Shattered

by Allison Brennan

  “We know that, but John was positive his wife was innocent.”

  “I don’t think so.” She sipped her margarita. Tangy. She still preferred wine—or a really good martini—but an occasional change was nice.

  “Why?”

  “John was desperate when he called me. He found the cold cases—but I think that Blair planted the idea in his head. That there were other cases like Peter’s. Lucy thinks she used her work computers, which would have stronger protections against police search and seizure. Still erase the history, though nothing is truly gone forever. Blair never expected John to follow up on the cases or to call me. She wanted him to believe in her innocence so that he would stand by her through the investigation and trial. Not only do I think she didn’t expect him to call me, she never expected me to take the case. Or solve the crime.” She ate more chips. The salsa was amazing. She needed the recipe. Would they share?

  “If he watched your report, or read the article—which seemed to be picked up by every major newspaper for the weekend—he’s going to know that the details of his son’s murder don’t match the details of the other murders.”

  “I tried to call him and give him a heads-up, but he didn’t want to talk to me.”

  “How well do you know him?”

  “I knew him well, but until two weeks ago I hadn’t seen him in nearly ten years.”

  “I couldn’t read him in court today. He kept a poker face.”

  “Yet he sat behind her for the entire trial.”

  “I’m afraid he might do something he can’t come back from.”

  Max wasn’t sure what Dillon meant by that. “Like?”

  “I mean,” Dillon clarified, “his wife is still living in his house, but he must have doubts at this point. You made it quite clear that the only detail held back by police was that Danielle Sharpe’s victims were buried with a stuffed animal. And we know that Peter was not.”

  “John is a smart guy, but we all have blind spots, don’t we?”

  “I don’t want him to enact his own justice.”

  Usually Max was faster, but it took her several seconds to realize what Dillon was actually saying.

  “Kill her?” She shook her head. Could he? Would he?

  “Grief, betrayal, rage—it makes good people do bad things.”

  “You can’t possibly be comparing John with Danielle Sharpe. She had problems long before she killed those boys.”

  “True. Her problems went back to her youth, and no one saw them. She hid her natural tendencies extremely well. Yet, everything that happened combined to create the perfect storm for her to snap.”

  “I still don’t think that John would kill Blair.” She paused. “He might confront her.”

  “And what would she do?”

  “Deny. She will never admit that she killed Peter. Even if she is convicted, she’ll tell everyone she was innocent, railroaded, maybe take a cheap shot at me. File for an appeal until her money runs out.”

  Dillon smiled. “I think you’re right.”

  “I may not have your advanced training, but I know people.”

  “I’ll admit, I was skeptical when Lucy first called me about your theory. Not that you didn’t have something backing it up, but what your real motives were.”

  “I’m a reporter. I report.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Excuse me?” Max didn’t know whether she should be insulted or not.

  “I hardly think the word reporter does you justice. I’ve had run-ins with reporters in the past when I’ve consulted on criminal cases, and my impression has never been positive.”

  “I gather you don’t have a problem with the way I reported on Justin’s murder.”

  “No. I may have done things a little differently, but I truly appreciate how you wrote about my family. I was worried it could have been … more sensational.”

  “You should have read my archive.”

  “I have. And sometimes you’re more sensational than others.”

  “Then I probably didn’t like who I was writing about,” she said, irritated.

  “I’m sorry I offended you.”

  She was bothered, and she tried to shake it off. Dillon was being open and honest, she respected that. It’s just that this was the same old, same old. She was tired of her motives always being questioned. Tired of people doubting her, criticizing her for things she didn’t even do—but what they perceived of her doing.

  The food came and she ordered a second margarita. Dillon was still on his first. When the waiter left, she said, “I should be used to it by now. Sometimes it bothers me more.”

  “I told Lucy a long time ago that there were very few people like us—her and me—who can separate ourselves from horrific crimes and get inside the mind of the criminal. It’s both a blessing and a curse. We have both had to face others looking at us with skepticism, suspicion, worry, fear. Lucy says it’s not normal, but I tell her what is normal? So I do apologize for offending you, but not for protecting my sister or my family.”

  “Lucy asked me not to quote her or write about her, and I didn’t, except the brief paragraph that she gave me permission to use. She got no credit for what she did on this case. If it weren’t for her—and you—Danielle Sharpe would still be out there. Another little boy would have died.”

  “Lucy didn’t want credit.”

  “I figured that out really early in our relationship. I appreciate that you gave me some good insight and quotes. I still would like to have you on the show for an interview, and though I don’t like being hamstrung by off-limit topics, I would be willing to give you a little leeway there. Out of respect for your sister.”

  “I’ll think about it, but I’m not one for the spotlight.”

  “You’d be a good interview.”

  “How about this—after this trial, I’ll give you an interview. We can talk about both Blair Caldwell and Danielle Sharpe—provided we leave Lucy out of it.”

  “Thank you.”

  They ate in silence for a few minutes. Then Max asked, “I sensed that Lucy might have some problems when she went back to work. She didn’t say specifically, but…” She let the sentence drop, looking at Dillon.

