“He loved her.”
“And I don’t. Your father, I mean.” She didn’t sound defensive. It was more as if she was truly asking for corroboration of her own feelings.
“He’s a hard man to love,” I said. “But listen, he’s tough. He’s going to get through this, and you’ll have to tolerate him for a good ten years more.”
“You might think that’s a comfort. But it’s especially hard when the choice is a good ten years for him or a good ten years for me.” Pause. “I shouldn’t have said that, should I?”
I didn’t know what to say. There were so many things in life where you didn’t get to choose.
“Are you still there?” Mom asked.
“Sure I am. Mom, I—”
“When will you be coming by?”
I couldn’t admit now that I was just down the hall.
“I’m in the car on my way. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes or so. I’ll spring you for early dinner.”
“I’d like that. Drive carefully, it’s raining harder here.”
* * *
I told Mom we could go wherever she wanted, but she opted for Boston Market. The most I could do was get her to drink a glass of wine. There was no huge thing with Mom, no bringing up of past or recent grievances, just a sane and gentle conversation about how she appreciated me being there, how much longer I’d be staying, and would I help to bring Dad home on the morrow. I spent the evening at her place again, and stepped out into the hall when my phone rang.
Finally, Laura. And it was not for a friendly chat.
“Where have you been?” I started.
“Your brother called and asked me to come into the office.”
I waited. So did she. Both of us trying to determine what the other knew.
“When?”
“This evening. This evening? I get the urgency of the situation and all but, seriously, does he think I’m naïve?”
“What did he say, exactly?” I hedged.
“Exactly, he said he wanted to talk to me because I know more than anyone else who had investigated people connected with the Creightons.”
This was it. Once she entered that office, without an attorney, she could get herself into all kinds of trouble that even a fully seasoned professional couldn’t foresee. She was super smart, but Todd had a good twenty years of experience on her. Now, did I stand with my brother on the side of law and order, or did I stand with someone I owed my life to?
“Did he mention Alison Samuels?” I asked.
“No. What’s she got to do with it?”
You threatened to kill her, I thought. And then someone nearly did.
“When was the last time you saw her?” I asked.
“The night Marcus was executed. You were there. Why are you asking me this?”
“You’ve got a GPS in your car, right?”
She knew why I was asking. “Yes, but it doesn’t automatically record where I’ve been.” She laughed one of those laughs that isn’t funny. “I can’t use it as an alibi.”
Then I decided. “Don’t go see Todd just yet,” I said.
“No shit. I’m not stupid, and I know a setup. But I was taken off guard and agreed to go.”
“Get a flat tire. Tell him you’ll go tomorrow. Contact Will Hench and make him go with you. And just remember, people don’t mean to do things. Things get out of control. Accidents happen.”
I heard a soft gasp. “How did I get here?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Sure you do. I’m a suspect in Shayna Murry’s murder, and I can tell you knew it.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” I said. “It probably wasn’t murder. Accidental manslaughter. No one uses a stun gun as a murder weapon; it’s not guaranteed effective.”
“They might if they don’t want the bullets traced,” she said bitterly. Then she hung up on me and wouldn’t answer the phone after that. I figured she wouldn’t let me into her apartment either. I took a sleeping pill with a shot of Dad’s bourbon because I suspected the next day I’d have to be on my game.
Forty-two
Todd had told me there was a meeting at the Fort Lauderdale Police Department for discussion prior to the meeting with Delgado et al in Palm Beach. I wasn’t sure if I was invited, but showed up anyway the next morning, and found Todd already in his office frowning at the small pile of pages faxed from Gainesville. He had dark bags under his eyes.
I didn’t give a shit if it was because he was worried about getting his precious Madeline in trouble because of what Tracy Mack had said. I said, “You told me you’d stay off Laura Coleman, give me some time to talk to her.”
