by Tim Kizer
David folded his arms across his chest and said, “Okay, tell them I’ll retract the confession if they don’t agree to manslaughter.”
“Great. Thank you, Dave.” Brady rubbed his hands together happily. “It would be easier for them to accept manslaughter if your story fit a manslaughter scenario.”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you sure Annie’s death wasn’t an accident?”
At that moment, David realized that the lawyer wanted him to tell the prosecutor he had killed Annie by accident.
“No, I’m not,” he said.
“Would you like to amend your confession?”
“Let me think about it.”
“Okay.” Brady opened his briefcase and took out a file folder. “Vince Daley asked me to show you these pictures.” He pulled a stack of black-and-white photos from the folder and put it in front of David.
These were pictures of the people who had bought LG440G phones at CJ Cellular from April 30 to May 2. The images had been captured from the store’s surveillance video. David was supposed to see if he recognized any of these people.
There were twenty-nine pictures, and none of the faces was familiar.
“Thank you.” David handed the photos back to Brady. “By the way, are they talking about my case on TV?”
“The local news reported on it, and that was it. Thankfully, it didn’t become a national story. At least not yet.”
3
He had a visit from Vincent on Thursday. After he gave David an update on the search for the buyer of the cellphone sent by the kidnappers, the investigator asked, “Do you have a prenuptial agreement with your wife?”
“No. Why?”
“Do you trust Carol?”
“Yes.”
“Did she ever cheat on you?”
“No. Why do you ask? Do you think she married me for money?”
“She married you before you got rich, so no, I don’t think she’s a gold digger. Do you have a will?”
“Yes.”
“Who gets your money if you die?”
“Most of it goes to Carol and the rest to Annie and charity.”
“Remember the knife with your fingerprints on it? You said someone was trying to frame you.”
“Yes, I did say it.”
“I believe it might be Carol who set you up.”
David shook his head. “That’s nonsense.”
“You know the phrase ‘Cui bono,’ ‘who benefits’? I asked myself who benefits from you getting convicted for Annie’s murder. And the first name that came to my mind was Carol.”
“How does she benefit from me going to prison?”
“If you die in prison, she’s going to get almost all of your money. As you know, child killers don’t last long in prison.” Vincent scratched his chin. “I’m willing to bet she thinks you’ll be sentenced to death.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Where were you when the kidnapper called you the first time?”
“Home.”
“Was Carol home?”
“No. But we were both home when he called the second time. Vince, I know my wife. Carol has nothing to do with this. I’m sure of it.”
“Is there anyone else who benefits from you going to prison?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they framed me because they’re mean and like ruining people’s lives.”
Vincent might be onto something here, David thought.
The investigator leaned forward and said, “Did the kidnappers ask for money?”
“No.”
“What do they want from you?”
After a long silence, David said, “He told me that if I didn’t confess to killing Annie, he’d kill her. He said he’d let her go in six years.”
Vincent said nothing, and David continued: “I want you to keep it secret, Vince. If I don’t go to prison, he’ll kill Annie.”
Vincent nodded.
“I want you to check my email and see if the kidnappers sent me any messages.”
David gave the investigator his email password.
Chapter 17
1
Would the kidnapper be mad at him for changing his confession? Would the kidnapper kill Annie to punish him?
It appeared that the kidnapper’s main objective was to get him to serve at least six years in prison. As long as this objective was met, it didn’t matter whether David was convicted of manslaughter or murder.
It’s not just about a prison sentence. He wants people to think I killed my own daughter.
If he was convicted of manslaughter instead of murder, he would still be a man who killed his own daughter and tried to cover up the crime.
David was in a small conference room in the administration block, sitting across the table from Assistant District Attorney Fernando Alonso and Assistant Prosecuting Attorney Mark Skilbeck. Aaron Brady occupied a chair beside David’s.
It was his seventh day in the county jail.
“Your attorney informed me that you want to change your confession,” Alonso said.
“Yes, that’s correct,” David said.
“What specifically do you want to change?”
“I didn’t stab my daughter. I accidentally pushed her when we were playing, and she fell to the ground and hit her head on a rock. Annie’s death was an accident.”
“An accident.” Alonso folded his arms on his chest and said, “So when you made your original confession, you lied?”
“I had temporary amnesia, and certain things I remembered were false memories.”
“False memories?”
“Yes.”
“We have an affidavit from an expert psychologist stating that false memories are possible,” Brady said.
Alonso shot a glance at the lawyer and then said to David, “Are you sure that this story is not a false memory?”
“Yes, I’m sure. That’s how it happened. It was an accident.”
“What about the knife? How did Annie’s blood get on that knife?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she had a nosebleed, and some of the blood got on the knife.”
Alonso frowned. “What did you do with the body?”
“I left it at the scene.”
“Did you bury it?”
