The Blue Journal Page 7

  “That’s it,” the chief finally said, dismissing Walker with a wave of his hand.

  Walker returned to the room he shared with the two other detectives on the force. Officer Kovacevic was waiting for him.

  “You don’t look happy, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “Gill’s in one of his moods, that’s all. What’ve you got?”

  “We received preliminaries from Jake, the work from forensics, and the narratives on the area sweep.” He was holding the various reports.

  “Anything helpful?”

  “Afraid not. How’d it go with the psychologist?”

  “Doctor Conway? It was interesting.” Walker dropped himself into the old padded swivel chair behind his metal desk and took the papers Kovacevic held out for him. “As expected, she hid behind confidential privilege. I showed her the photos. Bet it was the first time she ever looked at a gunshot victim. For a second I thought she was going to toss her breakfast on my shoes.” Walker realized the younger officer was still standing. “Take a load off, Kovie.”

  Walker leaned back and stretched his legs across the corner of the desk. He went through the report from the coroner’s office. No surprises.

  Elizabeth Knoebel died of a single gunshot wound to her right temple. The shot was fired from a .38 caliber revolver at close range, causing extensive internal damage. Death was virtually instantaneous.

  Based on the extent of rigor mortis when the body was first examined, and the undigested food substances in her stomach, they put the time of death at about four o’clock Tuesday afternoon. There was no evidence of any narcotics in her system. There was minimal alcohol ingestion, less than two glasses of wine. There was no sign of recent sexual penetration, before or after death.

  Walker tossed the report on his desk and picked up the lab results. No unidentified fingerprints. The only matches were for the Knoebels and Nettie Sisson. No helpful DNA findings, not so much as a shred of skin under the victim’s nails. Walker nodded to himself. Elizabeth Knoebel knew her murderer. Someone who just strolled in, got close, pulled the trigger, then walked out. He put those papers down and went to the statements from the officers who had canvassed the area.

  As expected, most neighbors were not at home in the afternoon. Of the few that were, none heard anything like a gunshot. Kovacevic’s observations had been correct. These were large houses, well built, well insulated, and separated by generous stretches of land. Added to that was Walker’s suspicion that anyone who might have heard anything resembling a shot would be inclined to deny it anyway. Why get yourself in the middle of something so messy if all you could report was that you heard a sound an acre away that might have been nothing more than a car backfiring?

  There was one neighbor who did have something to say. Mrs. Fitzmorris, who lived just down the road from the Knoebels, spoke with Kovacevic. She said that she returned home from grocery shopping on Tuesday afternoon around five. When she went back outside to pick up her mail she noticed a gray sedan go by—she thought it was a Mercedes or a BMW or something else foreign. Whatever it was, it was speeding away from the Knoebels’ driveway. It struck her as odd at the time, a car moving so fast on their quiet back road. Must have been a BMW, she said, because you know how fast they drive, those people with BMWs. She did not get a look at the driver, but she was sure of the time. And no, she didn’t recall hearing anything that sounded like a gunshot.

  Walker dropped the report on his desk and leaned back, staring up at the ceiling.

  The chief’s comments about the fears in town had actually struck a chord with him. Walker knew from experience that any time a murder is committed there’s a chance the killer will strike again. Serial murderers are rare, despite their frequent appearance in popular fiction, but murderers are capable of killing again for reasons other than sheer psychosis. Sometimes they haven’t finished the job they started. Or they use a second victim to misdirect the first investigation. Or they need to take someone out to cover their tracks—a co-conspirator, perhaps—or someone who stumbles on incriminating evidence—or someone who just knows too much.

  Which brought Walker back to Dr. Randi Conway.

  “Sir,” Kovacevic interrupted his musings, pointing to the reports. “What do you think?”

  Walker slid his boots off the desk and sat up. “Let’s check with Jake again about the time of death. His estimate is more than an hour before Mrs. Fitzmorris told you she spotted the car zooming out of the Knoebel driveway. I’d like to see if we can tighten that gap. Then you and I will pay another visit to see how sure Mrs. Fitzmorris is on her timing—maybe get a better read on identifying that car.”

