The Blue Journal Page 31

  She was still a problem for him, even now.

  He should never have bragged about knowing her, about being in her bedroom. Maybe that was the reason Colello turned on him. But why?

  Damn, Wentworth cursed himself. In the end, what had she meant to him anyway? Humiliation. Derision. She had stood there laughing at him, and he should have caved her head in then and there.

  Now he had received the phone call, early this morning, something that could not be ignored. He had been summoned to a private discussion about Elizabeth and her diary. He was told it would be best if they met before he spoke another word about it to anyone. Before the police came knocking on his door. Before he suffered a public embarrassment. There was trouble ahead, he was told, and he was going to need help.

  It was an appointment he had to keep.

  This was another day when he had no appointments scheduled at work anyway, so leaving the office was not an issue. He headed up the highway from New York, through Westchester into Fairfield County, exiting onto an access road, then turning onto a winding, two-lane stretch that was lined with colorful trees of red and orange and purple leaves.

  They agreed to meet at an out-of-the-way coffee shop in back country Redding. No sense in having their discussion interrupted by anyone they knew in town. No point in even being seen together until this blew over.

  Fred would be pleased to do anything that would keep things from getting worse.

  He had been traveling for several miles on the back roads, worrying over how all of this would play out for him at home, at work, and with the police, when he brought his station wagon to a halt at a stop sign. There was no other traffic at this hour, except for a sedan he noticed in his rearview mirror. The road ahead was otherwise quiet, he was early, and he didn’t need someone pressing him from behind. He took the first right turn, but the sedan did the same, staying close.

  At the next intersection Wentworth headed left, but the car in back of him also took that turn. As the sedan drew close up behind him, Fred stuck his arm out the window to wave the driver on, pulling his wagon along the shoulder and slowing it as the sedan sped past and continued around the bend ahead. Fred did not get a look at the driver.

  Once he saw that the sedan was gone, Wentworth increased his speed, returning to a consideration of his problems and how he intended to deal with them. He was lost in thought as he came around the next turn where he spotted that same sedan, off to the left side of the road, amidst some trees.

  In that instant Fred knew. Somehow he understood. Before he could react, the sedan leapt across the blacktop, heading straight at him. Fred stepped on the accelerator, his heavy station wagon careening to the right, his tires spinning in the dirt and gravel alongside the edge of the road as he tried to surge ahead. But the sedan was faster, and it was already alongside him, coming from an oblique angle that gave it all of the leverage, forcing Wentworth’s vehicle into a thicket of trees as they raced around the curve of the bending road, both of them going too fast now, no other cars in sight.

  The sedan veered harder to the right, forcing Wentworth up a slight berm and then into a shallow ravine. The sedan then swerved left as the station wagon went crashing off the side of a large tree and then smashed sideward into another where it came to a loud and violent stop.

  The driver of the sedan stopped and had a look around before getting out of the car to survey the damage. Staying clear of the steam and smoke that was gushing up from underneath the crumbled hood of Wentworth’s car, the murderer stepped toward the open window. Fred Wentworth was slumped to the side, the front airbag having deployed and deflated, now just an empty balloon sitting on his lap. It had been no help with the brunt of the lateral impact.

  Too bad it had to be Wentworth, perhaps the least deserving of all the possible candidates for this thankless role. After all of the planning, Wentworth would never have been the first choice, but there it was. The decision had been forced by the actions of others, and now it was done.

  The murderer, with a hand gloved in latex, felt Wentworth’s neck. He was already dead. The murderer then drew the pistol from a coat pocket. Having to use the gun to fake his suicide would clearly have been an unwelcome complication. Instead, the murderer simply placed the handle of the revolver in Wentworth’s lifeless hand. Once the fingerprints were made, the murderer took the pistol, walked around the wagon and, leaning through the passenger side window, placed it inside the console between the front seats.

  With nothing else to be done here, the killer crossed the deserted road, climbed back into the sedan and proceeded on, turning left at the next intersection. In a few miles this car, which had been taken from an unsuspecting suburbanite from North Stamford who had left it in the driveway with the keys above the visor, would be abandoned deep in the woods where the murderer’s own car waited to be used to keep another appointment.

  CHAPTER 54

  Walker was becoming increasingly frustrated. He could not reach either of the Wentworths. He had tried their cells and home with no luck. When he called the main line in Fred’s office all he learned was that Wentworth had left early that morning to keep an outside appointment. No one had any details beyond that.

  They were finished questioning Fran Colello, so Walker and Kovacevic drove across town to the Wentworth house, but again came up empty. No one was there. After waiting a while in the driveway, Walker thought better of leaving any sort of message and told Kovacevic it was time to return to headquarters.

  They spent the balance of the afternoon in the detectives’ squad room, reordering their thinking about the Knoebel case. If Wentworth was their man, they wanted to do as little as possible in the way of further disrupting the various fractured marriages they had already intruded upon. To that end, they put additional interviews on hold until they interrogated Wentworth.

  As night fell they were about to take another run past the Wentworth house when Chief Gill summoned them both to his office.

  “What the hell is going on here, Walker?”

