He wanted to tell her that a judge had reviewed all the evidence against her and had decided to charge her for the crime. Was that not truth enough?
But he kept his mouth shut.
Just then, a man exited the facility and made his way toward them.
FIFTY-THREE
The government building was in poor condition. The last major renovation occurred almost two decades ago, which meant everything inside the building was old and dated, and in some cases, beyond repair.
The building’s concrete and cement exterior exuded an ominous feel, and the interior was worse. The walls were painted in dark colors, and the floor tiles had gone from white to yellow.
The fluorescent lights bulbs flickered constantly, and odd noises reverberated in the halls. Most noises were due to the ancient plumbing system where even a single toilet flush could be heard throughout the building.
Some visitors believed the noises were otherworldly, that perhaps the dead had not left this earth just yet. The building could make for a great prop in a horror movie because in the basement, it housed the city morgue.
Holt and Fisher made their way through the halls and down a flight of stairs. They found Andrea Wakefield inside a chilly room. The smell of death hung in the air despite the ammonia and disinfectants.
Wakefield was wearing a white lab coat. She stood before three tables that were next to each other. All three were covered by green sheets.
“Thank you for coming, detectives,” Wakefield said.
Like we had a choice, Holt thought.
Holt had seen his share of death. Most were related to his job, but some were personal. Whenever he could avoid coming to the morgue, he did. The morgue left him feeling depressed. He could not shake the feeling that people who once had a life full of human connections were now inside a dark and dingy space for the sole purpose of being cut open for examination.
Wakefield said, “I’m not sure about you, but this case has come with certain… pressure.”
“Pressure?” Fisher asked.
“My inbox is inundated with emails from people who want me to somehow expedite the process in order to find who did this.”
“We are under the same pressure.”
“Also…” Wakefield paused, looking uncomfortable with what she was about to say. “I am getting emails from women’s rights groups. They are applauding me for my career choice, but at the same time, they are wondering why I have not moved up into management positions. They think it’s because my superiors are male. I’m not sure how to explain to them that I enjoy being a medical examiner, and that I have no interest in sitting behind a desk and managing people.”
According to Holt, Wakefield spent so much time dissecting cadavers, he had a theory that she preferred the dead over the living. He also knew that she received great satisfaction from solving puzzles on the causes of death. The same kind of puzzles he loved solving as a detective. That was why he had asked for a demotion to become a detective after a brief stint as a sergeant.
“Should I reply to the emails and tell them my reasons for staying in my position?” Wakefield asked eagerly.
“I would not bother replying to them,” Fisher replied.
“Really?”
“I don’t think they would understand.”
Wakefield pondered Fisher’s words for a minute. She nodded and said, “Let’s get to it. Victim number one.” She removed the green sheet, revealing Emily Riley’s face. Her skin was pale, and her cheeks were sunken. “There were two gunshot wounds to the chest and one to the head. She died from the latter. My guess would be that she was killed first.”
“How long before the others?” Fisher asked.
“I can’t be precise, but if I had to take a guess, I’d say about half an hour.”
“Okay.”
Wakefield moved to the next table. She removed the green sheet, revealing Paige Giles’s face. “There were gunshot wounds to the upper chest and the neck. Either of those could have caused death. She may have stumbled upon Emily Riley’s body and was murdered right after.” Wakefield then moved to the third table. She removed the green sheet, revealing Melody Ferguson’s face. “The gunshot wounds were in the lower and upper back. I would have to agree with your theory that the victim may have heard the second round of gunshots and then tried to flee the scene, and she was shot from behind.”
Wakefield was only confirming what they already knew.
Holt suddenly wished he had not come here. He would have gotten the same information over the phone.
It would take him an entire day to remove the stench of death from himself.
FIFTY-FOUR
The man approached Callaway and Hope Parsons. He was dressed in a gray three-piece suit. He had sharp features and reddish hair which had started to turn gray.
“You must be Lee Callaway,” he said in an elegant voice.
“I am. And you are?”
“Robert Munro. I’m the head of Camden Mental Health Facility.” He held out his hand.
Callaway shook Munro’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Munro turned to Hope. “Would you excuse us while I have a word with Mr. Callaway?”
Hope nodded, stood, and left.
When she disappeared through the facility’s main doors, Munro unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat down in the very spot Hope had sat in. He crossed one leg over the other and said, “You’re a private investigator, is that correct?”
“How did you know?” Callaway asked.
Munro smiled. “Hope has been telling everyone that she’s hired a private investigator. She’s also telling people that this private investigator will find out who killed her son.”
Callaway shook his head. “I’m not here to start a new criminal investigation. I’m only looking at what happened on the day her son drowned.”
Munro raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that the same thing?”
“Is it?”
