And the name Lucius Malenko.
Greg sat through the double funeral service at the Hawthorne Unitarian Church. He had removed his weapon and badge from his belt and he tried not to look conspicuous as he made mental notes of family members and close friends. He also tried not to think of what T.J. Gelford would say if he knew Greg was here. But that wouldn’t happen.
At the cemetery, he receded into the background and watched through dark glasses. It was a tasteful and dignified event, where a woman minister gave a moving eulogy before the matching bronze caskets poised above their plots. A large hushed crowd of mourners surrounded them, and a niece read a poem she had written. Greg spoke to no one.
From the newspaper obits, he got the names of the immediate survivors—Bradley Watts, the husband, and Lisa, the daughter. Watts was a tall patrician-looking man in his fifties with streaks of white around his ears, and a tanned angular face. His daughter was a pretty sandy-haired girl with a white full face and red eyes. The girl was not doing well and kept breaking down, so that Watts kept his arm around her throughout the ceremony.
When the service was over, people laid flowers on the coffins and paid their final condolences.
Greg pulled closer. At one point he overheard somebody agreeing with Brad that getting away was the best thing. He thought he heard someone mention Oregon.
Because of the awful circumstances of their deaths, there was no postfuneral dinner. That was unfortunate, because he wanted to speak to Bradley Watts in a more appropriate venue. The gravesite was definitely not the place, but he and his daughter could be departing for Oregon tomorrow, maybe even that night.
As Watts and his daughter started away from the grave toward the limousine, Greg pulled him aside. He expressed his sympathies and introduced himself. The daughter, whose eyes were still wet, stood there limply.
Watts thanked him and looked at the card. “Zakarian, good Albanian name.”
Greg didn’t bother to correct him. “I apologize for the intrusion, but I’m wondering if we could set up a time to ask you a few questions.”
“What about? I’ve already spoken to the police.”
“I realize that, but there are some things I’d like to ask about Julian that may shed light on other cases I’m investigating. Maybe we can meet tomorrow or the next day, at your convenience?”
“I’m taking my daughter to camp tomorrow, and I’m going to the West Coast and won’t be back for a few weeks.” He again glanced at Greg’s card. “Sagamore?”
“I can explain,” Greg said. The daughter looked distraught. So, to show her some interest, he asked, “Where are you going to camp?”
“Allegro Music Camp outside Toronto.” She seemed to perk up a little.
“You must be quite a musician. What do you play?”
“Violin,” she said. Then she added, “Julian was supposed to go to the Nova Children’s Center camp at Lake Tarabec, but …” She trailed off into a choke.
“I’m very sorry,” Greg said. “From what I read, he was a very bright young man.”
Watts gave her a comforting squeeze. “Maybe when I return,” he said.
“I’d rather we talk before you left,” Greg said.
Mr. Watts sighed and told his daughter to get in the limo, that he’d be right there. The girl slumped away to the waiting car.
“Officer Zakarian, I’m taking my daughter home where we’ll try to relax as best as the medication will allow. At nine o’clock tomorrow morning we are out of here. So if you have any questions I’ll take them now.”
This was not how Greg wanted it—standing just feet away from his wife’s and son’s caskets.
“And, please, be brief and to the point.”
Greg nodded. “According to the autopsy report on Julian, clusters of scars were found on his skull. You’re no doubt aware of them.”
Watts’s eye twitched ever so slightly. But he did not respond.
“You do know what I’m talking about?”
Watts’s expression seemed to stiffen. “I’m listening.”
“Can you tell me how they got there?”
“Why are you asking me this, Officer?”
Briefly Greg mentioned the two other cases. He would have preferred to do this in the man’s house or office, but he pulled out the schematic of the skull with holes.
The man glanced at the drawing then looked at Greg. “Julian was treated for epilepsy as a child. He had a severe case.”
“So you’re saying he had some medical procedure.”
“Yes,” Watts said. He gave Greg a saucer-eyed look that seemed to blot out any suspicions that what he said was not the absolute truth.
“Was Julian right-handed or left-handed?”
Watts hesitated for a second, no doubt wondering about the odd question. “Left.”
“Can you tell me the name of his doctor?”
“Daaad?” It was his daughter calling him from the limousine.
“Good day, Officer,” Watts said, and he walked away to the car and got in.
Epilepsy.
Greg looked around. The place was emptying out. People were walking to their cars, and cars were moving in a slow caravan toward the exit. Nearby he spotted a big kid with a black ponytail showing something to an attractive tall blonde behind a monument.
Greg watched the limo pull out of its spot by the edge of the grass. Lisa was sitting at a rear window. He gave a little wave and watched the car pull down the lane.
Nova Children’s Center. The words spread through his mind like a crack.
45
The Whitman home was located in an upper-middle-class neighborhood of Hawthorne where stately Colonials and Tudors reminded Greg that he was an outsider.
On Friday afternoon around two, he pulled in front of a handsome brick garrison with a slate roof, two stately chimneys, and black shutters with white trim. A gold Maxima was parked in the driveway. Because it was next to an open lot, he could spot an elaborate wooden play structure in the backyard. He had a mental flash of the Dixon place with its redbrick box, front yard of scrub and dirt, the tire swing. It was this place, but a couple decimal points to the left.
A bed of daylilies and groundcover neatly lined the flagstone walk to the front door. He rang it and a woman who looked to be in her thirties answered. She was very attractive with shoulder-length shiny black hair, and jagged bangs, and large amber eyes. He had seen her and her husband yesterday at the Wattses’ funeral.
“Mrs. Whitman?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Greg Zakarian. I’m a detective from the Sagamore Police Department.” He handed the woman his card. She looked instantly concerned. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about the Vanessa and Julian Watts case.”
“But I’ve already spoken to the police.”
“I understand, but there are some elements in the case that may have bearing on another case.” Understandably she looked puzzled but let him inside.
He followed her through the living room, attractively decorated in bright colors and oriental rugs. On the coffee table sat copies of The New Yorker and The Quarterly Review of Wine.
She led him to a screened-in porch that was furnished in white wicker and floral cushions. Large pots of red geraniums sat on the floor. Some children’s books were piled neatly on a chair. From the porch he could see that the backyard climbing structure was an elaborate redwood system with ropes, hang rails, and a large yellow sliding tube. Not your basic tire swing. A little boy sat digging in a nearby sandbox.
Mrs. Whitman offered him some coffee or a soft drink, but Greg declined. She glanced at his card as she sat down. “Eench bess ess?” she said.