Alex hates this part of her job. A lot of people think that she has the easy part, asking questions of the family and potential witnesses while Bobby does the dirty work of going over the body for physical evidence. But corpses don't cry and don't shake uncontrollably in one corner of the couch clutching a box of Kleenex in one hand while twisting the corner of a sweatshirt into a ball with the other. Corpses don't need to be comforted - and Alex would greatly trade places with Bobby right now if he'd try to accomplish the impossible task of comforting Amy Markham's older sister, Abby - who discovered her sister's body on the very morning that Amy Markham was to be married.
"I know this is hard, but can you tell me what happened this morning?" Alex uses her softest tone.
"It's okay - I know how it works," Abby pulls her knees in to her chest, looking much like a rumpled and distraught teenager in her faded flannel pajama bottoms and oversized Bryn Mawr sweatshirt. Her short, layered brown hair is spiky in some places from having been slept on and she keeps running a nervous hand through it, worsening the effect. Yet Alex can tell that there's strength and maturity there as she watches the young woman forcibly pull herself together. With effort, her lower lip stops trembling and her voice steadies. "I work narcotics out of the five-five."
She gestures to a discarded badge beside Alex on the coffee table and wipes a stray tear away with a shaking hand.
"That's right," Alex nods and picks up the badge to examine it. "I remember now."
It caused quite an uproar when Dr. Markham's eldest daughter graduated at the top of her class from Bryn Mawr, then entered the police academy on a dare the day after her matriculation. Alex would have had to have been comatose to miss it. Markham had tried to pull every string he could reach to keep her from joining the force but everyone had told him the same thing: not only was his daughter an adult and thereby entitled to make her own career decisions, but she was good. She was very good and had become one of the most successful members of her squad in just a short time.
Alex remembers something else and says, "They call you Cash, don't they?"
A small smile of recognition - and of gratitude for a momentary change in subject - flits across Abby's face. "Yeah. My parents were kind enough to name me Abigail Therese Markham and therefore grant me the initials 'ATM.' The guys in my squad don't miss a chance to tease me for being the 'poor little rich girl' and that's the icing on the cake for them."
"I remember those days," Alex tells her, offering her own small smile. "I wasn't teased for being rich - just for everything else, mainly being a woman."
"They're good guys," Abigail tells her sincerely, her eyes focused on her knees. She pauses, then adds carefully, "And I give as good as I get."
"I remember those days too," Alex nods. Proving herself capable of doing the job hasn't been nearly as time-consuming in recent years and in the back of her mind she suspects that it isn't just because she's risen through the ranks and established herself with hard work and dedication. Certainly those are the primary contributing factors, but she also knows that working with Bobby, who always treats her as his equal and doesn't take flak from anyone where he - or his partner - is concerned, is the glue that holds her status together. She should resent that a little, she thinks, but she can't because she knows that Bobby isn't aware of his impact on the way people see her - or if he is, he does a very good job of playing it down.
"Amy used to tell me I should thank her for letting me practice all of my pranks on she and my brother Andrew when we were kids," Abby tells Alex, her humor overshadowed by the grief in her voice.
"What happened this morning, Abby?" Alex asks, putting their conversation back on topic with the gentlest nudge she can manage.
Abby shakes her head to clear it and looks to the ceiling in an effort to hold back more tears. Alex can tell she's drawing on her experience as a cop to appear stone-faced, but the emotion of the situation won't quite allow it as she draws in a ragged breath and finally answers. "I overslept this morning. See, I was supposed to meet my dad, Amy, and Andrew at home at 6:45 for breakfast and then we were all going to get ready there and go over to the church together for the ceremony. Dad called around seven, woke me up, and said that Amy wasn't there yet either, could I pick her up? I said yes and got here around quarter after. Her door was hanging wide open and there were signs of forced entry, so I immediately called 911 and then ran in to see if she was okay. She. she. wasn't."
The last sentence brings another attempt to hold back a rush of tears and Alex thinks Abby is preparing to say something else when Donald Markham strides through the door, face nervous and drawn. He's not a tall man but his build is solid and he has handsome features and gray temples that give him a distinguished air. Yet there's something else about him, Alex notices - a jerky nervousness only slightly masked by the clout he brandishes like a sword as he pushes past uniformed officers and crime scene photographers. She makes a mental note to tell Bobby of this later.
Close on Markham's heels is a younger, taller version of the psychologist, whom Alex assumes to be Andrew. His features are also stricken and upset and his expression becomes frightened upon spotting Abby's disheveled state.