“But you didn’t talk to her. And then we almost lost Alison Samuels. Coleman was supposed to drop by the office yesterday. Then she called to say she had a flat tire, and she’d see me today. You break a promise to me, Brigid?”
Instead of answering that directly, I said, “Have you talked to Madeline yet? Or Delgado? I wouldn’t be too hard on them. It’s not our fault if the lab guys can’t stand up to a bit of encouragement from the detectives. Though you have to admit, with Madeline going to visit him despite her saying she would not, and coming across like threatening him, and the possibility that she knew Delgado dicked around with the evidence…”
Todd thrust his index finger in my direction as if it was loaded and he knew how to use it. “You suggest one more time that Madeline is a dirty cop and I’ll—”
“Okay, okay, I take it back about Delgado. All I’m trying to say is that people, like Laura Coleman, for instance, can be totally innocent even if at first they appear to be suspicious. Nobody wants Madeline Stanley’s reputation muddied by some misunderstanding.”
Little brother knew what I meant beneath my words. Take extreme care with Laura Coleman or I counter with Madeline Stanley. Simple. Just because you’re family doesn’t mean you don’t fight dirty sometimes.
He did have one parting shot. “Other than some battle loyalty, what do you know about Laura Coleman? Have you considered what you would do if you found out she was involved in Shayna Murry’s death? And Alison Samuels’s assault? Just how far would you go to protect someone?”
I couldn’t answer that because I was too busy thinking about how I could minimize the harm someone might do.
* * *
When we went up to the meeting room, Dr. Brach was already standing over some color photographs at the conference table.
Laura, of course, was not there.
McClay was back and more involved this time now that Todd had briefed him regarding the attack on Alison Samuels. When McClay spoke, he had that softly quiet style that you have to watch out for because it’s deceptive. In a lazy drawl, McClay informed us he wasn’t interested in some Indian River County cold case. The only reason he was in the room was to prevent anyone else dying in his jurisdiction over an Indian River cold case. McClay wanted to see the forensic anthropology reports on the Creighton children because of who they might lead us to.
Most of us had been in the business long enough to know what we were looking at, without needing a forensic anthropologist to interpret, but the center in Gainesville had sent along a typed report, and the faxed photos were all numbered and labeled. They were very efficient up in Gainesville.
Dr. Brach read from the report he had in his hand, while pulling out each photograph identified by a letter and passing it around the table.
“Photograph A, a canvas tarp wrapped with nylon rope, measuring forty-six inches long by thirty-two inches wide. More rope used to tie off each end. Both knots were in place when found, and remains were secured within the tarp.
“Photograph B, inside the layers of the tarp as unfolded: leaves, several peanut shells, animal fur, and biological residue from fish. And some feathers, assume pelican, but white. Vegetation has been turned over to a forensic botanist to determine if bodies or tarp traveled. Somebody looking at the fur and feathers, too, a lot of that. No report back on that yet. Multiple commi
ngled skeletons found. Photograph C, human remains one: disarticulated skeleton, juvenile male, age range eight to eleven years based on development and eruption of the dentition—.”
Fur, I thought. What’s wrong with that picture?
“—some perimortem trauma to the skull, but cause of death uncertain.
“Photograph D, human remains two: disarticulated skeleton, juvenile female, age range eight to eleven years—”
Animal fur. Asthma. Laura was right on that point, too. Marcus Creighton couldn’t have done it himself. He couldn’t even have had contact with the person who did it.
“—with a crushed skull indicative of massive blunt-force trauma postmortem, possibly from construction equipment. Skulls not reconstructed at this time. Right fifth metatarsal shows what may be rat bites, suggesting possible animal scavenging. Due to the secure seal of the tarp, scavenging would have occurred preburial. This indicates bodies not buried immediately, but possibly stored somewhere, possibly the primary or a secondary murder site. Photograph E, reconstructed—”
“Can we just cut to the DNA to see whether these are the Creighton children? Were they able to get that yet?” Captain McClay interrupted impatiently, as bosses are wont to do.
