Sullivan’s Evidence

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  “Please, don’t do this,” he pleaded, following her orders and cautiously moving forward. “I got a call from my twin brother, telling me he was waiting for me in the backyard. He set us up, don’t you understand? My name is Marcus Wright. His real name is Thomas, but he’s using another name. He must be the man you know as Matthew Sheppard.”

  Kathleen repositioned the gun into the small of his back. “That’s a good one,” she said. “I know you’ve been going under the name of Matthew Sheppard. You’re going to die, Dean, and you’re still trying to lie your way out of it. You smashed a bottle over my head, stabbed me, and left me for dead. I swore that you were going down if I survived. Well, I survived.”

  “You’re making a terrible mistake.”

  Kathleen poked the gun hard into his spine. He yelped, bending forward. She jabbed him again, “Stand up and move, asshole! I’m going to teach you what real pain feels like.”

  They reached an opening amongst the trees. The farther away she got from his security officers, the better. A gunshot could echo through the hills and confuse them. They wouldn’t know which direction the shot came from. She stopped and faced him. “Maybe a bullet will help you to cough up the truth,” she told him, the fury of a thousand abused women rushing through her veins. Her hands were shaking. When he started stepping backward she pulled the trigger.

  The explosion was deafening.

  He fell to the ground, rolling over and crying out in pain. Blood gushed out of a bullet wound in his left shoulder.

  “Damn, I missed,” Kathleen said, having aimed for his heart. It was okay. It was a shitty gun. She didn’t want him to die that fast, anyway. First he had to suffer, but how could she make him suffer to the extent she had? Her eyes zeroed in on his crotch. He was grimacing in pain, pressing his hand over the bullet wound in an attempt to stop the bleeding. “Start talking, Dean. I’ve got five more bullets. Next time, I’m going to shoot your balls off.”

  “I’m not my brother,” he said. “If you kill me, you’ll go to prison for murder.”

  “My God, you’re still lying,” she said, incredulous. She heard the sound of a car engine in the distance. She’d waited so long for this moment, she hated to rush. She had no choice, the clock was ticking. “Since I haven’t killed you yet, tell me why you did it. Was your life with me that terrible?”

  “Please, believe me,” he said. “I didn’t do anything to you. I may be able to help you find the man who hurt you. Jesus, don’t shoot me again.”

  A sliver of doubt passed through her mind. The man in front of her looked exactly like her husband. Could he possibly be telling the truth, and she’d shot the wrong man? Dean had never mentioned having a twin brother. She couldn’t be taken in by another of his elaborate deceptions. If he was willing to go this far, no wonder she hadn’t figured out he was stealing from her.

  Kathleen heard something on the right. A second later, a gunshot whizzed past her. Jerking her head around, she instinctively fired, then dropped to the ground. She heard a person yell and knew she’d found her target. Glancing over her shoulder she saw that Dean had escaped. Then she heard the sound of running footsteps and picked herself up to give chase.

  As soon as she saw the back of a man darting through the orange trees, Kathleen took aim and fired. She saw him go down face first and ran toward him.

  Standing over him, she caught her breath, certain he was dead. Using her foot to roll him over onto his back, she stared into Dean’s terrified eyes. “What the hell?” she said, wondering how he’d moved so fast. “You had another gun stashed out here, didn’t you? You’ve just got to die, you rotten bastard!”

  “Wait,” he said, saliva dripping down his chin, “I can explain.”

  “I don’t think so,” Kathleen said, taking direct aim at his face and firing. She took a step away, then returned and kept pulling the trigger. She placed three shots in close proximity in the area of his heart. When she heard the gun clicking on empty, she took off toward the orchard.

  CHAPTER 39

  Friday, October 20—9:45 P.M.

  Under the circumstances, Carolyn felt it was better that John and Rebecca spend another night with her brother.

  “You can’t do this to me,” Neil said, whispering to her in a corner at the back of his studio. Rebecca was dipping her brush into a palette of oils and carefully applying strokes on a canvas. John was in the main house watching television. “It’s Friday night, damn it. They’re your kids. I’m an artist, not a nanny. I told Olga to come over at ten. I haven’t got laid in almost a month.”

