On King Street now, we’re retracing our steps from the night before, the fog billowing as if we’re driving through clouds.
“Seriously?” Marino says. “The more I hear, the worse it gets. Who drowns while they’re jogging? What was she doing in that area of the park at night? Why did she leave the running path? I don’t buy that something was wrong with her, and she ended up down by the water because maybe she didn’t know what she was doing.”
“She suffered from temporal lobe epilepsy, likely was born with it,” I inform him. “The theory is she had convulsions induced by exercise, lost consciousness on the shore and drowned. And yes, she might have gotten disoriented or confused but that’s not why she’s dead. I believe she had some help.”
“How does her having a seizure fit with someone attacking her?”
“If someone ambushed her, the stress of that alone could have brought on a seizure,” I reply as I imagine her running in terror, trying to get away. “That’s what I think happened, and she started having convulsions. Her attacker was interrupted by something he didn’t expect.”
“Then what do you think he did?”
“I think he slammed her head against the ground at least three times and drowned her. She had a broken tooth, a fractured skull, and three discrete brain injuries accompanied by hemorrhages. Also, what look like fingertip bruises on her neck, wrists, upper arms, and broken fingernails,” I recall, “and her knees were contused.”
“None of it was old I don’t guess,” he says.
“Based on what I saw in her photographs, the bruises were bright red, probably occurring at or around the time of death.”
“Crap.”
“I also don’t believe for a minute that her head injuries were due to a seizure. That would be most unusual.”
“I didn’t know the part about her having epilepsy but I assume that’s the medical problem I’ve heard mentioned,” Marino says. “I’ve not been able to find much about her case in the news, and Lucy hasn’t, either, not even on social media. It’s like there was almost no interest in the case.”
“I’m afraid that was by design. Elvin Reddy wanted it to be ignored, to go away, and it might have stayed that way had Officer Fruge not continued to talk about it.”
“Yeah, well, that’s how I heard about it back in July, from the local town crier. Fruge’s out patrolling Old Town pretty regularly, and likes to talk, as you know. We got acquainted,” Marino says, and I can envision it easily.
“Let me guess, she introduced herself to you,” I reply as I check my phone for messages.
Dorothy has sent one, wondering where I might have hidden the jalape?o peppers. She and Lucy are making chili, and I realize how hungry I am.
“I was gassing up my Harley at the Shell station,” Marino says while I try not to think about food. “Fruge knew who I was and pulled in behind me, welcoming me to the neighborhood. She said she was glad there was a new sheriff in town.”
He peels open more sticks of retro gum, Teaberry this time, and my stomach growls.
“She knew we were coming,” he says.
I politely decline the pack he offers while I text my sister that as far as I know we’re out of jalape?os. She used them up while making nachos last week and promised to pick up a few jars. I guess she forgot, and now isn’t a good time to pester me about it.
None in the cellar pantry? Dorothy again, and what she’s referring to are shelves in the basement where I keep an overflow of various canned goods and supplies.
You can check but pretty sure not, and as I’m writing this, I think about Marino and Dorothy moving into their new place at Colonial Landing last summer.
“You’d been living here in Old Town several months before the rest of us arrived,” I explain. “I would expect Fruge to be well aware of people new to the area even if they haven’t moved in yet.”
She’s a cop, and a tenacious one at that, reminding me of Marino in the old days when we first met. If sufficiently motivated, they’re the type to access whatever they want by any means they deem necessary. Also, people talk, and Alexandria may be a decent-size city but its historic district has a population of fewer than ten thousand.
“It wouldn’t be hard to figure out who’s buying real estate in Old Town,” I explain as we drive past Ivy Hill Cemetery.
It’s so socked in by the fog, I can’t make out the big trees and monuments uprooted by last night’s storm.