Dead Past (18 page)

Allan Rankin was there. He was taking her liver temperature. He pulled the thermometer out and scribbled in his notepad before looking up.

“Hi. Diane. Apparently we must not see enough of each other.”

“Apparently,” she said. “What do we have here?”

“The name on her mail says J. Cipriano. Female, twenty-six years old. Been dead no more than thirty minutes,” Rankin said.

“Sexual assault?” asked Garnett.

He had walked up behind them. Diane looked down at his feet. They were covered.

“Neva gave them to me,” he said, following her gaze.

“No visible signs of sexual assault. I’ll know more later.” He stood and looked down at the body. She was dressed in a blue sweater and white wool skirt. “At least she’s not charred,” he said.

“Cause of death?” asked Garnett.

“She bled out. Took a beating, fell, and hit the back of her head on the corner of this glass table.” Rankin pointed to the bloody table edge.

Diane looked around the room. It was tossed. All the books in the room were pulled off the shelves and lay on the floor in piles. Diane could see into the bedroom from where she was standing. Books were lying on the bed and floor. Odd.

“Some kind of book maniac, I’d say,” said Rankin.

“What did she do for a living?” asked Garnett. “Does anyone know?”

Rankin shook his head. “A lady in one of the other apartments—I think I heard her name was something Bowden—she may know the victim. She’s the one who called the police.”

“Bowden,” said Diane. “Where have I heard that name before?”

“It sounds familiar to me, too.” Rankin thought a minute. “The coffee tent. There was a woman from the church named Jere Bowden.”

“I remember,” said Diane. “Very kind lady. She’s related to my upstairs neighbors.”

“You want to come while I talk to the witness?” asked Garnett. “Maybe it’s the same woman.”

Diane nodded and looked at David.

“I’ve got it,” he said. “It’s a small apartment, one person ought to do.”

“I’ll be back and help,” she said.

Diane left the apartment and slipped off her shoe and head coverings. Garnett was asking the policemen at the scene where the witness’ apartment was.

“One thirty-two,” said Garnett. “It’s across here.”

They knocked on the door. After a few moments a woman answered. She was indeed the woman from the coffee tent, Jere Bowden.

“Oh,” she said. “Dr. Fallon. We will have to meet sometime under more pleasant circumstances.”

“Yes, we will,” said Diane. “You know Chief Garnett, don’t you? He was at the other crime scene.”

Jere held out her hand. “Yes, I do. Please come in and sit down. Can I get you some coffee?” She smiled. “Or tea or something?”

“No, thank you. We just need to ask about your neighbor.”

Jere nodded. “Please, come sit down.” She gestured toward the living room up a small flight of steps from the foyer. “My husband is in Michigan ice fishing, of all things. I told him he should have just stayed home. We seem to be having the required weather.”

Diane sat on a cream-colored love seat, Garnett on a stuffed dark blue chair. Jere sat opposite them on a sofa that matched the love seat.

“What is the victim . . . the young lady’s name?” asked Garnett.

“Joana Cipriano. That’s with one
n
in Joana. She teaches music at the university. Very nice young woman.”

She stopped and her eyes teared and almost overflowed. Diane and Garnett waited.

“I’m sorry,” she said after a moment. “I told myself that I wasn’t going to do this. You need information to catch the man who did . . . what he did.”

“Man?” asked Garnett.

“It was a man at her door. I didn’t see him do it and I only saw his back. I can describe his size and clothes, that’s about all.”

“Tell us what you know,” said Diane.

“I’ve been here by myself all day. Resting from, well, you know. Anyway . . . these apartments are pretty soundproof, but sometimes you can hear when someone comes to the door of your neighbor. Joana, as you can see, is just across the sidewalk from me. I was sitting there reading.” She pointed to a chair by the front window. “My curtains were drawn. I draw them when I sit in front of the window. I heard someone knock on Joana’s door. She opened it and this male voice asked her . . . I’ve been trying to play it back in my mind, but it was muffled.” She put an index finger to her forehead and tapped as if jiggling her thoughts. “But he said something about a book. Did she have a book. Something like that.”