  The old Neil was returning, Carolyn thought. She’d known his fascination with domesticity would be short-lived. Her eyes went to the sofa, thinking of the man who’d tried to coerce her into having sex there last night. Was it Marcus the murderer, or Thomas the seemingly nonexistent twin?

  “Oh no,” Rebecca said, dropping her brush to the side and pouting. “I’ve ruined it now. Neil…”

  “I’ll be there in a minute, sweetie-pie,” Neil called out. “Whatever you did, we can fix it. It’s art, remember? Sometimes when you make a mistake, it turns out even better.”

  “You want me to tell sweetie-pie that you don’t want to be with her?” said Carolyn. “Don’t you remember what I told you on the phone? The man I’ve been dating may be a murderer. Please, I promise I’ll pick them up first thing in the morning.”

  “You win,” Neil said, running his hands through his dark hair. “Olga is beginning to bore me, anyway. The least she could do is learn how to speak English. This is America.”

  Carolyn smiled, leaning over and kissing him on the cheek. “I love you, guy.”

  On the drive home, she experienced a pang of guilt for not staying at Neil’s with the children, but it was hard to feel guilty when Rebecca, at least, appeared to be having such a good time. Not only did she need time alone to gather her senses, she was concerned for John and Rebecca’s safety. The police had a unit stationed in front of Neil’s house on the chance that Marcus might decide to use the children as leverage to get out of town. The department was stretched so thin, they couldn’t spare another officer. Carolyn had to look out for herself.

  Once she reached the house, she stripped off her clothes, then flopped on her bed in her bra and panties, the new nine-millimeter she’d picked up that afternoon clutched in her hand. She was still in a state of shock over the day’s events. She’d come to the realization that she would probably have to spend the rest of her life alone. Brad hadn’t grown up yet, and the way she’d been butting heads with Hank lately, she certainly couldn’t envision being with him.

  She was better off remaining single.

  When it came to relationships, nothing had ever worked out for her. Frank had chosen drugs over his wife and children. Paul, the physics professor she’d been involved with the previous year, had a penchant for having sex with his students. Even if Marcus somehow turned out to be innocent, she didn’t know if she could continue seeing him. What good had come of it? From the day they’d met, it had been one disaster after another.

  The phone rang. She almost didn’t answer it, afraid it was Marcus and not knowing what to say to him. Then she saw “Ventura PD” on the Caller ID, and placed her gun on the nightstand.

  “Marcus was telling the truth!” Mary said, shouting over the roar of her police unit. “I spoke to his former fiancée, April Simons, about fifteen minutes ago. She confirmed the Wrights were identical twins. Thomas has a scar on his right forearm. Do you remember seeing a scar on Marcus’s arm?”

  “No,” Carolyn said, searching her memory. “But he usually wears long sleeves, and whenever we made love, it was always dark. So…at least what he told us about having a twin brother was true. We have to find him to see if he has a scar or not.”

  Some time passed before the detective answered. “I’m sorry Carolyn. I’m en route to Marcus’s house now. There’s been a shooting. We haven’t confirmed the identity of the victim yet, but we had a surveillan
ce unit watching the house. They say he’s deceased.”

  “Is it Marcus?” Carolyn asked, tears pooling in her eyes.

  “We don’t know.”

  “If it happened at Marcus’s house, it’s got to be Marcus.”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions,” Mary told her. “The shooter was a woman. Brace yourself, Carolyn. She claims to be the victim’s wife. She insists the man she killed was Dean Masters. First we have Matthew Sheppard, now we have Dean Masters. I ran the Masters name through the system, and a woman named Kathleen Masters was the victim of an attempted murder in Carmel about three months ago. I haven’t been able to talk to the police agency who handed the investigation yet, but this isn’t going to be resolved right away. The man was shot in the face.”

  “I’m leaving now,” Carolyn said, carrying the portable phone to her closet to get dressed.

  “Stay at home,” the detective said. “You’re too close to this thing.”