"Where's Amy?" Markham demands of his daughter when he spots her on the couch, pushing past the two officers who move to stop him until Alex rises to her feet and waves them off.
Abby stands too and he steps toe to toe with her in a stance that is more confrontational than paternal and asks her forcibly, "What happened here?"
"Someone broke in and killed Amy, Dad," her voice trembles over the words. Her eyes turn to her brother and fill with tears again. "She's dead."
"No," Markham's tone is pure disbelief and Andrew's knees start to give way so Abby guides him over to the sofa before he falls. He drops his head to his hands.
Meanwhile, the psychologist is rooted in place. "No. My little girl."
"I'm sorry for your loss, Dr. Markham," is all Alex can say.
"No.. I can't." he's still in disbelief and her words are wasted.
Abby comforts her brother as best she can, wrapping her arms around him and resting her chin on his shoulder while he weeps. Her tears are still firmly in check, however, and Alex can tell that the cop in her has taken control of the scared young woman she really is. The family needs a moment alone and Alex takes the opportunity to move to the bedroom and see how Bobby is doing with the body of Amy Markham. He's been in there about ten minutes - which is usually more than enough time to make the ME nervous to the point of requiring her intervention.
Sure enough, the team from the coroner's office is giving Bobby wide berth and glancing nervously at each other while he leans in close to the maimed body in the bed, sniffing for something that only he will recognize.
"What have you got so far?" Alex asks, pulling on a pair of gloves and seizing a brief moment of physical stillness on his part as he inhales. Moments like that with Bobby are few and far between and she's learned to grab them whenever they occur.
"Mm - maybe nothing," he replies distractedly. He cups his hand and wafts the air over Amy Markham's blood-spattered face towards his nose again before muttering, "Cinnamon coffee."
She shakes her head wryly, then turns to the coroner's team and tells them, "We'll need another minute. I'll let you know when you can finish up in here."
They nod in what appears to be a grateful manner and file out.
"Look at this, Eames," Bobby stands upright and points to the fatal wound on Amy's neck, a knife slice that travels from ear to ear. Blood mats her long brown hair and her eyes are staring fixedly ahead in a terribly disturbing manner.
"Her throat was slit," Alex observes aloud, craning her neck to see from her position near the door. She's never lost the sense that a dead body is a shell of a person who was recently living, a rarity in her line of work, and it always sickens her to be so close to evidence of man's inhumanity to his fellow man. Bobby, on the other hand, sees them as puzzles to be solved and isn't squeamish around them.
"What am I missing?" she asks him.
"Ah," he holds up one latex-covered finger to get her to pause, then delicately peels back the sheet and comforter that tucks the body neatly into bed. "See where the blood is?"
"It's all on the inside of the covers," Alex breathes, beginning to see where he's going. "That means she wasn't killed here - the body was moved and the murderer put her into the bed after she was dead."
Bobby nods vigorously. His mind is already awash in possibilities and he's searching his encyclopedic brain for some seemingly useless bit of trivia that will help them make sense of this, she knows. Meanwhile, Alex is openly confused and says so.
"But the door was jimmied," she shakes her head, perplexed. "Her purse was stolen and her closet was ransacked. So why would the killer take the time to kill her in one place and then tuck her in before leaving? Plus there's no blood anywhere else in the apartment, which means wherever she was killed has been cleaned. It makes no sense, Bobby."
"She knew her killer," he tells her evenly, blinking rapidly the way he does whenever he's working through a complex thought. "And the killer cared about her - see how the sheets are neatly folded over the comforter? She was tucked in like a small child. Besides."
He moves excitedly over to the open closet where hangers of clothing and shoes and boxes are wildly strewn about, his lanky body resembling a fast-moving ostrich in its haste. A pair of jeans lies at his feet and he picks them up.
"Dolce and Gabana jeans," he tells Alex. "Practically new - do you know what these would bring on the street?"
He doesn't give her a chance to answer, but keeps picking up clothes. "Prada, Ralph Lauren, DKNY - this is all high-end stuff that the so-called robber left behind."
"I don't know whether to be impressed at your knowledge of fashion and women's clothing - or scared," Alex tells him in the tone she reserves for those occasions when he surprises her by saying something that no other self-respecting man - especially not a macho, ex-military New York City detective - would even admit to knowing.
