Silent Witness (18 page)

She grinned. “Guilty as charged. Spill it, Jim. In your first dream, she came to you and asked for help without being able to speak.”

“That's why I didn't tell you about it in the first place,” he said, his tone grumpy. “In this second dream, I saw Susan appear out of a light mist or fog. She was wearing chains around her shoulders and upper arms. They were wrapped around her neck, too. She wore a flowing lavender gown. The chains were so tight around her throat I reckon she couldn't speak. All I could hear was her rasping and trying to say something. Then she raised her hands in front of her so I could look at them. I saw red marks on her right wrist, the same ones that
Jillson told us about yesterday morning.” He raised his brows and held Ellen's gaze. “That was it. I woke up.”

“Wow! That's synchronicity! You dreamed of those red marks before Jillson told us about them! That is really interesting.”

He held up one hand. “Calm down, gal, will you? I knew you'd be over the moon about this.”

“Those red marks on her wrist really do mean something, then. Oh, don't go giving me that look of yours. I know you think I'm not being rational.”

“Oh, you're rational,” he said, suppressing a smile. “But what does it mean? The dream didn't give me any answers. Just more questions.”

“Chains around her throat and upper body. What would that mean to you?”

“She's tied up or trapped in some situation?”

“And they were wrapped around her throat to stop her from talking.”

“Yeah, real tight.”

“Did the chains look old or new?”

“I didn't really notice.” Jim sat back and closed his eyes. After a few seconds, he opened them and said, “I think they were old and rusty. Maybe even antique looking.”

“Hmm, it could mean the chains were from some event earlier in her life. Rust could equate with the past. If the chains had a shiny metallic look that would suggest they were from the present, possibly, not from her childhood.”

“I'm more interested in that red mark I saw on her wrist. To hell with how old the chains were.”

Ignoring his sarcasm, Ellen said, “What was Susan's expression when she appeared in your dream?”

“Desperate. Her mouth was contorted—in fact, her whole face was. Sort of like
The Scream
by that painter in Norway? Everything about her seemed misshapen and pulled out of proportion.”

With a shake of her head, Ellen said, “Let me feel my way through this dream in a symbolic sense. Maybe something will jump out at me later.”

“All I got out of it was a bad night's sleep.”

July 11

E
LLEN LOOKED OVER AT
J
IM
. They had just finished interviewing Lieutenant Daily. It seemed to her that Giddings was in fast-forward today. More jets landed and took off than usual, causing the building to shake and growl continuously. She dusted off her hands and closed her laptop. “How about I take some time to go through Susan's effects in her office before they're taken down to storage?”

Cochrane looked up. “That stuff is going to be shipped to Robert Kane in a day or two. NCIS has been through her office and personal items. They didn't find spit. We looked yesterday between interview appointments and didn't find anything. What do you think you'll find today?”

“We got to half of the twelve boxes. I want to look through the last six. Besides, I reread the underlined passages in Susan's book
Don Quixote,
last night. I'm drawn to her as a person. She had so many facets,” Ellen said, picking up her knapsack. “I just feel we're
missing something, that's all. I want to do one last check.”

“Go for it. But I doubt you'll find anything, gal.” He frowned and typed the last of his notes on his laptop.

Grinning as she slung the pack across her right shoulder, Ellen said, “With my background in psychology, I'm fascinated by how each person involved sees Susan a little differently.”

“And somewhere among all their statements lies the truth?”

“Perhaps.” She stopped at the door, her fingers resting on the polished brass doorknob. “I'm intrigued by what Daily said about her just now.”

“Which part?” Cochrane closed the lid on his computer.

“About Susan's reaction to his children when she babysat for them. Daily saw her military mask slip at those times.”

“If you think her office is going to reflect the personal part of her, you're barking up the wrong tree. If anything, her office here at Giddings was the model of military expectation.”

“You're probably right. But those boxes contain her personal effects and I want to check them out more closely.”

Jim nodded. He dug in his pocket, producing a key to open the NCIS padlock, and gave it to Ellen. Glancing at his watch, he added, “I've got to pick Merry up from ballet class at 1730. I'll finish up here and call the
office for messages. Can you be ready to leave in about fifteen minutes?”

“You bet.” Ellen waved as she stepped through the doorway and hurried down the hall.

