Summit Lake Page 9

  “Becca’s chart was unsigned?”

  “Twice,” Peter said.

  “What was changed?”

  “That’s impossible to tell. I can only see that it was signed the night she was brought to the ER, and then unsigned the day after and again two days later.”

  “But you can’t see what was changed?”

  “No,” Peter said. “And I’m curious because of what I found with the autopsy.”

  “Okay,” Kelsey said slowly, mulling over the idea that Becca’s medical records could have been altered. She consulted her notes. “Becca was brought to the ER and pronounced dead the next morning. When was the autopsy done?”

  “The autopsy was a little trickier,” Peter said. “Since the girl’s death was ruled a homicide, the hospital pathologist here in town didn’t perform the autopsy. It was done by the Buchanan County medical examiner.” Peter pulled more notes from his bag and placed them on the bar. “Autopsy was performed the next day by Dr. Michelle Maddox, but I couldn’t manage to get a copy of the actual report. It hasn’t been released yet. The best I could do was a synopsis of some of the findings.”

  “And?”

  “Some general external findings,” Peter said, running a finger down the page, “confirming strangulation, including petechia to the lids and subconjunctival hemorrhages.”

  Kelsey raised her eyebrows.

  “Bleeding in the whites of the eyes,” Peter said. “When blood flow is restricted during strangulation, the pressure inside the blood vessels increases. This causes small blood vessels—capillaries—to burst. This is visible in the eyes. And, internally, also the lungs.” Peter looked back to his notes. “External exam also noted bruising to the neck, with dramatic soft tissue damage and fractures to the hyoid bone and cricoid cartilage. All common in strangulations. Internal examination of the laryngeal skeleton confirmed the tracheal fracture.” Peter turned the page. “A tuft of missing hair on the back of her scalp and a large subdural hematoma at the base of her skull.”

  “The bastard hit her with something?”

  “No, the missing tuft was pulled manually, based on follicle absence and random patterns of the hair loss. The bleeding is believed to be the result of a fall.” Peter shrugged. “She stumbled backward, I guess, and hit her head when she landed.” He went back to the page. “Also, two dislocated knuckles on the victim’s right hand.”

  “So she went down swinging,” Kelsey said.

  “And scratching. There was skin under her fingernails.” Peter looked to the notes again. “There were also contusions. . . .” He paused. “I don’t know how much you know about this case.”

  “I’ve just started digging, so I know only what I’ve learned in the last couple of days.”

  “And you didn’t know the victim?”

  “No. Why?”

  “There were contusions to the victim’s vaginal area, indicating rape.”

  Kelsey slowly sat back on her stool and crossed her arms. “I didn’t . . . I was unaware Becca had been raped.”

  “Sorry to be so blunt.”

  Kelsey shook her head. “It’s fine. I was under the impression it was a simple homicide.”

  “I’m not surprised you didn’t know about the rape. Not many people do. It’s not mentioned in the medical records from the ER, and if it was, it’s been removed. And this record here—the Report of Investigation, as it’s called, created by the county medical examiner—is a partial synopsis of the autopsy and is supposed to be public record. So presumably any reporter should be able to talk to the medical examiner or pathologist to get a copy of this.”

  “But?”

  “The county hasn’t released it yet.”

  Kelsey made some notes. “Not unreasonable. They have six weeks, right?”

  “They do, but I managed to get my hands on the official synopsis that’s set for release and it doesn’t include the assumption of rape.”

  Kelsey cocked her head. “The Report of Investigation that will be released is different from the one you found?”

  “Exactly,” Peter said.

  “So how did you get this copy?”

  “I’ve got a contact at the Buchanan County Government Center. He did me a favor.”

  “Why would they be hiding that Becca was raped?”

  “Not sure. Probably just delaying the information until they get a better handle on the investigation. But the Report of Investigation is always the first document released, then the ME is allowed to release an amended version some weeks later. Then the final—formal—autopsy report after that, which includes definitive cause of death and toxicology reports.”

  “I’ve been there before,” Kelsey said. “Later means when no one’s looking any longer.”

  “No reporters, anyway,” Peter said.

  “We never stop looking, but the public loses interest and that’s what they want.” She remembered her conversation with Commander Ferguson, about Becca’s father running for a spot on the bench. That his only daughter had secretly married and was then raped is something he might want to keep from his constituents. Kelsey went back to her notes and scribbled for a minute. “According to the synopsis you have there, did they find anything on the body?”

  “Yes,” Peter said. “Semen, hair, skin cells. Dr. Maddox believes some of the hair was from a beard.”

  “How can she determine that?”

  “Some of the hair specimens contained the bulb, or root, suggesting they were pulled out during the struggle. Some were long, and they were determined to be from the perpetrator’s scalp. Others were short. Based on their length, and the fact that they had full shafts connected to the root, they were determined to come from facial hair.”

  Kelsey made notes about long hair and beards while Peter talked.

  “Also fibers,” Peter said. “Presumably from a wool coat.”

  “So the attack happened shortly after he entered the stilt house.”

  “Yeah,” Peter said. “Never took off his coat.”

