by Marcia Clark
Alex was downtown talking to the crime-scene techs. I’d asked him to get copies of the crime-scene photos from Davey’s apartment and check for any evidence that the closet door lock had been picked or forced in the past. I’d had a hunch that Roan might have found Davey’s shrine to Alicia. That thing truly would qualify as a “gnarly” secret—to say the least. And if Roan had found it, I thought it was very possible he’d have told not only Alicia but also Davey, just to torture him. It was the kind of thing I could totally see Roan doing.
And that would give Davey yet another motive to kill Roan, which was my goal right now: to put together the most compelling case against Davey that I could, then pray the cops didn’t make an even more compelling case against Graham.
Alex got back to the office at four thirty. I’d been pacing, arms folded against my stomach, elbows gripped in my sweaty palms. Happy to have this exciting activity interrupted, I went out to see him. “I could really use some good news.”
His smile was a welcome sight. “The tool mark guy thinks there is evidence of an earlier . . . disturbance, some scratch marks that may indicate the lock was forced in the past. It’s not conclusive, and obviously he couldn’t say who did it or when. But he said he would testify that the lock may have been forced.”
“That’s good. Puts another nail in Davey’s coffin.” But it was far from a slam dunk.
I rolled out the secretary chair and sat down next to Michy’s desk. Since I wasn’t getting any work done, I figured I may as well hang out with Alex and Michy. We talked about Davey, his sick obsession with Alicia, and what the DNA testing might reveal.
At a little before five, we found out. The report came to the office e-mail address—which Michy had been checking nonstop.
She read it out loud. “A mixture that includes the profiles of Roan Sutton and David Moser was identified in the sample taken from Roan Sutton’s nightstand. DNA detected in the hairs found on Roan’s shirt match the profile associated with David Moser.”
Alex looked at me. “How good is that for us?”
I sighed. “It’s nice, but it’s not a game ender. They were friends . . . sort of. Davey could’ve visited Roan’s place before the murder, and people shed hairs constantly. Plus, hairs can cling for a while. So the prints, the hairs, both could’ve been left at some point before the night of the murder.”
Michy had continued to scan the report as we talked. She didn’t look happy. My stomach knotted. “What else?”
She read from the screen. “A mixture that includes the profiles of Roan Sutton, David Moser, and Graham Hutchins was detected on the cord around Roan Sutton’s neck.”
I sat forward. “Wait. What?”
Alex stared at me. “They both did it?”
That just couldn’t be true. “Did they give a result for the swab of Roan’s neck?”
Michy nodded. She read from the monitor. “Foreign alleles consistent with the profiles of both David Moser and Graham Hutchins were found in the sample taken from the neck of Roan Sutton, but there was insufficient DNA to identify a complete profile.”
Alex began to rub the back of his neck. “So they can’t tell whether the foreign alleles came from either Davey or Graham, or both.”
Exactly. “Because they’re father and son. Half their DNA is the same.” This was maddening. “Did they include the final coroner’s report?”
Michy tapped a key on her computer, then nodded. She read from the screen. “It’s the same as what we heard, ‘blah, blah, blah,’ inconclusive: ‘although I have determined that the cause of death is asphyxiation, as to the manner of death, neither suicide nor homicide can be ruled out. The manner of death is therefore inconclusive.’” She looked up at me. “What does all this mean? That Davey and Graham both did . . . something?”
Good question. Though I wouldn’t have thought it possible, this insane case had just gotten even crazier. I threw up my hands and spoke with frustration. “I guess.” I went over to Michy’s computer and read the coroner’s report over her shoulder. The pathologist had found wounds on Roan’s neck that indicated there was some—albeit very low—blood pressure at the time of the hanging. But even a very low level of blood pressure meant that Roan had still been alive when he was hung. That could mean he’d committed suicide. And I didn’t see any reference to defensive wounds that would indicate there’d been a struggle.
