Nora briefly disappeared, leaving Ray to greet the dogs, and reappeared with a stack of towels. Ray was using one of the towels to dry his glasses as Deputy Sue Lawrence came through the back door. Nora pulled a third mug from a hook as he made introductions.
“Tell us exactly what you found,” Ray asked.
“I tried to tell you on the phone.”
“Yes, but please go through it again, slowly.”
“We went down to the beach this morning, as usual. I like to give the boys a good run before we have breakfast. As we were walking up toward the dunes, Hal got excited about something. He wouldn’t come when I called, which isn’t like him. He’s always so good. So I went up to take a look… ” She started sobbing again.
“It’s okay, Nora, take your time.”
“There they were.”
“Who?”
“The couple, the beautiful young couple I saw last night.
They were lying there, naked. I just knew they were dead.”
“Yesterday, when did you see them?”
“It was in the evening. The boys and I had gone down for our swim. They came walking along the beach, must have left their car at the park. They caught me skinny dipping.”
“About what time?” asked Ray.
“I don’t pay much attention to time, Ray. It was near sunset.”
“And you’re sure that the… bodies… are the same?”
“I’m sure. We talked for a bit. The girl patted the dogs.”
“Besides these two, did you see anyone else?”
“No, they were the only ones. There’s hardly been anyone on the beach for more than a month.”
“So, where are they? Would you show us?”
“Just where the dune starts. I’ll take you, but I don’t want to go up there.”
“You don’t have to,” Ray said.
“Does anyone want coffee?” Nora held a carafe near the mugs and looked disappointed by their response.
Ray and Sue retrieved their raincoats and boots and followed Nora up the beach, Hal at her right, Falstaff at her left, both on leads.The waves rolled high on the beach as they struggled into the wind. Yesterday’s calm and near-record highs had been replaced by high winds, intense rain, and plummeting temperatures.
“It’s just there,” Nora said, after they had covered about a quarter of a mile. “Up there on the right side of the trail through the dune grass.”
Ray and Sue walked up the path; they paused when bodies came into view, moving forward with great care to get a clear view, but at pains not to disturb the scene. Ray could see two bodies, a woman and a man, both naked. He moved closer for a clearer look. The woman was at the side of the blanket, her eyes were open, a fixed gaze into the falling rain. He could see several puncture wounds in her chest. The man was on his back in the center of the blanket, eyes closed. His throat had been slashed. In the leaden light their skin looked gray and waxy. The driving torrent had washed away most of the blood.
Ray inhaled slowly, trying to fully comprehend the scene. He stood motionless for several minutes, his eyes carefully scanning the site, the position of the bodies, the angle of the limbs, the color and texture of the skin, and the wounds. He looked at the man, lanky and light skinned, bearded, eyes closed, mouth ajar. Then he looked at the female, lean and athletic, her long auburn hair swirled behind her head. He gazed at her lifeless face. Her delicate, classic features were still very much evident, yet her vacant eyes stared into nothingness. Ray shuddered; he had seen this visage before in a painting, or a dream, or perhaps in the distant past.
Working together, they laid out the scene, and Sue started carefully photographing the grid, section by section. After completing the photography, she drove back to the park to pick up the county’s part-time medical examiner. As she awaited his arrival, she called in the plates from the aged Volvo resting in the parking lot and requested some tarps to protect the crime scene, along with some lights and a generator.
The gruff, curmudgeonly Dr. Dyskin—a semi-retired pathologist who had spent most of his career in Detroit—slid into the parking lot, the sides of his rusting black Lincoln Town Car dripping with mud. Sue was about to ask him to get rid of his cigar when she noticed that it wasn’t lit. He tossed a small, worn, black leather bag in the back of her Jeep and pulled his portly body into the passenger seat. The smell of smoke and Old Spice filled her car.
Sue knew that Dyskin had worked thousands of crime scenes during his career, but she had difficulty enduring his blasé reaction to death. She wished he’d at least grimace slightly.
“Two victims, male and female,” Sue responded, partially opening her window.
“Murder-suicide?” he asked, his voice grave.
“Murder.”
