by Lisa Gardner
I followed her lead that afternoon. It wasn’t hard. A terrible tragedy had occurred. In my own mind, it was easy enough to substitute myself with the shotgun, maybe even easier than contemplating my beloved father positioning the gun beneath his ribs. Standing grimly in front of the refrigerator, which offered the safest backdrop for gunfire (when cleaning the shotgun, he’d instructed, always aim it at the stainless steel appliance). Then, upon hearing the crunch of my mother’s car tires in the driveway, pulling the trigger.
No, it was so much easier to lie than to picture any of that.
For all my father’s brilliance, I’d seen the dark shadows that lurked in his eyes. The way he sometimes smiled but still appeared sad. The times he squared his shoulders before walking into his office, appearing less like a gifted mathematician off in search of answers and more like a soldier burdened by a never-ending war.
The truth is, genius and depression have always gone hand in hand. Which was why I spent so many afternoons, sitting at the piano, playing and playing, because my father said my music soothed his spirit and allowed him to rest in a way a truly great mind could never completely be at ease. I did my best to music the sadness out of him.
And that day, walking into the kitchen, my father’s hot blood dripping down into my hair, I felt the weight of my failure. That I had loved this man so much, and tried so hard, and it still wasn’t enough.
Just like Conrad.
I hope my baby isn’t a boy, I think now. Because I just couldn’t take another such loss.
* * *
—
I SHOULD MARSHAL my resources, I decide. Money. I’m going to need some. Which is the first time I realize how lost I truly am. My wallet, cell phone, car keys, had all been in the house—which, according to the detectives, is now nothing more than a pile of charred ruins. I have a moment of growing hysteria: Next time you’re arrested for the murder of your husband, grab your purse!
But of course, I hadn’t, and the police certainly hadn’t offered to fetch anything. Meaning I have . . . nothing.
Not completely true. I have a head for figures. Including bank accounts. Just because I don’t possess a checkbook or debit card, let alone an unmelted driver’s license, doesn’t mean I don’t know my accounts and their exact balances. The savings account has some money. Not a lot, as neither Conrad nor I had high-paying jobs and it seemed like most of our checks were spent on home renovations.
Then again . . .
My head starts spinning. Suddenly, I’m thinking about a lot of things. Including scraps of documents in a printer/scanner. Conrad’s news upon learning we were pregnant. Other forms of photo ID.
The house was burned to the ground. Including Conrad’s precious office and all his customer files.
But some things he valued even more than his office. Some things he had made fireproof.
I am not helpless, I tell myself. I’m damaged and incredibly sad. But I’m not helpless.
And now, with a little help from my lawyer, I have a plan.
CHAPTER 14
D.D.
“I THINK I MIGHT HAVE screwed up an investigation.”
“You? Never.”
It was after nine P.M. Jack nestled in for the night in his red race-car bed, Kiko curled up at his side and taking up nearly as much of the mattress as the boy. Alex had poured himself and D.D. both well-deserved glasses of wine. They sat side by side on the sofa, engaging in their own nightly ritual of catching up and winding down.
“So I’m investigating a pregnant woman who’s accused of murdering her husband last night, and who also confessed to accidentally shooting her father with a shotgun sixteen years ago.”
“I remember. You handled the father’s shooting.”
“Exactly. And I believed her. Bought her story, her mom’s story, the whole kit and caboodle. This afternoon, she informed me she’d lied.”
Alex paused, wineglass halfway to his lips. “Interesting defense strategy.”
“According to her revised statement, she and her mother weren’t even home at the time of the shooting but must’ve walked in moments later. The spatter in Evie’s hair and clothing was from blood dripping down when she walked through the door. The GSR from her picking up the shotgun.”
“Okay. But given that scenario, why confess?”
“Her mother didn’t want to risk an investigation that might result in findings that would tarnish her father’s intellectual legacy.”
It didn’t take Alex long. “Suicide. She assumed her husband had shot himself.”
D.D. nodded. Took a sip of her own wine. She waited. She did her best thinking out loud. Alex, on the other hand, had a tendency to compose himself. Then, a true teacher, deliver his lecture.
“Suicide by shotgun happens,” he said now. “Generally the end of the barrel is positioned under the chin or against the ribs, pressed against the skin in order to help stabilize the long gun while the victim reaches down for the trigger. Though I did read about an enterprising young man who used his toes to pull the trigger. Then there’s the Australian case of the triple-shot suicide, where the victim’s first attempt ended up being clean through the chest cavity, missing major organs. Then he set up for under the chin but flinched upon pulling the trigger—which happens more than you think—destroying half his jaw, but again, not incapacitating himself. I don’t remember his third choice—maybe that was the same guy who finally sat down and used his toes—but the third shot got it done. Now, from an investigative perspective, can you imagine walking into a scene of a man hit by three shotgun blasts and thinking even for a second that it was suicide? In our jobs, anything is possible.”
D.D. gave him her best scowl. “I don’t want theoretical. I need practical. I’m drowning here in half lies, past assumptions, and a family with a whole new brand of crazy. I think Phil is actually scared of the mom. Probably for good reason.”
