Margot Whitten lived in a yellow split-level with brown shutters. Two large maples bordered a short blacktop drive. Next door was another split-level that was identical except for its color and landscaping. It had once been the home of a woman named Sandra Lutrell—the first of the Anarchist’s latest victims. Margot had witnessed a man in the alley that night.
As they pulled up in front of Margot’s home, Vasques received a phone call. Judging by her reactions, Marcus knew the news wasn’t good.
“They found Jessie Olague’s body,” she said. “This time he did the deed in an empty house on the south side of town. Same as the others. Maybe we should put this off and head over there instead?”
Marcus considered it for a moment but replied, “It’s your call, but I’d let the cops do their jobs and process the scene. We can head over after we talk to Mrs. Whitten.”
Vasques nodded, and the three of them walked up the snow-covered sidewalk to the front door of the split-level. Margot had been expecting them, and she quickly opened the door and ushered them in from the cold. Vasques made the introductions, and she and Andrew sat down around a glass coffee table on a white floral-patterned couch. Margot sat on the edge of a tan recliner while Marcus remained standing and examined the room.
A glass display case filled with Elvis memorabilia sat along one wall of the living room. The knick-knacks and souvenirs weren’t of any real value, but Margot had amassed quite a collection. A little table next to the display case held a phone with a lifelike Elvis figure in a gold jacket mounted on top.
“I’ve seen these,” Marcus said, gesturing to the phone. “He dances when you get a call, right?”
Margot smiled shyly and scrunched up her nose. She had short white hair and was well built. Not fat, but thick. “And it plays Blue Suede Shoes.”
“You’ve got a nice collection. I’m a collector myself. Movie memorabilia, mostly. But I like yours better. Mine’s all stuff that I’ve bought on the Internet. But I can tell that every item in this case has a story behind it. That’s what really makes a good collection. Not just the stuff, but the memories that go with it.”
“Thank you,” Margot said. “It’s a hobby. You know, I was there at his last concert.”
“June 26, 1977. Indianapolis.”
Margot’s eyes lit up. “That’s right. I’ll never forget it. I got to hear the last song he ever played on stage. Can’t Help Falling in Love.”
Marcus walked over and sat down on the love seat next to Margot. “Can you tell us about that night, Mrs. Whitten?”
“The concert?”
He grinned. “No, ma’am. The night you saw the man in the alley.”
“Oh, right.” Her expression turned somber. “I want to help in any way I can. Sandra was a very nice young woman. I still can’t believe … I’m sorry. I really don’t remember much.”
“That’s okay. Anything you can recall could help.”
“Well, I work as a garbage woman so I keep pretty odd hours. I typically wake up between two and three in the morning. Then I’ll fix myself some breakfast, watch some TV before work. Anyway, that morning I saw a man park in the alley behind Sandra’s house.”
“Do you remember anything about the man? Anything distinctive?” Marcus wasn’t taking any notes. He’d never needed to.
“Pretty average size. He was dressed all in black or dark blue, but I couldn’t see his face. I was suspicious at first, but he knew right where she kept her key. I figured he was just some new boyfriend.” Tears filled her eyes. “How else could he know about her key? He just didn’t act like he was out of place. But I …” She looked away, and the tears rolled down her cheeks.
Marcus leaned forward and placed a hand on her shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault. I know there’s nothing I can say to really convince you of that. Guilt’s funny that way, but—trust me—you couldn’t have known. That man is the bad guy, not you. He’s the one to blame for this. The only one. But if you can remember anything else about him and help us find him, I promise I’ll make sure he never hurts anyone else.”
“I’m sorry. I just … I did look at his license plate, but I didn’t write anything down. It started with an M or N, but I can’t really remember.”
“What did the car look like? Did you recognize the model?” Andrew asked from the couch.
“It was dark. Like I told the others, I just don’t know.”
Marcus decided to change tactics. “Let me ask you this, Margot. What were you doing at the moment when you saw him?”
“I was making breakfast.”
“Cooking?”
“Yeah, I was frying a couple eggs. Why?”
“This may seem strange, but would you mind cooking some eggs for me? I’d like you to try and re-enact exactly what you were doing when you saw him. Most people don’t realize it, but smell has a powerful bond to memory. Sometimes doing the same thing, the same smells and sounds, will help you to remember things that you didn’t even realize you had seen.”
“Anything to help.”
Margot’s kitchen also served as her dining room. The whole room was white with red accents. White cabinets, red handles, red countertop. White table, red chairs. Red and white knick-knacks on white shelves. White curtains with red dots.
The room made Marcus feel like he was drowning in blood, but he supposed that wasn’t the reaction a normal person would feel. To most people, red was just a color.
Margot took a skillet from a white cabinet and cracked two eggs.
“Just go through everything as you normally would. Exactly like you did that night. Try to imagine that you’re back there in that moment, watching him pull up and get out of the car. Try to recall every detail.”
Her brow furrowed in concentration. She closed her eyes, opened them, and closed them again. “Okay, the guy pulls up. The car’s dark, blue or black maybe. I don’t know.”
“Don’t force it. Take your time.”
She sighed and was quiet for a long moment. Then she added, “The brake lights slanted inward and down, and there was a silver emblem above the license plate.”
Silence stretched out again. The smell of sizzling grease wafted up from the stove. Marcus didn’t rush her.
Margot suddenly turned her head quickly toward him and got very animated and excited. She was almost bouncing. “I remember. I remember. The license plate was MJA 4 … and then maybe a 59 or a 69. But I’m not sure about those last two digits. Does that help?”
“You did great. That’s more than enough for us to track the plate.”