Don't Believe It

by Charlie Donlea

  “Mrs. Anderson? I’m Sidney Ryan.”

  “You came all the way from the city?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Is this about your television show?”

  “It is.”

  Betty Anderson pushed open the front door. “Come on in.”

  Sidney walked into the foyer and followed Betty into a living room, where they each sat, Betty on the edge of a love seat and Sidney adjacent to her on a side chair.

  “David, my older boy, told me about the documentary.”

  Sidney nodded. “Have you watched it?”

  “No, dear. I don’t watch too much television.”

  “But your son has seen it?”

  She nodded. “He told me about it. That it had to do with Grace and what happened to her.”

  “How about Mr. Anderson? Has he seen it?”

  “Hank senior passed a few years ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sidney said.

  “Cirrhosis. He drank too much. Had an awful time of it the last many years. He never quite got past Henry’s death. We divorced many years ago, not long after Henry died. Common thing, we learned. Divorce after a child’s death. He took to drinking and never came back around.”

  “I know Henry’s death was many years ago, but I was hoping to ask some questions about it.”

  Betty nodded.

  “Henry died during a vacation, is that correct?”

  “Yes. We all went to the mountains for a long weekend.”

  “Who did that include?”

  “Several families. Our kids were all in high school together, and most of us had been friends for years.”

  “The Sebolds?”

  “Yes, Gretchen and Glenn were there. Of course, Grace and Marshall as well. The Reiser family.”

  “Ellie Reiser?”

  “Yes. There was quite a crowd. Maybe six or seven families from the neighborhood. I’m afraid I can’t remember them all.”

  “Can you tell me about the day Henry died?”

  “Well,” Betty started. “The kids were out on a hike. The plan was for everyone to meet back at the resort in the evening, and we would all go to dinner. It was Sunday night, with everyone planning to leave the following day. Henry . . . never showed up that night. At first, Hank and I assumed he was simply running late. But as evening pushed on, we asked around and no one had seen him since the hike that afternoon. We started to search for him. His friends joined in. It wasn’t until eight o’clock that evening, as it was getting dark, that we finally phoned the police. About an hour later, we found Henry in a shallow ravine below the trail where he had been hiking.”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  Betty nodded.

  “Was Henry dating Grace Sebold around the time he died?”

  “Yes. They were quite serious. I mean, as serious as teenagers can be. Grace was Henry’s first love. We really loved Grace, so Hank and I had hoped they might be the rare high-school sweetheart story that made it last.”

  Betty smiled as she reminisced. The upward push of her cheeks caused her slivered eyes to close. “It was long ago, but I still remember being happy that my son had found someone who made him feel special. Grace and Henry had planned to attend Syracuse University together.”

  Sidney’s mind flashed back to the many photos of Julian Crist she had seen during the creation of her documentary. A sick feeling sat in her gut when she considered what had happened to both of the young men who had loved Grace Sebold.

  “Did you keep in touch with the Sebolds after Henry’s death?”

  Betty Anderson shook her head. “No. Sadly, we lost touch with many of our friends after Henry passed. Hank started drinking and we had marital problems, so it was easy to melt away.”

  “Are you familiar with what happened to Grace Sebold?”

  “Yes. I know she was convicted of murder. I always thought the circumstances didn’t fit the girl I knew. I’m glad to hear after so many years that she is finally home with her family.”

  “The circumstances surrounding Grace Sebold’s conviction . . . ,” Sidney said. “You remember them, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  Sidney was silent for a moment as she waited for Mrs. Anderson to elaborate. When she did not, Sidney spoke. “A young man named Julian Crist was killed while in St. Lucia on spring break. The circumstances of Julian Crist’s death are, frankly, startlingly similar to your son’s.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  Sidney placed her elbows on her knees and leaned closer to Henry Anderson’s mother. “Grace and Julian were dating when he was killed. They were finishing medical school at the time, and preparing to start a residency program together. Like your son, Julian Crist fell to his death from a mountain bluff.”