"I was at the dentist last week and the only available magazine in the waiting room was In Style," he shrugs off-handedly, his voice trailing off at the end because he's eager to get back to the case at hand and take the focus away from him. "The point is, the robbery wasn't the motive - killing Amy Markham was."
"Then we'd better go ask her family who would want to kill her," Alex tells him succinctly.
He follows her into the living room where a young man, blond and handsome with an air of good breeding, has joined Abby, Andrew, and Dr. Markham. Alex assumes he is Amy's fiancé, Keith. The four are huddled around the sofa, Abby still holding the hand of her brother while their father stands distractedly by. The blond man is seated on the coffee table facing them but Alex notices he and Abby are careful to avoid each other as the group speaks in hushed tones. She makes another mental note to ask Bobby later if he noticed this.
Seeing the detectives enter the room, the group rises as one and faces them. Bobby takes the lead, striding over to introduce himself to Dr. Markham and the rest.
"Doctor, I'm Detective Bobby Goren and you've already met my partner, Alex Eames," he's using the smooth tone he reserves for delicate situations such as this one. "We're sorry for the loss of your daughter."
"Sorry for her loss?" the doctor repeats incredulously, face reddening a bit. "Detective, I expect you to find out who did this to her and make them sorry!"
"We will, sir," Bobby nods, but a quick glance to the back of his neck just visible over his shirt collar confirms what Alex already suspects: the little hairs that the barber missed the last time Bobby got a trim are starting to stand up. Her partner hates being told what his job is and Dr. Markham has gotten himself off to a bad start.
As if sensing this, Abby steps in. "Dad, the detectives know what they're doing. Yelling at them won't bring Amy back."
Alex watches surprise wash over Bobby's face - he isn't used to having complete strangers stand up for him. He recovers quickly, though, by introducing himself: "And you are?"
"Abby Markham," she tells him, not moving from her brother's side.
He glances quickly back at Alex, who reads his eyes and gives a quick, affirmative nod.
"They call you Cash at the five-five, don't they?" he rolls his head back to face Abby. "You're in Narcotics?"
"Yeah," she nods. "Grayson's squad."
"Detective, I hate to point out the obvious," Dr. Markham interrupts harshly, "but this daughter is still alive. I'd really rather you figure out what happened to my other daughter, the one who has been heinously murdered."
Abby frowns at this, though doesn't look surprised and Bobby's starting to openly glare at the psychologist now so Alex decides to step in before things get out of hand.
"Sir, we realize it's been a very difficult morning for all of you," she uses her best smoothing-over tone. "What would really help would be if you could each tell us where you were last night and then give us your contact information so we can follow up later."
"You certainly aren't implying that we're suspects?" the doctor protests. "My son and daughter and Amy's fiancé would never have reason to kill her."
"We can't confirm that you're not until we know where you were last night," Alex tells him through gritted teeth. She can feel Bobby, in his accustomed station behind her right shoulder, tense also.
"I was at the Waldorf for the rehearsal dinner and then I went home," he huffs in response, then adds pointedly, "And I would never harm my child."
Bobby doesn't say anything, just turns to Abby who tells him, "I was at O'Malleys with the guys from my squad from 9:30 until about 1:00 - one of our guys is changing units and we were giving him a send-off. Then I went home and went to bed."
Alex nods to Andrew. "What about you?"
He looks nervous and overwhelmed when he responds. "I was at the Waldorf with Dad until about ten, then I stopped here at Amy's for a bit and went home around eleven." As though realizing how that might sound, he gulps and hastily adds, "She was alive when I left."
"And you?" Bobby takes over and gestures to the blond man. "Keith McMillan, is it?"
"Yes," he nods. "How'd you know?"
"Newspaper," Bobby says with no real inflection. "I hear you'll own half of New York by the time you're thirty."
"For what that's worth," is Keith's lackluster reply. His eyes are red-rimmed from crying and Alex thinks he should be sitting instead of standing because he sways slightly, like a blade of grass in the breeze.
"Where were you last night?" Alex asks him.
"I went to see friends and then I went home," he says, but his eyes shift to Abby almost imperceptibly while he forms the words.
"Like I said before, we'll need contact information from each of you and you should come down to the precinct and make a statement," Alex tells the group before she and Bobby head out.
And it's only when they're back in the car driving to One Police Plaza that she starts to think about her question from earlier in the morning, then realizes how insignificant it seems compared to that of Amy Markham. Alex's life may have taken an unexpected direction, but at least hers is reversible.