Mary: Following The Money

October 28th, 2008: One last post before I go to bed. It's late, and I want to be up early tomorrow to get the coroner's report of Josh's autopsy. I couldn't get anything else out of the Sheriff today; I'm afraid my display at the murder scene has had the unfortunate effect of causing them to keep me at arms length for what they perceive is my own sake. I won't be taking no for an answer tomorrow.

I couldn't mention it until I had some proof, but even back in Milwaukee I was investigating the financial doings of the family Howland. A client never cares for it when they themselves become the object of scrutiny, but sometimes it can't be helped. In this situation, the fact that the Howlands were wealthy and were the victims of what was probably a specific, targeted attack was too prominent to ignore. It was simply impossible for me to believe that the crash was totally random, yet happened to hit two of Milwaukee's richest individuals. There had to be a connection, and it was probably related to money. When we discovered that Yoshida was murdered in the same fashion, I was determined to delve as deeply as I could into his finances to see if I could find a connection.

I still have no idea what the money was used for or why Mr. Howland wrote the check, but hopefully when I've had the chance to go over the files in more detail we'll know more. In the meantime, at your leisure you may want to pore over Mr. Howland's receipts further to see if there are any other familiar names or unusual expenditures.

Good night, and with luck we'll have a great deal more to go on in the morning from the Sheriff's Department.

Mary: The Long Journey

I wondered once whether I should be writing these in past or present tense, and found myself leaning toward the past. I have to write this post in the past tense. There needs to be the illusionary distance of time between what is now, and what was then. If I don't feel that distance, I'll never be able to finish writing this.

After a flight in which I forced myself to sleep, or at least doze off for an hour or so, I touched down at Stubbins Airport, which was really just a strip of tarmac next to the "terminal", a squat, rust-colored, brick building that was surprisingly clean and fresh-smelling. I was prepared to fight my way through loose livestock being herded between the bench seating when I arrived, and I found the fact that someone cared enough about this little strip in the middle of nowhere to take good care of it to be a bit humbling. I vowed to myself that I would do my best not to pre-judge anything else down here if I could help it.

I complimented the plump, overly made-up, middle-aged woman behind the rental counter on the condition of the airport and she gave a proud nod. "My husband, Arthur," she said in a thick drawl. "He likes it to sparkle. When, on rare occasion we get someone flying in from up North ways, they always look around like they can't believe there aren't pigs lying in the middle of the concourse."

I'm sure I blushed, feeling guilty and exposed for having been called out so expertly. To change the subject I asked, "I'm going to Hollis Crossroads-"

"Tsk. Yes, Ma'am. Darn shame." She shook her head sadly.

Staring at her confused, I asked, "Shame about what?"

She gaped at me, stunned that I didn't know what was happening in Hollis Crossroads despite the fact that I had just touched down literally right in front of her. "Why, about the fire. And the bodies."

My breath caught in my throat, my voice coming out as a whisper. "What bodies?"

"That old house-the old Hollis house burned right to the ground, and half the gosh-darned-pardon my French-forest right with it. It was all dried-up and rotted, and we hadn't had rain in so long... if I had to say, it has not rained in these parts for upwards of one entire month." She paused for a quick breath, then, "The last time it had gone that long without a rain-and I am not talking about a quick sprinkle or a drizzle, but an honest to goodness decent rain had to have been, oh, I want to say nineteen eighty-nine or so, and I told Billy-Ray at the fire station when he came by for the last inspection that if it didn't rain hard soon that there'd be-"

"Where?" I interrupted, my voice coming out as a hollow croak.

Once in my rental car- which was, again, surprisingly clean and fresh-smelling- I raced to the address she had given me despite her hurt feelings at being cut off from her story so abruptly. The town of Hollis Crossroads looked old but somehow stately, the paint peeling from rotting facades that I imagined once had a certain charm. I couldn't tell much more about the place as I shot through it at about seventy miles per hour, blowing right through the one and only stop sign without so much as a glance in either direction.

Heading south out of town the smell of smoke began to filter in through the heating vents. It was surprisingly cold, only 45 degrees, and I was glad that I hadn't changed out of my winter clothes, the remnants of Wisconsin that I didn't think I was going to need. As I drove around the winding, country roads, the smell of smoke began to be overpowering, permeating the car. It had a sweet, nostalgic scent that at first was quite pleasant but after a while became cloying and oppressive. At least, I thought, as long as the smell keeps getting stronger I know I'm going in the right direction.

