“Bad guy does his thing, washes up, has a drink.”
“Meticulous,” said Ogden. “Not that there was any finesse to how he did her. He shot her after she died, but she was alive for at least some of the knife work. Lots of arterial spurt on the sheets, you saw the pictures. He left her lying on her back with her legs spread. Our theory was that she was surprised while sleeping. At least I hope so. Imagine waking up to that? Being fully aware?” She slapped the file shut.
“All that blood,” said Milo, “and no footprints.”
“Not a single one. Where’s O.J. when we need him? This bastard was careful, guys. So much for the old transfer theory. We did find a shred of neoprene—black plastic—stuck on a corner of Flora’s nightstand. Looked like a corner that got torn off a bigger piece. Al and I wondered if he’d brought garbage bags along, or some sort of tarp. Lab said it was consistent with industrial sheeting, the kind they use in construction. So maybe we’re dealing with someone in the building trades. We were hoping for a print on that shred, at least a partial.” She grinned. “Just like on TV.”
“Zip,” said Milo.
“Zip squared. I was so frustrated I even filled out one of those FBI profiling forms and sent it to Quantico. Four months later, I get an official Feebie letter. White male, organized psychopath, probably between twenty-five and forty and yeah, the building trades thing made sense, but they couldn’t be sure, don’t hold ’em to any of it.”
“Our tax dollars working for us.”
“Every day.”
I said, “A wrought-iron fence rail might narrow down the building trades.”
Ogden said, “Murderous ironworker. Sure, why not? Or he just picked it up at a construction site and sharpened it. In terms of the shrink”—she glanced at me—“pardon, the therapist, the only reason we found out Flora was seeing one was biweekly checks drawn on her account. A hundred bucks, which seemed steep for someone taking home four hundred. When we asked the mother about it, she was surprised. Flora had never told her she was being treated for anything. Al and I called Dr.—what was her name—”
“Koppel.”
“Right, Dr. Koppel. We conferenced with her by phone, she said she’d only seen Flora a few times, which synched with the checkbook. Six payments over three months. She didn’t want to get into details—patient confidentiality. We told her dead people lose the privilege, and she said she knew that, but there was nothing to tell. She sounded pretty shook-up, said she’d flown in from a conference. Is there something hinky about her?”
“Not that I know,” said Milo. “Like you said, the bad guy could be another one of her patients. No idea why Newsome was in therapy?”
“I think Koppel said ‘adjustment issues.’ Something along those lines. I know she denied there was anything weird about Flora’s personality. We asked her about relationships with weirdos or bad guys, and she said Flora had never talked about that. She gave us a diagnosis—adjustment problem . . .”
“Adjustment disorder, anxious type?” I said.
“That sounds right. What it boiled down to was that Flora had been under stress—the pressure of her probationary year at the school, realizing she was going to be a teacher and all the responsibility that entailed. She was also having some financial difficulties because of the years she’d taken off from work to go back to school.”
“Financial difficulties,” said Milo, “but she shells out a hundred bucks every two weeks to Koppel.”
“Koppel said that was a discount rate. She’d cut her fee in half and agreed to see Flora every other week instead of weekly.”
“Doing Flora a favor.”
“Basically, yes,” said Ogden. “Koppel said once a week was usually the minimum in order to gain the benefits of therapy, but she made an exception for Flora. That true, Doctor? Is there a minimum?”
“No.”
“Well,” she said, “that was Koppel’s way of looking at it.” One of her hands rested atop the other. A big woman, but delicate, pianist’s hands. “She made a big deal about that—how she’d accommodated Flora. I remember thinking she was talking mostly about herself, not Flora.”