Silenced

CHAPTER TEN

Nicole’s last known address was only six blocks from where she’d been murdered.

The neighborhood was what Lucy would classify as a slum. One of the worst in DC, heavily segregated. While most neighborhoods were mixed, this one was one hundred percent black. Lucy definitely stood out, and not in a good way.

It seemed areas like this were worse in the summer, when the humidity made the overflowing Dumpsters smell ten times worse; when the heat shimmered off the sidewalks and streets; when the people slumped shirtless in any shade they could find from the sweltering sun.

Maybe because of the heat, no one bothered them as they walked from Genie’s unmarked but obvious police sedan to the doorway of a four-story apartment building that dominated the short block. The window AC units made the entire building groan.

Genie buzzed the manager first, but the buzzer was broken and there was meager security on the main door. Genie opened it with a shove and they knocked on the first door, 1A, with

AN G R

in broken letters underneath. “Hope that’s not foreshadowing his mood,” Lucy said, gesturing toward the door. Behind the door a television roared with canned laughter.

“I really hate this neighborhood,” Genie muttered. “I pull a case here at least twice a week.”

The manager was a rotund black woman in her sixties. She was dressed in a blinding bright pink muumuu with green flowers.

“What do the cops want with who today?” she asked.

Genie showed the manager Nicole’s driver’s license photo. “Nicole Bellows, four-B.”

“Don’t live here.”

She started to close the door.

“But she used to,” Genie said.

The woman stepped heavily into the hall and shut the door behind her, though Lucy could still hear the laugh track of a mindless sitcom. “Let’s see her.”

Genie showed the manager the photo. The woman put on her glasses and stared. “She’s one of the hookers. Moved out back before Thanksgiving. Found herself a sugar daddy, I suppose.”

“Do you know who?”

“Don’t ask, don’t tell, right?” She laughed at her own joke. “All I know is she caught up on her back rent and gave me two weeks. That covered her room through Halloween, I think. I haven’t seen her since.”

“How long did she live here?”

She shrugged. “Maybe a year. Little longer.” She glared at them. “She wasn’t a bad girl, you know. Never brought trouble here. No drugs. I catch one of my tenants with drugs, they don’t get no second chance. Drugs are killing my people, I don’t tolerate that garbage.”

“Nicole wasn’t a problem, then,” Genie said.

“Nope. Didn’t think she’d stay as long as she did.”

“Did she have any friends in the building?”

“Dunno. But I remember one friend, came by a couple times. I told her once, don’t come here at night, it wasn’t safe for a rich white girl like her.”

Lucy’s interest was piqued. “Do you remember her name?”

“Never introduced. She didn’t belong here. I think she was in Nicole’s line of work, if you know what I mean.”

“Are any of Nicole’s friends still in the building?”

“Four-C. Cora Fox. Been here for years. Nosy bitch, too.”

“Is she here now, or are we wasting our time walking up four flights?”

“She’s here, but you won’t find her upstairs. Coolest place in the building is the basement. I put in some fans, bring in some blocks of ice.”

Lucy’s surprise must have showed on her face.

The manager said, “You wouldn’t understand, chica.”

Genie grinned. “Nice meeting you—?”

“Meggie. Meggie Prince.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Lucy said, not understanding what Genie found humorous. She was still stunned at being called chica. Being half Cuban, she could pass for Hispanic or Caucasion, but growing up in San Diego, she blended in and rarely thought about skin color. That sounded trite, but it was the way she’d been raised.

Lucy and Genie took the stairs down to the basement. Support beams six feet apart seemed to hold up the building, and the ceiling was so low Lucy could reach up and touch it without stretching. But it was definitely twenty degrees cooler down here. In each corner of the long, narrow space was a big metal tub with a block of melting ice. A fan blew on the ice, cooling the air.

There were about two dozen people lounging about talking or watching one of three televisions, all of which had the same sitcom that the manager had been watching. Half got up and left when Genie and Lucy walked in. Genie stopped each woman and asked if she was Cora.

Finally, from the far corner, a skinny middle-aged woman who’d been watching them from the minute they entered said, “I’m Cora.” She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t like cops.”

Genie said, “And I don’t like attitude, but here we are.”

“I don’t rat on friends.”

“I’m not asking you to. I’m here about Nicole Bellows.”

“Well, seeing that Nicole ain’t my friend, whaddya want to know?”

“She’s your neighbor?” Lucy asked.

“Former neighbor. That stuck-up whore moved out last year. October, maybe. Didn’t the super tell you that?”

“Yes. She also said you knew her.”

Cora shrugged. “As much as anyone could. She thought she was better than us, like her shit don’t stink.”

“It doesn’t anymore,” Genie said. “She’s dead.”

Cora put her hands up and leaned back. “Hey, I didn’t know.”

“We’re trying to retrace her steps. This is the last address we have on her.”

“There’s been a lot of steps between then and now.”

“So send us in the right direction. Do you know where she moved? Did she give you an address?”