The road turned from asphalt to gravel, and from gravel to dirt, the trees and brush on either side growing more and more wild as I drove, seeming to crowd the car. I imagined Josh driving down this same road at night, his headlights dancing wildly over the dark branches and brown leaves as his tires fell into one pothole after another.

As I was trying to shake these troubling images, I rounded a corner and found the old Hollis house, or what was left of it. It was still smoldering, with only a few charred timbers and the chimney left standing. Behind the house was a wood that was still partially on fire, and firemen sprayed down the edges of it to keep it from spreading. There were four fire trucks, an ambulance, two police cars, three Sheriffs cars, a hearse and a burned-out sedan that looked like it had exploded.

I pulled up and off to the side, and a Sheriff's Deputy strolled up with his hand raised, a gesture meaning both "hello" and "go no further". I parked and got out of the car, my Private Investigator badge in hand. I had no illusions about it carrying any weight here, but one never knew.

"Howdy," the Deputy said, attempting a little smile that only came off as glum. He was young, perhaps in his late 20's, blond and thin. His cheek was smudged with charcoal. I showed him my badge and he had the good manners to pretend to look impressed. He ushered me over to the Sheriff, a chubby, worried man with kind eyes in his late 40's, his mustache in need of a trim.

"Sheriff, I work for Mrs. Cynthia Howland of Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Her son Josh was down here looking into some family business. Have you seen him? Josh Howland?" I tried to keep my hands at my sides and look as professional as possible, but my voice quavered at the last minute, betraying me.

The Sheriff nodded to me politely. "Ma'am." He scratched his neck absently and-as if he hadn't heard a word I just spoke- said, "Problem is, we ain't had no rain in a spell. That's the dang problem. But we just about got the fire controlled now, I'd say." Only pausing a moment, he continued, "Four bodies, three burned beyond recognition. Bad... bad." He shook his head and spat. "One murder for sure, the others... it's just damn hard to say exactly what. The two in the house, they were together, lying on a bed, husband and wife, though we didn't find no rings. They must have slept through the fire.

"Then there was the third one... he got himself killed inside the house and got... dragged out into the front yard. Body and murder weapon escaped the fire. The weapon was... in the body, so we should get plenty off it." He cleared his throat and spat again. "Damn, damn dirty business. We know who that fella is at least, by his I.D. Antrelle Harris, licensed bodyguard- we already called his company. They got some folks driving out now. You know, they take care of that Jay-Z fella when he comes to Atlanta? He dates that girl Beyonce." The Sheriff attempted a little smile, gave up quickly and spat again.

I put my hand on his forearm, my professional veneer finally cracking. "Sheriff, please. Josh. Please."

He looked at the ground solemnly, then nodded and said, "The car. The plates came back as rental, his car." He pointed to the scorched husk of shattered metal in the driveway. "He was... we'll need to run an autopsy, there wasn't much left. Body was inside, driver's seat." Seeing the tear that made its way down my face, he put his arm around me and murmured, "I'm sorry, darlin'. I am so, so sorry. He was special to you." It didn't come out as a question.

From far away I heard my voice say, "I guess he was. More than I thought." The Sheriff handed me a tissue and guided me over to his car, sitting me in the backseat with the door open. I had always made it a point to never cry while I worked, especially not around law enforcement, but right then I just didn't care. "This doesn't even feel like a job anymore." I hadn't meant to say it out loud.

I don't know how long I sat there, my eyes unfocused and watery. I heard the sounds of the firemen finishing up with the house and rolling up their hoses. I listened as the police wrestled with the corpses, loading them up for transport to the Medical Examiner. I sat and sat as one by one the fire trucks and police cars lumbered back up the dirt road heading for Hollis Crossroads.

A voice spoke, and after a while I listened to it. It was the blond Deputy. "Ma'am? Ma'am, you want to ride back with me? We could come back for your car later, if you like. Perhaps it would be best."

"I'll drive," I muttered. "I'm going to drive. I have to send a message. I have to tell his-" I started tearing up again, my voice catching, so I simply turned away, got in my car and drove. Somehow I found a motel in town (Don's Motel, Carlton Street) and staggered into my room.