  “Could you be a little more specific Chief?”

  “I told you to keep this investigation low-key and to get it wrapped up as soon as possible, did I not?”

  “That would certainly be the preferred method in every homicide.”

  “Spare me the New York City sarcasm. I’ve got attorneys for not one, but both Colellos complaining about your treatment of their clients. Doctor Knoebel’s lawyer says that you two are spending so much time in his hospital they’re going to start charging our department rent. You’re in Doctor Conway’s office more than you’re here. And now rumor has it that you’ve become drinking buddies with the First Selectman, a pairing that has not gone unnoticed by the local gentry and the media. Is that your idea of dancing around like Fred Astaire?”

  Walker wondered what irked Gill more, the disgruntled citizens or the idea that he had become cozy with the First Selectman. “I’m heading up a murder investigation, Chief, not to mention the B and E of Doctor Conway’s office. Unfortunately, suspects and clues are not generally delivered to headquarters. You have to go out and find them if you want to solve the crimes.”

  “Is that so? Well tell me then, what crimes have you solved so far?”

  Walker sighed. “I met with Doctor Conway and the First Selectman this morning. They confirmed a name that may be helpful.”

  “A name?”

  “A suspect.”

  “Another one? Perfect. And whose life are you going to ruin tonight?”

  “Fred Wentworth. Another of Doctor Conway’s merry men. He made comments that led some members of his therapy group to believe he’d been in Elizabeth Knoebel’s bedroom.”

  “According to you, who hasn’t?”

  Walker’s cell phone had been buzzing in his pocket. He ignored it the first two times. Now he said, “Hold on Chief.” He looked at the incoming number. “It’s coming from one of ours.” He hit the green button and said, “Yeah Kevin.”

  Walker sat there, pho
ne in hand, staring at Kovacevic as he listened to Kevin Chambers say, “That guy you wanted us to locate for an interview, name of Fred Wentworth. Something just came across the computer from the State. Troopers found a car off Route 35, up near Redding. Crashed into a tree sometime today. Driver alone in the vehicle. Dead at the scene. Preliminary identification is Fred Wentworth.”

  Walker told the officer he was about to go on speaker, hit a button and had Chambers repeat the information to Chief Gill and Kovacevic.

  When Chambers finished, Walker asked, “The State’s on it?”

  “Yeah. Troopers are at the scene.”

  “He drove his car into a tree?”

  “That’s what they’re telling me.”

  “Drunk? Heart attack?”

  “Not sure yet, but the trooper says there were marks on the side of car.”

  “Meaning what, Kevin? What sort of marks?”

  “The car was very banged up. Hit a ditch and scraped a lot of bushes and smaller trees before it hit the large oak where they found it. But even with all that, there are marks that might have come from another vehicle.”

  “They look like new marks?”

  “Seems so.”

  “What do the troopers think?”

  “Not saying yet. He could have hit something before he went out of control. Or it may have been a hit-and-run.”

  Walker looked to Gill, who was doing his best not to react.

  “One more thing Anthony,” Chambers said.

  “We’re all listening.”

  “The troopers found a revolver in the center console between the seats of Wentworth’s station wagon. It’s a .38 caliber.”

  Everyone was silent for a moment. Then Walker said, “Be sure no one touches that revolver, assuming they haven’t screwed it up already. We need prints and then we need it sent to ballistics.”

  “I’m on it,” Chambers said.

  “Keep me posted,” Walker told him and hung up.

  CHAPTER 55

  When Mitchell Avery picked up the private line in his office, the last voice he expected to hear was Joan’s.

  “Oh Mitchell,” she began, then started crying.

  Joan was not given to emotional outbursts, and so Avery’s insides froze as he asked, “Joan, what is it? Are you all right? Is it one of the kids?”

  “No,” she managed to respond as she tried to pull herself together. “It’s Phyllis Wentworth.” She took a deep breath, then told him, “Her husband is dead.”

  Relief washed over Avery like a huge wave, followed by a moment of guilt. He was glad it had nothing to do with either of his children or Joan, feeling as if a firm grip on his insides had suddenly been released. But then he asked, “Fred Wentworth is dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  Joan drew another uneven breath. “I came to Doctor Conway’s office. I had an appointment with her—to talk about us. When I got there, she was sitting at her desk crying. It was awful.”

  When she paused, he pressed her. “Joan, what happened to Fred?”

  “He was in a car crash. Ran into a tree or something. Randi just heard.”

  “Jesus, that is awful.”

  “There’s more,” she said.

  “Was someone else hurt?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. He was alone. No other car involved, or however they say that.”

  When she hesitated again, he said, “I’m listening.”

  “The police told Randi they found a gun in his car. They say it might be the gun that was used to murder Elizabeth.”

  Neither of them spoke for a moment. Then Mitchell asked, “Where are you?”

  “In my car, outside Doctor Conway’s office.”

  “All right. I’m leaving New York right now, heading back to the house. Meet me there, okay?”

  Joan began crying again. “I’m not sure. I don’t think I can do this right now.”

  “Please Joan. There’s so much we have to talk about, so many things I want to say. Just meet me at the house, I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

  She thought it over, then said, “All right. I’ll go there now.”

