I'm Watching You (5 page)

Monday, July 7, 11:45
A.M
.

Lindsay checked the name on the chart. She
scanned Sam's notes.
Cracked ribs.
Contusions on the arms.
A sprained right
wrist.
The injuries were classic. Her stomach knotted. She closed the
chart and shoved aside the curtain to cubical six.

She found a petite woman sitting on the exam table wearing neatly
pressed jeans, tennis shoes with double-knotted laces, and a white long-sleeved
shirt. Small manicured fingers were clenched into tight fists.

Over the years, Lindsay had seen hundreds of battered women like this,
but the sight always enraged her. Careful to keep her face neutral, she managed
a smile. "Gail Saunders?"

The woman's tired gaze held a hint of anger. "Yes. Do you
have my discharge papers?"

Irritation was a good sign. It meant spirit. She hadn't given up.

Lindsay closed the curtain behind her. "No, I'm not with the
hospital. Dr. Begley asked me to talk to you for a few minutes."

Understanding dawned in Gail's gray eyes. "You're a
social worker, aren't you?"

Lindsay dug a Sanctuary business card out of her purse and handed it to
Gail. "My name is Lindsay O'Neil. I'm the director of a
women's shelter."

Gail snatched the card, studied it.
"Sanctuary.
A haven for battered women."
She tossed the card
on the floor. "I don't need this."

Lindsay picked it up and laid it beside Gail. "That's right.
We shelter women who've been abused. The number on the card is the
hotline." She pulled out a pen and wrote her cell number on the back.
"You can always reach me at this other number, day or night."

Gail slid off the exam table, wincing when her feet hit the ground.
"I'm not abused. I told that stupid doctor that I fell down the
stairs. What's the big deal?"

"He was concerned."

Her lips flattened as if she were barely holding on to her control.
"Well, I'm fine."

Lindsay remained by the curtain so Gail wouldn't feel crowded. If
she didn't tread carefully, the woman would bolt. "There are old
bruises on your neck and they look like they were made by fingers."

Color flooded Gail's face. "I hit my neck on the banister as
I fell down the stairs."

"Why the long sleeves and pants in July?"

"I'm cold natured."

Lindsay's voice remained soft and calm, but sadness and anger
welled inside her. "Gail, I think you've been bullied enough
already. So I'm not going to debate the issue with you. Experience has
taught me that victims can be excellent liars."

Gail bristled. "I'm not a liar. My husband is a good man. He
loves me. He works hard and would never hurt me on purpose."

"But he did hurt you," Lindsay said quietly.

Gail crushed the card in her hand. "I didn't say
that!"

"Honey, the bruises did."

Tears welled in Gail's eyes, and for a moment Lindsay thought she
would open up. She looked so small, so beaten down by life. Instead, the woman
straightened her shoulders and grabbed her purse off the exam table. "I
don't have to listen to this."

Lindsay pressed her card deeper into Gail's hand. "No, you
don't. Just know you can reach me twenty-four/seven."

A tear rolled down Gail's face and she angrily brushed it away.
She moved toward the curtain and shoved it open. "I won't be
calling."

"I hope you do." She laid her hand on Gail's shoulder.
"If things do get bad, remember to run to a room with soft furniture.
Stay away from the kitchen and the bathrooms. They can be dangerous."

Gail hesitated,
then
left the room.

Lindsay listened to Gail's footsteps meld into the confusion of
the hospital. For a moment her knees felt weak and she had to sit in the metal
chair by the exam table. How many times had her mother made excuses for the
bruises that had marked her body? How many times had she forgiven her father
and stayed when she should have fled?

Like Gail's, her mother's lies were rooted in fear, shame,
and the desperate hope that the abuse would really stop. But it never did.

What Lindsay hadn't understood was why everyone had accepted her
mother's lies over and over again. No one had stepped in and no one had
cared. And her mother had paid with her own life.

Jennifer
appeared,
her expression grim and
angry. "Room number six looked pissed when she stormed past."

Lindsay straightened her shoulders, clinging to the hope that kept her
going. "Yeah, but she kept my card. I see that as a hopeful good
sign."

Jennifer frowned. "Is she going home?"

"That would be my guess. It's human nature to return to
places we know best."

"But she's not safe there!"

Lindsay clung to the bright side. "I have to have faith that
she'll survive until she finds the courage to call me or someone else for
help."

"Damn it! That just doesn't seem good enough. Isn't
there anything we can do?"

"Don't underestimate a victim. They know how to survive.
They've learned how to walk on eggshells."

"This really sucks, Lindsay."

"Jen, I've been down this road too many times. Just pray
that she finds the courage to leave. Or better--that bastard husband of
hers drops dead."

The humidity and temperature had
risen
the heat
to an almost unbearable level. Black thunderclouds thickened in the western
skies.

Zack and several of the uniforms, including a canine unit, had combed
every inch of the shelter's backyard and the surrounding yards for
Turner's hand, the murder weapon, or anything that might connect to the
murder. They'd found nothing.

Sara had photographed the crime scene from every angle and sketched it.
She and her assistant had collected hair and fiber samples from the corpse and
then given the go-ahead for the body removal company to take Turner to the
medical examiner's office.

Zack and Sara had watched as officers had lifted the dead man into the
body bag. After zipping the bag closed, Sara had sealed the zipper with a
plastic tie. The seal wouldn't be broken until the corpse arrived
downtown at the state medical examiner's office on Jackson Street.

The attendants now placed the body bag on the gurney as Sara glanced at
the dark sky. "I'm going to keep working the scene until the
weather forces me out."

