The Blue Journal Page 11

  “That’ll be fine,” she said pleasantly. “I’m glad to help.”

  “Just one more thing. You’re sure the time was around five in the evening?”

  “I am,” she said.

  Outside the house, Kovacevic organized the pictures as they walked to the car. Walker said, “I don’t think we’re there yet.”

  “You don’t think it was the Benz?”

  Walker shook his head. “There was no real flicker of recognition, no Aha moment. It seemed like she picked it because it wasn’t any of the others.” He thought it over. “Some of these people probably lease cars through their businesses. Cars that wouldn’t have matched up on the basic DMV name check. You need to run that down, then we’ll have another crack at Mrs. Fitzmorris.”

  “Okay, but just so you know, a couple of the cars we identified here were leased, but they were registered in personal names. I’ll drive by their houses and check the license plates, then match them up with company leases.”

  “Good,” Walker said. “Do it.”

  They climbed into Walker’s Explorer, then sat there for a moment before he started the engine.

  “What is it, sir?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s Doctor Knoebel, I think. I can’t shake the feeling that this is all too easy, you know?”

  “Easy?”

  “When I met with him I mentioned his wife’s computer, but he didn’t say much about it. Then, when I called him today, he didn’t ask anything about what we found.” He shook his head. “We’ve got to know if Teddy is absolutely sure the files weren’t tampered with recently. Get him on the horn.”

  As Kovacevic tracked down Blasko, Walker fired up the engine and drove off, turning left out of the Fitzmorris house and past the tree-lined entrance to the Knoebels’ property. As he passed the now familiar gravel driveway, he wondered if this was the same route Elizabeth Knoebel’s killer had taken, just three days before.

  CHAPTER 16

  Back in his office, Walker found a message from Kettering, Ohio. He returned the call to Sgt. Fitzgerald.

  “I appreciate you getting back to us,” Walker said. “You know what I’m calling about?”

  “Nettie Sisson.”

  “You’re familiar with the case?”

  “Very.”

  “I don’t have much in the way of detail,” Walker admitted. “We have a file, some of which was sealed, so we had a local judge open it. Was hoping you could fill in the background.”

  “Mind if I ask what this is about? Nettie in any kind of trouble?”

  “I hope not. She lives in this area now. Employed as a part-time housekeeper. The woman she worked for was found murdered a couple of days ago. Nettie discovered the body when she got to work that morning.”

  Sgt. Fitzgerald whistled softly into the phone. “Cause of death?”

  “Single gunshot to the woman’s head. No struggle, no evidence of a break-in or a robbery. Appears the vic knew her killer.”

  “I see.”

  “Given Mrs. Sisson’s history, you could see why I’d be curious about her.”

  Walker could almost hear the man nodding at the phone. “You want me to start at the beginning?”

  “If you have the time, that’d be great.”

  “All right,” Fitzgerald said. “Nettie grew up here. Most people thought her mother was nuts. Everyone knew her father was a drunk.” He hesitated. “All right if I give this to you straight, or you want an official presentation?”

  “I prefer straight talk,” Walker said.

  “Okay. The father was an abusive prick. Beat the wife, beat Nettie, died of cirrhosis before he made fifty. Nettie’s mother died soon after.”

  “Natural causes?”

  “Yeah, if there is such a thing for a woman who suffered the way she did. Anyway, Nettie became the usual story. Battered kid finds her way into an abusive marriage of her own. Married a local guy, Ralph Sisson, a real beauty. Another violent alcoholic. Had a couple of visits from our department when he got out of hand, but given the years she spent with her father, Nettie had plenty of experience in dealing with his type. Most of her married life she ran interference for their two daughters, struggling to keep her husband from getting at them, bearing the brunt of his drunken bullshit. When the girls were old enough they took off, leaving Nettie to face him alone. Things got worse, but for reasons no one could understand, Nettie hung in there. I guess she figured she could handle it.”

  “Nice life.”

