The Chessman (10 page)

“Now there you go again, implying I don’t know how to do my job. I had Bev send you those materials yesterday, I just walked you through the case step-by-step, and here you go again second-guessing me.”

“Look, Sheriff, I’m only playing devil’s advocate, probing for weak spots, to find if there are any holes in what happened that night at Schaeffer’s mansion.”

“Holes?” Sheriff Littman said. “What the hell are you investigating ten years down the pike that circles back to this poor girl’s death?”

“I’ll tell you what little I know, sir, but I don’t want to taint your answers at this point.”

“I’ll bounce your ball for another minute, Cady. First off, as you said, Marly Kelch didn’t drink much, so Schaeffer’s shindig, with hooch bussed in by the truckload, had to be a novel concept for her. And Kelch weighed all of, let me see, I’ve got the full report here in front of me.” Cady heard papers rustling through his office phone. “Kelch weighed 115 pounds. Second, several witnesses at the party saw Kelch drinking wine that night, walking around with a glass of Merlot. Golly, Agent Cady, a skinny young woman who doesn’t know how to handle her liquor…someone get me the president on the phone.”

“Good one,” Cady said.

“Third point, that
very athletic
girl has just come off a round or two of
very athletic
sex with her boyfriend, and then they get the bright idea to take a naked dip in the dark and cold waters of Snow Goose at two in the morning. Kelch likely gets a cramp or becomes disoriented or begins inhaling water. The boyfriend, who blew a .11 when we arrived on the scene, was completely worthless. He dogpaddled to shore, passed out for an hour, then woke up and wondered where his date went.”

“Bret Ingram was not Kelch’s boyfriend. I talked to Dorsey Kelch, her mother, and several of her old tennis mates. They said she hadn’t been seeing anyone on a steady basis.”

“Well, if her mother says so, I guess that’s that, then. Now, actual witnesses at Schaeffer’s party made noises about those two acting awfully friendly before they both disappeared down to that boathouse around midnight together. Do you understand the very nature of the parties that the Schaeffer boy threw? Booze drains inhibitions, couples pairing off left and right as the sun goes down, switching pards the next day—young people in heat, going at it like rabbits. What’s that term that’s so endearing amongst today’s youth—
fuck buddies
. You know, the Schaeffer boy’s basically a good kid. I heard he spent all Saturday in his pontoon boat circling Snow Goose, checking the banks and docks to see if Kelch had made it ashore and passed out. Anyway, I took the Schaeffer kid aside, before the body was pulled out of the lake, and told him in no uncertain terms
no more
. The parties end.”

“No further problems at the lake house?”

“None, but I don’t think the Schaeffer boy ever stayed there again after that weekend. Bad memories. His father got remarried last year and I saw the kid at the reception.”

“You were invited?”

“Don’t go there, Cady. It was a huge event in Hillsdale and the old man sent me a courtesy invite to the reception. I’d much rather stay home and watch the ball game, but I am an
elected
official, and knowing the folks in Schaeffer’s circle, I knew it wouldn’t be too bright of me not to attend.”

“What’s the Schaeffer boy doing now?”

“A bit of a recluse. He’s a financial wizard and manages the family’s portfolio from some cabin out in the sticks near Chester. The boy’s hair is gray now. Completely gray.”

“That night changed a lot of lives.”

“It certainly did.”

“Your team used sonar to find Kelch?”

“Yup. Got a dive team in with the side scan sonar. They don’t even have to get wet until they find the body. We didn’t want a floater showing up on Snow Goose. You ever see a floater, Agent Cady?”

“Yes,” Cady said, and did his best to shove the image from his mind. After drowning, a body eventually floated to the surface, after it became bloated and full of noxious gas. The remains of a drowning victim were not a pretty sight. Fish often fed on any exposed flesh, accelerating the decomposition process.

“Well, then you know,” Littman replied. “The divers found her the next evening. Sunday night. Not as bad as a floater, but not good.”

“I see in the pathologist’s report that there were a couple of nicks and scratches.”

“Very minor lesions. No bruising about the face or choking marks around the neck. No tissue under the fingernails. Nothing to indicate that a struggle or rape had occurred prior to death.”

“Unless there’s a witness or the victim is badly bruised,” Cady said, thinking aloud, “proving a drowning as murder is all but impossible.”

