Stain of Guilt

by Brandilyn Collins

  Tears pricked my eyes. “There will be no worst-case scenario, because he is going down for these murders if I have to drag him off to prison myself!”

  “Believe me, Annie, I feel the same way. And I promise you we’ll get him. But I just wanted to warn you that things may not go easy, even once he’s in custody.”

  “What about the embezzlement charges?”

  A sigh seeped over the phone. “That’s another problem. We’ve known about it, but it didn’t matter much until now. Charges for the embezzlement should have been filed twenty years ago. But in the aftermath of the murders, it simply was overlooked. Now it’s long past the statute of limitations to file.”

  I worked my jaw, letting this new ridiculous piece of information seep into me. “They were never filed.”

  “No.”

  “And just whose fault was that?” Probably Delft’s. He’d handled this whole case from the beginning. Or maybe the district attorney. But Chetterling wouldn’t name names.

  “Annie. It’s done. There’s nothing we can do about that now. It doesn’t matter anyway. We’re going to convict him on the murder charges and the kidnapping and everything else.”

  I barely heard the words. “I just can’t believe this. Twenty years Bland has to plan his story, to doctor this evidence. And now he’s actually going to get away with it? Arrogant, guilty-as- sin Bland is going to slip away after killing two people?”

  “Listen to me. We’ll find a way to make our case. We’re still working with the D.A. When we bring Bland in, we’ll do our best to get him to confess.”

  “He’ll never confess; you should know him better than that! He’ll go to his grave saying he didn’t kill those two men.”

  “Well, then, his grave is just where he’ll go, because this is a death penalty case.”

  “Don’t placate me, Ralph!” My voice cracked. I tilted my head back to view a blurry ceiling. “I know a few things about the court system, remember? If you’ve got a shaky case, there’s a good chance the D.A. won’t go for the death penalty, and you know it.”

  No response. I’d finally succeeded in beating Chetterling down. “Okay.” His voice ached with weariness. “I think you need to go to bed, get some more sleep.”

  “How do you expect me to sleep now?”

  “We’ll keep pursuing Bland. I can assure you of that.”

  I lowered my chin, rubbed the back of my neck. Chetterling sounded so dogged with determination, despite his tiredness. He probably still hadn’t slept—and now may not see his bed tonight, either. He must be beyond exhausted. And there I was, attacking him, as if he hadn’t done everything he could to help me. I pressed a thumb and fingers against my temples.

  “Ralph, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so . . . It’s just that every time I turn around, I get hit with something else. I’m beginning to think this is never going to end.”

  “I know. And I’m sorry. You’ve been through a lot. You know we’re doing all we can here.”

  “Yeah. I know that.” I drifted over to sit on the edge of my desk. “You going to talk to Edwin Tarell tomorrow? See if he can explain that print?”

  “This can’t wait. We’re pulling him in right now.”

  “Now, tonight?”

  “Yes. He insists on it. He’s mad as a hornet at Bland and wanting to set things straight.”

  I focused on the wall, thinking of my family’s needs, of Stephen. I really should stay home. But an inner voice nagged. “Let me come in and watch his interview.”

  Chetterling hesitated. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Because I have to. Because I’m the one who heard Bland’s claims and may think of some important point. After all, this interview’s got to work so we can charge Bland, right? Because I’m going to go crazy pacing this house not knowing what’s going on.”

  “Annie, you need to stay home and safe right now.”

  “Oh, right, my home is really safe! Isn’t this where Bland showed up, when I was supposedly being guarded?”

  Silence.

  Oh, Annie. I winced at my cruelty. I’d hit him below the belt. “Ralph. I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve that; I know you were off chasing my son—”

  “Don’t worry about it.” His tone had flattened.“We’re all under pressure.”

  “Really, please. Forgive me.” Good grief, and I’d just become a Christian. Is this how I was supposed to act? Someday I would make it up to this man.

  “Forget it, Annie.”

  Miserably, I gazed at my drawing table. If Bland’s fugitive update were still sitting there, I’d be tempted to rip the thing up. I couldn’t stand even the memory of his face.

