Faceless (27 page)

“My husband is a believer in giving our children every kind of advantage for every situation,” her mother interceded. “He wants the kids, even the girls, to be able to handle themselves. Tiffany is a black belt in two martial arts, and takes kickboxing. My husband grew up on the streets in Chicago, and he doesn’t want the kids to be soft,” she told us proudly.

Marty turned his attention back to the teenager. “So that’s why you went off by yourself?”

“Well, yeah, we thought we would cover more ground that way. We all tried calling her cell phone, but it went straight to voice mail. I didn’t realize it then, but she had left her pocketbook in the car. Her phone was in it.”

“And then what happened, Tiffany?” Marty prompted her.

“I’m not sure, I mean, I don’t know how long I was looking, but I smelled something weird, and then I saw something lying in the woods. I went closer to get a look. At first, I thought it was just a burning log, like from a campsite. When I saw what it was, I just started screaming. That’s when everyone else showed up.”

“Do you remember who showed up first? Was it Dylan?” I asked.

Tiffany
turned to face me. “I think so. Yeah, it was Dylan.”

“Was he alone?” I continued to question her.

“No, I think he was with Lisa, yes, because she started screaming and Dylan was holding her. I think she got sick. I can’t remember.”

“Who showed up next, Tiffany?” Marty asked her.

“Cameron and Katie came, they were running. I remember because she almost fell and Cameron caught her.” The memory made her laugh. I thought it was inappropriate, but it could have been her nerves.

I looked over at Mrs. Bennett. I couldn’t tell by the woman’s expression whether this was the first time she was hearing the story in detail. She was facing her daughter and looking at her adoringly. She seemed consumed by her daughter and the story she was telling.

“Then what did you do, Tiffany?” Marty pressed her to continue.

“We just stood there, not talking for a little while, and then we kind of ran back to Cameron’s place. He gave us some drinks and I think Dylan and Lisa got sick and started puking. That’s when we called 911.”

“Did you get sick, Tiffany? I mean, no one would blame you.” I tried sounding sympathetic.

“No, I didn’t throw up. I mean, I got a little queasy, but I didn’t get sick,” she answered with a look of pride.

“Were you sad that this happened to Jamie? Or are you happy this happened to her, Tiffany?” I knew I sounded smug.

Tiffany
was just about to answer when we were interrupted by the gruffness of a male voice.

“What’s going on here?” I recognized the man immediately. Tiffany’s father was a large man, with broad shoulders that looked like they were bursting out of the designer three-piece suit he was wearing. The man spent a lot of time in the gym when he wasn’t defending some low-life in a courtroom. I had met the man on several occasions, and I never had developed a fondness for him.

Mrs.
Bennett
stood up to greet her husband.

“Dustin, this is Detective Keal and Detective Whit…”

“Whitley,” Marty helped her out.

The man just stood there, staring at us both. His eyes were the color of cold steel.

“What’s going on? Why are you here?” he blurted out with an air of superiority.

Marty stood up. The man was large, but Marty had at least an inch on him.

“We came to clarify a few things in Tiffany’s statement, Mr. Bennett. We were just about to wrap…”

The man didn’t let him finish.

“You’re done now!” He turned to his wife, glaring at her. “You should know better.”

He turned to the housekeeper, who was now standing in the doorway with an armful of freshly pressed laundry.

“Maria, show our guests out,” Mr. Bennett directed her.

Marty spoke up.

“That’s okay, we know our way.” He turned to Mrs. Bennett. “Thank you.” He then turned his attention to Tiffany.

“Tiffany, if you remember anything else…” He handed her a business card while he kept his eyes targeted on hers. He broke into a half-smile, exposing one lone dimple.

I glanced over at Mrs. Bennett, who suddenly looked as pale as a ghost. She said nothing, she just grabbed the laundry from the housekeeper and disappeared up the stairs.

***

How cute
, I thought to myself. A matching pearl-white Lexus now sat in the driveway, apparently belonging to Mr. Bennett. Their vehicles probably cost more than my house.

“Pompus jerk!” I snarled as I got into the unmarked car.

The minute he entered the vehicle, Marty started hitting buttons on a small laptop. The department’s budget recently had allowed us to join the twenty-first century. I watched as he keyed in Mr. Bennett’s name.

“What are you looking for?” I asked him

“Domestic abuse complaints. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that Mrs. Bennett gets her tail kicked on a regular basis,” he answered as he scanned the screen, waiting for the page to download.

“I have a gut feeling that the lady’s spray tan is for more than just fashion.” He kept his eyes on the screen as he continued. “Looks like she was covering up some bruises on her legs.”

