There was silence on the other end of the line. Finally Gallagher answered.
“Okay, fine,” she said reluctantly. “I won’t sign my name to this conclusion, but if my life depended on it, I’d say this was probably not a suicide. First of all, preliminary blood work shows no sign that he stopped taking his anti-depressant medication, which might have indicated that he was heading down a bad road. And the spot where the ribbon was tied off to the handlebar doesn’t make sense in relation to where his body ended up. It’s hard—just spatially—to envision how he could have done this to himself. I’m not saying it’s impossible. That steam room was all slick surfaces. Maybe he started to hang himself and slipped somehow, so his body ended up how it did.”
“What percentage would you assign to that scenario?” Jessie pressed.
“Ten percent, maybe fifteen,” Gallagher ventured. “Far more likely is that this was done to him. I’m not the expert on how that would have worked logistically. But assuming someone could get in that room, it makes much more sense that they wrapped that ribbon around his neck, choked him to death, and then tied the other end of the ribbon to the handlebar to make it look like suicide.”
“There is another possibility,” Kat volunteered.
“Who is that?” Gallagher asked nervously.
“Oh, sorry,” Ryan said. “We have Katherine Gentry here with us. She’s a private investigator who was working another case here. She’s also a friend. You can trust her.”
“Okay,” Gallagher offered hesitantly. “So what is this other possibility?”
“Could it have been a case of auto-erotic asphyxiation gone wrong?” Kat asked. “Maybe once the other participant realized what had happened, they just bailed.”
Jessie was embarrassed that the idea hadn’t occurred to her.
“That’s certainly as credible as the suicide theory,” Gallagher acknowledged. “The one thing that has me skeptical is that the ribbon that choked him cut really deep, breaking well through the skin of the neck. It was bloody. That doesn’t seem to comport with a consensual sex game.”
“That reminds me,” Ryan said, “were you able to pull any DNA off the ribbon? If someone was squeezing so tight as to cut through his skin, wouldn’t that leave all of kinds of skin cells from the killer’s hands on it?”
“That is one area where I can offer you some new information: we didn’t pull any DNA off the ribbon other than Newhouse’s, at least not in our preliminary analysis.”
“I’m confused,” Ryan said. “Doesn’t that suggest suicide then?”
“Not necessarily,” Gallagher warned. “Other than the throat area, we only found small samples from him. If he had tied this ribbon off on the handle and his neck, I would have expected more than we found from all the grabbing and tightening.”
“But,” Jessie volunteered, suddenly exercised. “If someone wearing gloves wrapped the ribbon around his neck and he made a futile effort to grab at it, would that match the amount of DNA you found?”
“That fits better,” Gallagher conceded.
“So,” Ryan concluded. “There’s a very small chance this was a sex game gone awry. There’s a higher percentage possibility, though still not great, that he killed himself and ended up in a strange, hard-to-explain position. And there is a pretty reasonable chance that someone wearing gloves killed him. Is that a fair assessment?”
Gallagher again paused before committing to an answer.
“Unofficially, yes,” she allowed.
“Okay, thanks Cheryl,” he said. “We won’t shout this from the rooftops but it’s helpful to know. Please do let us know as soon as you’re ready to make it official.”
“Will do,” she said, hanging up before they could ask any more questions.
“So what now?” Kat asked.
“I better call Chief Laird to break the bad news,” Ryan said. “I know he’d be upset either way: if his friend killed himself, and even more so if he was murdered. But still not being able to say anything publicly one way or another is going to really eat at him. He’s not the kind of guy who likes to let the facts come patiently to him. And not being able to contact the widow to offer personal condolences, even hours later, is going to rile him up even more. I don’t relish this.”
“I can get on the call with you,” Jessie offered, though the idea didn’t enthuse her.
“No,” Ryan said. “There’s no reason for you to get berated too. Hell, you’re not even officially back full-time yet. That ought to justify a free pass on this.”
“Okay then,” Jessie replied, happy not to argue the point. “Then I think I’ll go to Bridget Newhouse’s casita. I’m assuming the other couples will be there too. That way I can break the bad news to all of them at once.”
“What news?” Kat asked.
“That we can’t rule out murder, they’re all potential suspects, and we don’t want them leaving Peninsula until we know more. That means they’re staying the night.”
“Weren’t they all planning to do that anyway?” Kat asked.
“Yes,” Jessie said. “But now that this is a likely murder scene, it might not be all that appealing to stick around. And pretty soon, Bridget Newhouse is going to start making noise about wanting to see her kids and plan her husband’s funeral. I’m going to pitch this as a chance for her to work through this privately before having to tell her children. But even if she goes for that, I’d guess we have until midday tomorrow, tops, before the pressure to let them leave gets too strong.”
“Then you better get over there,” Kat said, trying to buck her up. “In the meantime, I’ll be tackling a very important task of my own.”
“What?” Ryan asked.
“Getting some snacks,” she answered. “We’re going to need fuel to get through the rest of this day.”
Jessie was happy for any quip that could get her to crack a smile and headed out with Kat, leaving Ryan to his unpleasant conversation. Once outside, they split up. Kat headed up to the Grand Hall and Jessie made the short walk to the Newhouse casita. When she arrived, Geordy was gone, but another security guard, equally thick through the torso, stood at the door. This one, according to his nametag, was named Lewis.
“Hi,” Jessie started to say. I’m—,”
“I know who you are, Ms. Hunt,” he said quickly. “I’m Lewis and Hugo Cosgrove has you on the list of people authorized to enter. Mrs. Newhouse is inside with several other guests.”
“Thanks, Lewis,” Jessie said, relieved that at least the start of this mission was going smoothly.
She knocked on the door, which unlike the last time she was here, opened quickly. She was greeted by Abby Andrews, still looking as sunny as ever, though she was doing her best to mute it.
“Hi, Ms. Hunt,” she said.
Behind her, there were voices in the kitchen. The tone suggested that people were trying to console Bridget Newhouse.
“Hi Abby, is Bridget here?” she asked, even though she knew the answer.
“Yes, come on in.” Abby opened the door wide and Jessie stepped inside but waited to be led into the kitchen.