The Girl In The Glass (18 page)

“Or that Knowles really is the killer,” said Cleary.

“Or that,” said McCabe.

“So where does all that leave us, folks?” asked Bill Fortier.

“Looking for an alternative killer,” said Maggie. “At this point we don’t have a clue as to who that might be. Though I guess we can be pretty sure it wasn’t Dean Scott.”

Fortier shook his head and sighed. “Why couldn’t one of these, just for once, be easy?”

“Hey, come on, Bill, cheer up,” said McCabe. “We only found the body seven hours ago. We’re just getting started.”

Fortier’s phone rang. He picked it up and listened. Then hung up without a word. “Shockley’s going public in exactly three minutes,” he told the detectives. “Downstairs in the big briefing room. You guys wanna go down and watch the show live?”

Maggie watched a pair of frown lines appear between McCabe’s eyes.

“No, thanks,” he said. “You go if you want. I think I’ll just watch it from up here.” He didn’t want to answer any questions thrown at him as the lead detective, but he wanted to see how much information Shockley was going to give out. Shockley was better at the PR stuff than he was anyway.

Fortier nodded. “Okay. Why don’t we all watch it from here?” He flipped on the TV in the corner and clicked to the local NBC affiliate. The face of Shockley’s girlfriend, on-­air reporter Josie Tenant, filled one half the screen. An empty rostrum filled the other.

“And here he is now,” said Tenant. “Portland Police Chief Thomas Shockley.” The cameras turned to Shockley, in full dress uniform, striding across the stage. He took his place at the rostrum, a serious no-­bullshit expression on his face. The chief took a few seconds for the chatter to die down and then began to speak.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, early this morning, at approximately 3:20 a.m., the severely wounded body of a young woman was discovered just off the Loring Trail in Portland by Dr. Dean Scott of Portland. Dr. Scott, who had been jogging nearby, is a resident in emergency medicine at Cumberland Medical Center. In spite of his best efforts to save her life, the young woman died of her wounds just a few minutes later. She has since been identified as Veronica Aimée Whitby. Aimée, as she was known to practically everyone, is the daughter of one of Maine’s most prominent business leaders, Edward Whitby, president and board chairman of Whitby Engineering & Development. Her mother, Tracy Carlin, is a journalist with the Portland
Press Herald
and a colleague of many of you in attendance here today. I know you all share, as I do, the profound grief that Mr. Whitby and Ms. Carlin must be feeling over the tragic slaying of their daughter. The motive behind the killing is, at this time, unclear, but there is a definite possibility that Aimée Whitby was raped before she was killed.

“Several hours after the discovery of the victim’s body, another body, that of Penfield Academy English teacher Byron Knowles, of South Portland, washed up near Two Lights in Cape Elizabeth. Mr. Knowles was the father of a four-­year-­old girl, and his wife is expecting another child in the very near future. Our hearts also go out to both Knowles’s wife and child. Since Ms. Whitby was a student of Mr. Knowles at Penfield, and since both of them attended the same graduation party on Whitby Island last night, it’s likely that the two deaths are connected. However at this time we cannot be certain exactly what the connection is.”

“Got to give the old fart credit,” said McCabe. “He does this crap well.”

Shockley spent the next several minutes describing Aimée’s wounds in some detail, including the
A
carved into her chest. “At this point we have no idea what significance this letter might have, but we have to assume that the
A
stands for something.”

“I hope going public with that is the right thing to do,” said Maggie.

McCabe sighed. “Too late now. What’s done is done.”

“I will now take questions,” Shockley told the assembled reporters.

“Do you think Knowles killed the Whitby girl and then killed himself?” Eric Steinberg from the
Bangor Daily News
shouted out.

“That’s one of the possibilities we’re investigating, Eric,” said Shockley, “but it’s still too early to definitively declare this a murder/suicide scenario.”

“Chief Shockley, do we know if Knowles was having a sexual affair with Aimée Whitby?” The questioner was none other than Shockley’s girlfriend, Josie Tenant. He looked irritated at her question.

“I’m sorry, Josie, I can’t comment on that at this time.”

“Have there been any reports of his having had sexual relations with any other female students?”

“None that I know of.”

Reporters were shouting out a battery of questions, but Shockley had apparently decided not to answer any more.

“In conclusion,” he said, “I’d like to assure Aimée’s parents and friends and Byron Knowles’s family that this department will spare no effort or expense getting to the bottom of these tragic deaths. In the meantime, I urge anyone who has any information about this case to please step forward now and let us know. We’ve set up a special hotline at 1-­800-­555-­1872. The identity of all those offering information will be kept absolutely confidential.”

“That ought to lure all the whackos out of the woodwork,” said Tom Tasco. “Hope we’ve got plenty of ­people working the phones.”

McCabe’s phone rang. Caller ID said US Coast Guard.

He muted the TV and flipped the phone to speaker so the others could listen. “This is McCabe.”

