The Blue Journal (42 page)

Everyone that was, except Anthony Walker.

Sitting at his desk, reading the ballistic results, Walker told Kovacevic, “It's the murder weapon all right, handed to us on a platter.”

The younger officer understood the reason for Walker's sullen demeanor. Everyone wanted the case closed, and Walker's dissenting views were not welcome. He went to Chief Gill, arguing that there was nothing to connect Fred Wentworth to the murder except the gun found in his car.

“And his fingerprints on it.”

“Not too hard to manage, since he was dead when they found him.”

“And aren't you the one who told me he made statements in front of several witnesses where he placed himself in Mrs. Knoebel's bedroom?”

“But not on the day of the shooting. This is all circumstantial.”

“Are you kidding me?” the chief demanded. “What do you need, Walker, a full-color photo of Wentworth pulling the trigger?”

“Chief, I realize everyone wants to hang this on Wentworth and, because he's dead, it's easy and convenient and it closes the file. But what about the marks on the driver's side of his car? Where did the other dents come from?”

“Who knows? Maybe he caromed off something on the other side of the road. Maybe it was some sort of half-assed suicide.”

“Suicide? If he wanted to kill himself, there was a gun in the car, remember? Who the hell kills himself by running a station wagon into a tree?”

“Look Walker, ballistics says the gun is a spot-on match with the bullet that killed Mrs. Knoebel. It was found in Wentworth's station wagon. With his fingerprints on it.”

“I understand that, Chief, but what kind of a moron commits murder and then keeps the weapon right there in his car?”

“What do I know? Maybe the kind of moron who manages to crash into a tree on a dry sunny day.” Gill gave his head a vigorous shake. “Look Walker, we have witnesses who'll say Wentworth made statements placing him inside the Knoebels' bedroom. We've got the murder weapon with his prints on it. We have a diary with information on various men the victim knew, and you admit one of them matches this guy. So, when I have some spare time I promise I'll paint the picture for you in oil. Meanwhile get back to work and close this file.”

CHAPTER 57

Walker could not be convinced that Wentworth's death was an accident, and the State Troopers involved in the investigation agreed. Unfortunately, Gill ordered the file closed and the State had no jurisdiction over the Knoebel case. They could, however, look further into the car crash.

“You want us to get involved here,” asked a trooper Walker knew from Bridgeport, “try to find the other car?”

“The one that ran him off the road?”

“Exactly. If our forensic team gets their hands on that, we might find something.”

“Do what you can,” Walker said. “My chief has shut me down.”

“I'll see what I can do,” the trooper promised.

Meanwhile, no one else was interested except Anthony Walker.

And Phyllis Wentworth.

She was incapable of containing her grief, which was intensified beyond comprehension by the unbelievable notion that he had murdered Elizabeth Knoebel. She sought comfort from Randi Conway, never guessing that their therapist might, in some measure, have been an instrument of Fred's death.

Randi was riddled with guilt, but could obviously never reveal her discussion about Fred with Walker and Stratford. Instead, the two of them spent the best part of an hour expressing their shared anguish, with Phyllis never knowing how deep the therapist's remorse ran. At the end of the session, Randi suggested Phyllis speak with Anthony Walker. She told her that he was the one person who could see through everything, who might make sense of it all.

Phyllis was astonished. “You want me to go to the police? The people who are saying this about my Fred?”

“No,” Randi replied, barely able to meet Phyllis's tormented gaze. “I don't want you to go to the police. I want you to go and see Anthony Walker.”

And so, not sure what else she could do, Phyllis surprised herself by making the phone call and inviting the equally astonished detective to her home.

Walker could not shake the sad irony of this meeting. He had been sitting in the Wentworths' driveway the day Fred died, trying vainly to reach the man, not knowing he had already been targeted for death. Imagine if he had gotten to him first. Imagine how differently things might have turned out.

