Unreasonable Doubt

by Vicki Delany

“What?” Winters said, not in the mood for word games.

  “DNA results on the hairs found on Eliza have come in. And we have a match. One Richard Anderson.”

  “Same slime-bucket whose fingerprints were found on her car?”

  “The same. And, as we had hair from last night’s incident at the Glacier Chalet ready to be compared, they ran those as well. Same guy.”

  “I assume that’s the good news. Now for the less good?”

  “We can’t locate him. He hasn’t been around to his place for at least a week, although he doesn’t seem to have moved out. His rent’s paid up and all his stuff seems to be there. We have a BOLO on him and his car, and I have feelers out to persons of his acquaintance, so I’m confident it won’t be long before I can have a little chat with him.”

  “Let’s hope he doesn’t do any more damage in the meantime,” Winters said. “He’s had two failures, if we assume rape was his intention. He’s going to be very angry.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Why? Over all the long years that was the one question Walt couldn’t get away from. Why. Why had McMillan and Kibbens been so determined to prove he’d killed Sophia? Walt had understood he was the most likely suspect. He’d been found beside the body, covered in Sophia’s warm blood. But surely the investigation should have spread out from there?

  After all, someone killed Sophia.

  Walt knew it hadn’t been him. He had clung to that knowledge all those years, although it wasn’t always easy. Sometimes he’d even doubted himself. In the dark night of the soul, when he lay awake in the narrow, uncomfortable cell cot, in the strange never-dark of a maximum-security prison, listening to the steady tread of the guards’ boots, and the grunting, farting, snoring, and sometimes weeping, of men who had nothing left to lose, he’d wondered if he’d done it, after all.

  Were they right, the forces of law and order, the police, the prosecution, the judge and jury? Were they right, after all, and he had killed her? Did he just not remember?

  But then, as the weak light of day touched the edges of his cell and the prison awoke to another mindless, broken, soul-destroying day, he knew he had done nothing of the sort. Over the long years, he’d seen men, men who had raped and murdered, committed horrible crimes, confess, seek rehabilitation, beg forgiveness. And be released on parole. Sometimes they were back a few months later.

  There had been no chance of parole for him. Not unless he confessed and “accepted responsibility” for his crime. One of his lawyers advised him to go ahead and confess, admit to it, just so he’d have a shot at parole. But Walter couldn’t do it.

  And so he sat in prison for twenty-five years, and wondered why.

  Doug Kibbens was dead, but Jack McMillan was not. Yesterday Walt had been about to leave town, to admit to himself that some questions would never be answered. But then he’d seen McMillian watching him, and he’d known that he would never be able to rest until he knew. He’d pay a call on McMillan and ask. Ask outright: Why?

  The fresh-faced young lawyer from Waterston and Gravelle wouldn’t approve of the idea, so Walt had no intention of telling him. The lawyer had gone into town to check into the Hudson House. Clearly this rundown motel wasn’t exactly to his liking. He arranged to meet with Walt tomorrow for breakfast, to talk over what had been happening, before deciding on a further course of action.

  Walt didn’t much care what “course of action” they took. All he wanted was for people to leave him alone.

  But first, he wanted to know why. He needed to know why.

  He checked that no one was hanging around outside lying in wait for him, and then went to the motel office. The clerk was behind the desk, punching buttons on his phone. He had that look, and Walt knew the man had spent time inside.

  “I’d like to use the computer,” Walt said, very politely.

  “Not for guests. There’s computers at the library in town. Go there.”

  “I don’t have a car at the moment.”

  The clerk shrugged. “Not my problem, buddy.”

  Walt had come prepared. He pulled a pink fifty-dollar bill out of his pocket and held it up. “Won’t be long.”

  The clerk eyed the money. “Can’t get porn. It’s blocked.”

  “I’m only wanting to look up a map. You can watch if you want. As long as you keep your distance.”

