The Blue Journal Page 30

  “Look, I wouldn’t have called you here if I didn’t want to cooperate.”

  “Uh oh. Sounds like I should start guessing.”

  “No, it’s not like that. I want to wait for Bob. I called him, wanted to make sure we’re doing this correctly. After all, it may amount to nothing. It seems there may have been a lot of people in Elizabeth’s bedroom. I hate to say it that way, but it appears to be true. What if this other man was there? It doesn’t mean he killed her, right? I mean, that would be a pretty extreme leap of faith, wouldn’t it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Suppose I give you his name. Then you’ll go and question him, correct?”

  Walker took a sip of coffee. “That would be the general idea.”

  “Then he’ll know I put you onto him. And what if I’m wrong? What if it was a coincidence? What if he had nothing to do with her death? Where does that leave me? I violated a sacred trust, my professional ethics. Then what?”

  Robert Stratford opened the door, catching the last of Randi’s questions. “I hate to sound like a lawyer, but I think it’s safe to say you’ll get sued. What would remain of your practice is hard to say. I sure wouldn’t want to be telling you any of my secrets once the story got out that you were sharing patient confidences with the police. How about you Lieutenant?”

  “Good morning,” the detective glumly replied.

  Stratford went over and fixed himself a cup of coffee. He was dressed in a navy blue suit, white shirt with gold cuff links and a yellow tie with little red pindots. His black shoes were as shiny as the hood of a new car. “I’m not trying to be obstructive, just realistic.” He came over and sat in the chair beside Walker. He looked into his mug, then placed it on the desk. “God, Randi, when was the last time you cleaned out that machine?”

  “It’s not the coffee maker,” Walker assured him. “It’s the cup.”

  “Oh good.” Stratford picked up the mug, had another good look at it, decided it would be all right and took a sip. “I guess the heat of the coffee should kill the bacteria, right? Now where was I? Oh yes. Randi filled me in on the phone.” He turned to her. “You’ve looked at the photos?”

  Randi gestured toward the group of pictures spread out before her.

  “And?”

  “And I think I may be right,” she told them.

  “Okay. And now we have to decide what to do about it,” Stratford told her.

  “I understand.”

  “What you told me on the phone this morning,” Stratford said to her, “you still feel the same.”

  “I do.”

  “Look,” Walker said, “If it helps at all, I promise I’m not going to barge in and tell this guy I know what happened in his group.”

  “Of course not,” Stratford agreed.

  “I’ll do everything I can to be discreet,” Walker told them. “I’ll make it clear that the questioning is part of a series of routine interviews I’m conducting of all the people in both therapy groups, Mrs. Knoebel’s and Doctor Knoebel’s. I’ve already begun that process, so there’s no reason for it to seem that you breached any confidence whatsoever. I’ve made it known that you didn’t supply the names of your patients, which is true, I put that together with help from Doctor Knoebel and Mrs. Gorman. All you’d be doing by giving me his name is saving me some valuable time.” He looked to Stratford, then turned to Randi. “This is a murder we’re talking about. Somebody took a gun, put it to that woman’s head and pulled the trigger.” He leaned forward and began tapping his fingers on the photographs. “Have another look.”

  Randi felt ill. Then, as if she had no choice, she stared once again at the images of Elizabeth Knoebel. She was on the large bed with the dark mahogany headboard, her life gone, her once beautiful face distorted, the blood everywhere. She looked at Stratford.

  Stratford stared back at her. They did not speak, but the sudden tension between them was as real as if they were yelling at each other. Walker began to sense he might be getting more than one answer today.

  Stratford finally said, “Give him the name.”

  Randi turned to Walker, her eyes weary. For an instant she thought of Nettie Sisson, of what the woman knew and what she did not. Then, before she could speak, Walker held up his hand.

  “It’s Fred Wentworth, right?”

  Both Randi and Stratford turned to him.

  “Yes,” she said, not hiding her surprise, “it is.”

  Walker stood. “Thanks,” he said. “Just wanted confirmation. For the record, you still haven’t told me a thing.” Then he turned and headed out of her office.

  CHAPTER 52

  When he finished with Randi Conway and Robert Stratford, Walker went outside and climbed into the Explorer. Kovacevic was waiting in the driver’s seat.

  “You get anything?” the young officer asked.

  “Fred Wentworth.”

  “She gave you his name?”

  “Not exactly. I gave the name, she confirmed that he was the guy who got Colello upset in her group the other night.”

  “You don’t sound very enthusiastic about the lead.”

  “Let me ask you something. Did you believe Colello when he said he didn’t know anything about the diary until after Elizabeth Knoebel was shot?”

  Kovacevic nodded. “I think he was telling the truth about that.”

  “Me too. So, when he told Wentworth about the diary, that was almost a week after the murder.”

  “I’m with you so far.”

  “Colello never said anything about Wentworth being upset when he told him. Nothing about any sort of strange reaction.”

  “True.”

  “Colello also mentioned that they ran into Stratford at the bar that night, remember?”

  Kovacevic nodded.

  “When we went through everything the second time, Colello said that Stratford would not discuss the case.”

