Tess Gerritsen - Die Again

“I have no idea. Guilt?”

“About what?”

“About all the ways he could have been a better father. All the mistakes he made, the people he hurt. Maybe he was finally thinking about the son he’d ignored all those years.”

That’s what Jerry O’Brien had told them as well, that Leon Gott had recently grown obsessed about his son’s disappearance. With old age came regrets and thoughts of what one should have done, but for Leon there would never be a chance to heal the rift with Elliot. Alone in that house, with only a dog and two cats for company, did he suddenly realize what poor substitutes they were for the love of a son?

“That’s all I can tell you about Leon Gott,” said Sarah. “I met him just once, at Elliot’s memorial service six years ago. I never saw him again.”

The last glimmer of twilight had faded and it was now dark outside the window. In the warm glow of a lamp, Sarah’s face seemed to have shed a few years and she looked younger, more animated. Perhaps it was because she’d moved beyond the role of grief-stricken sister and was now engaged in the puzzle of her sister’s final hours and why they involved Leon Gott. “You said he called Jodi at two thirty,” said Sarah, and she looked at Detective Pearson. “She would still have been down in Plymouth. At the conference.”

Detective Pearson said to Jane and Frost: “We tried to reconstruct Jodi’s last day. We know she was at a library conference on Sunday. It ended at five P.M., so she probably got home after dinnertime. Which may be why she called Gott back so late, at nine forty-six.”

“We know he called her about the photos at two thirty,” said Jane. “So I’m assuming she called him back that night about the same matter. Maybe to tell him she’d found Elliot’s …” Jane paused. Looked at Sarah. “Where did your sister store those photos of Elliot’s Africa trip?”

“They were digital files, so she would have kept them on her laptop.”

Jane and Detective Pearson looked at each other. “Which is now missing,” said Jane.

OUTSIDE, THE THREE DETECTIVES stood shivering in the dampness as they quietly conferred by their parked cars.

“We’ll send you our notes, and we’d appreciate it if you send us yours,” Jane said.

“Certainly. But I’m still not clear what it is we’re chasing.”

“Neither am I,” admitted Jane. “But it feels like there’s something here. Something to do with Elliot’s photos in Africa.”

“You heard how Sarah described them. They were typical tourist shots, nothing remarkable.”

“To her, anyway.”

“And they’re from six years ago. Why would anyone care about them now?”

“I don’t know. I’m just going on a …”

“Hunch?”

The word made Jane pause. She thought of her conversation with Maura earlier that day, when she had brushed off Maura’s instincts about the newly excavated skeleton. When it comes to hunches, she thought, we only trust our own. Even if we’re no better at defending them.

Detective Pearson brushed back a strand of rain-glistened hair and sighed. “Well, it can’t hurt to share information. It’s a nice change. Usually, the boys want to use my notes, but they won’t share theirs.” She looked at Frost. “Not to cast aspersions on the guys.”

Jane laughed. “This guy’s different. He shares everything, except his potato chips.”

“Which you just steal anyway,” said Frost.

“I’ll email you what I’ve got as soon as I get home,” said Detective Pearson. “You can get Jodi’s autopsy report directly from the ME.”

“Which doc did it?”

“I’m not familiar with all the pathologists there. It was a big man. Big voice.”

“Sounds like Dr. Bristol,” said Frost.

“Yes, that’s his name. Dr. Bristol. He did her autopsy last Tuesday.” Pearson took out her car keys. “There were no surprises.”

THAT WAS THE THING ABOUT SURPRISES; YOU NEVER KNEW WHEN ONE would turn up that could change the course of an investigation. Jane devoted the next afternoon to hunting for just such a surprise among the files that Andrea Pearson had emailed her. Sitting at her computer, the remains of her lunch scattered across her desk, she clicked through page after page of witness statements and Detective Pearson’s notes. Jodi Underwood had lived in the same Brookline house for eight years, a house she’d inherited from her parents, and was known to be a quiet and considerate neighbor. She had no enemies and no current boyfriends. On the night of her murder, none of the neighbors recalled hearing any screams or loud noises, nothing to indicate someone was fighting for her life.

A blitz attack was what Pearson called it, a takedown so rapid that the victim had no chance to fight back. The crime scene photos supported Pearson’s description. Jodi’s body was found in the foyer lying on her back with one arm stretched toward the front door, as if to pull herself out and over the threshold. She was dressed in striped pajamas and a dark blue robe. One slipper was still on her left foot; the other lay only a few inches away. Jane had slipper scuffs just like them, tan suede with fleece on the inside, ordered from L.L.Bean. She’d never again be able to wear them without thinking of this photo of a dead woman’s feet.

She moved on to the autopsy report, dictated by Maura’s colleague, Dr. Bristol. Abe Bristol was a larger-than-life personality with a loud laugh and big appetites and sloppy eating habits, but in the morgue he was every bit as detail-minded as Maura. Though the ligature was not found at the scene, the bruises on the victim’s neck told Bristol that cord and not wire was used. Time of death was sometime between eight P.M. and two A.M.

Jane clicked through pages describing the internal organs (all healthy) and the genital exam (no evidence of trauma or recent sexual activity). No surprises yet.

She moved on to the list of clothing: women’s striped pajamas, top and bottom, 100 percent cotton, size small. Bathrobe, dark-blue velour, size small. Women’s fleece slipper scuffs, size seven, brand: L.L.Bean.

She clicked to the next page. Scanned down the list of trace evidence that had been turned over to the crime lab and saw the usual fingernail clippings, combed pubic hairs, orifice swabs. Then she focused on the items at the bottom of the page.

Three hair strands, white/gray, possibly animal, approximately three to four centimeters long. Collected from victim’s bathrobe, near hem.

Possibly animal.

Jane thought of Jodi’s stark wood floors and sleek Swedish furniture, trying to recall seeing any signs that a house pet lived there. A cat, perhaps, who’d brushed up against that blue velour bathrobe. She picked up the phone and called Jodi’s sister.

“She loved animals, but she didn’t have any pets, unless you count that goldfish who died a few months ago,” Sarah said.

“She never had a dog or a cat?” Jane said.

“She couldn’t. She was so allergic that if she just got near a cat, she’d start to wheeze.” Sarah gave a sad laugh. “When she was a kid, she dreamed of being a veterinarian and she volunteered at the local animal hospital. That’s when she got her first asthma attack.”

“Did she own any fur coats? Maybe something with rabbit or mink?”

“Not a chance. Jodi belonged to PETA.”

Jane hung up and stared at the words on her computer. Three hairs, possibly animal .

And she thought: Leon Gott had cats.

“THESE THREE HAIR STRANDS present an interesting puzzle,” said Erin Volchko. A veteran Boston PD criminalist specializing in hair and fibers, Erin had tutored dozens of detectives over the years, guiding them through the intricate analysis of carpet fibers and hair strands, pointing out the differences between wool versus cotton, synthetic versus natural, plucked hair versus cut. Although Jane had peered into the microscope many times, examining strands from countless crime scenes, she would never have Erin’s knack for distinguishing one strand from another; all blond hairs looked alike to Jane.