Every Last Fear

by Alex Finlay

  “I know a lot of DNA exonerations involved mistaken eyewitness testimony,” Keller said, trying to find common ground.

  “Try seventy percent. Seven in ten of people freed by DNA had been convicted based on bad eyewitnesses. Most of the rest, were…”

  “False confessions,” Keller said, finishing Lester’s sentence and trying to regain control of the conversation. Keller’s eyes couldn’t help but lock onto the poster behind Lester’s desk. It was a disturbing black-and-white photograph of an African American boy strapped into the electric chair, his round cheeks streaked with tears as someone tightened the chin strap of the metal helmet that was too large for his head. Under the photo it read:

  GEORGE STINNEY JR.

  EXECUTED IN 1944 AT THE AGE 14 FOR KILLING TWO WHITE GIRLS

  EXONERATED IN 2014

  Keller ripped her eyes from the image. She needed to focus. “So who do you think killed Charlotte?”

  Lester coughed a laugh. “I’m not going down that rabbit hole anymore. Trust me, it will consume your life.” The case had taken its toll on Lester. Keller remembered a critical scene in the documentary, Lester at the lectern, arguing Danny’s case to a panel of appellate judges, her plea both measured and impassioned.

  “Charlotte’s head was crushed like Hayes’s known victims,” Keller said.

  “Yeah, precisely. But the Smasher’s MO was reported in Kansas newspapers before Charlotte was murdered,” Lester said. “And the Kansas police had put out a notice to law enforcement in Nebraska and other neighboring states hoping that they might identify more victims, which is ultimately how they caught Hayes. The prosecutor in Danny’s case should’ve turned over the notes about the anonymous tip identifying the similarities to Charlotte’s murder, but the fact that there was a killer crushing young women’s skulls was in the public domain.”

  “So why didn’t Danny’s trial lawyer look into it?”

  Lester shrugged. “The guy had never handled a murder case and was in over his head. But the lawyer says he did look into it. Says he got an anonymous tip, too. And that’s what the state relied on in our post-conviction fight. I think he was just covering his ass, but the lawyer said he didn’t pursue the lead because the forensics didn’t match. Hayes sexually assaulted the girls. Then killed them by crushing their skulls, probably during the act. But Charlotte wasn’t sexually assaulted. And the medical examiner concluded she suffered a separate skull fracture, likely sometime before her head was caved in.”

  Keller felt a combination of sickness and anger in her gut.

  “So, what, you think someone was trying to make it look like Hayes was the killer?” That suggested some planning, which was inconsistent with a drunk teenager killing his girlfriend in a rage.

  Lester said, “Hayes confessed to the other murders to get the death penalty off the table, but still denied killing Charlotte. Why bother?”

  “What about Detective Sampson? The Adlers say that before he died he had some explosive information. About the blood work.”

  “Pfft. How convenient. Even if it’s true that he’d go to the Adlers—and I find that questionable, since they basically ruined the man’s life—he was hardly credible. If he approached them, it was probably just trying to clear his own name. And before you say it, I’ve seen the Reddit threads that speculate that he was murdered.”

  Keller wasn’t sure whether Lester was a breath of fresh air or whether her years working the case had hardened her, closed her off to any theory that might explain Charlotte’s murder. It was for that reason that Keller didn’t want to ask the next question.

  “Speaking of conspiracy theories, there’s one that is building steam, at least with the Adlers—”

  “That Charlotte’s alive,” Lester said before Keller could get the words out. Lester sighed, as if to add, Tell me you’re not taking that seriously?

  “Right. Look, I know how it sounds, but I’ve gotta ask.”

  Lester shook her head. “I’d love it if she were alive, but Charlotte’s dead. The Adlers don’t know this, and it wasn’t discussed at the trial, but Charlotte had a distinguishing mark. A tiny tattoo of a heart on her bottom. It was her.”

  Keller exhaled. She knew it was crazy, knew it would end this way, but she was still crestfallen.

