Coffee (19 page)

“You
wouldn’t be here unless you thought something was rotten.”

“I’m just following orders.”

Warren
sighed. “I forgot, you’re just a government robot sent
out to fill out some forms.”

“You’re
not far from the truth.”

“Name
the time. I’ll pick you up. Where are you staying.”

“Hadn’t
thought about it.”

“Stay
here. This Inn has rooms, nice ones. They serve killer breakfasts
too.”

“Make
it 6:30. Bring some flashlights. Let’s check out the accident
site first.”

“See
you then.”

“Keep
your eyes open, Warren. Call the police, and me, if anything looks
odd.”

- Chapter Twelve -

Once
settled into a cozy room, furnished with authentic antiques matching
the period of the rustic Inn, Bryce called Brooke at home.

“About
time,” she greeted.

“Did
you find out where the call came from?”

“Yes
- Global Growers. A fax machine. Someone called on a fax line.”

“No
shit. Wait ‘till Warren hears that.”

“Who’s
Warren?”

“A
friend of the Bishop woman. I have a lot to tell you, but not now.
How about calling Global tomorrow and see what they say about why a
woman would be calling from a fax line.”

“Already
did. There’s a hole in their story you’ll like. First
I called the number and got the fax tone so I knew it wasn’t a
normal line. Then I called their main number. I introduced myself,
and had hardly started my question when they connected me to some
lady who had the whole story down to the last detail. I’d say
they anticipated my call.“

“Tell
me.”

“They
expected her Friday night. She didn’t show in Dallas, so they
figured she had been tied up in weather. Saturday afternoon, they
called her apartment, got no answer, and then called Dartmouth,
somehow getting Knut’s lab. The odd thing is that the woman
who made the call claims she talked to Knut, not an answering
machine. They say the woman talked briefly to Knut, who told them
Harriet was killed in an accident. They also said Knut sounded very
sick over the phone.”

“Could
someone else have left the voice message?”

“Nope.
No other calls from Texas all weekend, and we know Global’s
call matched the time of your woman’s call. I told the Global
lady she was mistaken and that the caller had left a voice message.
The lady quickly brushed it off, saying she probably heard it wrong
from the caller. Said it must have been Knut’s message that
sounded sick.”

“No
way, I heard his message - it sounded solemn, but not sick. What a
pack of lies.”

“She
wouldn’t let me talk to the actual woman who called.”

“Of
course. And what was their answer to the fax line?”

“They
said the line doubles as a fax and a dial out. They leave it on fax
for receiving calls, but use it when they need an extra line.”

“Like
a big company would scrimp on a telephone line, and chance missing
incoming faxes. Sounds to me like they found out the Bishop woman
called, and covered. They
assumed
she got through.”
Bryce took a few notes. “Thanks for following through. I’ve
got one more favor.”

“Sure.
Name it.”

“This
one won’t be so easy. I need you to call the woman’s
mother, Geri Bishop.”

“That’ll
be uplifting. What about?”

“I
want you to find out exactly how she identified the body.”

“Lovely,”
Brooke lamented.

“I
haven’t seen the pictures yet, but I understand there wasn’t
much to look at - burned almost completely, a crushed cranium, no
face at all.”

Brooke
spoke grimly. “I read the coroner’s report. I’m
surprised they even did an ID.”

“It
saves so much work, they try whenever they can. I guess the mother
was willing. The report stated she based the ID on ‘unique
physical characteristics.’ I want to know what they were.”

“Got
it. Thanks for giving me the glamorous stuff while you hang out in
winter wonderland.”

“I’ll
do it if you want, I just thought you might have better luck, woman
to woman.”

“I’m
giving you a hard time, Bryce. I’m happy to help. My
alternative is another one of Lange’s make work projects in
accounting.”

“Thanks
Brooke. You’re a star.”



Before
he had a chance to get off the bed to wash up, the phone rang.
“Bryce here.”

“It’s
Warren. I’m at my office - couple of things. I went over to
Knut’s lab to see if he left any personals. I’m going
to meet his family tomorrow at the memorial, I just thought I’d
make a last check. Well, the place has been totally cleaned.
Spotless. Smells like bleach. Every paper gone, desks sparkling.”

