The Heavens May Fall

by Allen Eskens

  “So what are you suggesting?” Boady asked. “Ship her to a new school? Someplace where she has no friends? She can’t even talk to us. How’s she going to survive a new school?”

  “I’m not suggesting that, either. I’m saying that you should look into maybe homeschooling her. Just for a semester. See how it goes. She has no one in her life she trusts—no one she feels safe enough with to open up. Until she feels safe, until she can talk to an adult, no therapist will be able to reach her. She needs time and love. You can’t force her to get through what she needs to get through.”

  That morning, after Emma left her birthday breakfast untouched on the table, she holed up in her room with the door shut. Boady and Diana discussed whether to intrude on her privacy. In the end, they did nothing, mostly because Diana had two house showings to go to that morning, and Boady had no inclination to attempt such a maneuver on his own.

  After Diana left, Boady went to his study to work on Anna Adler-King’s cross-examination. Lila had been digging up old bones on the socialite, and one in particular showed promise. If Boady could coax the woman into the right trap, the jury would have to start second-guessing the State’s case. But setting that trap would be difficult and time-consuming. He covered his desk with everything he knew about Anna Adler-King: her statement to the police, her testimony at the custody hearing, her affidavit supporting the injunction to freeze Ben’s assets. He had newspaper articles about her and corporate filings and court records from every case that bore any imprint of her presence. Lila had been thorough in her research.

  But as Boady moved the various parts around on his desk, his thoughts continued to wander up the stairs to the silence coming from Emma’s bedroom. Anna Adler-King’s life lay scattered across his desk like the pieces of a model airplane waiting to be assembled, yet the thought of Emma’s tears stopped him from moving. He put his legal pad down and went upstairs.

  As he climbed the steps, the echoes of unfulfilled hopes swirled around his mind. His childless marriage was not his choice, nor was it Diana’s. From their earliest days, when they knew they would be together for life, they’d laced their conversations with plans of having a big family—filling every room of whatever house they might own with the laughter and noise of children. As the years passed, the medical truth grew roots that tangled around them, choking them in a way they would never have imagined.

  Now, as Boady approached Emma’s room, that memory held him back. In his dreams of being a father, he had imagined making this kind of trip. He was about to sit with a frightened, crying child and attempt to take away her pain. He’d never felt more ill prepared for any task in his life. But that was what a father would do, so it was what he would try to do for Emma.

  Boady knocked on the door using a single knuckle. There was no answer. He knocked again and this time unlatched the door, letting it creak open.

  “Emma?”

  She didn’t answer, but he saw her sitting on her bed. She had put on one of her father’s T-shirts over her other clothing, and she had pulled her knees up to her chest, tucking her legs under the shirt. She rested her face on her forearms, perched atop her knees.

  “Emma, can I come in?” He entered without her answering.

  She made no move to acknowledge that she even heard him.

  “Emma . . .” He sat at the foot of the bed. “There’s no way for me to understand how you feel. Sometimes the world hits us with more than we think we can bear. And to have this all hanging over you on your birthday, I can’t—”

  “Did my dad kill my mom?” Emma did not look up when she asked the question.

  “Emma, honey, no.” Boady’s words came out quick and sure. “Your father didn’t kill your mother.”

  “The people on the news said they arrested Dad because he killed my mom. Why would they say that? If he didn’t kill her, why’d they put him in jail?”

  Boady moved a few inches closer to Emma as he shook off his first thoughts, explanations that delved into the history of jurisprudence and the role of probable cause and proof beyond a reasonable doubt. These were ideas that passed over the heads of many law students and were notions completely unworthy of this child’s question.

  “Emma, when I was a child, kids used to tell stories about the boogey man or monsters or other things that made us afraid. I grew up in the woods of Missouri, and when I was about seven or eight, a friend told me that there was this Bigfoot kind of creature that lived in the hills around my area. They called him ‘Momo.’ That was supposed to be short for ‘Missouri Monster.’ Well, after hearing about that, I was afraid to step foot in the woods.”

