Split (Chapter-14)

A woman in a flowing white robe walked across the river toward him, her bare feet gliding weightlessly on the surface of the water. She carried a large brass bowl filled with red roses. Her face was hidden within the folds of an oversized hood.

Ian stood on the shore, awaiting her approach, feeling anxious and excited. It seemed he’d been waiting a long time, maybe his entire life, for the opportunity to touch her. The longing for her filled his chest with a deep, wrenching ache.

Her footsteps should have been bringing her closer, but the waves continuously carried her away from him. He called out, asking her to hurry, to run, but she showed no sign of hearing him. His frustration grew until he could no longer stand there, impotent, waiting.

He stepped into the river. The frigid water instantly soaked his pants, filled his shoes. He waded deeper. The waves rose higher, splashing his face, blurring his vision. Forced to swim, he kicked and sputtered and swallowed gulps of dirty water. He struggled to keep sight of her, craning his neck above the waves.

Without revealing her face, she removed a single rose from her bowl and extended the flower. He reached for it, sucking in more water. His wet clothes had to weigh about a million pounds. They dragged him down.

When he grasped the rose's stem between his fingertips, a thorn pricked his thumb. A single bead of blood seeped out and dripped into the river. The water around him instantly turned red. A river of blood. Thick and churning, it swallowed him whole.

Ian woke with a start.

His shoulder was twisted painfully beneath his body. Pins and needles radiated down his arm and into his numb hand. He rolled onto his back, groaning.

Another strange dream.

Before he could spend any time processing it, his telephone rang.

“McDaniel here.”

“Hi, babe. I’m glad I caught you.” Janice sounded much too perky for this early morning hour.

He glanced at the alarm clock. Eight forty-five. Oops. He overslept. The chief would not be happy.

“What do you want, Janice? I’m running late.” He swung his legs out from under the bedclothes.

“I wanted to ask you if you’re still coming up here to visit me?” She put on her cutesy-little-girl voice. It'd always worked for her in the past. “It’s snowing up here today.”

Ian looked out the window. A few scattered flakes blew past. The sky was angry, the color of steel. He felt the same way.

“No. No fucking way, Janice. I’m done.”

There was silence on the line.

He had never spoken to her this way before. No matter how tired and frustrated, he had always reined in his temper. He played the role of the devoted husband, coming home every night, resisting the temptation to follow Angelica up to her bed where he knew he’d be welcome. He still wore his wedding ring, for Christ’s sake. He grasped it now and wrestled it off his finger. The skin underneath was white: the ghostly tattoo of a dead marriage.

“Honey buns?” Janice was wheedling now. Why she still wanted to be with him was beyond his comprehension. He guessed it didn’t have much to do with him or their marriage. She just couldn’t stand the thought of rejection.

“No. No honey. No buns. No more, Janice. I just took off my wedding ring. We are over.”

He heard her sniff, but he wasn’t buying that, either. He had been a pawn in her little game for way too long. Now he was flipping over the whole fucking chessboard and walking away.

“I know what you did. I know our son wasn’t mine. You were already pregnant when we met. Yeah, I finally figured it out. A little late, but I got there in the end. Tell me I’m wrong.”

The sniffing grew louder, but she didn’t answer.

“Goodbye, Janice. Don’t call me again.”

He hung up the phone with a shaking hand.

It felt good.

Scary. Off balance.

But really good.

He should have cut her loose years ago. In fact, he should have refused to marry her. But that was dirty river water under the bridge.

He opened the drawer to his nightstand, tossed his wedding ring in, and headed for the shower.

Thirty minutes later, he entered his office. Although he had slept for more than eight hours, possibly a record in the midst of a multiple homicide case, he felt as if he'd just walked out of the station a few minutes ago. He still had three dead women on his hands and no new leads.

The ME wouldn’t have any information from Ann Gottlieb’s autopsy before the afternoon. And the preliminary forensics report told him nothing. Except the only fingerprints on the brass bowl were a match for Ann herself, and the round spot on the side was blood. Whose blood? He’d have to wait for the results on that, too.

