She gave him a hesitant smile and clasped his hand. Her fingers were freezing. “Hi.”
“Please, sit down.” He sat behind his desk, studying her as she slipped off her coat and settled into the comfy armchair facing him. She had one of those faces that seemed familiar—a “look,” as his mother used to say. Pretty. Soft. Attractive. With her honey-brown hair smoothed off a pleasingly high brow, she would attract second glances. He decided that if she had to appear before a jury, she should wear her hair just like that. He skimmed her clothes. The outfit worked, too. Cropped cardigan in a delicate plum color, modest crew neck T-shirt underneath, dark pants. His daughter—whom he realized might resemble this girl in six years or so—always made of fun of him for knowing “girls’” fashion when he had such poor style himself. But knowing what made his clients look good—trustworthy, credible, innocent—was his job. “Coffee, tea, a cold drink?”
“I’m fine, thank you.” She folded her hands across her knees. Unlike most girls her age, she wore no nail polish. Her nails were neatly trimmed, her only adornment a Celtic ring on her right hand.
“So, Molly, tell me why you need my help. I’ve read about your case in the paper, but as far as I’m aware, you haven’t been charged with anything, right?”
She nodded. “But the police keep calling me. They told me yesterday they wanted me to come for questioning. Again. I’ve told them everything I know, but they won’t leave me alone.” Tears pricked her eyes. “Why do they keep bugging me? I’m the victim. Not him.”
Why indeed? She had been raped, and killed her attacker.
The police must have found evidence to suggest that Dr. Nicholson’s death could not be justified as self-defense. Interesting.
“I know what the newspapers say,” Eddie tapped the open file folder piled with media printouts. “But I want you to tell me, in your own words, what happened, Molly.”
She looked away, a flush radiating across her face. It provided a garish contrast to her blackened right eye. He glanced at the date of birth scrawled on the inside of his file folder. She was eighteen years old. A woman. And yet, the soft wisp of hair curling around her earlobe struck him as poignantly childlike.
Molly cleared her throat. “It happened last Monday. I went to my forensic biology class, like usual. It’s an elective. I’m premed,” she added. “Dr. Nicholson is—was—” she flushed a bit darker but held on to her composure “—one of the lecturers. He was teaching that night.” She glanced at Eddie. He bet she was expecting him to write this down. He knew that if he did, she would become conscious of her words, of how she told the story. So instead, he played with a pen, giving the appearance of relaxed curiosity.
“After the class ended, I left. But I realized I’d forgotten my textbook. So I went back. The classroom is upstairs in the library, in the very far end.”
And it was there that you stabbed the good doctor to death.
Were you really carrying a knife like the press says, Molly Brown?
She took a deep breath. “When I walked into the classroom, it was dark. He must have put two and two together and heard me come back, because when I got there, he was standing behind the door. I reached over to flip on the switch….” Her voice was low, husky now. Tears. “I felt an arm hook me around the neck…. He yanked me back and stuffed a sock in my mouth. He kicked the door shut. He called me names. Said I was a slut, said that I was asking for it—” She looked away, shame imprinted on those even features. “Then he punched me in the face. He told me to roll onto my stomach—” Her voice choked off. She tried a weak smile. Apologetic. It made Eddie wince. Rape victims always got under his skin. The shame, the guilt, the burden they carried that they somehow provoked the violence that was perpetrated on them. “It’s not like I’m a virgin,” she whispered. “But he wanted—” She swallowed.
He wanted to sodomize her.
“He yanked my arm. He flipped me over and twisted my arm behind my back. He kept saying, ‘I know exactly how far a joint can handle this pressure before it breaks.’”
Eddie’s eyes skimmed her arms, but they were covered with her cardigan.
She had begun shivering now. “I fought him, but I couldn’t stop him.” She hugged her arms. “I couldn’t stop him.” She didn’t seem to be aware that she repeated herself. Her eyes were bleak. Unreadable. Like a fog bank concealing the depths of the ocean, Eddie thought. “The next thing I knew, I was covered in blood. And he was dead.”