  “She has a new boss. They’ve haven’t found their rhythm yet.”

  Max raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like an understatement.”

  “Lucy is a private person.”

  Max laughed. “That’s definitely an understatement.”

  “Last week, she asked me what makes her tick. From our conversation, I sensed that the question came from you.”

  Why did Lucy ask her brother? Max thought she was being evasive because she didn’t want to discuss her past. Did she not really understand her most fundamental drive?

  “I’m exceptionally curious. I told Lucy I wouldn’t dig any more than I already did before I met her. I learned a few things only because I’d already set my research staff on it, but I didn’t push. Her husband made it perfectly clear he would have my head.”

  “Sean is protective.”

  “Is that what you call it?” Max shook her head. “It doesn’t matter—I’m not going to push. Yes, I’m still curious. But only because I admire Lucy. Several reasons, but a few stick out. First, she’s just as sharp as you are—no offense.”

  “I concur.”

  “Yet, when she spoke to Richard Sharpe, she gave you complete credit for the profile. She came up with several points during that conversation that we hadn’t even discussed, yet she drew on her experience and knowledge to reach conclusions that I don’t know that I would have made—and I’m fairly intelligent.”

  Dillon smiled. “You certainly are.”

  “On the one hand, she thinks like a cop. She has that edge. I’ve been around enough law enforcement to know. Yet, there’s something else. I can’t put my finger on it, and that’s why I asked her what makes her tick.” Max paused. “And you’re not going to tell me.”

  “You already know the answers
, you just don’t want to ask the questions, and I respect that.”

  No more. He essentially dropped the subject. Did Max know? Maybe. She had some theories about Lucy, but she wouldn’t voice them. Because she did respect the rookie fed, and she hoped if their paths crossed again, she would have an ally.

  “About John Caldwell.”

  Dillon didn’t say anything else.

  “You want me to talk to him.”

  “Let’s just say I watched him closely and I’m concerned.”

  Max had watched him as well, but she didn’t see anything but a rigid supporter of his wife.

  “I’ll see what I can learn.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Max didn’t have an opportunity to talk to John before the trial started Tuesday morning. She was riveted, however, by Dillon Kincaid’s testimony. While Monday had been an exercise in boredom, today was the reverse. She watched the jury as well—they, too, listened closely.

  After the prosecutors established Dillon’s credentials, they asked him a series of questions related to the psychology of the killer. Since they’d already established the crime scene, the method, and the window of time that Blair Caldwell could have killed her son—which matched with the window the coroner also established—they focused on the mind-set of the killer.

  “Considering your experience, do you have a profile of Peter Caldwell’s killer?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I submit exhibit Thirty-four B, Your Honor,” the prosecution said.

  “With no objections, Dr. Kincaid’s profile will be included in the record.”

  “Will you please summarize your findings?”

  “The key fact that stood out to me is that Peter was not sexually assaulted in any way. This stands out because overwhelmingly, close to ninety percent of homicide victims under the age of fourteen are sexually assaulted or killed in a failed sexual attack. Right there that tells me that this crime was not sexually motivated. Another key fact is that over ninety percent of homicide victims under the age of fourteen are killed by someone they know—a friend of the family or a relative.

  “There is one primary fact related to Peter’s death that tells me his killer is female. Peter was drugged with a benzodiazepine that, in the dose he was given, would have made him lethargic to the point of unconsciousness. Poison or drugs are a female weapon—when used as a murder weapon, virtually all these killers are women.”

  “Dr. Kincaid,” the DA said, “have you reviewed the psychiatric evaluation of Mrs. Caldwell?”

  “I have. As well as the recordings of her interviews with police.”

  “Objection,” the defense said. “The psychiatric evaluation of Mrs. Caldwell did not indicate that she was capable of murder.”

  The judge said, “Counselor, you may use your cross-examination to discuss the report already submitted into evidence. Overruled.”

  “Dr. Kincaid, what was your conclusion based on your readings and viewings?”

  “The original psychiatric evaluation was conducted several weeks after the murder and in my opinion should have less weight placed on it than the interviews conducted by first the police and then by the detective at the station, shortly after Peter’s death. The reason is that time slants bias. Meaning, a person’s recollection of events differ and they have a different emotional response over time. However, several things stood out during the initial interview. May I use the projector?”

  The prosecution inserted a disk into the DVD player after submitting it officially into evidence. Evidently, Dillon had already spliced the recording to highlight the points he wanted to make.

  “I’m going to show you three segments that tell me that Blair Caldwell lied to police.”

  “Objection,” the defense said. “Dr. Kincaid is a psychiatrist, not a psychic.”

  Laughter in the courtroom, but Max noted that only one of the jurors cracked a smile.

  “Overruled,” the judge said.

  “Go on, Dr. Kincaid,” the DA said.

  Dillon played a short segment on the projector. In it, Blair was sitting in the interview room in Scottsdale with two detectives, one female and one male. She also had her lawyer with her.

  The detectives asked Blair about the night her son was killed and specifically who she spoke to at specific times. Blair was clearly annoyed by the questions and almost flip in her responses.

