The Perfect Alibi Read online

  “No. She told me she saw a man from her bedroom window. He was about a block away, it was dark, and his face wasn’t illuminated. The best she can do is say that the person she saw had a build similar to Hastings’s.”

  “Do you want me to have a car drive by tonight?”

  “That won’t be necessary. They’re staying with a relative for a while.”

  “Okay. Give Randi my number, and tell her to call if she thinks she’s in danger.”

  “Will do.”

  Marsha had not arrived when Anders walked into Reception, so she went to the nurses’ station on the third floor and had the doctor who was treating Armstrong paged.

  Moments later, a young man wearing a white coat walked down the hall.

  “Dr. Sanchez?” the detective asked as she flashed her ID.

  The doctor nodded. “You’re here about Mr. Armstrong?”

  Anders nodded in turn, and the doctor started walking toward a room that was halfway down the corridor. “Can you tell me what happened to him?” Anders asked.

  “Mr. Armstrong was wandering around downtown at three in the morning. An officer spotted him and brought him here. He told me he didn’t know who he was or what had happened to him, and he didn’t have a wallet or phone we could use to identify him. This morning, he remembered his name and we called his wife.”

  Anders stopped in front of the room. “What injuries does he have?”

  “There’s some superficial damage to his face—a gash on his forehead, a split lip, black eyes, and cuts and abrasions on his nose, but nothing serious.”

  “Does he remember how he was injured?”

  “No. He told me the last thing he remembered before the police found him was flying back from Seattle last Tuesday.”

  “Do you think his injuries caused his amnesia?”

  “Neurological amnesia can result from a brain injury, but I found no sign of that.”

  “Last week, Mr. Armstrong’s partner was beaten to death in an extremely violent manner. I’ve heard that amnesia can be caused by witnessing a traumatic event. If Mr. Armstrong witnessed his partner being bludgeoned to death, could that have brought on the problem?”

  “There is a rare type of amnesia called dissociative amnesia, which is caused by emotional shock or trauma, such as being the victim of a violent crime.”

  “Can a person who develops dissociative amnesia recover lost memories?

  “Loss of memory caused by emotional shock is usually brief.”

  “Can I talk to Armstrong?”

  “Yeah, but I’ll want to be in the room to observe. If I think he’s getting too upset, I’m going to stop the interview.”

  Anders started to open the door to Armstrong’s room. Then she thought of something. “Can I tell Mr. Armstrong that his partner is dead?”

  Dr. Sanchez frowned. “I don’t think that’s a good idea right now. If he remembers, you can ask him what happened. But the news that his partner was murdered would probably upset him.”

  “Okay,” Anders said as she opened the door.

  When the detective walked into the room, Doug stared at her.

  “Good morning, Mr. Armstrong,” Anders said as she walked to the side of the bed and displayed her shield. “How are you feeling?”

  “Not great.”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  Armstrong’s brow knitted and he looked closely at Carrie. “Did you work on one of my cases?”

  “Yes. My name is Carrie Anders, and I’m a detective with the Portland Police Bureau. We’ve met on a few occasions in connection with some of your cases.”

  Doug shook his head. “I’m sorry, but my memory…”

  “No need to apologize. Dr. Sanchez told me that you’re experiencing some memory loss. In spite of that, I’d like to ask you a few questions. Do you feel up to answering them?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Can you tell me how you were injured?”

  “No.”

  “What is the last thing you remember?”

  “I … There was a plane. I was at the airport. I think I flew from Seattle. After that, nothing.”

  Anders was about to continue when Marsha Armstrong rushed into the room. Dr. Sanchez blocked her.

  “Please, I’m Doug’s wife.”

  The doctor looked at Anders. The detective nodded. Sanchez stepped aside. Marsha walked to Doug’s side. She took his hand and teared up.

  “Hey, I’m okay,” he said. “Don’t cry.”

  Marsha wiped her eyes. “When I heard Frank was dead and you disappeared, I thought you were dead, too. I was so scared.”

