After the proffer session, Melanie left the agents and the defense attorney waiting with Miles Ortiz for the DNA technicians to arrive, and went back her office to get organized. There was a big team meeting scheduled for late that afternoon, and she planned to report on her new favorite suspect. Dr. Benedict Welch was a major player in a serious narcotics conspiracy, and he also might be linked to the rape and murder of a stripper in Los Angeles over a decade earlier. Okay, she had to admit that part was pure speculation. But what else could those newspaper articles that Miles had stolen from Suzanne Shepard’s apartment mean? Welch hadn’t expressed any surprise when he’d examined the contents of Suzanne’s file on him in front of Miles. That told Melanie that he’d expected all along to find out Suzanne was investigating that old crime. He must have had a guilty conscience. She would have to figure out some way to track down those articles despite the scanty information Miles had provided.
For the first time, Melanie was starting to feel like the investigation was on track. With her other suspects—David Harris, Clyde Williams, and even Rockwell Davis and Miles Ortiz—she’d harbored doubts about whether they were capable of rape and murder. But she didn’t feel that way about Welch, who’d struck her from the start as a classic sex offender. Her suspicions about Welch had seemed to rest on shaky foundations, based on her own personal repulsion at the way he’d touched her. Yes, the complaints she’d seen suggested he’d fondled his patients when they were unconscious. But those allegations hadn’t been substantiated, and didn’t prove he was a cold-blooded killer. But if she could link him to another sex slaying—well, that would be a different story. Then she’d believe that Welch not only had a motive to kill Suzanne Shepard, but the proclivity as well. Melanie wouldn’t forget about her other leads, but she decided to move this one to the top of the list.
The red light on her phone was flashing insistently, reminding her of the disturbing phone call from yesterday, the one where her news conference had been played back at her, set to a sound track of heavy breathing. Melanie ignored the light; she had no time for voice mails now, especially if there was a chance they might upset or distract her. There was too much work to do.
She found Pauline Estrada’s cell number and dialed. The rings had a faraway sound and took a while to go through.
“Hello?” Pauline whispered.
“Pauline, it’s Melanie. We’ve had some big developments in New York today, and I need to hear everything you’ve got on Benedict Welch right away.”
“I can’t talk. I’m in a library and I’m getting dirty looks.”
“Well, go outside. This is urgent.”
After a few minutes of silence and static, Pauline said, “You still there?”
“Yes. What are you doing in a library? You’re still in Tulsa, aren’t you?”
“Of course. I was researching Benedict Welch.”
“Okay, good. I want to hear all about it. Let me give you the thirty-second rundown so you can see how high the stakes are.”
Melanie quickly explained how Julian Hay had arrested Miles, and what Miles had revealed about the meth operation, the burglary, and the contents of the files he’d stolen from Suzanne Shepard’s apartment.
“Benedict Welch is now at the top of my list of suspects,” Melanie concluded.
“There’s only one problem,” Pauline said. “His alibi checks out. At the time of the killing, Welch was stuffing his face in a fancy restaurant with three of his doctor pals from that charity. You know, the one where they do plastic surgery on poor kids?”
“Damn. There goes my theory,” Melanie said.
“Hey, just ’cause he has an alibi doesn’t make him innocent,” Pauline said. “Maybe he had an accomplice. Remember, we were saying maybe Miles and Welch were in it together?”
“Based on the debriefing, I just don’t think Miles committed the murder. He came across as sincere. But we’ll know for sure soon enough. Miles is giving a DNA sample even as we speak.”
“Welch is too fishy to be clean. Listen to this. You ready for my big news?” Pauline asked.
“Yes. Tell me.”
“His name isn’t really Benedict Welch! When you said he looked too young for the pedigree information we had on him, you were right on the money. He’s an impostor. The real Dr. Benedict Welch was a well-known doctor here in Tulsa, but he died in a car accident eleven years ago. I have a certified copy of his death certificate.”
“Jesus. If the man we met isn’t Welch, then who is he?” Melanie asked.
“That I haven’t figured out yet.”
“We need to find out, Pauline. I need to know everything there is to know about this guy.”
“I’m working on it, but it’s Saturday. A lot of offices are closed over here. I have to wait till Monday to get into the archives. My assumption is, our fake Dr. Welch would’ve filed paperwork requesting replacement copies of the medical license, the diplomas, and whatnot to use in his medical practice in New York. I’m hoping to get his true name that way. The other thought I had was to research the real Welch, the one who died. That’s why I’m at the library.”
“Good idea,” Melanie said. “Our Welch must have known the dead guy. Why else would a criminal from New York assume the name of a dead doctor in Tulsa? It can’t have been random. They must have crossed paths somehow.”
