by Sydney Bauer
‘I am sorry, Rebecca,’ said David as Connor slid toward his mother – just as the boy named Will caught everyone’s attention by getting to his feet.
‘Mr Cavanaugh,’ he began, ‘this is crazy. Mrs Kincaid is not a witness for the prosecution, and I don’t think there’s any need to distress her like this. Surely the senator is the one to whom you should be addressing these questions. I mean, what does he have to say about the possibility that he’s being framed? Does he have a theory on a possible culprit? Has he confirmed the last time he was with the victim? Was there anyone else she might she have been seeing?’ Will took a breath. ‘But of course you have asked him those things haven’t you, Mr Cavanaugh? It’s just that you have chosen not to share his answers with the people who care about him most.’
David had finally had enough. ‘Forgive me for being upfront here, Will, and correct me if I am wrong, but your last name is not Kincaid – so unless you’ve completed a law degree in between sitting your SATs . . . ?’
‘I can’t show concern for the family?’
‘Sure, but . . .’
‘My father was a career cop, Mr Cavanaugh, and he taught me a lot about what it takes to beat a rap. Chris Kincaid has been arrested for something he did not do, and I just think,’ the boy hesitated, ‘if you share the information you have, then the senator’s family might have a better idea of where his case stands.’
There was silence as the chimes kicked in again, this time feeding them one more note – a high one that left the melody stranded.
‘I apologise, Mr Cavanaugh,’ said the boy sitting down again. ‘I have a tendency to get a little defensive when it comes to Senator Chris Kincaid. In case you didn’t know, the senator has been like a second father to me, and Connor like a brother, since my own dad died in 9/11.’
‘Your dad died in 9/11?’
‘He was one of the first on the scene.’
David realised he may have misjudged the outspoken kid.
‘I just want to help them is all,’ Will continued. ‘To show them the same support they’ve always shown me. In fact, I was going to say to you, if the senator needs character witnesses – me and our friend Jack Delgado,’ Will looked to Connor, ‘who also lost his dad on 9/11, we’d be happy to step up for him – in court, I mean.’
David nodded. ‘That’s a kind offer, Will, and I’ll definitely consider it. I’m sorry if I was short. I’ve known Chris Kincaid for a long time and I guess I just want to help him too.’
And that was when Rebecca Kincaid began to cry.
‘It’s okay, Mom,’ said Connor.
Rebecca nodded, her eyes now staring fixedly at her lap.
‘You can go see him if you want to,’ said David returning his attention to Rebecca – angry at himself for playing tit-for-tat with the kid. ‘County allows visitors on a family priority basis, Monday to Friday, one till three. I have a meeting after this,’ he added. ‘But I should be back at County by four.’
Rebecca lifted her chin. ‘But Gloria said he couldn’t have any visitors until tomorrow. She said she was going down there this morning to . . .’
‘You’re his wife, Rebecca,’ said David, now understanding why the control freak known as Gloria Kincaid was not present. ‘And wives are one step ahead of mothers in the visitor’s pecking order.’
Despite herself Rebecca smiled. ‘There is a first time for everything, then,’ she said, meeting David’s eye.
And in that gaze, he saw the Rebecca of old, the shy kid with the timid demeanour who simply wanted to please.
‘It’s time to put your hand up, Rebecca,’ he said. ‘Probably has been, for a while.’
‘Yes,’ she smiled again. ‘Thank you, David. I’ll try.’
41
‘We have a problem,’ said Newark’s Northern Regional Chief Medical Examiner Salicia Curtis. Curtis was sitting straight-backed behind her crowded but tidy wood laminate desk, dressed in a dark grey pantsuit and a pale green blouse that complemented the milky brown colour of her skin.
‘What is it?’ asked McNally. Sal had done him the courtesy of asking him to meet her in her office a good fifteen minutes before FAP Marshall was due – perhaps sensing that giving McNally a heads-up on what she needed to discuss would in the very least prepare him for Marshall’s inevitable meltdown.