“A book?” said Garnett. He looked briefly at Diane. “Did he say what kind?”

“No, not that I heard.” She paused. “Then Joana said, ‘Do I know you?’ and I didn’t hear his answer, just mumbling.” She shook her head. “There was something in his voice that worried me. I can’t really put my finger on it. But there was something in his tone that I didn’t like. I’m one to act on my instincts, so I called the police. I know they thought I was crazy—reporting a perfectly normal conversation and asking them to investigate. I thought, well, the worst they can think of me is that I’m a crazy woman, but if something is wrong, they can prevent it.” She shook her head again. “I told them it didn’t sound right to me. They said they would send someone, but it took over an hour.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bowden,” said Garnett. “I’ll look into that delay.”

“Can you tell us what he looked like?” asked Diane.

“I looked out the window before I called the police. He was a large man in a black coat. Like a ski coat—made of that kind of material. He had on blue jeans and brown work boots and a baseball-like cap, but it was padded and sort of matched his coat. I saw some of his hair sticking out the back of his cap. It was black with a few gray streaks through it. He wasn’t a young man, but he wasn’t old, either. If I had to guess, I’d say early fifties, maybe a little younger. His head came to just under the fixture for her porch light.”

“That’s a very good description,” said Garnett.

“I want to help. When I looked out the window, I made note of what he looked like. As I said, his voice didn’t sound right to me.”

“Could you recognize an accent?” asked Diane.

Jere thought for a moment. “His voice wasn’t that clear. I had the impression he wasn’t from the South, but I could be completely wrong on that.”

“Did you hear anything that happened in the apartment?” asked Diane.

“No. When I came back from calling the police he wasn’t at her door anymore, and it was closed. I listened, but I couldn’t hear anything. But as I said, these apartments are really very soundproof once the doors are closed.” She sighed and her eyes watered up again. “I should have gone over and knocked.”

“No, Mrs. Bowden,” said Garnett, “you should not have. You did the right thing. I’m just sorry it took so long for the police to get here.”

“I’ll keep trying to remember anything else,” she said. “However, I have to tell you that she also has an ex-husband who was trying to get back with her. He’s loud, but I don’t think he’s ever been violent with her. But you don’t really know what goes on behind closed doors. It wasn’t him that was at the door today, I do know that.”

“What’s his name?” asked Garnett.

“Gil Cipriano. He’s in the History Department at Bartram. He’s a student there getting his Ph.D.”

Garnett handed her a card. “Call us, please, if you remember anything else.”

She looked at the card. “I will.”

Diane and Garnett left and walked back to the crime scene. The body was being removed just as they got there.

“Everyone’s been working on this meth lab explosion, trying to find out if there’s anyone behind it besides whatever unlucky bastard was doing the cooking. I suppose that’s why they didn’t take her call as urgent. You take the conversation on its face, it didn’t sound urgent.”

It seemed to Diane that Garnett was making excuses for the policeman who delayed sending out officers to check on Joana Cipriano—especially when it was clear that their presence might have saved her.

Diane slipped on fresh head and shoe coverings and walked inside. David was still working the living room. She went to the bedroom and stood in the doorway, surveying the room. The walls were a dusty rose color. The comforter was white with roses that matched the color of the wall. There was a bench at the foot of the bed with a rose-colored throw draped over it. The furniture and the carpet were white. It was a pretty feminine room and in perfect order except for the books thrown around.
What is he looking for?
she wondered.

Diane began at the door and examined the carpet first, making herself a path around the room. She found nothing but books on the carpet. Later when she finished she would vacuum and see if that picked up anything her eyes failed to see.

Diane dusted all the surfaces as well as the books for fingerprints. She found many. Most would probably be Joana’s, but they might get lucky. The key was in the books, she felt, but what was it about the books? Most of those in the bedroom were bestsellers from the book-of-the-month club. None seemed to hold any secrets.

“What kind of books are in the living room?” Diane called to David.

“Music history, biographies, poetry . . . ,” he called back.

It seemed like a normal selection for a faculty member in music history. What they needed to know was, what books were missing?

