The Wicked Wife (Murder in Marin Book 2) (30 page)

Eddie found Dr. Brownstein sitting in his office in his usual meditative state.

“So, what have you got for me, Max?”

“Not a pretty picture. Come sit next to me. Let me show you this computer animation; it illustrates the actual murder with incredible precision.”

Brownstein seemed to have a love and fascination for the act of murder—something Eddie found amusing and off-putting at the same time. These new computer animations with 3-D imaging seemed to add to Max’s delight.

“Your victim was struck from behind with the rounded side of a ballpeen hammer,” he explained. “From the angle of the strike, we now know that the killer was right-handed. I would say likely an inch or two taller than the victim.”

“That’s a great start.”

“After we removed all that matted hair, shaved the skull, and cleaned the wound, the method of her killing became quite apparent. Then, when we removed the back of the skull and saw the massive damage to the brain, the cause of death was obvious. Here, let me show you.”

Oh, God, Eddie thought; Brownstein may be enjoying this, but I’m not.
 

“Okay now, watch what happens to the skull and then the brain after a blow like that to the back of the victim’s skull.”
 

Brownstein pushed the return key, and the animation began. “It’s in slow motion, of course. But as the back of the skull is impacted, that gray shadow you’re seeing spread out is a massive amount of blood caused by the impact. One hundred different blows to the head can lead to a hundred different outcomes, but I think your killer was hoping to accomplish a quick one-and-done. There was certainly no holding back. The perpetrator struck with considerable force, and the use of that particular hammer helped to assure a fatal outcome.
 

He paused the animation. “Now, let me re-loop this. There is one other aspect I want you to see.” He pushed another key, and it restarted. “What the animation reveals is, as that dark shadow spreads, the brain is being compressed and forced downward.”

“What does that mean, Max?”

“It means the amount of blood being released into the skull is placing an extreme amount of downward pressure on the brain, pushing it into the base of the skull, where the spinal cord enters.”
 

Brownstein used a laser pointer to circle the area on the screen indicating the base of the brain. “This opening is called the foramen magnum. It’s where the brain stem controls our respiration. With this degree of compression, the victim almost certainly died within minutes of being struck, because of asphyxia. Given the massive brain bleed, death was a certain outcome in this case.”

“The husband is going to want to know if she suffered.”

“This happened very quickly—almost like a bullet to the back of the head, although the injury pattern is substantially different. Loss of consciousness would have been immediate. As the computer animation demonstrates, there would have been no time in which she regained awareness. The power of the strike was just too great.”

“Do you think the killer was expert at using a hammer as a weapon?”

“Eddie, that’s a tough one. When you consider the damage that was done, your first instinct would be to think so. But a ballpeen hammer was a well-chosen weapon. It’s relatively light, but with a forged head that makes it a good deal stronger than the more typical claw hammer.” He shrugged. “I also suspect that it was someone who had a great deal of animus toward this victim. Killing someone with a hammer blow is rare, and there is a psychotic viciousness to it that we rarely see.”

“It’s also a relatively silent kill, Max. Particularly at the site in which the killing took place.” He stared at the screen. “Any theory about the killer’s use of that plastic garment bag?”

“I thought that was quite an effective bit of drama, and it served the killer’s lethal intentions as well.”

“Assuring her asphyxiation, I suspect.”

“Exactly. When someone gets a bang to the back of the skull, they could be unconscious for a few minutes, a few hours, a few days, or longer. Unless your killer was highly trained—and I doubt that was the case—the only certainty they had was to strike a blow with sufficient force. The sealed garment bag helped assure the deed was done. As it turns out, the killer bowled a strike. After that, the need for the garment bag was redundant, but a good bit of theater.”

By the time Friday evening rolled around, Rob, Holly, and Eddie were happy to see their workweek come to an end. As regularly scheduled, they met at Smitty’s.

“I could use two days off,” Eddie began. “One more reporter and one more camera gets stuck in my face, and I might come out swinging.”

“Easy, big fella,” Rob laughed.

In truth, Eddie was relieved just to be back in the presence of two good friends. In a mere four hours, Smitty’s was certain to be pulsating with a mostly young crowd, but at five o’clock, it was peaceful as a tomb. A great place for them to talk privately while they downed a couple of beers and Holly enjoyed her Hangar 1 martini with two olives.

“Tough case, huh?” Holly asked.
 

“It’s always tough when it’s a high profile case. Between Willow’s celebrity status and William’s fortune, it doesn’t get any higher profile than this—at least, not in Marin County. We’re already getting calls from local politicians who want to know if we’re making any progress. We keep reminding them that it’s a little over forty-eight hours since we found the body, and the killer wasn’t considerate enough to leave a business card pinned to the body.”

“So, where are we?” Holly asked, crossing her legs and staring at Eddie intently.

“Calm down, Nancy Drew! We are making progress, but so far there are many more questions than answers.”

“You can guess what I and my sidekick Ms. Drew want to know: what cards are you keeping close to your chest?” Rob asked.

Holly slid closer in order to tighten their little circle.

“There was a note in that clear zip-up bag she was found in,” Eddie divulged.

“When was it found?” Holly asked quickly.

“When her body was removed from the bag. She was lying nude, face-up. It was an unsettling sight, to say the least.”

Holly shivered at the thought. Suddenly, the vision she previously had of Willow’s lifeless body grew more vivid.

“Where was the note?” Rob asked

“It was inside a zip-lock bag, nailed to her spine. We suspect the killer used the same hammer that struck the fatal blow to the back of her head.”

“I’m starting to feel sick.” Holly put down her martini on the small table between them and pushed it away.

Rob pointed at the bar’s back wall. “If you’re going to hurl, the ladies room is over there.”

“I’ll be okay, smarty pants,” Holly insisted.