  “I remember.”

  “If Wentworth had some sort of violent reaction to news of the diary, Stratford would have said something to me just now.”

  “I would think so.”

  “But when Randi and I put those names together just now, Colello and Wentworth, I never said anything about knowing they all had a drink the other night.”

  Kovacevic waited.

  “Yet Stratford never mentioned seeing them. Maybe it’s nothing, maybe they never said anything to him worth repeating.”

  When he paused, Kovacevic asked the obvious question. “But why wouldn’t he at least mention seeing them together?”

  “Exactly.” Walker pulled roughly at his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “There’s something just doesn’t feel right about how this is unfolding.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Maybe I’m uncomfortable about Randi Conway’s relationship with Stratford.” Walker shook his head. “Although I hate to admit it.” He forced a dry laugh and borrowed one of Thomas Colello’s lines. “Not my style though.”

  “I wouldn’t think so.”

  He was about to say something about how utterly stupid it was to have slept with a woman who was either a key witness or a suspect in a murder case, but he kept that to himself. “No,” he repeated, “it isn’t my style at all.”

  “Could it be something else?”

  “I don’t know.” Walker sat back and covered his upper lip with his lower in the way he did when he was thinking. “You drive, I’m going to try and reach Wentworth, set up an interview with him as soon as we’re finished with Colello’s wife.”

  Walker tried to reach Fred Wentworth at his office and on his cell with no success. Meanwhile, Kovacevic drove them to the Colello home for their appointment with the lady of the house. A short time later, she and Walker were seated at her kitchen table as Fran listened to Officer Kovacevic rattle off the required list of legal warnings.

  She could remain silent. If she chose to talk with them, anything she said could be used against her later. If she said anything that incriminated her, or
incriminated anyone else for that matter, she could be sure that would be used. She had a right to have an attorney present, but that was up to her. If she could not afford a lawyer, the state would provide one. Kovacevic asked her to sign a piece of paper acknowledging that she understood all the rights he had just explained.

  “Did my husband sign one of these?”

  Walker said that he had.

  “But his lawyer was with him. Why did he have his lawyer with him?”

  Walker shrugged. “That was his right, as the officer just explained to you. You can have a lawyer here if you want.”

  She read through the form. “Why would I need a lawyer?”

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Colello. Nowadays people seem to have lawyers around for everything. It’s entirely up to you,” he repeated patiently.

  She was still looking at the form. “You met with my husband at your headquarters, or whatever it’s called.”

  “We didn’t want to disturb you. Didn’t know if you had children at home at that hour. Like I told you on the phone last night, we can go to my office if you prefer.”

  She looked up from the papers and studied Walker for a moment. “Pen?”

  Walker handed her his ballpoint and she signed her name. Kovacevic, who was standing alongside Walker, bent over and witnessed her signature.

  Fran looked up at the younger man. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable sitting? Or are you standing guard so I won’t go running out the door?”

  Kovacevic looked at Walker, who nodded. “Thank you,” the officer said. He took a seat at the end of the large, antique wooden table and switched on his hand-held digital recorder, leaving Walker and Mrs. Colello facing each other across a three-foot width of oak parquet.

  She said, “You want to know about Elizabeth Knoebel, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hated her. Does that answer any of your questions?”

  “It might.”

  Fran Colello brushed back her dark, straight hair with a casual sweep of her hand. Not a bad-looking woman, Walker thought. Just a few pounds over fighting weight and a bit careless with her grooming. A woman, he thought, who didn’t give a damn anymore.

  “So, Detective, are you going to tell me that my husband was having an affair with Elizabeth Knoebel?”

  “No, ma’am, I’m not.”

  “He was, you know. You should know that if you’re a detective.” She calmly examined his face again. “But you already knew. It’s obvious. Is that why you’re here, Detective Walker? To find out if I shot that bitch because she was screwing my husband? Is that what you want to know?”

  Walker smiled, wishing he hadn’t.

  “You see something funny about this?”

  “No ma’am, just the way you said it, is all. What makes you think your husband was having an affair with Mrs. Knoebel?”

  Fran noticed some toast crumbs on the table, remnants of her family’s breakfast. She began to carefully push them together with the edge of her right hand, corralling them from four sides in an ever-decreasing square of tiny, dry pieces of crust until they were in a small pile. Then, with violent backhand motion, she swept them off the table onto the floor. She looked up at Walker. “How do I know? Is that your question?”

  Walker nodded slowly. “Yes.”

  “You’ll have to do better than that if you want to find your murderer, Detective Walker.”

  “We’re doing the best we can, Mrs. Colello.” He took a deep breath and started again. “Look, I realize this is difficult, but you were the one who brought up the subject of your husband and Mrs. Knoebel.”

  “Mrs. Knoebel.” She repeated the name like it was some disagreeable taste. “Suppose we just refer to her as ‘the bitch’? Would that be all right?”

  “I’m afraid that’d make me a little uncomfortable, referring to a murder victim that way. You can suit yourself.”

  “How accommodating you are, Detective Walker. Anything to get me talking, is that the drill?”

  “I’d simply like to have my questions answered.”