  Betty was already shaking her head. “Henry’s death was an accident. A tragic accident that took my son at a horribly young age.”

  “Do you remember Gus Morelli?”

  Betty attempted to raise her sagging eyelids as her voice took on a controversial tone. “He was one of the detectives involved in Henry’s case. And he came to me during Grace’s trial with the same theory I think you’re trying to present now.”

  Sidney took a deep breath. “Back in 1999, Detective Morelli believed that there may be more to Henry’s death. That, perhaps, it wasn’t an accident.”

  “Henry fell off that bluff. I wish it hadn’t happened, Ms. Ryan. I’ve offered so many times to take his place. My boy is gone and I hope to see him again someday. But I’m not going to try to bring him back to life by turning him into some pop-culture star to help your television program.”

  Sidney pursed her lips and nodded her head. She didn’t mention that turning Henry into a star was the furthest thing from her mind, or that her television program was likely as dead as the two boys who once loved Grace Sebold.

  “I understand,” Sidney finally said.

  Betty Anderson’s grief, even all these years later, was still palpable. If she didn’t want to hear that her son had possibly been killed, then Sidney guessed her audience, who was salivating for the episode that showed Grace Sebold’s exoneration and release from jail, did not, either. Graham Cromwell and Ray Sandberg certainly would not be interested in pursuing anything that might disrupt the smooth sail they saw for the final three episodes.

  The question Sidney weighed as she sat in Henry Anderson’s old house was whether fame and fortune were enough for her, or if the truth was the only thing that mattered.

  CHAPTER 48

  Wednesday, July 19, 2017

  THE NEW YORK OFFICE OF THE CHIEF MEDICAL EXAMINER WAS LOCATED on East Twenty-sixth Street. Sidney made it back to the city just before seven, agitated from the gridlock and with a sore right hip from navigating stop-and-go traffic. She was led to the third floor, where Dr. Livia Cutty sat behind her new desk and typed on her keyboard.

  “Hey,” Livia said when Sidney appeared at her door, “you made it.”

  “Traffic. Sorry, I’m late. And sorry to call on you during your first week in New York,” Sidney said.

  “It’s perfect timing. I don’t officially start until August first. They buffered me a couple of weeks to get settled and find my way around. I can’t take a formal case until then, and I’m bored as hell. I was happy you called. Sit down. I’ll show you what I found.”

  In 1999, Henry Anderson’s body had gone to the Adirondack Medical Center Morgue in Essex County, New York, for autopsy. Since receiving Sidney’s call early this morning, Dr. Cutty had made some calls to Essex County and tapped into the New York State database to bring herself up to date with the old case.

  “Back in 1999,” Livia said, “there were no electronic medical records, so everything I pulled on the Anderson case is on file. This is what I was able to track down on short notice.” She pushed a manila file folder across her desk.

  Sidney spun the folder around and opened the cover. The first page was a summary from the scene investigators who arrived at the site wher
e the Anderson boy’s body had been found. Sidney skimmed the findings while Livia summarized.

  “The Anderson boy was an eighteen-year-old high-school senior visiting Whiteface Lodge with his family for the Memorial Day weekend. He went missing after a group of teenagers, sixteen in all, went on a hike to High Falls Gorge, where they all ate lunch. That evening, Henry Anderson never came back to the resort. Police were called and a search was started. A couple of the boy’s friends”—Livia looked down at her notes—“Charlotte Brooks and Daniel Greaves, eventually found Henry’s body just after eight in the evening.”

  Sidney looked up from the report when she heard the names. “Where are you getting these specific details?”

  Livia pointed to the page in front of her. “I’m reading the detective’s notes. A copy was in the file. Is something wrong?”

  “Charlotte Brooks and Daniel Greaves were Grace’s friends who got married at Sugar Beach.”

  “In St. Lucia?” Livia asked.

