Dark Truth

by Mariah Stewart

  “No. Remember, I’d already graduated from college by the time this happened. I’d moved on.”

  Nina opened the letter Kyle had left on the table and idly reread passages. She came to the bottom, and read the last paragraph over several times.

  “I know this is going to sound outlandish, but do you really think Father Whelan was in love with your mother?”

  “Not so outlandish.” He smiled sheepishly. “I don’t think it’s a big secret. He’s always had a thing for her. Nothing ever happened between them, I’m pretty sure of that, but I do believe he loved her.”

  “Did he know about my father’s affairs?”

  “She might have told him.” He thought about it for a second, then said, “She probably did tell him.”

  “Well, if he’d loved her all that much, and my father was hurting her so much, is it out of the question that he’d want to hurt my father? To get my father out of the picture, or fix things so that he couldn’t hurt Olivia anymore?”

  “I think that’s a real stretch. I think that would be easy, you know? The priest in love with the beautiful woman whose husband didn’t deserve her . . .”

  He shook his head.

  “Just smacks of a trite mystery plot. Not very original.”

  “Sometimes trite is true,” she told him. “There’s a reason why things become clichés.”

  “It just doesn’t ring true to me.” He tapped his fingers on the tabletop. “Now, if it were Dr. Overbeck we were talking about, I’d say there could be some smoke from that fire.”

  “Overbeck?” Nina frowned. “He was at your mother’s funeral. I remember him. He was in the English department. I heard my dad say once that Dr. Overbeck would love to have Dad’s position in the department.”

  “Your father’s position wasn’t the only thing Overbeck coveted.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean Father Whelan wasn’t the only one who’d had a thing for my mother.”

  “Overbeck had his eye on her, too?”

  “And her on him.” He sighed and rested an elbow on the table.

  “You mean, Olivia and Dr. Overbeck . . . ?”

  “Right.” Kyle nodded. “Dr. Overbeck and my mother had an affair.”

  “How long . . . ?”

  “Oh, the affair lasted for several years. Started some time before your father was arrested; I never asked Mom exactly when it began. Lasted about five years after that.”

  “When did you find out about this?”

  “Just a few months ago. I guess when she realized just how sick she was, she felt the need to spill it.”

  “Then the police wouldn’t have known about it when they were investigating the murders.”

  “Probably not. Though I don’t know if it was any great secret. Overbeck’s such a pompous ass, it would have been tough for him to have kept his mouth closed.”

  “In other words, if they’d have looked hard enough, they’d probably have been able to find out.”

  “My mom seemed to think that everyone knew.”

  “But the police already had such a strong suspect in my father, they figured there was no reason to look further.” She spoke softly, as if she were thinking aloud.

  “Even if they’d known about the affair, though, would it have changed the way the case turned out?”

  “Well, I guess that’s a question that has to be asked.” She rose and swung her bag over her shoulder. “And I’m going to do exactly that . . .”

  Fourteen

  Nina was dialing Wes Powell’s cell phone number even as she was walking to her car. She’d be searching the house, as Kyle had agreed to permit her to do, but first things first. The cocky detective had promised to reopen the case if she brought him anything that proved someone other than her father was the guilty party. Well, she had no actual proof, but she had what she thought to be a damned good theory, and she was going to do her damnedest to sell it to Powell.

  She was disappointed to have to leave voice mail for the detective.

  Not a problem, she told herself. Gives me more time to prepare my case. By the time he calls back, I’ll have all my facts in . . .

  The phone rang in her handbag. By the time she found it, the message screen read 1 missed call.

  Damn. She hit the call-back button. Wes answered on the second ring.

  “Detective Powell?”

  “Yes?”

  “Nina Madden.”

  “Yes, Ms. Madden. What can I do for you?”

  “Well, you said to call if I had evidence that someone other than my father could have been the killer.”

  “I think what I said was more like, if you had evidence that proved that someone else was the killer.” He paused, then asked, a little more sarcastically than Nina would have liked, “Don’t tell me you’ve solved a fifteen-year-old case in—what’s it been, a week?”

  “Sixteen years.” She corrected him calmly.

  “What?”

  “Sixteen years. The case is sixteen years old.”

  “So who really did the deed, Ms. Madden?”

  “Actually, I’m not sure who the killer is, but I do have something you should see.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “I don’t think I care for your dismissive tone, Detective. You don’t need to patronize me.”

  His sigh said it all.

  “Sorry, Ms. Madden, but I don’t have time for games.”

  “Neither do I. And I assure you, this isn’t a game to me.”

  “You have something you think will prove that your father was not the Stone River Rapist.” His voice held a challenge and more than a bit of impatience.

  She chose to ignore it.

  “Maybe not prove, in and of itself.” She picked her words carefully. “But something important enough that it deserves your consideration.”

  “Something that hasn’t surfaced until now.”

  “Yes.”

  “Something credible.”

  “The FBI thinks so.” Okay, that was a stretch, but Mitch had been interested.

  “The FBI,” he repeated flatly.