  “Five minutes.” He snatched the bill out of Walt’s fingers. Walt walked behind the desk and settled himself into a chair. The clerk leaned over his shoulder and typed in the password. He smelled of tobacco and clothes that needed a wash. Walt almost smiled. It hadn’t taken long in the company of women for him to be offended by men’s smell.

  “Step away,” Walt said, and the clerk went back to his phone.

  It was easier than Walt had thought. He found the name and address he wanted on Canada411.com. The man was getting sloppy. He typed the address into Google Earth, and up came a picture taken from a satellite. Walt traced the route from Trafalgar, down the highway for a couple of miles, up a twisting side road into the mountains. At lower levels houses lined the road, but inhabitation thinned the higher the road went. The pavement turned to gravel, and the gravel to dirt. And there it was. A house in a clearing.

  Wasn’t modern technology marvelous? Things sure had come a long way while he’d been inside. Good thing he’d always tried to keep up with what was going on in the world. Imagine, someone had photographed almost every house on every street in North America, and if they hadn’t been physically driving up and down the street with a camera mounted on a car, they’d taken shots from satellites.

  Walt closed the map program and got up from the chair. He knew he was leaving a clear trail for the cops to follow if they thought to check this computer. But he didn’t care.

  It was time.

  It was long past time. It would end tomorrow. One way or another.

  He’d seen a convenience store a few blocks from the motel when Carolanne had driven him here after he’d been kicked out of the Glacier Chalet. He walked there now and bought two packages of sausages, some granola bars, and a couple of chocolate bars. Then he went back to his room, where he checked the contents of his backpack and tossed out things he wouldn’t need up on the mountain. Clothes, toiletries, an extra pair of shoes, his books. He checked to ensure what he needed was there, and added the food.

  It was still daylight outside, but he slipped off his shoes and lay on the bed fully clothed. He set the alarm on the clock radio beside the bed for four a.m. Walt didn’t have a car, and he couldn’t rent one because he didn’t have a driver’s license. No problem. He was fit enough for a good long hike.

  He’d ask McMillan why. If McMillan wasn’t in the mood for talking, Walt didn’t have anything left to lose.

  He closed his eyes and although he fell asleep almost immediately, sleep didn’t come quite fast enough: an image flashed across his mind. Carolanne. Her lovely face, her wide smile, her kind eyes, her determined expression when she said she would stay with him.

  He was glad something good had come into his life. Even if only briefly and at the end.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  “Tell John I’m out back,” Smith said to the dispatcher.

  “Ten-four.”

  Rain had started to fall in the early hours and it was coming down hard now. The people at the fire centers and in the lookout towers would be breathing a collective sigh of relief today. This was exactly what they needed: a proper soaker, one that would drench the tinder building on the forest floor and nourish and protect the dehydrated branches and the dry, parched leaves. Her windshield wipers struggled to keep up with the deluge.

  She didn’t have long to wait before Winters came out of the station, running fast with his head buried into his collar.

  She’d been on patrol, cruising through the quiet, peaceful morning streets of Trafalgar whe
n the radio squawked to tell her she was needed to accompany Sergeant Winters on a call.

  He climbed into her truck and shook water off like a dog emerging from a lake before doing up his seat belt.

  “I’ve spoken to the chief, and I have his permission to pay a call on Jack McMillan. I don’t expect things will turn nasty, Molly, but I need you to be on alert.”

  She didn’t bother to point out that that went without saying.

  “Jack McMillan and Doug Kibbens knew who killed Sophia D’Angelo. They covered it up, and framed Walter Desmond.”

  “What the…?”

  “They took care of the killer on their own. Whether they knew he’d murdered Sophia either before or after Walt went down, they kept their mouths shut. And Walt served twenty-five years.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, Molly. I am perfectly serious. And I intend to tell Jack McMillan that I know what happened.”

  “If we’re bringing McMillan in,” Smith pointed out, “you might want more backup than just me. He’s unlikely to come willingly.”