  “So. Are you going to let me come?”

  Another long sigh. “I can’t seem to tell you no, even when you beat me up.”

  Dear Chetterling. I managed the barest of smiles.

  “But I don’t want you driving in by yourself, and Jenna can’t bring you because someone’s got to stay with your kids.”

  “I’ll . . . work that out. I’ll send the kids over to Dave’s.”

  “All right.” He sounded defeated. “You’d better hurry; we’re not waiting for you.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Chapter 40

  He sat frozen on the motel room bed, staring at the TV. Every muscle clenched, but his insides puddled like melted wax.

  His driver’s license picture on CNN’s “Breaking News.” Tom Smith. They knew his name.

  His wife’s terrified face filled the screen. Bland groaned.

  More scenes of chaos. Sheriff’s Department cars, lights spinning, surrounding his house. Beth hugging Scott and Eddie, the boys’ faces blocked out. Beth shaking her head in frantic denial, cheeks tracked with tears. Sheriff’s deputies entering his home.

  His home.

  Cut to old film of Emily Tarell shortly after the murders, grief-stricken. Photos of Don Tarell and Peter Dessinger. Of Edwin, talking to deputies.

  Edwin. He should have blown the man’s brains out when he had the chance.

  No word about the shirt and gun.

  Not one word.

  They were paying no heed to his evidence. Get that?

  None.

  Ice clogged his veins. Long after the story was finished, he stared sightlessly at the screen. Stark memories filled his head. Memories of stealing from Tarell Plastics. His last look at baby Nick. Running away from the murders. Researching fake IDs. Meeting Beth, the births of Eddie and Scott.

  A life built. A life taken away. Everything now gone.

  Everything.

  Anger rose, burst like fireworks, and died. Fear flamed, sputtered, then was gone. Then sadness. Aching and deep. He sat and stared at the TV until that, too, trickled away.

  With focus, human needs are overcome. Jack Hurst, Cry of the Slain.

  With focus . . .

  But he was not Jack Hurst now. He was Rolf Weitz in Cradle. Trapped. No way out. Forced into final, desperate action.

  He would not be taken.

  He forced himself to calmly review his final plan.

  He must get to them before his Taurus was spotted.

  The TV was nothing but noise. He turned if off. Crossed to his backpack. Opened it and pulled out the gun. Grasped it. Reveled in its hard, brutal comfort.

  Outside, he unscrewed the license plate from his car and traded it for his backup.

  Darkness descended as he drove out of the parking lot and headed north.

  Chapter 41

  Dave agreed to stay at our house, bringing Erin with him. No doubt my request was an upset to their school-night routine, but he hadn’t hesitated.

  I would have bet a night’s sleep that Jenna would argue about going, concerned as she was for my safety. But she also wanted Bland charged for his crimes and was as rattled as I about Chetterling’s news.

  Within ten minutes of my call to the detective, we were on the road.

  By the time we hustled into the Sheriff’s Department build
ing, Edwin Tarell was just sitting down with Sergeant Delft in the small, sterile room where Sam Borisun had been questioned. Edwin sat tall, shoulders back, righteous indignation setting his jaw.

  “You two can stand here. Watch and hear, like you did before.” Chetterling indicated the one-way window. “If you think of something, write me a note and have a deputy knock on the door. When we’re wrapping up, please go around the corner until Tarell leaves. He’s mad enough as it is, and I can hardly blame him. Probably best if he doesn’t know you watched the interview.”

  “Okay.” I glanced at Delft through the glass. “How’s the sergeant?”

  “Frustrated out of his mind, but determined to get to the bottom of this.”

  Jenna raised her eyebrows at me as Chetterling entered the little room. Her lips were firmly set, one hand pushing back her hair. My sister’s nervousness matched my own. Something had to give here.

  Chetterling introduced himself to Edwin. They shook hands. Chetterling lowered his giant frame into a seat at one end of the battered table opposite Delft, Edwin between them. The detective leaned back in his chair, legs apart and arms crossed.

