Even as I render my speech to Otto, a speech I’ve played over and over again in my head, a speech I truly believed at one time, I wonder if it’s true. The revelations of the past day or so have created questions in my mind as to my father’s guilt, and I’m not oblivious to how quickly and eagerly I’ve seized on any suggestion that he might be innocent. I do think I’d help lock him up if he turns out to be guilty, but I also know I’ll be disappointed and sad if that happens.
“Be careful,” Otto warns. “You don’t want to jeopardize the case.”
“I know. If Hurley or I feel I need to step back at any point, I will.”
Otto nods, but I can tell he has reservations. Eager to change the subject, I say, “Regarding our staffing, I’ll be on call every night and come in to work every day until we find a replacement for Hal.”
“I appreciate that,” Otto says. “I’ll try to get that process going as soon as I can. Any news on Izzy?”
I fill him in on Dom’s update, concluding with, “I’m going to stop by and see him on my way home.”
“Give him my regards.”
“I will.”
CHAPTER 26
As I leave the office, all the coincidental connections in these cases are still nagging at me, enough so that I feel compelled to dig a little deeper. I know if I don’t, they’ll continue to bother me. Once I’m settled in the hearse, I make a phone call, and when someone answers, I immediately hang up. Then I place a call to both Dom and my sister to tell them I’ll be a little later than previously planned. When I’m done with my calls, I start the engine, pull out of the lot, and head out of town, aiming my car toward Pardeeville.
After a bucolic journey through some of the countryside, I pull into the drive of the Wyzinski house. There is no car in sight, but I have no way of knowing if Lech Wyzinski drives, and I know that Tomas’s car was impounded as evidence. A man answered the phone at the house when I called, and while I hope it was Lech Wyzinski, I can’t be sure. The reason I didn’t say who I was or speak when I called is because I’m not sure Lech will want to talk to me, considering that I testified against his brother.
I park and make my way to the front door. I haven’t finished knocking when the door whips open and I see a chubby man of average height, with shaggy brown hair that sticks up in cowlicks on the crown of his head. He looks to be in his thirties, though there is something childlike and innocent in his expression that belies that.
“Lech Wyzinski?” I say, feeling confident in my guess.
He nods vigorously, a big smile appearing on his face. “Yep, that’s me.”
“My name is Mattie. I wonder if I might talk to you.”
“Yep,” he says, still smiling. Then he stands there, holding the door. He’s fidgety, but it strikes me as a restless energy rather than a nervous one.
“Can I come in?” I ask him.
“Yep,” he says, and then he turns and walks into the house, leaving me there.
I step inside and close the door behind me. Lech has headed into the kitchen, so I follow him there, memories of my last visit here encroaching on my thoughts. I grimace, remembering the head of the female victim, a thirty-two-year-old woman named Marla Weber. At one time, Marla had been dating Tomas, but the two of them split up right before her death. That breakup was the supposed motive for Tomas killing her.
Lech plops into a chair at the kitchen table, which is situated beneath a window that looks out on the side of the house. I walk over and take one of the other seats. He continues to smile at me, but then the smile suddenly fades and he pops out of his seat.
“Oh, I should get you a drink,” he says. “Tomas says you should always offer a guest a drink. Would you like a drink?”
He starts for the refrigerator, which sends shudders down my spine. “Lech, no, that’s okay. I don’t want a drink. But thank you.”
He stops halfway to the fridge and turns to look at me, an expression of confusion on his face.
“Come and sit down,” I tell him.
The smile reappears, and he does so.
“I want to talk to you about your brother, Tomas.”
“Tomas is my big brother,” Lech says. “He takes care of me.” His smile fades. “Well, he did. Now he has to stay at the jail.”
“Yes, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. You wrote a letter, several letters, in fact, that said your brother didn’t kill that girl, Marla.”
“Tomas loved Marla,” he says. Then he frowns. “But he said Marla had to go away for her own good.” He punctuates this remark with a single, definitive nod.
It’s an odd turn of phrase, and I puzzle over it a moment before dismissing it, at least for now.