“Damn.
I should have taped it off. Dartmouth was probably worried about
the flu bug. I guess that’s why I’m still a rookie. If
this blows open, they’ll have my ass. This wasn’t
supposed to be a murder investigation.”

Warren
smiled to hear Bryce finally admit this was more than a routine
follow up. “One thing - I bumped into a friend from the
Finance department. She said someone came by to pick up all of
Etty’s records and her dissertation papers. Demanded every
copy.”

“Under
whose authority?”

“Had
a paper signed by the mother. Is that legal?”

“I
imagine. It was Etty’s property, so it belonged to her
parents. Interesting though, I’ll check into it. This
happened today?”

“Yea
- late this afternoon. Some guy.”

Bryce
silently took more notes. “You going home now?”

“I’m
about to leave.”

“I’ve
been thinking, you might want to check in over here at the Inn for
the night.”

Warren
shuttered. “You worried about me?”

“Hell
no. You’re built like an ox - who’d mess with you? I
just want to get an early start tomorrow.”

“Nice
try. I’ve got a standard poodle at my place. Charlie will
let me know if anyone’s around, don’t worry. Plus, I
have to let him out. I’ll leave the phone by my bed.”

“Be
careful.”

“Yes
sir, great Rookie leader. Otherwise, see you at 6:30... Oh, and I
almost forgot. I had security play me the recording. It’s
Etty. I’d swear my left nut on it. Both nuts.”

Warren
hung up, and sat back at his desk. He played calm on the phone, but
hearing Bryce’s blatant concern added to his own. Once at
home, he checked every corner, with Charlie reluctantly following on
a short leash.

Bryce
called Brooke before retiring, and quickly added a last request -
find out about why Mrs. Geri Bishop requested the dissertation
papers.



Warren
stepped into a cloud of warm breakfast smells as he entered the
Norwich Inn. He noticed Bryce right away at a table facing the
door. There he sat, looking full, with signs of sausage, hash
browns, toast, and fried eggs on his plate. “I see you surfed
the buffet.”

“I’m
used to ‘Breakfast Served’ meaning stale pastry and thin
coffee. This is outrageous,” Bryce said as he swiped a wide
path across his chin with a napkin.

“Told
you. Let’s go. Your driver anxiously awaits.” He
noticed Bryce nodding at the waitress like they were old friends.
“You get to know the help, I see? The pretty ones, anyway.”

“Not
bad for a guy who left his clothes bag in the rental car in your
parking lot.”

They
drove back across the river into New Hampshire and picked up Bryce’s
gear at the college. Then down Wheelock, Grasse, Trescott, and
finally up the Trescott Ridge road. They pulled over at the fateful
curve. December sun doesn’t rise until after 7am, so the
headlights provided the only light.

“Here,”
Warren said, pointing. Wearing gloves and hats, they carried the
powerful flashlights and walked to the edge. “The tow truck
was here. She hit that tree in the middle, about 50 feet down.”
Falling snow smoothed over most of the horrible event, but missing
undergrowth and some visible groves in the snow showed the path of
destruction.

Bryce
stood for some time, panning the scene with his flashlight. The
circle of light scanned from road to tree, following the imaginary
car down the slope. He walked a few yards up the road toward Etty’s
house, then returned, sweeping with the light. He stopped at an
opening in the brush. “She couldn’t have come straight
down the hill where the tow truck pulled her out - too sharp an
angle. No, she went through here.” Warren climbed up the
slippery slope to join him while Bryce lightly brushed snow from a
nearly hidden tire trench. He found a piece of paper and folded it
into a little Chinese fan. With it, he waved the final layers of
snow away, exposing the harder packed snow below. “Tire
prints. These are hers - I’d bet a million.”

Warren
peered over. “Humm. Weird to think.”

“Do
you see anything strange about these prints, Warren?”

He
lowered even more. “Not really.”

“They’re
clear. You can see the design of the treads.”

“True.”