“Nope. All I knew was what she told me, that she was moving to a house with a yard. Thought she was all that, you know? I said to her, found a sucker? A pimp? You know, trying to get the truth ’cuz I knew she was still hooking. And she says, no, she was making more money working less hours. I told her she was full of shit.” She shrugged.

“You didn’t believe her?” Lucy asked.

“I did,” Cora admitted. “But I thought she was into something. She aspired to be a high-paid call girl. I said to her, no one’s going to be paying top dollar for a two-bit whore. But she cleaned up, quit snorting—all her profits used to go up her nose.”

Maybe Meggie Prince didn’t know everything that went on in her building, or she lied a good game.

“I remember when she was in withdrawal,” Cora continued. “Her white bitch friend stayed here to keep Nicole straight. Never thought I’d see that goody-two-shoes stay overnight in this slum, but I guess people surprise you sometimes.”

Lucy asked, “Her friend? Does her friend have a name?”

“No idea. She was brave, I tell you, ’cause white girls don’t do well this side of town, know what I mean? But she stuck with Nicole for three days.”

“You remember what she looked like?”

“Blonde. Shorter than Nicole. Skinny. Dressed like a rich bitch slumming—new jeans, worn T-shirt, but it was designer shit all the way, and clean. She was sparkly clean.” She rolled her eyes and stuck gum in her mouth, cracking it loudly.

“And after this slumber party?” Genie pressed.

“They left. Both of them. Nicole gave her notice, but I don’t think she came back. Put all her stuff in a couple of boxes and disappeared.”

“And you have no idea where they went.”

“I said, a house with a yard. That’s all I know.”

“And you haven’t seen her since?”

There was something in Cora’s eyes that made Lucy think she had seen her. “Maybe not here,” she added, “but in the area.” When Cora didn’t immediately answer, she pushed. “She was murdered a few blocks from here.”

“Cora, this is important,” Genie said. “Have you seen Nicole Bellows anytime in the nine months since she moved out?”

Cora rubbed the sweat off her nose. “Yeah, I did. I saw her at the Big Boy two blocks over. Last night, ten or so. I work there part-time. I thought she was walking the streets again, but she wasn’t dressed for it. She was wearing a hoodie and it was a hundred fucking degrees. I cook in the back, wouldn’t have even looked twice except for the way she was dressed. Went up to her and said, Nic, long time, and she said, just passing through. That’s it. No how’s you been, nothing. She looked scared when I said her name, that was my first thought. Maybe some guy was hassling her or something.”

“Was she alone?”

Cora shrugged. “Far as I know.”

Genie said, “If you see the blonde, let us know.” They thanked Cora for her time, gave her their cards, and left.

“Hiding out,” Genie said. “Going back to her old neighborhood where she’d blend in.”

“Her description couldn’t have been more vague,” Lucy mumbled.

“People here keep their heads low. The law-abiding citizens don’t want any trouble, so they don’t make waves. Nine months ago? I’d say that’s a pretty good memory. Nicole hanging with a young, rich blond girl. I’d say drugs, except knowing what business Nicole was in I’m leaning toward call girl.”

“As opposed to prostitute?”

“Nicole walked the streets, but if she was smart and clean, she might have found an underground escort service. You know how many girls for hire there are in a town like this?”

“Unfortunately, I have some idea.”

“Sex clubs, escort services, streetwalkers. Doesn’t matter the means, there’s a lot of men willing to pay for sex.” They got back into Genie’s car. “I’ll put out some feelers, but I think we’ll come back with some pictures for Ms. Cora Fox and see what she remembers. I’m going to drop you off at the morgue. Call me if you learn anything important.”

* * *

Miles West was the deputy coroner assigned to the Nicole Bellows death investigation.

“Twice in two days after no word from you in months,” Miles teased her.

“I’m just lucky.” With cutbacks, there were fewer investigators with the coroner’s office, and senior staff like Miles West took more cases because their experience helped them close faster.

“This is an FBI case, too?” Miles asked.

“We’re working with DC on this one. It’s a bit unusual.” She didn’t feel the need to explain her odd position on this case. Instead, she showed Miles a photo of the dead rat and written message.

Miles closed his eyes, slowly shaking his head. “Retirement is looking better and better. Want my job?”

“Have one.”

“Well, there’s a job here if you want it. We miss you.”

“I kind of miss the place too.” Working at the morgue had been oddly comforting for Lucy. The atmosphere was calm, the people professional, and though every day was different, every process had an established routine. Every corpse was a mystery to be solved, whether the person died naturally, accidentally, or by violence.

Miles pulled the paperwork on Nicole Bellows. “Sheila’s team is prepping the body now. Prostitute, right?”

“We don’t know that she was still working,” Lucy said.

“Not saying it to be judgmental, Kincaid. No one deserves to die like that.”

“But it’s important that we find out definitively. I was hoping you could put in a good word and let me observe the autopsy.”

He laughed again. “I don’t need to put in a good word. Let’s get you suited up. Like every morgue in the country, we’re shorthanded. Your pathology certification is still valid. You worked with Sheila before.”

