Prey (11 page)

Jeremiah Lowe lived in Webster, a small town situated up in the north-east corner of Monroe County. It was close enough to Rochester to commute, but far enough away to breathe fresh air. His house was in Dunning Avenue, a wide street lined with trees and whitewashed clapboard houses. A scattering of leaves lay across the sidewalks. The area was middle class, respectable, a nothing-much-happening kind of place.

Mendoza parked the BMW outside one of the smaller properties a quarter of the way along the street. Three bedrooms, Winter guessed. Big enough to raise a family, but just that little bit too big when the kids finally left home. The lawn had been mown within the last few days and the weed-free flower beds had been set straight in anticipation of the coming winter. The leaves had been raked that morning and lay in a neat heap near the garage. A Stars and Stripes flag flapped loosely in the breeze.

Mendoza killed the engine, then reached into the back for the Reed’s autopsy reports and started reading. Winter had been through them already. Twice. Like Dr Griffin had said there wasn’t anything in there that could help them prove anything. Then again, there was nothing in there that disproved the blonde’s innocence, either.

Logical fallacies.

There were two people-shaped diagrams on the page Mendoza was reading. Two dots and a line had been used to create a face on one of them so you could tell which diagram was the front, and which was the back. Griffin had marked Melanie Reed’s injuries on it in her neat handwriting.

Winter got out and leant against the car. Lake Ontario was only a couple of miles away. Beyond the lake lay Canada. Toronto was to the north-west, roughly eighty or so miles away as the crow flies. He lit a cigarette and waited for Mendoza to finish with the file. He’d got down to the final drag before he heard the driver’s door open. He crushed the cigarette out and picked up the butt. There wasn’t anywhere obvious to dispose of it, so he opened the car door and dropped it in the side pocket. Mendoza gave him a dirty look.

Winter smiled. ‘I’ll get rid of it later when I find a trash can.’

‘See that you do.’

‘So, what do you make of the report?’

‘Nelson Price did it, and he was working alone.’

‘Yes, Nelson Price did it, but it doesn’t necessarily follow that he was working on his own. Remember our pink unicorn. So what do you think happened?’

‘What happened was that Nelson killed Lester Reed first, and the reason he did that was because there was one of him and two of them. He needed to take Lester out, and he needed to do it fast because he was bigger and stronger and posed more of a threat. So he slit Lester’s throat, dropped him to the ground, then went after Melanie. That’s what happened.’

‘I agree with you up to a point.’

Mendoza raised a disbelieving, quizzical eyebrow. ‘Up to a point?’

‘The injuries the Reeds sustained tallies with your interpretation of events. Lester Reed’s carotid artery was sliced, as was his windpipe. That was the cause of death. The contusions on his skull were caused by his head hitting the floor. There were no defensive injuries because at this point in the proceedings Lester would have been pleading for Melanie’s life. He was more concerned about what was happening to his wife than to him.’

‘Up to a point
,
’ Mendoza repeated.

‘The injury that killed Lester happened quickly and took him by surprise. And that’s the second reason there weren’t any defensive wounds. Everything happened too quickly. There wasn’t time for him to process what was happening. His brain never had a chance to catch up. Which is understandable. A knife-wielding maniac comes crashing uninvited into your home, there’s going to be a certain amount of disbelief, a certain amount of denial.’

‘Up to a point,’ Mendoza said for the third time, eyebrows arching upwards. ‘I’ve got to tell you, Winter, there are no real surprises in what you’ve said so far.’

‘Melanie, on the other hand, did have defensive wounds,’ he went on. ‘She’d seen what had just happened to Lester and was fighting for her life. The life of her unborn baby, too. Let’s not forget that. Judging by the extent of her injuries, she put up one hell of a fight. Nelson’s blood was up, too. He’d been in control when he killed Lester, but with Melanie any attempt at keeping control was long gone. This attack took place in a complete frenzy. Nelson kept stabbing until she stopped moving. Griffin reckoned that she’d died from a stab wound to the heart. That’s academic, though. She would have died from her other injuries anyway.’

‘Again, no real surprises. Nelson killed the Reeds and he was working alone. End of story.’

‘Invisible pink unicorns.’

‘No, Winter. No goddam unicorns. What? You think that your mystery woman was just standing by watching while Nelson went on a complete rampage?’

‘That’s exactly what I think.’

‘Well you’re wrong. What’s more I’m going to prove you’re wrong.’

‘Okay, if you’re so sure that you’re right, how about we have a little wager? I want to drive back to New York.’

Mendoza pressed a finger to her lip. It was curled like a question mark. Her head was going from side to side.
‘No way. I do the driving.’

‘You’ve got real control issues. Has anyone ever told you that?’

‘This has nothing to do with control issues. I don’t gamble.’

‘Everyone gambles, Mendoza, every day of their lives. When you get out of bed it’s like rolling a dice. You don’t know what’s going to happen. Are you going to walk out the door and get hit by a truck, or are your lottery numbers going to come up.’

