Facing A Twisted Judgment

by K. J. McGillick

  “How so?” he asked. The fact that he wasn’t taking notes indicated he knew the background of the case.

  “Sam had planned to donate the paintings to be displayed in several museums, thus locking me out of any funds she might have captured from an outright sale. And we placed the house on the market for sale. Originally, she had talked about splitting the proceeds with her siblings. However, over the last few weeks, as the sale became more a reality, I was able to talk her out of that. As of the engagement of the real estate agent, we were the only beneficiaries of the sale,” I said.

  “You represented her in the case that the paintings were at issue. Is that correct?” Pierce asked.

  “Yes,” I responded.

  Although I knew there were questionable issues around my representation of her and having a relationship with her, I would not verbalize it. I also knew he wouldn’t take it further.

  “Just as an aside, had she always verbalized any thoughts about donating the paintings?” he asked.

  “No. And I believe, if she had said that during the case, the judge might have taken that into account. He might have awarded the sister two of the paintings and the brother possibly one as well. It would have given us grounds to appeal the decision if he used emotion to divvy up the paintings. But, no, she never said anything like that,” I said.

  “The marriage was a happy one?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I responded. “However, I have to be honest with you. During the marriage, I had several affairs. I don’t use the term lightly, but I’m a sex addict.”

  “Diagnosed by a psychologist?” he asked.

  “No,” I responded.

  He sat back and steepled his fingers. “Was one of the affairs with Marissa Adams?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Does law enforcement have proof of this?”

  “Yes,” I responded. “There are pictures they found on her computer of our proclivities. They also have proof that I was integral in incorporating her holding companies.”

  “While you were married to Sam, you were having a relationship with Marissa?” he asked, lifting his pen to take notes.

  I hesitated to answer. If this went to trial, he could not put me on the stand if he knew he would suborn perjury. But, in all honesty, no one in their right mind would take the stand in my position.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve read your written summary of the case to date, and it appears what they have are all smoke and mirrors. Right now, I’d say keep your head down, and I’ll let Detective Murphy know I’m on board. There will be no more impromptu interviews.

  “With Ms. Adams’s priors for financial problems with her business, I’d suggest you let me see all the records available. They might not as yet have been able to make the connection, but I need to see what’s out there. Did she keep a double set of books?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said, and I slid a flash drive across to him.

  “Do you know her accountant?” he asked.

  “Yes, and he lives outside the United States, out of reach of a subpoena,” I replied.

  He pushed the flash drive into the USB port and downloaded the contents. I watched as he scrolled through the pages, making notes.

  He turned and asked, “Do you know if the cops have all of this?” he asked.

  “I have no idea. Marissa was fairly careful. I know she had a second computer she kept in a safe deposit box. That computer might contain all or most of the incriminating evidence,” I said.

  “How did you come into possession of this drive?” he asked.

  “Once a week, she’d give me an updated drive,” I said.

  “And I assume, when they searched your office, they found nothing linking you to this activity?” he asked.

  “Correct,” I said.

  “Do I need to tell you, I can’t protect you on future crimes? You need to stop any activity on her files. I’m sure they put a freeze on all her assets. Don’t try to touch anything. From what you’ve said with the blood splatter evidence, this could have been a manslaughter charge. However, because the paintings were stolen, I could see how that could be upgraded to first-degree murder,” he said, verbalizing his thought process. “How’s your business doing? Has the publicity crippled it?”

  “Pretty much. The public loves a salacious story. The government has frozen Sam’s assets, and I’m certain they are monitoring mine,” I said.

  He stood up and paced. “Colorado does not require a body to determine a murder has been committed. What they have here is a supposition of death for your wife and a murdered body for your girlfriend,” he said. “But you are the nexus. Going from point A to B and tying you in would make their job very easy.”

  Put that way, it made me cringe.

  “If they could tie you into Marissa’s death, you’d be arrested already. They might not have enough to tie you into financial fraud with her business, and we certainly won’t give them more than they already have unless you are arrested. Samantha, they can’t even prove she’s dead. Although, based on the blood splatter, it’s unlikely she survived. If we could find the paintings, we might find the murderer,” he said.

  “All that is true. So what, I have to live with this cloud over my head?” I asked.

  “Do you know if your wife made a new will after you married?” he asked.

  “I don’t know of the existence of any will,” I responded by carefully choosing my words.

  “That’s not what I asked. I asked if your wife made a new will after the marriage,” he said, standing in front of me.

  “And my answer is that, at the present time, I do not know of the physical existence of any will,” I said.

  He knew better than to ask if I’d destroyed it.

  “You realize, if one does surface and they find you destroyed another, that it will look even worse for you,” Pierce admonished.

  I nodded.

  “If a body is found and she is declared dead, then I will be the rightful heir, as she will have died intestate. And, under Colorado laws, I’ll inherit everything,” I responded.

  His brows furrowed, and I worried I had gone a step too far. He turned, signed the engagement agreement, and handed me a copy.

  “I’ll notify Detective Murphy that I am now part of the team,” he said.

  We shook hands, and I left.