Sue parked near the shore, and they walked up the small hill. The rain intensified. Dyskin pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and stood for a long moment looking over the fog-shrouded crime scene. Then he moved in to begin his assessment. Sue and Ray held large black umbrellas over Dyskin as he carried out his examination, crouching near the victims, moving from one position to another to get a better view. He studied each body carefully—gently lifting fingertips, measuring wounds, palpating skin—making notes on a small pad with the stub of a pencil. Finally he stood up, brushing sand from dark wet ovals at the knees of his baggy khaki pants.
“It was fast. They were dead before they felt much pain,” he explained with great certainty.
“What’s your scenario?” asked Ray.
“Don’t think there was any struggle. They were occupied.”
He looked at Ray and Sue and then slowly moved his gaze toward the bodies. “Given the way they’re lying, the killer probably came up from the beach, took a few moments to plan his attack, and then moved in. The killer was fast, first the man and then the woman, before she could begin to defend herself. The male victim’s head was pulled back, probably by his ponytail, and his throat was cut. He was dead before he knew what happened. The woman would have seen something, perhaps even reached up to defend herself, but she was pierced in the heart. Look at those chest wounds, any one of them would have been fatal. But the killer kept on stabbing her. Bag her hands. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find something under her nails. Have you found the weapon?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, it shouldn’t be hard to spot. You’re looking for a big, sharp knife with a wide blade. The neck wound is very clean, almost surgical; there’s no tearing.” Dyskin stopped and lit the stub end of his cigar with a Zippo lighter, curling his hand around the flame to protect it from the wind.
“Time of death?” asked Ray.
“What’s the temperature?”
“Now it’s about forty degrees; it’s been dropping all night.”
“Ten, twelve hours, more or less,” Dyskin said, as he gathered up his instruments and tossed them back into the leather bag. “Couldn’t have been completely dark yet. The assailant had enough light to see what he was doing. Those wounds in the woman’s chest—right on target. He wasn’t doing it by Braille.”
“Same weapon?” asked Ray.
“Same weapon.” Dyskin moved back to her body and pointed to one of the punctures. “Look how clean the entry is here. One sharp edge, with tearing on the opposite side, probably serrated. Maybe a big hunting knife, one of those commando things. And the perp was plenty strong. Someone was very angry.” Dyskin peered at them over the top of his glasses. “He wanted them more than dead. There was a lot of rage here. I wonder,” he stopped short.
“Wonder what?” asked Ray, peering into Dyskin’s protruding eyes.
“Just a passing thought, we’ll know a lot more after the autopsy.”
Twenty minutes after the phone call from Sheriff Ray Elkins, a dark green Jeep Cherokee with sheriff department banners on the doors came up the drive and stopped at Leiston School’s elegant main building.
At least he didn’t have his flashers on,
thought Ian Warrington, the school’s headmaster, as he pushed through the double doors and ran to the car through the heavy rain. He didn’t like being seen getting into a police car, a fact that would undoubtedly be observed by a few and reported to many. But given the circumstances, there was no other way to handle the situation.
Ian Warrington climbed into the passenger seat and gave the young officer at the wheel a curt hello as they headed toward the gated entrance. Once on the highway Ian looked across at the driver again. Warrington was surprised by how young the deputy looked, just about the age of Leiston’s seniors. “Have you been doing this long?” he asked, trying to make conversation.
“No sir, I graduated from Wayne State in May. Started working for the department in July.”
“Are you from the area?”
“No sir, grew up in Novi. My grandparents have a cottage up here. I’ve always wanted to live here.”
Ian fell silent. He wondered what effect the death of a faculty member would have on the school, what effect it might have on him and his future? It was like waking up to a nightmare. The sheriff hadn’t told him much on the phone, just that he was needed to identify the body of Ashleigh Allen. And when Ian asked about where the accident took place, the sheriff responded that it was not an accident. And before Ian could pursue, he was told that a deputy would be coming to pick him up.
“Where are we going, the medical center?” Ian asked the deputy.
“No. We’re going to the scene. The bodies will be transported to Grand Rapids.”
“Why all the way down there?”