  Walker had another look at the photographs. Elizabeth Knoebel was certainly attractive, even in death, that much was apparent.

  “Not a very friendly woman,” Kovacevic volunteered as he watched Walker study the pictures. “At least that was the word I got from the neighbors I spoke with.”

  Walker nodded for him to go on.

  “Not the country club type, no junior league stuff. Not well liked, let’s put it that way.”

  “There was certainly someone who didn’t like her.”

  “Doctor Knoebel isn’t going to win any popularity contests either, although it seems he’s home a lot less than his wife. They say he’s a big deal surgeon in New York. Keeps to himself. Apparently left the missus alone on a regular basis.”

  Walker pulled out a cigarette and stuck it between his lips. Bad habits from his days in New York died hard, even though he couldn’t light up in the office. “You know, Kovie, gossip has a bad reputation, but in this business it can be more helpful than an eyewitness account.”

  “Yes sir,” Kovacevic said, having heard that one before from Walker. “So what’s next?”

  “When we visit Mrs. Fitzmorris again let’s bring some pictures of several different late-model foreign cars. Get some brochures of BMWs, Jaguars, Mercedes, Audis, whatever. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “I’ll pull it together.”

  “Jake is a competent guy. If he says the time of death was around four, that’s at least an hour earlier than her sighting of that sedan.” Walker shook his head. “If it wasn’t the murderer Mrs. Fitzmorris saw, maybe it was someone else entirely. Maybe someone got there after Elizabeth Knoebel was dead, saw the body, and took off. Or maybe the murderer came back, maybe he forgot something.”

  “Like what?”

  “That’s what we have to figure out once we nail down the timing. How are we doing with that computer?”

  “Teddy is working on it.”

  “Where are we on the warrant?”

  “We’ll have it today.”

  “Good. Who knows, maybe we’ll find something there to help us.”

  CHAPTER 10

  A short time later, Walker was still in his office when he received word from the front desk that Teddy Blasko had arrived to see him. Blasko was the outside consultant the department used for all things computer.

  “Have Kovie bring him up,” Walker told the receptionist.

  Kovacevic accompanied Blasko to the detectives’ office, where he greeted Walker and then promptly set Elizabeth Knoebel’s laptop on the desk and powered it up.

  “Just busted the main codes this afternoon,” the techie told them proudly.

  Walker and Kovacevic watched the screen flash a series of changing images as Blasko tapped on the keyboard.

  “I’ll run the list of programs for you. I’ve already printed the directory,” he said, reaching into his pocket and handing Walker a sloppily folded group of pages. “I’ve only had a quick look at the software she’s got loaded in this baby. Some programs are custom. She has different passwords for each of those.”

  “Of course,” Walker said. “Goes without saying.”

  Blasko ignored the sarcasm.

  “She used to work as some sort of software consultant,” Walker said.

  “Kovie told me,” Blasko replied without looking up. “Look
y here.”

  “What is it?”

  Blasko pointed to a list of symbols on the screen that Walker found indecipherable. “All the subdirectories seem to be intact,” Blasko said. “That doesn’t mean some of the information wasn’t erased from within the files themselves. We can cross-check that afterward.”

  “Naturally,” Walker said with a grin.

  “Right. Anyway, she has a lot of technical data stored here, some of it is for the programs she wrote herself.”

  “Is that good?”

  “Might make it tougher to get into them.”

  “How tough?”

  “We’ll find out. Haven’t cracked that group yet. They might have to do with her work, not necessarily personal. I assume you’re after the personal data.”

  “The name of her murderer would be nice.”

  Blasko frowned.

  “You know the drill, Teddy. Anything that might help us identify a suspect. Threatening e-mails. Intimate e-mails. Whatever you computer people write to each other on these things.”