Mrs. Howland, I am so, so very sorry. I will never forgive myself for not coming down here instead of him. Oh, God, I am just so sorry.

Mary: Autopsy, Part II

I'm back at the Howland residence now with a thick, down comforter pulled up and a large mug of lemon tea steeping on the nightstand next to me. The rain still has not let up, and I can hear the wind whipping what's left of the leaves on the trees outside. I've been poring over photocopied notes from the autopsy, and while it hasn't made for the most comforting bedtime reading, there are a few more details I feel should be committed to the journal.

(Should I be writing these in present or past tense? Josh seems to do more present, but I lean toward the past for whatever reason. I'll just have to do what's appropriate at the time, I suppose.)

First, a few words about Mrs. Howland's home, while I think of it. The walls and staircases are dominated by dark mahogany, giving the home a stately yet warm feeling that I imagine will be even more welcome once winter fully arrives. When I asked, Jeff informed me that the artwork is dominated by early nineteenth century paintings, including a picture of a beautiful girl sitting in the mountains ("The Spanish Girl In Reverie", again, obviously according to Jeff), a huge war scene ("Battle of Grochow") and "Caligula's Palace And Bridge", which wasn't nearly as shocking or perverse as you might think, based on the title. I was going to ask whether they were the originals or reproductions, but I had already exceeded my allotment of educational inadequacy for the day.

Interspersed with the more classical artwork are framed prints of what appears to be comic-book art. Jeff tells me that they are originally from French and Spanish graphic novels, and that they belonged to the late Mr. Howland. You would think that they would look horribly out of place, given the rest of the decor, but they actually help to give the house a more modern, lived-in look.

As you may imagine, everything is absolutely spotless and impeccably well-kept, and even with my newly purchased suit, every time I walk around the house I feel like a member of a museum tour who has hurdled the velvet ropes and invaded places not meant to be disturbed.

Now, the autopsy report. I'm not sure if my previous description of the murder scene adequately depicted the state of poor Mrs. Walentowicz's corpse. Again, she was lying on her back on the kitchen table, her abdomen cut open vertically and her head sticking out of her belly (as Josh later delicately remarked, "It was like a 'Whack-A-Mole' game from Hell.").

The question was, how did the killer manipulate the head into this position? Even in something as clinical and professional as medical notes, the coroner's bafflement is evident. As far as he could tell, the killer first made the incision in the belly, reached down and through the internal organs, shoving them aside, and literally pulled her head straight down into the neck and through the chest cavity from the inside. The skin by the shoulders is torn; there are no signs of incisions other than the one in her midriff.

The good news is, because the killer physically manipulated the muscles, there are finger indentations embedded in the soft tissue that would seem to indicate that the perpetrator is a male. We were leaning that direction anyway, but it's good to know.

The bad news is that the murder is impossible. The coroner is in frank disbelief that anyone could reach down and manipulate the body in this fashion by hand. Also, early toxicology screens are negative, so how he got her to smile during this process is yet another disturbing mystery.

The other noteworthy item from the report is (obviously) the rabbit's foot lodged in Mrs. Walentowicz's brain. Again, the coroner could find no evidence of the use of tools; it simply appears that the foot was pushed claw-first up through the back of the throat and then straight up into the hippocampus. The tissue is soft in that area, so the coroner at least does find it conceivable that this was performed by hand.

The rabbit's foot itself isn't the kind we typically associate with the term, i.e., some cheap little charm (at right) won from some coin-operated game, but instead it was freshly-cut from a rabbit, the incision probably made with the same sharp-edged blade that was used on Mrs. Walentowicz. Furthermore, in addition to the human blood found at the scene, they also found rabbit's blood, leading them to believe that the killer entered the house with a live rabbit and amputated its foot right there in the kitchen.

It just gets odder and odder. I'm going to pray for good dreams tonight, but I'm doubtful they'll come.