  “That’s why I’m coming.”

  Tossing on a sweatshirt and a pair of jeans, Carolyn rushed out the front door of her house. As she was backing the county car out of the driveway, she saw a man covered with blood and dirt stagger across the lawn. Recognizing Marcus’s face, she didn’t know if she should stop and help him or go for her gun. For all she knew, it could be his brother. She followed her first instincts, jumping out and helping him to the porch. “Sit down here on the steps,” she said, seeing his bloodstained shirt. “Have you been shot? I’ll call an ambulance.”

  “Don’t call anyone,” the man said, his face pale and haggard. “The police are trying to arrest me. Thomas and this crazy woman are trying to kill me. You’re the only one who believes me. That’s why I came to you. I swear, I’ve never hurt anyone in my life. I never even got into a fight. Once I got into computers, I hardly ever went outside. That’s why I hired a private security company.”

  “Where were they tonight?”

  “They don’t work on weekends.”

  Was this the man the police thought was dead? Carolyn reached over and grabbed his right arm, shoving up the sleeve.

  Marcus jerked away.

  “This is for your sake as well as mine,” she told him. When she didn’t see a scar, she checked his other arm to make certain. She placed a palm on her forehead, feeling as if her head were about to burst. The porch light was bright enough to see clearly. But did not having a scar clear him?

  In her mind, absolutely.

  A rush of emotion engulfed her. Hank had been wrong. She’d known all along that there were two distinct personalities. The man who’d been with her the night before at Neil’s house had repulsed her. The person sitting in front of her was the man she’d been on the verge of falling in love with. She reached over and tenderly stroked his face, then opened his shirt to check the wound. “Stay here,” she told him. “I’m going inside to call an ambulance. You need medical treatment. I promise they won’t arrest you.”

  After dialing 911, Carolyn washed her hands and picked up some clean towels from the laundry room, then went back to wait with Marcus. “I’m sure you’re in pain,” she told him, “but it doesn’t look that serious. The bullet appears to have nicked your shoulder.” She probed the wound with her fingers. “It’s not embedded, so I doubt if you’ll need surgery.” Sitting down next to him, she placed her arm around him, holding the towels over the wound. “I told the dispatcher that you fell off a ladder. That way, the police won’t respond. We’ll have some leeway to set things straight. I told them not to roll code.”

  Marcus gave her a dazed look. “What code? They can’t access my files. They’re all encrypted. Besides, I don’t keep anything classified at my house.”

  “No sirens,” Carolyn said, kicking a snail off the sidewalk. “That means they may take longer to get here. I thought leaving the police out of the picture would keep you from panicking. If you panic, your body’s going to pump out more blood.” She checked the fresh towel she’d just applied. “The bleeding has almost stopped.”

  Marcus’s head slumped toward her. She cradled him like a child. She’d also wanted time to tell him what he had to be told. “Before you got here, I got a call from Mary Stevens. A man was shot and killed on your property. Was your brother there?”

  He lifted his head. “Thomas called me. He said he wanted to talk. I was going to call the police. After today I decided I had to take care of my own problems. When I went out back to meet him, a woman I’ve never seen before accused me of trying to kill her. Then she shot me.” He stopped and gulped air, his eyes wide with fear. “More gunshots came from the orchard. While the lady’s head was turned, I managed to get away, but I saw Thomas.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t talk,” Carolyn said, seeing how he was struggling.

  “Please,” he said, “I want you to know what happened. I heard four, maybe five more gunshots. I didn’t look back, I just kept on running. I made it to the road and stole that car.” He pointed to a red Escalade with one tire over the curb, parked facing the wrong side of the street. “The doors were unlocked, and the keys were in the ignition. God, are they going to charge me with stealing a car now?”

  Carolyn smiled. “They aren’t going to charge you with anything,” she told him, her strength returning. “Not if I have anything to do with it. All we have to do now is get you patched up. Everything else will fall into place.”