‘The DNA under her fingernails isn’t his,’ she replied. ‘The skin tissue, under her right pointer and index fingernails – it doesn’t belong to Chris Kincaid.’
‘I don’t believe this,’ said McNally, his hands contracting involuntarily into fists. First the news that there was no semen present in the body of the victim – and now this.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Sal. ‘At the very least I have copies of the DNA for you to run through the state databank. If this unknown person has a record, you can find him.’ Sal took a breath before: ‘There’s more.’
McNally met her eye.
‘The head injury – the brain haemorrhage that might have killed her if she hadn’t been drowned – in my opinion, it wasn’t caused by a blunt-force trauma to the head. You never found anything you could have identified as a weapon, did you? In her apartment, I mean?’
‘No, but . . .’ McNally took a breath, ‘if not a blow to the head, then what?’
‘A fall.’
‘A fall?’ McNally tried to control his irritation. ‘I don’t understand. I was in that autopsy room with you, remember? I saw the evidence of trauma and it looked a hell of a lot to me like she was clobbered with something.’
‘I know. But I did some further examinations on the victim’s brain and found a 75–80 cc acute subdural haematoma in the left temporal area with underlying cortical contusion. The latter is called a contracoup haemorrhage since it occurs on the opposite side from the fracture.’
‘You need to speak English for me here, Sal.’
Salicia apologised again. ‘What I mean to say is, that sort of contracoup injury can occur only when a moving head strikes a stationary object, not by a moving object striking a stationary head.’
McNally still looked confused.
‘Think of it as like being in a car accident. Your car hits another car, your head is thrown back so it hits your headrest with force, but then your head bounces forward, and your jelly-like brain is also thrust forward with the momentum – resulting in bleeding at the front of the head.’ Sal touched her forehead. ‘Not at the back,’ she touched the back of her head, ‘where the initial contact with the stationary object was made.’
‘And with a blow to the head?’ asked McNally, needing to understand the distinction.
‘That’s the opposite – a “coup” not a “contracoup”. The injury is much more localised, caused by the force of the moving object as it connects with the head.’
McNally could see it – the mess that he was in. ‘So Kincaid pushed her, she hit her head on the coffee table.’
‘That’s a possibility,’ she said, perhaps trying to remain positive, but then her smooth brow knotted again. ‘Your other problem is her blood alcohol level – it was .225, which means she more than likely consumed eight, maybe ten, drinks not long before she was killed. She was well and truly plastered, Harry, which means she was unsteady on her feet, which means she could have fallen without any assistance as the injury appears to indicate.’
‘Shit,’ said McNally.
‘I’m sorry, Harry,’ she repeated.
Both Sal and McNally knew this news wasn’t good – at least from the prosecution’s point of view. It gave the defence an opening. Historically speaking, juries were much more likely to convict if the crime was seen to have been motivated by anger – which a blow to the head would have indicated. But a fall . . . a fall was passive, it suggested something accidental. And while McNally couldn’t give a flying fuck how this new information would affect Marshall personally, he was more than a little concerned that it was yet another inconsistency in a case that seemed to be specialising in annoying little discrepancies
.
‘Look,’ said the ME after a pause, ‘the good news is the significance of the actual blow is minimal given it was the submersion in the water that killed her.’
‘Maybe so, but this information doesn’t exactly help us. First up, we can’t place Kincaid in her apartment, now we can’t prove he had sex with her or beat her, and furthermore it appears the woman was attacked by someone other than the defendant mere hours before her death.’
‘Attacked and raped by someone wearing a condom – in my personal opinion, yes.’ Sal hesitated as if bracing herself to load more disappointment on McNally’s shoulders. ‘But there’s also the contrary argument that the defence may well take advantage of.’
McNally’s shoulders slumped that little bit further.
‘They could argue the woman was a fan of rough sex.’
‘You think there is a valid argument against the rape?’