  “Good, I’m on my way.”

  “But Mitchell,” she said, then paused again. “No more lies.”

  CHAPTER 56

  The ballistics test of the pistol found in Wentworth’s car was rushed through forensics the next day. The match with the bullet that killed Mrs. Knoebel was perfect. The serial number had been filed off the revolver, so there was little chance of tracking down the history of ownership. The case was open and shut.

  The local news had the story within hours and the murder was declared as having been solved. This seemed to delight everyone involved in the investigation.

  Everyone that was, except Anthony Walker.

  Sitting at his desk, reading the ballistic results, Walker told Kovacevic, “It’s the murder weapon all right, handed to us on a platter.”

  The younger officer understood the reason for Walker’s sullen demeanor. Everyone wanted the case closed, and Walker’s dissenting views were not welcome. He went to Chief Gill, arguing that there was nothing to connect Fred Wentworth to the murder except the gun found in his car.

  “And his fingerprints on it.”

  “Not too hard to manage, since he was dead when they found him.”

  “And aren’t you the one who told me he made statements in front of several witnesses where he placed himself in Mrs. Knoebel’s bedroom?”

  “But not on the day of the shooting. This is all circumstantial.”

  “Are you kidding me?” the chief demanded. “What do you need, Walker, a full-color photo of Wentworth pulling the trigger?”

  “Chief, I realize everyone wants to hang this on Wentworth and, because he’s dead, it’s easy and convenient and it closes the file. But what about the marks on the driver’s side of his car? Where did the other dents come from?”

  “Who knows? Maybe he caromed off something on the other side of the road. Maybe it was some sort of half-assed suicide.”

  “Suicide? If he wanted to kill himself, there was a gun in the car, remember? Who the hell kills himself by running a station wagon into a tree?”

  “Look Walker, ballistics says the gun is a spot-on match with the bullet that killed Mrs. Knoebel. It was found in Wentworth’s station wagon. With his fingerprints on it.”

  “I understand that, Chief, but what kind of a moron commits murder and then keeps the weapon right there in his car?”

  “What do I know? Maybe the kind of moron who manages to crash into a tree on a dry sunny day.” Gill gave his head a vigorous shake. “Look Walker, we have witnesses who’ll say Wentworth made statements placing him inside the Knoebels’ bedroom. We’ve got the murder weapon with his prints on it. We have a diary with information on various men the victim knew, and you admit one of them matches this guy. So, when I have some spare time I promise I’ll paint the picture for you in oil. Meanwhile get back to work and close this file.”

  CHAPTER 57

  Walker could not be convinced that Wentworth’s death was an accident, and the State Troopers involved in the investigation agreed. Unfortunately, Gill ordered the file closed and the State had no jurisdiction over the Knoebel case. They could, however, look further into the car crash.

  “You want us to get involved here,” asked a trooper Walker knew from Bridgeport, “try to find the other car?”

  “The one that ran him off the road?”

  “Exactly. If our forensic team gets their hands on that, we might find something.”

  “Do what you can,” Walker said. “My chief has shut me down.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” the trooper promised.

  Meanwhile, no one else was interested except Anthony Walker.

  And Phyllis Wentworth.

  She was incapable of containing her grief, which was intensified beyond comprehension by the unbelievable notion that he had murdered Elizabeth Knoebel. She s
ought comfort from Randi Conway, never guessing that their therapist might, in some measure, have been an instrument of Fred’s death.

  Randi was riddled with guilt, but could obviously never reveal her discussion about Fred with Walker and Stratford. Instead, the two of them spent the best part of an hour expressing their shared anguish, with Phyllis never knowing how deep the therapist’s remorse ran. At the end of the session, Randi suggested Phyllis speak with Anthony Walker. She told her that he was the one person who could see through everything, who might make sense of it all.

  Phyllis was astonished. “You want me to go to the police? The people who are saying this about my Fred?”

  “No,” Randi replied, barely able to meet Phyllis’s tormented gaze. “I don’t want you to go to the police. I want you to go and see Anthony Walker.”

  And so, not sure what else she could do, Phyllis surprised herself by making the phone call and inviting the equally astonished detective to her home.

  Walker could not shake the sad irony of this meeting. He had been sitting in the Wentworths’ driveway the day Fred died, trying vainly to reach the man, not knowing he had already been targeted for death. Imagine if he had gotten to him first. Imagine how differently things might have turned out.

  Phyllis showed him into their modest living room, offered him some water—which he declined—then launched into protests of her husband’s innocence that ranged in emotion from raw anger to primal heartache.

  Walker allowed her to vent until she finally ran low on tears and energy. “You’re preaching to the choir, Mrs. Wentworth.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t believe your husband murdered Elizabeth Knoebel. Apparently Doctor Conway didn’t share my views with you.”

  The woman was genuinely surprised. “No she didn’t. She only said it would be helpful if we could talk.”

  “Well, we’re talking. Unfortunately, no one else seems interested in listening to us.”

  Phyllis took the handkerchief away from her eyes. “You really mean what you say?”