by Mike Markel
“Is his testimony going to be dispositive in the arson case?”
I turned to Ryan, who nodded. “Yeah.”
“Tell him yes.”
“Thanks, Larry.” I ended the call and turned to Martin. “Okay?”
Martin Hunt nodded.
“Did you kill Virginia Rinaldi?”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“Why did you kill her?”
“She threatened to get me and Abby kicked out of the university. We did the final assignment together.”
“What was the project?”
“The video with Krista. We were going to write it up, first person. Two students in this porn class actually doing some porn with a sex worker. We thought it was a cool idea. Nobody had done it before.”
“How did Professor Rinaldi respond?”
“She got really pissed off. Said it was unethical. She was going to get us disciplined.”
“And Abby agreed with you that you needed to kill Professor Rinaldi?”
“That wasn’t how it happened. Neither of us decided to do it. I went over to her place. I kept trying to make contact with her, but she wouldn’t get back to me. I offered to do anything she wanted to make this go away. I was scheduled to graduate. But she wouldn’t discuss it anymore.”
“How did she end up dead?”
“I don’t fully remember it. She scratched me really hard. I must’ve lost my temper. I hit her. And I knew then that if she lived, I’d be in big trouble.”
“Abby wasn’t there when this happened?”
“No.”
“Tell us how Abby responded when she learned Professor Rinaldi was gonna try to get her kicked out, too.”
“Abby thought Professor Rinaldi went batshit because Krista was in the video. Apparently, she really had a hard-on for Krista.” He shook his head in disbelief at that idea. “Abby told me she didn’t want to have anything to do with threatening Professor Rinaldi. If she got kicked out of the university because of the assignment, well, that was the price she had to pay for not checking with the professor first—before we made the video.”
“How did Abby get from that attitude to torching her own place?”
“I don’t know. Maybe she thought this was the way to get some publicity, get into porn. Maybe she just got off on all the attention. I have no fucking idea what’s going on in that bitch’s head.”
“But she knew you’d been trying to get Professor Rinaldi to change her mind about the assignment, right?”
“Yeah, she knew. But like I said, I wasn’t planning to hurt the professor. I had absolutely no intention of killing her.”
“Did you tell Abby you’d killed Virginia Rinaldi?”
“I guess she assumed I killed her. I never told her that.”
“And you assumed she had torched her own apartment.”
“No, I knew it.”
“How did you know it?”
“She told me. After she found out her roommate got killed in the fire. She was all broken up about that.”
“She didn’t know the roommate was in the apartment, is that correct?”
“She didn’t know. It was an accident.”
“Next thing, you get a call from Abby saying she wants to meet to discuss how Krista’s gonna be arrested for killing Virginia Rinaldi.”
“I didn’t know how you decided Krista did it, but I wasn’t going to ask any questions.”
“Why did you try to kill Abby?”
“Abby is stupid. I assumed you’d figure out she torched her own apartment. Then, when you confronted her on it, she’d fold and tell you I’d killed the professor.”
“Funny thing, Martin. She didn’t fold. But you just did.”
Chapter 34
The auditorium at the Special Events Center on campus was about three-quarters full when Ryan and I pulled up Saturday morning. We walked into the lobby, usually a cheerful place with its brightly colored carpeting and posters on the walls showing the performers who had appeared there.
In front of the big steel doors that led into the auditorium were two large photographs framed in black. One was a publicity photo for Virginia Rinaldi, the other a yearbook photo of Jennifer Taylor. Mary Dawson had told us they had checked with Jennifer Taylor’s parents, who said it was fine to combine the service for the two people who died. Mary said they hadn’t been able to make contact with Virginia’s son, Robert Rinaldi, the only relative they had on record.
Three professors spoke briefly about how important and smart Virginia Rinaldi was. One student, a girl who I recognized from her course, said Virginia had changed her life, giving her confidence that she really was intelligent. The girl said she was a sociology major because of Virginia and was planning to go to graduate school.