“If you find something that casts a doubt on that day’s events, I’m sure the police will launch a new investigation.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Callaway said. “I’m just trying to help.”
“I’m sure you are… for a nominal fee, of course.”
“I’ve taken no money from Mrs. Parsons, nor do I intend to.”
“So, why are you helping her?”
Callaway fell silent. It was the same question he had been asking himself the moment he took her on as a client.
Munro broke the silence. “She’s made great progress at the facility. She is much better than when she first walked through our doors. The only way for her to get better is to accept what she has done.”
“What if she didn’t do it?” Callaway countered.
Munro paused. “There is a possibility of that, but in my experience, I highly doubt it.”
“Why not?”
“She’s not well.”
“I just heard you say she’s making great progress.”
“Yes, she is. But not to the point where she can function on her own, which is the end goal at the facility.”
Callaway stared into the distance. “I don’t see any harm in looking.”
“I do,” Munro said, turning to him. “You are giving her false hope, Mr. Callaway. And I’m afraid this could have a regressive impact on her behavior.”
“Regressive?” Callaway asked, confused.
“She may revert to her old inclinations.”
“Okay,” Callaway said, still unsure what he was referring to.
Munro said, “What I’m saying is that if you give her news she does not want to hear, she may go back into her fantasy world. She may begin to think she is married and that her son is alive. It took years to get her to this point. I fear it may take even longer to do it the next time, if at all.”
Callaway did not know what to say.
Munro stood up. “I’ll leave you to ponder my comments. Good day, Mr. Callaway.”
As Callaway watched Munro walk away, h
e was even more torn about what to do next.
FIFTY-FIVE
Callaway got up to leave the bench when he saw a man walking purposefully toward him. The man had appeared from the other side of the facility. He had on blue overalls and black boots. He was exceptionally tall and wiry thin. His cornrows went all the way down the back of his neck.
“Mister,” he said in a southern accent. “I saw you talking to Mr. Munro just now.”
“Okay,” Callaway said.
“My name is August Livingston, and I work at the facility as an orderly.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Livingston?”
“Hope talked a lot about you.”
“I’m not sure what she told you,” Callaway said, suddenly eager to leave, “but I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to help her.”
“I understand,” Livingston said, politely. “I just want you to know that Hope isn’t crazy. Well, not anymore, at least.”
Callaway stared at him.
“Mr. Munro is a good employer, but I’m afraid he has his own agenda.”
Callaway’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of agenda?”
“The facility is privately run. It relies on donors to fund its operation. But it also gets money from groups based on the number of patients it cares for.”
“What kind of groups?” Callaway asked.
“Mental health advocates.”
“Okay…”
“What I’m trying to say is that Hope’s story is high profile. The media is still interested in her. Only a couple of months ago, a crew from a tabloid news program came by to speak to her. It was on the anniversary of her son’s murder. Hope told them, like she tells everyone who’ll listen, that she doesn’t remember hurting her son. After spending so much time with her, I can tell you, sir, that she’s not faking it when she says she doesn’t remember. But the news program twisted her words and made it look like she was still delusional.”
“And you think Munro doesn’t want Hope released from Camden Mental Health?”
“The longer he can keep her under his care,” Livingston said, “the more money he can raise for the facility.”
“Is that what you meant when you said he has an agenda?”
Livingston nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Callaway thought for a moment.
“Why are you telling me this?”
Livingston looked down at his feet as if embarrassed. “Over the years, Hope and I have gotten to know each other quite well. She’s not the cold-blooded killer people make her out to be. She once accidently sat on a butterfly, and she cried for hours over its death.” He paused and then said, “She’s a kind and gentle person. She is also very trusting, which people have used against her.”
Callaway understood the real reason Livingston was speaking to him. He said, “I’m not one of those people. I’m not going to take advantage of her. She came to me, not the other way around. I want to help her, but I’m afraid I may not be able to help her like she wants me to.”
“I don’t believe she killed her son,” Livingston said.
“According to the law, she did,” Callaway said.
“I know,” Livingston said. “She tortures herself daily over what happened all those years ago. She sometimes speaks of her son like he is still alive. I’ve seen her crying and asking for forgiveness from him. She is torn between what the world believes she has done and what she believes to be true. Your investigation has given her optimism. Her eyes sparkle with excitement when she speaks of you. I just don’t want that sparkle to fade forever.”
Callaway could see that Livingston cared for her. Even with the stigma surrounding her, he saw the good in her. He did not want to see her get hurt again.
“Let’s hope whatever I find helps her get the closure she is searching for,” Callaway finally said.
FIFTY-SIX
Holt was at Fisher’s desk. Together they were reviewing the security footage from Emily’s Place. Clive Buckley was right when he said Emily Riley would turn the cameras off each day when she came in.