It was five minutes before the last class of the day ended at Giddings. Susan Kane's office was closed, with an official-looking sign posted at the door, which was secured with a large, sturdy lock. After quickly opening it, Ellen stepped inside. Twelve cardboard boxes sat in one corner of the room. In the center was a dark gray metal desk, once Susan's work center. Ellen placed the knapsack on the desk and sat down in the chair, which squealed loudly in protest. The American military industry could build some of the most technologically advanced fighter planes in the world, but they couldn't produce a chair that didn't squeak.

Her lips pulling into a smile, Ellen leaned forward and lifted the cardboard box marked seven of twelve. She opened the lid and peered inside. There was a small gray clock, plus a pen and pencil set with a marble base. Numerous items from the officer's desk drawers included stacks of colored index cards, a stapler and staples, plus a small gold bear on a key chain. Was this all that remained of a person's life? Who
was
the real Susan Kane? Ellen quickly riffled through the contents, asking herself that question over and over again. Susan was a woman who bought teddy bears for Becky Jillson's children. She volunteered her few free hours at the San Diego Zoo. And she doted on Daily's children, as well.

Taking the bear key ring out of the box, Ellen studied it. Had Susan used this key chain? Had someone given it to her as a gift, someone who knew she loved bears? After touching the electroplated figure with her fingertips, Ellen gently placed the key ring back in the box. She closed the lid and returned the carton to the floor.

In the eighth box, Ellen found a variety of certificates of accomplishment, duplicates of the originals Susan had hanging on the walls of her condo. Why had she killed herself? A woman like Susan could have made it much more easily out in the civilian world. Ellen found another copy of
Don Quixote
and quickly paged through the book. Some different passages were underlined, and that caught her immediate interest.

The first passage said: “She be honored and esteemed by all the good men of the world; for she shows in it, that it is only she alone that lives therein with honest intention.” The words rang strongly in Ellen's heart. Tears jammed into her eyes and she grimaced. “Thou art a bad Christian…for thou never forget test the injuries that are once done to thee: know that it is the duty of noble and generous minds not to make any account….” Did Susan see herself as a “bad Christian” here at Top Gun? Had something happened to make her feel that way about herself?

The final highlighted portion of text said, “…and I begin to suspect, by your words, that all that which you have said to me of chivalry, and of gaining kingdoms
and empires, of bestowing islands and other gifts and great things, as knights-errant are wont; are all matters of air and lies….”

Wiping away her tears, Ellen knew in her gut something awful had happened, either of Susan's, or of someone else's making. Something unspeakable. She quickly went through the other boxes, until only one was left: box twelve.

It contained some writing paper and, apart from
Don Quixote,
the only personal, nontechnical books Susan had kept at the office. Ellen ran her hand tentatively across the spines, then hefted one of the tomes to read the title. Settling into the box again, she noticed a tiny gray book barely visible between two others. The title,
The Little Red Bear,
was a child's book from all appearances.

“Oww!” The nail on her index finger snapped and broke, a piece of it flying onto the green-and-white-tile floor. “Darn,” Ellen muttered, looking at the ragged nail. She'd broken it down to the flesh and a small drop of blood oozed out. Sucking on the injured finger, Ellen reached with her other hand to try and ease the gray book from the box.

“Come on,” she muttered, struggling to get a firm hold. Whoever had packed this box had crammed it too tightly. NCIS personnel certainly wouldn't make good movers.
There!
Ellen held the gray book in the palm of her left hand. A smile touched her mouth.

“The Little Red Bear…”
Oddly, the book had been
recovered in a plain gray paper jacket. Ellen set the book in her lap to leaf through its pages. As she opened the front cover she saw printed in huge, shaky letters “SUSIE.” The last name was covered by the gray paper, so Ellen eased the book out of the cover to get a full view of the name. SUSIE KANE. The book was very old, obviously much read and loved.

The pages were dog-eared from age as well as use. Susan had probably pulled this book from the shelf and read it to Daily's children when they had visited Top Gun. Commander Daily told her that groups of school children would come to Top Gun and it was always Susan who took the awed students through the facility. Ellen's eyes teared up again as she realized that the remnants of Susan's life would be shipped to her father. Ellen could only guess what he would do with these boxes. He'd destroy them immediately, not wanting to be reminded of his badly behaved daughter who had brought only shame to the family's good name. Out of sight, out of mind.

As Ellen turned to pick up the book's gray covering, something caught her eye. She wondered why she hadn't seen it before, but she'd been entranced with discovering one of Susan's own books. The gray covering was much too large for such a small book, so it had been neatly reshaped, leaving a two-inch double fold on the inside front and back. The object that had caught Ellen's attention was tucked into the back.

