Steven James - The Knight

I caught up with Tessa at the elevators. She was pushing the “down” button over and over, her hand was shaking. “No,” she mumbled. “No, it’s not. It can’t be.”

“Tessa, do you know who sent those flowers?”

She shook her head. “Uh-uh.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“Keats.”

I noticed a trash can beside her. I tugged off the exam gloves I was still wearing and stuffed them inside it. “Keats?”

The doors opened and she hurried into the elevator. I joined her.

She punched “Level 1” four times and started muttering, “Yeah.. . I think Keats, or maybe Alexander.”

“Tessa-”

“But it doesn’t matter.” The doors closed and she stared at them, anxious, terrified. “It’s the same either way.”

Her intense reaction was really starting to worry me. “Calm down for a minute and just tell me what you’re thinking.”

She was tapping her right thumb and forefinger together rapidly. “You don’t think it’s… but then why would someone…?”

I gently put my hands on her shoulders, and when I did, she looked up into my eyes. “Please,” I said. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Finally, she drew in a deep but shaky breath and said, “There was an artist, right? John White Alexander. In like, I don’t know, 1896 or 1897 he painted a picture, it’s this famous picture called ‘Isabella and the Pot of Basil.’ John White Alexander, see? So that’s why John might refer to him.”

“OK, so-”

“But he based the painting on this poem by Keats, John Keats. So either way, it’s John. You know Keats, the poet?”

“Yes.”

“The poem is about this woman. Her lover is killed and…”

I thought of Kelsey, her husband, all that had happened in the last two days.

“She digs him up and…”

The morgue.

The bodies.

Oh.

I felt a chill. Suddenly, I understood what Tessa was saying, realized why she’d reacted so strongly. “That’s enough. I can look it up-”

“The woman, she…” We arrived at the ground floor, and the elevator dinged.

“I understand. You don’t have to say anything else.”

But Tessa wasn’t listening to me. She was staring into space.

“They take it away from her. The pot, and then-”

“It’s OK. Shh…”

The elevator doors opened, but Tessa didn’t step off, she looked at me instead and bit her bottom lip. “Don’t tell me, OK? When you look. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know if I’m right.”

“OK. I promise.”

Tessa nodded and looked past me. “Dora’s here.”

I knew that Tessa was terribly upset and I wanted to be there for her, but I also needed to get back upstairs, especially if she was right about the pot. “Do you want me to come home with you?”

“No. I’m OK.”

We met Pandora Bender in the lobby near the front door, and she assured me she would stay with Tessa. “She’ll be all right with me, Mr. Bowers. Don’t worry.”

“Thank you, Dora,” I said, then turned to Tessa. “You’re sure you don’t need me?”

She nodded. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

I touched her arm softly. “Call me, all right? You say the word, I’ll come home.”

“I know.” Dora stepped toward the door, and Tessa mouthed to me, “Don’t tell me.”

“I won’t.”

They stepped outside, and I watched them through the darkened windows until they disappeared around the corner of the building. Then I returned to the fourth floor.

To look inside the pot.

Only Cheyenne and Amy Lynn were in the office when I arrived. Cheyenne explained that Rhodes had gone to meet with two of the board members, and I wasn’t sure if I was glad to hear that or not. I suspected they were discussing how to handle the release of information concerning the flowers, but I didn’t have time to deal with any of that right now.

Just one glance at the flowerpot told me it was the right size. I knew we needed to get it to the lab, but first I wanted to find out if Tessa’s guess was right, and sometimes I’m just not as patient as I should be. “Amy Lynn, can you give us a few minutes?”

She hesitated.

“Please go and wash your hands thoroughly.”

“But I already did.”

“Trust me.” I didn’t have another pair of gloves, but with the back of my hand, I pushed the pot into the center of Rhodes’s desk past his MacBook and its aquarium screen saver. “This plant may have substances on it that you would not want to accidentally ingest.”

After one last disgruntled look, she left and Cheyenne said, “What’s going on? Is Tessa all right?”

I carefully pressed the flowers to the side and observed that the dirt around the base of the plant was loose. “Can you lock the door?”

“Pat, what’s-”

“Please.”

I pulled out my TSAVO-Wraith and flicked out the blade. “She’s OK, Tessa is,” I said. “Thanks for asking.” I slid the knife’s tip gently into the dirt.

Cheyenne locked the door and then returned to my side. “What are you doing?”

I pushed aside a small triangle of moist soil. Based on the size of the pot I didn’t think I would need to dig too deeply. “There’s a painting.”

I brushed some more dirt away. Slid the blade of the knife about five centimeters into the soil. “And a poem by Keats… but the point is…”

As I pressed down, I felt the tip of the blade press against something that was not soil.

“… there was a woman who disinters…”

Folding up the knife, I slipped it into my pocket and then used my fingers to gently nudge the dirt away.

“… the body of her lover.”

Beneath my finger I felt something soft and cool and fleshy.

Cheyenne was staring at the place in the pot where I’d been digging. “Pat, you’re not saying…”

I pushed more dirt aside, and the scent of basil was no longer the most overpowering odor in the room.

Just enough of the pot’s contents were visible.

Tessa had been right.

“Oh…” Cheyenne’s voice trailed off.

“Yes,” I said. “It’s Travis Nash.”

43 minutes later

The pot and soil lay on the far end of the steel examination table.

Travis Nash’s head lay in front of us.

After delivering the pot to headquarters, Cheyenne had swung me home so I could pick up my car and check on Tessa, but she and Dora hadn’t arrived yet. So, we’d returned to police headquarters in our respective cars, parked in HQ’s underground parking garage, and then hurried to join the team in the lab.

Now, two forensics specialists were studying the head, carefully using toothbrushes to clear dots of soil from the open, staring eyes.

Jake was speaking quietly with a third lab worker in the corner of the room. The door opened, and Kurt entered.

“Reggie here yet?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No.”

“Did CSU find anything at the morgue?” Cheyenne asked.

Kurt strode toward us. He stared grimly at the examination table. “He used the sink, we know that. Didn’t leave any prints on the door handles and managed to get into and out of the building without showing up on any of the hospital’s security cameras. I assigned an officer to compare the suspect list with the roster of hospital employees to see if it gives us any leads.”

“Good,” I replied, although I wasn’t sure the suspect list was going to be much help.

As investigations like this progress and people call in with tips, names are added to the list of potential suspects generated by the evidentiary aspects of each crime scene. The list usually grows exponentially with time. When I’d read the case files on the drive to Taylor’s earlier in the day, there were already 180 names on the list. I’ve worked cases with tens, even hundreds of thousands of names on the list, and I had a feeling the number of suspects for this case was going to grow quite a bit before it began to shrink. Sometimes the lists are beneficial, but many times the killer’s name never even appears, or if it does, it’s often buried so deeply in the stack that it gets overlooked.