Lucy remembered Sheila. The morgue had high turnover among assistant pathologists because of low pay, budget cuts, and internships, but the senior pathologists tended to stay once they carved out a niche. As if to prove her point, when Sheila walked into the scrub room, the two assistants—one male, one female, both young—were unfamiliar to Lucy.

Miles said, “Sheila, you have an extra set of eyes. Your slit throat is a federal case now.”

“How’ve you been?” Sheila asked. She introduced Ann and Ben, two interns from the biology department at GWU. Lucy had been in their position not long ago.

They chatted while they scrubbed, and Lucy immediately felt comfortable in the familiar surroundings.

The ritual of an autopsy was almost soothing. The victim’s body had already been weighed, photographed, and cleaned—in a homicide, they scraped under the fingernails, processed the clothing, combed the hair, did everything to extract possible trace evidence, all of which was sealed and stored in an airtight chamber. Evidence with blood or wet biological matter was first dried to prevent mold and other contaminations.

The victim had been found in panties and a tank top, standard sleep attire for many women in a heat wave. Both were soaked in blood and now hung in the drying unit.

There was no doubt that Nicole Bellows had bled out from a severed artery in her neck when her killer slit her throat, but in a homicide, they needed to be thorough and determine if she’d been raped or beaten or drugged first. Biological trace evidence could lead to her killer; the coroner and forensic labs were an essential part of the investigative team, and working at the morgue last year had given Lucy a new, deeper appreciation for this vital part of homicide investigation.

Lucy stood aside and let Sheila do her job. The process was standard and they used a checklist to ensure they covered all their bases—if the case went to trial, everything they did now mattered that much more.

While Sheila and her team handled the body, Lucy inspected the sealed evidence on the far table. Nothing jumped out at her as significant.

She took out her phone and scrolled through the pictures she’d taken at the crime scene.

Wendy James’s killer had also left a message.

There was no obvious connection between Wendy James and Nicole Bellows, but that the killer of each had left a message was definitely odd.

There was a singsong quality to the first one.

And this guilty whore don’t cry no more

And the second was definitely the killer’s version of a nursery rhyme.

Six blind mice, see how they run

“From the angle of the wound,” Sheila said, jolting Lucy from her thoughts, “I can say fairly confidently that the killer was taller than the victim.” She tapped the chart. “She measured at five foot six. I can’t tell you how tall the killer was, but definitely several inches taller.”

“What if she was on her knees?” Lucy asked.

Sheila considered. “No, because the cut would most likely have an upward angle, especially at the end. This was straight across. Non-serrated blade. He tilted her head back with such force that he broke several capillaries in her throat. Put the knife on the soft area just below her chin and sliced deeply, without hesitation, severed her trachea and her carotid artery. She died immediately from massive blood loss.”

“There was no obvious sexual assault at the scene,” Lucy said.

“No evidence of recent intercourse, vaginal, anal, or oral. But I found something else you might find interesting.”

Lucy looked at the table. Nicole’s chest and abdomen were exposed. Lucy stared at a perfectly formed fetus.

“She was pregnant.”

“I’m guessing fourteen weeks. I’m going to run standard tests and DNA. You get a suspect, I can tell you if he’s the father.”

“That’s a solid motive,” Miles said, making note.

Motive maybe—but why leave the rat in the sink? Nicole being pregnant didn’t play into the message on the mirror.

Lucy stepped out of the room to text Noah about Nicole’s pregnancy, then remembered she was working with DC police on this case. She sent Genie the text message instead, then made a note to herself to write up a report for Noah at the end of the day.

When she returned to the autopsy station, Sheila had just finished closing the body.

“We’re done here,” she said. “You know what I know, but I’ll write up the official report, pending labs.”

Sheila stripped off her gloves and tossed them in a bio-bag. Her assistant started the process of cleaning the body so it could be placed in cold storage pending release.

Who wanted you dead? Who were you running from? The baby’s father?

Maybe Noah had been right and this case was a common homicide. But while she had the case, she would unearth the truth. The dead may not be able to speak, but their life and death told a story.

Ben motioned for Sheila to come over. “Do you know what this is?” He lifted Nicole’s left hand. Her skin was dark brown, but her palm was several shades lighter. In the center were three numbers, very faint.

“She wrote something on her hand,” Sheila said. “A locker combination? Date?”

Lucy tilted her head. 565.

She looked more closely. “I think there’s more here. Can you bring out the ink so we can tell?” There was just a hint of the other numbers, so faint and incomplete she couldn’t make out anything but the 565.

“Maybe—but it’ll take some time.”

“I have an idea,” Lucy said. She opened a supply drawer and retrieved a flashlight. “Cut the lights, please,” she said.

She put the flashlight on the backside of the victim’s hand. The high-wattage bulb illuminated the area.

“It’s a phone number.” She tried to contain her excitement. The phone number was faint, but Lucy read it out loud.

555-6598

She left to call Genie. They might have their first break and the case wasn’t even a day old.