‘You’re not driving.’

‘Help me out here, Mendoza. Two seconds ago you were convinced I was wrong. What’s changed?’

‘Nothing’s changed. You are wrong.’

‘In which case you’ve got nothing to worry about.’

Mendoza just stared. Winter held the thumb and forefinger of his right hand up in an L-shape and pressed it against his forehead. The sign of the loser. More staring. More silence. Mendoza thrust her hand out and they shook to seal the deal.

‘I’m telling you now. No way are you driving us back to New York.’

‘Well you’d better hope you’re right then.’

The front door swung open before they reached it and Jeremiah Lowe greeted them with a warm bone-crushing handshake, a slap on the shoulder, and a ‘get your asses out of the cold and get on in here’. At first glance he looked to be in his late sixties, but Winter was betting he was much younger. Whereas Rosalea Griffin was weathering the years just fine, Lowe hadn’t fared so well. He had a deep-lined worn-out face, and there were large dark pouches beneath his tired eyes.

He was doing his best to hide behind a wave of exaggerated gestures and cheery words, but not quite managing. When he moved, he had a slight stoop, as though the weight of the world had been pressing down on him too heavily, and for too long. Winter had seen this before in ex-cops, particularly murder detectives. It was as though every corpse they’d ever seen had stayed with them, like unwanted ghosts.

Winter had learned early on in his career to compartmentalise. For the most part, when he closed a case he was able to walk away. Occasionally, however, there would be one that stayed with him. More often than not it would involve kids. Trying to understand how someone could intentionally hurt another human being was tough enough. Understanding how they could hurt a kid was ninety-nine point nine per cent impossible.

The front door opened on a large open-plan space that was part kitchen, part diner, part living room. Each section was defined by a single eye-catching object. A large cooking range in the kitchen, a ten-seat table in the dining area, and a sixty-inch TV in the living room. The second they stepped inside, the smell of Lake Ontario was replaced by the smell of hot coffee and reheated pizza. Lowe offered coffee and Mendoza declined. Winter didn’t. Today was the sort of day where you couldn’t have too much caffeine.

They sat down at the table, Lowe at the head, Mendoza and Winter to the right of him. There were framed photographs dotted all around the room. They were on every wall, and any flat surface where there was space. Winter saw evidence of a wife, two sons, two daughters, and an indeterminate number of grandchildren.

Lowe saw where he was looking. ‘What can I say? Noreen’s big on family.’ The glow in his voice made it obvious that she wasn’t the only one. ‘So you want to know about the Reed murders over in Hartwood?’

‘That’s right, sir,’ said Mendoza.

Mendoza gave Lowe a quick rundown of what they’d learned so far. Because they were both cops, she talked in bullet points. Being able to skirt around the bullshit and get straight to the point made life a whole lot easier. After Mendoza had finished, Lowe sat there shaking his head, his frown emphasised by the deep lines carved into his face.

‘There’s no way this woman was involved. Nelson Price did it and he was acting alone.’

‘That’s what we’ve been told,’ said Winter.

‘But you don’t believe it. That much is clear. Look, I was with the Monroe County Sheriff’s Department for thirty years. During that time I worked more murder investigations than I care to remember, and I’m telling you now that this one was about as straightforward as I ever saw. I’m sorry but you’re barking up the wrong tree.’

Winter said nothing, injecting a little inquisitor’s silence into the proceedings. Lowe lasted almost ten whole seconds.

‘We had a witness who saw Nelson Price go into the Reed house, and he saw him come out again. The Reeds were alive when he went in and dead when he came out, which is pretty damning in my book. His prints were all over the murder weapon, and they were all over the house. Nelson Price did it. No two ways about it.’

Winter could feel Mendoza’s eyes drilling into the back of his head. He could sense all those told-you-so’s hanging in the air between them. ‘I take it you’ve heard of a cognitive interview? I’d like to try one on you, if that’s okay.’

 Lowe glanced suspiciously at Mendoza, then looked back at Winter. ‘You’re not a cop, are you?’

‘No, sir. But I was with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit for over a decade.’

‘That figures.’ Lowe did nothing to hide his hostility. There was little love lost between the FBI and the local cops. Until the locals needed the FBI’s help, of course, then it was a different story. Those old resentments ran long and deep, and, it would seem, all the way into retirement.

‘This won’t take long. And it would really help us out.’

Lowe’s face softened into something approaching a smile. He snorted out a small laugh. ‘What the hell? Knock yourself out.’

Jeremiah Lowe sat at the head of the long dining table, eyes closed, palms flat on the wood. His wrinkles and worry lines had smoothed out, shaving a decade off his age. Winter gave it almost a full minute. He watched Lowe’s chest rising and falling, watched his breathing slow down into a rhythm that was moving away from awake and closer to sleeping. When he finally spoke, he kept his voice quiet and gentle.