Alonso was trying to find out if a conviction for tampering with evidence was still a possibility.
“No.”
“Can you show us where it is?”
“I don’t remember where it is.”
“Do you remember the approximate location?”
“A forest north of Frisco.”
There was a long pause, and then Alonso said, “Mister Miller, are you changing your confession to get a better plea deal?”
“David, don’t answer this question,” Brady advised. To Alonso, he said, “Mister Alonso, my client is amending his confession to correct factual errors.”
Alonso turned to Skilbeck and asked him to turn on the camera, which was mounted on a tripod behind the prosecutors. Then he said to David, “We’re going to videotape your amended confession.”
“Okay,” David replied.
2
Was there anyone else who benefitted from him going to prison?
It wasn’t a financial benefit, because no one got richer if he went to prison. He didn’t own a business, so it wasn’t a jealous competitor who had set him up.
Maybe it was Carol’s admirer trying to take over his place? When it came to love, people did crazy things.
People did crazy things for revenge.
Could it be about revenge?
When they first met, Detective Barton had asked him if he had any enemies, and he said he had none. Perhaps he was wrong.
This must be about revenge. How could he have been so blind? So stupid?
Well, it’s hard to think clearly when your daughter is in the hands of kidnappers.
Whom had he wronged in the last few years? It didn’t need to be a major offense: many people nowadays were so sensitive i
t didn’t take much to mortally insult them and push them over the edge. A few years ago, a guy in Alabama hacked his neighbor with a machete because the neighbor’s dog had been pooping on his lawn.
It was probably one of the people he had prosecuted when he worked for the Pima County Attorney’s office. The bastard wanted him to have a taste of his own medicine, so to speak. As a prosecutor, he had put a dozen high-ranking gangsters behind bars. Was the kidnapper working for one of them?
It was unlikely. Gangsters would have simply shot him or cut his head off.
He should ask Paul Sibert to give Vincent a list of all the cases he’d been involved in as a prosecutor.
Actually, they needed a list of only those cases that had resulted in a conviction because those who had been acquitted or against whom charges had been dropped had no reason to take revenge on him.
David supposed they ought to limit the search to those who had been sentenced to prison: he couldn’t imagine anyone kidnapping a child to avenge a suspended sentence.
What case information should he request?
The date of the conviction, the date of release from prison (for those who had gotten out), the charges on which the defendant was convicted, the defendant’s last known address. Would that be enough?
If Vincent needed more information about a particular case, he would call Paul.
Now that he had confessed to killing Annie, would Paul agree to help him?
Maybe Paul didn’t know about the confession.
Vincent would have to work overtime: there were hundreds of suspects.
To his relief, Paul agreed to compile the list. He told David it would be ready next Monday or Tuesday at the latest.
“You think one of these guys kidnapped your daughter?” Paul asked after David gave him Vincent’s phone number.
“Yes.”
Judging by the question, Paul hadn’t heard of his confession yet.
“By the way, I left you a voice-mail message yesterday,” Paul said. “Did you get it?”
“No, not yet. I’ve been very busy.”
“I understand.”
As he hung up, David wondered: Did I come up with this revenge theory to convince myself I didn’t kill my daughter?
What the hell was that? I did not kill Annie.
Then how had he known that the knife had been in the bushes behind the restrooms in Ardmore Park? And why had he confessed to killing Annie when he was under hypnosis?
He had been planning to hire a PR firm to make Annie’s disappearance a national story. Had he failed to do it because he subconsciously knew he had murdered her?
Annie’s alive. “Ben” has her. “Ben” is real, I didn’t imagine him.
He began to dial Vincent’s number.
Of course “Ben” was real.
It must be stress. He ought to get grip on himself.
The phone rang twice, and then Vincent answered. “Hello.”
“Hello, it’s David.”
“How are you doing?”
“I think I know who did it. It’s one of the people I put behind bars. He did it for revenge.”
There was silence on the line. Then Vincent said, “Did any of those people ever threaten you?”
“There was one guy, a rapist. He said he’d send someone to see me. It was about ten years ago.”
“Do you remember his name?”
David thought for a moment, and then said, “His last name is either Manning or Danning. I don’t remember his first name.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I’ve asked my friend at the County Attorney’s Office to send you a list of all the people I put in prison and information on their cases. I want you to investigate them. I understand it’s a lot of work.”
“That’s fine.”
“My friend’s name is Paul. He’ll get in touch with you when the list is ready. If you need additional information, give him a call.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t tell him I’m in jail. Don’t tell him about my confession.”
“Okay.”
“Did you check my email?”
“Yes. There were no messages from the kidnappers.”
Feeling a little ashamed, David asked, “Did you do a background check on Carol?”
“Yes.”
“Did you find anything… interesting?”
“No.”
“Did you follow her?”