‘The vaginal trauma, the evidence of scratching, the use of the condom – it’s possible, if someone wanted to pursue it.’
McNally’s mind was reeling. At first glance, one might assume Cavanaugh would pursue this argument – that the sex was rough but consensual. But it might be better for him to take the opposite stance – given the fingernail DNA didn’t belong to his client. Marshall, on the other hand, should argue that the rape was indeed a rape – but what if the little man was so determined to nail Kincaid that he chose to exonerate the owner of the mystery fingernail DNA? In that case, he’d go for the rough consensual sex angle – which means Maloney’s rape might go unaddressed – a travesty in itself.
‘Shit,’ he said again.
‘I know,’ said Salicia. ‘I’ve opened a can of worms.’ She shook her head. ‘I wish I could be of more help, Harry, but I have to call it like it is. The good news is, I can’t rule out Kincaid as the perp – I just can’t point the finger at him with any certainty, that’s all.’
McNally nodded and got to his feet.
‘Harry, come on,’ said Sal. ‘You can’t walk out on me now. You’re meant to wait for Marshall, so I can repeat all this stuff and you can look surprised and pissed off as if you’re hearing it for the very first time.’
‘You want me to hold the pissed face for that little prick? I’ve got better things to do,’ he said as he walked toward the door.
‘This isn’t the end of the world, Harry,’ she reiterated, now joining him on her feet. ‘The state has won cases on less.’
‘I don’t care about the state, Sal. This is my case – my first one as detective, and I want to make sure it’s done right.’
Sal nodded. ‘I’m here if you need me,’ she said.
But McNally didn’t answer, just opened the door and allowed it to squeeze silently shut behind him.
42
A tired-looking Father Michael Murphy was alone in the church when David found him, the last of the morning worshippers having gone about their business for the day.
Mike sat in the front pew, his white robes replaced by his customary black pants and sweater. He did not move when David crossed himself, genuflected and took a seat beside him – the pair now bathed in the illumination of the stained-glass windows above them, comfortable in their silence and bound by a friendship formed over thirty years ago.
‘Do you remember what we did in there?’ asked Mike, pointing at the wooden-doored confessional to his left.
‘Do I ever,’ smiled David.
‘I was with Chris a couple of months ago when he relayed the details of our little prank to Connor and his two friends.’
David knew exactly which two friends they would have been.
‘The boys looked as if they weren’t sure whether to cheer for us or laugh at us,’ Mike went on. ‘I suppose it was pretty childish behaviour for three . . . what . . . sixteen year olds?’
David nodded. ‘I guess we broke one of Catholicism’s oldest rules.’
‘Actually, we broke the law.’
‘The one set by man or by God?’
‘Both.’
‘A double whammy,’ said David. ‘There’s no hope for us then.’
‘I guess not.’
More silence until: ‘How is he?’ asked Mike.
‘Not good,’ replied David.
‘It’s true, then? What the prosecutor said about Lorraine?’
David turned to see the look of pure sadness in his old friend’s eyes.
‘I’m sorry, Mike. I know you liked her.’
‘I thought that after what happened, she wouldn’t want to see me again, which was why I stopped calling. And then when she failed to contact me, after Chris said she was recovering, I gathered my first assumptions were correct.’
‘None of it was your fault. She was your girlfriend, Mike. She knew how much you . . .’
David stopped short, not sure of the correct word to use. David had only been seventeen when Mike first dated Lorraine, but he never truly believed that Mike was actually in love with her – probably because David knew he was in love with somebody else.
‘Mike,’ began David, not sure how to approach this, ‘the last time we spoke, you told me that you felt you were responsible for Marilyn’s death. And I’m not sure, what you—’
‘You know why I chose to become a priest, DC?’ interrupted a melancholy Mike then, changing the subject, or perhaps diverting it, just a little.
‘Ah . . . no, I guess not.’