  “Yes. Agent Mitch Peyton looked it over last night and thought you should see it.” Another stretch, but it was the best she could come up with. Detective Powell was getting on her nerves.

  “Nice of him.”

  “So? Are you interested?”

  “Sure. Bring it in first thing Monday morning and I’ll be happy to take a look at this mystery evidence of yours.”

  “Actually, first thing Monday morning, I’ll be back in New York.”

  “Well, that is unfortunate.”

  “I was hoping to meet with you sooner.”

  “Where are you now?” His voice sounded increasingly pained.

  “On the road between Stone River and Branigan.”

  “Have you crossed Temple Road yet?”

  “The big intersection with the movie theaters?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I think it’s about ten minutes farther up the road, if memory serves.”

  “I could meet you there in about thirty minutes.”

  Nina paused, and he added, “Sorry. That’s the best I can do.”

  “That would be fine, thank you. I appreciate your taking the time to see me on such short notice.”

  “There’s a park right there on the corner. I’ll meet you in the lot. What are you driving?”

  “A white Land Rover.”

  “Nice.”

  “It’s Regan’s.” She somehow felt obligated to tell him.

  “See you there.”

  Wes pulled into the lot at Temple Park five minutes early. The Land Rover was one of four other vehicles in the first row. He parked his Outback next to the Land Rover and got out. Her car was empty, so he took the path to the only real attraction the park held.

  She was standing at the edge of the small pond with her back to the path. He walked up behind her and without turning around, she held up a bag of
potato chips.

  “Help yourself,” she told him.

  “That was risky,” he said, taking the bag. “You offer to share your snacks with anyone who comes along?”

  She pointed down to the water.

  “I could see your reflection.” She turned and smiled.

  Wes took a few chips from the bag and passed it back to her.

  “So, what do you have to show me?”

  She stuck her hand in her purse and handed him an envelope.

  “That’s the original,” she told him. “Try not to get potato chip oil on it.”

  “I’ll do my best.” He opened the envelope, took out the pages, and began to read. It was all he could do to keep his face rigid. Was this a joke?

  Finally, he finished reading, and asked just that.

  “Is this supposed to be a joke?”

  She reached for the letter.

  “Is that the best you can do?” She grabbed at the letter. “I thought you’d be interested. You obviously have a closed mind. I should have known better. Give it back, and I’ll take it back to the FBI and let the professionals handle this.”

  He continued to hold the letter out of her reach.

  “I asked you a serious question,” he said with a calm he didn’t feel.

  “Of course it’s not a joke.”

  “Well, forgive my skepticism, but this case has been closed for a long time. You and Ms. Landry pop up one day looking for the files, and the next thing I know, you’re back with this?” He looked at the letter again. “What the hell is this, anyway?”

  “It’s a letter that my father wrote to his wife, Olivia Madden, shortly before he died.”

  “And it just appeared out of nowhere. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers.

  “Close enough.” She held her arms crossed over her chest, as if trying to hold her anger in.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “It was in a box of things that the prison warden mailed to Olivia after my father died. She stuck it in a closet and before she died a few weeks ago, she gave it to a friend of hers. Father Whelan. Timothy Whelan.”

  “I know Father Whelan. He teaches a course at St. Ansel’s.”

  “Right. I was visiting with my stepbrother when Father Whelan brought the box over to me.”

  “How did he know you’d be there?”

  “I imagine Kyle—my stepbrother—must have told him.” Her arms remained crossed.

  “So Father Whelan shows up with the box, and you open it, and find this letter.”

  “Not right away. Actually, I tried to lose it, but the rental car people found it in the trunk of the car I’d turned in and mailed it to me.”

  His soft laughter surprised her.

  “Why didn’t you just throw it away yourself if you didn’t want it?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I thought if I simply left it someplace, I wouldn’t have to deal with whatever was inside.”

  “What did you think was inside?”

  “Father Whelan told me there was a letter from Dad to Olivia. He was of the opinion that she hadn’t read it, but I’m not so sure. The envelope looked as if it had been opened, then resealed, but I could be wrong about that.” She relaxed, and her arms uncrossed. She slid her hands into her jacket pockets.

  “What else was in the box?”

  “I’m not sure. I didn’t look at everything carefully. There was a pair of his shoes, the ones he wore when he was arrested, I think. A few articles of clothing. A letter to me.” She paused. “I’m not certain what else.”

  “May I ask what the other letter contained?”

  “The letter to me?” She shrugged. “I have no idea. I haven’t read it.”

  He studied her carefully for a long moment, then asked, “Aren’t you curious about what he had to say to you?”

  “We’re discussing the letter from him to Olivia.” She looked at him through pale green eyes that looked as if they could bore a hole right through him.

  “I only asked because if he had this to say to his wife”—Wes held up the letter—“maybe he’d said something similar to his daughter.”

  She seemed to consider this. “I’ll take a look when I get home. Maybe. If there’s anything in it that is relevant to the case, I’ll let you know.”

