Page 5

4

Weems, Virginia

FBI special agent in charge Matt Costa quickly dealt with necessary paperwork sitting in his new office in the basement of the FBI Academy, where the Behavioral Sciences team had originally been housed.

They’d moved last month from the cramped conference room at national headquarters where they had been assigned after the formation of the Mobile Response Team a year ago. While it was much better to have this large suite of offices where everyone had their own private space surrounding a central bullpen, there were no windows and Kara called it the “dungeon.”

He picked up his ringing phone. “Costa.”

“It’s Kara. I’m sending a package.”

“I got your message.”

“The old roommate? The one in France that no one has spoken to? I’m almost positive I saw her outside Jane’s apartment. She disappeared fast when I went to question her. I had my eyes off her for less than a minute. I suspect she slipped between a couple of apartment buildings, but I can’t be certain. It was foggy.”

“How positive that it was Pierce?”

She hesitated. “Eighty percent. I’d just seen her picture, but I only got a passing glance on the street. Detective Kinder is following up.”

“We can find out if she used her passport,” Matt said.

Ryder buzzed Matt. “Agent Stewart is on the line.”

“Thanks, Ryder. Tell him one minute.” To Kara he said, “You also found a red poppy in Merrifield’s room?”

“Preserved between plastic sheets. Was there anything like this with Benson’s belongings?”

“Not that we found. Sloane and I are going to talk to his widow again this afternoon. We’ll ask her. Keep me updated—I have another call.”

“Roger that,” she said lightly and hung up.

Matt switched to Agent George Stewart who worked out of the Denver field office. “Hi, George, what did you find?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” George said. “The girl doesn’t exist.”

After Denver PD couldn’t locate Jane Merrifield or her family, the FBI looked deeper into her background.

George continued, “Jane Merrifield did not graduate from Cherry Creek High School as stated in her college admission package. The only Jane Merrifield in the entire school district is a seven-year-old first grader.

“I double-checked the residence—nothing. I considered transposed numbers and checked every house that could have been hers—nothing. There are nine Joseph Merrifields in the greater Denver area, none who’ve heard of twenty-one-year-old Jane. There are only two Bridget Merrifields in the area—one who is ninety, one who is seventy-four.

“We checked every school district, including the graduation year before and after what’s listed. We can’t find one person at any high school in the area, public or private, who knows or recognizes Jane Merrifield’s picture. We ran her prints—nothing. My guess? She’s not from Denver and her name isn’t Jane Merrifield.”

Matt absorbed what George was saying. “Okay,” he said slowly, “what about legal cases? Name changes? Sealed files?”

“We need a legal name to get any sealed files. There’s nothing listing Jane Merrifield. I considered maybe a witness protection gig, but the US Marshals said they don’t have anyone in the program with that name or description. I’m still working on a couple of angles, but I don’t see them going anywhere. If they do, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks, George. Keep the file open. We’re looking to interview Merrifield’s first college roommate, and if we can get more information from her, I’ll send it to you to follow up.”

“Want to know my gut?”

“Shoot.”

“She has a damn good fake identity. Someone with major skills created it. Find that person, you’ll find out who Jane Merrifield really is.”

Matt agreed. Before he left to reinterview Robert Benson’s widow, he relayed to Ryder what he learned from George.

“Talk to Cybercrimes, they might have a person of interest, someone who can pull something like this off. Robert Benson was an established business owner, but we have nothing on him before he moved to Weems. Maybe his widow knows, maybe she doesn’t, but two people with no backgrounds, killed on the same day in the same way, is not a coincidence.”

Agent Sloane Wagner was a good fit for the Mobile Response Team, Matt thought as they walked up to the Benson house early Monday afternoon.

Last year, Sloane had taken an undercover assignment for Matt and done an exemplary job under difficult circumstances. She’d earned Matt’s respect with her professionalism and intelligence, and after consulting with his own boss, Tony Greer, he’d extended her an offer to join his team. Sloane was not only smart and disciplined after twelve years in the Marines, but also commanded respect among those who worked with her.

Evelyn Benson answered the door. Robert’s widow was a tall, slender woman a few years older than her dead husband. Her long gray hair was neatly braided down her back. Her crystal clear blue eyes were intelligent and questioning, and her face was devoid of make-up. She seemed to have aged in the week since Matt spoke to her.

“Agent... Costa,” she said after a beat, as if she’d forgotten his name.