  Doug stared at Marsha. “What do you mean, Frank is dead?”

  “Oh God, you don’t know?”

  Doug looked bewildered. “How could he be dead? What happened?”

  Dr. Sanchez stepped forward. “Mrs. Armstrong, you don’t want to excite your husband. This is too much information right now.”

  Doug looked desperate. “You can’t just leave it like that. Does Frank’s death have something to do with what happened to me?”

  Anders looked at the doctor.

  “Go ahead,” Dr. Sanchez said.

  “Frank Nylander was killed in his office on Tuesday evening, the night you returned from Seattle,” Carrie said. “We have no idea who killed him. We’re hoping you can help us when your memory returns.”

  Doug closed his eyes and let his head sink into his pillow. “How could this happen?” Doug muttered. “It makes no sense.”

  “This is enough for now,” Dr. Sanchez said. “I’d like everyone to leave me with Mr. Armstrong.”

  “Wait!” Doug said. “I do remember something. Is … Was Blaine Hastings … Is he still in jail?”

  “No,” Carrie answered. “There was a problem with some of the evidence in his case, and he was released the day you flew back to Portland from Seattle.”

  Doug closed his eyes for a moment. Then he looked at Carrie. “My memories are all jumbled. But I’m sure I told Frank that Hastings was out.” Doug’s brow furrowed and he looked upset. “That’s all,” he said after a moment. “I can’t even be sure it happened.”

  “That’s enough for today,” Dr. Sanchez said.

  “I’ll come back tomorrow,” Marsha said after casting an anxious look at her husband. When she and Carrie were in the hall, Marsha said, “I’m sorry. I thought Doug knew that Frank was dead.”

  “He does now.”

  “You don’t think … I didn’t hurt him, did I?”

  “No. We had to tell him sometime.”

  “What did the doctor tell you? Is Doug going to be okay?”

  “Dr. Sanchez says his memory loss is probably temporary. You can see that it’s starting to come back already.”

  “But will he remember who killed Frank?”

  “I hope so. That would make my job a hell of a lot easier.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Roger Dillon parked in a lot next to the Oregon State Medical Examiner’s office. When Rex Kellerman got out of the car, he put on his game face. He hated attending autopsies, but he couldn’t let Dillon and Anders see that he was afraid of making a fool of himself when the medical examiner started cutting into dead flesh.

  Roger Dillon’s phone rang as the detectives and the prosecutor approached the front door. Dillon paused to take the call. He frowned when he disconnected.

  “What’s up?” Anders asked.

  “Frank Nylander left his car in the economy lot at the airport when he flew to New York. Nylander’s secretary assumed that he drove from the airport to the office on Tuesday afternoon and parked in his reserved space in the building garage. On Friday, she remembered that Nylander’s keys were missing, so she checked the space. The car wasn’t in it. The secretary called Mrs. Nylander. The car wasn’t at their house, and it just turned up in a parking lot, two miles from downtown.”

  “This is beginning to look more and more like a robbery gone bad,” Anders said.

  “I
’m starting to lean that way,” Dillon agreed.

  The receptionist told Dr. Sally Grace, the assistant medical examiner, that she had visitors. Moments later, a slender woman with frizzy black hair and sharp blue eyes walked down the hall with a big smile on her face.

  “You guys ready to slice and dice?” she asked.

  “Always,” Rex lied, hoping that he had successfully disguised the dread he felt at the thought of seeing a corpse disemboweled and its skull sawed open.

  Dr. Grace led Kellerman and the detectives to the back of the building, where they put on blue, water-impermeable gowns, masks, goggles, and heavy black rubber aprons. When they entered the autopsy room, Frank Nylander’s naked body lay on one of the two stainless steel autopsy tables that stood on either side of the room. He had been cleaned up, but there was no way to disguise the injuries he’d suffered.

  “Mr. Nylander had some interesting things to tell me,” Dr. Grace said.

  “Oh?” Anders replied.