  “Nettie was actually a popular woman. Baked pies for her neighbors, brought homemade soup to the elderly, all that sort of thing. Seems she looked for friendship anywhere she could find it, and everyone clocked her as a good person with a shithead for a husband. Problem was, Ralph wouldn’t even allow her the pleasure of her good deeds. Mocked her in public, humiliated her every chance he got. He’d call her ugly and stupid and useless, right in front of people. Like I said, a real beauty.” Fitzgerald paused, thinking about something. “I suppose the physical abuse got worse too, after the daughters skipped town, but Nettie never complained. People told her to get the hell out of there, get a protective order, get a divorce. She wasn’t having any of it. One night Ralph comes home, a little drunker than usual. Nettie was going to be on the committee for the Fourth of July festival that year, and he must’ve found out about it that day. According to the story, he tells her he won’t let her do it. Says she’s a doormat for everyone in town, that they all think she’s a joke, stuff like that. Starts screaming at her, calling her ‘Nettie the Chump’ over and over again. Neighbors heard that part.”

  “A real sweetheart.”

  “Oh yeah. Anyway, best we could re-create what happened next, she was in the kitchen cooking dinner when he started in on her. She told him she was going to work for the festival no matter what he had to say about it, so he knocked all of the dishes off the table, sent them crashing to the floor. Then he came at her and started pounding her pretty hard. By then he was shrieking at her, or so the neighbors said. Nettie was holding a chef’s knife, or maybe she grabbed for it at that point. Tell you the truth, no one really cared. All we know is that she planted the thing into his chest, right up to the handle.”

  “Takes a lot of strength to do that.”

  “Exactly. Which is why we figured he must have been stumbling forward when it happened. Anyway, by that time all his yelling had people banging on the front door. Cool as a cucumber Nettie calls 911, then lets the neighbors in.”

  “I’m usually not a fan of homicide, but sometimes it can work out just fine.”

  “No such luck here, Walker. Ralph recovered, and let me tell you, there were a lot of folks disappointed about that. All those people Ralph told Nettie about, claiming they thought she was a chump, well they had a much different view of her, and they all rallied to her defense. They came forward, admitting they’d seen the cuts and bruises she’d suffered over the years. Some even apologized for not doing something or speaking up sooner. They promised they would march into court, one after the other, prepared to testify on her behalf if the case ever went to trial.”

  “So what happened?”

  “A deal was made. Nettie was voluntarily confined to a state mental hospital for at least two years. Her husband was required to attend meetings of Alcoholics Anonymous and out-patient counseling for his history of violence. The court issued mutual protective orders, they got a divorce, Ralph left town. Finished business.”

  “According to the report I saw, Mrs. Sisson spent five years in the state institution.”

  “That’s right. After those first two years it was pretty much voluntary, or so I was told. Nettie became a trustee, helped other patients. Eventually they told her it was time to go. When she was released, the head psychiatrist at the facility sent her to some woman in your area.”

  “Doctor Randi Conway.”

  “That’s the name. The honcho in charge knew this Conway from graduate school, thought he’d be a good choice for Nettie’s out-pat
ient treatment.”

  “The he is a she. Randi Conway is a woman.”

  Fitzgerald laughed. “No kidding, never knew that. Anyway, it was also an opportunity for Nettie to move away, which was another recommendation on her release. That’s the last I heard of her until you called.”

  “She’s been here over two years.” Walker looked at the file notes. “Began working part-time as a clerk in a gourmet food store, also does volunteer work at the local library. Doctor Conway introduced her to the Knoebels and she’s been working for them as a housekeeper.”

  “Until Mrs. Knoebel turned up dead.”

  “Far as I know Nettie is still working for Doctor Knoebel. The husband.”

  “Doctor Knoebel, eh? Another psychiatrist?”

  “Surgeon.”

  “Well, all I can say is that I hope she had nothing to do with your case. I came to know Nettie, and I would find it hard to believe she’s capable of that sort of violence.”

  “Despite the history.”