“Mrs. Benson. Thank you for making time to speak with us again.”

“Do you know...who killed...” Her voice trailed off as if she didn’t want to know the answer. She touched the simple gold cross hanging around her neck.

“May we come in?” Matt asked.

“Oh...yes. Of course.” She opened the door wider and Matt and Sloane stepped in. They’d been there before—the house was comfortable, clean, and cluttered with antique furniture, walls covered with elaborate wallpaper, and tables topped with doilies and delicate lamps. A house that Matt could see an elderly couple living in, not the middle-aged Bensons.

“Can I... Would you like coffee? Tea?”

“We’re fine, thank you,” Matt said. He motioned to the dining room off the entry. “Can we sit and talk for a few minutes?” No matter how many times he’d interviewed survivors, it was never easy.

Mrs. Benson nodded and sat on the edge of one of the chairs, as if ready to jump up and bolt at any moment.

The house was immaculate and too warm for comfort, even against the outside cold. Though technically spring, Virginia was still in the throes of winter, snow slowly melting under trees and flowers not ready to bloom.

“How are you holding up, Mrs. Benson?” Sloane asked gently.

Evelyn shook her head. “I wake up and think Robert is in the kitchen. He always rose first, would make coffee, feed the chickens, collect their eggs. He loved mornings. It’s why—I didn’t think twice when he wasn’t in bed Sunday morning.”

She took a deep breath. “I miss Robert. I never thought I’d marry. But he walked into church one Sunday and I just knew. These have been the happiest ten years of my life.” Her voice cracked at the end. “I wish I knew why someone would hurt him. Robert was the kindest man I have ever known. He never raised his voice, he treated me like...like I was precious, like I was a gift. He told me that once, that I was a gift from God who gave him a new life.”

Now the tears came and she brushed them away. “People from church, from town, come by every day, bring me food, talk. I listen, shoo them away after a while. I can only take people in small doses. I see the pity. I don’t want pity. I want Robert back.”

She steadied herself, looked directly at Matt with a damp, steady gaze. “You said you had questions.”

“We know this is a difficult time, but it’s important,” Matt said. “You’ve been married for ten years, correct?”

She nodded. “Ten years last December.”

“And you met a year before that?”

“Yes. I honestly don’t think there was more than a day or two that we didn’t see each other after we first met. We knew.”

“Where is Robert from originally? Does he have family?”

“He was born in Colorado, but he told me he had a difficult childhood and didn’t have any family.”

Colorado. It was a tenuous link between Jane Merrifield and Robert Benson, but it was a link.

“Do you know where in Colorado?” Matt asked.

She shook her head. “He never told me.”

“What did he do for a living before he came here?”

“He was an accountant.”

“Do you know who he worked for?”

“Why is this important?” she asked.

“Your husband had no known enemies,” Matt said. “Everyone we’ve spoken with had only good things to say, confirmed that you and Robert had a good marriage. So we need to look to the time before he came to town.”

“Pastor Henry said it was a random crime. Someone passing through town, someone who likes...likes to...” She couldn’t say it, but Matt knew what she meant.

Someone who likes to kill.

Matt told Evelyn the truth. “There was a similar murder on the West Coast. A young woman was killed in the same manner as your husband. Do you know or have you heard of Jane Merrifield?”

Evelyn stared at him, confused, shook her head.

“Jane is twenty-one, a college student at Southern Oregon University in Ashland,” Matt said.

“I don’t know her.”

“Can I show you her picture? You might know her under a different name.”

Evelyn nodded, and Sloane took a photo of Jane from her folder. It was a picture her roommate, Ashley, had provided, not a forensic photo. Jane was smiling, happy, alive.

Evelyn reached out, but stopped short of touching it. “She’s dead, too?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“She’s so young. I’ve never seen her before, but I’ll pray for her soul. She was killed like Robert?”

“Yes. We’re trying to find any connection between the two victims.” He paused. “Jane is from Colorado.”

Evelyn looked confused.

“It’s the only commonality between them,” Sloane said.

“Robert never talked about his past, and he never mentioned this girl. Like I said, Robert had a difficult life—he didn’t talk about it. He said his life began when he met me, and he has never said or done anything to make me think he was anything but what he showed himself to be—a kind, generous man who treated every person with respect.”

“Would you mind if we went through his personal effects?”