He was wrong, however, that on the day of the shootings, it was not her but someone else who had turned the cameras off.
On Fisher’s laptop, they saw a man approach the front entrance. The man was dressed in black and wore a baseball cap with a hoodie over it. He never once looked up at the camera, revealing he must have visited the center before in order to scope out their surveillance.
He walked up to the front door, punched in a code, and entered. A moment later, the footage went blank.
The man also knew how to cut the feed, which could only be possible from inside.
They watched the footage several times more to see if they could spot anything that might give them a clue as to who he was. But they found nothing useful.
The man had planned this. He knew exactly what he was doing.
Fisher hit a key, pausing the image on her screen. The figure dressed in black stood like a stalker outside the center’s front steps.
He had arrived fifteen minutes before Emily Riley had pulled up in her green minivan. The killer was waiting for her inside. Emily Riley had no idea she was walking into an ambush.
Fisher squinted at the screen. “How did he know the alarm code?”
“That’s what I was wondering too,” Holt said.
“Also, why didn’t Emily Riley realize the alarm was not activated when she went to turn it off?”
“Do we even know that she tried to turn it off?”
“We know that she was the first person to arrive each morning and the last to leave each night. She was dedicated to the center. And the alarm was on, so we can assume she had turned it on the night before.”
“Are you asking me why she didn’t alert Buckley Security about a malfunctioning alarm system?”
“Or even the possibility that there may be an intruder inside,” Fisher said.
They pondered this latest question for a moment.
Holt said, “Perhaps she didn’t care whether the alarm was on or off.”
Fisher frowned. “What?”
“The center didn’t really have anything valuable. We found no reports of any thefts. We did find reports of vandalism and destruction of property, but we know the reasons behind those.”
“Angry men,” Fisher added.
“Right, sure,” Holt said, “but nothing was ever reported stolen from the center. They didn’t keep any cash, jewelry, or electronics that could be pawned off for money. Maybe Emily Riley was not too concerned whether the alarm was on or off.”
As they stared at the killer’s image, Holt and Fisher could not help but wonder how he had come to know the code to disable the security system.
FIFTY-SEVEN
Callaway stood before the two-story house. The home had a tiled roof, a bay window in the front, and a red door. The place looked so homely, it could be on a holiday postcard.
Callaway did not bother walking up and knocking on the front door. There was no point.
The house once belonged to Hope Parsons.
Callaway had made the drive over to retrace Hope Parsons’s steps from the house to the lake. He wanted to get in her shoes, to see what she saw on that terrible day.
He knew that would not be easy. Hope was not of sound mind. She was, perhaps, delusional. She had told him and the judge during her trial that she was hearing voices. The same voice that told her to go find Noah.
One thing was certain, though—Hope did not drown Noah in the bathtub. The boy had salt water in his lungs, and it could only have come from the lake. Also, if she was trying to hide her crime by dumping her son’s body in the lake, then she did a poor job of it. A witness caught her in the water next to Noah. Plus, it would have been easy for someone to see a woman carrying a limp body from the house to the lake.
What was he doing at the lake anyway? Callaway thought.
It surprised him that no one had asked such a question. He found no mention of it in the case file. Perhaps they did not t
hink it was relevant. Hope had clearly gone searching for Noah. She mentioned he was out playing.
But what was an eight-year-old doing near the lake all by himself?
Callaway could not help circling back to that.
Maybe he was curious, like all kids his age were, and he wanted to explore.
Callaway had done things far worse than that. One time, when he was around Noah’s age, he snuck on a train and ended up in the next state. Fortunately, a passenger saw him get on, and by the time he got off, the police were waiting for him on the platform.
His parents were furious. They could not believe he had run away. Callaway had no intention of doing that. All he wanted was to see the Harlem Globetrotters, who had a show that day.
Callaway never got to see them. They were still on his bucket list.
The neighbors’ houses flanked Hope’s old residence. Only a fence divided the two properties. Callaway remembered reading a statement from one of the neighbors. They had seen Hope earlier in the day. She was in the backyard reading a book on the deck. According to them, Hope seemed happy and content. They never imagined that only a few hours later, she would be accused of murder.
He then made the trek from the house to the lake. It was a short walk, less than ten minutes—and that was only because he took his time.
When he reached the lake, he could not help but admire its beauty. The sunlight bounced off the water, creating a mirror effect. It was as if the sky was watching its reflection.
A cool breeze swept over him. He immediately felt a sense of tranquility. He shut his eyes and listened to the soft sounds of the water hitting the shore.
Callaway could not believe something terrible had occurred here.
FIFTY-EIGHT
Holt and Fisher made several revelations from reviewing the security footage from Emily’s Place. The person in the footage did not have the same body type as Earl Munchin. Earl was short and stocky, while the killer was tall and slim.
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