At first glance, this evidence seemed to confirm the accidental death theory. But if Ann was carrying the bowl, slipped on the rug, and fell down the stairs, would she also have had time to hit herself on the head? It wasn’t out of the question. Freak accidents happen. But he believed the blood on the bowl pointed to something more sinister.

Out of all his suspects, who would have been tall enough and strong enough to whack a five foot nine, solidly built woman in the head and knock her down the stairs?

Without a doubt, Lou Farina, the bike shop owner, was the strongest suspect. Both in terms of his history of violence against women, and in terms of his physicality. He was short, but wiry and muscular, like a boxer.

The only problem with this suspect was the poisoning.

Ian could see the tightly wound misogynist picking up the brass bowl and bashing Ann in the head. But he couldn’t picture the guy picking herbs and blending them into a tea. And he definitely couldn’t imagine an intelligent woman like Beth Strauss then brewing such a tea and drinking it.

He had plenty of tall men and women on his suspect list. Kyle Lydecker, Neil Lowenstein, Cornelius Nash, Jewel Ariel, Laureen Tallman, Marjory Barstow, and Eli Greenberg all stood over five foot nine. All easily tall enough to hit Ann in the head. But he didn’t think height was the crucial factor in determining who killed his three victims.

His mind kept circling back to the brass bowl. Maybe if he knew more about that specific bowl, it would shake loose the memory of where he'd seen a matching one.

He dialed the forensics lab over in Tarrytown and asked to speak with Todd Henley. Todd was the guy who researched significant artifacts and objects found at crime scenes.

“Todd? Ian McDaniel here. Have you had a chance to look at that brass bowl we sent over last night?”

“Hi, Ian. Yeah, I had a look at it. You saw from the report that the lab confirmed the presence of blood, right?”

“I got that. I need to know more about the bowl itself. What can you tell me?” Ian grabbed his pen and bounced it on top of his yellow legal pad.

“It’s a Tibetan singing bowl. Hand hammered by Buddhist monks. Imported from Nepal. The way to make it sing is to use a thick wooden dowel and stir, with a decent amount of pressure, around the outside of the bowl.”

“Made in Nepal, huh? Where would someone purchase one around here?”

“I’m sure you could find some in the city. Probably a bunch of places. Actually, I’d be surprised if you didn’t have a store that sells them in Nyack. You’ve got some funky shops over there.”

Ian immediately wondered if he had seen the bowl at Liberty Crafts. “Thanks a lot, Todd. I’ll be in touch.”

Knowing how Chief White also appreciated him staying in touch, he jogged up to her office to check in. He found her on the phone, as usual. Sounded like the mayor again.

Pointing to one of the armchairs, she gestured for him to take a seat. “We’re looking into it.” She rolled her eyes up to the ceiling for Ian’s benefit. “Of course, Mr. Mayor. You’ll be the first to know.”

She hung up the phone and pinned Ian with her slit-eyed glare. “You need to put an end to this shit. Nyack’s storeowners are whining to the mayor about a decline in their Christmas sales already. You know this is the biggest shopping season of the year. If we don’t keep the money rolling in, some of us could be out of a job.”

Ian threw his hands up in the air. “It hasn’t even been four days, Chief. I’m doing everything I can think of.”

“Well, think of something else. The mayor is climbing up my ass. You know he’s just itching to find a reason to fire me.”

“He would never.” No matter what the mayor might personally prefer, he knew the public demanded diversity. And hiring a female African American Chief of Police went a long way toward satisfying the public. Besides, Chief White was good at her job. To distract her, he added: “I’m trying to track down the bowl that was used to hit Ann Gottlieb in the head.”

“You think her killer brought it to the scene?” The chief sounded doubtful.

“That’s unlikely,” he admitted. “But I know I’ve seen that same bowl somewhere. I have a feeling if I can retrace my steps, I’ll discover who is behind these attacks.”

The chief shooed him. “Get out there and start tracing, then.”