Dr. Brach shuffled the papers. “Here’s a page with the DNA analysis. They kept a tissue sample at time of death from the mother, Kathleen Creighton, and they were able to find a certain match to her via mitochondrial DNA from the bones.”
“All right, then,” McClay said. “Let’s talk about this Samuels woman. Whoever is getting revenge on Marcus Creighton got her because she wanted him executed, right?”
Everyone nodded obediently. McClay was the kind of person who required that. “So why didn’t they kill her? Why didn’t it go down like it did with Murry? I know, I know, the dog,” he said, not waiting for the expected response. “But let’s say this killer is organized. He doesn’t know there’s a dog? He doesn’t take steps to ensure he gets her without the dog?”
We all listened. It’s what he expected. He gave a half-lid glance at each of us in turn. “Why?”
“Maybe he wanted to send a message,” Todd said. “Taunt us that he could pick who would die, and when.”
“Sounds like a good movie,” McClay said. “What about this? What if she did it to herself?”
“Why the hell would she do that?” I asked.
McClay rocked his head back and forth in thought and said, “For attention. Todd says she’s a media hound.”
Brach cleared his throat in preparation for suggesting McClay was an idiot. “I think it’s very difficult to stun-gun yourself on the back,” he said.
“Yeah, I think there are probably easier ways to get attention than shoot yourself in the back,” I said, trying to keep my voice as bland as possible so as not to set McClay off.
A knock came at the door. Without waiting, a uniform opened the door and handed a piece of paper to Todd, who was sitting closest.
Todd glanced at it. “It’s the report from Frank Puccio.” He scanned it and repeated the salient points. “Found a print on the metal part of the hair dryer that didn’t match the Creighton exemplars … ran it against IAFIS … came up with a match from an arrest in 2008 … nothing significant … public drunkenness, brawling…” He looked at me. “Erroll Murry.”
“Erroll Murry,” I said to myself. And to the rest of the room, and to the photographs before us, “Shayna Murry’s brother murdered these children.”
While the rest of the room gasped, McClay asked, “Who’s Erroll Murry?”
I said, “He’s the brother of the mistress who blew Marcus Creighton’s alibi.”
“Is there any logical reason at all why he might have handled the wife’s hair dryer at any point in time?”
“I’ve met Erroll Murry, and I can say there’s no way Kathleen Creighton would have let him through the front door. There’s no way that an independent examiner would identify the print and match it to the brother of Creighton’s mistress. I don’t know the motive, but I tell you, he’s the man who—”
I thought about how I had seen Erroll Murry at Cracker’s Café before Creighton was executed. Before Shayna Murry was killed. If only I knew the true story, what could I have prevented? Before that, if the case had been more thoroughly investigated, what Delgado could have prevented? Everything, or at least much of it, clicked into place. I blanked.
“Yes?” McClay asked.
What’s done is done, I heard Mom say, and finished the sentence. “Sorry. Murry is the man who started this whole chain of events. And I tell you we have to start there because all this is linked somehow.”
“Are we positive he’s the one? Is there a motive? What was this guy’s motive?” McClay asked, while his very calmness implied that someone had damn well better come up with a motive fast so we could establish him as the Creighton killer and move on.
“Okay, what are the possible motives? Jealousy,” I offered. “He loved his sister.”
No one spoke. “He loved his sister too much,” I said. “Hated to see her with Marcus Creighton.”
McClay gave a lazy nod but didn’t seem to go for it.
“Money,” Todd said. “There was a life insurance policy on the wife. Erroll saw a chance to wipe out Creighton’s family, and install Shayna in their place,” Todd said.
“Money always makes a good motive,” McClay said.
“Maybe Shayna knew beforehand he was going to do it, and maybe she didn’t. But she lied about Marcus Creighton being with her in order to save Erroll,” I said. When you’re in law enforcement you can make this stuff up faster than a scriptwriter with Tom Cruise on the clock.