“The ME felt that Kelch was your standard drowning victim. Water in the lungs indicated that she was still alive at the point of submersion. The evidence backed up the Ingram boy’s statement. And it wasn’t as though Ingram himself came across as Prince Charming.”

“Did you get Ingram’s statement at the scene?”

“The kid was a slobbering, sobbing heap. He had to have been blottoed six hours earlier. No way would he have been in any shape to sexually assault Ms. Kelch. Nope, it was most likely some old-fashioned drunken screwing, not exactly what they advertise in the Princeton brochures, but there you have it. Consensual sex.”

“I see in the report that there was semen in her vagina. Was that ever tested against Bret Ingram?”

“Again, there was no indication of foul play. No sign of a struggle, the inquiry substantiated the boy’s story. He admitted to having sexual intercourse with Marly Kelch on two occasions prior to the skinny dip. Quite frankly, Cady, at one of the Schaeffer boy’s parties, there’s probably more mixed semen in more places than at Hef’s mansion. Hell, even Kelch’s clothes were folded neatly in the boat house.”

Cady remember the dirty laundry folded neatly in the hampers at the Zalentines’ condominiums. “Folded neatly before
some old-fashioned drunken screwing
?”

“You’re pissing me off again, Cady,” Sheriff Littman said. “So Kelch was a tidy person, took good care of her stuff. So what?”

“Just following a train of thought. When did Ingram give his formal statement?”

“That afternoon. Tossed him in detox until two to get him sobered up.”

“Did he have counsel?”

“Of course. I think a couple of his friends got the mouthpiece, as Ingram was in no condition to make phone calls.”

“Do you remember his lawyer?”

“Local defense attorney named Leon Grotsworth. Good enough fellow—well, except for his chosen profession. But Ingram answered every question, repeatedly, and nothing had changed from his drunken babblings of that morning. Simple story, really—
got tanked, had sex, went swimming, passed out, got up to piss and puke, couldn’t find honey-bunny but her clothes were still there, stumbled about looking for her, then went into panic mode and woke everyone up trying to find her
.”

“Did Schaeffer set him up with Grotsworth?”

“Like I said, Schaeffer immediately tore off in his boat searching for Kelch right after we interviewed him. Don’t think Bret Ingram was even in his vocabulary at that point in time. These were all a bunch of spoiled rich kids, so someone got him lined up.”

“Ingram wasn’t rich. He got into Princeton on grades and grants. Worked full time plus in the school library to make ends meet.”

“Look, Agent Cady, I’ve been a good boy and bounced your ball. I’ve got a meeting with my executive staff in less than five minutes. Can we wrap this up?”

“You’ve been more than helpful, Sheriff. Just one last question. You mentioned Ingram had a
couple of his friends
that likely set him up with Grotsworth. Do you remember any of them?”

“There were a few people milling around trying to comfort the kid. Couple of brothers were…” the sheriff stopped mid-sentence. “Son of a bitch!”

“Sheriff?”

“Son of a bitch!” the sheriff repeated. “You’re working the Zalentine case, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir. I am.”

“I sent you the summary and the pathology report, but I’ve got the entire Kelch folder right here. We interviewed everyone at Schaeffer’s party. Let me find the list.” Cady heard more paper rustling. “Son of a bitch! That was them!”

“I already knew the Zalentines were at Schaeffer’s party that night, Sheriff.”

“I remember these goddamned twins sitting on the dock with Ingram, rubbing his shoulder, fetching him coffee, consoling him. But what those fuckers were really doing was getting the story straight. A hundred bucks says they’re the ones who got Ingram lawyered up.”

Cady said nothing. A dead silence ensued.

“I am so sorry, Agent Cady. It seemed like such a tragedy at the time. It never occurred to me to hit Ingram with some hard curves,” Sheriff Littman said quietly. “Turns out I didn’t dot every i.”

“No one knew about the Zalentines back then, Sheriff.”

“I’ll tell you what, Agent Cady. I’m going to get Bret Ingram in here pronto. No beanbag this time. I’ll find out exactly what happened at Snow Goose.”

“It’s too late, Sheriff.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ingram’s dead.”

Chapter 10

A
fter receiving the findings summary from Bergen County, Cady had sicced Agent Preston on discovering all she could about Bret Michael Ingram, where he was from, any other run-ins with the law, what he was currently doing, etcetera, etcetera. Cady also instructed Preston to do the same for Marly Kelch’s surviving family members—to find out if there might be any father or brother acting as an avenging angel.