  Blasko laughed his goofy laugh, which sounded like he might choke unless he spit out whatever was gagging him. “Computer people?” He chuckled again. “What are computer people?”

  Walker liked the guy too much to share any of the half dozen clever responses that leapt to mind. “Just show me what you found.”

  Blasko went back to the keyboard. “No reason to look at her finances.”

  “You know where she lived.”

  “Right. Let’s have a peek at her e-mails.” Teddy played with various access codes until he entered the program directory.

  “Impressive,” Walker said.

  “Nothing to it,” Blasko admitted. “It’s Microsoft Office, standard stuff once I got the first password.” He hit some more keys and then said, “Here you go. You can read through all of her e-mails, even the ones she sent and the ones she deleted.”

  “Good.” Walker turned to Kovacevic. “Hope you didn’t have any plans tonight. Looks like you’ve got some reading to do.”

  The young officer nodded. “I’ll be on it.”

  After Blasko hit a few more keys he said, “This is a list of all the document files she created. You’ll have to go through each of these too, see what they’re about. I’ve already been through some, but this is the one you asked about.” Blasko opened and closed a few windows, then brought up a folder titled SEXUAL RITES.

  “That’s the one.”

  In just a few seconds, Teddy had the screen glowing with a directory of files that read:

  BVLCO.DOC

  CLDTM.DOC

  DVFQO.DOC

  FINAL.DOC

  FVDPD.DOC

  FVHFX.DOC

  INTRO.DOC

  JSDPB.DOC

  JWJCR.DOC

  LMVCH.DOC

  MMWEI.DOC

  NIWKF.DOC

  PEXNH.DOC

  PLBNT.DOC

  RIJPB.DOC

  RSETU.DOC

  SHAKE.DOC

  SXQNZ.DOC

  TLROT.DOC

  “These file names look coded, probably to discourage anyone from having a quick look at them. I got into them. Based on the content, I’m guessing she wanted to hide them from her husband.”

  Walker nodded.

  “Which one you want me to open first?”

  “How about the one that says INTRO? That name doesn’t look coded.”

  Teddy brought up the file marked INTRO.DOC. At the top of the screen, in the center, flashed the words:

  SEXUAL RITES

  INTRODUCTION

  Walker pulled up a chair and sat down beside Blasko. Kovacevic stood behind them.

  Notes for Introduction

  Life is a series of experiences to which we assign many different names, a process that begins at birth, reaches a zenith, then follows its inexorable decline, and, ultimately, ends in death.

  Infancy. Adolescence. Puberty. Teen-age. Adulthood. Middle-age. Maturity. Old-age.

  We grow. We mature. We decay. We die.

  Men and women are as susceptible to this inescapable process as every other living thing on earth. Yet we are uniquely empowered with an intellect that causes us to try and comprehend its meaning, to come to terms with the significance of the rites of passage that mark our lives. We learn from them, draw from them in the hope of improving ourselves and, ideally, we seek out every source of gratification they can provide.

  Sexuality is woven through the fabric of every stage of this evolution. Scientists tell us that a newborn infant is capable of sexual stimulation. Psychologists tell us that sexual urges can rule the psyche and affect our earliest emotions and deeds. Experience tells us that our yearning for sex can be the source of our most powerful desires, needs, and fears.

  So what are these rites of sexual passage that exert such control over our lives? What are the forces that affect us as we mature beyond our pubescent longings and youthful adventures? We are intrigued by our early experiences and the wonderful, mystical unknown that offers a fulfillment of body and spirit. We often use the expression innocence to describe that phase, a most interesting choice of words.

  So what changes occur along the way to cause the loss of such innocence?

  What are the influences of love?

  The constraints of marriage?

  The demands of trust?

  The consequences of infidelity?

  The suffering that comes from cruelty?

  The unrealistic expectations that lead to disappointment?

  The inhibitions that come from insecurity?

  The forces that drive us to hatred, violence, degradation, or even depravity?