  Winters shifted in his seat and looked at her. She could find not a trace of what she would have expected to see in the depths of his eyes. She saw no triumph, no satisfaction. Just weariness.

  “We’re not arresting him?” she said.

  “I have not the slightest scrap of proof, Molly. I don’t even have enough to bring him in for questioning, let alone lay charges with any hope of a conviction. Too much time has passed. Memories have faded, evidence is lost. My main witness, Doug Kibbens, is long dead.”

  “Kibbens would have been a witness then? Not an accused?”

  “I don’t know exactly how it all went down, but I’m convinced Kibbens killed himself out of guilt. He took the coward’s way out, rather than manning up and confessing to what they’d done.”

  “You’re hoping McMillan will do that? Confess, I mean?”

  “Molly, I don’t know what I’m hoping. The chief agrees that my reasoning’s sound and gave me the okay to go ahead. Who knows? Maybe McMillan will tearfully break down and confess all.”

  She couldn’t stop the expression from crossing her face. Winters gave her a tight smile. “Yeah, like that’s gonna happen. Best-case scenario, he’ll leave Walt alone.”

  “Do you think Walt knows this? Knows he wasn’t convicted because of sloppy police work and a poor defense. That they knew he didn’t do it, but didn’t tell anyone. And why would McMillan and Kibbens do that, anyway?”

  “I have my theories,” Winters said. “Let’s see what McMillan has to say.”

  She put the truck into gear and pulled into the street.

  “Dave Evans was in the constable’s office doing paperwork when I walked by. I considered asking him to come along.”

  Smith kept her eyes on the road. The windshield wipers moved in a steady rhythm that made her think of the dragon boat women, all those individual bodies moving as one. She drove with extra care. The streets were busy with people heading for work or tourists getting a start on the day, every one of them with heads down or umbrellas up, watching for puddles at their feet rather than approaching cars.

  “Do you wonder why I didn’t?” Winters said. “Ask Dave, I mean?”

  “No.”

  “Should I have?”

  She took her eyes off the road and glanced at him. “No,” she said. Her heart was pounding. She didn’t know what she’d say if Winters asked outright. If he asked, and she refused to answer, he’d be angry. If she did answer, she’d…She’d what? Not be doing anything more than telling the truth. Evans didn’t like her now, and he certainly wouldn’t like her any more if she squealed on him. Tough call. Evans wasn’t a bad cop, far as she knew, not on the take or open to turning a blind eye. He was just an entitled, arrogant prick who figured he knew better than everyone else. She might well need him someday to save her life.

  “Want to tell me why?” Winters said.

  “No.”

  “Your call, Molly. If you ever need to talk in confidence, I’m here.”

  She glanced at him again. “Thanks, John. Uh…nothing in particular, you understand, but I sometimes think Dave’s too much influenced by Jeff Glendenning.”

  “Is that so?” he said.

  She drove slowly up the mountainside, glad she was in the truck and not a car. Rivers that hadn’t existed yesterday cascaded down the hill onto the rough road, and the big tires threw up waves of muddy water. She had the windshield wipers on high and strained to peer between raindrops into the gloom. “I don’t suppose we’ll get lucky and McMillan will invite us inside,” she said.

  “I don’t want you to say anything. Just stand there and look imposing.”

  Despite herself she grinned. “Imposing. I suppose I can do that.”

  “Call dispatch the moment we get there.” He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket.

  The truck bounced as it left the paved road and turned onto the gravel. The wheels spun seeking purchase in the rapidly forming puddles and wet gravel slipping away under the torrent of water. Then the gravel road became dirt, and the wheels dug into the mud.

  “That’s not him, is it?” Smith said.

  Winters looked up from the phone in his hand. “Who? Where?”