  Emma lifted her head from her arms and Boady could see the confusion on her face as she tried to fathom how this story had any connection to her father’s plight.

  “One night, my mother saw me staring out into the woods with this scared look on my face. When I told her that I was afraid of Momo, she sat me down and explained that there was no such beast, that my friend was just passing on a tall tale that had been whispered back and forth between kids since before Missouri was a state. I can’t tell you how relieved I was when I heard that. I almost started laughing, I was so relieved.

  “Well, Emma, when you grow up, it’s not boogey men and monsters that make people afraid. It’s things like what happened to your mother. There’s no good explanation for what happened to her. It makes people afraid. And the way that people lose that fear is to lock someone up for the crime. It doesn’t matter if the person that they locked up didn’t actually commit the crime, as long as they believe he did. They feel safer that someone was locked up. And that’s what happened here. They wanted to lock someone up as fast as possible, and your father was the only one in their sights. They moved way too quickly, and now we get to have a trial in court to show that they got it all wrong.”

  Emma looked at her knees as she considered Boady’s story. Then she slid her knees out of her father’s T-shirt and crawled to Boady. She sat beside him and leaned her head against his torso. Boady put his arm around the child’s shoulders and hugged her to him.

  “You’ll win, right?” she asked in a voice so soft and pure that Boady felt his throat grow tight.

  Again, Boady’s instinct, his training to always think like a lawyer, told him to never guarantee an outcome. That notion had become so sacrosanct over the years that they made it an ethical violation to make such promises. But as Boady held fast to Emma’s shoulders, he wasn’t a lawyer. He was, at that moment, the closest thing she had to a friend. He considered her question and, with the steady timbre of a man telling the absolute truth, he answered: “Yes. I’ll win.”

  Chapter 41

  The first week of October rolled through Minnesota with the rumble of thunderstorms that filled the evening news with pictures of upturned tree roots and downed power lines. On a morning when the rain fell nearly sideways, Max sat at his cubicle and studied a list he’d been researching for the past week.

  Whoever sent that envelope with the letter and key knew things. Deduction, induction, and a tad bit of supposition led Max to his list.

  Deduction: The person who authored the letter knew that the Corolla in the storage unit ended Jenni’s life. Deduction: The author of the letter knew details about what happened in that parking ramp. Induction: The words on the note were true; Max’s wife was murdered. Supposition: The murderer had a motive. Supposition: The motive involved Max and his job as a cop. That conclusion seemed to Max inescapable.

  So Max pulled together a list of every person he’d convicted since becoming a detective, over one hundred and fifty if he only counted cases where he was the lead. Hidden within that list had to be the driver of the yellow Toyota Corolla. Like one domino knocking down the next, it was the only logical path to explain the note.

  Max expected to be shut out of the investigation once he turned everything over, but it amazed him how quickly the door closed. He’d told Lieutenant Briggs and Commander Walker about the events that led him to
the storage unit and what he found there. They blinked and nodded and barely raised an eyebrow. When they took the evidence from Max, it felt as though they were peeling the flesh from his bones. Then they politely pointed him back to his cubicle. After that, nothing.

  The case was assigned to Tony Voss, the newest member of the Homicide Unit, and a man Max didn’t know all that well. That same day, Max invited his new colleague out for a beer. A week later, Max bought Voss another beer as they discussed the lack of trace evidence on the letter and key, a fact that Max already knew. At their next meeting, Voss confirmed that it was Jenni’s blood that stained the front of the Corolla. Except for those few meetings, Max had no contact with the investigation—at least not the official investigation.