Diane’s thoughts were interrupted by a commotion at the front door.

 

“What’s going on? Where’s my wife? What’s happened?”

It must be Gil Cipriano,
thought Diane. She walked into the living room and stood beside David, who was dusting a CD player for prints. A young man was at the door trying to come in and was being blocked by Garnett and two policemen.

“Just calm down,” said Garnett.

“Calm down. If you come home and find this, are you going to be calm?” he said.

“I was under the impression you and Mrs. Cipriano were divorced,” said Garnett.

“Yes, we were . . . we are, but we’re getting back together.”

Diane scrutinized him. Gil Cipriano had dark good looks—jet black hair, black eyes, olive skin. He looked to be in his late twenties and of Italian descent. He also looked distressed, but looks can fool you. However, at this distance, she didn’t see any marks on his knuckles.

“Where is Joana?” he said. “Has something happened?” He caught sight of the blood pooled on the floor where Joana’s head had lain. “Oh, God, is that from her? Damn it, where is she?” He pushed on Garnett, and the two policemen restrained him.

“Calm down, Mr. Cipriano,” said Garnett.

“You keep saying calm down, but you won’t tell me anything and I find this in my living room. Tell me what happened to Joana, damn it.”

“Where have you been all day?” asked Garnett.

“At school. I’m working on my dissertation.” He stopped. “I’ve been in the library all day. People know me there. Now tell me what happened. Is Joana all right? Is she in the hospital?”

“No, son, she isn’t in the hospital,” said Garnett. “She has been murdered.”

Cipriano stared at him.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Garnett added.

“Sorry for my loss? Are you trying to say that Joana’s dead? She can’t be dead. We’re getting back together. She has a recital in two days. We have plans.” He looked at Diane and David as if just noticing them. “Who are you? What happened with Joana’s books? She doesn’t like people messing with her things.”

Diane picked her way though a safe path toward the door. As she passed near David she asked him, “Is there a clear area where we can question him?”

David nodded over his shoulder. “The breakfast nook has been cleared.”

“Why don’t we bring him inside,” Diane said to Garnett. “Bring him this way.”

Garnett nodded. He escorted Cipriano to a small alcove opposite the kitchen where he sat down at an oak breakfast table and put his head down on his arms.

“We need to find out if he has any way of knowing if any of her books are missing,” said Diane, as she and Garnett sat opposite Cipriano.

“Gil, can I call you Gil?” asked Garnett.

“It’s my name.” He raised his head. “How did she . . . die? Did she suffer?”

Probably,
thought Diane, remembering her face. But right now, they couldn’t tell him that. Garnett just said there was a struggle and she apparently fell and hit her head on the coffee table, which was right.

He was silent for a moment. “What’s she saying about books?” he asked, nodding toward Diane.

“Would you be able to tell me if any of hers are missing?”

He stared at the two of them. “You’re kidding, right? Who keeps a list of the books they have?”

“Are there any special books she had, any rare books, any books that were actually safes?” asked Diane.

“Rare? No. Joana reads mainly those book-of-the-month things. And poetry. She likes that. We both do. What do you mean, books that are safes?”

“You know,” said Garnett. “It looks like a book, but inside it’s really a box to keep money and jewels in.”

“Jewels? Joana doesn’t have jewels. If she did, she’d keep them in a safe deposit box, not in a book.”

“There are a lot of music, history, and biography books in the living room. Are some of them yours?”

“The history and biography are mine. Why all these questions about books? We don’t have any particularly valuable books. They’re just books.”

“Has anyone asked you about them before?” asked Diane.

“No. I keep telling you, they are just books. What’s this about? Are you saying someone hurt Joana over a book? Like an overdue book or something? I know graduate students get desperate, but . . .” Gil looked from one to the other as though they were nuts.

Maybe the guy didn’t say book,
thought Diane.
Maybe Jere Bowden heard wrong. What sounds like book? Box—maybe. Look. Took. Rook—chess? Nook—place? Hook—weapon? Cook—meth lab? Could it be about the meth lab explosion?