The Red Queen Dies Page 7

  Pettigrew saw a flash of lightning. Thunder cracked overhead, echoed and vibrated around the high-rise apartment building.

  Might as well stay on the sofa. No point in having to get out of bed and find his pants if there was a tornado warning and he needed to evacuate to the basement.

  10

  DATE: Friday, 25 October 2019

  TIME: 0745 hours

  WEATHER TODAY: Mid 70s and sunshine. Air quality fair.

  McCabe parked in the hospital garage and walked across the pedestrian bridge. She took the elevator downstairs to the basement, where the morgue was located.

  The worst part about the morgue was the chill that was intended to stop the decay of the bodies stacked in their individual drawers. Stepping off the elevator was like arriving at the entrance of a bright, well-scrubbed tomb.

  Baxter was out in the hall, pacing.

  “Good morning,” she said. “Did we beat the ME here?”

  Baxter shook his head. “He went upstairs to get some breakfast.”

  “Have yours already?” McCabe asked.

  Baxter gave her a doubtful glance. “You eat before these?”

  McCabe nodded. “Believe it or not, having a little food in your stomach actually helps.”

  “I think I’ll wait for lunch. Or maybe dinner next week.”

  The elevator doors opened.

  “Hannah McCabe, you have arrived.” Dr. Ranjit Singh strode toward them, white coat flapping, glazed doughnut in one hand, cup of coffee in the other. “Let me gulp this down and we’ll get to work.”

  “Take your time, Doc,” Baxter said.

  * * *

  Dr. Singh stood on one side of the aluminum table. McCabe and Baxter, also wearing surgical gear, stood on the other. Vivian Jessup lay on the table between them.

  Baxter had glanced at the body, then looked away.

  Dr. Singh said, “As you know, Hannah McCabe, we use CT scans and MRI’s as much as possible.” He brought up the monitor on the wall. “These are the images we have already taken of the body.”

  Full-length 3-D images of Vivian Jessup’s body appeared. Dr. Singh maneuvered them on the screen, providing them with different views. He explained what they were seeing.

  Baxter said, “Wow!”

  “I told you it was interesting,” McCabe said.

  “We only saw the old-style autopsy at the Academy.”

  Dr. Singh said, “We still make use of the traditional autopsy. To do this for every case would be both time-consuming and expensive. However, because of the circumstances, we need all of the information that our victim’s body can yield.” He shook his head. “It is too bad I was out of town each time and we don’t have similar information on our other two women.” He looked up from his visual examination of the body on the table. “Not to say my colleague did not do what he should have. The autopsies performed on the other two women were well done.”

  McCabe said, “And, of course, we didn’t know until the second victim that there was a pattern. By then, the first victim had been long buried.”

  “And there is no need to dig her or the second victim up,” Dr. Singh said. “Unless we should find something unexpected here. Shall we begin?”

  McCabe glanced at Baxter. She couldn’t make out his expression behind his plastic face mask and visor, but he gave her a thumbs-up with his gloved hand.

  Singh said, “As with the first two young women, the killer took no chances with locating the heart.”

  “What do you mean?” Baxter asked.

  “It is difficult to wedge a needle between two ribs and go directly into the heart. The killer wisely went in from below, angling the needle upward and toward the left shoulder from the soft pit of the stomach. The needle traveled through the diaphragm and directly into the heart. If you look closely, you can see the injection site.”

  “Yeah, I see it,” Baxter said.

  “But you’ll have to do the tox screen to confirm the phenol, right?” McCabe said.

  “That is correct. And we will need to confirm that these two small circular marks were caused by a stunner, as with the other two women.”

  * * *

  When they were done, McCabe called Lieutenant Dole. “We won’t have the toxicological report until tomorrow, but Dr. Singh says that what we have so far puts Vivian Jessup in line for victim number three. Same pattern as with the first two victims. Stunner followed by injection to the heart. The only difference is that bruise on her arm. Dr. Singh says she was hit on the arm with a lug wrench or something similar.”