  That morning he typed yet another name from his list into the computer, Artie Mesdorf, a junkie who beat his girlfriend to death when they were living in a homeless shelter. The computer answered Max with an article about Mesdorf dying of natural causes at Lino Lakes Prison a year earlier. Mesdorf was not a likely candidate, but Max decided to look at every name. They were his only leads. He thought about Mesdorf. The man was already in prison before Jenni died. He had no clout and no friends. Thus, it was unlikely that he had the ability to reach out from behind prison walls and commit any crime, much less a murder. Max crossed Artie from his list.

  As he started typing another name into the computer, a knock on the side of Max’s cubicle pulled him from his task. Max looked up to see Lieutenant Briggs, a squat man with jittery, gecko eyes, standing over him.

  “Commander Walker wants to see you,” Briggs said.

  Max glanced over his shoulder at Niki, who shrugged. They both started to stand up, and Briggs said, “Just Max.”

  Niki eased back into her seat, and Max followed Briggs to Walker’s office, where Walker sat in a chair behind a large metal desk. Max sat opposite him, and Briggs slid into a corner, off Walker’s left shoulder, and remained standing.

  “What’ve you been working on this morning?” Walker asked. The question came across the desk in a casual tone, but Walker’s face and crossed arms signaled a heaviness that gave Max pause.

  “Just going over some reports,” Max answered. A true answer but maybe not completely honest.

  “Do these reports have anything to do with the Pruitt trial that starts on Monday?”

  Max saw where the conversation would be heading. “No. It’s something else.”

  “Do these reports have anything to do with your wife’s death?”

  Max didn’t answer.

  “Dammit, Max. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Walker paused, but again Max said nothing.

  Walker continued. “I thought I made it clear that you can have no involvement with that investigation. We have rules, and those rules are there for a reason.”

  “Someone sent me that key,” Max said. “What was I supposed to do? Ignore it?”

  “You were supposed to turn it over to me and let us take care of it.”

  “I did turn it over to—”

  “Not for three weeks.” Walker let those words hang in the air for a moment. “Yes, Max, you held onto a key piece of evidence for three weeks. For God’s sake, we know how to read a postmark.”

  “Are you telling me that if I turned that key in right away, you would have authorized a detective to drive around to every storage locker in the state and find the lock it fit? You know damn well that wouldn’t have happened. It would have gone into a file and gathered dust.”

  “You compromised the investigation, Max.” Walker leaned onto his desk and pressed his index finger into the faux wood-grain surface to make his point. The conversation had officially gone to boil. “The chain of custody for the murder weapon in your wife’s case goes through you—the husband. You know damned well that the husband is the first suspect we look at in a spousal homicide.”

  “Are you . . . ?” Max almost stood up but held himself back. “You’d better be careful what you say next, Walker. There are things I’d gladly lose my job over, and you’re stepping mighty close to that line.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Max. I’m not accusing you of killing Jenni. But I’m not a high-priced defense attorney. It’s an easy case to make that the man who would normally be the number-one suspect in his wife’s murder had a hand in steering the path of the investigation.”

  “If I had anything to do with Jenni’s death, I sure as hell wouldn’t bring the murder weapon to you, would I? No defense attorney’s going to care that I drove around the Twin Cities trying to match a key to a lock.”

  “You checked the case file out of the archives.” Walker picked up a piece of paper from the corner of his desk and slid it in front of Max. Max didn’t need to study it. He recognized it as the log from the archive room. He recognized his signature. Walker sat back in his seat. “You want to tell my why the hell you would take the investigation file into your custody? Don’t you see how this’ll look if we ever charge someone?”

  “It was a cold case. Nothing was happening on it. Nothing’s happened on her case since Parnell retired. Someone had to—”

  “Not you.” Walker smoothed his words with a touch of understanding. “We would have reopened the case. Voss is a damned good investigator. He would have found the car.”

  Max shook his head unconsciously as he tried to picture Voss going out every night, looking for that storage locker. He tried to picture Walker authorizing such an expense. Every man in that room knew the truth and Max didn’t bother calling Walker out on the lie.