Mary: Autopsy

The rain intensified as I drove down I-94 West to Mayfair Mall, my rental car's wiper blades whipping back and forth at high speed, clearing the droplets out of my sight almost before I registered they were there. I'm sure it's never a good sign in your life when your rental car is far, far superior to the car you own. Living in a gorgeous mansion by the lake, driving a Lexus, eating waffles every morning with Jeff and Cynthia and trying (and failing) to keep up with them as they discuss philosophy, psychology and history has been an incredible experience, but it isn't truly real to me. While living this life-at least for a short time-is making me feel totally out of my depth, it is still growing more comfortable by the hour. I have to steel myself for the inevitable return to my home in Madison, and the dirty dishes, unpaid bills and piles of laundry that are my reality.

Mrs. Howland insisted that I purchase some new business suits and charge them to her as expenses. The clear statement here is that she found all of the clothes I wear to be lacking, and I have never been so simultaneously humiliated and thrilled at the same time. Once at the mall I took my time to make sure that the money would be spent wisely, and that I was purchasing ensembles that not only would meet Mrs. Howland's approval but that also expressed what I enjoy. Four hours later (a bit longer than I had anticipated) I left the mall with my new suits, a Cinnabon and an embarrassingly bloated expense ledger.

Upon exiting the Mayfair Mall parking lot it was well after seven in the evening, and though it was a long shot that I would receive any information of value from Detective Ward about the case at this time of night, my sense of duty (or, more to the point, guilt about the bill for the clothes) impelled me to drive down to the St. Francis police department and at least try. I am pleased to say that my journey was certainly not in vain.

After shaking off my umbrella in the foyer, I entered the station and almost literally bumped into Detective Ward, who was on his way out. He looked even more gaunt and haggard than he had that morning, but he worked up enough energy to give me a polite smile. "Miss Stroud. I was just knocking off, but come back to my office, I've got something you are absolutely going to want to see."

Once ensconced in his small cubicle, Ward opened his lower desk drawer and pulled a Manila file folder out, laying it gently on his desk. He stared at it for a long moment, then looked up at me. "Off the record and unofficially, Randazzo is an utter f*ck-up. I never believed for a moment that what happened to your client was a simple hit-and-run. The traffic pattern, the rate of speed, the fact that he had to make a pretty tricky swerve past some parked cars to hit her car at all... everything added up to intent, at least as far as I was concerned, but it wasn't my case." He spared a glance back down at the folder sitting on his desk, his fingers tapping gently on the cover. "Your client made a phone call today, and apparently she can be damn persuasive. Randazzo is off, I'm on. I'm treating today's murder and the attack on your client as a single investigation." Ward smiled disarmingly then, his grin hinting at the handsome man he would have been twenty years before. "There are a lot of cops that wouldn't be too thrilled about a private investigator running alongside their case, but I'm fine with it. We've got plenty to do as it is, and if there's a victim out there who's willing to funnel resources into a case, I'm going to use them, not fight them. Just keep what I tell you out of the press and tell me what you know when you know it, that's all I ask."

This was about the best news we could have received. With Ward now running the investigation, we had a competent, sympathetic police liaison. As his fingers absently rapped on the folder, he continued, his voice softening to a whisper. At this time of the night there was only one other officer in the station working the front desk, but I instinctively leaned closer conspiratorially.

"I thought the scene of the murder was the weirdest and worst-I mean... they're still working out how the hell the murderer got a goddamn smile on her face. They're thinking he drugged her with something that would produce the effect, but we're waiting on toxicology." Detective Ward shrugged helplessly, then sighed and deliberately flipped open the file folder, sliding it over the desk to me.

Without waiting for me to read it, he said, "They didn't find it at the scene, but as soon as they began the autopsy proper they couldn't miss it. Something had been... they're not sure, probably pushed in somehow-into her brain. Coroner says he thinks the killer went up through the back of the throat and into the skull, though he doesn't know how it was done without major drilling, and they can't find any sign of that."

I looked up from the file. "There are so many questions I have regarding how the body was manipulated, actually. How did he pull the head down through the body cavity-"

He put up a hand. "You've got the same questions the experts do, and there's no answer in sight, at least not yet. I like to think we're a pretty capable bunch, but as of now I'd be shocked if the F.B.I. didn't step in on this one. There's just so much unanswered, and this last find... in her brain... it's just so far over the top." Ward slumped back in his chair, gesturing for me to read the coroner's preliminary report. As he had said, a foreign object had been found lodged next to Mrs. Walentowicz's hippocampus. The coroner was waiting for further tests to be conducted, but he was almost entirely certain as to the object's nature: it was a rabbit's foot.