It was a digital photo. Ellen put the book aside and
reached for the cover. The picture was taped to the jacket so it wouldn't accidentally fall out.

Devoting her attention to getting it loose, Ellen eased the tape from first one edge, then another. When all the adhesive was removed, she turned the photo over.

“Oh, my God!” Her heart slammed into her rib cage and fluttered wildly in her breast. Her fingers tightened on the print as she stared down at it in horror.

Ellen leaped out of the chair, tore around the desk and jerked the door open. Luckily, classes had let out for the day and very few aviators seemed to be left in the facility. She quickly locked the door, even though her knapsack was still inside. Ellen ran, winded, clutching the photo.

“Jim!” Her voice carried down the passageway as she turned the corner. “Jim! Wait!” He was just leaving the room where they'd done the interviewing.

He halted, a puzzled look on his face as she came racing up to him.

“What's wrong?”

Ellen gulped for breath. “Come back inside the office! You have to see this, Jim! You have to…”

“Ellen, I'll be late picking Merry up.”

“This can't wait!” Ellen grabbed him by the arm and dragged him back into the interviewing room. She shut the door firmly, resting her back against it. “Here, look at what I just found.” Breathing raggedly, she tried to catch her breath as she thrust the digital photo toward
him. “You aren't going to believe this. I'm not sure I do.”

Scowling, Cochrane set his heavy briefcase on the floor and took the photo. As he straightened, his eyes narrowed.

“Jesus H. Christ,” he exclaimed.

“It
is
her, isn't it?” Ellen whispered off-key. She saw Cochrane's brows draw down, his eyes become slits. “I thought I was seeing things, Jim. The picture was taped inside a book jacket—a book from her childhood. I—I didn't see the photo until I was going to put the cover back on the book.” With trembling fingers she pushed her hair from her brow.

She cautiously edged around Cochrane's shoulder and looked at the photo again. It was of Susan Kane, naked from the waist up, sprawled out on a king-size bed. A bedcover was pulled up to her hips.

“Oh, my God,” Ellen whispered, pressing her hand to her heart. “This is awful. Awful!”

Cochrane cursed and dropped the photo on the desk. “Dammit, we may have just destroyed any possible prints on this photo, Ellen.” Putting his hands on his hips, he leaned closer and inspected it. “But it's pretty shocking, isn't it?”

Ellen swallowed hard. “I don't want to believe it, Jim. I really don't. Yet there she is.”

“I'd give anything to know where this was taken.” With a shake of his head, he said, “Just goes to show you, you don't really know anyone, do you?”

Trying to steady her pounding heart, Ellen shook her head. “I find this unbelievable, totally unlike the Susan Kane we know.”

“We can't be naive. This type of stuff goes on all the time.”

She colored fiercely. “It's just that Susan didn't
seem
like the exhibitionist type.”

“Yeah. Miss Perfect. Goody Two-shoes.”

“Jim!”

He straightened and looked over at Ellen. “This photo is pretty damn graphic, wouldn't you say?”

“Yes—it is, but—” she stabbed her finger at it “—look at Susan's face.”

“Her eyes are barely open. She knows what she's doing.”

“Are you
sure?
”

Jim smiled a little. “Reckon you're awfully indignant about this, Ellen.”

“There
are
explanations other than the
obvious
one you seem to be endorsing.”

“Such as?”

Ellen felt heat crawling into her face. “I'm not pretending to be an investigator like you, Jim, but my question would be was Susan a willing or forced participant in this?”

“She looks dazed,” Jim admitted, studying the photo closer. “Probably been drinking too much.”

“According to everything we know about her, Susan didn't drink.”

“Maybe she's high on drugs.”

“Jim, you're a pain in the ass sometimes!”

“So humor me. Who took this photo, then?”

“I don't know.”

“And why did they take it?” Jim scratched his head. “And how long ago? And why was it taped inside a book jacket?”

Ellen sat down, resting her arms near the photo and studying it. “Wait, look at this.”

Jim leaned forward. “What?”

“The bedspread! Don't you recognize the pattern of it?”

“No,” he said, “of course I don't.”

Ellen made an exasperated sound. “That's the bedspread design at the Barstow Hotel in Reno, where the Ares Conference took place. The brochure we have from the hotel shows a color photo of one of their rooms, and
this
is the bedspread on the bed.”