“What the hell did the note say?” Rob said excitedly.

“‘Forever young’!”

Holly’s mouth fell open. “That’s it?”

“No. On the next line it said, ‘A Devoted Fan.’”

“God, that’s
creepy
!” Holly added.

“Can they get anything from a handwriting sample?” Rob asked.

“No such luck,” Eddie said with a laugh. “Whoever this crackpot was, all twenty-two of the letters in the note were cut out of magazines and pasted down. It was quite a work of art.”

“Wow,” Holly murmured.
 

“And this is why you could say, confidently, during the press conference, that you were quite certain that the killing was not a random act, and that Willow Adams was the intended target,” Rob reasoned. “And, all this time, I thought you were going on the hunch you shared with us Thursday morning.”

“Not only that, but the outside of the bag she was placed in was doused with Willow Wisp perfume—enough that the scent was still very obvious, even ninety-six hours after the murder. It certainly kept the woodland creatures away. The site looked essentially untouched at the time it was uncovered.”

Holly, hungry for more details, asked, “Where does that leave you?”

“With either a complete whack job, or a killer who would like us to think he or she is a deranged fan. I’m going with the latter. I can’t imagine Willow pulling off to the side of the road for anyone other than someone she knew. From what little I know of her, I don’t think she’d stop for a stranger in distress if their hair was on fire.”

“I think you’re right about that,” Holly said with a nod. “In the brief time I knew Willow, she never struck me as the type to pull off the road because someone waved her down for help. I would also guess that she stopped for someone she knew—or, at least, thought she knew.”

“Why would they want the police to think they were a crazed fan?” Rob asked.

Eddie shrugged. “To throw us off track. If you’re chasing after some whack job of a fan, unless you got lucky and found something in a letter they sent to their victim or a clue that led you to their front door, you might chase down leads that turn to be dead-ends for a very long time. On the other hand, if the killer was someone Willow knew, the field of your search gets a lot smaller, and a lot easier.”

“And I suppose the chance of a crazed killer jumping into her car, like a carjacking, is pretty slim,” Holly said.

“If she was sitting in the kind of traffic you see in San Francisco, where you’ve got lots of pedestrians and lots of traffic lights, that would be plausible. But the miles between her home and where her car was found are pretty open roads, sprinkled with a handful of traffic lights, so not much chance for a carjacking. That theory is a hundred-to-one shot.”
 

“Makes sense,” Rob said, imagining all the pieces of this puzzle Eddie was confronting. “But if it was someone she knew, how did they know when she was going to be driving down Tennessee Valley Road, at that time on a Saturday morning?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. Neither Holly nor Sylvia was told to expect anyone else. There are definitely some pieces missing. We’re looking at the phone records for Willow’s cell and the Adams’ home phone for the two weeks prior to the murder. We want to see who called in, and who called out, that might be a significant help.”

“And what’s with this whole thing about Sylvia and I writing down all that we recall about being with Willow?”

“As with the Bradley case, I’m always looking for that thread that you can pull in order to unravel the tapestry of a murder. I’ll bet the bank that Willow had a whole bunch of little secrets. Knowing more about those missing jewels is as good a place to start as any.”

“But, Eddie,” Holy began, “why in the world would she take those women’s jewels? On top of having a billionaire for a husband, she had a pre-nup that gave her a hundred million each year of their marriage, starting with her wedding day!”

“I know, Holly. It’s bizarre! But no more bizarre than top Hollywood stars being arrested for shoplifting. Maybe she loved the thrill of the caper. Maybe it’s the old ‘cry for attention.’ And if she was into theft for thrills, God knows what else she was into. Maybe she cheated the guy who was fencing the jewels for her. Maybe she knew too much about something that she wasn’t supposed to know about at all.”

“And you think the husband is in the clear?” Rob asked.

“I’ve gone down that road. Willow had him wrapped around her little finger. It’s simply unimaginable to me that he killed her—not to mention the vicious way in which she was killed.

 
“And don’t mention any of this to Sylvia, or anyone else. We’re going to have to feed the news mill something by Monday afternoon, and I’m saving our conclusion regarding the murder weapon for the ladies and gentlemen of the press as their dessert. The funeral is Monday afternoon, and the reporters are all going to be looking for updates by then to go along with their evening coverage from outside the church. If nothing else, the grizzly nature of how Willow died should keep them happy for a few days.”

“Dear God!” Holly exclaimed. “This whole thing is like a car wreck! You don’t want to look, but you can’t look away.”

“That nicely sums up my life on a daily basis,” Eddie said, as he called for the check.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

On Saturday morning, Holly and Sylvia met at Caffe Acri, the coffee shop across from the Tiburon waterfront, for the task of building the timeline requested by Eddie.

As they stared down at the pad and pen between their coffee mugs, Holly muttered, “This whole thing sucks.”

Sylvia nodded. “My thought exactly.”

“One week ago at this time we were walking through Tennessee Valley, wondering why Willow had not arrived.”

“I know,” Sylvia said, as her lower lip trembled. “I kept saying to myself that there must be a simple explanation, like perhaps she had gone off with a friend, something, anything.”

Holly tried hard to keep all of Eddie’s information to herself, but after getting Sylvia to swear an oath of silence, she told her that Willow was struck down with a single hammer blow to the back of the skull. After all, in forty-eight hours Eddie was going to tell the press that very thing.

Sylvia began to cry quietly. She repeated one word several times, “Why?”

“Buck up, Sylvia, we’ve got to do our bit to help Eddie find her killer. But this idea of writing a brief history of our experiences with Willow doesn’t make as much sense to me as putting our thoughts together on what we found out of the ordinary—that is, anything that seemed odd and unexpected—in the time we spent with Willow.” She picked up the pen. “What would be first on that list?”