The woman nodded. “I thought I was the only one, but we found each other online. People would post on forums praising Dillon’s work as a humanitarian, a fighter for women’s rights, a kind and decent soul, but there would be others who would say he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. The messages were cryptic, but I knew what they were talking about. I reached out to them, and what they told me horrified me. They all had to sign non-disclosure agreements, so like me, they were prevented from speaking out. One was a writer. Dillon invited her to meet him at his cottage to discuss a script she was working on. He said he had ideas he wanted her to incorporate in the script. When she got there, she found he was alone. Like me, they went over the script, but then he attacked her. Fortunately, she was able to push him away and get to her car and drive off.” The woman paused and then continued. “Another was an actress. She met him during a stage production they were both in. Right before they were to go on stage, he called her to his dressing room and he groped her. She later told the director what happened. He advised her to keep it to herself or else she could be fired from the production.” The woman put her hand over her face. “There are so many other stories. I don’t think I can go through each and every one of them.”
“That’s fine,” Fisher said. She was already sick to her stomach.
Like millions of people, Fisher had no idea of the evil that lurked behind his handsome smile. Dillon Scott was the worst of the worst. He had used his power and privilege against the young and helpless. These women never imagined the danger they were in until it happened to them. It reminded Fisher of an old saying: “You should never meet your heroes. They will end up disappointing you.”
Fisher said, “Did Gail know about the other women?”
“I don’t think so. It was before her time. But I know that with Gail’s help, had I gone forward with my story, more women would have had the courage to come forward with theirs.”
Fisher had a strong feeling someone had prevented Gail from doing just that.
EIGHTY-SEVEN
Joely came over and placed a piece of pie and a cup of coffee on the table. “It’s on the house,” she said.
Callaway looked up and gave Joely a smile. He knew she was going against her boss’s wishes giving him a free meal, so he appreciated the kind gesture. “Thanks, Joely,” he said.
Joely didn’t know how much Jimmy meant to him, only that he was a friend who was now in jail for murder. “Let me know if you need anything,” she said before she walked away.
He slowly took a bite of pie. It was crunchy on the outside and soft in the middle. He washed the bite down with a gulp of coffee.
After speaking to Jimmy, Callaway had come straight to Joely’s restaurant. He needed a place to clear his head. He was so torn up about what to do. A part of him wanted to tell the truth and hope the judicial system would do the right thing and not harshly penalize Becky. Scott had attacked her, and her actions were in self-defense. She was also a minor, which worked in her favor.
Jimmy, on the other hand, would never forgive him if he did that. Jimmy was right. Prison was no place for a girl like Becky. Even if she escaped a prison sentence, the stigma that she killed another person would follow her wherever she went.
He should just forget about it like Jimmy had told him. There was nothing he could do that could fix this tragedy.
It was a tragedy in every sense of the word.
Becky had gone with Scott to his house to help Jimmy in his investigation of Gail’s death. When things turned horribly wrong, Jimmy saw no other alternative but to take the blame for what happened, even though he had nothing to do with the crime. Jimmy would live out his remaining years behind bars while Becky lived her life knowing Jimmy had sacrificed himself for her. The guilt would eat away at her—it had already started to. Why else would she show up at his door asking for help?
But how can I help them? Callaway thought. What can I do to undo what has already been done?
The restaurant’s door chimed. He saw Fisher enter. She looked around, caught him at a table, and came over.
“I knew I’d find you here,” she said.
“Yeah, well, it was either here or a bar.”
“I’m glad you chose here,” she said, taking a seat across from him.
Joely came over. “Can I get you anything?”
“Coffee. Black, please,” Fisher replied.
When Joely left, Fisher asked, “How’re you holding up?”
He shrugged.
Joely returned, placed the cup on the table, and left. Fisher leaned closer and said, “I’ve got a problem.”
Callaway’s eyebrows shot up. “You’ve got a problem? Get in line, sister.”
Fisher scowled. “Listen, I just came back from speaking to a woman. I can’t go into the sordid details, but Dillon Scott was not who the public thought he was.”
Callaway made a face. “I always knew he was a lousy actor.”
“No, not that. He was a predator who took advantage of young women. He then wielded his power by silencing them with money and threats of legal action if they didn’t comply.”
“He attacked them?” Callaway asked.
Fisher’s face was hard. “Yes.”
Callaway suddenly debated whether to tell Fisher the whole truth. Scott had attacked Becky like the other women before her. Becky, however, did what no other woman could do. She stopped Scott from hurting someone else. No jury would convict her for this. But Callaway didn’t know which way the wind blew. The prosecutor could be someone out to make a mark, and they could use a high-profile case like Scott’s to make an example of Becky. Murder was murder, no matter the reason, he would argue. And everyone should be held accountable for their actions, regardless of their age and stature. On top of that, the prosecutor might even throw the book at Jimmy as an accessory to murder. There were too many variables at play.
He slowly sipped his coffee.
Fisher said, “I don’t believe Gail’s death was an accident or a suicide.”
“Okay.”
“I think someone wanted her out of the way.”
