Fairstein, Linda - Final Jeopardy by Final Jeopardy (v1.1) [html] Page A
Authors: Final Jeopardy (v1.1) [html]
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body.
“Yeah, I went home to dinner ‘bout six. Call came in from your neighbor, Mr. Patterson. He said his dog you know that collie he’s got, Alex? well, he said his dog came home, feet all covered with blood. Wasn’t cut nowhere, much as he whimpered, but he was bloodier than hell. Mr. Patterson said there must have been a big animal killed up there, makin’ so much blood. He was mad can’t stand it when hunters start up your way before the season and asked my boys to go on up to look.”
The secondhand description of the car, and of what remained of Isabella, was gruesome.
“Damn dog was too nosy. Got his front paw prints all over the side of the passenger door where the blood was drippin‘ down, that’s how he got so full of it. The poor young lady’s head or whatever you can call it was resting on the top of that door. She was blown clear out of her seat lucky there wasn’t no roof on that car or she would’ve split that in half. The blood was everywhere.”
Waldron interrupted to tell us that Wally’s crew had done a good job.
“They didn’t touch anything. Just cordoned it off and called for the state police. The troopers brought us in on it because they had assumed you were the victim, Alex. Thought if you were in Massachusetts for business on any part of your trip, it might be federal jurisdiction. Someone in Wally’s office knew you’d been cross-designated a few months back to work on some interstate child pornography case. Anyway, Wally says you’ve always got work with you when you’re up here can’t leave what you do behind you at the end of the week.”
I nodded my understanding.
“Are there photographs of the body in the car?” Mike asked.
“Of course. The scene was thoroughly processed by the team of agents.”
“Anybody hear shots?”
We were still in Wally’s territory.
“Not so’s we know, Mike. This is a pretty lonely hilltop, and nobody’s let us know they heard anything at all. You got some summer people like Alex whose houses are sittin‘ empty this time of year, and some old-timers like Patterson who’s so deaf I could blast my siren in the middle of his living room and he wouldn’t look up from his jigsaw puzzle. Finest kind.”
Mike had already walked over to the wall and was examining the large rocks carefully for traces of the gun or its residue. It was obvious that he would have loved to come up with a significant piece of evidence that the feds had overlooked, and equally obvious that Luther Waldron, who eyed him closely, wouldn’t give him that chance.
“Let’s go on up to your house, Alex. That’s where we hope you can be helpful. You’ll know what belongs to Miss Lascar and whether anything is seriously out of place or missing.”
“Sure.” My eyes swept the area once more as we headed for our cars. No body, no blood, no Mustang, no gun, no killer just yellow tape strung out in an enormous square to bring home the reality that a murder had been committed on that isolated piece of road, less than five hundred yards from my house.
I led the way as I steered our rental car around the taped area through the tall weeds, behind the tree into which Isabella’s car had crashed, and back onto the uneven dirt path that climbed to its peak and then rolled over and started downhill toward the clearing beyond the thick cluster of evergreens. In less than a quarter of a mile we emerged from the shadows of the trees and Mike was able to see, for the first time, the incredible vista at the end of Daggett’s Pond Way.
“Spectacular!” he gasped, as I paused at the divide in the roadway where my drive split off from the others and the granite gate post to my house defined the beginning of my paradise.
“There are lots of great views on this island, Mike, but not one of them is any better than this.”
The old farmhouse is a very simple building, gray shingled and unpretentious, sitting on a green rise that flows down to the water, at the point where
“Yeah, I went home to dinner ‘bout six. Call came in from your neighbor, Mr. Patterson. He said his dog you know that collie he’s got, Alex? well, he said his dog came home, feet all covered with blood. Wasn’t cut nowhere, much as he whimpered, but he was bloodier than hell. Mr. Patterson said there must have been a big animal killed up there, makin’ so much blood. He was mad can’t stand it when hunters start up your way before the season and asked my boys to go on up to look.”
The secondhand description of the car, and of what remained of Isabella, was gruesome.
“Damn dog was too nosy. Got his front paw prints all over the side of the passenger door where the blood was drippin‘ down, that’s how he got so full of it. The poor young lady’s head or whatever you can call it was resting on the top of that door. She was blown clear out of her seat lucky there wasn’t no roof on that car or she would’ve split that in half. The blood was everywhere.”
Waldron interrupted to tell us that Wally’s crew had done a good job.
“They didn’t touch anything. Just cordoned it off and called for the state police. The troopers brought us in on it because they had assumed you were the victim, Alex. Thought if you were in Massachusetts for business on any part of your trip, it might be federal jurisdiction. Someone in Wally’s office knew you’d been cross-designated a few months back to work on some interstate child pornography case. Anyway, Wally says you’ve always got work with you when you’re up here can’t leave what you do behind you at the end of the week.”
I nodded my understanding.
“Are there photographs of the body in the car?” Mike asked.
“Of course. The scene was thoroughly processed by the team of agents.”
“Anybody hear shots?”
We were still in Wally’s territory.
“Not so’s we know, Mike. This is a pretty lonely hilltop, and nobody’s let us know they heard anything at all. You got some summer people like Alex whose houses are sittin‘ empty this time of year, and some old-timers like Patterson who’s so deaf I could blast my siren in the middle of his living room and he wouldn’t look up from his jigsaw puzzle. Finest kind.”
Mike had already walked over to the wall and was examining the large rocks carefully for traces of the gun or its residue. It was obvious that he would have loved to come up with a significant piece of evidence that the feds had overlooked, and equally obvious that Luther Waldron, who eyed him closely, wouldn’t give him that chance.
“Let’s go on up to your house, Alex. That’s where we hope you can be helpful. You’ll know what belongs to Miss Lascar and whether anything is seriously out of place or missing.”
“Sure.” My eyes swept the area once more as we headed for our cars. No body, no blood, no Mustang, no gun, no killer just yellow tape strung out in an enormous square to bring home the reality that a murder had been committed on that isolated piece of road, less than five hundred yards from my house.
I led the way as I steered our rental car around the taped area through the tall weeds, behind the tree into which Isabella’s car had crashed, and back onto the uneven dirt path that climbed to its peak and then rolled over and started downhill toward the clearing beyond the thick cluster of evergreens. In less than a quarter of a mile we emerged from the shadows of the trees and Mike was able to see, for the first time, the incredible vista at the end of Daggett’s Pond Way.
“Spectacular!” he gasped, as I paused at the divide in the roadway where my drive split off from the others and the granite gate post to my house defined the beginning of my paradise.
“There are lots of great views on this island, Mike, but not one of them is any better than this.”
The old farmhouse is a very simple building, gray shingled and unpretentious, sitting on a green rise that flows down to the water, at the point where
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