“Interesting. I like it. And you know you do, too.”
She rolled her eyes. Another sip of wine for them both. Then Alex set down his glass on the coffee table and grew serious.
“All right. Let’s take it back to the evidence.”
“By all means.”
“I’m assuming a pump-action shotgun?”
“Yes.”
“Contact point?”
“The chest. Evie’s official statement was that she’d picked up the shotgun, was trying to figure out how to clear the chamber when it went off mere inches from her father’s torso.”
“Okay. We can work with that. So the issue with suicide by long gun is trigger access; it’s a reach to get it. Given that, like I said, most victims balance the tip of the barrel against their own bodies to help hold it in place. In a head shot, the most common contact point is the underside of the chin. In a chest shot, the ME should have evidence of a contact burn—against the ribs, if not right below the rib cage.”
“I’ll pull that report.”
“Just to play devil’s advocate—victims sometimes recoil as they’re pulling the trigger, flinching away from the barrel. In which case, you’ll get soot markings on the skin, versus an actual sear pattern. Soot means the barrel of the shotgun was held between three-quarters of an inch and a foot from the skin. Unfortunately in your case, such stipling could still go either way, as the girl testified she was standing just inches from her father, right?”
“So searing means the gun was definitely pressed against him—contradicting her statement. Soot means it still could’ve been suicide but he flinched, or that indeed she shot him from a close distance. I’m going to need more wine for this.”
“Ah, but now we need to factor in trajectory. One hallmark of a suicide with a long gun is that there’s nearly always a sharply angled trajectory, the bullet having tracked up, with the entrance wound distinctly lower than the exit wound. Think of trying to hold out a loaded shotgun le
vel in front of you with one hand and pull the trigger with the other. It can’t be done naturally. I mean maybe if the butt of the weapon was wedged against a wall or some other object, or some machination was in place to hold the barrel level, but you have no sign of that, right?”
“He went down in front of the refrigerator, open space in front of him.”
“Toppled chair, by any chance?”
D.D. had to think about it, then shook her head. “I honestly don’t remember. I’ve put in a request to pull the old file, which should have photos.”
“If you are thinking suicide, one scenario is that he positioned the butt of the gun on a kitchen chair, placed the tip of the barrel against his torso, and pulled the trigger. Depending on how tall he was—”
“Six feet.”
“Then you’re still going to have a fairly angled trajectory versus the daughter’s scenario, where she’s holding the gun up, messing with the chamber, and accidentally pulls the trigger, shooting her father square in the torso.”
“Okay.”
“Which brings us to the last point of consideration: directionality of spatter.”
“Ah yes, what would an evening in our house be without a discussion of spatter?”
Alex picked up his wineglass, clinked it against hers.
“There can be blowback from shooting directly into a torso. But the directionality of that spatter on skin and clothes is not at all the same as what might happen from the suicide scenario, when again, the force of the blast is going to be up and out of the body, distributing a pattern higher up on the wall behind the victim, possibly even on the ceiling.”
“She said it dripped down on her when she walked into the room. She could feel the heat of it.”
Alex’s face was serious. “Wouldn’t be the first time. But again, the two scenarios—her shooting her father from mere inches away square in the chest, and her walking in after he’s fired an upward shot through his chest cavity—lead to very different blood evidence. Very different.”
“So review the photos, and whatever spatter evidence we still have from the scene.”
Alex nodded.
“Okay. Got it. Thank you.”
“There is a third possibility, you know.”
D.D. sighed heavily. Because in this case, why not? “Which is?”
“There is searing on his skin, the trajectory is a steep angle passing through his torso, and the blood pattern from the blast is up and out.”
“I thought that meant it was suicide.”
“Or someone placed the barrel against his chest and pulled the trigger from a position beneath him. Forensics gives us position and angle, but it still can’t tell us everything that might have led up to such a scenario.”
D.D. eyed her husband. “As in, there could be other possibilities. Say, a struggle. Two people vying for the shotgun. Other person got it first. Hopkins stood up, tried to step back. Second person jammed the shotgun into his ribs and pulled the trigger. Self-defense. Or possibly murder. Wait a minute! I’ve lived with you long enough. In that scenario, we’d have a void in the spatter evidence, basically a blank spot where the shooter stood, got hit with blowback, and then exited out the door, removing that piece of the puzzle.”
“But didn’t you say the girl and her mom walked in right afterwards? Picked up the gun, mostly likely rushed to the body, even fell to their knees beside it?”
“Contaminated the scene,” D.D. finished for him.
“I have a feeling your crime scene photos aren’t going to be as revealing as you’d like.”
“So I’m back where I started. Sixteen-year-old shooting death that could be either suicide or murder.”
Alex shrugged. “It can always be murder, D.D. Where would our jobs be without it?”
CHAPTER 15
FLORA
“SSA KIMBERLY QUINCY.”
“Hi, um . . . This is Flora Dane.”
There’s a pause. I’m not surprised. What does catch me off guard is the sound of my own voice, shaky and faint. SSA Quincy and I are hardly BFFs. She organized the raid that eventually led to Jacob’s death and my escape. But we haven’t exactly spoken since.