I was impressed with his observations. And I had thought he was just ogling her legs. I was so intent on watching Tiffany’s reactions that I totally dismissed the importance of her mother.

He looked disappointed as he shut down the page and put the laptop aside. “Nothing—no prior complaints, no arrests. Guy looks clean.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re wrong, Marty, a lot of women don’t report abuse, especially women in her income bracket. It’s an embarrassment to them, and the husband usually controls the finances. She could be too afraid to file a complaint. You don’t have the golden goose arrested and put in jail unless you have your own source of income.”

“Doesn’t seem right—a woman being afraid of her own husband. I just can’t grasp how a woman can stay in a relationship with a man she deplores, or worse yet, is afraid of.” He shook his head as if he was irritated and started the ignition.

“What’s next?” he asked. “Or should I ask, ‘who’?”

“Let’s go speak to Kimberly’s family,” I said. “I want to see if we can get a better time frame as to how she spent her last hours. Did the crime scene techs find her cell phone?” I asked as I looked through the Weston file that now sat on my lap.

I was disappointed to see that, although the phone had been found, it revealed nothing more than the almost 100 unanswered incoming calls from a panicked mother. The calls started slowly at first, and then became more and more frequent as the woman realized something was terribly wrong and that something bad may have happened to her daughter.

All other history had been deleted, due to the smart phone’s inability to hold that much data. We would have to subpoena the phone company for more detailed information if we wanted see who Kimberly had called or who called her prior to the time her family realized she was missing.

Although the days were getting longer as we got closer to the summer months, the sky was taking on an ominous color that made it feel like it was later in the evening than it was. I looked at my watch, it was barely six o’clock. It was obvious that another rainstorm was about to make another appearance. I was hoping we would reach the Weston’s home before the sky opened up. It didn’t happen.

We sat in front of the Weston home for five minutes while we waited for the rain to let up enough for us to get to their front door without looking like refugees from a water balloon fight. Lucky for me, Marty had a small umbrella that at least kept my hair from getting drenched. My pants cuffs and shoes got soaked as I maneuvered my way through a series of deep and muddy puddles.

Fortunately, Marty had the foresight to call the family and let them know we were coming, so as soon as I rang the bell, the door opened wide, letting us escape the now-cold rains.

Kimberly
’s younger brother, the boy I had met at the hospital, greeted us. He took the umbrella from my hands and placed it in an empty ceramic flowerpot that sat in the short foyer.

This home was so unlike the one we had just previously come from. The Bennett’s house was like a museum, pristine and meticulous, compared to the quaintness and disarray of this small brick colonial. From the mudroom, almost the entire first floor was visible.

Unlike Jamie Camp’s home, family photos were everywhere. Professional studio and amateur photos lined the walls, covering one wall completely. Children’s toys lay scattered everywhere. The young boy made a futile attempt to make a path for us to walk through.

“I apologize for the mess, detectives.” Kimberly’s dad walked into the room. “We just got back from Cornell and the weather has kept the kids indoor most of the day.”

“No apologies are needed, Mr. Weston.” I interrupted. “I completely understand.”

He cleared off a space on a well-worn green corduroy sofa and offered it us. He then took a spot on a worn-out chocolate vinyl-looking swivel rocker/lounge chair. He looked slightly embarrassed when he had to get up to remove a Cheese Doodle that was now sticking to the seat of his pants.

“Have you found out who did this? Have you found the man that killed my daughter?” His eyelids were drooping and he was unshaven. He looked like he had not had much sleep.

He was about to speak again when the doorbell rang. We overheard his son telling the neighbor that his mother was asleep and he would tell her about the visit when she awoke.

He walked back into the living room carrying a casserole dish.

“Ethan, can you put that in the refrigerator with the other ones?” his father asked. The young boy just nodded and walked past us, stepping over a pile of baby dolls and accessories. He disappeared into the kitchen.

“Ethan is taking this very hard. He was very close to his big sister. They’re just…” he hesitated, his thoughts drifting, and then continued. “They were just a few years apart, and…”

His voice began to crack. I knew from experience that I had a very small window of opportunity to ask him questions before emotions inhibited a grieving parent’s answers.

“I know this is a very difficult time for you, Mr. Weston, but if you can answer a few questions for us, perhaps we can find out who is responsible for your daughter’s murder. The more information we can obtain, and the quicker, the better chance we have of nailing this person. Will that be all right?” I asked.

“Yes, of course. Whatever I can do. I just don’t understand what kind of sick individual would do something like this.” His eyes drifted back to the wall that was covered with photographs.