  Sidney nodded. She again saw her blockbuster documentary, set to air the final three episodes that showed the unearthed blood evidence and the debunked cleanup that helped exonerate Grace Sebold, as well as her triumphant return home, falling to pieces as some larger conspiracy swirled in her thoughts.

  “What can you tell me about Henry Anderson’s autopsy?”

  Livia pushed crime scene photos across the desk.

  Sidney looked at the awkward angles of the young man’s limbs as he lay on a dust-covered slab of granite, with shrubs partially covering his face. A dark circle of blood spread along the stone on which his body lay, haloing his head like a cherry sunrise. His eyes were half opened, like he was stuck between sleep and consciousness.

  “He was estimated to have fallen fifty feet,” Livia said. “The scene investigators were able to track the marks in the side of the mountain where he likely made contact on the way down. Detectives were able to match his shoeprints to the edge of the bluff just above where his body was found. There were many other shoeprints. It was a popular trail and the only hiking route that offered access to the mountaintop café.”

  Sidney turned another page to find the autopsy report and photos. She quickly tucked the images of Henry’s naked body splayed on the metal autopsy table underneath the report so they were out of sight.

  “With such a long fall,” Livia continued, “interrupted intermittently by impact on the mountain face, there was quite a bit of internal organ damage. The cause of death was determined to be exsanguination due to aortic dissection, meaning the main blood vessel attached to the heart dislodged on impact and he bled to death internally.”

  Livia pulled pages that she had kept off to the side. “I know you were interested in the Anderson boy’s skull fracture. Here’s what I found.”

  Livia slid autopsy photos of Henry Anderson’s bare skull across the table.

  “There were several fractures noted.” Livia pointed to the photo. “Including a large stellate fracture on the posterior right parietal bone.”

  Sidney shook her head again. “Just like Julian Crist,” she said.

  Livia nodded. “Not only in the type and location—they both were depressed stellate fractures to the back, right side of the head.” Livia slid another page of the report across the desk. “But I also compared the measurements of the fracture taken from Julian Crist’s autopsy to the ones taken from Henry Anderson’s.”

  “And?” Sidney asked.

  “They are close to identical.”

  Sidney looked at Livia without blinking. “How close?”

  “This is a photo from what you provided of Julian Crist’s case.” Livia slid another image toward Sidney so that it was next to the photo of Henry’s skull.

  To Sidney’s untrained eyes, each of the young men’s shattered craniums looked the same. In fact, if Livia switched the pictures around, Sidney would have difficulty determining whose skull she was looking at.

  “The measurements from Henry Anderson’s skull fracture were documented to be two and a half centimeters deep, and seven centimeters long. Nearly identical to what was documented in Julian Crist’s autopsy.”

  Sidney ran a hand through her hair. “Jesus Christ.”

  “There’s more,” Livia said. “The scalp lacerations are also similar, if not identical.”

  Livia again arranged the photos from each autopsy next to each other for comparison. Sidney remembered Julian’s laceration reminding her of a split in a leather sofa. Henry Anderson’s looked the same.

  “The measurements of the two lacerations are also the same,” Livia said as she sat back in her chair. “I’m not much for conspiracy theories, but if I were a betting woman, I’d say there’s a damn good chance these two injuries were caused by the same weapon.”

  Sidney also sat back away from the photos that were spread across the desk, folded her arms in front of her. “Yeah, well, an old detective already offered that theory. And wagered a shot of whiskey that the same person was swinging that weapon.”

  Livia shrugged. “I discovered one other thing that you’ll find interesting,” Livia said.

  Sidney leaned forward. “What else?”

  “Trace amounts of organza fibers were detected in Henry Anderson’s scalp wound.”