Three or four students offered remarks about Jennifer Taylor. Smart, hard-working, kind. Wonderful future. Senseless death. Throughout the little speeches about Jennifer, I could hear a lot of students weeping. I spotted her parents in the front row. Parents of dead children are unmistakable.
The ceremony ended with brief remarks from President Billingham, the university’s father figure. I’d seen him speak at a number of services. He was always diplomatic, graceful, and thoughtful, even though you were never sure he had actually met the people he praised.
After the service, Ryan and I went up to talk with Mary Dawson.
“How’re you holding up?” I said to her.
“I’m fine.” She put on a sad smile. “I spent an hour this morning with Jennifer’s parents. They’re such strong people. I can’t imagine what they’re going through.” She shook her head.
I nodded. “I didn’t see Arthur Vines up on the stage this morning. He couldn’t make it?”
“Mr. Vines is no longer with the university.”
“Really?”
“He decided to take early retirement. Yesterday afternoon, quite suddenly.”
“You have something to do with that?” I tried to repress a smile.
“President Billingham asked Mr. Vines to show me all the files related to the harassment of Abby Demarest. That’s all I’ll say.” I detected a hint of a smile, so I felt free to return it.
After Ryan and I finished talking with Mary Dawson, a young man walked up to us. “Are you Detective Seagate?” he said. I knew I recognized him but couldn’t pull up a name. “I’m Robert Rinaldi.”
Now I remembered where I’d seen him: in the photographs on the mantelpiece in his mother’s house. “Robert, I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. I wanted to tell you I appreciate what you’ve done—trying to find the person …”
I nodded. “We know who he is. He’s in custody on other charges. We’ll be charging him with murder very soon.”
“I didn’t learn until late yesterday that you were looking for me. I wasn’t hiding or anything. I was staying with a friend here in town.”
“We tried calling you a bunch of times.”
He shook his head. “I’d turned my phone off. I was trying to pull it together.”
“I understand. Robert, would you mind if I asked you a couple questions?”
“Go ahead.”
“What happened that made you decide to drive here from Portland last week?”
“My mother had told me about this new relationship she was in. With Elena. When she told me Elena was a sex worker … I knew my mother was bisexual, but I didn’t think she’d ever gotten involved with a sex worker before. It scared me, is all. I thought this woman would try to take advantage of my mother in some way. You never met her, but she was like a child when she was in love. All the qualities that made her such a good researcher—the energy, the brains, the tenacity—all those things disappeared. I didn’t want her to get hurt.”
“So you were there Monday night, the night of her class?”
“Yeah, the three of us had this big scene. My mom was out of control with grief. She told me she was going to give up Elena. I hadn’t insisted on that—you can�
��t insist on anything to my mother—but that’s the way she put it. It was horrible. And Elena grabbed her backpack and left.”
“I don’t know that it makes any difference now, but your mother and Elena did have a loving relationship. They really did care for each other. And Elena didn’t take advantage of your mother in any way.”
Robert Rinaldi nodded. “I’m glad to hear that. I didn’t know.”
“You couldn’t have known. It wasn’t your fault. Any son would have been worried.”
Robert Rinaldi shifted his weight. “This person who did this, to my mother? Was it about her relationship with Elena?”
“No, it wasn’t. It was an idiot student who was unhappy about a grade. Your mother wouldn’t back down about a grade.”
Robert Rinaldi shook his head. “Unbelievable. But I’m not surprised. I mean, about my mother not backing down. I’ve seen that, many times.” He began to weep. “I’m sorry.”
“Put your phone on. I’ll keep you up-to-date on the case, okay, Robert?”
He tried to speak but couldn’t. He nodded his head, then managed to say, “Thank you.” He turned and walked across the brightly colored carpet and out of the Special Events Center.