Sitting across from me, Keith eyes me uncertainly. Nine P.M., I’ve just called a federal agent on her personal cell, and she isn’t exactly responding with gushing enthusiasm. But I know how these things work. The raid on Jacob’s motel room didn’t just save me; it also boosted Quincy’s career. One way or another, our lives are intertwined. I also know from Samuel that Bureau types don’t exactly keep regular hours. This isn’t the SSA’s first late-night call, just her most unexpected.
“How can I help you, Flora?” Quincy’s voice is perfectly neutral. Apparently, she’s decided to give me enough rope to hang myself. Fair enough.
Now it’s my turn to collect my thoughts. Keith sits up straighter. He has his fingers poised over the keyboard of his laptop as if he’s ready to record every word of the call. Maybe he is.
“I need information on Jacob Ness,” I finally announce.
“I see.”
“It’s come to my attention he might be a person of interest in some other missing persons cases.”
Another pause. “Flora, it’s nine P.M. You’re calling me at home. You’re going to have to do better than sudden interest in a bunch of cold cases.”
“So you do think he’s connected to other missing women?”
“You have till the count of three, then I’m going to hang up. Future requests can go through official channels. One, two—”
“There’s been a development!” I get it out in a rush. “A murder. Here in Boston. I recognized the victim. He met Jacob in a bar. It wasn’t random. They knew each other.”
Keith’s eyes widen. I hadn’t told him this part yet, but he doesn’t make the mistake of gasping audibly or distracting from the call.
This time, the quiet on the other end of the phone is thoughtful. “Name of the murder victim?” SSA Quincy asks finally.
It occurs to me that Sergeant Warren is probably going to kill me. I decide it’s a small price to pay. “Conrad Carter. Now I have questions of my own.”
“Of course.” Quincy’s tone is droll.
“Do you think Jacob kidnapped other women?”
For the first time, there is no hesitation. “Yes.”
“Murdered them?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
Cool tone again: “The investigation is ongoing.”
“Maybe I can help.”
“Can you? Because you never have before.”
I wince, the effects of my onetime, one-telling policy coming back to bite me in the ass. She’s right. I’d declined all official requests for interviews, debriefing, whatever the agents chose to call it back in the day. I gave my statement to Samuel while still collapsed in a hospital bed. I watched him run off to vomit. Then I never spoke of it again.
“I want to help.”
“Does Dr. Keynes know?” SSA Quincy is a clever one.
“Do you know what I do now?” I ask the agent.
“No.”
“I work with other survivors. Run a support group of sorts. I’m not qualified, I’m not brilliant, but I am experienced. I teach others to stop surviving and start living again.”
SSA Quincy doesn’t say anything. Neither does Keith. His fingers are still waiting above the keyboard. He wants details, I realize, not pleasantries.
“I understand I’m late to the party,” I say at last. “That by not giving a statement earlier, maybe there were other victims of Jacob’s or their families that I’ve let down. Samuel tells me not to second-guess, but it has been six years. I like to think I’m not the same girl anymore. I like to think . . . I’m stronger now. I want to do better. I can do better.”
“I can be on a plane t
o Boston first thing in the morning,” Quincy says.
“I have questions now. Information I need right now.”
“Flora, it’s late—”
“You really think I sleep at night? You think I care about rest at all anymore?” My voice turns hard. Quincy doesn’t hang up the phone.
“There has to be quid pro quo,” she begins. “Otherwise known as you gotta pay to play. Official department policy.”
“I already paid. Conrad Carter. Shot Tuesday night by his wife in Boston. Look it up. Lead detective Sergeant D. D. Warren.”
“D. D. Warren?” I can tell by the change in Quincy’s voice that she knows the name. “Does she know you’re calling me?”
“Not yet. But I’m also her CI, so if she decides on bodily harm, at least she’ll feel conflicted about it.”
Across from me, Keith’s eyes are growing rounder and rounder.
“I want to know what was on Jacob’s computer.” I plunge ahead. There’s no stopping now. “Did you find evidence of e-mail correspondence, chat-room visits, online associates? He spent a lot of time on his computer. In real life, he was a loner. I already know that. But on the internet . . . Some predators network. I know that, too.”
Keith is nodding softly, leaning closer to his laptop. Both of us eye the phone positioned on the table between us. This is the heart of the conversation. I paid. Now, would SSA Quincy play?
“Yes and no,” she says at last.
My shoulders sag. Keith rolls his eyes. We share an immediate and unplanned moment: feds. Good God.
Then, as if she could see our exasperation: “Ness’s computer was curiously clean.”
“What does that mean?”
“We know he took photos and videos; we have the images he sent to your mother.”
I nod. Keith starts to type.
“But his laptop was clear. Not a single copy existed. And wiping a hard drive is no easy task. Most experienced computer techs can rebuild anything these days. Find ghost images, piece together fragments of a fragment. So how did a long-haul trucker with only a high school–level education know how to clear his entire hard drive?”