Less than half an hour later Agent Preston had stood in Cady’s door.

“He’s dead.”

“You’re kidding me.” The statement was more rhetorical. Cady very rarely joked, but next to Liz Preston he was Henny Youngman.

Her upper lip curled. “Not unless there are two Bret Michael Ingrams with the same SS number and date of birth who attended Princeton during that timeframe.”

“Murdered?”

“No. He died in a fire in Northern Minnesota, almost a year ago.”

“Minnesota?”

“Yes.”

“Get me everything.”

It turned out Ingram limped along at Princeton for another month after the “accident,” sort of attending classes, before packing it in and pulling the plug on higher education. Cady could easily understand how the incident at Snow Goose could cause a young man to re-examine his life, but where Ingram wound up next took Cady aback.

“After dropping out of Princeton, he spent three months at the Copacabana Palace Hotel in Rio de Janeiro, right on the beach.”

“Geez, Liz, and here I thought most dropouts moved back home with Mommy and Daddy and worked at Blockbuster.”

Preston shrugged. “Then, after Rio, Ingram resurfaces to close on a lakefront real estate deal in Cohasset, Minnesota, of all places. Actually, he purchased a resort. A place called Sundown Point.”

Cady thought for a second. “We know now why they called Sanfield
the Magician
.”

Cady’s phone rang. He caught it on the first ring. The pathologist had just completed the autopsies on the five female victims pulled from the bottom of Chesapeake Bay.

Cady pulled up behind the D.C. MPD squad car.

He’d been played. The congressman and senator were frightened. Frightened enough, that is, to give the FBI a minor shove in the right direction. Frightened enough to beef up security for Patrick Farris. But not frightened enough to be truthful.

Senator Farris was at a fundraiser in Dover, Delaware, a black-tie event to help fill the campaign coffers. Having the elder Farris two hours away worked to Cady’s advantage. His instinct told him that Patrick Farris would never stray off the established template if his senator-father was in the room running interference. With that in mind, Cady called the congressman on the drive over to his house, apologized for the lateness of the hour, and downplayed how he had some questions about other students the Zalentines had known back in their Princeton days. Cady also lied about how it would only take a minute or two of the congressman’s valuable time.

Surprisingly, Patrick Farris had been pleasantly agreeable.

Cady walked over to the driver’s side of the squad car and ID’d himself.

“We’ve been instructed to swing by every hour,” the officer behind the wheel said. “Do you know what this is all about?”

Cady shrugged. “Preventative measures.”

“I hear the Service carts him to and from Rayburn,” the officer in the passenger seat said. “It’s the Chessman, isn’t it?”

Cady cursed silently. Too many cooks involved in an ever-widening investigation made it all but impossible to keep the lid on anything. “The congressman knew both Sanfield and the Zalentines. Keep that to yourself, though. Like I said, preventative measures.”

“He expecting you this late?”

Cady looked at his wristwatch. Almost eleven.

“Yes.”

Chapter 11

P
atrick Farris answered the door to his three-story row house, a brownstone in Woodley Park—a couple of rock-throws off Connecticut Avenue. Farris looked drained.

“Agent Cady,” the house rep said, standing aside to let the federal agent come in. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

“I apologize, Congressman, for keeping you and Mrs. Farris up so late.”

“No worries. My wife is in Florida and I’m a night owl.”

“You look exhausted.”

“Long day.” Farris led Cady up a short set of stairs to a living room the size of a basketball court with a cappuccino leather sectional curving across the hardwood floor at mid-arena. Two matching ottomans sat atop a sheep pile throw rug in front of the elongated sofa. A couple of Italian leather armchairs sat on opposite ends of the sectional, tilting inward. Seating accommodations had been arranged to allow guests a perfect viewing of something that immediately captured Cady’s eye as he ascended the final steps. The Farrises had an aquarium the size one normally finds in a doctor’s waiting room. If the three-story had a room for entertaining, this was certainly it.

“Alternative fuels are indeed the wave of the future,” Farris continued, “but you can only read so many House bills on biofuel, wind power, and electric cars before all life is sucked from your marrow and you crave to toss yourself into the Potomac.”