“Yes. Last Tuesday and Wednesday. I saw nothing interesting.”
“Did anyone visit her?”
“No.”
David thought of telling Vincent that he might have been framed by Carol’s admirer, and decided to do it some other time.
3
On Monday, June 6, Aaron Brady delivered the prosecution’s new plea bargain offer. He told David that the State wanted him to plead guilty to manslaughter and tampering with evidence.
“They’re going to recommend twenty years for manslaughter and five for tampering,” Brady said.
The offense of tampering with evidence in David’s case was a felony of the second degree, which was punishable by imprisonment for up to twenty years. This meant that he could be sentenced to forty years in prison if the judge decided that the recommended sentence for tampering was too lenient. However, it was not very likely that the judge would give him the maximum sentence on the tampering charge. Before September 1, 2007, when it became a felony of the second degree, tampering with a human corpse had been classified as a felony of the third degree and carried a maximum imprisonment of ten years. The Texas Legislature had increased the penalties for this offense in order to punish the killers who couldn’t be convicted for homicide because the victim’s body was badly compromised. Since he had admitted to killing Annie, there was no reason for David to be sentenced to a prison term exceeding ten years on the tampering with evidence charge.
“Let’s take the deal,” David said.
“It’s still kind of harsh. Twenty-five years is a long time.”
“The judge might order a concurrent sentence.”
“Twenty years is still a long time.”
“Twenty years is okay. You did a great job, Aaron. Thanks a lot.”
“Are you sure about all this? I recommend that you withdraw your confession and maintain the not guilty plea.”
“I can’t do that.”
“I believe we can and will win this. I’m begging you, Dave. Withdraw the confession. I know you didn’t kill her.”
“You can’t know that.”
“You’re going to be eligible for parole in thirteen years. Thirteen. That’s a long time.”
“I realize that. I’m taking the deal.”
Chapter 18
1
Vincent received the list of the people put in prison by David on Tuesday, June 7. The list was two hundred and fifty-two names long. The first thing Vincent did was search for the rapist that had threatened David. He found one Manning and no Dannings. The only Manning on the list (his first name was Jordan) appeared to be the guy Vincent was looking for: he had been convicted of sexual assault nine years ago. Sentenced to fourteen years in prison, Jordan Manning was still incarcerated and therefore couldn’t be the kidnapper.
Two hundred and fifty-one suspects. David hadn’t been kidding when he said it was a lot of work.
Vincent decided to start with those who had been released in the five years before Annie’s kidnapping. When he was finished with them, he would work on the remaining ex-convicts. He was not going to investigate those who were incarcerated as of May 6 of this year.
There were one hundred and forty-two people on the list who had been released from prison in the five years before Annie’s kidnapping. Vincent did a search for escaped convicts and didn’t find any. Twenty-eight people, including Jordan Manning, were still in prison as of May 6, which narrowed the suspect list to two hundred and twenty-four.
As Vincent studied the document, an idea occurred to him: he should see if ther
e were any people who had been exonerated while in prison. He supposed the wrongfully convicted harbored more anger and resentment toward the judicial system than anyone else (he knew he would have been mad as hell if he’d been thrown in jail for a crime he hadn’t committed). And they must feel their anger and resentment were righteous.
Among those released, there was only one person who had been exonerated. His name was Michael Camp. He was convicted of sexual assault eight years ago, at the age of twenty-seven, a year before David Miller quit his job at the Pima County Attorney’s office. His case didn’t go to trial; Camp entered into a plea bargain agreement, under which the prosecution recommended a sentence of eight years. The judge accepted the recommendation. After Camp had served five and a half years, the woman who had accused him of rape admitted that the sex had been consensual. It took Camp six months to get his conviction overturned. Vincent didn’t find any stories on the Internet about Camp suing the city or the state for his wrongful conviction.
Out of curiosity Vincent looked into how many innocent people were in prison, and found that between 2.3 and 5 percent of all prisoners in America were estimated to have been wrongfully convicted. This meant that at any given moment at least forty-five thousand people were doing time for a crime they didn’t commit.
Would he take his revenge on the prosecutor if he were wrongfully convicted?
It was one of those questions to which you didn’t know the answer until the scenario became real.
Camp had been released nineteen months ago, so he had had enough time to plan and prepare. He had spent six years in prison, and the kidnapper had told David he would hold Annie for six years. Was it a coincidence? Vincent didn’t think so. Camp wanted David to serve as much time behind bars as he had.
Camp currently lived in Houston, where he had moved a month after he got out of prison. Why had he moved to Houston? To be closer to David Miller?
2
Vincent left for Houston around six in the afternoon and arrived at Michael Camp’s house at half past nine, when twilight had given way to night. Camp lived in a one-story bungalow in a quiet neighborhood. It appeared that he was home: one of the windows was lit, and his truck was parked in the driveway.