The Sleeping Beauty Killer

by Mary Higgins Clark

• • •

  Timmy and Leo walked Laurie to the black SUV waiting outside their building. Laurie gave Timmy a final hug, and then watched as he and Leo began their daily walk to Saint David’s school.

  As she watched the city roll past her through the window of the SUV, she was grateful that she was making the long trip to Connecticut and back today. Her son was not the only one who was excited to see Alex tonight. A busy schedule between now and then would make the time fly by.

  11

  Paula Carter stood in the doorway of the guest room, watching her daughter sort through the makeshift office she had created. Casey had left the prison with two boxes. From what Paula could see, most of the contents were files and notebooks, now stacked on the top of the dresser and both nightstands. With the exception of her trip into the city two days ago, Casey had spent all of her time in here, poring over these documents.

  “Oh dear, the room is quite small, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “It’s a palace compared to what I’m used to,” Casey said with a sad smile. “Seriously, Mom, thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I know it must have been hard to move up here.”

  Up here was Old Saybrook, Connecticut, only ten and a half miles from the prison that had been Casey’s home for the last fifteen years.

  Paula had never thought she’d leave Washington, D.C. She moved there when she was only twenty-six years old to marry Frank, twelve years her senior. They had met in Kansas City. He was a partner at one of the nation’s largest law firms. She was a paralegal for one of his corporate client’s local counsel. A massive product defect that originated in the client’s Missouri plant meant months of depositions. By the time the case was settled, Frank had proposed and anxiously asked her if she would consider moving to Washington, D.C. She had told him that the only downside was that she would desperately miss her twin sister, Robin, and her little niece, Angela, who had just learned to call her Aunt Paw-Paw. Robin was a single mother; Angela’s father had never been in the picture. Paula had gotten Robin a job as a secretary at her firm and was helping to raise the little girl. Growing up, Paula and Robin had both dreamed of going to law school.

  Within three days, Frank had a solution. Robin and her daughter, Angela, would move to D.C., too. His firm would hire Robin as a secretary and would give her a flexible schedule if she wanted to pursue a paralegal license or even law school. All three of them—Paula, Robin, and little Angela—headed to D.C. together.

  And what an adventure it had been. Paula and Frank were married within a year, and Casey came along before their second anniversary. Paula never followed through on her dream of becoming a lawyer, but Robin did, while Paula had a wonderful life with Frank. They had a beautiful home in Georgetown with a small yard where the girls could play outside. The White House, the National Mall, and the Supreme Court stood just outside their door. Whoever thought, she and Robin would say, that our daughters would grow up with all of this at their fingertips?

  The capital became a member of her family.

  Then, just two years after graduating from law school at the age of thirty-six, Robin got her cancer diagnosis. She did all the treatments, lost her hair, felt sick around the clock. But it didn’t work. Angela was still in high school when they buried her mother. She lived with the Carters in the Georgetown house until she graduated and then moved to New York City with dreams of being a model. Four years after that, Casey also left, at first to attend college at Tufts, then to pursue a career in art in New York.

  It was just Frank and Paula in D.C. At least the girls had each other in New York—at first, before the trouble with Hunter.

  Then three years ago, as Paula and Frank walked up the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, Frank collapsed. The doctor at Sibley Memorial Hospital told her that he didn’t suffer. “It would have felt like the lights turned off.” In her mind, her husband died of a broken heart. It broke the day Casey was convicted.

  Without Frank, the house in Georgetown felt much too large. Paula would go for a walk and see all of the sights she used to visit with people she desperately missed. Robin and Frank were gone. Angela was still in New York. And Casey lived in a six- by eight-foot cell in Connecticut. No, the nation’s capital was not her family. Casey, Frank, Angela, and Robin were. So she sold the house and bought this townhouse in Old Saybrook for no other reason than its proximity to her daughter. Truth be told, she would have paid a million dollars to move into the cell next door to Casey’s if they had let her.

  But now her daughter was here, so it felt a little more like home. She wiped a tear forming in the corner of her eye, hoping Casey hadn’t noticed. Frank begged you to take that plea deal, she thought. I’m old, he had said, and I’m only getting older. Casey, you could have been out nine years ago. Frank would have had at least six years—maybe more—to spend with you.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a knock at the door.

  “That must be Laurie Moran,” Paula said. “I don’t know why you want to put yourself through this, but Lord knows you never take my advice.” Just like you refused to take your father’s, she thought.

  12

  “Are you sure I can’t get you some tea?”

  It was the third time that Paula had offered. In between, she had repeatedly straightened the hem of her skirt, stood to adjust a painting on the wall, and shifted constantly in her corner of the sofa.

  “Actually, that would be lovely.” Laurie had no interest in tea, but was willing to drink sour milk if it would give her a break from the woman’s nervous energy.

  Once Paula had left the room, Casey said, “I’m having flashbacks to the last time I was under the same roof with my parents, right after Hunter was killed. They came up from D.C. and insisted on staying in my apartment because they didn’t want me to be alone. I wasn’t sure I wanted that, either. But for two straight days, my mother offered me fruit, cheese, juice, tea. She’d stand up in the middle of a conversation and start scrubbing the kitchen counters. The floors were so clean, you could see your reflection.”