There was still one more thing we needed to do to close up the case. Monday morning we heard from the hospital that Abby Demarest had been released. Ryan and I drove over to the university and walked over to Mary Dawson’s office. When her secretary called into her office on the phone, Mary came out and gave us a weary smile. I could tell she was still wrung out from the ordeal.
“Is Abby still at your place?”
“Yes, she hasn’t decided where she wants to go next.”
“We need to stop by this morning and have a chat with her. We think you should be with us.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Mary, we need you to trust us on this. Come with us now. Tell your secretary to cancel your appointments. We’ll have you back here in an hour.”
“Should I call her to tell her we’re coming?”
“No, you can’t do that, Mary. Just come with us now. We’ll explain it as soon as we can.”
“Let me get my bag.” She ducked into her office and came right out. The three of us left her office and walked down to the parking lot. Ryan got into the back seat of the Charger. Mary sat up front with me.
“You need directions?”
“No, I’m good.”
And those were the only words that any of us spoke on the nine-minute trip to her house. I glanced over at her a few times. She had put down the visor and closed her eyes. I couldn’t tell if she was sleeping or just trying to make everything go away.
Mary unlocked her front door and we followed her inside. A moment later, Abby emerged from the staircase that led to the basement.
She looked surprised to see us. “Hi, Detectives. What’s going on, Mary?” She brushed her hair off of her face. She looked good: Her color was back and her movements and speech seemed normal.
“The detectives said they needed to talk to you.” Mary led us into her living room.
I said, “Please sit down, Abby, Dean Dawson.”
Now they both looked apprehensive as they sat next to each other on a couch facing the fireplace.
Ryan and I remained standing. I nodded to him. He placed his briefcase down on the carpet and opened it. He pulled out a paper evidence bag the size of a grocery bag and handed it to me. I reached inside and pulled out two sealed clear plastic bags, each with the word “EVIDENCE” printed in black letters on the side.
“What is this?” Abby said, looking to Mary Dawson.
“I have no idea.” Mary turned to me. “What are you doing, Detective?”
“Inside this bag is a large fragment from a liquor bottle. This bottle was from the Molotov cocktail that was used in the arson.” I stood and carried the bag over to Abby. “You see the grey area on the piece of paper label? We pulled a fingerprint off the label. That fingerprint is reproduced on this card in the bag.” I pointed to a fingerprint card about three inches by five. “In this other bag is a paper cup. We got this from the hospital on Saturday, before you were released. We pulled a fingerprint from the side of this plastic cup. That fingerprint is reproduced on this card in the bag.” I stopped.
A look of horror came over Abby Demarest’s face. Her features contorted and she began to scream and shake uncontrollably.
Mary Dawson slid over on the couch and put her arms around the girl. “What are you doing, Detective? What is happening?”
“Excuse me.” I stood and walked out of Mary Dawson’s house before I burst into tears myself. I covered my face in my hands and wept for two or three minutes. A woman pushing a baby jogger with an infant in it came by. I was bent over the hood of the Charger. She asked me if I was okay. I waved her away. She asked me if I was sure. I was.
When I pulled myself together, I took a tissue and wiped off my face as well as I could. I checked it in the Charger’s outside mirror. Then I walked back into the house.
Abby Demarest was lying on her side on the carpet, in front of the couch. She was sobbing, her arms and legs pulled in tight. Mary Dawson was sitting on the carpet, holding her, rocking her silently. Mary did not look up when she heard me re-enter her house.
Ryan was seated on a chair, his elbows on his knees. He stood and came over to me. “She gave it up,” he said softly.
“Call for a uniform to drive Dean Dawson back to campus.”
After about five minutes, the police officer knocked on the door. Ryan whispered to him. The officer nodded.
Ryan and I lifted Abby to her feet. She could barely stand. Mary tried to hold onto her, but Ryan gently took the dean’s arm and led her to the other side of the room.
We brought Abby back to headquarters, where we booked her for involuntary manslaughter in the death of Jennifer Taylor.