  And, most important of all, what are the rules and regulations we call civilized behavior that ultimately cause most of us to resist the impulses of our basic lust? What compels us to hide, ignore, divert, or struggle against this most primitive, visceral hunger?

  Where do these inhibitions begin?

  Just imagine if those limitations were removed. Who among us would not crave unrestrained sexual excitement? What passionate discoveries would we welcome if there were no boundaries or social taboos? Why then do most of us deny ourselves, every day, that which is so sublime and so readily available?

  What have we done to civilize our most basic urges? And why have we done it? What takes place in our society to create the pretexts that mangle or destroy our sexuality?

  Do you want to understand these sexual rites, to find the way to free yourself from their restrictions?

  Come with me on my journey of exploration.

  “Go back to the list,” Walker said.

  Blasko soon had the screen glowing with the column of file names.

  “Any way to tell which of these was most recently opened?”

  “Sure. They all have an electronic date stamp, every time you edit one.” After checking through them he said, “This one here, this is the last one she worked on.” Blasko opened the file named RSETU.DOC. Walker recognized it.

  “We’ve seen that,” Walker said. “Open another.”

  Blasko worked the keys and, once again, the screen was transformed when TLROT.DOC was opened. The heading said:

  SEXUAL RITES

  NOTES FOR CHAPTER NINE

  After scanning the first few lines, Walker asked, “Can you print this for me?”

  “Sure thing. This laptop has a wireless connection, I just have to load your printer info.”

  “Print all of them then,” Walker told him.

  “Right.”

  With a proficiency that would be the envy of a concert pianist, Blasko went to work on the keyboard. Walker watched as the screen kept changing images until the printer atop his file cabinet began noisily feeding pages.

  “Doesn’t appear that anyone has been on this computer since Tuesday afternoon,” Blasko said. “Last entry of any kind seems to be the one you saw.”

  “All right. Can you keep printing the other files while we have a look at the one you just opened?”
>
  “Of course,” Blasko said, then hit a series of buttons to return to the file titled TLROT.DOC. On the screen, Elizabeth Knoebel’s “Notes for Chapter Nine” reappeared.

  The three men leaned forward and read.

  SEXUAL RITES

  NOTES FOR CHAPTER NINE

  T believes he is a great lover. He is certainly a good-looking man. He is also well endowed, which leads most such men to feel they are worthy bedmates. Like most men, T understands far more about the physical dynamics of sex than about its nuances; or about women; or about emotions; or even about himself.

  T proved to be an easy seduction. He’s the sort of man who needs to feel he’s in charge, the easiest sort to manipulate.

  T and I had never met, but I knew who he was, a fact which he only discovered after we became lovers. I sought him out at a lounge he frequented, a quiet place not far from a small suburban motel. I stood near him at the bar, looking at my watch, about to order a second drink when he offered to buy it for me.

  “Waiting for someone?”

  “A friend,” I said. “I guess she’s not going to make it.”

  “My good fortune,” he said.

  We drank together. I allowed him to control the conversation. He obviously thought himself amusing. I smiled at his awkward attempts at cleverness. I reacted with appropriate embarrassment at his increasingly suggestive remarks, but uttered no reprimand. I offered an occasional blush or, even more effective, a gentle tap on his arm. The third time I reached for him, I let my touch linger, giving his bicep a squeeze until he took hold of my hand and brought it to his lips. A short time later he suggested we move to a quiet table in the corner. Not long after, he was kissing me on the neck, then the lips, and I responded.

  Too many women simply do not know how to kiss. They withhold their tongues, as if their mouths are something the man should enter and explore. They do not understand how excited a man becomes by a woman who freely offers her warm, wet tongue, fully meeting his as the passion grows.

  So it was with T. He was warm with vodka and desire and feeling very sure of himself. He suggested we make our way to the nearby motel.

  I feigned sufficient protest to satisfy his need for conquest, then gave in. We stopped at the bar on our way out. He reached into his pocket, took out some bills, and made a show of leaving a tip that was far too generous. Then he took me by the arm and led me into the night.