  “When you were in his office, he was lying facedown, so you only saw the damage to the back of his skull. Those were the blows that caused his death. But he was struck on the front of his face first.”

  Dr. Grace pointed to a large gash over the dead lawyer’s left eye, then at his nose, which had been crushed. “Now, look at his knuckles and the bruises on his forearms.”

  Kellerman studied Nylander’s hands and forearms and saw the bruises and abrasions to which Dr. Grace was referring.

  “I think Mr. Nylander fought with his killer but was stunned by blows to his face inflicted by the stone statute. Based on the blood spatter, I’d guess that the killer drove him to the floor with one or more of the blows to the front of his head, then finished him off while he was facedown on the carpet.”

  “Did you find any trace evidence the killer may have transferred to Nylander?” Kellerman asked.

  Dr. Grace lifted Nylander’s right hand. “I did scrape a minute sample of blood from one of his fingernails. It may not be enough to work with, but that’s not my job. You’ll have to ask the techs at the crime lab.”

  “Anything else—hair, saliva?” Dillon asked.

  Dr. Grace shook her head. Then she flipped on her goggles, pulled up her mask, and picked up an electric saw. “Shall we?”

  Kellerman felt his gut clench.

  * * *

  “Peter?” Kellerman asked when Peter Okonjo answered his call to the Oregon State Crime Lab.

  “Hi, Rex. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m calling about Frank Nylander’s case. I just attended the autopsy, and Sally told me she sent over a small sample of blood that was scraped from one of Nylander’s fingernails.”

  “She did.”

  “Has it told you anything?”

  “It was a microscopic amount, Rex. Way too small to work with.”

  “And you didn’t find anything else at the crime scene we can use to identify the killer?”

  “There were a ton of fingerprints, but they all matched the people who work at the firm.”

  “So, no one who didn’t belong?”

  “No, but there were no prints on the statue, so the killer may have worn gloves.”

  “Okay,” Kellerman said, unable to hide his disappointment. “Let me know if you come up with anything.”

  Kellerman was just about to hang up when Okonjo said, “There is something we might try with the blood.”

  “Oh?”

  “There’s a lab in town that uses low-template DNA analysis to determine genetic probabilities when analyzing minuscule amounts of genetic material that other methods can’t interpret.”

  “Okay,” said Kellerman, who had no idea what the forensic expert was talking about.

  “I don’t remember the name of the lab offhand, but I can look it up and see if they can do something with it. It’s a long shot.”

  “Try it. We’ve got nothing to lose. And Peter, if they can analyze the sample, have the lab call me with the result. No sense making you act as a middle man.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  After Blaine Hastings Jr. went on the run, life at Robin’s condo fell into a routine. In the morning, Jeff would drive Robin to her gym or the office. In the evening, he would drive her home. After checking to make sure no one was inside Robin’s apartment, Jeff would whip up a delicious meal. Then Jeff and Robin would read, work, or watch TV. When they got tired, Robin would go to sleep in her bedroom and Jeff would sack out on the couch.

  “This has gotten very domestic,” Robin joked one night when they were seated side by side on the couch, watching a movie.

  Jeff smiled. “We have started acting like an old married couple.”

  Robin returned the smile. “That’s not so bad, is it?”

  They looked at each other, and Jeff stopped smiling. Then he looked away.

  Robin put a hand on his arm. “I really appreciate what you’re doing.”

  “Hastings is dangerous,” Jeff said.

  Robin took a deep breath. “Vanessa called this afternoon, right before we left the office. They think Hastings is probably out of the country.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Robin looked directly at Jeff. “I was afraid you’d stop staying with me.”

  When Jeff didn’t say anything, Robin said, “You don’t have to sleep on the couch tonight. You can stay with me.”

  Jeff looked nervous. “We discussed this in Atlanta, Robin.”

  “I almost died in Atlanta. When I asked you to make love to me, you were right when you said it was my adrenaline talking. It’s not now. I care about you, Jeff. And I think you care, too, or you wouldn’t be here every night, protecting me.”