  “Max, this isn’t your case. It’s never been your case. You’ve left me no choice. I’m putting an official letter of reprimand in your personnel file.”

  “Reprimand. Are you shitting me?”

  “Detective Rupert, watch your tone.” Walker’s words came slowly and with a stab as chilly as the October rain that beat against his window. “I ordered you to stay away from your wife’s case. Not only did you flat-out ignore me, you took it home. It’s tainted with your involvement. We have policies for a good reason. And if I hear that you are working on this case—even in your off-hours, you’ll be looking at another reprimand and more.”

  Max felt a chill wash over him as he studied Walker’s face.

  Now Briggs piped in for the first time since retreating to the corner. “And that includes pumping Voss for information,” he said.

  Walker shot Briggs a look that caused Briggs to step back into his corner. Then he looked back at Max. “Yes, we know about your meetings with Voss. And just so you don’t blame him, he didn’t come to us. We found out on our own.”

  Max looked at Briggs and remembered a day when Briggs watched him and Voss leave City Hall on their way to grab a beer.

  “I got a call from Assistant County Attorney Frank Dovey this morning,” Walker said. “He was on his way to a motion hearing in the Pruitt case, and let’s just say he’s less than happy. He thinks you’ve walked away from the case.”

  “That’s bull—” Max laid up. “That’s not true. The Pruitt case is as ready as it will ever be.”

  “That’s not what Dovey says. He has real concerns. He says you haven’t been able to show that Ben Pruitt made it back here from Chicago.”

  “We have an eyewitness saying she saw him get out of a car and walk up to the house at the very hour that the ME says Mrs. Pruitt was killed.”

  “Dovey said that he tasked you with finding that evidence and you dropped the ball. He says your mind’s somewhere else . . . and I have to agree with him.”

  “Dovey’s setting up his scapegoat. Nothing more.”

  “I’ve worked with Frank Dovey,” Briggs said. “He’s a damned good lawyer.”

  “Lieutenant Briggs,” Walker said. “Would you mind stepping out for a minute? I want to have a private chat with Detective Rupert.”

  At first Briggs acted as if he hadn’t heard Walker. Then the words hit him and he gave Walker an awkward nod. “Sure,” he said, and h
e made his way out the door.

  Once Briggs was gone, Commander Walker took a breath to suggest that he too disliked Briggs’s presence in the office. “It’s just us now, Max. Off the record. I’ve given you your chewing-out and believe me I don’t like doing that kind of shit, but it’s part of the job.”

  Max didn’t respond.

  “Truth is, I’m worried about you, Max. This thing with you delving into your wife’s case, it’s not only wrong, but it’s unhealthy. I know you think that no one can do the case justice besides you—and who knows, maybe you’re right—but look at you. You look like hell. You look like you haven’t slept for a week.”

  “I’m fine,” Max said.

  “Max, I need you to be on your game here. You can’t do that if you’re sneaking around all night on a case you’re forbidden to even look at.”

  “You don’t understand,” Max said in a way that sounded like he was talking only to himself. “It’s that sneaking around that’s allowed me to sleep at all. Someone sent me a key and a note saying that my wife was murdered. I can’t just hand that over to someone else and go back to sleep. I found the car. I got the ball rolling again.”

  “That’s right. You did,” Walker said. “And now that it’s rolling, it’s time for you to put it aside. Give Voss a chance. He’s bright, and he’ll move heaven and earth to get to the bottom of your wife’s death. In the meantime, I need you to let it go. I’m not saying forget it. I’m saying let Voss take it over, and you go back to your cases. Can you do that?”

  “Can I,” Max thought, is not the same as “will I.” But such a pedantic answer wasn’t worthy of his relationship with Commander Walker. Walker had been a good leader for the Homicide Unit. A man who did right by his people. Max knew that Walker had no choice in reprimanding him. Walker had Briggs to deal with, and Briggs happened to be the pet of Chief Murphy.