  “I’m going to hold you to that.”

  She reached for the letter, and this time he permitted her to take it. “I’ll make you a copy of this, if you’re really interested.”

  “That would be fine. When are you going back to New York?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon.”

  “I can take the letter and copy it at the police station, if that’s more convenient.”

  “Regan has a copier. I can make one for you there.”

  “You’re staying at Landry’s?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll swing by tomorrow and pick up the letter, if that’s all right.”

  “That would be fine. Anytime before three would be good. I’m planning to leave around then to catch my train.”

  “Let me ask you something, Ms. Madden.” His tone softened considerably. He didn’t want to antagonize her, since she obviously believed her father’s letter to contain the truth. He was going to have to help her follow what he considered case logic. “If we were to believe that Olivia Madden was the killer, how do we explain the fact that the girls were raped?”

  “Regan and I talked about that. We didn’t see a lot of evidence in the file to support the rape allegations.”

  “You have got to be kidding.” He stared at her. God save him from the amateurs. He started counting backward from ten.

  He’d only gotten as far as seven when she said, “We were wondering if we could see what you had that proved the girls had been raped.”

  “You have copies of the lab reports, Ms. Madden, and they indicate—”

  “They indicate that the victims had engaged in sexual intercourse within hours of being murdered, yes. And if we are to believe that my father had been having an affair with each of these girls at the time of their deaths, it’s likely they’d had sex.” Her hands came out of her pockets and she crossed her arms again. “Show me where they were raped.”

  “The reports all indicated some vaginal injury. So unless your father and his girlfriends were all into rough sex, tears and bruises usually indicate that the woman was forced.”

  He hadn’t meant to be so blunt, but much to his surprise, she didn’t so much as flinch.

  “Did you talk to any of the others?”

  “Any of what others?”

  “Any of his other girlfriends?”

  “If you looked at the files I copied for you, you know that we did. The statements were all there.” His thinning patience had all but worn through. It was evident in his voice.

  “Yes, their statements were there. But I didn’t see one that indicated that they were asked about what kind of acts they engaged in, or if they ever got rough or were into anything kinky.”

  She faced him without blinking. He had to concede she had balls. Most women could not discuss their father’s sexual proclivities without blushing or stammering. Nina Madden did neither.

  “So what you’re saying is that your stepmother could have been the killer, because the girls weren’t raped, but rather merely engaged in rough sex with your father.”

  “No. What I’m saying is, if my father did not engage in rough sex with his girlfriends, he probably didn’t cause the internal damage you’re describing. Which means someone else did. If he routinely had sex with these girls, why would he have raped them?” She frowned. “It just doesn’t make sense to me. He really wasn’t a violent person, Detective Powell. I know that relatives always say things like that, but it’s true. And if he thought Olivia was the killer, it was because he wasn’t convinced that the girls were raped.”

  “Look, I appreciate how you must feel. But your reasoning is a little faulty. Just because he’d had an ongoing relationship with the vic
tims at the time of their deaths doesn’t mean that he never acted out of character.” If in fact it was out of character, but he was going to let that go for now. “The point is, there’s really no proof that Olivia was involved in this.”

  “Did you look for other suspects, Detective Powell?” Her jaw set squarely.

  “No, we did not.” He sighed deeply. This was going nowhere fast. He knew he shouldn’t have made that call back.

  “Were you aware that my stepmother was having an affair with a man in my father’s department? A man who openly coveted my father’s position?”

  Before he could respond, she continued.

  “Or that Father Whelan was in love with her? With Olivia?”

  “No, I wasn’t aware of either of those things. But it wouldn’t have made a difference.” His patience was just about gone. “We had evidence . . .”

  “You knew that he’d had an affair with each of the girls, and you decided that was enough to make him guilty.”

  “Well, frankly, that’s pretty damned telling, you know? He was the only one who’d had a relationship with each of the victims at the time they were murdered. We knew he was in the apartment of the last victim on the night she was killed, and—”

  “The witness said she saw a tall man leaving the apartment,” she interrupted. “Both Dr. Overbeck and Father Whelan are tall men.”

  “That may be, but it was Stephen Madden’s prints we found in the apartment, and the book with his name in it.”

  “He admitted he’d been there.” Her voice dropped slightly, and from the look on her face, he suspected that her arguments were starting to sound lame even to her.

  “Look, I’m sorry, I really am. If you had something more concrete, I’d be happy to take another look at this. I swear I would.” Her look of defeat quashed his anger. “I’m just not sure what you want me to do.”

  “Isn’t there anything that can be tested? Clothing from the victims, the bedsheets, something?”

  “You mean DNA testing?” He raised his eyebrows. “Ms. Madden, try not to take this the wrong way, but there’s no way my chief would use up our precious lab time for something like that. The county lab isn’t equipped to handle the active cases. They’re backed up as it is.”

  “I understand that.” She nodded slowly. “It makes sense to spend your resources on the cases that are ongoing. It could make the difference between catching a killer or a rapist who’s out there now, and not catching him at all.”