  “I apologize right up front if I sound impatient.” Edwin’s voice was tight. “I’m so angry I could spit. The mere thought of Bland having even the remotest chance of getting away with killing my father! At this point, I’m telling you, I’d love to shoot him myself.”

  “We understand.” Delft’s words were clipped as he plunked his forearms on the table. “And we apologize, too, for having to put you through this. No doubt we’ll clear things up. We want to be in the best position possible with the D.A. when Bland is picked up. So we’re grateful you were willing to come down so quickly.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “All right. Just to cover all legal bases, we have to inform you that you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court—”

  “What? Wait a minute! What are you reading me my rights for?”

  “Really, sir, it’s merely for legal purposes.”

  “That’s ridiculous; you don’t read rights to a witness!”

  “Mr. Tarell. You are a witness to your father’s and Peter Dessinger’s murders. But at this moment, whether any of us like it or not, there’s evidence that implicates you as well. We have to discuss that evidence. And I want to do everything by the book. So I must read you your rights.”

  Edwin cut his stare from Delft to Chetterling. The detective spread his hands, as if to say Don’t blame us.

  “Fine.” Edwin chewed the word. “Go ahead. But if things get out of hand, I’m calling a lawyer.”

  Delft gave him a penetrating look. “You telling me you need a lawyer?”

  “I . . . no. Of course not.”

  Jenna and I exchanged a glance. This interview was getting off on the wrong foot. Please, God, help these men work together.

  Miranda rights completed, Delft forged ahead. “As we told you, early this morning we obtained two items from Bland that he claims are evidence from the murders. Now we’ll give you the details. One is the shirt he said you wore that night. The other is the gun that was used.”

  Edwin blinked. “I told you he took the gun. But the shirt?”

  “You threw it in the garbage can that night, remember?”

  “Of course.”

  “Bland claims he was there. He saw you—and pulled it out of the trash.”

  Edwin sat very still. “He says he pulled it out of my garbage can?”

  Delft nodded.

  “He was there? Right there?”

  “Apparently so.”

  “Wait a minute, I’m not buying this. How do you know it’s my shirt?”

  “We have numerous pieces of evidence to identify it. Blood DNA tests will tell us for certain in a few weeks, but we expect that blood is going to match your father’s. Besides, you tell me. If Bland wasn’t at your house that night and didn’t pull your shirt out of the garbage can, how did he know you threw it away?”

  Edwin brought a hand to his forehead. “Whoa. This is . . . I can’t believe this. I’m lucky I didn’t get shot. He could have killed me too.” He rubbed his head, then looked to Delft. “So what’s the rest of his story?”

  “He says he wanted evidence that would prove you killed the two men. Bland says he called that night to tell you about discharge from the gun that would be on the sleeve. And you fell right into his trap, throwing away the shirt. He was waiting to pick it up.”

  Edwin hit both palms against the table. “That’s insane! I threw away that shirt because I couldn’t stand to look at it. Like you said, it had my father’s blood on it.”

  Delft nodded. “I know.”

  “These are just Bland’s claims,” Chetterling soothed. “Doesn’t mean we believe them.”

  “I should hope not.” Edwin’s cheeks flushed.

  Delft arched his back.“We ran the shirt through some lab tests. We did find gun discharge on the right sleeve.”

  Edwin’s head tilted. He stared at Delft through the corner of his eye. “You’ve got to be joking.”

  Delft didn’t respond.

  “The sergeant’s not acting very friendly,” Jenna whispered.

  I glanced at the camera mounted in a top corner of the room. “They’re probably thinking ahead to Bland’s trial. They’ll want to show the jury how well Edwin held up when confronted with these claims.”

  Edwin eased back in his chair. “Okay. All right. Why are you two so upset about this? It’s obvious Bland staged it. At some point he put the shirt on and fired the gun. He has had twenty years.”