  By the time Paula returned with a sterling silver tea tray, Laurie had shifted the discussion to the night of Hunter Raleigh’s murder.

  “What time did you leave the gala at Cipriani?” she asked.

  “It was shortly after nine o’clock. I felt horrible causing Hunter to leave his own party. The waiters were only beginning to serve dessert. I offered to take a cab, but he insisted on coming with me. I was terribly ill, barely able to stand up, and I think he could see that something was very wrong. It was only later that I realized that someone had drugged me.”

  We will definitely get to that subject, Laurie thought. But she wanted to hear the big picture first, from beginning to end.

  “So Hunter’s driver took you both back to Hunter’s house?”

  “Yes, Raphael. He was waiting outside with the car.”

  “You didn’t want to just stay in the city since you weren’t feeling well?” In addition to Hunter’s country home in New Canaan, both Casey and Hunter had apartments in Manhattan.

  Casey shook her head. “That house was magical. I really thought I’d feel better once we got there. I was in and out of sleep during the drive. I should have known immediately that something was wrong no matter what the hour. Normally, I am a very difficult sleeper. I could never sleep in a car or on a plane.”

  Even the prosecution conceded that Casey had Rohypnol in her system. The only question was whether she had taken the drug herself after shooting Hunter, to create an alibi, or if someone else had drugged her earlier in the night.

  Laurie knew from reviewing the case that the police had pulled a photograph of Hunter’s car passing through the toll lane on the Henry Hudson Parkway. Casey was sitting upright in the backseat, next to Hunter. At trial, the prosecutor offered the image into evidence to disprove Casey’s claim of being drugged at the gala, rather than after the m
urder, by her own hand.

  “Was fatigue the only symptom you were experiencing?” When Laurie’s friend Margaret was convinced she’d been drugged, she said the feeling was very different from simply being tired.

  “No, it was awful. I was dizzy and confused and nauseated. I felt hot and cold at the same time. I was having a hard time speaking, like I couldn’t remember any words. I just remember feeling like I had absolutely no control over my mind or body. I remember praying to God to help me stop feeling that way.”

  It was the exact same feeling that Margaret had described.

  “You called 911 after midnight,” Laurie noted. “Twelve-­seven­teen A.M. to be exact. What happened between the time you got home and that emergency call?”

  Casey blew her long bangs out of her eyes. “It’s so weird to be talking about this again. For years, I’ve replayed that night over and over in my head, but no one has wanted to hear my side of the story ever since I was first arrested.”

  Laurie heard her father’s voice in her head: If she’s so innocent, why didn’t she testify? “I have to correct you, Casey. People desperately wanted to hear your version, but you didn’t take the stand.”

  “My lawyer told me not to. She said they had found a couple of people who heard Hunter and me having some intense fights. Yes, that would look bad for me on trial. The prosecution would tear me to pieces by confronting me with every time I ever lost my temper. Just because I speak my mind doesn’t make me a murderer.”

  “If you do our show, we’d be asking you the same tough questions. Do you understand that?” Laurie asked.

  “Absolutely,” Casey said. “I’ll answer anything.”

  “With a polygraph?”

  Casey agreed without hesitation. Laurie would not actually use the technology because it was unreliable, but Casey’s willingness to undergo lie detection weighed in her favor. Laurie decided to throw in another test of her openness by asking whether she would be willing to waive attorney-client privilege so her attorney could speak to Laurie directly. Once again, she agreed.

  “Please, go on with your story,” Laurie urged.

  “I barely remember going into the house. As I said, I was floating in and out of sleep. Hunter woke me when we pulled into the drive. Raphael offered to help when I had trouble getting out of the car, but then I managed to get inside, holding on to Hunter’s hand. I must have gone straight to the couch and passed out. I was still wearing my evening gown when I woke up.”

  “And what happened when you woke up on the sofa?”

  “I stumbled to the bedroom. I still felt woozy, but I was able to make it down the hall. Hunter was on the bed, but not in it—not like he was sleeping, but as if he’d fallen backwards onto it. I know from photographs that the blood was actually on his shirt and the duvet, but at the time, it seemed like he was absolutely covered in blood. I ran to him and shook him, begging him to wake up. When I checked his pulse, I thought I felt something, then realized it was my own hand trembling. He was already cold. He was gone.”

  13

  Casey’s mother, Paula, was fidgeting on the sofa again. “I knew this was too much for you to handle so soon after you came home. Maybe we can continue this conversation later, Ms. Moran.”

  The flash of irritation in Casey’s previously flat eyes was unmistakable. “Mom, I’ve been waiting nearly half my life to say this. Please stay out of it. After I called 911, I called my cousin Angela. Thank God for her. I’m not sure I would have made it through prison without her.” Casey immediately looked at Paula, then added, “And my mother, of course. The police found me on the bed, clinging to Hunter. My gown was strapless, so my hands, arms, and shoulders were all smeared with blood. Hunter was still in his white shirt and tuxedo pants. His jacket was tossed on the bench at the foot of the bed.”

  “How did the police get in?” Laurie asked.