  “Thomas is dead, isn’t he?” His voice dropped to a low pitch. “Even though we haven’t seen each other in years, I know he’s gone. I can feel that something is missing. No matter what he did, he was my brother. I should have given him more money. What my father did wasn’t fair. Maybe he wouldn’t have done these things if—”

  “I’m sure it was more than money,” Carolyn said. “I’ve worked with criminals a long time. Trust me, people all over the world have disputes over money and they don’t go on killing sprees.”

  “I’m sorry for the misery I’ve caused you,” Marcus said. “I should have told you about Thomas from the beginning. I deceived you because I wanted you from the moment I saw you. Not many people understand me. I even thought if things worked out, you might be able to help me repair my relationship with my children. Can you ever forgive me?”

  “I already have,” she said, reaching over and clasping his clammy hand. “You saved both me and my son. Thomas must have killed Carl Holden to set you up to take the fall, just like he tried to pin Lisa Sheppard’s death on Holden by burying her in the lagoon. You may not realize it, but you served as bait to bring him in. If you hadn’t been brave enough to confront your brother tonight, we might never have caught him.” Her thoughts turned to Tracy Anderson and Lisa Sheppard. Thomas might have been a failure as a psychiatrist, but he’d been an expert at murder. The label the papers gave him of “The Sweeper” was fitting. The lack of evidence left behind, the state of Lisa’s skeletal remains, how he’d soaked up the information she’d given him about the Anderson murder and Carl Holden’s release from prison, then used them to his advantage, all proved Thomas Wright possessed a diabolically cunning mind.

  Lisa’s grandmother in St. Louis either knew something incriminating, or she was simply a loose end. They would probably never know the truth about Eleanor Beckworth, but Carolyn felt certain Thomas had staged her murder to look as if she’d committed suicide.

  She didn’t want to tell Marcus, but she felt certain that his brother had risked contacting him in order to frame him for the murders—or in order to kill him.

  Something else had caused Thomas to unravel. What had happened at Marcus’s house was only seen in the stage of a killer’s career that law enforcement officers referred to as the end game. Carolyn assumed it was his failure to kill the woman in Carmel that had caused the unraveling. How many other women had he brutalized?

  “The main reason I work so hard is to obtain justice for the victims,” Carolyn told him. “I’m usually good at my job. This time I was outsmarted.” With a steely look, she added, “It won’t ha
ppen again.”

  “You were deceived,” Marcus said.

  Suddenly realizing she was being insensitive by talking about herself when he had lost his brother, she said, “I’m sorry about Thomas.”

  “Don’t be. I was prepared to do whatever needed to be done. If that woman hadn’t shown up, I would have killed him myself.”

  “There’s another factor that you should be aware of,” Carolyn told him. “Thomas knew that by virtue of being an identical twin, he had an opportunity to commit any crime he wanted. Since your DNA is identical, there would have been no definitive proof as to which one of you committed these crimes. They couldn’t send you both to prison. Juries today don’t convict on circumstantial evidence. Your brother would have more than likely gone free.”

  The emergency vehicles arrived. Carolyn stood by as they placed Marcus on a stretcher and started an IV. “I’ll see you at the hospital,” she said, leaning down and kissing him. “It’s over now. When you’ve had time to recover, I may take you up on that offer to take me to Paris.”

  “Now I have something to live for,” Marcus told her, managing a weak smile.

  “So do I,” Carolyn said, “even if you don’t take me to Paris.”

  Carolyn darted into the house and called Mary. “Did the man who was killed have a scar on his right arm?”

  “Yeah,” Mary said. “Kathleen Masters claims her husband had a scar in the same place. We’re fairly certain the victim is Thomas Wright. Charley would like to do a fingerprint comparison, though. The problem is there were no prints left at any of the crime scenes, not even the house he lived at in Carmel.” She stopped and barked orders at someone, then continued, “There’s a clear pattern here, Carolyn. Looks like Wright marries women from various walks of life, then when he gets bored with them or something goes wrong, he kills them and finds a way to make it look like someone else was responsible. That way, the authorities clear the case and he’s free to do it again. Mrs. Masters was lucky to survive. He really did a number on her.”