  Dole said, “What came first? The blow to the arm or the stun?”

  “Blow to the arm first.” McCabe said. “Dr. Singh says the blow to the arm would have been sufficient to make her stumble and fall, but she wouldn’t have been immobile. She was on the ground when the killer used the stunner on her.”

  “And that kept her immobile long enough for the perp to jam the syringe into her heart,” Dole said. “Same as the other two.”

  “Dr. Singh also confirms that the body was moved immediately after her death. He says she was probably dumped ten to twelve hours before the nine-one-one call came in at eight seventeen hours.”

  “That puts time of death between eight and ten P.M. on Wednesday evening.”

  “Except,” McCabe said, “Dr. Singh warns we have to take into account the intense heat and the possible impact of whatever she was injected with on body tissues.”

  “But he’s pretty sure of time of death?”

  “Assuming that she was injected with phenol, Lou. He says if it turns out to be something else, he may need to amend his time line. So he’s not willing to go on record yet, but he’s going to send you and the commander his initial report.”

  “Okay. Are you and Baxter on your way back in?”

  McCabe glanced over at Baxter, who had walked down the hall. He was on his ORB. Talking to a girlfriend?

  She said to the lieutenant, “Baxter and I were thinking of heading over to UAlbany to try to catch up with the theater professor that Vivian Jessup was working with. Has anyone been able to reach her yet?”

  “No luck getting hold of her at home,” Dole said. “But we know she hasn’t skipped town. Her chairperson says she was in early this morning, then left again. He says he doesn’t think she’s avoiding us, just too upset to talk.”

  “So she knew Vivian Jessup well?” McCabe asked.

  “Her chairperson didn’t say. Just said she’s taking it hard,” Dole said. “Okay, head over to the university and try to find her. Tomorrow, I want you and Baxter to go down to the City. We’ve been in touch with NYPD. They’re going to provide you with your own personal escort.”

  “Helpful of them. We’ll check in after our interview with the professor.”

  “The police chief at UAlbany already knows we’re going to be on campus. But give him a heads-up when you get there.”

  “Will do,” McCabe said.

  * * *

  The young woman behind the desk in the Department of Theatre Productions office looked like a work-study student. Her attention was focused on the hologram she’d projected on the desktop: a court jester in Renaissance foolscap with bells.

  “Good morning.” McCabe held out her badge. “I’m Detective McCabe. This is Detective Baxter. We’re looking for Professor Meredith—”

  “Oh, you’re here about Vivian Jessup.” The young woman shot up and sent the desk chair skittering. “Excuse me, I have to let Professor Carmichael … excuse me.”

  She scurried across to the room, knocked on a closed office door, and darted inside when a man’s voice called “Come in.”

  “Are we that scary?” Baxter said.

  “Must be,” McCabe said.

  The office door opened. A man came out, followed by the skittish young woman.

  He looked cautious but calm. Slender, curly blond hair, wearing blue jeans and a retro MAKE LOVE NOT WAR T-shirt.

  “Hello, Detectives, I’m Ian Carmichael, chair of
the department,”

  McCabe identified herself and Baxter. “Sorry to disturb you, Professor Carmichael. We were inquiring about Professor Noel. She isn’t at home or in her office, and we’d like to speak to her about Vivian Jessup.”

  Carmichael stuck his hands into his pockets. “She tagged me a few minutes ago. She said if you came by to ask you to come over to the Performing Arts Center. She’s over there reviewing some footage.”

  “Reviewing some footage?” Baxter said. “So she had some work she thought she’d get done? We could just catch up with her whenever?”

  Carmichael’s gaze narrowed. “Actually, Detective Baxter, the footage is of Vivian Jessup. Professor Noel remembered that she had it and thought you would be interested in seeing it.”

  “Yes, we would be very interested in seeing that footage,” McCabe said. “We’ll go over and meet with Professor Noel now. And, thank you, Professor Carmichael, for taking the time to talk to us.”

  “No problem,” Carmichael said. “Anything we can do.”