The police acknowledged that sexual intercourse had occurred. Molly had admitted to the press that she had been sodomized. “Molly,” Eddie said, his voice gentle. “Are you sure you can’t remember what happened after he raped you? It could help your case.”
The look she gave him was the despair of someone who knows there is no going back. No going back to the carefree university student who demurely flirted with the guy seated next to her in class, Eddie thought.
“So my choice is to be imprisoned for not remembering—or remembering and having those memories imprisoned in my mind? I don’t want to remember killing him.” She buried her face in her hands, then blurted, “The police told me I stabbed him four times.”
Eddie blinked. The police hadn’t disclosed this to the media. Nor had Dr. Nicholson’s widow—on police orders, he was sure. Four times. That was, oh, about three times too many for them to claim self-defense.
“He ruined my life,” she whispered.
Eddie pushed back his chair, grabbed the tissue box that perched on the edge of his desk, and placed it on the table next to the girl. She ignored it. Her sobs were quiet, despairing.
The rape was traumatic, but Eddie knew the Crown Prosecutor would focus on the numerous stab wounds on Dr. Nicholson’s body.
He sat down next to her. “Molly.”
She continued to weep.
“Molly.” He held out a tissue to her.
She ignored it.
“Molly, please listen to me.”
She sniffled but—thank God—had stopped that pitiful weeping.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Bent.” She straightened, took the proffered tissue, wiped her eyes. “I won’t do that again.”
“It’s okay to cry, Molly. And please, call me Eddie.” He needed her to trust him, feel she could confide in him. “Mr. Bent” created too much distance.
“I don’t usually cry…Eddie.” Something in the tilt of her chin made Eddie believe her. “But I don’t know…you just make me feel safe…and I have no one else right now.”
“Why were you carrying a knife, Molly?”
He deliberately phrased it that way. He didn’t know for sure—but the information that the police had “leaked” to the press clearly implied that Dr. Nicholson’s death had been premeditated.
Her eyes met his. Again, the deep blue pulled him in, tried to make him understand. “I always carry a knife with me. A lot of my classes are on campus at night.” Her lips twisted. “I thought it was dangerous to walk around the university at night. You know, the rapes and assaults and stuff. I never thought I’d get attacked by my professor. In a classroom.”
“How long have you been in the habit of carrying a knife for protection?”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure…since classes started, I guess. And when that girl got raped on campus a couple of months ago, I got nervous.”
“Did your family and friends know you carried a knife?”
She shrugged again. “My family doesn’t live in Halifax.” There was the slightest hint of testiness in her voice. “And I’m not sure if I showed it to my friends or not. It’s not like I was proud of it, or anything. It was there, just in case I needed it. You know, like a tampon.”
Eddie fought a grin. The jury would love that. He could just imagine Miss Molly Brown saying to the judge: “Yes, I carry a knife with my tampons. Every girl should, Your Lords
hip.”
“So it was your habit to carry a knife with you?”
She shot him an irritated look. “I just told you that.”
Eddie exhaled. “Molly, don’t get your back up. Trust me, the police and the Crown Prosecutor will spend a very long time questioning you about this point.”
“Why? Aren’t I allowed to carry something to defend myself?”
“Yes. But in this case, the issue is that you defended yourself beyond what is considered reasonable in the circumstances.”
Her cheeks flamed bright pink. “Reasonable! The guy raped me, Eddie. He raped me. He was going to break my arm.”
“But did he ever say he was going to kill you?” Eddie’s voice was quiet, but it sliced through the air.
“Yes. He did. Over and over. While he was raping me.” Was there a flicker of Molly’s eyelid? Eddie wasn’t sure.
“So after he finished, what happened?”
“I don’t know!” She clenched the tissue in her fist. “Why am I being blamed for this? He’s the one who attacked me!”