“Picture
yourself. You’re driving along a snowy road. You lose
control. You start to swerve. Your car crashes through underbrush,
and you see a steep bank ahead. What do you do?”

“Hit
the brakes.”

“Exactly.
You’d have your full weight on them to save your life. But
look. These prints couldn’t have been made better if you
tried. This car must have been going slowly without a bit of break
pressure.”

“Good
point. It would have been pretty obvious right after the crash.
Wonder what the Police made of it.”

“They
weren’t looking for anything odd. You were here, were there
Fire and Police people running all over the hill?”

“Yea.
Trampling up and down. Tow truck people, medics, lots. Is it too
late now to get evidence?”

“Absolutely.
Nothing we get would stand up in court.” Before Warren could
add his speculation on the new information, Bryce was sliding down
the slope toward the tree where the car hit.

They
searched for more clues. Bryce studied the burn marks on the tree
and surrounding area. He looked up, and created a mental map of
the fireball by connecting the singed branches, and wondered how
Etty’s car could have exploded so fiercely.

“Bryce!
Come here! Look at this!” Warren shined his flashlight on a
tree half way up the hill. Bryce hopped up to join him.

“What
is it?”

Warren
proudly showed off his discovery. “Based on the fresh bark
damage, the car must have grazed this tree on the way down. That
paint’s the same color as her car. And look at this.”
He pulled off his glove to point with a finger. “That looks
like blood.”

Bryce
studied up close. “I think you’re right. There’s
some flesh too. I have some specimen bags in my things, I want to
scrape some of this.”

“Bryce,
why here? Why way up the slope?”

They
both thought for a moment, then it hit Bryce. “Her hand. Her
hand must have been out the window and it got pinched between the
tree and the car. Look how low it is, in fact her whole arm must
have been hanging out.”

Warren
nodded. “Picture yourself. You’re driving on a slippery
road at night in a snow storm, you lose control, you start down a
steep slope, you side swipe a tree. Where would your hands be?”

“White
knuckled on the wheel, not out the window like she was on a Sunday
drive.”

Warren
grimly stated the obvious. “She was knocked out or already
dead.”

“Someone
would have had to push the car while holding the steering wheel -
thus the opened window. Which also explains the neat tracks - the
car would have moved only as fast as they could push it,”
Bryce added.

Warren
leaned close to the bark. A murder victim’s blood, inches from
his face. A gust of wind blew small chunks of snow from between the
tree limbs, causing a false blizzard to sprinkle into the paths of
their flashlights. Steam from their breathing rolled into the
light.

Bryce
broke the silence. “I better get the gear.”

Warren
stood, blocking his path. “So when do you re-open the case?
If that’s Etty’s skin on that tree, she was murdered.
Or, if Etty called Knut on Saturday, then she’s been
kidnapped, and this is someone else. Either way, someone was
murdered and ... ” The beam wavered on the tree trunk from
his shaking hand.

Bryce
pushed by him. “Just hold on.” He spoke while
negotiating the hill back to the car to get his scraping tools and
plastic bags. “So far we have tainted evidence and lots of
speculation. If you want to help, you’ll have to be patient.”



Brooke
waited until morning to call Mrs. Bishop, hoping the grieving
mother’s spirits would be stronger after another night’s
sleep. She borrowed an empty office in the Records department so
she could close the door and not have Tom Heller or Mike Lange
making light of it. No matter what theories were circulating, Mrs.
Bishop had just faced the ultimate loss, that of her only child, her
future.

A
woman’s haggard voice answered, “Hello.”

“Mrs.
Geri Bishop?” Brooke’s voice wavered, as she still
debated mid sentence whether to be cheerful or remorseful.

“Yes.
Who is this please?”

“This
is Brooke Jackson, from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Ma’am,
calling from Washington DC.”

“This
is about Harriet, isn’t it.”

“Yes,
I’m afraid I have a few questions for you.”

“You
know, you Government people certainly don’t have a sense of
decency at a time like this. I have been called by so many
different people, all asking the same questions. Why don’t
you just make one list and ask them all at once! Why do you keep
bothering us?”