“Miss Joan knows,” Lech goes on. “She knows Tomas didn’t kill Marla because he did real good when they gave him the lying test, and she said he’s being framed. That means he didn’t really do it but someone wants it to look like he did.” He says this in a rote manner suggesting he’s repeating something he heard. Then he frowns. “But Miss Joan also says Tomas keeps saying to let it go.”
“Miss Joan . . . do you mean Joan Mackey, Tomas’s lawyer?”
Lech beams a smile and nods. “She’s pretty,” he says, his smile morphing into a goofy-looking grin.
“Lech, did you talk on the phone to a lady named Tina?”
Lech’s brow furrows in thought. “Is she the library lady?”
“Yes,” I say with a smile. “That’s her. What did she talk to you about?”
“She said she wanted to know about Tomas. She asked a lot of questions, but I don’t remember what they were.” He gives me an apologetic look.
“That’s okay. Lech, do you remember the day the police came and took Tomas away?”
He pouts the same way my son does when he’s not getting his way. Lech’s childlike manner reminds me of Joey Dewhurst: they both seem to have approximately the same level of brain maturation and development.
“They took Tomas to jail,” he says, looking sad. “They said he was bad and that he killed Marla. But Tomas didn’t kill Marla. Tomas loved Marla.” The way he says this leads me to believe it is a mantra of sorts for him.
“Where were you the day the police took Tomas away?” I ask him.
“Tomas took me to the YMCA in Portage,” he says, enunciating the letters carefully. “I go there every Wednesday.” Another punctuating nod.
“Did Tomas drive you there?”
Lech nods. “Tomas takes me everywhere. We like to go on rides. Sometimes we go on long rides.”
“That must be fun.”
“Sometimes we go to parks and have a picnic. I like picnics a lot!”
“Yes, picnics are fun.”
“Tomas makes us lunch and sometimes he puts in cakes and cookies,” Lech goes on. His expression shifts to one of guilty glee. “I get to eat them all because Tomas can’t. He has the sugar in his blood and has to take insulin. He’s very careful about that.”
“Is he?” I say with a smile.
“Yep. I’ll show you.”
With that, Lech gets up from the table and walks over to a collection of cookbooks standing in one corner of the counter by the fridge. He pulls a book out from the group and carries it over to the table. It isn’t a cookbook; it’s a cardboard-covered spiral notebook filled with lined paper. Lech hands it to me and settles back in his seat.
I open the notebook. The pages inside are dated—one page to a day—and each page is filled with lists of food items under the headings of BREAKFAST, LUNCH, DINNER, and SNACKS. Next to each food are columns listing the calories and carbohydrates. At the bottom of each page are numbers listed after times: 8:00, 12:00, 4:00, and 8:00.
“What are these numbers here?” I ask Lech, pointing to the digits following each time entry.
“That’s the sugar in the blood,” he says. “Tomas checks the sugar in his blood all the time to make sure it’s okay. It’s very important,” he concludes with a very serious look.
I fli
p through the book and note that halfway through, the entries end. The date of the last entry is the day we found Tomas on his kitchen floor. There is a BREAKFAST entry—pretty much the same breakfast Tomas had every other day—and an 8:00 A.M. blood sugar of 85 written in at the bottom of the page. There are no other entries for the day. I take out my cell phone and snap a picture of this page and several before it. I’m guessing the book was overlooked when Tomas was arrested and the techs searched his house. It would be easy to do, stuffed the way it was in with the cookbooks.
Judging from the book’s contents, Tomas definitely was a well-controlled and conscientious diabetic. So how had he ended up on his kitchen floor in insulin shock? Had he tried to commit suicide? The running theory was that his insulin shock had been accidental, but what if it wasn’t?
“Lech, was there anyone else here at the house on the day the police took Tomas away? I mean before he took you to the YMCA.”
Lech furrows his brow in thought for a few seconds, and then shakes his head. He starts touching the thumb of his right hand to each of the neighboring fingertips, down to the pinky and back again. “The bad man came the day before,” he says.
“ ‘Bad man’?”
