Her Final Confession

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Joel Wilkins’s hands and feet had been tied with what looked like climbing rope. He was bare-chested and only wearing cutoff sweatpants. He lay on his side, his curly blond hair matted with blood. A pool of red fluid congealed on the hardwood beneath his battered skull. His eyes were half-closed, as though he had just started to doze off.

“Jesus,” Noah said.

Josie squatted and took a closer look at him, noting the thick silver wedding band around his finger. She stood and studied the room once more, gaze falling on a small glittering crystal bowl, no larger than the palm of a hand, on the opposite nightstand. In it rested a diamond ring. It was a princess cut, Josie recognized, its band laden with tiny diamonds. Next to it was a smaller ring, a band with a half dozen small diamonds. Margie Wilkins’s engagement ring and wedding band. On the large dresser opposite the bed was a black wallet. Josie didn’t want to touch it before the scene had been photographed, but a cursory glance showed some bills peeking from the top of it.

“He didn’t take anything,” she said. “The killer. This wasn’t a robbery.” She moved to Margie’s side of the bed and pointed to the rings. “This engagement ring alone is worth thousands.”

Noah nodded. “Just from a quick walk-through, it doesn’t look like anything was taken from any of the other rooms either.”

Josie went back to the doorway. “Let’s see if we can figure out how the killer got in.”

Across the hall was the bathroom. The window was small. Too small for a grown man to fit through. The room looked undisturbed except for two cell phones that rested in the bottom of the toilet. “Noah,” she called.

He came into the bathroom and stared at the toilet bowl. “So this guy breaks in, tosses their cell phones in the toilet so they can’t call for help, ties the husband up, beats him to death, and then assaults and murders the wife.”

It had grown hot in the house. Beads of sweat formed on Josie’s brow. She moved out of the tiny room back toward the hallway and wall of happy photos. “Something like that,” she said. Walking back to the front of the house, she went into the kitchen. It was large, with faux stone tiles and, at its center, a big island table with tall stools surrounding it. It was clean and neat. On the kitchen counter, chrome appliances gleamed. Two phone chargers poked from an outlet above the counter, their cords dangling like loose threads. “They must charge their phones in here at night,” Josie said.

Noah said, “The killer must have grabbed them up on his way through here.”

“Everything else looks undisturbed,” Josie replied.

Plates, glasses, flatware, and two stainless-steel travel mugs—one that said Mr. and one that said Mrs.—dried in the dish rack. The sink was empty. A brown plastic travel mug with the words Wawa Coffee beneath the creamy outline of a flying goose sat next to the coffee maker. Josie used a gloved hand to lift its lid and peek inside. It was clean and dry. They’d obviously tidied up before they went to bed—or at least after they’d finished dinner—and then readied things for the morning. They had cleaned up, packed most of their things, and charged their phones, ready to go on a cruise. They’d probably been excited. Maybe they’d made love, or maybe they’d been too exhausted from preparing for a long trip and simply fallen into bed. No one would ever know. Sometime during the night, someone had come into their home and taken them from the world, destroying the love and light that filled up every inch of their cozy little home. A wave of sadness fell over Josie. She loved her job, but she hated this part of it. She thought of Gretchen’s characteristic stoicism at scenes like these. Philadelphia often had more homicides in a year than some countries. How many scenes like this had Gretchen seen there? Josie knew she was inured to the aftermath of murder. What had it been about the Shore/Cole slaying that penetrated her walls?

Noah’s voice drew her gaze from the mug beside the coffee maker. “Over here,” he called. He stood a few feet away near one of the kitchen windows. As Josie drew closer, she saw it was open and screenless. Without touching the frame, Noah poked his head outside. “He got in here.”

Josie waited for him to move out of her way, and then she did the same. On the grass outside beneath the window lay the screen. On the outer sill of the window were pry marks. Her eyes were drawn to the grass toward the back of the house where a long, thin, black object lay. “What’s that?” she asked, even though she knew Noah couldn’t see it any better than she could.

The two of them went outside, where Hummel’s team was photographing the outside of the house. Josie and Noah rounded the side of the house, walking slowly, eyes sweeping the ground for anything unusual as they made their way toward the object.

“A crowbar,” Noah said.

Josie knelt and looked at it. Short blond hairs, bits of bone and flesh stuck to the flat end of it. “Well, we found our murder weapon. Make sure the team marks it.” She stood up. “I’ve seen enough for now. Let’s get out of the way. Let the ERT do their job. Photos. Print the house. Bag this stuff. The whole nine yards. We can canvass the neighbors. See if anyone saw or heard anything. You get the husband’s sister’s number and give her a call. See what you can find out about this couple.”