“Sergeant McCabe? This is Chief Petty Officer Karl Nelson, US Coast Guard Search and Rescue. We found your boat, sir.”

“You sure you’ve got the right one?”

“Yessir. A recently restored Midland 19. Originally built 1984. Registered to Byron Knowles of South Portland. Name’s the
Patti Ann
. She was spotted out of gas and drifting. About two kilometers south-­southeast of Inner Green Island. No one aboard.”

“Okay. Good work. Where is the boat now?”

“She’s being towed into our South Portland station. Should be here in twenty minutes or so.”

“Do me a favor, Chief. If the boat gets there before my partner and I do, under no circumstances let anybody touch a thing inside. Not till our forensics ­people have had a chance to go over it.”

“Aye-­aye, sir. Not a problem. I understand. I’ll alert our ­people at the gate that you’re on your way.”

Chapter 36

F
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M
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L
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,
McCabe and Maggie stood at the end of the Coast Guard dock staring down into the interior of the
Patti Ann
. Nothing to see. Just an empty sport fishing boat. No weapons. No obvious bloodstains. Nothing but a little water sloshing around inside and pair of yellow waterproofs pushed in one corner near the bow.

“You know what I don’t get?” Maggie said. “If Knowles wasn’t the killer, why would a third man bring Aimée all the way back to Portland, then drag her up the Loring Trail and use a knife? Even if he wanted to rape her, there’s plenty of room and total privacy right down there in the back of the boat. When he was finished he could’ve dumped her overboard, like he supposedly did with Knowles. No leaving of DNA or anything else behind. Cleaner. Easier. Simpler.”

“I guess he wanted her body to be found.”

“Why?”

“Presumably to set up the murder/suicide scenario, which, if we buy it, puts an end to the investigation. Without a body, Aimée’s a missing person and we keep looking. And from what I’ve heard about Edward Whitby, so would he. Much safer for the bad guy to let us find her and blame Knowles.”

“Okay. But why not kill her on the island, carve the
A
and leave her there? If he wants to implicate Knowles, he leaves her cell phone there with all the texts and voice mails. Once he’s done with Aimée, he tosses Knowles in the boat, takes him out into the open ocean, sends the suicide note to Gina, and then dumps him overboard never to be found.”

McCabe raised both hands, palms out. “I don’t know. Maybe he just felt like doing it the way he did.”

Maggie shook her head in frustration. McCabe’s phone rang. Tom Tasco was on the other end.

“Yeah, Tom.”

“Whitby’s assistant, a woman named Martha Davis, just sent over the guest list for last night’s party. Two hundred and thirty-­six attendees, including a lot of well-­known names. Plus another fifty-­two worker bees hired by the caterer. She included contact info for all of them. Phone and e-­mail.”

“Efficient woman.”

“I agree, but we may need the National Guard if we’re gonna interview nearly three hundred ­people.”

“So call in some help. We need to find out if anybody saw anything in any way suspicious on the island last night. Also we need to identify anyone who might have had some motive for wanting to see Knowles and Aimée dead. Or maybe just Aimée. Knowles may have been collateral damage. You know the drill.”

“Okay. I’ll see if I can recruit some additional manpower from the Staties and start working the list.”

McCabe returned to Maggie, who seemed lost in thought.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

“The letter A.”

Maggie took out her phone and made a call. “Headmaster Cobb, please.” Pause. “I see. This is Detective Margaret Savage of the Portland Police Department. I’m investigating the murder of Aimée Whitby.” Pause. “Yes, it was a terrible thing.” Pause. “Is there anyone there who can tell me if the book
The Scarlet Letter
was assigned in Aimée’s English classes? Thanks. I’ll hold.”

Maggie waited. A minute later she introduced herself to someone else and asked the same question. She waited again. Nodded and thanked whoever she was talking to. “Okay,” she finally said to McCabe. “I still don’t know what it means, but Byron Knowles has assigned
The Scarlet Letter
to all his senior students for the last eight years.”

“So anybody who’d taken his class would know that
A
stands for adultery.”

“I guess. But there is one problem with that,” said Maggie.

“What?”

“Well, we know adultery was committed. But Knowles was the adulterer, not Aimée. She wasn’t married.”

“I don’t know,” said McCabe. “Isn’t sleeping with a married man considered adultery?” He looked up the word on his iPhone. “Okay. Here it is. ‘Voluntary sexual intercourse between a married person and a person who is not his or her spouse.’ So I guess technically they’re both adulterers. Anyway, why else carve the
A
?”

Maggie shrugged. “We’ve been over that. Because it’s the first initial of her name? Or she’s the first in a series of killings and he wants to sign his work. Or maybe like that guy in New York, he wants to become known as The Alphabet Killer.”

Before McCabe could answer, Maggie’s phone rang.

“Yes, Mr. Whitby?” she said, flipping to speaker so McCabe could hear.