I sat at my desk and removed the two evidence bags from the paper bag we had shown Abby. I dropped them into the garbage can under my desk.
Ryan said, “Did you have any prints on the cards?”
I held up my right thumb, which still had some ink under the nail.
Chapter 35
Wednesday morning, Ryan and I were walking out of the county courthouse, where Abby Demarest had entered her plea of not guilty. Twenty yards ahead of us, Abby was walking between Mary Dawson and an attorney, a woman named Elizabeth Wagner. The university had hired Wagner to represent her.
We hadn’t talked to Mary since the episode at her house when Abby confessed to the arson. I don’t think Mary knew I had phonied up the props for the show-and-tell, and I’m not sure she would have objected even if she had known. It was more that Abby needed an adult on her side, and since the two of them got along, Mary became the surrogate mother. According to the media, Abby’s own parents were stunned by the news of her arrest, then repulsed when they learned their little girl had made that video. They didn’t leave their house and come to support their daughter, even though they lived only about a half-hour’s drive from Rawlings. So it made sense that Abby leaned on Mary Dawson.
Abby tried to cover her face as she walked out of the courthouse. The media were crawling all over Rawlings. The story of the student in the porn video first broke in the newspapers and websites for university people. Then it quickly spread to the general media, including two weekly newsmagazines. When one reporter figured out that the student who killed the professor and the student who made the video and who did the arson knew each other—and were in the professor’s course—reporters couldn’t get to Rawlings fast enough.
Network anchors who normally put on safari jackets for their annual reporting trips to overseas warzones found themselves in downtown Rawlings. They had to interview professors, university administrators, and sociology students. Even the guy who shut down the dam so Ryan and Abby wouldn’t get sucked under was on TV two or three times. The last time, he reported that there was no damage to the turbine from the emergency shutdown. �
��That’s one piece of good news in this terrible tragedy,” the local newsreaders said solemnly.
I was walking with my head down. Ryan was trying to avoid eye contact, too, but with his serious shoulders, strong chin, and eighty or ninety glistening teeth, there was no way he didn’t draw a crowd whenever he was out in public. “Hero Cop” was the title the media bestowed on him for saving Abby at the dam.
And that might be why neither Ryan nor I saw the figure step out from between a couple of parked cars and walk deliberately toward Mary, Abby, and the lawyer. Tall and muscular, he wore scuffed engineer boots, black jeans, and a black denim jacket. He had a mustache and goatee, and a fresh scar on his cheek.
He stopped when he was about five feet behind the three women. He shouted “Whore.” All the reporters and camera crews seemed to freeze for a moment, then turn and swing their equipment in his direction. The three women stopped, too, and turned toward him. He reached into the waistband of his black jeans and pulled a pistol. “In the name of the Lord Jesus.”
Ryan was already running toward Richard Albright, but before he could tackle him, Albright squeezed off one round. Amid the screams and the commotion, Abby Demarest clutched her chest and sank to her knees. The blood spread out across her white silk blouse.
Most of the camera people had dropped their equipment and run toward cover behind the satellite trucks that lined the street in front of the courthouse. A few, seeing that Ryan had tackled the shooter and had a knee on his back, stayed to keep filming. I cuffed Richard Albright and called for an ambulance and squad cars.
Mary Dawson and Abby’s attorney were huddled over her body. A man who identified himself as a doctor rushed over and was giving her CPR. I think everyone who saw the location of the wound feared it would be fatal.
Ryan stayed with Richard Albright, who was face down on the pavement, his hands cuffed behind his back. Flashbulbs lit up Albright’s face, his expression serene and distant. He had come to the courthouse with a mission, and he had accomplished it.
I rushed over to Mary Dawson and the attorney, who were weeping and hugging each other. “Come with me, now,” I shouted above the screams. I hustled them off toward the Charger and pushed them into the back seat.