  “A piece of advice, Agent Keller?” Lester said, her phone buzzing on her desk.

  Keller nodded.

  “Don’t make Charlotte’s killer your one-armed man. I’ve been down that road, and it nearly destroyed me.”

  “But what if knowing what really happened to Charlotte is the only way to know what happened to the Pines?” Keller asked.

  Lester put her elbows on the desk, laced her fingers. “Then you’re fucked, Agent Keller. You’re absolutely fucked.”

  CHAPTER 47

  EVAN PINE

  BEFORE

  “Come on, get in on this, Magpie,” Evan said. He held the phone in front of him for an airport selfie. Evan didn’t know if it was the bright sunshine, the smell of salt in the air, or being on their first family vacation in years, but he felt great. Revitalized.

  “Daaad,” Maggie said, shaking her head.

  Liv joined in, pressing her face against Evan’s. She waved Maggie over.

  Maggie was turning red. A group of teenage boys was nearby. They weren’t watching, but their presence seemed to be enough to mortify his daughter.

  Tommy said, “Can I be in the picture?”

  Evan scooped him up. “Of course. But where are your cool shades?” Evan had bought them at an airport kiosk.

  Tommy pulled the plastic sunglasses from his pocket and put them on.

  “We’re going to keep it up until you join,” Evan said to Maggie.

  Evan and Liv started doing exaggerated poses—sucking in their cheeks, squinting sexy eyes, making peace signs with their fingers.

  “Fine,” Maggie said, marching over. She moved her face into the shot. “Take it!”

  “Say cheese.”

  “Seriously, Dad.”

  Evan and Liv laughed, and he took the shot. Maggie quickly distanced herself from them, but Evan swore he saw the faintest trace of a smile on her lips.

  Examining the photo, he felt a warmth in his chest followed by a beat of sadness that the rest of the family, his boys, weren’t there.

  None of that, he told himself. He wanted to keep up the mood, the vibe. He was still buzzed from the warm beer on the plane and the kiss Liv had given him when the kids had dozed off. One that had sent an inferno through him. If she had invited him to the plane’s bathroom, he would’ve risked it and joined the Mile High Club.

  So, no dwelling on Danny or Matt. Or that he had no job. Or that they couldn’t afford the trip. Or that he’d come chasing another likely dead-end lead. Stop.

  Liv looked at the photo. “Ooh, I’m going to post that one later.”

  She had given up on social media months ago, turned inward, and Evan felt another wave of something that suggested things were different. For Evan, it had come with a handful of pills regurgitated into the sink. What had caused the change in Liv? Evan had another thought: Who. Fucking. Cares. He reached for his wife’s hand and she took it quickly, lacing her fingers through his.

  “Are we going to the beach, Daddy?” Tommy asked.

  “You bet we are. But we might need to go to the toy store first.”

  Liv gave him a sideways glance. Like she was going to say something, but stopped herself. Instead she grabbed his butt. “Let’s go find the van, sugar daddy.”

  “Eww.” Maggie made a face. But there was the hint of that smile again.

  * * *

  It was two hours before the driver announced that they were in Tulum. The van blew past signs for the beach, and through the strip of tourist shops on the main road. It cut right onto a side street. The area had a grittier feel, run-down buildings painted in faded primary colors. Palm trees with brown leaves sagging over chain-link fences, a maze of power lines drooping overhead. The
consequences of booking at the last minute during the busy season.

  Liv looked at her husband.

  He could read her mind. Don’t worry, he said with his eyes. It will be an adventure.

  The van took another sharp turn into a small lane carved into a thicket of jungle. At the end of the road was a complex, six rental properties, each separated by a tall privacy fence. The van dropped them at the front gate and waited for Evan to punch in the code and get inside before taking off. The sounds of the forest filled the air.

  Evan entered another code for the front door and he was pleasantly surprised at the space. It had stone floors and an open floor plan with a modern kitchen overlooking a dining area and living room.