“Scott?” Callaway asked.
“No. He has an alibi, but maybe he hired someone to do it. Gail knew too much. She was prepared to expose the truth to the world. It can’t be a coincidence that the day before she was going to make an announcement, she falls fifteen floors to her death.”
“Scott’s dead too,” Callaway said with a shrug. “What good would it do to start digging into his past?”
Fisher gritted her teeth. “Death is not enough for what this monster did to these women. He damaged them, and in some cases, he destroyed who they were as people. They trusted him, and he abused this trust. I want his name destroyed forever.”
Callaway stared at her. He admired her determination, but he wasn’t sure how helpful he could be in his current mental state. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Gail’s family had hired Jimmy to find out how their daughter died. Jimmy has been looking into this for some time. He must have a file with all the information he had dug up on her case.”
“Jimmy was a great PI. If there was anything linking Scott to Gail’s death, Jimmy would have found it by now.”
“Maybe the case needs a fresh pair of eyes. You wouldn’t believe how many cold cases were solved after a new detective took over them.”
“You want me to look at it?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m too tied up with Scott’s murder to do it myself.”
“Jimmy confessed. What more do you have to do?”
“I still need to build a case for the prosecutor to win,” she replied. “It’s my job. That’s why I’m asking for your help, Lee.”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“I know you’re hurting, but remember why Jimmy is in a cell right now.”
He looked at her, doing his best to mask his horror. Does she know the truth? he thought.
Fisher said, “Jimmy went to Scott’s house to confront him
about Gail’s death. I know he didn’t mean to kill him, but Scott is dead. There is nothing we can do to change that. What we can do is continue Jimmy’s work and provide answers for Gail’s family. If Jimmy meant something to you, you wouldn’t let him rot in prison for nothing.”
Callaway stared at her. Finally, a smile crossed his face. “You know, you should have been a lawyer. You make a very convincing argument.”
Fisher smiled. “Well, I am friends with one. Maybe I learned it from her.”
EIGHTY-EIGHT
The first thing Callaway did was drive straight to Alderson County. When Jimmy was booked at the Milton PD, he provided an address for the record. Callaway wasn’t sure if it was correct, but he wasn’t ready to go see Jimmy to confirm it.
Jimmy was known to not stay in one place for too long. He was always on the move. Callaway had a feeling he was trying to distance himself from people, relationships, and even the problems he found himself in. Jimmy was often unreliable if you needed him in an emergency.
Callaway couldn’t wrap his head around the man sitting in a cell at the Milton PD. Jimmy had changed almost overnight, but Callaway knew it was not that sudden. Jimmy was likely reassessing his life for a long time. Callaway had seen him become contrite when he got drunk. Alcohol enabled him to be more reflective during those times.
The bravado he presented was just a façade to cover his inner turmoil. He sold all his possessions so he could give his granddaughter a better life. He then gave up his freedom so that she could have a future that did not involve being stuck inside a cell.
Alderson County was a small town in the middle of nowhere. Callaway wasn’t even sure if the town had a police station. He was not about to find out. He drove at the speed limit and followed all laws.
He pulled onto a dirt road and drove up to a weathered house. The roof was missing shingles, the exterior paint was peeling, and the steps that led to the front porch were uneven.
He parked and got out. He walked up to the house and knocked.
The door swung open. Callaway was hit with thick smoke. A man squinted at him. He had a cigarette between his lips, and he was wearing a wife-beater, pants, and no socks. “What do you want?” he muttered.
“Jimmy Keith live here?” Callaway asked.
The man eyed him suspiciously. “Who wants to know?”
“I’m his friend.”
“I didn’t know Jimmy had any friends.”
“So he does live here,” Callaway said.
“I never said that.”
“But you know Jimmy, don’t you?”
“Hey, buddy, why don’t you get off my property before I make you?” the man said with a scowl. He was bigger than Callaway, but Callaway knew he could take him down.
“Jimmy owe you rent money?” Callaway asked.
The man’s brow furrowed. “How’d you know?”
Because Jimmy is always behind on his rent, Callaway thought. “He owes me money too,” Callaway claimed. “I want to see if he’s got any cash stashed in his place.”
“I haven’t seen Jimmy in weeks,” the man said.
“He’s renting a room from you?”
“Yeah, the one upstairs.”
“Let me take a look,” Callaway said.
“It’s locked, and I don’t have a key.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Callaway said.
The man hesitated.
“You want your money or not?” Callaway asked.
The man bristled. “Is it legal?”
“If Jimmy fails to meet his obligations, then as his landlord, you can access your property.” Callaway wasn’t sure if this was true, but he didn’t care. He had to know what Jimmy had found on Gail’s death.
“Okay, follow me,” the man said.
The house smelled even worse than it looked, a mixture of body odor and cigarettes. They went up a creaky set of stairs and stopped at a door. Callaway looked at the keyhole and pulled out a metal tool from his pocket to rake the lock. In less than thirty seconds, he was in.
“Do you mind waiting outside?” Callaway asked the man.
The man scowled at Callaway. “How do I know you’re not going to keep all the cash for yourself?”
