Truth Be Told (Jane Ryland)

by Hank Phillippi Ryan

  Jane had a funny look on her face. “Yeah.”

  “Take a look at the transcript, such as it is. It’s not admissible, in any way, it’s simply their memory of a conversation that I think, frankly, was improper.” Peter leaned closer to Jane, wanting to point out a certain paragraph. Got a whiff of some kind of citrusy-floral fragrance, clean and fresh. She’d pulled her hair back in a stubby little ponytail, strands falling out and curling over her cheek. He looked at her left hand. Looked away. Looked again. Bare. Couldn’t believe what he was thinking. “We’ll fight them on it, if need be. It’s arguably a Miranda violation if they suspected Mr. Sandoval. Let me show you, here’s where they—”

  “Did they?” Jane looked up from the transcript. “Suspect him?”

  “Page four,” he said. “You know he works construction, freelance. The detectives mention a two-by-four as the murder weapon.”

  “And then, according to this, Elliot refers to the ones in his truck.” Jane turned the pages of the printed transcript. “Which Ja—I mean, the cops—say they’d already noticed. So, yeah, I understand what you mean. Seems like they were on a mission, and not simply fact-finding.”

  Peter nodded. “Exactly. If they considered him a suspect, and didn’t read him his rights, then by law—”

  Marcotte’s desk phone trilled, a sharp triple tone that cut through what Peter was trying to explain. The editor rolled her eyes, apologizing, then narrowed them as she picked up the receiver and listened.

  Peter checked with Jane. She shrugged, smiling.

  “Where?” Marcotte trapped the phone between her cheek and her shoulder, pulled a pen from a silver container, began writing on a white legal pad. Peter noticed she glanced at Jane several times as she listened. “Really? When? Do they have an identification yet?”

  Jane stood and turned for the door, so Peter did, too. Maybe Marcotte expected privacy.

  “No. Wait.” The editor pointed to them. “Don’t leave. Stand by.”

  Jane stopped, and Peter almost ran into her. “Sorry,” he said.

  Marcotte put her hand over the mouthpiece, aimed her words at them. “We’re set on the deal, okay? And you two can continue without me. I’ve got a possible situation here.”

  “What’s up?” Jane said. “Anything I can do?”

  “Yes,” Marcotte said. “There is. Will you get me Chrystal Peralta? Tell her we’ve got a body on Moulten Road. Homicide is on the way.”

  21

  “This is Jake Brogan.” Jake’s cell showed caller ID blocked, so maybe it was Frasca checking in. But there was no one on the other end. “Hello?”

  Jake hung up, figuring whoever it was would call back. He’d spent the last three hours pulling rubber-banded manila folders from accordion files, reading the fusty multi-syllabic psych-talk that analyzed the reasons a raft of poor saps confessed to crimes they didn’t commit.

  Four cups of fancy coffee and two crullers later, plowing through all the professional lingo, Jake felt he’d been reading fiction, stories too bizarre and unbelievable even for the movies. And, he had to admit, law enforcement manipulation so brazen it was embarrassing.

  Jake read stomach-churning cases of overzealous detectives and special agents, battering confessions out of the semi-defenseless or totally confused in the pressure cooker of an interrogation room, usually plying them with phony reassurances and false promises.

  The case where he and Frasca met—a young Vietnamese woman, in barely marginal English, confessed to killing her child because the cops had guaranteed her if she did, “it would all be over” and she could go home. Instead, she was slammed into the Framingham House of Correction awaiting arraignment for murder. Jake and Frasca had discovered the baby had been sick, doctors’ records proved it, and the young woman was completely blameless. Now free but humiliated, she hadn’t come out of her home in the last year.

  She’d confessed all right. They all had. But none were guilty. Misguided, confused, or impaired or young or stupid or manipulated or coerced. But not guilty. Jake powered through Frasca’s case files, absorbed, almost forgetting why he was here. The guy in Sweden trying to impress a girlfriend who thought he was a wimp, a poor dupe in Illinois who’d been kept awake by the cops for forty-seven hours until he finally caved. And forget about recanting. Once a confession was “given,” it obliterated any other evidence. Witnesses, alibis, everything, would be ignored—because why would someone confess to a crime they didn’t commit?