‘That calling thing they talk about,’ he smiled as he turned to face his friend, ‘. . . complete bullshit, at least it was in my case. I chose to become what I am because before that, I wasn’t really anything, at least not compared to you, and to Chris.’
‘Mike, please,’ began David. ‘You really don’t have to . . .’
‘No, DC, you asked me about Marilyn, so you need to hear me out. I suppose I knew there was only ever going to be two roads for me – one where I used my smarts to screw myself, or one where I used them to help prevent others from doing the same. But in the end, the decision was made out of pure self-preservation, because I needed to cut my losses, to get the hell out.’
In that moment David understood him completely. ‘There was only ever one man for Marilyn, Mike – and only ever one woman for Chris. Being around them every day, the way that they were, it must have been incredibly hard.’
Mike said nothing, until, ‘She only cheated on him that once, you know. But that single mistake – it was enough to ruin them forever.’
David knew Mike was referring to that one fateful error that led to Chris’s sleeping with Rebecca in retaliation – an event that had changed his life.
‘Mike,’ he said, the possibility of it hitting him at last. ‘You’re not saying . . . it wasn’t you who . . . ?’
David prayed he had got it wrong, that it wasn’t Mike who Marilyn had cheated with, that Mike wasn’t claiming culpability in Marilyn’s death because he believed he’d triggered something that prevented Chris and Marilyn from being together.
‘No,’ said Mike, meeting David’s eye. ‘As much as I wanted to at the time, I was smart enough to know the affection would never have been returned. And even if it had, I would never have done that to Chris.’
David took a breath before nodding. ‘Then why, Mike? How can any of this be your fault?’
Mike hesitated, as if deciding on the best way to word his response. ‘Because despite the way I thought about her, Marilyn saw me as a brother figure, and after you left, over the years, we talked.’
‘She shared things with you?’
‘I guess I was the only one who could guarantee her confidentiality.’
David followed Mike’s eyes toward the confessional. ‘She told you something,’ said David then. ‘In there.’ He pointed toward the carved red cedar door.
Mike didn’t deny it.
‘My God, Mike, if you know something, anything . . .’ David swallowed. ‘First up, Marilyn is dead – so your responsibility to protect her privacy no longer exists. Secondly, even if it did
exist, New Jersey is one of a handful of states where the unilateral right to waive clergy–penitent privilege rests solely with the clergyman. In other words, if you decide to waive such privilege in a court of law, you are free to do so without the permission of the penitent. And you must, Mike – especially if it means helping Chris, and finding Marilyn’s killer.’
But then David saw it, the look of pure agony on his good friend’s face – and he finally realised what Mike was trying to tell him.
‘You said it was your fault because you didn’t act on the information she gave you. Or because you feel like you offered her the wrong advice or didn’t intervene or . . .’
Mike did not contradict him, so David went on.
‘But you won’t waive your rights because what you have to say won’t help Chris. In fact, what Marilyn told you might even do him some irreversible harm.’
Again, Mike did not contradict him, except to say, ‘I believe Marilyn assumed Chris loved her more than anything – and that he would defend that love no matter what obstacles his family put in his way. But I also think she may have sensed there was a part of him that would do anything, anything,’ Mike stressed, ‘to protect the public life that he’d created.’
A shocked David went to respond, but Mike held up his hand.
‘Marilyn was sleeping with another woman’s husband, and she was drinking, way too much, but she was still a decent person, DC. She still had her dignity and . . .’ Mike hesitated. ‘I just think that, if she believed Chris had finally chosen one life over the other, and if in response she lashed out at him, and made some idle threats about the privacy of their situation . . .’
‘You think Chris might have killed her because she was going to expose their affair?’ David’s head was reeling.
‘I . . . I don’t know.’ Mike was sweating. ‘I don’t think he would ever hurt her intentionally, but, after the arraignment, when that whole Lorraine thing came up after all these years . . . I remembered just how angry Chris could get when something dear to him was threatened, when something or someone got in the way of what he needed to do.’