Phyllis showed him into their modest living room, offered him some water—which he declined—then launched into protests of her husband's innocence that ranged in emotion from raw anger to primal heartache.

Walker allowed her to vent until she finally ran low on tears and energy. “You're preaching to the choir, Mrs. Wentworth.”

“What?”

“I don't believe your husband murdered Elizabeth Knoebel. Apparently Doctor Conway didn't share my views with you.”

The woman was genuinely surprised. “No she didn't. She only said it would be helpful if we could talk.”

“Well, we're talking. Unfortunately, no one else seems interested in listening to us.”

Phyllis took the handkerchief away from her eyes. “You really mean what you say?”

“Always,” he told her.

“Then let's do something about it.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I think you should find Elizabeth's real killer.”

“I've been ordered to close my file, to which I have objected quite strenuously. I've told my chief that if we find her killer, we'll find your husband's murderer too.”

The sudden look of horror in her eyes made it clear this was something she had never considered. “His murderer?”

Walker drew a deep breath, puffed out his cheeks and blew the air out slowly. “I apologize. I realize you've been through a lot. It never occurred to me . . .”

“You think Fred was murdered?”

“I'm afraid so.”

She looked away now, shaking her head in response to the latest aftershock of this tragedy. “I thought, I mean, they said it was an accident, right?”

“I'm sorry, but I don't think this was an accident. I think your husband was forced off the road. I also believe the murder weapon that was used on Mrs. Knoebel was then planted in his car.”

She reacted with another of her looks of bewilderment, of which Walker was learning the poor woman had quite a repertoire.

“Do you have any idea what your husband was doing on that road the day, uh . . .”

“No,” she interrupted. “That's one of the things I kept saying to the State Trooper who came here. Fred was supposed to be at work. I don't know why he left early, or why he'd be driving around up there. It makes no sense.”

“I'm sorry I have to ask you this, but where were you that morning?”

“Where was I?” She paused, the day fixed in her memory. “I was running errands. In the market, at the cleaners.” Her eyes began to well up again. “I remember thinking about that, once I heard about Fred. Trying to place exactly where I was at . . . at that awful moment.”

“Mrs. Wentworth, I tried several times to reach you on your cell phone that morning. There was no answer.”

Phyllis responded with a sad smile. “You know what Fred used to say? He would say, ‘Phyllis, why do you have a cell phone if you never use it?' Ah,” she sighed, “it was probably in my purse, as it always is. I never hear it ring. I almost never look for messages either.” Then she hesitated. “Do you think if . . .”

“No, it wouldn't have mattered, I just wondered why I couldn't reach you.” He studied her for a moment, then said, “Let's get back to why your husband would have been on that road that day. Do you think he might have been meeting someone?”

“Perhaps. But who?”

“I was hoping you might have a guess for me.” He paused. “Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you some tough questions here.”

She responded with a tentative nod.

“Is it possible he was on his way to see a woman?”

Phyllis gave him as weary a look as he had ever seen. “My husband is dead. People think he was a murderer. You believe
he
was murdered. What isn't possible? If you're asking me if I think it was likely, the answer is no.”

“Are you aware that there are people who believe your husband had a relationship with Elizabeth Knoebel?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “I know he saw Elizabeth.”

“When you say, ‘saw,' how do you . . .”

“Elizabeth was not a good person, Detective Walker. And Fred was a weak man. The sad truth was that nothing came of it except embarrassment for Fred.”

“And you know this to be true?”

“I do.”

“May I ask how?”

“Not that it matters, but Elizabeth was such a vicious woman . . .” She stopped here to shake her head. “She actually told me. Can you believe that?”

“She told you that she had seen your husband?”

“Oh yes. She told me how she mocked him when he, when he couldn't . . .”

“I get the picture.”

“And then she ridiculed me for being married to him. She was a horrible person, Detective Walker.”

“Did you ever tell that to your husband?”

“Never. How could I? He'd suffered enough humiliation from Elizabeth.”