  Out in the hall, out of earshot of the office, McCabe turned to her new partner. “Mike, getting people’s backs up going in—”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I guess I spent too much time hanging out with the guys in vice.”

  “They like to break down doors and throw people against walls. I prefer not to have to exert myself that much to get people to cooperate.”

  Baxter grinned. “But I hear you can be mean when the circumstances call for it.”

  “My legend precedes me?” McCabe said.

  “Just kidding. You’ve got to learn to take a joke. What I heard was that you’re a good cop. That’s why I was looking forward to working with you.”

  “I’ll try to make sure you learn a thing or two,” McCabe said.

  “Ouch.”

  “Let’s get over to PAC before Professor Noel departs for some other location.”

  * * *

  They were crossing the square to the Performance Arts Center when a male voice called out, “Hey, McCabe!”

  McCabe turned. She smiled as she saw the short, muscular man coming toward them with a leashed dog that must have weighed as much as he did.

  “Saul!” McCabe said, going to meet him. “Hi, Duke.” She patted the giant dog on his head and leaned around him to hug his master. “What are you two doing on campus?”

  “They’ve having a rally for the football team. When the mascot’s a Great Dane, it’s always fun to have some of the real dogs walking around. So they let our rescue group set up a table.”

  “That is some animal,” Baxter said as he joined them and looked down at Duke’s massive head and jaw.

  “Great Dane-mastiff mix,” Saul said.

  “Saul Jacobs, this is Mike Baxter,” McCabe said. “He just joined our unit. Mike, Saul was my first partner when I was on patrol. Now he’s retired and living the good life.”

  The two men fell into shop talk, getting a fix on each other.

  McCabe gave it a few minutes, then said, “Saul, we’ll catch you for a beer at O’Malley’s sometime soon. We’re on our way to an interview.”

  “Don’t let me keep you. Hey, you give any more thought to that puppy?”

  “Still thinking,” McCabe said. “Catch you later.”

  “What puppy?” Baxter said as they walked away.

  “Saul’s trying to get me to take a rescue dog.”

  “Great Danes must eat like linebackers.”

  “There is that.” McCabe glanced at the simulated ivy climbing the white-and-gray granite sides of the nearest building. “I know it’s green, but solar panel arrays don’t quite say hallowed halls, do they?”

  “Only if you’re a science geek.”

  “Did you go to school here in the area?”

  “I headed down to Houston,” Baxter said. “I wanted to get away from home. And the girl I was dating in high school was going there. We broke up two months into our freshman year.”

  “But you stayed in Texas?”

  “Liked the weather and the cowboy boots. So you majored in CJ here—”

  “And psychology. Double major.”

  “I was prelaw. CJ and public policy.”

  “What changed your mind about becoming a lawyer?”

  “I didn’t change my mind, just decided to get some real-world experience first. Then I’ll do Albany Law and become a prosecutor.”

  “If you don’t become police chief?”

  “That’s my other option.”

  “Always helps to have a plan, huh?”

  “Always,” Baxter said. “Gotta know where you’re going if you want to get there.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  * * *

  “Professor Noel’s in the studio lab,” the woman in the PAC office told them. “She said you were on the way and to send you in.”

  “Carmichael gave Noel a heads-up,” Baxter said as they started down the corridor to the lab.

  “Seems like,” McCabe agreed. She stepped back out of the path of a student carrying a giant plastic ham with an opening in the bottom. “Let me guess. To Kill a Mockingbird?”

  The student nodded and stepped sideways. “We’re cleaning out the costume room.”

  Baxter said, “I must have seen that movie about a hundred times.”

  “The reason you wanted to be a lawyer?” McCabe said.

  “Nah, I just thought it was a cool movie. I like movies set in the South.”

  “The hot weather thing, huh?” McCabe said. “This looks like the place.”

  Meredith Noel, petite, fortyish, with spiky blond hair, paused the footage she was watching when they walked in. Up on the wall, Vivian Jessup’s hand froze in the gesture of brushing back her famous red hair. She was looking toward the camera, a book that looked like a journal or diary open on the desk in front of her.