  Jake sighed, leaned back in the soft leather, stared out the plate glass at the gathering gray clouds, thought about Gordon Thorley. No question his confession to Bing Sherrey had been taped. The Massachusetts courts frowned on what had once been the norm, those “we forgot” or “the machine broke” excuses by detectives about why their interrogations weren’t recorded. Jurors had actually been ordered to be skeptical of “confessions” where the questioning wasn’t on tape—judges instructing jurors they could infer that a lack of audio meant police had behaved inappropriately.

  But Bing Sherrey hadn’t offered solace or security or release or redemption. He hadn’t offered anything. Thorley’d shown up on his own.

  All the more reason to be perplexed.

  Jake glanced at the stack of DVDs Frasca had left. Might as well watch those. But now, faced with dozens of similar but unique cases of false confessions, he wondered if any of it mattered. What was he expecting to learn, really, from all this? Some kind of key to Thorley? Some kind of psychological explanation for his actions, or scientific proof of guilt?

  Or maybe, just maybe, finding nothing was the proof of something else. That Gordon Thorley—not young, not mentally ill, not stupid or manipulated or strong-armed—actually was the Lilac Sunday killer.

  Jake stared blankly at the dregs of his coffee and the cruller crumbs, imagining the future.

  What if this year’s Lilac Sunday, five days from now, was the first without the ghost of Carley Marie Schaefer hanging over it? The first the Schaefer family could hope for some justice? The first without the memory of failure sending Gramma Brogan to face Gerald and Maureen Schaefer at their annual “Remember Carley Marie” news conference, and then to her room for the rest of the day.

  Jake, lost in speculation, flinched when his cell phone rang again, dropped his pencil. Was Frasca already done with his meeting? Already close to noon. No wonder he was starving. Was that thunder outside?

  “Brogan,” he said. He paused, listening, then inserted a DVD into the slot in the machine under the TV monitor. He didn’t push play, though, his hand frozen in mid-air as he listened to Bing Sherrey’s terse recitation. “Are you serious? Was it an accident? No? Are you sure?”

  * * *

  Peter’s cell phone, set on vibrate for the meeting with Jane and Marcotte, buzzed in his jacket pocket. Peter ignored it, focusing on what Victoria Marcotte was telling Jane.

  A homicide? With ninety-three murders a year in Boston alone, it wasn’t surprising there’d be one reported while he was at the Register. His lawyer brain instantly wondered if the bad guy needed a defense attorney. He had his hands full already, he decided. Someone else could have this one.

  Jane had raced off down the hall, holding up one finger in a “be right back” gesture. He stood in the doorway, realized he was watching her jog away. He’d assumed she’d be kind of a pain, tough or bitter or a hardass. Or a diva, full of herself and her career. He’d been wrong about all of that. He was still embarrassed with himself for checking out her ring finger. His phone buzzed again. Someone who had his cell number, so probably Nicole at his office, reminding him of something. Or maybe—had Sandoval been arrested for Waverly Road?

  That’d start the wheels in motion with Jane, even sooner than he’d predicted.

  “Peter Hardesty,” he answered. Marcotte, he could see through the glass, was still on her phone, now clamped between her shoulder and cheek, peering at something on her computer screen.

  “This is Detective Branford Sherrey, Mr. Har
desty. We met yesterday? I’m calling about your client, Gordon Thorley.”

  “What about him?” Bing Sherrey. The blowhard cop who’d tried to keep Thorley in custody. The news he’d just overheard in Marcotte’s office. A homicide. Was Thorley dead? The victim? Or who?

  “We cannot seem to locate your client, Mr. Hardesty,” Sherrey said. “He should have checked in with parole this morning. When he didn’t, we sent an officer to his LKA. Last known address.”

  “I understand LKA,” Peter said. Down the hall, Jane was walking with a tall salt-and-pepper brunette, both women gesturing toward Marcotte’s office. The other woman, older, with wild curls and dark glasses perched on her head, wore a flimsy too-small sundress. He could see the woman’s sunburned shoulders and surprising cleavage all the way from here. This was probably Chrystal, the reporter Marcotte mentioned. “My client was not home? So what?”

  If Thorley was missing, was he dead? Killed? By whom? Why?