  Alex

  What a shitty day. In fact, it had been months since I had a good day.

  Living with Samantha had proven difficult to tolerate, and I had taken too many risks, picking up other women for casual sex. If I had asked for a divorce, my business would have been ruined, and I’d never have seen a dime of marital assets. I no longer had to make that decision. Now, things were far worse.

  I drained my second glass of scotch on the rocks when a text came through.

  If you want the paintings, they are in a cellar at the house. There’s a switch under the lip of the island in the kitchen.

  Again with this nonsense. Who was playing a game with me? But what if it was true? Seemed like a trap. Why would someone want me to have the paintings? Could it be the police messing with me? Or maybe some crackpot got my number.

  I poured and drank two more fingers of scotch, and my decision was made. I knew, if I didn’t at least see if there was something in this cellar, I’d be letting it buzz around my mind all night.

  Worse yet, what if something was there, and the police got to it before me?

  Should I call Murphy or Pierce to let them know? Nah. If I showed Murphy the text and something came of it, he would swear I’d sent it to myself from a burner phone. Pierce would tell me to either ignore it or alert Murphy.

  What harm could it do to check to see if there was a switch?

  Sam never mentioned a secret cellar. Oh, what the hell? Maybe old man Bennington liked his little secrets. Maybe it was a sex playroom. Or maybe he had a shitload of cash stored there, and no one knew about it. Then again, it could just be some old junk room.

/>   You know what they say a shot of liquid courage does, don’t you? It makes you more courageous, more daring.

  I snatched the keys from the table, and ten minutes later, I was ducking under the crime scene tape and entering my home. Everything seemed so foreign inside. Things were missing, probably tagged and bagged as evidence. There was still fingerprint dust all over the surfaces. And, although I couldn’t see it, I knew there was a liquid that illuminated blood around me. Liquor dulled your thought process, and therefore, I’d forgotten to bring a flashlight, and gloves would have been good. I glanced at my phone and remembered the flashlight app. After three clumsy attempts, I found it, and the light came on as bright as a flashlight.

  I crept into the kitchen, trying to avoid the furniture and leaving footprints. Man, they had fingerprinted the shit out of the kitchen. Some areas looked like a fluorescent powder was used, others a normal powder. What a nightmare. Who was going to clean up all this shit? I was sure they didn’t have a crew for cleanup. But why should it be on me? And what was it going to do to the property value if a potential buyer found even a spec of this dust?

  My approach to the kitchen island was a more bending and hiding movement, as if I were waiting for someone to pop out and yell, Surprise! When I reached the edge of the counter, I squatted and balanced on my knees to examine the area underneath for a switch. I supposed I was looking for or expecting a flip switch like a light switch on a wall, but nothing of the sort was in sight. Should I take a chance and feel around under the edge? What did I have to lose? My fingerprints were all over the house and easily explained.

  I ran my fingers under the granite and felt for any abnormalities. Nothing, nothing, and then something. A slight protrusion. I stood back and felt again. Yes, it definitely was something. I crouched down, and I could see what I had felt. I stood up again and pushed up on the small, bumpy area. Suddenly, a motor whirred, and the granite counter slowly slid back about five feet. I felt a burst of cold air hit my face.

  I aimed the phone’s flashlight app down and swept it around the area. By God, there appeared to be a cellar. It looked like bottles were stacked against the wall, maybe wine. It must be a wine cellar. That sly dog. I’d bet there was a priceless collection down there, and Sam never knew about it. I could see what looked like a staircase and followed that to where it met the kitchen. Part of the island apparently was the door to go down the stairs, and I pulled back the wood, but it wouldn’t give. I felt around for a latch, and when I hit the right spot, the door swung open. Yes, it was a real staircase, and it led to a cellar.

  My God, I bet the paintings were there and the wine as well. A great place to stash something. But I hoped that the cold temperature had not done irreparable damage to either. If no one else knew about this treasure trove, I’d be set for life. Well, someone knew because he or she had sent the text. But why share the bounty?

  I stepped down the stairs into what appeared to be a fairly large room. I flicked the switch at the bottom, and several lights engaged at once. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the sudden starkness of the light, and I took everything in. I walked a little further into the area to check for the paintings, and a rancid odor hit me. I continued forward until I saw it. The missing rug. Right there in the middle of the aisle. What the hell?

  My heart pounded against my chest, and my ears produced a sound, like waves crashing on the beach. I could barely catch my breath. Man, I must be in the middle of a full-blown panic attack. I crouched and balanced on my knees, holding my head as I took deep breaths to calm my system. Once I felt myself under control, I stood.

  As I stepped closer, I pointed the light to look at the rug. I walked around it to examine all the angles. Yes, there were hard, dry areas that could only be blood. The rug was stained with a dark red or brown substance—dried, crusted blood. Probably Samantha’s blood.

  Was this her death shroud? Should I touch it? Could Samantha be in there? Jesus, should I call the police? Should I call Pierce? Was I sharing a room with a corpse?

  I had to get out of here and think. I snapped several photos for evidentiary purposes and turned to find my way back to the staircase.