  Tommy ran down the hall to find his room. When he returned, he fast-walked, twisting around the sofa and the rustic wood table, ultimately landing on one of the stools at the granite kitchen counter. He jumped down from the stool and raced to the sliding doors in the living room.

  “Where’s the beach?” he asked, staring out at the patio.

  Liv knelt and looked into Tommy’s eyes. “We’ve got something better than a beach.”

  He looked at her, his eyes wide.

  “We have the jungle.” Liv made her hands like a tiger and pawed at Tommy. She glanced up at Evan, offering a smile.

  Maggie looked around. Evan couldn’t quite tell what she was thinking. She peeked out the patio doors. “There’re bikes out there. Maybe we can ride into town for dinner.”

  And by nightfall, they were on rickety old bikes, riding down the secluded road into town. Evan’s bike had a child seat tethered to the back of it, one of the old models that had likely been recalled in the US years ago. Tommy rode in the lopsided seat, his arms in the air, Liv nervously behind them, calling out for him to hold on to his dad.

  They found their way to the highway and waited for cars to rip by before they crossed. From there, it was a quick journey on a dirt road that had a wall painted with a mural of a Mayan god.

  In a restaurant on the strip, they ate tacos and Evan and Liv drank too many margaritas. He and Liv laughed, flirted, and couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Embarrassed, Maggie pretended not to notice and helped Tommy color the kids’ menu, which doubled as a small coloring book.

  After dinner they walked through the tourist shops, then made the perilous journey back to the rental property. Maggie insisted on riding the bike with the child seat with her little brother, saying Evan had downed too many cocktails.

  Evan and Liv rode side by side. Her hair blew in the wind, and she looked lovely in the sundress and sandals Maggie had packed for her. At one point she challenged Evan to a race, and he pumped his legs with everything he had. The old bike jostled and Evan had a hard time maintaining control. The front tire skidded on some gravel. Evan careened in slow motion off the asphalt and into the small weed-filled ditch lining the road. Liv threw down her bike and ran to him, concerned, but when she approached, Evan pulled her to the ground and the two lay in the weeds, laughing hysterically, their daughter looking at them like they’d lost their shit.

  It was, Evan thought, one of the greatest nights of his life.

  CHAPTER 48

  SARAH KELLER

  Keller sat at the desk in the dreary Adair Motel, her investigation notes and files spread out in front of her.

  “What’s wrong?” her husband said through the speaker on her iPhone.

  “I’m just so damn frustrated,” Keller said. No, fucked was the word Louise Lester had used earlier that day, and Lester fought lost causes for a living. “This is going nowhere. And I’m supposed to give Stan a report in the morning. He’s getting a lot of pressure from D.C.”

  “You’ll figure it out,” Bob said. She wished she could bottle his confidence in her, consume several gallons a week. She’d been gone only three days, but she missed his calming presence. Missed cuddling the twins. Missed sleeping in her own bed.

  “I’m no closer to figuring this out than I was the day I first met Matt Pine. And get this, I just got a call from the lab. My big lead—the blood the filmmaker’s investigator found at the scene—it wasn’t even blood. They think it was marinara sauce.”

  Bob barked a laugh. “Spaghetti sauce?”

  “It’s not funny.”

  “Wait, you’re telling me the blood sample wasn’t genuine; it was an impasta.”

  “Really?” Keller grinned in spite of herself.

  “Sorry,” Bob said, “I’m around six-year-olds all day.”

  The situation was so ridiculous, you almost had to laugh. She didn’t know what she dreaded more, telling Stan—who’d have to report the spaghetti sauce up the chain of command—or telling the Adlers.

  The sound of Bob crunching on something, probably his favorite Ruffles potato chips, came through the tinny speaker. “Okay, so the DNA fizzled out and you’ve talked to everybody. But don’t you always say that people are unreliable anyway?”

  He was right about that.

  More crunching. “So why don’t you be you? Look at the documents, the records. They don’t lie.”

  Keller smiled again. “You really do listen to me.”