  “So found on the body was everything they need for a conviction?”

  “From the fluid and hair recovery, it would be an easy DNA match, yes.”

  “If they had anyone to match it to,” Kelsey said. She went back to her notes and studied them for a minute. “Ever heard of a protective father suppressing information?”

  “You mean about this being a rape?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’d have to be quite powerful to do that. And very connected on top of it.”

  “William Eckersley is both. A big-time lawyer who’s gearing up to be a judge. He has both money and political clout.”

  “I don’t doubt it. Clearance on the electronic medical records has been elevated, and the records themselves have been changed or at least reopened. Filing of the autopsy synopsis report will be abbreviated, and the full autopsy report is out there somewhere and sure to be very delayed.”

  “Out there where?”

  “Don’t know. But Dr. Maddox would know, and probably the state detectives also.”

  “What are the chances I could get my hands on that full report?”

  Peter smiled. “Not very good.”

  Kelsey shook her head. “I’d love to see it.”

  “So would I, now that I know something’s up.”

  Kelsey felt an adrenaline rush. She always did when she knew a story had some bite. “Your friend who helped you get the Report of Investigation synopsis, you think he could help with the actual autopsy?”

  Peter thought a moment. “I doubt he’d want to get involved with stealing an autopsy report.” He shrugged. “I’ll ask around and see what I can do.”

  “Thanks for all your help.” Kelsey packed up her things and stuffed them in her purse. “It’s been eye opening.”

  “Keep me posted on what you find. Now I’m curious.”

  “You too,” Kelsey said.

  It was close to 10:00 p.m. when she made it back to the Winchester. She called Penn Courtne
y and left a message. His plan of sequestering her up in the mountains to chase a story that didn’t exist had been foiled, she explained to his voice mail. She’d stumbled onto something here in Summit Lake, and her investigational radar told her it was something interesting. She hung up the phone and spent the rest of the night poring through her notes and rereading the new information she gathered about Becca Eckersley. A story was forming in her mind. It was too early to see the entire arc, but she’d been through the process before. From nothing, a small narrative was taking form about Becca Eckersley’s life and death. There were many gaps in the story and hundreds of unanswered questions. But the process was working and Kelsey knew, like a train moving downhill, there was no stopping this story from making it to the page.

  She took her computer and notes to the balcony. The night air was cool and it helped clear her mind. The Winchester Hotel stood at the north end of Maple Street, and from her third-story balcony Kelsey’s view spanned through town to St. Patrick’s Church on the south end, whose façade was lighted by upward-shooting spotlights that broke through the dark night and illuminated the bleached white stone in V-shaped cascades. Lampposts stood on all four corners of intersections and brightened the streets. The maple trees running down the middle island were budding with early spring, and the street was littered with old leaves from fall. A lake breeze swept across town and stirred them in funnels.

  To the east Kelsey saw the lighthouse sitting on a point somewhere on the other side of the water, its powerful light cutting through the darkness. Her gaze moved to the stilt houses running into the shallow water of Summit Lake. She stared at the Eckersley home for a while, thinking of Becca and all she went through in that house. A sanctuary, warm and safe, turned into Hell. Kelsey pulled out Commander Ferguson’s file and riffled through the pages. She found the inventory list itemizing the evidence collected at the Eckersleys’ home the night Becca was killed. The list was long and tortuous to read. It included such items as:

  E-1 Constitutional Law textbook, open on kitchen floor

  E-2 Apple MacBook, open, facedown on kitchen floor, screen cracked

  E-3 (5)Notebook pages, scattered on kitchen floor, handwritten study notes

  E-4 iPod and speakers

  E-5 (1)Heavy sock/slipper in living room, size small

  The list went on for two pages—a tedium of items written in a man’s ugly chicken scratch. Kelsey was so interested she read the list twice to make sure. Nowhere on the pages was there mention of a journal.

  Without being aware of the passing hours, Kelsey noticed it was approaching midnight. She was suddenly cold and tired. She packed up her research and carried her laptop inside where she climbed under the covers. As she drifted off, she was restless, tossing and turning as her mind worked. When she finally made it to sleep, a vivid dream placed her inside Becca Eckersley’s home. She walked through the kitchen—floated really, it took no effort at all. On the kitchen island was a textbook and notes and an open computer. But something else, too. A hard-covered binder, small and compact. Becca’s journal? Yes, of course. Kelsey reached for it, hoping to page through it and find the answers to all her questions. But her movements were congested, and the harder she tried the farther away she floated. Finally there were three loud knocks on the mudroom door. She floated to the door, pulling it open to reveal Becca’s killer. But she found only darkness outside. Then something. A flash of light from the lakeside of the house. Kelsey ran to the patio deck and saw the lighthouse across the lake. Then she heard the pounding of feet as someone ran along the dock. When she turned, she saw Peter Ambrose jogging up the dock and into the night. When she looked back to the house, a faceless man was standing in the shadows. She tried to scream but could only manage to exhale heavily. Then she ran. The slow gallop of running through knee-high water. She was back in Miami now, attempting to run along her jogging path. The path by the water she took each morning. The path through the woods, where her life had gone to Hell. She felt his presence and tried to move faster. In a flash, he came at her from the woods, crunching over twigs and leaves. Her breathing became erratic, hyperventilating just as the man grabbed her. It was enough to startle her awake.