  Then, I heard it. Movement above, like a thunderous herd of buffalo stomping across the upper floor. Moving fast and in a group. Muffled shouting. Was it a gang of thieves come to rob the place? No, they wouldn’t be shouting. I killed the lights. I stood still. Very still.

  But they were now in the kitchen and standing right above me. They must have seen the open access to the cellar. Slowly, they descended. Flashlights pointed in all directions. Then, one hit my face, and I raised my hand to shield the light. Before I could react further, four men were pointing guns at me, and other people were moving toward me.

  Then, I heard the command no one ever wanted to hear, “Denver PD. Get on the floor.”

  My brain shut down because I knew right then and there that I was fucked.

  Once I was on the ground and cuffed, I heard guns being holstered.

  “Clarke, what are you doing here? You know it’s a crime scene,” Murphy bellowed at me. He helped me to my feet and just looked at me with thousands of questions in his eyes.

  Before I could answer, another officer called to him, and he told me to stay put. I knew they must have found the rug.

  I waited as Murphy walked toward the man who’d called to him.

  It was only a few minutes, but it seemed like hours before Declan came back and asked me to follow him. My mind felt as if it had flown to a different city, and I couldn’t think. My legs were like Jell-O and my feet cement.

  “Did you see the rug in the back?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “Did you touch it?” he asked.

  “No,” I answered.

  “Come see what we found,” he said.

  As I walked back, I knew whatever was in that rug would not bode well for me.

  He signaled me to stay where I was, and the man bent over the rug stood up.

  The rug had been unfurled, and the smell intensified. It would have been a lot worse if the temperature wasn’t almost to freezing, but it was there nonetheless.

  “Is that your wife, Samantha?” he asked.

  I didn’t have to step closer. I didn’t have to ask to examine her face, which was now distorted. I didn’t have to look into her clouded eyes to know it was her. Who else would be wrapped in the rug?

  I glanced quickly and then away. “Yes,” I said.

  “Do you recognize that carpet as the one from upstairs that has gone missing?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Alex Clarke, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of your wife,” Declan said.

  “Wait. I know this looks bad. But look at my phone. Someone sent me a text, telling me the paintings were here, and that’s why I came down. I had no idea there was a cellar here. Just look at my phone. You’ll see I’m telling the truth,” I begged.

  “Remove his cuffs, so he can get his phone,” he said.

  The officer removed the cuffs, and I retrieved the phone from my pocket. Once they saw the message, then everything would fall into place. I put in my password and opened the text app. I scrolled down to find the text. Nothing. It wasn’t there. I knew I hadn’t deleted it, but it was gone. I was done.

  Detective Murphy took the phone from me and searched for it himself. Nothing showed up that could prove why I was here. It simply looked like I was revisiting the scene of the crime and getting ready to dispose of the body.

  “Cuff him and read him his rights. Go ahead and transport him and get him booked in,” he said to the officer standing next to me.

  “If you want to call an attorney, you can do so after you are processed. For now, the charge is first-degree murder, but I will probably add theft for the paintings. And attempting to tamper with evidence as well,” he said.

  “What about the Marissa Adams woman? Are we charging him with that?” the officer next to me asked.r />
  “I’ll need to discuss that with the state’s attorney. Right now, get a warrant prepared for the first-degree murder of Samantha Clarke. Also, prepare a warrant for the theft, and I’ll get with the DA to see if that’s the one they want to use,” he said.

  “Did you find the paintings back there?” I asked.

  “No,” he replied. “Get him out of here.”

  Dalia

  A shrill blare woke me. Where was that noise coming from? My phone. Who the hell was calling me at eleven thirty at night? This’d better be good. I picked up the offensive, noise-producing instrument to quiet its intrusion on my sleep.

  Declan.

  “What?” I said, forgoing any pleasantries.

  “Hello to you, too,” he replied with a chuckle. “Somebody is a crabby pants.”

  “Sorry, but you woke me out of an Advil PM sleep and startled me,” I replied.

  “Then, it’s good I didn’t come pounding at your door. You might have shot me,” he said.

  “Damn right. I have a gun and know how to use it,” I answered, now sitting up in bed at full attention. “So, why are you waking me from a dead sleep?”

  “Do you want the good news?” he asked.

  “I’m getting cranky here, Declan,” I warned.

  “I just arrested Alex Clarke for the murder of his wife,” he said.

  Just like that, he said it as nonchalantly as if he were ordering a cup of coffee at Starbucks.

  I was totally and completely stunned. Speechless. But not stupefied enough to remain in bed. I made my way to the kitchen and hoped he’d want to come over for a cup of coffee and go into all the gory information.

  “Can you give me the details?” I asked.

  “It’s late, and I’m beat. But, if you want to come down to the office at eight in the morning, I’ll be presenting his warrants to him and conducting an interrogation. And you might want to bring Cillian or Jackson,” he said.

  I heard him yawn and knew morning wouldn’t come soon enough. How could he think of sleeping with this exciting news? Well, actually, it wasn’t news to him. He’d been living it for the last few hours.