  “Because of it. Last time I spoke with her, at the time of her release, she told me the years of state confinement were the best of her life. She was finally living without fear. She received professional help. I thought she’d be okay, I really did.”

  “I hope she is,” Walker said.

  “Anything else I can do for you on this?”

  “No, you’ve been very helpful.”

  “If you need to see our official file, you let me know.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, thanks,” Walker said.

  Then they said good night.

  As her background was being revealed to Anthony Walker, Nettie Sisson was sitting alone in her apartment, considering the prospect of returning to work at the Knoebel home. Dr. Knoebel had called to say that he wanted to assure her that he still expected her there.

  As reluctant as she was to return, she needed the job.

  She sat in her small living room, staring down at her hands, wondering how she would go on, dreading the thought of entering that house. It was not Elizabeth’s death that haunted her as much as conflicted memories of Elizabeth in life, the memories of her own past and the inevitable moment when all of it would be exposed.

  Elizabeth was gone, and now she was on her own, the demons from her past once again her closest companions. She realized she had to learn how to trust again, just as she had been taught how to hate.

  When she first arrived, Randi Conway was the only person there who knew the truth of her secrets, about the stabbing, about her internment, about all the things she had done back then, in her pathetic attempt to fund her escape from Ralph.

  And then she made the mistake of trusting Elizabeth Knoebel.

  Only Dr. Conway knew the depth of her relationship with Elizabeth. Not even Dr. Conway really understood what that relationship had become.

  CHAPTER 17

  Randi arrived late for dinner at Bob Stratford’s country club. The maître d’ led her through a maze of round, linen-covered tables to the far corner of the dining room, where her host and friends were already seated.

  “Hello everyone,” Randi said. “Sorry I’m late.”

  Bob Stratford stood and greeted her with a warm hug. “No worries. You’re only one cocktail behind us.”

  Stratford was a reasonably handsome man. He had a firm jaw line, even nose, and clear complexion. He managed to keep trim with regular workouts, a lot of tennis, and a competitive streak most men outgrow at a younger age. His hair was straight and brown and always carefully combed and sprayed. But his opaque brown eyes were his most striking feature. They could change from pensive to puckish, then suddenly transform into a piercing gaze that explained his success as a ruthless negotiator and attorney. They could also convey a look of pure empathy, which was helpful as he burnished his political persona.

  He was dressed, as always, in the conservative uniform of his dual profession—lawyer and elected official. He favored dark suits, white or blue shirts, and colorful silk ties that cost more than most people pay for a pair of shoes.

  He stepped back, still holding Randi by the shoulders. “You look terrific.”

  “Thanks,” she replied as she looked past him to the others seated at the table. She smiled at Jeannine and Bill Reilly, then saw that Bob’s wife had decided to come along after all. “Linda,” she said. “Robert told me you were going to be at a charity event or something. I thought I was filling in.”

  Linda Stratford made a move to push back her short blond bangs. “Filling in?”

  Before Randi could answer, the Reillys stood and said how wonderful it was to see her, and she responded in kind.

  Then they all sat down and Stratford ordered a round of drinks.

  “So, we heard you were there with the Avery boy on Tuesday night,” Bill Reilly said. “What’s the inside story?”

  Randi explained that she could not discuss the matter.

  “What’s to discuss?” Bob Stratford asked. “Obviously another rich little malcontent, am I right?”

  “I don’t even know the kid,” Bill Reilly told him, “but that seems like an awfully tough appraisal.”

  “Yes,” Linda Stratford agreed. Turning to her husband, she asked, “And what would you know about raising a child?”

  If Stratford’s look was intended to turn her into a pillar of salt, the only thing that became petrified was the conversation.

  Bill Reilly rescued them again. Turning to Randi, he said, “At least tell us about the policeman and the six-pack of beer. True or not?”

  Randi smiled. “True. And that is something I can talk about.” She regaled them with her account of Detective Anthony Walker’s primitive tactics, surprised at how much she enjoyed recounting the story.