McClay took his time considering our ideas, then remembered his original goal. “Actually, the only reason I could care about Erroll Murry right now is if he killed his sister. Is it a neat package? Could we be looking at this guy for Shayna Murry’s murder?”
I remembered what Delgado had told me about the Murrys, how she had raised her brother and how devoted he was to her. I remembered meeting him at the café and how he appeared ready to go at it with me if I even tried to talk to her. I remembered how genuine his hysteria was when he arrived at his sister’s homicide scene. “Nothing is impossible, but I think it’s pretty improbable given their relationship. Sixteen years of keeping the secret, I can’t see Shayna giving up her brother now, so he wouldn’t kill her to keep her silent.”
“Then we’re back to the vigilante theory, aren’t we?” McClay asked, in that voice that makes you feel like you’re on the witness stand being cross-examined.
Todd said, “If it is a vigilante we’re looking for, they’re going to want Erroll Murry more than anyone.”
“So where’s Erroll Murry right now?” McClay asked.
Everyone did that little look-away thing.
“Step one,” McClay said. “Send out an APB to find Murry, but don’t touch him. Just put him under surveillance. And somebody go over to this lab, what’s his name?”
“Frank Puccio,” Todd said.
“Step two, triple-check his results. Step three, don’t wait for Puccio, info goes out to the media that Erroll Murry is wanted for questioning in the murder of the Creighton family. I want this in a local TV bulletin and on the Internet within the next thirty minutes.”
“You realize if you do this you’re going public with the fact that we executed an innocent man.” This was Madeline, speaking for the first time, and apparently without thinking it through first.
“I don’t recall executing an innocent man,” McClay said in the same calm voice.
Madeline was staring at Todd, and her shoulders were rounder than the first time I’d seen her, making her look more like a girl. McClay turned to Todd also. Todd was carefully silent. Everybody plays these things very carefully.
“What about bringing Murry in for questioning, without putting him on the news?” Todd suggested.
“Because it’s not about Murry,” McClay said.
�
�You’re trying to draw out the person who killed Shayna Murry,” Todd said, and, realizing who the big fish might be, looked at me when he said, “You’re making Erroll Murry bait.”
McClay seemed unperturbed by this bluntness. “What would you rather do, put a twenty-four/seven armed guard around that entire list of potential victims you showed me? We’re not going to be that passive. I’ll call the Vero chief of police to put a watch on Murry once they locate him and not let anyone get near him. And I’ll put the state bureau on notice in case Murry goes into the wind.” He looked at me with some suspicion. “You’re the agent from the FBI working with us, right?”
Todd said, “Actually, that’s Laura Coleman you’re thinking of. This is Brigid Quinn, former FBI but also assisting in the case from the start. She’s the one who found Shayna Murry’s body.”
“Quinn,” McClay said.
“My sister,” Todd admitted.
You could see McClay flashing back through the immediate conversation to see if he’d said something that made him look bad, something he would regret. “Dandy,” McClay muttered.
Forty-three
Laura had provided Henry Aggrawal with photographs of the children from the files, and the Gainesville anthropological center had done a computer reconstruction of the boy’s face using the intact skull. The reconstruction matched the photo of Devon Creighton. I stayed behind in the conference room after everyone else left to read the full report. But I discovered something was missing, and it wasn’t just that McClay had interrupted the description of the condition of the second body. I called Aggrawal and asked about the other child.
“That’s all there was,” he said. “Everything is in the report.”
“But there were three children.”
“There were only two at this site. The third must have been buried somewhere else. It’s all in the report.”
“I can see that.”
He started to hang up, but I stopped him. “Wait a sec. The bodies you did find. What ages would you put them at, again?”
“They were both eight to eleven.” He sighed audibly. “Like the report says.”
A Twist of the Knife Page 27