Eye of the Beholder

“Disciplinary issues didn’t get my daughter murdered,” said her husband.

Riley didn’t respond. Surely, even in their grief, they could understand the reason for the question.

“I would say emotional issues.” Mrs. Bentley’s eyes grew foggy as she weighed the memory. “She was trying to find her place. She hadn’t yet succeeded.”

“Like any girl her age,” Harland added.

“No, not like any girl.” Mrs. Bentley looked in his direction but not at him. “Any girl isn’t born into such wealth and privilege. It’s a burden that is hard to appreciate. It isn’t easy forming relationships when everyone is thinking about how much money you have, and what that money could do for them.”

It made sense. But Riley wasn’t sure if Natalia was talking about her daughter or herself. It was hard not to detect a rift between husband and wife. He made note that Mrs. Bentley had not even looked at her husband.

“I thought of it as testing boundaries,” she added. “She could be dramatic. But she never hurt anyone but herself.” She looked up at Riley, who clearly wanted something more specific. “She’d become insular. She’d miss class, refuse to eat, refuse to talk to anyone. Things like that. But she never projected anything onto anyone else. And inside, she was as sweet and generous a person as you will ever meet.”

“Enough,” Mr. Bentley said. He turned to the county attorney. “I want this man dead.”

Mullaney nodded. “Of course we’ll seek the death penalty, Harland.”

Bentley then looked at Riley. “You can prove it was this man?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“No plea bargains. I want this man dead.” He looked again at Ed Mullaney, then reached for his wife’s arm. She pulled it away. She could not be placated.

After some words of comfort from the county attorney, Harland Bentley shook his and Riley’s hands and left with his wife. Mullaney’s posture collapsed as soon as they were out of the office. “Christ, you should have seen Nat when she came out of the morgue,” he said. “I thought we’d need a body bag for her.”

Riley nodded. Distraught families had not been his custom as a federal prosecutor. New terrain for him, and he didn’t like it.

Mullaney drew close to Riley. The man knew how to put on a face for a press conference after a homicide, the wide Irish brow furrowing in sobriety. Riley had seen him do it several times. But this was a different face. This was no ordinary murder. This was a mass homicide. And his biggest financial supporter’s daughter was one of the victims.

“I’ve been to their home,” Mullaney said. “I’ve met Cassie. She was a beautiful, sweet girl.” He squeezed Paul’s arm hard. A vein appeared in his forehead.

“Needless to say, Paul,” he said, “we can have no mistakes.”

6

7:45 P.M.

BY THE TIME Riley visited Ellie Danzinger’s off- campus apartment, the technicians had done their work. He believed in visiting the scenes, regardless, and there was every reason to believe that the first crime Terry Burgos had committed took place in this apartment.

The apartment was well appointed, though Riley understood it had come prefurnished, which made sense for a student on a summer rental. There were four apartments in total, each a duplex, facing a courtyard in the center that made a square.

There was no sign of forced entry. There was a window overlooking the street that was closed. Couldn’t rule out the possibility that Burgos had come through the window in the dead of night, but it seemed unlikely. Riley saw it for himself, the dust that had accumulated on the locks on the window. The downstairs contained a living room, bedroom, half bath, and kitchen. All undisturbed. No trail of blood.

“The fun happened upstairs,” Lightner said. They took carpeted stairs up to a great room and a master bedroom. The top floor looked more lived in, a stereo and television in the great room, a tiny kitchenette that seemed to serve more as a bar. Lightner gestured toward the dishwasher. “It was full. Everything inside was washed.”

So nothing could be taken from any of the glasses. But that seemed like a dead end, anyway. There was no chance Ellie Danzinger had invited Terry Burgos in for a drink.

Riley walked slowly into the bedroom. The bed was unmade. The comforter was bunched at the bottom of the bed. There were spatters of blood on the wall and some on the bed, but not much. To the left of the bed, however, was a sizable bloodstain, encrusted on the carpet fibers.

“The M.E. thinks she died on the bed,” Lightner explained. “She was hit over the head, and she bled out right there.” He motioned to the bloodstain. “M.E. says she lost over a liter and a half of blood.”

Riley didn’t know if these details were significant.

Lightner got close to the bed but not too close. “M.E. figures Ellie was lying on the bed, faceup, right? Her head was hanging over the side of the bed. That’s the only explanation.”

“Why is that the only explanation?”

“The amount of blood,” he answered. “Other than ripping her heart out-which we know he did at his house-the only other wound on her body is the blow to the head. A significant blow, but not normally enough for her to bleed that much. Gravity played a part. Her head was lower than the rest of her body.”

Okay. That made sense. “This is relevant?”

Lightner shrugged. “To bleed out that much, Ellie must have been lying there for at least an hour. The M.E. says there’s no way she would have bled that much any quicker.”

Riley thought it over. “So he didn’t move her right away. He waited at least an hour. Why?”

“Maybe for nightfall to come,” Lightner speculated.

“But she’d been in bed.” Riley shook his head. “It would’ve already been night.”

“Yeah. I don’t know.” Lightner looked tired. It had been quite a day for all of them.

“Maybe that’s when he had intercourse with her,” Riley suggested. “It is a bed, after all.” It was quite the image. The intercourse, according to the M.E., had clearly been postmortem.

It was a possibility. But Lightner didn’t know. Nobody knew, yet.

“They find that professor yet?” Riley asked. “The guy who employed Burgos?”

“Albany,” Lightner said. “We’ll find him.” He hit Riley on the arm. It was time to head back to the station. Nobody had any illusions about going home anytime soon.

7