“Dr. Nicholson’s widow told the press that her husband had been stabbed from behind. That he was found fully clothed by the door. They think you attacked him after the danger to you had passed. An act of rage, rather than self-defense.”
She shrank before his eyes. “Really?” She twisted the tissue. “They think I just…murdered him? Oh, my God…I would never kill anyone on purpose. Ever. I was the girl who rescued spiders from inside the house.”
And carried a knife with your tampon.
“Eddie, please, believe me. I must have been out of my head.” She paused. Took a deep hiccuping breath. “Are they sure? Isn’t there some other explanation?”
The irony of the situation was not lost on Eddie. He wondered if Molly knew about Dr. Nicholson’s professional history. In fact, Eddie had been surprised that the university had kept Dr. Nicholson on as a lecturer after being found guilty by a provincial inquiry of botching numerous forensic pediatric autopsies. Those incompetent autopsies had been the sole reason eight different parents were accused and convicted of infanticide. The cases had spanned decades.
Eddie had, in fact, represented one of those parents on a charge of infanticide. He had been convinced Laura Norris was innocent, but the autopsy findings by Dr. Nicholson had been adamant that the child had died by the mother’s hand. Eddie had always thought Dr. Nicholson was too arrogant, too keen to accuse the parents of wrongdoing in the face of unsubstantiated facts. Considered one of the foremost experts in pediatric forensic pathology, no defense lawyer at the time could find anyone to contradict his findings.
Ten years later, there had been too many questionable cases that had turned on his evidence. His findings were challenged, cases were reopened, an inquiry was formed. Dr. Nicholson’s medical license was revoked. The pathologist had never faced any criminal charges. Perhaps that was why the university hadn’t fired him. Small comfort for the eight parents who had been convicted based on his findings. Several had already served their sentences; the remainder had been released from prison. Most were trying to pick up the pieces of their lives, but a few had run into trouble with the law. He had been sad to learn that his former client had overdosed on drugs.
And now, this young woman was asking him whether the autopsy results for Dr. Nicholson could be wrong.
Good question, Molly.
“That’s our job, Molly. To give them another explanation. So they don’t lay charges. And if they do, to establish that your actions were reasonable self-defense.” A snowflake eddied outside the window. “I’ll be straight with you, Molly. If you are charged with murder, we’ll have to show that you had a blackout. It’s not always an easy thing to get a judge or jury to believe.”
Her eyes met his. “But you believe me, don’t you?”
“Until you tell me you did it, I believe you are innocent.” He handed her his business card. “The best thing for your case is if you remember what happened. You can reach me day or night.” He gave her an encouraging smile. “When the police call you again, tell them you are not going to talk to them. When they put pressure on you—and they will—tell them to phone me.” He saw doubt flicker in her eyes. “They don’t have a right to question you until you are a suspect. And if you are a suspect, you need me present. One way or the other, you won’t be alone, Molly.”
He glanced at his calendar. “Let’s meet next Tuesday at 2:00 p.m. and touch base, unless the police have something they want to share sooner.”
“Thank you, Eddie.” Molly’s eyes shone with gratitude.
His heart twisted. Brianna gave him the exact same look when he did something special for her. He needed to get home.
3:01 a.m.
The phone rang. Eddie was still yanking himself from the deepest undertow of sleep, when his wife murmured, “Hello?”
He heard a woman’s voice through the receiver. Elaine’s voice lost its grogginess as she thrust the phone at his face. “Eddie! It’s a client.” This was delivered with her usual mixture of resignation and irritation.
Eddie threw back the covers, his feet seeking his slippers as he muttered, “Eddie Bent here.”
“Eddie? It’s Molly.” Her voice was teary, ragged. Breathless.