  “Nope. No answer to the knock, no sign of him. Your client is gonzo. We went inside—”

  “You went inside? You have a warrant to—”

  “Landlord let us in, what if he’s in trouble, right? Plus, he gave up his Fourth Amendment rights the moment his homey waved a .45 at that liquor store owner back in 1995, Counselor. As I am sure you’re aware.”

  Jerks. “And?”

  “And nothing, Mr. Hardesty.”

  Peter waited.

  “That warrant?” Sherrey said. “We do have it. Violation of parole. Not to mention fleeing after an interrogation, suspicion of—”

  If there was a homicide, and the cops were looking for Thorley, he wasn’t the victim. Was he a suspect?

  Peter turned his back on Jane and the other reporter, his forehead touching the wall, focusing on this new development. Sherrey was reportedly not a devotee of the rules. But if he’d deigned to call about Thorley’s whereabouts, he apparently decided to toe the legal line. Why? And what he was saying was absurd.

  “‘Fleeing after an interrogation’? Where’d you come up with that? Suspicion? Of what? Listen, Detective. How do you know Mr. Thorley isn’t at the grocery?” Peter got more annoyed by the second. “Or having a real life, visiting his sister, or seeing the doctor, or having his tires rotated? I’ve seen his records. He’s no slacker about his parole reporting. God knows the department doesn’t go after every ex-con who’s ten minutes late calling in, Detective. You want to tell me what this is really about?”

  “Yeah,” Sherrey said. Peter could hear the smile in his voice. He remembered he didn’t like Sherrey’s smile. “I do. Stand by one, okay?”

  The connection went muffled, as if Peter were suddenly listening to cotton. This cop had put him on hold?

  “Peter?”

  He turned, surprised at the brief touch on his back. Jane.

  “Oh, sorry.” She pointed down the hall. “I’ll be at my desk.”

  “Thanks.” He mouthed the word at her, held up two fingers. Two minutes.

  “Gotcha,” she said.

  She had a great smile.

  The line clicked, the connection opened.

  “Detective?” Peter’d let this guy jerk him around long enough. “Suspicion of what?”

  “Here’s what, Mr. Hardesty. We’re actively looking for your client. If you find him first? You’ll bring him to the station ASAP. If we find him first, well, he’ll get his one phone call. I assume he’ll call you. If not, then, we’ll see you around campus.”

  “On suspicion of fricking what?” This was harassment, pure and simple.

  “Oh, my error.” Sherrey’s voice had that arrogant smile again. “But you know what? We’ll fill you in when we see you. With your client.”

  22

  Something was certainly up.

  Jane moved back into Marcotte’s reception area, watching Peter on the phone. His body language screamed bad news. Forehead touching the wall, one hand gesturing, whispering into his cell. Maybe Sandoval had been arrested?

  If Sandoval was in custody, or about to be, at least that’d take her mind off whatever assignment Marcotte was now apparently giving Chrystal Peralta. Chrystal was a veteran reporter, around for maybe twenty years. Maybe more. Her stories were fine, straightforward, Jane supposed, not much flair, but she apparently made her deadlines and had some good connections. Who wouldn’t, after twenty years, if you were worth your salt.

  Twenty years from now, when Jane was Chrystal’s age, where would she be? Still banging out murders at the Register? That was a question she wasn’t quite ready to face.

  Right now, though, Jane still craved the headlines. A good reporter always does. Maybe someday she’d stop caring. Maybe.

  Chrystal opened Marcotte’s office door, whooshing back into the reception area with a blast of musky perfume and a hint of cigarette.

  “No problem, Victoria,” Chrystal was saying over her shoulder. “I’ll give you a buzz when—oh, hey, Jane.”

  Jane smiled, oh so friendly. “Got a good story?”

  “Dead girl near the Arboretum.” Chrystal stuck her pencil into her curls, left it behind her ear. “A week before Lilac Sunday? And there’s another murder around the Arboretum? City’s gonna go nuts.”

  What did Lilac Sunday have to do with anything? “What about Lilac Sunday?”

  “Lilac Sunday? The festival at the Arboretum. Every May, around Mother’s Day. Picnics, families, you know. And that girl was killed? Like, twenty years ago. They never found the guy.”

  “Oh, right. I know that,” Jane said. “So they think this is connected? Why?”