  “An office romance is a bad idea,” Jeff said, sounding like a man torn between duty and desire.

  “It can be, but it doesn’t have to be. Making love isn’t a trivial decision for me. I don’t sleep around, and I don’t think you do. If you care about me as much as I do for you, you shouldn’t be sleeping on the couch tonight.”

  Jeff hesitated.

  Robin gathered her courage. Then she leaned into Jeff and kissed him.

  Jeff tensed for a second. Then he said, “God damn it, Robin,” and he crushed her in his arms.

  * * *

  Robin woke up with a big smile. She’d wondered what Jeff would be like in bed, and now she knew.

  “Wipe that stupid grin off your face,” Jeff said.

  “Who put the stupid look on my face, Mr. Hodges?” Robin said as she reached under the covers.

  Jeff slapped her hand. “Stop that. You have to be in court at nine, and we don’t have time for any more debauchery.”

  “Not even for a quickie?” Robin asked with an evil smile.

  “Cut it out or I’ll dial 911.”

  Robin faked a frown. “You’re no fun.”

  Jeff kissed her and rolled out of bed.

  Robin had been relieved to find out that the explosion that had scarred Jeff’s face had not impaired his other functions, and she’d been right when she guessed that he would be a considerate lover. Actually, he’d been much more than considerate. He’d been downright accommodating.

  PART FOUR

  OCCAM’S RAZOR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  A month after Frank Nylander’s murder, Blaine Hastings Jr. was still a fugitive. Hastings or an unknown burglar were the popular choices for the person who had murdered Frank Nylander, but Rex Kellerman was not satisfied that Hastings had murdered Nylander. His focus had always been on Douglas Armstrong, who still claimed to have no memory of where he was or what had happened on the evening his law partner was killed. Then, just as Nylander’s murder was about to become a cold case, Kellerman received a call with some very interesting news.

  “Is this Rex Kellerman?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Greg Nilson with Nilson Forensics. Peter Okonjo told me to call if I got a result on that blood sample he sent me.”

  “What blood sampl
e is that?”

  “Mr. Okonjo said it was in a murder case. The victim was a Frank Nylander.”

  Kellerman sat up. “What did you find?”

  “Well, it’s inconclusive, but the DNA might be a match for a man named Douglas Armstrong.”

  Now Kellerman was really interested. “Mr. Nilson, I have to be in court in fifteen minutes. Do you have some time later today to talk about this? It’s very important.”

  “I’m free after two.”

  “That’s perfect. Why don’t I buy you coffee, and you can walk me through what you did?”

  * * *

  Kellerman had suggested meeting at Patty’s Cafe, a locally owned coffeehouse on the outskirts of downtown. Ten minutes after he sat down in a booth in the back, a thin young man with sandy hair walked in. The man halted at the entrance and looked around.

  Kellerman raised a hand, and the man walked to the booth. “Thanks for coming, Mr. Nilson.”

  “It’s Doctor, actually.”

  “Sorry,” Kellerman apologized. “What’s your field?”

  “Computer science, but I’ve studied biology and genetics.”

  “Impressive. When did you start your company?”

  “Seven months ago. I spent a few years in the crime lab in Cleveland, Ohio, and decided to move to Portland to provide forensic services.”

  Kellerman sensed that he was hearing a sales pitch. “How’s it going?”

  Nilson smiled. “Slow, like most start-ups. That’s why I was excited when Mr. Okonjo called. This gives us a chance to get our name out there.”

  Kellerman had done some research on Nilson Forensics and its owner in the time between taking Nilson’s call and coming to this meeting. He knew that Nilson had sunk his life savings into the business and that he was shy on customers to the point where he might have to declare bankruptcy.

  “Dr. Nilson, can you explain what your lab does that the Oregon State Crime Lab can’t do? And please remember that I’m an idiot when it comes to science.”

  “How much do you know about DNA?”

  “It’s come up in other cases, but I’m no expert.”