“When I’m researching the real Welch, I’ll look for anybody around him who might have a criminal record and be the right age to be the man we met,” Pauline said.
“Perfect. And while you’re at it, here’s something else to look for.” She told Pauline everything Miles had remembered about the news articles on the murder of the stripper in L.A.
“With no victim’s name or anything? That’s shit to go on,” Pauline said.
“I know, but it’s important, Pauline,” Melanie said. “Like you said, even though Welch has a valid alibi, there are just too many suspicious things about him. And the fact that Suzanne Shepard seems to have connected Welch to an old sex slaying is the most suspicious of all.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Call me as soon as you find anything,” Melanie said, and hung up.
She heard a noise, and jerked her head up to find Dan standing in her doorway.
“You scared me,” she said.
“Sorry. You must be on edge because of that creep.”
“I’ve been too busy to think about him, thankfully. But yes.”
He came in and dropped into her guest chair. She hadn’t noticed in the war room how tired he looked, his blue eyes dark and shadowed, his face drawn.
“Is that where you were last night?” she asked. “Looking for the heavy breather? Because you didn’t answer your phone again. I called three times.”
Melanie heard how clingy and accusatory her words sounded, and she blushed for herself. But she couldn’t help it. The bad times with Steve were recent enough to be an open wound.
“Here’s what I got on it so far,” Dan said, flipping open his notebook, ignoring the part of her question that was personal. “The call you received yesterday came from a prepaid cell phone, one that can be purchased for cash at newsstands, drugstores, and the like, so it can’t be traced through subscriber records. The particular ESN number comes back to a batch sold by a chain of newsstands in midtown Manhattan. It’s pretty unlikely that we’ll ever be able to tie the number to an individual purchase.”
“So the stalker is careful,” Melanie said. “He’s taking precautions not to be identified.”
“Yup. I don’t like that.”
“Neither do I. Were you able to get cell-site information?”
“Yeah. The call bounced off a cell tower in Jackson Heights, which means the guy was within about a quarter mile of there when he placed the call.”
“Jackson Heights?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s in Queens, right near Flushing.”
“I know. I thought about that. I thought about the fact that the package of dog shit was mailed from Flushing, and that the call to Suzanne Shepard on the night of her murder was made from a pay phone in Flushing. It’s not hard proof, and it doesn’t convince me that the Butcher and your stalker are one and the same. But it bothers the crap outta me.”
“What do you think I should do?” Melanie asked.
“What can we do? Take extra precautions. I’ll drive you wherever you need to go. We’ll keep investigating. That’s about it.”
Melanie rubbed her eyes. “I’m so confused. How are these things related, if at all? We have this bizarre evidence about Benedict Welch”—Melanie filled Dan in briefly on her conversation with Pauline Estrada—“but does Welch have any connection to the threatening package, or to the call Suzanne received on the night of her death?”
“Not that we’ve seen so far,” Dan said.
“And what about my Web stalker, my obscene phone caller? There’s no evidence that he’s the Butcher. There’s no evidence that he’s Welch, either. He could be anybody. Or he could be related.”
“With him, all I can say is wait and see if he calls again. The more he makes contact, the better our shot at tracking him down.”
“That reminds me,” Melanie said, glancing at the flashing red light on her phone. “I have voice mail.” With Dan here, she felt less nervous about listening to it, and she dialed in and began listening to the message. It was from Bob Adelman.
“Oh my God!” she exclaimed.
“What?”
“David Harris was shot! Hold on, I’ll put it on speaker.”
Adelman’s voice on the tape was distraught. “David was gunned down in a car outside the Feinerman firm last night. He’s at St. Vincent’s. Critical condition. I’m heading over there right now. Call me on my cell. I can’t believe what an idiot I was. I should’ve listened to you, Melanie. I should have listened.”
Melanie turned to Dan in shock. “The Butcher got to him! Oh, Jesus, don’t let him be dead.”
“Take it easy,” Dan said. “Call Adelman. I bet he knows more by now.”
Melanie dialed Adelman’s number. She hadn’t particularly liked David Harris, but she was so afraid for him now that she could hardly breathe.
“You were right, sweetheart. Harris needed protection,” Dan said.
“I didn’t do enough! I should have insisted on the surveillance team whether Harris wanted it or not.”
“It’s his own damn fault. He refused protection.”
They sat there staring at the phone, listening to the rings together. Finally, they got a recording saying Adelman’s cell phone was temporarily out of range.
“He must be in the hospital,” Dan said. “Hospitals block cell service because it interferes with the medical equipment. That’s why you haven’t been able to reach me the last couple nights. Remember? My friend is sick.”
Despite her terrible anxiety about David Harris’s condition, Melanie registered that information and felt a measure of relief on her own account.
“St. Vincent’s, Bob said?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Let’s go.”