‘You’re in your car and you’re pulling up in front of the Reeds’ house. You park as close to the house as you can, kill the engine, get out. For a moment I just want you to stand there, taking it all in. Make a note of what you can see, what you can hear.’

Lowe was nodding to himself, his head moving forward and back by just a fraction of an inch. Winter waited for him to go still before continuing.

‘What time of day is it?’

‘Somewhere around noon. I can’t remember the exact time, but what I do remember was that I had to have lunch on the run.’

‘What’s the weather like?’

‘It was raining, but it was that slushy rain you sometimes get before snow. There had been blizzard warnings all over the news, but it hadn’t hit at that point. Later that night we had one of the worst snowstorms I can remember. That really hampered things.’ Lowe shook his head. ‘Listen to me. That’s got to be the understatement of the century. It’s a good job the investigation was so straightforward. At least we had that working in our favour.’

‘So, you walk up to the house, and you’re moving quickly because you want out of the cold. Can you feel the rain biting into the exposed parts of your face?’

Lowe nodded.

‘What can you see?’

‘Yellow crime tape. And people. Lots of people. Neighbours, cops, journalists. The Christmas wreath on the door has bright red berries. It’s early January and the decorations haven’t come down yet.’

His voice was as relaxed as Winter’s, which was a good sign. He’d also slipped from the past tense to the present. Another good sign. Lowe was right there in the memory, reliving it. Winter was surprised that Lowe was remembering so much. Six years was a long time. By the same token, he wasn’t completely surprised. You could forget what you’d had for dinner the day before, but you could remember every single detail of a crime scene from a decade ago.

‘Is there any sign of forced entry?’

Lowe shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Okay, I want you to go inside now. Go along the hall and into the living room. What can you see? What can you hear? What can you smell?’

‘Lester’s body is lying near the dining table. Melanie’s is by the fireplace. It smells like a death house. You know, like a slaughterhouse.’

‘Is there anything about the scene that catches your eye?’ Winter was working hard to keep his tone gentle so he didn’t shake Lowe out of the memory. It wasn’t easy. Now they were getting to the good stuff, the temptation was to hurry.

‘The dining table is laid out like it’s a special occasion. There are wine glasses, candles. A tablecloth. It’s set for four, one place on each side.’

‘Tell me about the candles. Are they lit?’

Lowe shook his head. ‘No, they’ve gone out.’

‘What colour are they?’

His brow wrinkled then relaxed again. ‘They’re red. At least I’m pretty sure they were. I can’t remember for sure. It was too long ago.’

Winter sensed Lowe slipping out of the memory. ‘Okay, I want you to take a couple of deep breaths and imagine that the candle is lit. See how the flame flickers and dances.’ He watched Lowe’s chest, waiting for his breathing to slow down again. Mendoza leant forward, her hands, forearms and elbows resting flat on the table. Winter tuned her out. ‘I want you to go over to where Lester’s lying and tell me what you see.’

‘He’s on his stomach, arms out like he’s trying to drag himself across the floor, and he’s bled out. Most of the blood is pooled around his body but there’s a trail that leads to the other side of the dining table. It’s all smeared from where he’s dragged himself through it.’

‘Now tell me about Melanie.’

‘She’s lying curled up in a ball with her hands clamped over her belly. I’ve no idea how many times she’s been stabbed, but it’s a lot.’

It was forty-seven times, according to Rosalea Griffin’s autopsy report. And that was more than a lot. The poor kid had never stood a chance.

‘What’s she wearing?’

Lowe shook his head. ‘Sorry, I can’t remember.’

‘That’s okay. Now don’t say anything for a second. I want you to look at the fireplace. Maybe there’s a fire going. Maybe it’s gone out.’

‘It’s gone out.’

‘In that case I want you to imagine that it’s lit. Nod when you’ve done that.’ Winter counted off four seconds before he got the nod. ‘Good. Now lose yourself in the flames. Watch the way they swirl, see the different colours, hear the crackle and pop of the wood. Feel the heat and smell the wood smoke.’ Winter gave him a second to process this. ‘Now look back at Melanie and tell me what she’s wearing.’

‘Sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt.’

‘What about Lester? What was he wearing?’

‘Jeans. I’m pretty sure he had a T-shirt on but it might have been a shirt.’

‘Thanks. You can open your eyes.’

Lowe opened his eyes, blinking and squinting away the daylight. He rubbed his hands over them, once, twice, then reached for his coffee.

‘So how do you think this whole thing played out?’ Mendoza asked him.

Lowe fell into a thoughtful silence. He was staring over her shoulder, his eyes fixed on a framed wedding photograph on the mantel. Lowe and his wife from way back. They were roughly the same age as the Reeds at the time of the murder.

‘You want to know what I think? I think Nelson Price knocked on their door, and I think Lester Reed opened it, inviting a whole world of hurt into their lives. And I also think, without a shadow of a doubt, that Nelson Price was working alone. I’m sorry, I know that’s not what you want to hear, but that’s the way it was.’