  From there, the discussion moved on to local gossip, and even Linda joined in as they dissected one couple after another, until Jeannine Reilly finally cut them off.

  “Forget all this small-time stuff,” she insisted. “What about the murder?”

  Randi turned to Bob Stratford. The last thing she wanted was a discussion about the death of her former patient, and she looked to him for help.

  Stratford said, “I think I’ve met the husband. A surgeon in New York.”

  “That’s what I read,” Jeannine said. “I never met either of them, but I’ve heard a thing or two about her around town.” She raised an eyebrow and added, “If you catch my drift.”

  Randi remained silent as Stratford suggested they order dinner.

  The subject of the Knoebels was dropped as they concentrated on the menu. They placed their orders, finished their cocktails, and moved on to wine. As best they could, Randi and Bob worked to navigate the conversation away from Elizabeth Knoebel.

  Dinner was served, with colorful mixed salads followed by grilled salmon and pasta covered by julienne vegetables. When the wine was done, they turned to after-dinner drinks and dessert. The discussion meandered from town politics to local real estate values, but their interest in those events was soon exhausted. When Jeannine Reilly returned to Elizabeth’s death, Bob Stratford again ran interference. Eventually they found their way to their favorite topic, Men and Women.

  Jeannine began by turning to Randi. “We need a professional opinion here. You’re a psychologist.”

  Randi smiled politely, knowing how discussions tend to go when they start with that observation.

  Bob Stratford said, “Yes Jeannine, Randi is a psychologist. Thank you so much for pointing out the obvious.” Then he picked up his glass and drained off what was left, mostly melted ice flavored by the memory of Irish whisky already consumed.

  “You didn’t let me finish.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Stratford replied with a raised hand, as if prepared to fend off a blow. “Finish, Jeannine, please finish. I really want you to finish. We all want you to finish.” Jeannine’s husband uttered an inebriated laugh, and Stratford nodded his appreciation.

  Jeannine turned to her husband, narrowed her eyes until they were no
more than two slits, and warned him, “Later for you, dear.” Then she returned her attention to Stratford. “I want to talk about rituals, Bob. My friends were discussing it at lunch the other day, and I say that men are much more ritualistic than women. You disagree?”

  “I can,” Stratford said with a dismissive tilt of his head, “and I shall.” He was still holding his empty glass, which he now gave a forlorn look. “First, let’s have our waiter bring one more round to lubricate this complex conversation.”

  Almost on cue, all three women issued refusals to the offer of another cocktail.

  “You see!” Stratford exclaimed triumphantly. “Exhibit A has been submitted.”

  Jeannine Reilly frowned. “All right, counselor, what is the significance of Exhibit A?”

  “You speak of rituals and I’ve given my first example. Women will almost always refuse a drink. It’s reflexive. Women will insist on being talked into the next round, as if it couldn’t possibly be their idea, or their fault, or whatever. Men just say, ‘Sure.’ Or they say, ‘No more for me,’ and really mean it.” He looked to Bill Reilly. “All right, maybe we don’t always mean it,” he conceded with a grin, then turned back to Jeannine. “But women go through the ritual of refusal, seduction, and submission. By the way, I believe you practice this for other purposes as well.”

  When the waiter arrived, Bill Reilly said, “Okay, who really wants another drink?” Amidst some grudging laughter all five of them raised their hands.

  But Jeannine persisted. “That’s a lousy example,” she said. “Men have real rituals they follow.”

  “For instance?”

  “Peeing on the golf course,” she offered defiantly as her first point of proof. “I never met a man who played golf who didn’t have to go into the woods and urinate at least once a round. And it doesn’t matter if there are toilet facilities all over the course. You all just love to go into the woods and pee.”

  The men reluctantly nodded their agreement and Bill Reilly said, “If it’s nice out, leave it out.”

  Jeannine shot him another of her disapproving looks, then soldiered on. “And all that teasing you men do. That locker-room banter. Stupid nicknames and insult humor. It’s strictly a male thing, right?”