Intentional End
Chapter 29
Very Early Thursday Morning
October 18
Gleason's body arrived at OPP at twelve-eighteen AM. Rodgers had left word for her to be called the minute it got there; she arrived at one-twelve. Gleason's second autopsy, save for the fluids, hair and nail screens, was finished at three-twenty.
The medical examiner was not prepared for what she found on Gleason's back; she had never seen anything like it. Rodgers examined the intricate design that had been burned into the skin and photographed the Celtic knot from every angle. Where in the hell did she get this, Rodgers wondered, it took months to do this; the pain must have been incredible, the risk of infection off the charts. A cult, tribe? Rodgers wanted to talk with Bobby about this, but didn't think that day would ever come.
Jesus, she was pregnant, Rodgers thought sadly. She stood over the body of the beautiful, young woman who had made that sweet, awkward detective so happy and thought, what a waste. She thought of the baby that almost was; this wasn't her first pregnancy, Rodgers noted. Bobby's wife hadn't delivered, but she had been pregnant within the last eighteen months. The ME figured the woman probably miscarried as she found no scarring to indicate an abortion. She would have carried this one to term, Rodgers sighed and then she smiled at the thought of Bobby Goren as a father; he would have been a wonderful dad.
The ME worked hard not to let her work get personal. Occasionally, though, one snuck through and tugged at her heart; Gleason grabbed hold and held on. Rodgers sniffed, wiped her nose on her sleeve, pulled the sheet over the body and shoved the steel table back into the cold unit at four-twenty-nine.
She dictated her results and sent them upstairs electronically at four-oh-six, bumping four reports ahead of it. A hard copy would be ready for Captain Deakins by ten this morning.
Rodgers left the parking deck at four-forty.
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Early Thursday Morning
Eames stopped by Bobby's apartment before going into work. She expected him to be passed out and hoped he hadn't set the flip bar on the door. She found a parking spot down the block from his place and rang his cell; as she expected, he didn't answer.
Eames called his land line as she walked to his building and again as she trudged up the steps. She knocked on the door and hollered, "Bobby, it's me, Alex. Open up."
Nothing.
"Bobby." She listened and heard nothing. He's probably in the bedroom, she reasoned. "Bobby?" she called a bit louder and still heard nothing. Eames rapped harder, "Come on, Bobby, let me in." Involuntarily, she tensed – what if he. . .
She had just inserted the key when she heard the bolt click from the inside and then a second snap that must have been the flip bar. She withdrew the key and opened the door; he was heading back down the hallway, and turned into the bathroom. She watched the door shut and then heard him vomit.
Eames closed her eyes, shook her head and went to make coffee. She was putting bread into the toaster when she heard the shower. Good, she thought and waited before depressing the lever.
She called the department and left a message for the captain as to where she was; he hadn't made it in yet.
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Bobby was clean, his hair a mass of tight, wet curls, but he looked like hell, he hadn't shaved and his tee shirt was on backwards. He didn't say anything as he crossed to the cabinet to the left of the sink and removed the aspirin bottle. Eames watched him shake four tablets into his palm, toss them into his mouth, turn on the faucet and bend to drink from the stream.
He straightened and slammed shut his eyes, grabbing hold of the counter. Then he took half a step back, placed his palms on the front of the sink and leaned forward, gagging once. Eames was tempted to put her hand on his back, to steady him, comfort him – how she wanted to – but she didn't.
Bobby sucked deep breaths and then straightened again. He gave his partner a sidelong glance and then sat at the table. Eames poured them both a cup of coffee and sat across from him. Neither had said a word yet.
They sat silently for several minutes and finally Eames said so softly, "Bobby."
He just shut his eyes and shook his head.
Eames stood and opened the refrigerator, "I'm going to make you some breakfast."
"I don't want anything," he whispered.
"Too bad, because you are going to eat."
He sat quietly, hands over his face.
Eames made eggs and toast. She set it in front of him and held out the fork for him to take. He glanced at it, took it and began to eat. When he was finished, she took his plate, refilled his cup and hers then sat.
He sat looking at the tabletop and then glanced up at her as he took his cup. "Thanks."
"What can I do to help you, Bobby?"
He heaved a deep, sad sigh and said softly, "Make her be alive." He stood and shuffled into the living room and dropped into his chair.
She sat a moment and then followed, taking a seat on the sofa. "Do you want me to contact the funeral home?"
He didn't respond.
"Why don't we write her obituary?"
He ignored her. They sat in silence for several minutes and she stood.
"Will, will you come back after work?" he asked softly, standing.
"Of course, of course, I will, Bobby."
He nodded and followed her to the door. "Alex."
Eames turned and looked up at him.
"Alex, I need you to help me find out who did this. Please help me. No one will help me."
Eames put a hand on her partner's arm, "Bobby, I'll do anything you want me to do."
He nodded again and shut the door after her, locking it, but not setting the flip bar. He turned and looked around, seeing Gleason everywhere. The ivy from her wedding bouquet sat thriving in a small flower pot on the short bookcase beside his chair. The Ruben Lesky first editions she had gotten him sat in a short row on the eye-level shelf of the tall bookcase; the boutonnière she had designed for him lay in front them. The teapot and cozy were in their place on the kitchen counter with her chamomile tea bags in the basket beside them.
Bobby knew it was way too early to have a drink; he did consider it, however. Instead, he walked back to the bedroom and changed into jeans and a sweater.
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Noon
Deakins pulled into the parking deck shortly before noon; Angie let him sleep in as her husband was physically and emotionally depleted. He met the ME walking toward the elevator; she was just getting in after her short night. They entered the elevator and Rodgers pressed the button for the morgue.
