Reid thought it was more complicated than that. Based on Pete’s callousness toward Beth in other areas of his life—his infidelity and general lack of respect—Reid could not help believing that the missing painting was part of a staged scene. The connection to the earlier crime might have been Pete adding psychological torture, wanting to remind Beth of what had happened before.
The torn underwear, though: that was a new element. A stranger had broken in, raped, and murdered her? No, Reid didn’t believe it.
The medical examiner had made a very preliminary estimation. He had told Reid that, based on Beth’s body temperature and the fact it was still in rigor, it appeared that Beth had died a full day after Pete had left on the sailing trip. But there were other factors to take into account to gauge the time of death, starting with the piles of dog shit. Popcorn hadn’t been walked in days. There were five copies of theDay, New London’s newspaper, in and around the delivery tube by the road.
Once an autopsy was performed and they were able to determine her last meal, the time of death could be narrowed down even more. The bruises between her legs indicated sexual assault; if she had been raped, there would be semen or at least traces of fluid.
And now—Pete, on this hot summer day, was wearing shorts and a long-sleeved shirt.
No, Reid thought again—not a stranger.
“Why are you dressed so warmly?” Reid asked, pointing at the shirt.
“It’s sun protection, special fabric. My wife bought it for me so I wouldn’t burn.”
“Would you please roll up your sleeves and show me your arms?”
Pete recoiled. “What? Are you kidding? I need to get home.”
Reid didn’t lift his gaze from the cuffs, buttoned tight around Pete’s wrists. Strangulation victims often fought to get the ligature from around their necks, raking their killer’s skin in the process. He recalled how Beth’s hands had appeared to be unharmed, her fingernails unbroken, but he hoped that his initial assessment was wrong and that she had scratched her killer.
“Is there a problem with showing me your arms?” Reid asked.
“Yes,” Pete said, glaring. “I’m not going to stand here and be treated like a criminal when you can askanyonehow much I loved my wife.”
“Okay,” Reid said, nodding. “Fair enough. You don’t want to show me—that’s your decision.”
“Can I please leave?” Pete asked.
“Yes,” Reid said. “We’re going to fly you back to Connecticut on the state police helicopter.”
“Thank you.”
“And we’re going to talk,” Reid said.
“Good, because I want you to tell me everything, every detail. My mind’s going crazy,” Pete said, a tremor in his voice.
“Well, I’ll tell you one thing right now.”
“What?”
Reid stared into Pete’s pale-blue eyes. The expression on his face was tense, as if he’d been practicing how to set his jaw.
“I think you killed your wife,” Reid said.
6
Tom felt gravity pulling him down as the helicopter lifted straight up. Conor and Pete Lathrop were across the aisle in two seats facing each other. Conor had arranged it so Pete was sitting backward. Tom looked out the window at the ocean below. They flew over the Elizabeth Islands—Naushon, Pasque, Nashawena, and Cuttyhunk.
“You comfortable?” Conor asked Pete.
“No. I’m not freaking comfortable,” Pete said. “How could you think that I could have done anything to Beth?”
“We’ll get to that,” Conor said.
“Should I have a lawyer?”
“That is absolutely your right,” Conor said.
