Stephen White - Cold Case

"I think it's been a lot of years since she died, maybe the landscaping outside the windows has changed. Maybe there was a big bush in front of that laundry-room window back then. Maybe Welle changed the cabinetry in that other room-what did you call it, a butler's pantry? Who knows?"

It was possible. I'd go back and look at the news footage again to see if there was a bush in front of the laundry room back in 1992. "What about this, then?

You remember the television news reports said that when Brian was trying to escape from the master bedroom he leaped over the deck railing and started running toward the woods? That's when he shot at the cops the second time.

Remember that?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I was just out there, on that deck. The center section of the deck-the part closest to those woods-doesn't even have a railing. It steps right down onto the lawn. I'm wondering why Brian Sample didn't just take those two stairs down to the grass and head straight for the woods. Why did he jump the railing, run toward the cops, and fire at them first?"

Sam was silent for a moment before he responded.

"That's a decent question. I'm thinking… that… who knows? Maybe… maybe he wanted the cops to kill him. It happens sometimes. We call it suicide by cop. There's this story-happened recently-of one guy who led this cop on a high-speed chase, and after he was pulled over he got out of his car holding a handgun. He slowly raised it up and pointed it right at the cop. Wouldn't drop it. The cop Cook cover and warned him. Guy still wouldn't drop it, so the cop fired till his pistol was empty. The guy died. Turns out the handgun the guy was carrying was a toy and there was a suicide note on the front seat of his car apologizing to the cop. Guy said he was too much of a coward to kill himself."

"Psychologists have a name for that, too."

"Which is what?"

"Victim-precipitated homicide."

Sam digested the awkward phrase.

"I think I like 'suicide by cop' better. There's no homicide involved when somebody does this to himself. The guy just uses the cop as a loaded gun."

The theory that Sam was offering about the shooting was relatively cogent but didn't cover all the facts. I asked, "Then why not the front door? Why didn't Brian Sample charge the cops directly?"

"Why didn't he wear blue jeans instead of corduroys? I don't know."

Nor did he sound particularly interested.

"You're not being very helpful, Sam. I thought you would find this stuff fascinating."

"Sorry. These new inconsistencies of yours all have possible explanations.

Simple enough things. Me? I still mostly want to know why he shot Gloria Welle through the closed closet door. And I want to know how the cops knew he was going to be running off that deck and not out the front door. Those are still the most interesting parts to me."

"I don't have anything to add to those questions." "Well, then," he said, laughing.

"I gotta run. If you can believe it, I actually have some new crimes to solve."

After we hung up I hesitated for a moment while I considered Sam's theory about suicide by cop and then called Winston Mcgarrity at his insurance agency. I got past Louise, his gatekeeper, in record time.

"Winston, are you allowed to tell me if the insurance company paid death benefits on the life insurance policy that Brian Sample bought from your agency? I'm talking about the first policy, the one for two hundred and fifty thousand."

"Yes, I can tell you. That claim was settled. There was some contention at the time that Brian's acts that day were the acts of a suicidal man and that the policy shouldn't pay because his death was really suicide and the waiting period hadn't ended. But the coroner ended up ruling the death to be a homicide-that basically means death at the hands of somebody else, in this case a cop-so the company paid the death benefit."

"Do you know how the coroner came to that conclusion?"

"It was mostly, I think, because of Dr. Welle. He sent a letter certifying that the day of the shooting Brian Sample was no longer suicidal."

"Really?"

"I thought it was a gracious act on Ray's part. He could have been venomous, could've said that Brian was still suicidal even if he wasn't. Ray could've done that. I'm no fan of Ray Welle, but I thought he showed a lot of class during that time. Said in the letter, if I remember correctly, that he'd seen Brian for treatment just the day before and that he assessed his suicide potential at that time and it was negligible. I thought the gesture was especially kind to Brian's wife and to his boy."

"Kevin and his mother got a quarter of a million dollars?"

"They did."

I thanked Winston and turned my attention to the rest of my sandwich. It left a better taste in my mouth than did the story of Gloria Welle's murder.

Kimber didn't emerge from Ray Welle's study all day. Once during the morning I saw Russ go in to talk with him. The visit lasted about five minutes. Later, Flynn carried lunch into the study.

After the midday meal the search at Gloria's Silky Road moved from the big ranch house to the old frame house where Sylvie lived with her boyfriend. The routine employed by Flynn with Russ assisting her was becoming so familiar it was almost mind numbing. She photographed, measured, collected. He sketched, noted, and labeled. Phil Barrett videotaped every step without complaint.

Cecilia Daruwalla stood silently, observing.

The day dragged toward dusk. Flynn was indefatigable and pressed Russ to agree to take samples from the stable and burnt bunkhouse before they stopped for the day. Russ held up his hands in abject surrender.

"Tomorrow, Flynn. I'm so tired I'm afraid I'm going to start making mistakes."

She eyed him compassionately and agreed to finish the job the next day. Her last task of the afternoon was to assemble all the evidence they had already collected and organize it in a single large cardboard box. She sealed the box with tape, labeled it, and handed it over to Percy Smith, who signed something and turned the box over to Daruwalla.

Kimber was the last of the Locard group to get in a car to leave the ranch.

When he finally emerged from the front door, he walked quickly from the house, his head down, his hands in his pockets, and slid beside me on the front seat.

He avoided eye contact as he smiled.

"A productive day," he said, tapping his laptop case.

"Really?" I said as I began to ease the car onto the lane.

His voice filled the car.

"I've been trying for two weeks to find a data trail for the two housekeepers who were working at the ranch the day the girls disappeared. Dr. Welle terminated their employment, with a generous severance, approximately one month after the death of his wife.

Available database records permitted me to track them only through early 1996.

I've been assuming that their romantic relationship terminated at that time and they went their separate ways. Today, at last, I succeeded in finding where they have been." "Ranelle and Jane," I said.

"Very good. Yes. Ranelle Foster Smith and Jane Liebowitz. Today I think that I found them both." I said, "Congratulations." But I was confused as to why the news was important.

"When I interviewed Satoshi, she said she didn't see the housekeepers the afternoon her sister and Tami disappeared."

"True. But that is… only half the story. I would like to know if the housekeepers saw Satoshi. Or Mariko. Or anyone else."

I hadn't considered the possibility that Ranelle and Jane might have had a different perspective on the events of that day than Satoshi did. Which goes a long way toward explaining why Kimber Lister was a world-class forensic expert and I was a clinical psychologist in a college town.

We were approaching the gate at the bottom of the hill. It remained open from the previous car. I asked, "Did you reach them today? Ranelle and Jane."