“I just watched a tape of Shockley’s press conference.”

“Yes, sir?”

“You didn’t tell me about the letter
A
when we spoke earlier.”

“No, I’m sorry. The specifics seemed less important than telling you about your daughter’s death.”

“Well, the specifics are important. I suggest you and McCabe get your tails out here pronto. There’s something you need to know. And to see. I’ll have the chopper waiting on the company helipad.”

“Okay. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

Maggie looked over at McCabe, who nodded.

They headed back to the car.

“You drive,” said Maggie. “I want to ask Terri something.”

“Hi, Mag, what’s up?” said Terri Mirabito.

“One more question. What if Whitby had sex with two different guys and there’s semen from both?”

“What about it?”

“Can Joe Pines differentiate between two different specimens? Can we get DNA reads for both?”

“Yes. The tests would give us indicators for both.”

“Good. Thank you. When are you cutting?”

“I plan on doing both autopsies today. I’ll start at three. The Whitby girl first. Then Knowles. Will you and McCabe be joining me?”

“No. Just me.” She glanced over at McCabe. “McCabe is taking his daughter to Fore Street for dinner to celebrate her graduation.”

“Hey, that’s great. Congratulate them both for me.”

“I will.” Maggie broke the connection and smiled at McCabe.

“We’re in the middle of a double murder and you decide, all on your own, that I’m going out for dinner instead of doing my job?”

“Yup.”

“A little arbitrary on your part, don’t you think? Especially since I just told Brian he couldn’t meet his buddies for the Sox game.”

“Sox games don’t count. They play a hundred and sixty a season. You, on the other hand, have only one daughter. The two of you should be celebrating tonight, and you should be going to Casey’s graduation tomorrow. She needs to know you care more about her than you do your job. Which is probably what Kyra needed too. And maybe still does.”

“Yes, ma’am,” McCabe said, glancing into Maggie’s brown eyes. “Thank you. I suspect you’re right.”

“And don’t worry about the autopsies. I’m happy to cover.”

Chapter 37

From the journal of Edward Whitby Jr.

Entry dated July 3, 1924

The unraveling of our lives began, as I suppose such things often do, in a most prosaic manner, with a letter that arrived unexpectedly just after breakfast on a beautiful Saturday morning in June. It had come from the Museum School in Boston and was addressed to Aimée. She tore it open as we sat together sipping our coffee on the terrace behind the house.

“Oh my goodness! Oh my goodness! I can’t believe it.” She was holding the pages of the letter in both hands and was staring down at them. Her excitement was palpable.

I looked up from my morning paper and smiled. She looked particularly lovely that morning, her face so alive, so filled with energy as she read whatever news was contained in the letter that I longed to take her in my arms and thank her again for being my wife and the mother of our children. It had been a long time since I’d felt so close to her. Perhaps that is why I reacted so fiercely to what she said.

“What is it?” I asked. “What is it that is giving you such pleasure? Please share your news.”

“I’m not sure I should, Edward. I’m afraid it may be something you won’t like. But before I tell you, I want you to know that I am thrilled.”

My pleasure turned to suspicion about what she was going to say. “What is it?” I asked again.

“I have been invited by Mr. Mark Garrison to teach a class in painting seascapes at the Museum School in Boston. He says I am the first woman ever asked to be an instructor there.”

I’m sure I must have frowned, because she said, “Edward, don’t look so downcast. This is something that makes me happy. Don’t you want me to be happy?”

“How did Garrison happen to think of you?”

“We’ve met a few times at gallery openings in Boston, and when he said they would be adding an instructor for this September, I applied for the position, more on a lark than anything else. I never imagined it would actually happen. But listen to what Garrison says. ‘I greatly admire your work, Mrs. Whitby, particularly the oils in what you call your island series. They are strong. They are vibrant. They bring the ocean and the rocky coast of your island to life with all the strength and power I’m sure they possess in life. If you are half as good an instructor as you are a painter, I am confident that you will be a credit to this institution. I must add that, at this time, we can only offer you a part-­time position. Your classes will meet only one day a week, one in the morning and one in the afternoon on Thursdays, and the stipend is small. If you are still interested, please telephone me at your earliest convenience so that we can arrange a time to meet in person and discuss the details further.’ ”

“Well,” I said. “I suppose I should congratulate you on the offer. It’s quite an honor to be the first woman invited to join the faculty of such a prestigious institution. But I’m afraid you must let Garrison know you weren’t serious when you sent in your application ‘on a lark,’ as you say. You will telephone Mr. Garrison Monday morning and thank him for the offer but tell him that it no longer works with your schedule.”

“No. I’m going to call him Monday and accept.”

Though her words triggered a barely containable rage inside of me, I said nothing.

“Please be happy for me, Edward,” said Aimée, sensing my anger. “Accepting this job is something that could save my life.”

The irony in those words didn’t strike me until nearly a year later.