The Blue Journal (9 page)

CHAPTER 9

Stanley Knoebel was a renowned vascular surgeon with a successful practice in New York City. A talented professional, he enjoyed the stature society accords those who trade, quite literally, in the business of life and death.

Charm, however, was not one of his skills.

Knoebel had a reputation for condescension and coldness that was unusual, even for a surgeon. He was arrogant toward subordinates and colleagues alike, and his social interactions were not much different.

Born in Romania, he spent his early years in strict parochial schools that left him with a stiff bearing, and his heavy accent only added to that haughty persona. He valued intelligence and serious debate, despising banal chatter and cocktail party conviviality. As a consequence, he had many valued colleagues but very few friends.

Knoebel had no difficulty accepting that he was not a popular man. He was actually proud of his values, having long ago realized it was not easy to play God without offending someone.

On Thursday morning, the day following the discovery of his wife's body, Dr. Knoebel telephoned Darien Police Chief Henry Gill. Foregoing any sort of social preamble, he demanded to know when his wife's body would be released.

Gill informed him that the coroner had not finished his examination.

“As we discussed last evening, Chief Gill, it is evident that Elizabeth died of a gunshot wound, is it not? Any general practitioner could see that.” His English was excellent, but those unmistakable inflections of Eastern Europe fortified his peremptory style.

Chief Gill mustered all the compassion he could, compassion not being his long suit. “I understand, Doctor Knoebel. Unfortunately, in a case like this we're required to follow our procedures and conduct a thorough autopsy.”

“All right,” the doctor responded with undisguised exasperation. “When do you expect these procedures to be completed?”

“Hopefully in the next day or two. We need to verify the time of death and finalize some other forensic tests.” Gill glanced at Anthony Walker, who was standing in the doorway of his office, listening to the chief's half of the telephone conversation. “Detective Walker will be in touch with you so you can make the appropriate arrangements.”

“I have
already
made the appropriate arrangements,” Dr. Knoebel insisted. “My wife's will makes it clear she wished to be cremated. This is upsetting enough to my daughter without prolonging her suffering with bureaucratic delays.”

“I apologize, but we do have certain rules.”

“Rules,” Dr. Knoebel said derisively.

“Detective Walker will also need to conduct an interview of you, Doctor. Perhaps we can set some time that would be convenient for you.”

“Frankly, there is no convenient time.”

“All right,” the chief said, looking up at Walker as if he might offer some help. “How about the least inconvenient time, then?”

There was silence. “My house,” Knoebel said. “Eight o'clock tonight.”

“Your house at eight,” Gill agreed without asking Walker how he felt about it. “That'll be fine.”

“My daughter has returned from boarding school. She will be at home. I trust your Detective Walker will exercise some discretion. Obviously we will have this discussion privately.”

“Of course. I'll pass that on.”

“If you learn anything else before we meet, please call and leave word with my receptionist.”

“All right,” Gill answered, but the line had already gone dead.

Walker waited for Gill to put the phone down, then said, “Seems he's all teary-eyed over this thing.”

“Spare me the sarcasm,” Gill snapped. “Knoebel is a respected member of this community, and we have his wife on the coroner's slab with a bullet in her head. We owe him some answers.”

“He owes us some answers too, don't you think?”

“Easy Walker.” Gill, who spent more effort in maintaining his relationships with the local gentry than actually preventing or solving crimes, was not the sort of superior officer Walker was ever going to warm to. He had simply reconciled himself to the fact that Gill came with the job.

“I'm happy to take it easy, Chief. It's Doctor Knoebel who seems in a hurry to claim the body.”

“Wouldn't you be?”

“Maybe, but they tell me cremation is forever. I wonder what the rush is.”

The chief let that go. “Make sure Jake does a thorough job on this,” he said.

“Of course. Meanwhile, if Knoebel can get one of his doctor friends to sign a death certificate saying she died of natural causes, we can release the body today.”

