Marcia Talley - A Quiet Death

‘Hannah, the only “but” I need from you is this – butt out. Let the police do their jobs.’

‘Dennis…’

‘Hannah, you have to trust me on this.’

Leaving the sweater to soak in the sink, I tuned the television to Lynx News where a reporter I didn’t recognize was conducting an Up Close and Personal with a baseball player who had blown the whistle on steroid use in the major leagues, a program timed to the release of his tell-all book on the subject. I switched to CNN in time to catch a ‘Breaking News’ bulletin.

‘Jogging Trail Killer Apprehended,’ a sidebar announced, superimposed over a shot of a reporter standing outside the Chesapeake County hospital emergency room, holding a microphone. ‘An unemployed computer programmer has been arrested in connection with the murders of two women on metropolitan area jogging trails and is implicated in attacks upon two others,’ she began. Her image was replaced by the police sketch of the suspect that had been widely distributed since the assault on the woman in Rock Creek Park. The reporter seemed primed to go on, but suddenly there was a flurry of activity. She turned and viewers got to watch while plainclothes police officers appeared in the background, escorting a man whose arm was in a blue sling, his head covered with a jacket. As cameramen from all the major networks scuttled to follow, a police officer mashed his hand down on the top of the prisoner’s head, stuffed him into the back seat of a black and white patrol car, and sped away.

The reporter had nothing new to add, so I telephoned Emily on her cell. She picked up on the first ring. ‘Hey, Mom. What’s up?’

‘Your uncle called, and I just saw a report on the television. They think they’ve got the guy who killed Meredith.’

On Emily’s end of the line there was a gasp, then silence as the news sunk in. ‘Thank God,’ she said at last.

‘It’s on CNN right now,’ I told my daughter. ‘All the channels will have it soon. Are you anywhere near a TV?’

‘I’m at the spa, and heading toward the conference room right now. I want to see this guy.’ I heard a door open, then close, then the sound of a television springing to life. ‘Actually, I want to murder him with my bare hands, dismember him bit by bit, drop the pieces in-’

I cut in. ‘Can I watch?’

‘Sorry, Mom. I got carried away. You must be relieved that it wasn’t that fellow you met on the Metro who did it.’

‘I’m sad that anybody did it. But yes, I’m relieved that it wasn’t Nick, and that they finally nailed the bastard.’

With the Jogging Trail Murders suspect locked away in my brother-in-law’s detention center, the nation’s capital was breathing a huge sigh of relief. So was I, until a DC homicide detective paid me a call.

‘I’m Detective Terry Hughes,’ he said from my doorstep, presenting his shield for my inspection, ‘and this is Corporal Sherry Miller.’

Holding the door open, I gawped, rendered temporarily speechless.

Hughes was big, black, broad-shouldered and beautiful, with eyelashes that curled over his amber eyes and shaded them like awnings.

His partner, in contrast, was petite and as pale as Hughes was dark. Freckles splashed across her nose, and her white-blonde hair was tied back in a pony tail at the nape of her neck.

‘We’re investigating the murder of Meredith Logan,’ Hughes explained, ‘and I understand you might be able to help us.’

‘I really didn’t know Meredith very well, detective,’ I said. ‘Why don’t we sit in the living room. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea?’

They declined.

After we were seated comfortably, I continued. ‘Meredith was my daughter’s friend. They were classmates at Bryn Mawr College up in Pennsylvania, but that was some time ago.’

‘We’ll want to talk to your daughter, too, of course. How can we get in touch with her?’ Detective Hughes asked.

I gave him Emily’s address and phone number, watching with fascination as Sherry Miller wrote it down in a minuscule notebook, using neat capitals letters.

‘I’m confused, Detective Hughes. I thought the police had arrested a man for Meredith’s murder. That Jogging Trail guy.’

Sherry Miller glanced quickly at Hughes, but Hughes sent a withering glance in her direction and whatever she’d been about to say died on her lips. ‘We’re interested in what you might be able to tell us about a shopping bag that has shown up on some security tapes at the Library of Congress.’ Hughes reached into the leather portfolio he’d been carrying and handed me a picture, a close-up of Lilith’s Garfinkel’s bag. ‘Can you tell us anything about it?’

‘What would you like to know?’

‘What’s in it, for a start.’

‘Letters and photos. At least that’s what was in it when I had it.’

‘When was that?’ he asked.

I told him about the Metro crash, described how I had met Skip, and explained the mix-up at the hospital.

‘What date would that be – the crash, I mean?’

I opened my mouth to say that I couldn’t believe he wouldn’t know the answer to that. For weeks, there had been nothing else in the papers or on TV. But, I paused, counted to three and told him anyway. ‘September the seventh.’

‘Do you know where the bag is now?’ he asked.

‘No. I mean, yes. I returned it to its owner.’

‘Who is?’

‘A woman named Lilith Chaloux. She lives on the Eastern Shore in Woolford, a few miles outside of Cambridge.’

‘When you had the bag, at any time was it out of your possession?’ he asked.

‘Absolutely not.’

Corporal Miller glanced up from her notes and spoke for the first time. Her voice was clear and light, almost like a child’s. ‘What kind of letters and photographs were they, Mrs Ives?’

‘Personal ones.’

‘Can you elaborate on that?’ she asked, one eyebrow arched suspiciously as if she expected me to say ‘porn.’

‘I don’t feel it’s my place to go into a lot of detail. For that, it’s best you ask Lilith Chaloux yourself. But I don’t think she’d mind if I told you they were love letters.’

‘What is Ms Chaloux’s connection to Meredith Logan?’

‘None, as far as I know. Ms Chaloux lives out in the country by herself, in a cottage on the water. She paints. I don’t think she socializes very much.’

Hughes reached into his portfolio and withdrew another picture. ‘Who is this man?’

I was sure he knew the answer to this question, too. ‘His name is Skip – I mean Nicholas Aupry. He was riding the Metro with me when it crashed. It was his bag.’

‘And this?’ Another picture came sliding across the coffee table my way.

The minute I laid eyes on it, I gave myself a silent high five. John Chandler had made good on his promise. The surveillance tapes that Jud Wilson had shared with me were now in police possession. The picture showed James Hoffner in profile, just after he dropped the Garfinkel’s bag off on the conveyor belt that would take it through the X-ray machine at the Library of Congress. ‘That is a sleazy lawyer named James Hoffner.’

Sherry grinned, then quickly recovered, dropping her voice almost an octave to ask, ‘Why is Mr Hoffner carrying the Garfinkel’s bag in this picture?’

‘He’s Nicholas Aupry’s attorney.’

I handed the picture back. ‘Look, why are you asking me these questions? Shouldn’t you be asking Mr Aupry and Mr Hoffman?’

‘We’ve talked to Mr Hoffman,’ Miller volunteered. ‘And you’ve just confirmed what he told us.’

‘How about Nicholas Aupry?’ I asked. ‘What did he have to say?’

Detective Hughes slid all three photos into his portfolio and snapped it shut. ‘Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to locate Mr Aupry. We’re hoping you could help us with that, too.’