But I saw that the pathologist had also noted, “A possible abrasion is found on the chin; such a wound is typical of manual strangulation.” I knew from past cases that a victim’s chin can get scraped when he lowers his chin to resist and protect his neck. But the pathologist found the wound to be “mild and superficial” and so hadn’t been able to say for sure it was the result of strangulation. So it was also possible that Roan had been strangled—just not quite to death—and then hung in order to make it look like he’d committed suicide. This kind of wishy-washy autopsy report was good—but not great—for me. If I wanted to keep Graham out of the courtroom and the clutches of the twelve-headed monster, AKA the jury, I needed more.
Alex sat on the edge of Michy’s desk. “But the neighbor only saw one person knocking on the door that night.”
That’s right. I’d forgotten about that. “Which means they didn’t go to Roan’s place together. One of them got there first. And he’s got to be the one whose DNA is on Roan’s neck.”
Michy tilted her head. “AKA, the one who strangled Roan, right?”
I nodded. Though the coroner couldn’t come to a conclusion on the basis of medical findings, that didn’t mean a conclusion couldn’t be drawn based on logic. And logically speaking, now that we knew whose DNA had been found on Roan, it seemed clear that one of them had tried to—and maybe succeeded in—strangling him.
If that DNA had come back to one of Roan’s friends—say Diana, for example—I’d have argued that it wasn’t necessarily proof that Roan had been strangled. They were intimate, so the presence of her DNA on his neck wouldn’t mean there’d been any kind of violent contact. But since the DNA either came from Davey, who was unlikely to have had a friendly interaction with Roan after Alicia’s death—or Graham, who was even less likely to have made friendly close contact—simple logic dictated that one of them must’ve at least tried to strangle Roan.
So the coroner might not be able to say it was a homicide, but a jury sure would. “Which means that neighbor might be our best hope for Graham.”
Alex stood up. “I assume we’re going to see her?”
“Yep. You have photos of Davey and Graham?” Alex nodded. I was sure the cops had already shown the neighbor their photos, but it didn’t matter. I needed to find out for myself what she’d say.
It was five thirty. It’d take us at least an hour to get there. But the later the better. It upped the odds that we’d find her at home. I told Michy to take off whenever she wanted. “We won’t be back tonight.”
She gave me a mock salute. “Just do me a favor? Call me after you talk to the neighbor. I’ve got to know.”
I said I would.
It wound up taking us more than an hour to get to Jody Sondheim’s house. By the time I knocked on her door, it was almost seven o’clock. A white woman in her sixties, with short gray hair, dressed in jeans, a sweatshirt, and sneakers answered the door.
I confirmed that she was Jody Sondheim, then introduced myself and Alex and told her why we were there.
She looked from me to Alex. “A detective came by a little bit ago and showed me some photos.”
Rusty probably showed her a six-pack. “Did you identify anyone?”
Jody shook her head. “I didn’t see the man’s face, and the detective only had head shots.”
That figured. “I have full-length photos. Do you mind if I show them to you?”
“Not at all,” she said.
Alex had cut and pasted so that Davey’s and Graham’s photos appeared side by side. The problem was, they didn’t look that different. Davey was wider—both in
the hips and in the shoulders—but they were about the same height. It’d be hard to tell the difference—but it wasn’t impossible.
I mentally crossed my fingers and hoped for a miracle as Alex showed her the photos. She studied them carefully, then shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t rule out either one of them.”
I was deflated, but I had one more question. “After you saw the man knocking, did you see him go inside?”
She paused for a moment and bit her lower lip. “Not exactly. I was on my way into the house at the time. But he must’ve gone inside, because I’d forgotten to pick up the daily rag—they keep leaving it on my doorstep even though I’ve asked them to stop—and when I went back out to get it, I didn’t see him anywhere.”
Alex asked, “And he couldn’t have left?”
She shook her head. “I’d have seen him. It was just two seconds. He didn’t have time to get that far away.”
I thought of something else. “Then Roan let him in right away?”
She glanced in the direction of his house. “Yes, he must have.”
I asked, “Did you hear any loud noises or raised voices?”
Jody said, “No. But, like I told the police a while ago, I went to do the laundry after that, and the machines are at the back of the house.”