  She sat up in bed, her lungs frantic as if she’d actually been running. Her thumping heart so palpable she heard it in her ears. An every-night occurrence at first, the dreams had subsided of late, absent from her entire time in Summit Lake. Until tonight. Until she discovered Becca was raped. Now, her nightmare stomped on the muddy bottom and clouded Kelsey’s mind with all the fears from that morning in the woods she’d been working so hard to settle.

  Kelsey spent that first month inside her home. She hadn’t been beyond her locked door but for a few times before she forced herself back to the office, knowing if she stayed in her house any longer, she might never leave. Healing might come with time, as the doctors told her, but the longer she waited the more far off recovery felt. Closure would only come, Kelsey knew, when she decided to chase it. And learning about Becca’s rape brought her own ordeal back, dangled it in front of her nose and dared her to go after it. Hearing the details from Peter—the first man other than Penn whom she’d spoken to in weeks—added to her angst.

  She lay back down, the pillow absorbing her head, and closed her eyes. Sleep never came.

  CHAPTER 13

  Becca Eckersley

  Summit Lake

  December 22, 2010

  Fourteen months before her death

  The flight from DC to Charlotte was smooth and quiet. Becca slept with her head on Jack’s shoulder while Jack’s mind worked on the idea that his best friend was in love with his girlfriend. They may have been able to conquer the secrecy of their relationship, had they come clean last summer when everyone returned for senior year. But now, Jack knew, months later and with this new revelation about Brad, their relationship would be much harder to explain.

  Becca’s parents met them at arrivals, and they threw their bags in the back of the Escalade. Jack stood in the background while Becca hugged her parents.

  “Mom and Dad,” Becca said, giddy with excitement. “This is Jack.”

  “Hi, Jack,” Becca’s mom said as she hugged him.

  Jack shook Mr. Eckersley’s hand and they all climbed into the Escalade.

  “Thanks for having me for Christmas,” Jack said as they pulled away.

  “You’re very welcome,” Mrs. Eckersley said.

  “So, Jack,” Mr. Eckersley said. “Becca tells us you’re looking at some very impressive law schools.”

  “Same ones as Becca. Mostly.”

  “He’s already heard from Stanford,” Becca said, looking at Jack and smiling with those perfect teeth.

  “Is that right?”

  Jack nodded in the backseat while he gave Becca a dirty look. His acceptance to Stanford was something he told only Becca, but no one else. He hadn’t even told his own parents yet, and he definitely didn’t want to discuss law school during this trip. He knew William Eckersley was a mega-lawyer with his own power firm and was rumored to be heading for the bench. Having no real interest in the profession, Jack wanted to avoid law talk altogether. He had no intention of slogging to work every day in a stiff suit, trying to outperform the other stiff suits who were trying to outperform him. “Yeah, I just heard last week.”

  “Early,” Mr. Eckersley said.

  “They offer a few early admissions to some of their top prospects,” Becca said.

  “That’s not exactly true,” Jack said. “You have to have . . . I just had a good recommendation.”

  “From Senator Ward—of Maryland—who Jack worked for over the summer. He’s a Stanford alum.”

  “Well, congratulations,” Mrs. Eckersley said. “Are you taking the offer?”

  “I’m not sure about California.”

  “He doesn’t get excited about it because he doesn’t even want to be a lawyer. He wants to write,” Becca said.

  “Write what?” Mr. Eckersley asked.


  Jack widened his eyes at Becca. They agreed not to talk about any of this with her parents. His counselor already told him his career choice was suicide and that if he got into a top-notch law school he should work hard and take a big-firm job after graduation. His counselor pulled out graphs of the salary projections for Ivy League law graduates and told Jack exactly how much he should be earning in five years. Trying to be a speechwriter was wildly risky, his counselor told him. He went on for fifteen minutes about other kids who missed opportunities and where they were now in life. Jack wanted to ask which opportunity his counselor missed along the way that stuck him now in a ten-by-ten office pushing papers and steering persuadable kids away from their dreams.

  “Political speeches, maybe,” Jack said. “Becca and the rest of our friends are going to law school also, so I’m sure one of them will end up in Congress. Maybe they’ll hire me.” He smiled at Becca.

  “Brad’s the only one who wants to run for office. Gail and I will open our own practice and be millionaires before thirty.”

  “Keep talking like that and you’ll give me a heart attack,” Mr. Eckersley said.

  “Don’t worry, Daddy, I’ll add the third Eckersley to the firm’s name.”

  “So where does this aspiration for political speechwriting come from?” Mr. Eckersley asked Jack.

  “I interned for a couple of summers back in Wisconsin for the governor’s campaign and had the opportunity to write a bit here and there. And then the last three summers at a program on Capitol Hill.”

  “He wrote the draft for Senator Ward when he addressed Congress about military spending,” Becca said.

  “Really?” Mrs. Eckersley said. “Milt Ward?”