He nods, slowly this time, and starts running the fingers on his other hand. “Tomas said I shouldn’t talk to the bad man.”
“What is the name of this bad man?”
Lech furrows his brow again. “I don’t know.”
“Did Tomas say why the man was bad?”
“He said it was a secret.” Lech’s eyes grow wide with this. “A big secret.”
“What did the bad man say?”
Lech pouts. “I don’t know. Tomas made me go out to the barn and feed the cats when the bad man came.”
I ask Lech if he can remember what color the man’s hair was and he says brown, like his own. When I ask what color his eyes were, and how big he was, he shrugs with each question and makes a face like he’s about to cry. The fingers on both hands are flying at this point. Finally I hit on a question that makes him perk up and stop the finger play. “How did the bad man get here? Did he drive a car?”
The ardent nod returns and Lech smiles. “It was a pretty car. It was blue, and there was no top on it.”
I gather this means it was a convertible, with the top down. It’s not much to go on, but it’s something. It’s getting late and I can’t think of anything else to ask Lech for now, so I get up from the table and thank him for talking to me.
“I like talking,” he says. “Now that Tomas isn’t here, I don’t get to talk much.”
“Someone is coming by to help you, right?”
He nods. “Darlene comes three times a week,” he says in a robotic tone that makes me think he’s memorized the phrase. “Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. She makes sure I’m okay, and helps me get my food and stuff. My parents pay for her to come.”
“Do you need anything?”
He sighs. “Just Tomas,” he says in a sad voice.
I reach into my purse and take out a pen and notepad. Then I write my number down on a piece of paper and rip it from the pad. “You have a phone, don’t you?”
He responds with that excited, vigorous nod of his. “I have a phone and a computer. I play games.”
“That’s good. If you need anything, Lech, you call me, okay?” I hand him the slip of paper and he takes it, clutching it against his chest.
“Does this mean we’re friends?”
“Sure,” I say with a smile. “I’d be happy to be your friend.”
What Lech does next takes me by surprise. He pops out of his seat, lunges at me, and wraps me in a bear hug. “Thank you, Mattie.”
“Thank you, Lech.”
As I climb back into my car, Lech stands in the doorway, waving at me with such vigor his entire body is moving, like a dog wagging its tail. He is wearing an endearing but goofy grin, and as I drive away, I find myself feeling oddly sad. I head for my sister’s house to pick up Matthew, my thoughts spinning wildly. It’s not hard to imagine a scenario where Tomas could have been framed. Most likely, he would have had to have been sedated somehow so someone could give him the deadly dose of insulin, but it could have happened. I log the idea away in the back of my mind once I get to my sister’s house, promising myself that I’ll give it more thought later on. And part of my mind wonders if I’m being a little too much like Arnie, seeing a conspiracy around every corner.
As always, the sight of my son and the sheer joy he feels at seeing me fills me with happiness. It makes the ugliness of the day recede, at least for a little while.
“He’s had a great day,” Desi says, “though we didn’t have much success with the toilet training. He sat on his potty chair for half an hour saying ‘poo,’ and then as soon as I got him up, he went in his pants.”
“That seems to be his trend of late.”
“He’s pretty young still. Give him time,” Desi says with an encouraging smile. Then she changes the subject. “Those dresses I ordered online for you came today. Want to try them on? I think the one with the blue is going to be perfect.”
“Not today. I’m pooped—pun intended—and before I get too excited, or depressed as the case may be, about a dress, I need to secure a venue.”
“Why don’t you have your wedding here?”
“That’s sweet of you, Desi, but I don’t want to impose on you any more than I already do. And Hurley wants us to do it on the Fourth. That’s only two weeks away.”
“It’s no imposition,” she says, waving away my objection. “I would love to do it. Our yard is plenty big enough, and our patio has a roof over it in case it rains. Plus, I love doing stuff like that. Two weeks is plenty of time.”
“Say yes, Aunt Mattie,” says a voice behind me, and I turn to see my niece, Erika, standing there. “A wedding would be so much fun. I’d have to have a new dress, of course.”