  CHAPTER 49

  Wednesday, July 19, 2017

  SHE’D NOT EATEN ALL DAY. HER WHIRLWIND JOURNEY HAD TAKEN HER from Alcove Manor and her discussion with Gus Morelli early this morning, to Betty Anderson’s home in Sarasota Springs, to Livia Cutty’s office. It was 9:00 p.m. when she grabbed a taco from a street cart. Sidney ate while she walked. She promised to keep Detective Morelli abreast of any developments, and after a ten-minute walk, she found herself again in the lobby of Alcove Manor. She checked in at the front desk and found her way back to room 232, where her day had started.

  Gus was sitting in the bedside chair, more put together tonight than he had been when he lay in his bed this morning. Sidney took a quick glance at the prosthetic leg that hung from his right hip and bent at the knee to reach the floor.

  She knocked from the doorway. “Sorry. Is it too late?”

  Gus waved her in. “I didn’t expect you back today.”

  “I promised I’d show you what I had on Julian Crist. And with the day I’ve had,” Sidney said, “I could use another set of eyes.”

  Sid pulled a thick file folder from her purse. It was the same information on Julian Crist that she had given to Livia Cutty weeks ago when the doctor agreed to help with the documentary. The file felt more sinister now than it had then, when Sidney hoped to find enough evidence hidden in the pages to free Grace Sebold. She placed it on his bedside table.

  “That’ll be my middle-of-the-night reading,” Gus said. “Here,” he held out his hand. “I’ve been sitting too long. I’ve gotta walk. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not,” Sidney said, hurrying to his side and helping him stand.

  “Got the cancer bug,” Gus said. “It was me or my leg. For some reason, I chose me. I’m still getting used to this goddamn thing, but you should have seen me a month ago.”

  With Sidney holding his hand, Gus took three impressive steps to his walker.

  “I know it’s hard to imagine,” he said. “But what you just witnessed is as close to a miracle as I’ve ever seen on this earth. Mind if we take a stroll?”

  “No. That’s fine.”

  Sidney kept pace next to him as he shuffled down the hallways with the aid of his walker.

  “I do better with a single crutch, but I need to learn to rely on this peg leg. And my armpit is so damn sore, I can’t stand the thought of crutches.”

  “It looks like you’re doing just fine,” Sidney said.

  “I’m out of here in two more weeks. That’s my goal.” Gus lowered his voice. “I can’t take it any longer with these old people in here. And the nurses have had enough of me. It’s time I suck it up and get back to my life.”

  They made it to the end of the hallway and turned t
o conquer the next stretch of linoleum.

  “So let’s hear it. You’re back so soon not just to give me the kid’s information. What did you find?”

  Sidney shook her head. “I’m starting to worry that I’m going to owe you that shot of whiskey.”

  * * *

  They made a full loop around the unit. His first, Gus told her, while Sidney explained what she’d learned from Betty Anderson and Livia Cutty. She helped him into bed and watched as he removed his prosthesis.

  “It’s starting to feel better with the damn thing on than off,” Gus said. “I feel naked.”

  “Maybe that’s a good thing,” Sidney said.

  “I suppose so. Pull the table over, I want to take a look at what you brought me.”

  Sidney wheeled the table close so that it rested above his bed. Gus went to work, paging through the file. In just a few minutes, he was lost in the details. Sidney let him work, taking a seat in the bedside chair and checking her voice mail. It was filled with urgent messages from Leslie and Graham. Then Graham’s final message was disturbingly calm as he explained the deadline for Friday’s episode had been missed and the network was taking steps to announce the eighth installment of The Girl of Sugar Beach would not air as scheduled.

  * * *

  An hour later, Gus finally spoke.

  “Take a look at this,” he said, pointing at a page from the file.

  Sidney killed her phone and slipped it into the back pocket of her jeans. She leaned over the bed to see what Gus was pointing at.

  “These are photos of the Crist boy’s clothes, taken by the M.E. in St. Lucia.”

  Depicted in the photo was Julian’s shirt. It had been stretched out on a staging table for photography. The collar was stained red.

  “The blood?” Sidney asked.

  “No,” Gus said, pointing to the bottom of the shirt.