Callaway pulled his jacket back, revealing his holstered gun. “You’re going to have to take my word for it,” Callaway said.
The man swallowed and disappeared down the stairs.
The room was small, with a bed in the middle and a dresser next to it. There were three pieces of luggage stacked on top of each other. Callaway wasn’t sure if they held all of Jimmy’s belongings, but if they did, he wouldn’t be surprised. Jimmy had a saying: “Always pack light. You never know when you’re going to have to get on the next train out of town.”
There was a framed photo on the dresser. Callaway walked over and picked it up. It showed Callaway and Jimmy outside a bar. Callaway remembered that the picture was taken right after they had completed their very first case together. They were celebrating like they had won the World Series.
Callaway bit his bottom lip to control his emotions. He couldn’t believe it had come to this.
He placed the photo back and walked around the room. He didn’t see anything that resembled a file or folder.
He was walking around the bed when his foot hit something underneath. He leaned down and pulled out a shoebox. He opened it and found notes, police reports, and photos. One of the photos was of Gail with her friends.
Jackpot! he thought
He grabbed the box and went downstairs.
The landlord hurried up to him. “You find any money?”
Callaway pulled out two hundred dollars. “It was tucked under his pillow,” he said.
The landlord smiled. “I knew it.” He took the bills.
Callaway hated having to spend the money Frank Henderson had given him, but he couldn’t leave without greasing the landlord’s palm.
Callaway got in his Charger and drove away.
EIGHTY-NINE
Fisher found the medical examiner in the morgue. She was dressed in green overalls, and there were specks of blood on the front of her shirt and her sleeves.
“I was in the middle of an autopsy,” Wakefield said as a way of apologizing.
“I can wait until you’re done,” Fisher said.
“No, this is important.”
Fisher was across the city when she received the call. She had dropped everything and rushed over.
They walked to another room. Wakefield stopped next to a gurney. A white cloth was covering a body. She slid the cloth down to reveal Scott’s face.
Fisher no longer shared Wakefield’s admiration for how handsome Scott was, even in death. Behind the good looks lurked a hideous human being. Instead of using his fame to help others, he used it to help himself.
“I believe my initial instincts were correct,” Wakefield said.
“What do you mean?” Fisher asked.
“The victim did not die of blunt force trauma. The wound on the head is superficial and could not have caused significant damage that would lead to death.”
“Okay, but how did he die?” Fisher asked.
“It was a puzzle that kept me up many nights.”
I don’t doubt it, Fisher thought.
“I couldn’t pinpoint the basis of his demise. How could a man in relatively good health die from a bump on the head? There had to be a logical explanation for this.”
Fisher could tell Wakefield was enjoying this. The big reveal would come after she had set up the mystery.
“If it wasn’t blunt force trauma, then what? The victim showed no other signs of physical distress. There were no marks on the face, torso, arms, or legs. That means death was not caused by external factors, but internal.”
“Internal?” Fisher repeated.
Wakefield nodded. “I had to go back and conduct a fresh autopsy. I had to ignore what I saw before—the wound on the head—and focus on what I knew about the victim. You mention in y
our report that you had seen an insulin injection in the victim’s home.”
“I did, in his bedroom.”
“This reminded me of a study I had read a few years ago. It took some work, but I was able to dig it up.”
Wakefield walked over to a table and returned with a document. “Scientists in the U.K. have demonstrated that having high sugar levels could affect blood vessels, which in turn could lead to heart attacks.”
Fisher blinked. “So he died of a heart attack?”
Wakefield nodded. “The coronary artery provides blood to the heart muscle to give it oxygen and nutrients. When that artery is blocked, it can lead to heart attacks. The study showed that high glucose in the blood can change the behavior of the blood vessels, making them contract even more. What’s more interesting, a significant portion of the population who suffers a heart attack will show high glucose in the blood stream because of the stress response from changes in the blood vessels. In order to further confirm my findings, I had to request the victim’s medical records. They took some time to arrive, but when they did, they confirmed the victim was suffering from DHD.”
“DHD?” Fisher asked.
“Diabetic Heart Disease. The victim had had this disease for over twenty years. Over time, high blood sugar levels can damage blood vessels and nerves that connect to the heart. For diabetics, the most common cause of death is from heart disease and stroke.”
“So are you saying he was not taking his insulin shots?” Fisher asked.
“I think he was.” Wakefield pulled up the white cloth, revealing Scott’s stomach. “There are tiny puncture marks in the stomach where the victim was injecting insulin. Also, like you said, the victim had an insulin kit next to his bed, which indicates he was taking his daily required dose.”
“Then how did his blood sugar level go dangerously high?” Fisher asked.
Wakefield pulled a magnifying glass from her coat pocket and held it over Scott’s arm. “It took some sleuthing, but I found a puncture wound on the right arm. It’s fresher than the marks on the stomach. The toxicology report showed no traces of drugs of any kind, which would eliminate recreational drug use. The mark could have appeared from giving blood or getting IV fluids, but I am inclined not to go with either of those scenarios.”
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