"She's done," Rodgers said stoically.
"All ready?" Deakins asked with obvious surprise.
"She arrived just after midnight. I'd left word to be called when she got here. The report should be on your desk by now."
"Thanks for the hurry. Did you find anything different from the Evanston report?"
The doors opened and they both stepped out and remained by the elevator. "No, I read theirs after I dictated mine." Deakins and Rodgers stood quietly for a moment and then she said softly, "I can't believe she was pregnant."
"I know."
Rodgers wanted to speak with Deakins about the scars on Gleason's back. "Uh, Captain, do you have a moment to look at some photos?"
Deakins looked at her questioningly, and answered, "Sure. Photos of what?"
"I'll show you."
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Wycoff couldn't stop looking around as he loaded his bag into the trunk of his car; he was 'getting out of Dodge' as they say. He had checked out of the by-the-week efficiency and was going to disappear.
The trunk lid slammed shut and Wycoff rounded the end of his car, he pulled open the driver side door and then he heard it.
He stopped and turned around.
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Bobby left his apartment and turned to lock it just as Ted came up the steps.
"Bobby," he said softly, stepping to his friend.
Bobby looked down and put up his hands. He couldn't look at anyone, not yet. And he certainly could not talk to anyone.
"Ok, ok," Ted continued gently. "When-, whenever you're ready, you let us know. Do you need anything? Do you have enough to eat?"
"Please, Ted," Bobby barely whispered and stepped from his door, around his friend, and headed for the stairs.
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"Jesus," Deakins said softly as he examined the photos of Gleason's back. "What is this? Who is this?"
"These are photos of Gleason Wintermantle's back."
Deakins looked at her with shock.
"Someone burned a Celtic knot into her back using a strong, corrosive acid. Has Goren ever said anything about Gleason belonging to a cult or anything?"
"No. He, they, they are pretty private people. How old are these scars?"
"Well, it was done over months, perhaps a year. I'd say the most recent are probably two, maybe three, years old."
After another silent moment, Deakins said, "Let's, uh, let's keep this information confidential. Goren doesn't need to know we've seen this."
Rodgers nodded and said, "I need to know where to send her body. Has Goren said anything about that?"
"No." Deakins rubbed his forehead and continued, "Uh, listen, I'm, I'm probably going to have to do a lot of this. I'll call the funeral home that did his mother's funeral, McFarland; they'll take her from here." Rodgers nodded and Deakins continued, "Thanks again for rushing her workup."
"It's what I do."
Deakins pushed the elevator call button and Rodgers turned and continued down the hall.
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The screaming tires told Wycoff, 'this is it.' Before he could even react, the car careened straight into him as he stood by the open driver's side door; the impact was deafening. The agent and the door flew, his body twisting in the air and then slamming head first onto the hood, setting off the annoying alarm, and sliding head first onto the street. The car door sailed on, hitting the pavement and careening to a stop against a hydrant.
The dark blue sedan suffered a crushed passenger side front corner, but kept on going, accelerating down the street, taking the corner on two wheels. The few people on the street looked, but saw nothing. No one could get a license number as the plate had been removed. They ran to the crumpled body, two already dialling 9-1-1.
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"Has anyone heard anything about what happened to her?" Perkins asked Eames in the coffee room.
"No, not yet."
"How's Goren?"
She didn't know how to respond at first and kept her eyes on her cup, "Not good." Eames looked up into Perkins' kind, bland face, "He's not good." She couldn't say another word without breaking down.
Perkins shook his head and said, "God, I can't even imagine what he's going through. His wife is gone for all those weeks, his mother dies, then his wife dies. Dear God."
Eames protected the detail about Gleason's pregnancy.
Perkins looked at the best shot in the department and thought how lucky Goren was to have her by his side. "Let me know if I can do anything, Alex. If you or Goren need anything, let me know."
Eames nodded and returned to her desk.
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Bobby drove to McFarland's Funeral Home and parked in the back. He walked around to the front and entered. A slender, older woman walked toward him, "May I help you?"
He shuffled in a box like he does and wiped his face with his hands, "I, uh, I, I," and then he cried.
The woman stepped to him and wrapped an arm around him; she had seen so many people in so much pain. "Here, Dear, sit over here," she shushed to him, guiding him to a sofa.
Bobby sat and struggled to compose himself, rubbing his hands on his thighs.
"Mother?" a short, trim man said softly as he entered the room. "Mr. Goren?" Matt McFarland crossed the short distance and stood in front of the man he recognised from a few weeks ago. "Thank you, Mother, I'll take it from here."
"Can I get either of you anything?" she asked as she stood.
Bobby shook his head as did her son and she left.
"Mr. Goren, what's happened?"
He cleared his throat and managed, "My, my wife. She's at the ME. . ." Bobby gulped a breath.
"Gleason Wintermantle? She's your wife?"
Bobby nodded and looked at Matt questioningly.
"I just got a message to pick up at the ME's office." Matt put a hand on Bobby's shoulder.
They sat quietly and then Bobby began, "She was murdered in Evanston. She was pregnant." Bobby turned to face the other man, "I, I want to see her. They wouldn't let me see her very long. I want to see her." And Bobby cried again.
Matt couldn't believe what he was hearing. Murdered? Wife? We just buried his mother a few weeks ago, he thought, this poor guy – his mother, now his wife. Matt McFarland wondered why this man's wife was not at his side through that ordeal.
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The blue sedan screeched to a halt half way down the block and the driver jumped out, leaving the car running, right in the middle of the street. He ran around the front and got into the black car waiting at the curb. As soon as he was in, that car peeled away and sped to the corner, turned left and was lost in traffic.
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