“Forensic pathologists,” the young deputy offered, but he didn’t bother to explain. Given his demeanor, Ian felt it would be futile to ask. “We’re going to meet the sheriff at Burnt Mill Park,” the deputy continued. “They have tentative identifications based on items found with the victims, they just want you to confirm.”
Ian was silent for the rest of the short trip. The deputy parked at the end of a line of emergency vehicles, their flashing lights pulsating silently in the heavy rain and fog.
“It doesn’t appear they’re off the beach yet. I’ll get you when they’re ready,” the deputy said as he stepped out of the car.
Ian sat for a few minutes and then followed the deputy’s path out to the beach. He could see another cluster of flashing lights several hundred yards north on the shore. He put a cigarette in his mouth and realized how much he was trembling as he attempted to light it. Ian was consumed with a sorrow that was tinged with fear.
Eventually two vehicles headed down the beach, two Jeeps. He saw them approach at what seemed a mournful pace, watched them leave the beach and crawl across the expanse of sand into the park.
“Sir, come with me please,” said the young deputy. They walked together toward an ambulance. Ian saw two body bags transferred from the back of the second Jeep into the ambulance. The sheriff was waiting near the rear doors, his yellow raincoat glistening in the beam of a small spotlight mounted above the doors.
“Thank you for coming, Dr. Warrington,” Ray said. “I hope this won’t be too difficult for you.”
Ray opened the ambulance doors, and he and Ian Warrington climbed into the back of the unit and crouched next to the stretchers. Ray slowly unzipped the first black body bag, opening it just enough to reveal the face.
Warrington flinched, a convulsive movement ran through his frame. “Yes,” he replied softly. “Ashleigh, yes.”
Ray closed the first bag and unzipped the second. “Do you know this person?” he asked.
“Yes, that’s Dowd, David Dowd. He’s a friend of Ashleigh’s; they graduated from Leiston the same year.” Ian looked at the sheriff for a long moment and then bolted clumsily out of the ambulance. Ray watched him run across the beach toward the lake. Ray gave Warrington several minutes and then walked to him.
A hundred yards farther up the road he pulled off the blacktop and followed the narrow drive that circled the front of Leiston School’s main building, his headlights reflected off the rough surface of the wet granite pavers.
The mansion, built in the Georgian style, had been constructed soon after World War I by a Chicago tycoon, Norton Howard, who had made his fortune in lumber and railroads. The estate, originally known as Forest Glen, was a gift to his English-born wife who had longed for a country house. Ray could remember that when he was young his grandfather and the other old-timers would reminisce about the crew of English masons imported to build the house. How the men cut the ashlars for the exterior walls from large blocks of stone that had been quarried in Wisconsin and carried across Lake Michigan by steamship. A narrow-gauge railroad had been built to haul the stone blocks and other building materials from the Lake Michigan shore to the construction site, and some of the locals had been hired to erect the scaffolding that circled the house when the stone walls were laid.
Ray parked on a small turnout across from the entrance, each of the four spaces marked “Visitors Only.” As he approached the double doors at the center of the building, the one on his right opened. A small, attractive woman clad in a black sweater and skirt greeted him.
“Sheriff Elkins?” Ray clasped her extended hand and held it for a long moment as she identified herself. “I’m Sarah James.”
He looked at her closely; her facial features were delicate. Redness at the edges of her dark green eyes showed that she had been weeping. Her dark black hair, cut short and carefully styled, was streaked with an occasional gray hair, but her skin was unlined and youthful; he judged her to be in her late thirties or early forties.
“And your position here, Ms. James?” he asked.
“I’m director of administrative services,” she offered without further comment. She escorted him down a long hallway to the right and then to a second corridor on the left, leading him into the building’s south wing. Halfway down the long hall she stopped, opened the door marked
Headmasters Office
, and waited for Ray to enter. Once inside she said, “Mr. Warrington has shared with me… I’m so shocked… I can’t imagine,” she wiped tears away with her left hand. “He’ll be with you in a few minutes.” She moved away, stopped and looked back at Ray—as if to confirm that this was all real—and then left, closing the heavy oak door quietly behind her.