Gill frowned. “Look, Walker, this is a town where people don't lock their doors, where they leave their cars in the driveway with the keys on the seat, where this sort of thing just doesn't happen. Now my friends' wives are calling, asking if they should be worried, if this was a random act or if we might have a serial killer on our hands.”

“People watch too much television.”

“Maybe so, but I work for those people.” He treated Walker to his sternest look. “And by the way, so do you. Go do what you have to, but be sure you don't step on any toes along the way.”

“I'll dance around like Fred Astaire.”

The chief shook his head. “Local reporters are all over, but I can deal with them. Problem is, we're already getting calls from the New York stations. I want this wrapped up, and I want it done pronto.”

“Yes sir.”

“What'd the psychologist have to say?”

Walker recounted his conversation with Dr. Conway earlier that morning. “Not much help so far.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I told her we could get a court order, force her to cooperate.”

“Not yet,” the chief said quickly.

Walker had guessed what Gill would say about that—he was just a bit surprised the reaction came so quickly. “All the same, we need to apply some pressure, right?”

“Maybe so, but we don't want to turn this into any more of a media circus than it has to be.” He shook his head. “All I need is a local therapist giving up her patients' secrets. God, we'll all be on
Entertainment Tonight
before you know it.”

“I also reminded Doctor Conway that the murderer might figure she was the one person Mrs. Knoebel would have confided in, the one person who could help us solve this case.”

“You believe that?”

“I do. And I'll tell you something else, I think Doctor Conway believes it. I think she realizes the danger.”

Gill groaned like someone had just hit him in the solar plexus. “Wonderful.”

Walker waited.

“That's it,” the chief finally said, dismissing Walker with a wave of his hand.

Walker returned to the room he shared with the two other detectives on the force. Officer Kovacevic was waiting for him.

“You don't look happy, sir, if you don't mind me saying so.”

“Gill's in one of his moods, that's all. What've you got?”

“We received preliminaries from Jake, the work from forensics, and the narratives on the area sweep.” He was holding the various reports.

“Anything helpful?”

“Afraid not. How'd it go with the psychologist?”

“Doctor Conway? It was interesting.” Walker dropped himself into the old padded swivel chair behind his metal desk and took the papers Kovacevic held out for him. “As expected, she hid behind confidential privilege. I showed her the photos. Bet it was the first time she ever looked at a gunshot victim. For a second I thought she was going to toss her breakfast on my shoes.” Walker realized the younger officer was still standing. “Take a load off, Kovie.”

Walker leaned back and stretched his legs across the corner of the desk. He went through the report from the coroner's office. No surprises.

Elizabeth Knoebel died of a single gunshot wound to her right temple. The shot was fired from a .38 caliber revolver at close range, causing extensive internal damage. Death was virtually instantaneous.

Based on the extent of rigor mortis when the body was first examined, and the undigested food substances in her stomach, they put the time of death at about four o'clock Tuesday afternoon. There was no evidence of any narcotics in her system. There was minimal alcohol ingestion, less than two glasses of wine. There was no sign of recent sexual penetration, before or after death.

Walker tossed the report on his desk and picked up the lab results. No unidentified fingerprints. The only matches were for the Knoebels and Nettie Sisson. No helpful DNA findings, not so much as a shred of skin under the victim's nails. Walker nodded to himself. Elizabeth Knoebel knew her murderer. Someone who just strolled in, got close, pulled the trigger, then walked out. He put those papers down and went to the statements from the officers who had canvassed the area.

As expected, most neighbors were not at home in the afternoon. Of the few that were, none heard anything like a gunshot. Kovacevic's observations had been correct. These were large houses, well built, well insulated, and separated by generous stretches of land. Added to that was Walker's suspicion that anyone who might have heard anything resembling a shot would be inclined to deny it anyway. Why get yourself in the middle of something so messy if all you could report was that you heard a sound an acre away that might have been nothing more than a car backfiring?