"Good. You don't have much time." Zack followed the
gurney around the side of the house to the hearse waiting in the driveway.

A dozen neighbors, most of them retirees and stay-at-home moms pushing
strollers, had gathered near the front yard, which he'd also taped off.
Three television news trucks were now parked in the street with reporters
lingering close by. Soon the rain would drive them all back inside their homes
and vans, but for now he had to contend with an audience.

Zack eyed the crowd, paying close attention to the people's
expressions. Killers sometimes returned to the scene to witness the chaos
created by their handiwork.

As the body was wheeled through the privacy fence gate, everyone's
gaze shifted toward it. Film cameras started taping and following the body.
Even some neighbors snapped photos. By this evening, the area would be crawling
with curiosity seekers.

Zack had spoken to the police department's public relations
officer and told him to ask the press to keep the address and location of
Sanctuary a secret. For now, the reporters had agreed. If he could close this
case sooner than later, the press would move on to their next story and
Sanctuary would be forgotten.

He wanted to protect the shelter. Not only would it be a shame to lose
it as a resource, but the place meant so much to Lindsay. When they'd
been together, she'd just received the grant application to purchase the
property. She had been so excited and had spent long days fixing up the place
and transforming it from a run-down rental property into a place that felt like
a real home. A month after she'd opened the place, they'd separated
and he'd not seen the house since then.

Now, looking at this place, he could see how much work she'd done.
She'd had the exterior repainted and she'd replanted the yard,
which had been a dust bowl when she'd bought the property. There were
traces of her everywhere. The brightly painted walls inside, the potted plants
on the porch, the manicured lawn, and a collection of toys in the backyard
testified to her commitment.

Too bad she couldn't have invested the same time and energy into
their marriage.

An unmarked Crown Vic pulled up in front of the house.
In the front seat sat Zack's boss, Captain David Ayden, and
Zack's partner, Jacob Warwick.

Annoyed, Zack checked his watch. It had taken Ayden two hours to track
Warwick down. Warwick had been on the State Police force for thirteen years,
before taking a job with the county's homicide division two years ago.
Ayden had paired Zack with Warwick, believing the two would make a good team.
Professionally, they did just fine, but personally, they'd not hit it off
at all.

Somehow Warwick had found out about Zack's drinking problem and
had made it clear he didn't think drunks stayed sober long. Zack could be
a hothead who had no trouble sharing his thoughts. But this time he had
swallowed his frustration. His drinking had caused a lot of damage, and he knew
actions, not words, were going to win his partner over. That had been ten
months ago, and so far, he'd not impressed Warwick.

Ayden got out of the car. His muscular build hadn't softened in
the last couple of years even though he logged more time behind the desk than
he would have liked. His thick hair grayed slightly at the temples and deep
frown lines marred his forehead. He was a stubborn guy who had seen his late
wife through cancer and now was raising two teenage boys on his own. He had
little patience and didn't like being jerked around.

Warwick followed Ayden toward the house. He was built like a wide
receiver and carried himself like an athlete. But football hadn't been
his sport. Boxing was his specialty. As a teenager, he'd been a Golden
Gloves fighter before entering the army, where he'd been in the Special
Forces.

Today, Warwick was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, a sign that Ayden had
cut his vacation short. Normally Warwick leaned toward sports jackets and
khakis. His hair looked in need of a trim, and though he was clean shaven,
he'd have a five o'clock shadow by three.

Warwick nodded to Zack but the men didn't shake hands.
"Kier."

"Warwick."

"Can you give us a rundown on the murder?" Ayden said.

"Follow me. I'll walk you through what we know right
now."

Zack led the two men to the backyard, pulled a notepad from his breast
pocket. Sara was by the back fence shooting more pictures. "The body was
discovered over by the trash cans. He was shot point-blank in the chest. A
wallet found in the victim's pocket identified him as Harold
Turner."

A hiss of air escaped Warwick's lips. "Damn. Are you sure
it's him?"

"I don't have a print match yet but it's
Harold," Zack said.

Ayden rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. "Any ideas on who
might have done this?"

"Nothing solid yet," Zack said. "But there are plenty
of leads to run down. It could take weeks to talk to everyone."

"Why didn't you hold the body until we arrived?"
Warwick said.

Zack resented Warwick's tone but kept his own tone even.
"The skies are about to open up and I didn't want to lose trace
evidence."

Warwick frowned. "Why didn't you call me earlier?"

"I didn't know what I had until I got here. When I did, I
had Ayden track you down."

Ayden rested his hands on his hips. "What else do you know?"

Zack let his gaze scan the yard. "The backyard looks clean so far.
Sara is going over it inch by inch."

Warwick studied the pool of blood caked in the dirt by the tree.
"You said his wallet was still in his pocket?"

"Yeah, and it still had a couple hundred dollars in cash and a
dozen credit cards in it. His briefcase was set neatly beside him and it also
appeared untouched."

"What's the pool of blood from?" Warwick said.

"It's from his left hand. The killer severed the hand at the
wrist."

"Shit," Ayden said. "Any sign of it?"

"No."

Warwick's eyes narrowed. "Was Turner left-handed?"

"Don't know," Zack said.

"Do you think this is some kind of ritual thing?" Ayden
said.

Zack pointed to the trash cans. "The victim's body was
positioned near the cans. His tie was straight and his hair looked as if it had
been combed. The killer didn't appear in a rush to leave the body."

Warwick rested his hands on his narrow hips. "Like you said,
it'll take weeks to interview everyone who had a beef against
Turner."