“Mrs. Wentworth, do you believe there is any possibility—and I mean even the remotest chance—that your husband would have murdered Elizabeth Knoebel?”

“Of course not.”

Walker managed a slight smile. “That's the answer of a loyal wife. But if she subjected him to that sort of ridicule, well, there are all sorts of crazy motives for murder. I want you to take a moment and search your heart and tell me honestly. Is there any chance at all?”

Phyllis took his admonition seriously. She sat back and closed her eyes for what seemed a long time. When she sat up again she looked directly at him and said, “As I've said, Fred was a weak man, much as I hate to say it so soon after we've placed him . . . well, you understand. But it's true. I knew he was a failure at work. He thought he was fooling me about that, but he wasn't. He was a coward in many ways, and not much of a husband over the past several years. But I loved him, you see, and love is a strange thing. You make allowances. You forgive. You overlook. But it does not render you completely blind.” Now she permitted herself a painful smile. “Fred could never have shot that woman, no matter how she shamed him.” She shook her head. “I knew Fred too long to miss anything, believe me. I knew all about Elizabeth Knoebel and what she did to Fred. And you must know this—whatever she did to him or said to him, he didn't have it in him to murder her.”

CHAPTER 58

Walker realized that Phyllis Wentworth's insistence on her late husband's innocence was certainly not enough to keep the case open, even when coupled with his own suspicions. No matter how strong the arguments he presented, Chief Gill refuted every one. More important, the chief had ordered that there be no further investigation. The world believed that Fred Wentworth murdered Elizabeth Knoebel, he was conveniently dead, the media had happily tied a ribbon around the entire package, and so everyone could return to life as usual.

Even in the face of that opposition, Walker was still in contact with the State Troopers. He also had some other ideas, and First Selectman Robert Stratford was the person he wanted to discuss them with.

When he phoned for an appointment he found he no longer had direct access and had to negotiate his way through two different secretaries. Now that the Elizabeth Knoebel case had been solved, Detective Walker was yesterday's news.

Even so, he pressed the issue, managing to arrange a meeting and suggesting the perfect spot.

Walker phoned Randi, explained that he wanted to use her office for a private discussion with Robert Stratford that night, and said he wanted her to be there. He was not surprised when she resisted, first telling him it was a bad idea, then suggesting she should not be involved in the discussion. He told her it was important and she ultimately relented.

So it was that Walker organized one more gathering among the three of them, a sort of post mortem on the Knoebel–Wentworth matter.

Stratford arrived first and found Randi seated at her desk, alone.

“I didn't think you'd actually come,” she said.

Stratford looked surprised. “Why wouldn't I?”

The sadness was evident in her soft brown eyes. “Do you really want to do this now? With Anthony coming?”

“Anthony?” he said with an amused look. “What exactly is it we don't want to do in front of Anthony?”

She stared at him without speaking.

“Come on Randi, you and I have no secrets.”

“Don't we?”

Stratford turned away and began arranging magazines and newspapers on a side table.

“Elizabeth,” Randi said, pronouncing the name as if it were toxic. “We need to talk about Elizabeth.” She was staring at his back as she said, “I read the diary, Robert. I read about you. I haven't said anything to Anthony, but it's time for you and me to face the truth.”

“Ah. The elusive truth.” Stratford gave up his busywork and walked past her to the window. The moonless night had grown dark. “I don't know what the truth is anymore,” he said, still not looking at her.

“This was more than one of your casual affairs.”

For a moment Stratford did not speak, he didn't even move. Then he nodded, keeping his back to her as he stared out the window. “Much more,” he said. “Until I discovered I was just one of her laboratory animals.”

“She was a troubled woman, surely you saw that.”

When he finally turned to face her his features were set hard against the backdrop of the ebony night. “Troubled? No Randi. Evil. She was the incarnation of evil, which is something you should know better than anyone. What she did to me, to you, to others. And then, as if all that was not enough, she intended to expose us, to destroy us all.”