  Chrystal turned to Peter, who’d come up beside her from the hallway. “Can I help you?” she said.

  “He’s with me. We’re working on a story together.” Jane answered before Peter could, no need to tell Chrystal about this. “See you later, Chrystal. Good luck with the—”

  “Hang on, Jane, sorry.” Peter took a step toward Chrystal, holding out a hand. “I couldn’t help but overhear.”

  Chrystal checked with Jane, eyebrows raised. He okay?

  Jane shrugged. Whatever. Sure.

  “You said there’s a—,” Peter went on.

  “Homicide, I should have said,” Chrystal interrupted. “Apologies. Not ‘dead girl.’ Though the police haven’t formally called it a homicide. So far. But yeah, apparently there’s a young woman they found, strangled, so says our source. And since you can’t strangle yoursel—oh, sorry.” Chrystal held up both hands. “Sorry. Been in the business too long.”

  “It’s okay. Peter’s a lawyer, and—,” Jane began.

  “When was she killed?” Peter asked. “Where? Exactly, where?”

  Chrystal took a step back, made a skeptical face like, who is this guy? “Forgive me, sir. I’ve got to head out.”

  Jane watched Chrystal trot away down the corridor, her sturdy black sandals clopping against her bare heels, her curls hardly moving.

  “Peter?” He’d come in all confidence and conviction. Now he looked upset, like someone had changed the rules. “Did something happen? Is this about Elliot Sandoval? Was he arrested?”

  He didn’t answer, and Jane frowned, trying to arrange the puzzle pieces in some logical way. Chrystal had said there was another homicide. “Do police think Sandoval killed someone else?”

  That didn’t make much sense, but neither did Sandoval killing Shandra Newbury, even though apparently police suspected he had. Who knew what “made sense.” Jane had covered enough stories of arbitrary and random disaster to appreciate that “making sense” was not always achievable. Reality was impossible to predict. That’s what made it headlines.

  “Sando—oh. No. Its not that.” Peter shook his head, pulled out his phone. Now he was checking his screen and talking to her at the same time. “Listen, Jane? Could you find out more about this possible homicide? Who the victim is? When it happened?”

  “Maybe.” Could she? Should she? “You have to give me some reason, though. I can’t march into the city editor
and—well, what’s up, Peter? We’re working together on the Sandoval case, but that doesn’t mean you have access to everything.”

  “Jane.” Peter stashed the phone in his jacket pocket. “Listen. Can you keep a secret?”

  * * *

  “Are you from the bank?”

  Those were the last words Lizzie expected to hear. She actually didn’t expect to hear any words, since every document indicated this house would be vacant. She’d checked the listings on Aaron’s logs, and this address had been foreclosed on months ago, the deputies had evicted the family soon after, and it had been vacant and for sale ever since. But now a college-looking girl in a white Sam Adams T-shirt, cutoffs, and flip-flops stood in the doorway. Looking worried.

  Lizzie wondered how she looked. She pulled the keys from the lock.

  “The bank?” Lizzie said. Why would this girl think she was from the bank? Why was this girl even here?

  “Oh, I get it, not the bank. From the real estate agency, maybe? Sorry, I was in the shower.” The girl canted her hips, sticking one hand into a pocket, making the lining stick out past the frayed edges of her little jeans. Her sunburned face spackled with freckles, her wet hair pulled back in a scrunchy, she seemed unaware of Lizzie’s bafflement. “It’s not about the rent, right? We paid that. I’m sorry for the mess. Long weekend. I’m Maddie Kate Wendell.”

  Lizzie stood still, staring at a person who should not be there. Music, faint but insistent, came from upstairs, and an entryway side table held a haphazard pile of textbooks. Students? Students in the empty house. The not-empty house. Paying rent.

  “Ma’am?” the girl was saying.

  Maybe the records weren’t up to date. Maybe the place was sold and rented, but the bank’s internal paperwork had failed catch up. Certainly its record-keeping systems weren’t foolproof. She herself was evidence of that. Lizzie almost nodded, mentally agreeing with this logical explanation.

  “Sorry, Miss. Yes, it’s about the—” Lizzie paused, considering what it was about. It was about her own curiosity. Her compulsion to make things add up. Which now, faced with reality, might not be prudent.