She didn’t want to let them; Matt could see it in her eyes. He waited. He could get a warrant, but her cooperation would make everything easier.

Evelyn nodded once. “Where would you like to begin?” Her voice was weary, resigned.

“Did he have an office? A room or desk or dresser you didn’t use?”

“He did all his work in his office in the store,” she said. “Home was our sanctuary. We didn’t work here.”

“Would you mind if I look through his office at the store? And you can show Sloane his personal space?”

She rose, retrieved a key from a hook by the door, handed it to Matt. “I haven’t been in since... I’m not ready. If you don’t mind.”

He took the key. “Thank you.” He said to Sloane, “I won’t be long.”

Sloane walked Matt to the door and said out of Evelyn’s earshot, “Could Jane be his daughter?”

“It’s a thought,” he said. “See what you can learn from her. I’ll call Jim, have him expedite DNA testing. It should be easy enough to prove or disprove. Text or call if you need me.”

Sloane closed the door behind him, turned back to Evelyn. “My boss didn’t want to impose, but I would sure love a cup of whatever you have.”

Evelyn seemed to relax before her eyes. Sloane knew women like her. She needed to be a hostess in her home, but more, she needed something to do with her hands.

Sloane followed Evelyn to the kitchen where she immediately put a teakettle on. The kitchen appliances had been updated, but the cabinets and counters were old and well cared for.

“You have a lovely home,” Sloane said as Evelyn brought out teacups, sugar, honey, lemon, and poured cream in a creamer. She brought out a jar of a variety of tea bags.

“Thank you. The house has been in my family for generations, but I never felt—well, Robert really made it a home for me.” She said quietly, “I miss him.”

“I know this is difficult for you,” Sloane said. “We’re going to try to make it as easy as possible, but that doesn’t mean it’ll be easy, especially losing someone you love to violence.”

Evelyn stared at the stove, waiting for the kettle. “Robert was kind, as I said, but he was also quiet. He never talked about his past. Some of my friends at church were worried that he was a con artist or a thief or was running from the law.”

She didn’t say anything for a long minute, then the kettle whistled and she brought it to the table. She poured hot water into first Sloane’s cup and then her own, then placed the pot on a trivet. She selected a bag, and started steeping. Sloane did the same, added a few drops of honey, and waited for Evelyn to speak in her own time, her own way.

“Before we married,” Evelyn continued, “Robert told me Pastor Henry asked him several pointed questions. I’ve known Henry since I was little, and I’m sure he had noble intentions.

“Robert didn’t want to talk about his life before he moved here, he said it was the past and I was his future. But he said I deserved to know he wasn’t a criminal and had never been married. He told me he hadn’t been physically abused, but that the emotional abuse was almost unbearable. He didn’t go into details, and what he said hurt him to say, so I didn’t push. I suspect he may have been involved in a bad relationship. Abuse isn’t always man to woman, parent to child.”

“True,” Sloane said, sipping her tea. “And he didn’t talk about who was abusive? How long it went on?”

“No. I told him I didn’t need to know, that I trusted him. For ten years, he never did anything to cause me to doubt him.”

“In hindsight, looking back to the days before his murder, can you think of anything Robert said or did that was out of character? Was he quieter than usual? Receive a call that upset him? A letter?”

Evelyn shook her head. “Saturday we attended a wedding for my best friend’s daughter. It was lovely. We were home by eight in the evening, relaxed by the fire with a glass of wine, as was our habit, and were in bed by ten. Sunday, we attend church and open the antique store at noon. When he wasn’t in bed when I woke at five thirty, I assumed he was taking care of the chickens—he loves those chickens. I didn’t—I didn’t realize anything was wrong until he didn’t come in for breakfast.”

Evelyn first checked the barn and then the store; when she didn’t find Robert, and his car was still there, she’d called the police and they came out immediately. Such was a town like Weems, where everyone knew everyone. The responding officer looked around and found Robert dead—throat slit, hands bound, body covered with red poppies—in the woods behind the barn. The coroner determined he’d been killed between two and four in the morning.

There was no sign of forced entry. No sign of disturbance in the house, barn, or store. Evelyn hadn’t woken up, didn’t hear any vehicles or voices.

Robert Benson had left his house quietly and been violently murdered.

The team’s theory was that Robert had received a threat or warning in the days leading up to his death and left to meet his killer because he didn’t want harm to come to his wife. The second theory was that he heard something outside and went to investigate.

