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CHAPTER 19
Manhattan, NY Friday, June 25, 2021
WALT TOOK ANOTHER SIP OF RUM AND QUICKLY TURNED THE PAGE. He was amazed at how quickly the details of the investigation were coming back to him. He realized that the memories had not so much faded and disappeared, but had instead been warehoused. Stored away and slowly covered by the dust of life—the accumulation of years and the distractions that accompanied them. But as he flipped through the pages of the file now, he was transformed back into that twenty-eight-year-old kid who had found himself in the middle of a homicide investigation that was about to capture the attention of the nation.
THE CAMERON YOUNG INVESTIGATION
Walt finished his second walk-through of the big house in the Catskill Mountains and started his long drive back to the city. He worked through what he knew so far. The community he was leaving was quiet, calm, and tranquil. People there were wealthy. People there knew each other. Crime was uncommon. There was little chance Cameron Young had been killed randomly. There was little chance the man did not know his killer.
As he drove, Walt reviewed what he had learned in the last twenty-four hours about the art of deviant sex, having brought himself up to speed on the nuances of BDSM sex during a two-in-the-morning Internet binge the previous night. He cringed at the thought of anyone looking through his browser history. BDSM—bondage/dominance/sadism/masochism—was aggressive, often rough and painful sex between two consenting adults that included a wide variety of props and toys. Consenting was a buzzword Walt had seen in just about every article he read, although he wondered how consenting Cameron Young had been the night he died. Something dark and dangerous had taken place in that bedroom.
The analysis of the blood found on the carpeting of the closet, as well as the urine in the toilet, was being expedited so it could be compared against DNA samples Walt would soon collect from potential suspects. Similarly, the fingerprints lifted from the kitchen knife and the wineglass left on the nightstand would also be compared against prints Walt would obtain. After his initial interview, Walt decided the first samples he would ask for would be from Cameron Young’s wife.
Walt drove his unmarked squad car across the George Washington Bridge. He fought stagnant Manhattan traffic until he found a mostly legal parking spot in the West Seventies neighborhood on the Upper West Side. The Youngs’ Manhattan residence was a two-bedroom ground-floor apartment on Seventy-Sixth Street. Walt shrugged his suit coat onto his shoulders and adjusted his cuffs as he walked to the front door and rang the bell. Tessa Young answered. Her eyes were red-rimmed and wet, her nose chafed and raw.
“Mrs. Young. Thanks for agreeing to speak with me again. I know you’re having a hard time, but I’d like to bring you up to speed on what I’ve learned.”
Tessa nodded, ran the back of her hand across her nose, and allowed Walt to enter her home. He followed her to the kitchen and accepted Tessa’s offer of coffee. She poured two cups and they sat at the kitchen table.
“Again, I’m sorry to give you no space during this difficult time, but my job is to figure out what happened to your husband, and to do it as quickly as possible. To that end, I need to ask some pointed questions.”
Tessa nodded again. “I understand.”
“Cameron was at your vacation home in the Catskills when he was killed. When was the last time you were at the house?”
“Over the Fourth of July.”
Walt pulled out his notepad. “Was it just you and your husband?”
“No, we were there with friends.”
“Can you provide names?”
“Jasper and Victoria Ford.”
“Good friends of yours?”
Tessa nodded, but Walt saw something change in her demeanor. “Jasper sold us our house in the Catskills. He was the realtor who brokered the deal. We invited him and his wife out for a sail to celebrate. We’ve been friends since then.”
“So, you’ve been friends for a couple of years or so?”
Tessa nodded. “Three.”
“You were last at the house over the Fourth, but not on July fourteenth or fifteenth, when your husband was killed?”
“No.”
“Was it common for your husband to go to the vacation house without you?”
“Yes. He was finishing a manuscript and often went to the mountains for quiet. He has a writing studio there, next to the house.”
Walt had been through Cameron Young’s work space, a small structure that stood across the creek on the north side of the home. It was a small replica of the A-frame log house, and was made up of a writing desk and computer on one side and a wood-burning fireplace and recliner on the other. A minibar stood in the corner and sported both a coffeemaker for mornings and a small collection of spirits for afternoon or evening. If Walt had a creative bone in his body, he would have marveled at the tranquil setting that had produced a string of best sellers over the last few years. But Walt Jenkins wasn’t creative, he was analytical. He took a clinical approach to the space and tried to learn if the writing studio offered any clues to what had happened to Cameron Young.
“When your husband went out to the Catskills, how long would he stay?”
“Depends on how far behind he was on a deadline. A day or two, usually. He didn’t always go alone. Sometimes I went with him. He has his studio, I have my office in the main house where I did my own work.”
“So you each had your own private work space?”