There was one neighbor who did have something to say. Mrs. Fitzmorris, who lived just down the road from the Knoebels, spoke with Kovacevic. She said that she returned home from grocery shopping on Tuesday afternoon around five. When she went back outside to pick up her mail she noticed a gray sedan go by—she thought it was a Mercedes or a BMW or something else foreign. Whatever it was, it was speeding away from the Knoebels' driveway. It struck her as odd at the time, a car moving so fast on their quiet back road. Must have been a BMW, she said, because you know how fast they drive, those people with BMWs. She did not get a look at the driver, but she was sure of the time. And no, she didn't recall hearing anything that sounded like a gunshot.

Walker dropped the report on his desk and leaned back, staring up at the ceiling.

The chief's comments about the fears in town had actually struck a chord with him. Walker knew from experience that any time a murder is committed there's a chance the killer will strike again. Serial murderers are rare, despite their frequent appearance in popular fiction, but murderers are capable of killing again for reasons other than sheer psychosis. Sometimes they haven't finished the job they started. Or they use a second victim to misdirect the first investigation. Or they need to take someone out to cover their tracks—a co-conspirator, perhaps—or someone who stumbles on incriminating evidence—or someone who just knows too much.

Which brought Walker back to Dr. Randi Conway.

“Sir,” Kovacevic interrupted his musings, pointing to the reports. “What do you think?”

Walker slid his boots off the desk and sat up. “Let's check with Jake again about the time of death. His estimate is more than an hour before Mrs. Fitzmorris told you she spotted the car zooming out of the Knoebel driveway. I'd like to see if we can tighten that gap. Then you and I will pay another visit to see how sure Mrs. Fitzmorris is on
her
timing—maybe get a better read on identifying that car.”

Walker had another look at the photographs. Elizabeth Knoebel was certainly attractive, even in death, that much was apparent.

“Not a very friendly woman,” Kovacevic volunteered as he watched Walker study the pictures. “At least that was the word I got from the neighbors I spoke with.”

Walker nodded for him to go on.

“Not the country club type, no junior league stuff. Not well liked, let's put it that way.”

“There was certainly someone who didn't like her.”

“Doctor Knoebel isn't going to win any popularity contests either, although it seems he's home a lot less than his wife. They say he's a big deal surgeon in New York. Keeps to himself. Apparently left the missus alone on a regular basis.”

Walker pulled out a cigarette and stuck it between his lips. Bad habits from his days in New York died hard, even though he couldn't light up in the office. “You know, Kovie, gossip has a bad reputation, but in this business it can be more helpful than an eyewitness account.”

“Yes sir,” Kovacevic said, having heard that one before from Walker. “So what's next?”

“When we visit Mrs. Fitzmorris again let's bring some pictures of several different late-model foreign cars. Get some brochures of BMWs, Jaguars, Mercedes, Audis, whatever. Maybe we'll get lucky.”

“I'll pull it together.”

“Jake is a competent guy. If he says the time of death was around four, that's at least an hour earlier than her sighting of that sedan.” Walker shook his head. “If it wasn't the murderer Mrs. Fitzmorris saw, maybe it was someone else entirely. Maybe someone got there after Elizabeth Knoebel was dead, saw the body, and took off. Or maybe the murderer came back, maybe he forgot something.”

“Like what?”

“That's what we have to figure out once we nail down the timing. How are we doing with that computer?”

“Teddy is working on it.”

“Where are we on the warrant?”

“We'll have it today.”

“Good. Who knows, maybe we'll find something there to help us.”

CHAPTER 10

A short time later, Walker was still in his office when he received word from the front desk that Teddy Blasko had arrived to see him. Blasko was the outside consultant the department used for all things computer.

“Have Kovie bring him up,” Walker told the receptionist.

Kovacevic accompanied Blasko to the detectives' office, where he greeted Walker and then promptly set Elizabeth Knoebel's laptop on the desk and powered it up.