  “Did you say something?” Bob said.

  “Shut up.” She laughed.

  “So what do you have so far?”

  It was against the rules to talk about an investigation with anyone outside the Bureau. Keller was usually not one to break the rules. But Bob was always her sounding board. The big lug not only calmed her nerves, he was a rare commodity in this world: a good listener. It was why she’d taken to Matt Pine, she thought. He wasn’t your average twentysomething with delusional confidence, eager to tell you how things were. Like Bob, he listened. Sometimes just saying things out loud—working through her thoughts—helped Keller connect the dots.

  “There’s a video the daughter posted. A tip she’d received shortly before they left for Mexico. The timing alone suggests it may be connected.”

  “Okay. What’s it show?”

  “Just a few seconds of teenagers being teenagers. Danny Pine being egged on as he chugged a beer. He’s down to an undershirt, surrounded by a bunch of football players. In the last second on the recording, someone’s face comes into the frame. The armchair detectives think it’s the Unknown Partygoer.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think it could be anyone. There’s not enough for facial rec. And I think the video was sent for some other reason. But I’ve watched it over and over again, and I don’t see anything.”

  “How’d Maggie Pine get it? I mean, who sent her the video?”

  “It was an anonymous tip.”

  Bob blurted a laugh. “You’re Big Brother. Get on that, G-woman. What’s the use of all those NSA toys if you don’t get to use them?”

  “Trust me, I’ve been pushing the computer guys to track the sender. It just takes some time.”

  Bob was right, though. The source of the video was important. Whoever sent it did so for a reason.

  “Okay, what else you got?” Bob asked.

  “When they were in Mexico, Maggie sent her brother a photo. It was of their father. But I had it enhanced and Matt noticed something new today. In the background, a woman who’d tried to set Matt up.”

  “Noooo,” Bob said. “She was in the photo the daughter took before?”

  “I know, right?”

  “Well, you gotta get on that.”

  “I am. I have my contact in Mexico trying to find the woman. But there’s something bigger. The photo also has a partial view of a man who seems to fit the description of a guy who tried to mug Matt in New York, shoved him into the street.”

  “You’re kidding me? The sister took a photo of two people, one who tries to set the kid up in Mexico, the other who pushes him into traffic? I mean…”

  “Right?” Keller said.

  “Why, though? What was the point?” Bob asked.

  “The phone,” Keller said. “I think they were trying to get M
att’s phone because Maggie had sent him a photo of them. The rest of the family’s phones and computers were wiped clean.”

  “So it’s, what, a professional? Like a hired killer?” Bob was excited. He loved the FBI shows on TV, and for once Keller’s work bore some resemblance.

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

  “You love a good paper trail,” Bob said, “so what records aren’t you thinking about? Where haven’t you looked?”

  Keller did a mental tally. She had a team going through the Marconi records scooped up in Chicago. She had the computer forensics lab tracking who’d sent the party video to Maggie, the facial analysis unit analyzing the photo Maggie had sent to Matt, and an AV expert enhancing the video and photograph.

  “Airline records,” Keller said. “I still need to get flight reports. If the guy was in Mexico with the family, then was in New York, I might be able to identify him by cross-checking flights. But without a name, it’s a needle in a haystack. Do you know how many people fly to Cancún every day?”

  “No, but I also don’t know how many bank wire transfers there are every day. I suspect that’s way more than flights, yet somehow you catch the bad guys.”

  More with the unbridled confidence in her. And Bob was right. If the man with the cleft lip was in Mexico with the Pines, then flew to New York to go after Matt, then followed Matt back to Tulum, that could narrow the search. Maybe, just maybe, she’d get a hit.

  Bob exhaled loudly into the phone.

  “What?”

  “Maggie Pine, I mean, she was seventeen. She gets admitted to MIT. She gets investigation tips, tracks bad guys to Mexico, gets their photo. She was the shit, you know? I watched the show. Even when she was in middle school, she was unstoppable. It’s just a damn shame.”