  Dr. Kincaid didn’t make a comment, but started a second segment. The detectives asked Blair about the home security system and whether they habitually had it on when someone was home. Again, her responses were filled with annoyance, as if the police were idiots to even be asking the questions. Yet, she answered them.

  “Objection,” the defense said after the second brief clip. “Relevance. The transcript of Mrs. Caldwell’s interviews with police have already been entered into the record.”

  The prosecutor said, “Your Honor, the point we’re trying to make will be clear momentarily.”

  “Make sure it is,” the judge said. “Objection overruled. Dr. Kincaid, please get to your point.

  “Yes, your Honor. One more clip.” He nodded to the prosecutor who began the tape again.

  The last clip was the most damning.

  On it, Blair was poised and almost regal. She was also belligerent with law enforcement and clearly looked down at them in how she spoke.

  “Mrs. Caldwell, there’s a block of time you cannot account for. You can see why we’re suspicious. Tell us where you were and we’re done.”

  “I cannot believe you’ve had me here for over an hour because you couldn’t find anyone who saw me for a few minutes at a party.”

  Her attorney said, “Mrs. Caldwell has answered all your questions to the best of her ability. If you’re not going to charge her, you need to let her go.”

  “We have a witness who says she saw you on the porch of the clubhouse at twelve thirty-five the night of the party. The witness said she told you that your husband had been looking for you and you said you were getting fresh air. Yet a group of businessmen were smoking cigars on the porch from approximately twelve ten until twelve thirty and none of them saw you.”

  “I know who you’re talking about. Misty Vale. I was getting fresh air, and it wasn’t at twelve thirty-five—it was earlier. The businessmen weren’t on the porch, they were off to the side, on the patio.”

  “Yes, they were, up until twelve ten when they moved to the porch.”

  “And that’s when I spoke to Misty. I don’t keep a schedule of every person I speak to for two minutes at a function like this.”

  “We were able to verify the witness’s timeline based on other witness statements that put her in the ladies’ lounge prior to twelve thirty-five.”

  “We’re going to quibble over a few minutes? This is ridiculous!”

  Blair was getting agitated on the recording, but she was also growing agitated in the defendant’s chair. It was clear that she felt she was being ridiculed or attacked.

  “Charles,” Blair said on the disk, “I want to leave. Now.”

  “Detective,” the attorney said, “do you have any physical evidence tying my client to her son’s murder?”

  “We’re still in the middle of our investigation.”

  “Then we will be leaving until such time as you have any evidence—because it sounds to me like you’re fishing.”

  “You’re free to leave, but be available for more questions, Mrs. Caldwell.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Really. More asinine questions.”

  The lawyer put his hand on Blair’s arm. “Blair, we should go.”

  The detectives rose, gathered their files, and stepped out.

  The recording continued to play.

  “Where’s John?” Blair asked.

  “He’s in the waiting room.”

  “Why aren’t they asking him these questions? Why me?”

  “They did interview him.”

  “This is the most—”

  John ente
red the room. He looked a mess—there was no better description. His clothing was rumpled, his shirt stained—perhaps coffee—and he had dark circles under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept in a week. “The detectives said you can go. Blair—”

  In less than a blink of an eye, Blair started crying. She threw her arms around John and sobbed. “Oh, God, John, it was awful! Why are they doing this to me? Why aren’t they looking for the real killer? Why ask me all these awful questions?”

  John patted her on the back. “It’s okay, Blair. It’ll be okay. I’ll take you home.”

  The clip ended.

  Max stared at John. The shock on his face was clear—seeing Blair in action with the detectives and then with him.

  Max already suspected what Blair’s defense would be—she was an attorney, she was used to rigid questions—but it was also clear that she was manipulating her husband.

  At least to Max it was clear. Was it clear to the jury?

  Dillon said, “What you witnessed here is classic sociopathic and narcissistic behavior. First, the indignation of being detained and questioned—she’s above it. Everyone else’s recollections are wrong, not hers, and if she’s wrong it’s because they’re nitpicking her. Second, the complete reversal of emotions when her husband walks into the room. Her body language and tone immediately changed.”

  “What could be her motive for killing her son?” the DA asked.

  “I can’t speak to motive without personally evaluating Mrs. Caldwell—”

  “Objection,” the defense said. “Mrs. Caldwell is innocent until proven guilty.”

  “Sustained. Jury will disregard. Please rephrase the question or move along.”

  The DA said, “Dr. Kincaid, considering that Peter Caldwell was not sexually assaulted, what motive could there be for his death?”

  Dillon paused long enough that the judge asked him if he understood the question.

  “Yes, Your Honor, I understand. The answer is both simple and complex. What we need to remember is more what didn’t happen. He wasn’t sexually assaulted. It wasn’t a crime of anger—such as an abused child who is beaten to death, or someone in a violent rage. He wasn’t brutalized in any way. It wasn’t spontaneous. In fact, his murder was almost serene. He was drugged to the point of losing consciousness. He was suffocated and didn’t struggle, telling us that he never regained consciousness. Whoever killed him didn’t want him to suffer, but also clearly didn’t want him to live. Why? I can only speculate.”