Their investigation indicated that the marriage was solid and there was no financial motive. Robert kept the books and the FBI forensic auditor determined they were in order. Robert had brought nothing to the marriage, so if it was the other way around and Evelyn was murdered, they may have looked to a financial motive. Evelyn owned the property and Robert had helped her expand what had been a small antique store into a more successful, profitable business.

No struggle, few forensic clues. Blunt force trauma to the back of the head, but no external injuries, other than the slit throat. The coroner surmised that the victim had been attacked from behind, bound, and had his throat slit while prone.

The flowers held the most potential for evidence, which the FBI lab was still processing. They determined that the poppies were likely grown in a greenhouse, but the roots and petals were undergoing further testing. They hoped to narrow down the region based on plant DNA and might be able to identify fertilizer or pesticides that could be traced.

Robert Benson’s fingerprints hadn’t popped in any criminal database. Didn’t mean he wasn’t guilty of something, but so far they had no idea where he’d lived or what he’d done before showing up in Weems eleven years ago.

With the near-identical murder of Jane Merrifield, they had shifted gears, looking for commonalities. But they were still no closer to answers.

“Evelyn,” Sloane said, “if you think of anything, no matter how small—a name, a place, a memory Robert shared with you—even a good memory, about a time or event before he met you—please call. You have Matt’s number and my number. We want to find who did this to your family.”

“I will,” she said.

“If you don’t mind, may I look through Robert’s personal things?”

Evelyn led Sloane upstairs. Their bedroom was modest in size, all the furniture well-made antiques. The room was timeless—Evelyn, at fifty-four, acted older than her age, and her decor mimicked that.

Who were you, Robert Benson? Where did you come from? What were you running from?

Who killed you?

Evelyn watched from the doorway and didn’t say anything as Sloane slowly turned and observed the room.

Sloane suspected that Robert Benson had been hiding a secret. Were answers hidden in this room?

She ignored Evelyn’s sad eyes as the woman watched her from the doorway. The widow didn’t have to tell her what side of the bed her husband slept on: the left side closest to the window had a historical romance novel on the nightstand, a pair of delicate reading glasses, an antique clock, and a glass flowered lamp. The right side had another glass lamp, but this in a solid green; a digital alarm, and a nonfiction World War II story—an older book that Sloane had read when it first came out called Unbroken .

She crossed to Robert’s side of the bed and opened his nightstand drawer. Inside was a Bible, box of tissues, coins, aspirin, an unused notepad, pencil, and a nearly complete crossword puzzle magazine.

On the short dresser were many figurines and a long lace doily. On the tall dresser was a framed photo of Robert and Evelyn on their wedding day, and a candid picture of them outdoors, Evelyn laughing and Robert smiling. Next to the frame was a man’s wallet.

Sloane opened the wallet. A Virginia driver’s license for Robert Benson. A business credit card. A photo of Evelyn. Sixty-three dollars in cash.

And a single dried red poppy.

Sloane didn’t touch the flower. She said, “May I take Robert’s wallet? We’ll return it.”

“Why?” she asked.

“There’s a dried flower in here. I want to discuss it with my superiors.”

“A flower?” Evelyn frowned. “Why would anyone care about a flower?”

“Do red poppies hold any significance to you or Robert?”

She blinked, shook her head, then paused.

“You thought of something?” Sloane pushed.

“Once,” Evelyn said, “years ago, the year after we were married, we drove down to Richmond for my niece’s graduation party. It was Memorial Day weekend and I wanted to leave flowers on my parents’ graves, so on our way home we stopped. There were red poppies on so many of the graves it surprised me. Robert was solemn. He said they were flowers of remembrance for military service—for fallen soldiers—but they had a darker meaning for some.”

“What kind of darker meaning?” Sloane asked. Catherine Jones, the team’s forensic psychiatrist, had explained the symbolism of red poppies, but no one had yet figured out why that specific flower was left with the bodies. Catherine believed it was as a sign of remembrance—that the killers were using the red poppies in a twisted way to tell the victim that they remembered a slight or grievance, or as a sign that they would remember the victim after death.

“He didn’t say,” Evelyn said. “Not specifically. He put his arm around me and said the flowers were a symbol of dark times. Do you think that means anything? Why would he have a red poppy in his wallet?”

“I don’t know. But we’ll find out.”