“Of course,” Desi says with a tolerant smile.
I consider the offer. My sister is the most efficient, organized person I know and I have no doubt she could pull it off. “Okay,” I say, “but only if you let me pay for everything. Just tell me what it costs and I’ll give you the money.”
“Only if you let me buy your dress.”
“Okay, but that’s assuming I wear one.”
My sister claps her hands together and smiles broadly. Erika says, “I’m going to start dress shopping online,” and runs from the room.
“We want to keep it simple,” I tell Desi. “Don’t go getting all fancy on me.”
“It will be simple, but beautiful. And memorable. We’ll need to talk about things like flowers, cake, pictures, and such, but there are lots of options.”
“I’ve already talked to Alison Miller about doing the pictures,” I tell her. “As for a cake, a simple two-layer one will do. We’re only planning on about thirty guests. I’ll trust your judgment on the decorations.”
“Do you have a guest list?”
“Up here,” I say, tapping my head. “I’ll get it written down for you.”
“What about flowers? Do you have a color theme in mind? Is blue still your favorite color?”
“It is,” I say with a smile.
“You really need to try on that blue dress,” she says. “Please? It will only take a few minutes.”
Desi’s excitement is rubbing off on me. “Okay, fine.”
We grab Matthew and haul him into Desi’s bedroom with us; a few minutes later, I’m standing in front of a floor-length mirror, looking at myself in the blue dress. Desi was right; it’s perfect.
“Want to try on the peach one?” Desi asks.
“No need. This is the dress. You did it.” I turn around, sandwich her face between my hands, and give her a big kiss. “Thank you, Desi.”
“Oh, my gosh, it’s my pleasure,” she says, and judging from the glow on her face, I believe her. “I’ve got this wedding thing under control. Don’t worry about a thing. All you’ll have to do is show up.”
>
My sister’s quick seizing of the reins and her ability to bring this runaway wagon under control makes me feel like a load has been lifted from my shoulders.
“Oh, and your vows. You’ll have to write your vows,” she adds. My face must show the terror I feel. “You two are going to write your own vows, aren’t you?” Desi asks. “Of course you are. It will be so much more meaningful that way.”
And just like that, my shoulders feel heavy again.
CHAPTER 27
I’m excited to see Izzy, but I’m a bit taken aback by the way he looks. He’s pale, and the circles he always has under his eyes are bigger and darker than usual. His arms are bruised and scarred from the IVs and blood draws he has endured. When he moves to shift his position on the couch, he winces. However, the smile on his face is the same old Izzy smile I’ve come to know and love.
Sylvie is sitting in a chair next to the bassinet, where Juliana is sleeping.
After handing Matthew off to Dom, I walk over to Izzy, kiss him on his forehead, and give him a quick once-over. “Don’t you ever do that again,” I admonish. “You scared the crap out of me.”
“Smells like he scared the crap out of your son,” Dom says, wrinkling his nose.
I sigh and look at Matthew, who grins adorably.
“How’s the case going?” Izzy asks.
“We’re making some progress.”
“Give me the specifics.”
Sylvie clucks her disapproval and rolls her eyes. “You aren’t working,” she huffs. “Must we listen to this nasty stuff?”
“You don’t have to. You can leave the room, Mom,” Izzy grumbles, soliciting a harrumph from Sylvie.
I hesitate, knowing Izzy needs his rest, but the eager look on his face—and the color that has sprung to his cheeks just from mentioning the case—makes me realize he’s bored and wants to feel involved. I look over at Dom, who seems to realize the same thing because he gives me a little nod.
I settle in and spend the next ten minutes filling Izzy in on most of the specifics in Hal’s case while Dom kindly takes my son into the other room to clean him up. I mention the finding of the Wyzinski file, the discovery that Tina had talked to Tomas Wyzinski’s brother, and the novel-writing theory. But I leave out my visit to Lech, though I’m not sure why. Izzy comments that it’s an interesting coincidence, but I can tell from his expression that he’s curious all the same. Then I fill him in on the Carolyn Abernathy case and the discovery that the two cases are likely connected.
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