  “Yes, that’s what we expect.” Delft hit his clasped hands against the table. “So frankly, I’m not too worried about that. What does worry me is the gun. The lab lifted a print from someone who was clearly holding the weapon to fire it.” The sergeant paused. “The print is yours.”

  Edwin stared.

  “Problem is, this doesn’t support your statement. You told us you knocked the gun from Bland’s hand. You never mentioned picking—”

  “You trying to tell me you found my fingerprint on that gun, after all this time? I don’t believe that!”

  “It surprised us too. But Bland preserved the gun well.”

  “After twenty—No. No way.” Edwin pointed a finger at Chetterling. “What is this? Why is he doing this to me?”

  “Look.” The detective leaned forward. “We’re on your side. We want Bland behind bars as much as you do. As you know, Sergeant Delft has spent two decades looking for the man. Now he’s practically in our hands, and we get these surprises. I don’t want the D.A. telling me he can’t press charges because of some clever mock-up of Bland’s. But we can’t explain this fingerprint. You told Delft you never held that gun. Now we’re giving you a chance—before Bland is caught—to tell us how it got there.”

  A picture of Emily Tarell filled my head. “For twenty years, Annie, I’ve prayed for justice . . .”

  Come on, Edwin, give us something.

  Edwin held Chetterling’s gaze for an extended moment. I could see the rise and fall of his breathing. Could sense the drawn-out, agonizing breakdown of some protective wall. Then, slowly, he folded his arms. His eyes dropped to the table.

  I gripped Jenna’s arm, fingers sinking through her sleeve. What was this?

  Edwin raised his chin. Gave a little shrug. “All right. This was always a minor point, but now that it’s become so important to you.”

  His tone mixed impatience and defensiveness, as if the situation were entirely the fault of these two men.

  “Twenty years ago, I changed one little part of the events.” Edwin looked Delft squarely in the eye, as if to prove this admission wouldn’t lessen his dignity. “I was young, scared, and riddled with guilt. Everything happened so fast. I couldn’t have stopped Bland. All the same, I felt, as I still do today, that I should have. Should have pulled off some supernatural stunt and saved at least my father. I told you when B
land took aim at my father, I jumped at him, but he got off the shot before I hit him. Actually, I didn’t jump Bland. I had no time. It was the other way around. A split second after he shot my father, he swiped the edge of his jacket over the pistol grip, rubbing off his own prints, and launched himself at me. He so took me by surprise that he was able to yank me back across the room to where he had stood and knock me down. Then he grabbed my hand and forced my fingers around the gun. He pointed the gun toward the wall and pushed my finger against the trigger, trying to get me to fire it. I fought for my life. I didn’t realize what he was trying to do at that moment. Later I did—he was trying to stage evidence. But then I only knew I had to save myself. When I fought back so hard, he grabbed the gun by the barrel and pulled it away from me. I managed to push him off, and ended up on top of him. I was trying to get the gun back; believe me, I’d have shot him. But I ended up knocking it out of his hand. About that time my mother came through the door.”

  Delft’s eyes hadn’t left Edwin’s face during the entire story. Now he exchanged a long look with Chetterling, then rubbed his jaw. “So let me get this straight. Bland kills Dessinger. Then shoots your father. Then wipes off the gun, attacks you, and presses one of your fingers against the grip.”

  “Yes.”

  The sergeant spread his hands. “Why? Why didn’t he just kill you?”

  Edwin leaned forward.“No, no, don’t you see? That never would have worked! This was all part of Bland’s wild scheme. If he killed me, he’d be the only suspect. He’d never get away with it. But if he made it look like I did it, then his problems would disappear. Amid all the chaos of my killing my own father and Peter, who’d think to file charges for his embezzlement?”

  Delft absorbed the answer. Chetterling flexed his jaw, both hands spread flat against the table. I knew Chetterling well enough to practically read his flip-flopping thoughts. He wasn’t buying the story, but neither did he believe Edwin shot those two men. Still, one point had come to pass. In the chaos, embezzlement charges hadn’t been filed. Had Bland really been cunning enough to foresee this?