  “They said they found the front door slightly ajar, which I didn’t notice when I woke up on the sofa.”

  “Isn’t that unusual that the door would be open?”

  “Of course, but we often left the door unlocked out there until we went to bed. Hunter had an alarm system, too, but we usually only set it when we left for the city. Hunter would have had his hands full helping me inside and probably didn’t lock the door behind him. My best guess is that whoever killed him slipped through the door before he had a chance to lock it, then left it open.”

  In addition to the two bullet wounds that had killed Hunter, police had found two bullet holes in the walls between the living room and the master bedroom. “Then once the police were there,” Laurie said, “they found Hunter’s gun in the living room?”

  Casey nodded. “As I said, I was on the bed, holding Hunter, when I heard the police come in. They were yelling at me to get away from the body. It felt as though I was in a dreamlike state again. Whether it was shock or the drugs, I didn’t immediately obey. I was still so groggy. Part of me wonders whether everything would have been different if I had followed their instructions more quickly. They were rushing through the house, checking the bathrooms and closets. They were being very confrontational with me, insisting that I go to the foyer. They had to pull me away from Hunter. Then once I was in the foyer, I heard a female officer yell, ‘GUN!’ I was terrified, thinking they’d discovered an intruder hiding in the house. But then the officer held up a gun she’d found beneath the living room sofa. She asked me if I’d seen it before. It looked like Hunter’s new Walther P99. A nine-millimeter,” she clarified. “It was his most recent purchase.”

  “Hunter was an avid sportsman and collector,” Paula explained. “I thought surely Casey would persuade him to change his ways, but instead, the next thing I know, she’s running off to the shooting range with him. Frank and I were appalled.”

  Laurie made a mental note that certain political views might run in Casey’s family.

  “He enjoyed it as a hobby,” Casey explained, “the way other men play golf.”

  “What was your reaction when the police found a handgun under the sofa where you claimed to have been sleeping?” Laurie asked.

  “I was surprised. Hunter generally kept all the guns locked in a safe, except for one that he kept in his nightstand. When I told the police it was Hunter’s newest gun, it never dawned on me that they would think I was the one who used it to kill him.”

  According to the trial summaries Laurie had reviewed yesterday, Casey told the police she had never had a chance to fire the new weapon. She thought Hunter might have taken it to the range when he first bought it, but she swore that she had “definitely” never touched it herself. But then police found her fingerprints on the gun, and gunshot residue on her hands.

  Paula jumped in again. “When the police asked to test for GSR, they told Casey it was to eliminate her as a suspect. You tell me: Is that fair? They led her to believe they were on her side, but they were after her the whole time.”

  “Of course I agreed to the test. I was willing to do anything to help. You have no idea how horrifying it is to know that I was there that night. I was right there while someone chased him from the living room to the bedroom, firing shots. I was on the sofa, asleep, while someone murdered the only man I ever loved. I will always wonder whether he yelled to me for help.” Her voice broke again.

  Paula let out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t know why we have to dredge this all up again. We can’t turn back time. If we could, I’d force you to take that plea bargain. Instead, you went with the jury. And then your incompetent lawyer basically locked you up herself by arguing that you were out of your mind that night. If Casey wanted to be convicted of manslaughter, she could have pled guilty in the first place and gotten a better sentence.”

  Casey held up a palm. “Mom, of all people, I’m the one who knows what price I paid for going to trial.”

  Laurie ran through the five names of alternative suspects
Casey had given her: her ex-boyfriend, Jason Gardner; Gabrielle Lawson, the socialite who’d been pursuing Hunter; Andrew Raleigh, who was jealous of his older brother; Mark Templeton, the foundation’s chief financial officer; and Mary Jane Finder, the personal assistant Hunter may have been investigating. “Is there anyone we’re missing?” she asked.

  “That’s everyone I could think of,” Casey confirmed. “Any one of them could have slipped a drug into my drink, then left the gala after we did and driven up to Connecticut, confident that I’d be passed out by the time they arrived.”

  “But what if you hadn’t been?” Laurie asked. From what she had heard about Rohypnol, its effects varied widely. The killer could not have known with any certainty that Casey would be completely unconscious.

  “I’ve thought about that,” Casey said. “On the one hand, I hate the fact that I wasn’t awake to help Hunter. But I have to assume that whoever shot him would have done the same to me if I’d shown any sign of consciousness.”

  Paula looked at her daughter imploringly. She begged her. “You’re jumping into this much too fast. Naming names on a television show? Have you thought about how these people will respond? They’ll try to destroy you. Any hope you have of turning over a new leaf will be over.”

  “Mom, I’m already destroyed, and I don’t need a new leaf. I don’t want to start over as some other person. I want my life back. I want to walk through a mall without you looking around at every other customer, wondering if they recognize me.”

  Without explanation, Casey suddenly rose from the sofa, disappeared momentarily down the hallway, and returned with a photograph. “I’ve spent two days poring over every piece of my file in a new light. I can’t believe I never saw it before, but I think being out of that cell, in a new place, opened my eyes. I’ve had fifteen years to figure out a way to prove someone else came into the house that night, and I think I finally have it.”