  “Sorry we’ve had such a hard time touching base,” Noel said. “I was just so devastated when I heard about Vivian. I couldn’t believe it.”

  They sat down at the conference table, McCabe and Baxter on one side, Noel across from them.

  “Did you know Vivian Jessup well?” McCabe asked.

  Noel shoved her fingers through her spiky hair and grimaced. “That’s the crazy part. The reason I feel almost to blame for what happened.”

  From the corner of her eye, McCabe saw Baxter tense. Before he could blurt out something, she said, “To blame? Why do you feel that way?”

  Tears appeared in Noel’s eyes. “Because if Vivian and I hadn’t met at that conference, and I hadn’t mentioned John Wilkes Booth, she never would have come to Albany.”

  “I can see you’re upset, Professor Noel,” McCabe said. “But let’s start at the beginning. What conference?”

  Noel sniffed and dug into the pocket of her smock. She came up with a tissue and blew her nose. “A drama conference at NYU about a year and a half ago. Vivian was one of the actors who took part. She was interviewed and then there was a reception. And I had a chance to talk with her.” Noel wiped at her nose again. “I mentioned I was at UAlbany, and she smiled and said she’d never been at all inclined to go to Albany. And I laughed and agreed that Albany isn’t New York City. But I was thinking how incredible it would be if I could get her to do something with the department here. And so I went into the spiel we’ve been using to recruit grad students, about all of the famous writers, actors, and other performers who lived in Albany at various times or came here to perform.”

  “And that was when you mentioned John Wilkes Booth?” McCabe said.

  Noel nodded. “I told her how he had been performing in Albany on the night that Abraham Lincoln stopped en route to his presidential inauguration. She was really intrigued by that. It always gives me chills, too.”

  “Yes, it is that kind of story,” McCabe said.

  “But what really intrigued Vivian was what might have been different if Henrietta Irving had killed Booth.”

  “Who?”

  “An actress who w
as Booth’s lover. It happened two months after Booth and Lincoln had both been in Albany. That April of 1861, Booth came back for a return engagement at the Gayety Theatre. Irving had performed with him in Rochester, and they were together again in Albany. They had a drunken quarrel when she realized he had no intention of marrying her. She tried to stab him, but he deflected the knife. His face was slashed, but not enough to do permanent damage to his classic profile. He left town the next day.”

  “What happened to Irving?” Baxter asked.

  “She thought she had killed Booth. She went back to her room and tried to commit suicide. Luckily, she survived.”

  McCabe said, “If she had killed Booth that evening in April 1861—”

  Noel nodded. “Then Booth and Lincoln would never have had that final encounter in Ford’s Theatre. Booth’s madness would have ended here in Albany.”

  Baxter said, “That’s what the play she was writing was about?”

  “The story as told by an elderly Henrietta Irving. A play about Lincoln and Booth here in Albany, but also about Irving and who she was. Irving is one of those nineteenth-century actresses who is almost forgotten today.”

  Baxter said, “Was she charged with trying to kill Booth?”

  “No,” Noel said. “Not after she told them that he had seduced her and then refused to do the honorable thing. Apparently, she wasn’t the first or last woman to make a fool of herself over Booth.”

  “But the only one who tried to kill him?” McCabe said.

  “As far as we know. But the man was accident-prone. While he was in Albany, he also fell on the dagger he was using doing a performance. He was just returning to the stage after that injury on the night Lincoln stopped in Albany. Booth did his performance with one arm strapped to his body. The papers praised the passion of his performance.”

  “Probably pissed as hell that Old Abe was in town,” Baxter said.

  “I don’t doubt he was,” Noel agreed. “Albany was a Democratic town, but they turned out for the president-elect, even thought he was a Republican.” She smiled. “Not to say that Booth didn’t get better reviews in one of the newspapers. But he had been warned by the theater manager that he couldn’t go around making inflammatory pro-South declarations.”