We talked to her a little while longer, just to see if we could shake out a memory she didn’t realize she had, but there was nothing more to get. I thanked her, and we headed for the car.
On the way back, I thought about what Jody had said. “If the guy she saw at the door had been Graham, there’s no way he would’ve gotten in so fast—or maybe at all.”
Alex paused for a second, then nodded. “That’s right. Roan was the main suspect in Alicia’s murder. If her father was knocking on his door, I can’t imagine Roan would’ve been so quick to let him in. I know I wouldn’t if I was him. I’d be pretty scared of what Graham might do to me.”
I played it out in my head. “That’s what I think. And even if he was inclined to let Graham in, he’d talk to Graham at the door for a bit and get a feel for whether he seemed likely to get violent. So the guy she saw knocking had to be Davey.”
Alex paused for a homeless man who was jaywalking across Temple Street, bent almost double under the weight of an overstuffed, battered backpack. “I know you said Davey’s prints and hairs didn’t do that much for us, but what if Alicia’s friends say that Davey never visited Roan? It didn’t sound to me like he was a big Roan fan.”
Certainly possible. “That’d help, but it wouldn’t rule out the possibility that Davey got into it with Roan earlier that day but left Roan alive. Davey might even say he went over there to confront Roan and find out if he killed Alicia.”
Alex frowned. “But what about that shrine? You think someone that obsessed with Alicia would just confront Roan and then walk away?”
I shrugged. “If I was Davey’s lawyer, I’d argue that the shrine might show he had a sick mind, but it didn’t necessarily show Davey had the mind of a killer.”
The homeless man made it to the sidewalk, and Alex headed for the freeway. “You know, for a softy, semirich kid, he sure is holding up well under all this. I’d have expected him to crack by now.”
I’d thought about that. “Me, too. But it’s not like he just killed his best friend. I’d bet he feels like a hero. That asshole Roan killed Alicia. Davey avenged her murder. I’m thinking he feels justified, maybe even proud.”
Alex turned right and headed up the on-ramp. “So bottom line, we’re still stuck with the fact that Graham was involved—maybe very involved.”
I sighed. “Right. We don’t know when Graham showed up.” If it was right after Davey, he could even have helped strangle Roan. I needed to get to the bottom of this. Unless I found a tiebreaker, Graham was going to go down for Roan’s murder.
I knew what I had to do.
The Beverly Hills jail, where Graham was being kept, allows attorney visits 24-7. When Alex dropped me back at my car, I asked to borrow his iPad, then headed straight over there.
Graham had the luxury of a cell all to himself. At my request, they let me visit him there. He didn’t look good. The first night in custody never goes well, and this was probably the only time Graham had ever been near a jail, let alone inside one. He sat slumped on his bunk. The skin around his eyes had grown so puffy his eyes had narrowed to slits, and they had a vacant, hundred-yard stare.
I told him about the DNA results, how they showed he was involved in Roan’s death. Then, I asked him to tell me what had happened that night. He turned his face to the wall and said nothing.
Time to pull out the blasting caps. “You don’t want to talk. Fine. Then you can just listen. As you know, Alex and I were in Davey’s apartment the night he got arrested. But you don’t know why we were there, so I’m going to tell you. It’s because we searched his place. And I think you should see what we found there.” I pulled out Alex’s iPad and waited for Graham to turn back to me. When he did, I held it up and tapped the screen to show image after image of Davey’s photos of Alicia, a few of the more lurid pages from his journal, the photos of Davey’s computer screen showing Alicia’s nude selfies, and the link to the revenge-porn site.
At the first sight of Alicia’s photos, Graham’s eyes stretched in their sockets, and by the time I hit the journal pages, he’d begun to growl—low at first, then with increasing fury. By the time I’d finished, he was screaming incoherently, his face a dangerous shade of red as he pulled at his hair.
The guard came running, but I went over and told him it was okay. “I just had to share some very bad news. He’ll calm down in a minute.”
