looks like she was conscious for most of it. He saved most of the head injuries for last, save for the one on the side of her head. My guess is that he knocked her out that way, but it didn’t incapacitate her for long.” He winces. “I’ll do the rape kit first.”

  A vile metallic taste creeps up in the back of my throat, and I excuse myself for a minute. In the bathroom stall, I lower myself into a crouch and take several deep breaths before vomiting bile into the stainless-steel toilet. To think I thought that delaying breakfast would save us. I know better by now. I’ve been around this block before. I worked Sex Crimes for long enough to know that people will do all kinds of heinous things to each other and not think twice. I rinse my mouth several times then trudge down the hall.

  When I get back, Goran is in the far corner of the room with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s not usually squeamish—neither of us is—but seeing her battered body on the cold steel table and hearing Watson dictate what he’s found... If it didn’t affect us, we wouldn’t be human anymore.

  I clear my throat. “Anything under her nails?”

  “Yeah, looks like dirt, wood fragments,
grass, what could be black leather, carpet fibers. We’ll get it processed today, maybe tomorrow.” He leads us over to the body and lifts one arm after the other, gesturing at her forearms. “Defensive wounds. The right arm is broken in six places.” He gestures at an X-ray displayed on a large TV mounted to the wall, next to another X-ray of her shattered skull.

  He points at her neck, near her carotid artery. “Bruising here and on the other side. It looks like he deliberately collapsed the arteries from the exterior, likely with his thumbs. He has big hands.” He shows us the marks. Sure enough, there’s a thumb-shaped bruise on either side of her neck and finger-shaped bruises on the back, and it’s not the kind of hold most people know about—the guy is likely military or law enforcement.

  Once he pulls out the Stryker saw, it’s time for us to move to the opposite side of the glass wall, where we’ll have a two-way audio feed with the pathologist but will be spared the possibility of being splattered with gore.

  “Black leather,” Goran says.

  “Motorcycle jacket,” I reply. “So the killer might have been who Martha Rodgers saw.” I roll my head, trying to get the tension out of the back of my neck. “Question is, how’d he disable Martin to get her to the cemetery?”

  “You think she went willingly?”

  “If all the injuries happened at the same time, she might have, which would mean she probably knew him.” I ponder that for a few minutes and return to the major motivators for violent crime: money, sex, and secrets. “It’s anybody’s guess. I do wonder if we’re gonna find out that she was abducted in her own vehicle.”

  The whole postmortem, all three and a half hours of it, is captured on video. At some point—I think as Watson weighs her liver—I look away to stare at the camera mounted above the steel table at the steady red LED that says it’s recording. My gaze flicks from Heather Martin’s remains to Goran’s face to the bright light over Watson and back again.

  “It’s organized,” I verbalize for the first time as Watson sews the Y-incision closed with thick brown thread. “He has to have done something like this before. Based on the crime scene, these injuries, the damage to the carotid, the systematic way he—” I stop myself there and let a slew of words run through my head: premeditation, postmortem, people, paraphilia, pathology, putrid, pallid, purgatory.