He hurried down the stairs toward his study, wishing he hadn’t drunk that bottle of wine he’d bought to “celebrate.” Or capped it off with a couple of scotches. His head throbbed. His mouth tasted foul. “What is it, Molly?” He glanced at the grandfather clock standing in the corner of the landing—3:03 a.m. Jesus. She better not make a habit of this.
“I’m here, Eddie,” she whispered.
Her words stopped him in his tracks. “Where?”
“At your back door.”
“Jesus. Molly, you can’t come to my home.”
“Please, Eddie…” Her voice cracked. “I don’t have anyone else. Please let me in. I’m freezing.”
He headed through the kitchen to the back door and peered through the windowpane. He blinked. “Fuck.” In the space of three hours, a foot of snow had fallen. That was why the night sounded so quiet. Until the roads were clear, no one would be out driving.
Molly stood, huddled against the blowing snow, the collar of her wool peacoat pulled up to her ears. Wet snow clung to her eyelashes, her brows. The bitter February wind whipped her hair into wet strands. She didn’t try to shield her face from the onslaught dealt by Mother Nature. The wool-gloved hand clutching the cell phone to her ear was probably numb by now, Eddie guessed.
Her eyes met his through the snow-streaked glass. “I have nowhere to go, Eddie.”
“I can’t let you in, Molly.” He spoke firmly into the phone, his face set, but his heart turned once.
“Please.”
“No. I’m sorry. You must leave now.”
A gust of wind buffeted her slight frame. He heard her, over the phone connection, suck in her breath. But she didn’t flinch.
She gave him one last look. He thought of his twelve-year-old daughter, asleep in her warm, safe bedroom. Where were this girl’s parents? Why was she standing on his doorstep on this godforsaken February night with no place to call home?
He pressed the phone closer to his cheek. “Why aren’t you at the dorm, Molly?”
“I can’t stay there. My roommate says she’s terrified of me and they asked me to leave.”
“What about your parents?”
“They live in British Columbia. The police told me I can’t go home right now.”
He pulled his thick fleece robe more tightly around him with one hand, the other hand gripping the phone until his fingers turned numb. “I’m sorry.”
Somehow, through the blur of snow, her eyes seemed to be able to see straight into his booze-addled soul. She gave a little nod. “I’ll see you next Tue
sday.” Snow rimmed her lashes in white, coated her soggy hair. “Sorry for waking you.” Then she disconnected the phone. She shoved her hands in her pockets and hurried off the porch, her footprints almost immediately covered by blowing snow.
She had reached the side of the house when he caught up with her. “Just for tonight,” he said. Elaine would be furious with him, but he’d explain. He couldn’t just leave her out in a blizzard.
“How did you know where I lived?” he asked, once they were inside the kitchen.
“I just did reverse lookup of the phone number you gave me.”
Shit. His number must be unblocked. Probably had been unblocked since they switched carriers a month ago. New Year’s budget cutting and all that. He made a mental note to call the phone company first thing in the morning. “How did you get here?”
“I walked.” She bunched her stringy hair over her shoulder, shivering. “Do you have a towel? I’m soaked.”
“Wait here.”
He ran upstairs to the linen closet, his breathing labored by the time he reached the upstairs landing.
“Eddie?” Elaine stood in the doorway, tying her bathrobe. “What in hell’s name is going on?”
He heard the scotch bottle call his name. Shit. Elaine was going to blow a gasket when she heard this.
“Remember that rape victim I told you about when I got home?” he asked, his voice low. He didn’t want to wake up his daughter.
“That was her on the phone?”
Eddie nodded. “She’s in the kitchen.”
“What?” Elaine stared at him. He knew what she was thinking: you are so desperate that you now give our address to your clients?
“She found our address on the internet. Bloody phone company. They screwed up blocking our phone number.”
Elaine exhaled. “What’s she doing down there?”
“She has nowhere to go.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Eddie, are you kidding me?”
“Her dorm kicked her out, her parents are in B.C.”
“Just give her money to go to a hotel. I’ve got some cash in my purse.”
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