The guard gave me a skeptical look, but a few seconds later, Graham stopped. He hunched over and rocked back and forth, his arms around his torso. He looked twenty years older. The guard gave him one last look and moved off.
I went over and sat down next to Graham. “You’re sacrificing your life for someone who tortured Alicia. Imagine how awful it was for her to see those photos posted on that hideous website, and then on her Facebook page. All that suffering was because of Davey. It’s time to stop, Graham. He doesn’t deserve your sacrifice. Now tell me what happened.”
He stared at the floor and said nothing for so long I was afraid I’d pushed him over the edge. But finally, in a hoarse, raw voice, he began to speak. “As you know, Heather told me about Davey being my son the day after Alicia was killed. I was . . . completely thrashed. I’d just lost my daughter, and then I learned that she’d been close to the son I’d never met.” He stopped for a few moments, then continued. “I wanted to find out more about him, see where he lived, so I drove to his building. As I was pulling up, I saw him come out and get into his car. I don’t know why, but I decided to follow him.”
He paused again. I thought I knew where this was heading, so I prompted him. “He drove to Roan’s house?”
“Yes,” he said. “But I didn’t know that at the time. What got my attention was the fact that he parked and then walked around the corner to the house. There was no reason for him to do that; there were spaces right in front. I thought that was odd, so I parked across the street from Roan’s house and waited to see what he’d do.”
I pictured the scene. “Did you see Roan answer the door?”
He nodded. “Davey went inside, and I got a really bad feeling about what was going on. So I went up to the door and listened.” Graham stopped and stared at the floor again. He began to breathe faster. “I heard a loud thump, then another thump. I tried the door. It was open. I went inside and found Davey standing over Roan, his hands around his neck.” He paused to catch his breath. “Davey’s expression was . . . crazed. That’s the only word for it.”
This strange story was actually making sense. “Was Roan fighting back?”
Graham swallowed. “No. His eyes were open, but his whole body was limp. He was dead.”
I knew the rest, but I prompted him anyway. “What happened next?”
“I walked in and closed the door and finally, Davey saw me. He dropped Roan, and for a second I thought he was going to attack me. He had this look in his eyes . . . but I held up my hands, told him I didn’t mean him any harm, and that . . . that I’d help him.” Graham paused for a moment, his frown puzzled. “I don’t know why I did that. Or why he believed me.”
I had a feeling I did. “Maybe because Davey already knew you were his father.”
Graham looked at me, confused. “How? Did Heather tell him?”
I shook my head. “I’ll explain later. Go on.”
He took a moment to refocus. “I started searching Roan’s place, trying to think of how I could make it look like an accident or . . . something. In Roan’s bedroom I found an old rope that someone had used as a dog leash, and . . .” He held up his hands, then let them drop.
I homed in on the weak spot. “And you helped Davey string him up, because you thought Roan was already dead?”
Graham stared at me blankly. “Thought? Are you saying he wasn’t?”
I had to tell him at some point, and even if I didn’t, he might well hear it from someone else. “You remember the coroner had said the manner of death was inconclusive? That it could’ve been homicide or suicide?” Graham nodded slowly. “The official report just came out. It said that Roan might have been nearly, but not actually, dead when he was hung.”
He sagged even farther. “You mean I really did kill him?”
I couldn’t lie to him. “It’s possible. I’ll need to talk to the medical examiner who did the autopsy.” But—bizarre as it was—I didn’t doubt Graham’s story. He was in no condition to lie—not that well. Graham’s skin was gray; he was going downhill fast. I thought he looked like a candidate for a heart attack. I needed to get him out of here. “Has Sandy arranged to bail you out?” The desk sergeant had said his bail was set at five hundred thousand. That shouldn’t be hard for them to make.
Graham seemed to be in a near stupor. I put a hand on his shoulder and asked again, “Is Sandy arranging for your bail?”
His lips mouthed her name. “Yes. I think so.” He paused and squinted at the wall. His voice was faint. “Wait. I think . . . I think . . .” He trailed off for a moment, then continued. “Uh . . . I think she needs to talk to you.”