  “Fine. Answer number one. I knew because women know these things. It wasn’t just the way he behaved, or the nights he stayed out late, or the scent on his jacket that seemed familiar but wasn’t mine. It wasn’t only that. It was her. The things she said in group.”

  “What sort of things did she say in your group that made you suspicious?”

  “I can’t really remember any specifics,” she admitted. “We discussed so many things in group, private things, personal things. Even so, there were things she knew about me I couldn’t remember saying.”

  “Can you recall one example?”

  “No,” she said. But now, as she was forced to think of Elizabeth, Fran did begin to recall, the memory rising up in her like a burning sensation of hate that made her want to scream.

  She heard Walker ask, “Was it something she said in your group that caused you to attack her. I’m talking about the day before she was killed.”

  “Ah, so you’ve been speaking with Doctor Conway.”

  “No ma’am. We spoke with other members of your group.”

  “I see,” she replied coldly. “Well then, you already know what happened. She was insulting and vulgar and horrible and I grabbed her by the throat. What’s your question?”

  “Do you recall what she said? Did she say something about your husband?”

  Fran Colello bared her upper teeth, about to say something. Then she paused. “Wouldn’t that be convenient for you? But no,” she added with a quick shake of her head, “she called me a used-up old housefrau. That’s when I tried to choke her.”

  Walker decided to drop that subject for the time being. “Did your husband ever say he was sleeping with Mrs. . . . uh . . . with her?”

  “My husband? Start telling the truth? Why ruin his perfect record? No, Detective. Thomas never told me. He won’t admit it even now. Isn’t that the proper procedure in the handbook for cheating husbands? Deny, deny, deny. No matter what. If you’re caught with your pants at your ankles and the girl on her knees, just deny. Say your belt buckle broke off and she’s helping you find it.” Walker noticed that Fran Colello’s smile was almost indistinguishable from her sneer. “When man was created, the Lord said, ‘Denial shall be yours.’ Isn’t that the way it works?”

  Walker felt he should say something. Instead he glanced at Kovacevic.

  “I’m sorry,” Fran Colello said to the younger officer. “Did you expect me to break down and cry or something? I don’t think so, gentlemen. My husband is an unfaithful bastard and she was a bitch, and I’m glad she’s dead. But I didn’t kill her if that’s what you want to know. Although I would’ve been happy to if I had the chance, or if I thought it would have made a difference in my life.”

  “Do you remember where you were the day she died?”

  “I was right here doing my chores, just like a good little housefrau.”

  “How are you so sure you were home that day?”

  “I’m home every day, Detective. And I remember hearing about it the next night, on the radio. I remember wondering . . .” She stopped.

  “Wondering what, Mrs. Colello?”

  “About the previous day, I guess.” Her eyes would not meet his now.

  “That’s not what you were going to say, is it?”

  She looked down at her clean tabletop. “I remember, that’s all. I remember how I felt. Pleased and angry and sad, all at the same time. And I remember thinking about where I was the day before. At the time she was killed. I wanted to fix that in my mind. It helped me enjoy the moment.”

  “What else were you wondering, do you recall?”

  She shook her head.

  “Were you wondering where your husband was that day?”

  She shook her head again.

  “Is that what you were wondering?”

  She reacted by treating her own hands to a withering stare.

  “What time did your husband arrive home that night? The n
ight of Elizabeth Knoebel’s death. Do you remember?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t expect you to know exactly. I’m only asking for your best recollection.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I meant, I don’t know if I should be answering these questions about my husband.”

  “Let me ask you something along a different line. When you were in group together, did Mrs. Knoebel ever mention having affairs? I’m not referring to your husband. Did she ever mention any other men she was seeing?”

  “Why would she? She was always too busy criticizing me. Or Joan. Or one of the others.”

  Walker leaned back for a minute and looked into Fran Colello’s cold, hazel eyes. “I really need to ask you some questions about your husband. Are you certain he was sleeping with Elizabeth Knoebel, or is it just something you suspected?”

  She grimaced at the direct question. “I knew then and I know now,” she replied.

  “How do you know?”

  She paused, thinking through what she was going to say. She took a moment to study Walker’s weathered face, the relentless gray-brown eyes that hinted at compassion but gave little away. “I followed him one day,” she admitted. “I followed him to a bar. He met her there. I waited across the way until they came out. They got into her car and drove to a motel just down the road. My loving husband didn’t even notice me there. It was as if I was invisible.”

  “Is that the real reason you attacked her in your group therapy session? Because you found out she was sleeping with your husband?”

  “Yes, Detective. And in answer to your next question, I wished she was dead. I’m glad she’s dead now. But I’ll tell you again. I didn’t kill her. And neither did that bastard I’m married to.”

  CHAPTER 53

  Fred Wentworth told himself he had to learn to keep his big mouth shut. He had the salesman’s habit of talking too damn much, a lousy occupational hazard.

  He liked Thomas Colello and thought they were becoming friends. Now he had done something to make Colello angry and he couldn’t figure out what it was. Thomas had become upset in group, and all Fred knew was that it had something to do with Elizabeth Knoebel.