  “Thought I saw someone. He’s gone now.” She had seen someone, a man probably, walking on the road. He’d glanced quickly behind him as the truck rounded the corner, and slipped into the trees. He wore a dark jacket and a wide-brimmed hat that covered his face. They were almost at McMillan’s place, so she thought for a moment it might have been him. But it couldn’t have been. The man she’d seen was too tall, too thin.

  Strange to see someone out for a walk in weather like this. Might have been a dog-walker. She hadn’t seen a dog, but that didn’t mean anything. This far out of town not many dog owners kept their pets on a leash.

  She turned into McMillan’s property and stopped the truck in the center of the yard. She notified dispatch they’d arrived and then said, “What now?”

  “Give him a minute. See if he comes out. If not, we knock.”

  They waited. All that moved was the falling rain, the wind in the trees, and the windshield wipers on the truck. Back and forth, back and forth.

  “Let’s go,” Winters said. He got out of the truck.

  Smith hesitated for a fraction of a second, and then she pulled her cell phone out of her pocket. She pushed buttons, put the phone away, and jumped to the ground. Her boot sunk into a couple of inches of muddy water. Rain dripped down the back of her neck into the collar of her shirt as they splashed their way across the yard.

  No dogs barked and inside the house nothing moved. Winters unbuttoned his jacket. They climbed the steps as the rotting wood creaked under their footsteps, and by the time they were on the porch, Jack McMillan stood in the doorway, his dogs at his side. The dogs’ ears were up, their tails moved slowly back and forth, and the muscles in their haunches quivered. Smith felt the solid weight of her gun on her hip but she didn’t reach for it.

  “All my years on the job, I never had the time o’ day for do-gooders and layabouts bellowing about police harassment if I so much as looked at them sideways. I figured we never harassed anyone who didn’t need it. I might have been wrong. I’m thinking of laying a complaint myself.”

  “Feel free,” Winters said. “You’re welcome to call a lawyer and we can talk down at the station.”

  “What do you want, Winters?” McMillan hadn’t so much as glanced at Smith.

  “To ask you a few questions, Jack. Mind if we come in?”

  “Yes, I do mind. Say what you’ve come to say and get the hell off my property.”

  “Can you put the dogs inside?”

  “No.”

  “Put the dogs inside,” Winters said. “They look tense to me, and we don’t want any misu
nderstandings here. Do we?”

  McMillan stared at Winters for a long time. Winters said nothing, and Smith tried not to shift her feet. At least the porch was covered, although the wood was cracked and rotting in places, but they were protected from the worst of the rain.

  McMillan snapped his fingers, growled, “Go!” and pointed to the house. The dogs looked as though they didn’t want to obey, but McMillan snapped again and, with one last snarl at Smith, they turned and walked into the house. McMillan pulled the door shut and she was glad of it. She had absolutely no desire to shoot a dog, but she knew of more than one occasion when things had gotten out of control and an officer had been forced to kill a dog that attacked him.

  McMillan crossed his arms and stared at Winters.

  ***

  Around five a.m. the rain began to fall. He didn’t mind. This was a warm rain, a summer rain. It blew on the wind and brought the scent of freedom with it: fresh air, healthy growing vegetation, leaf mulch, and good clean earth. He took his hat out of his pocket, pulled it onto his head, and kept walking. He munched on granola bars and chocolate and didn’t think about much; he’d learned how to do that over the long years—a useful skill in prison. He enjoyed the walk; he still couldn’t get enough of the luxury of time spent alone to do nothing but whatever he wanted to do. Once he left the highway and started up the mountain, quiet settled over him and the dark wet forest closed in. As the sun began to rise behind the heavy clouds, a few cars drove past, all of them heading down the mountain. A couple of dogs barked from the few houses on this road, but no one was out for a walk on a day like today, and no one so much as took their eyes off the road ahead to have a look at Walt.

  He checked his watch. Coming up to eight o’clock. He’d always had a good sense of direction and of distance, and he hoped he hadn’t lost it over twenty-five years of long straight corridors and high, enclosing walls. He’d left the paved road about five minutes ago, and knew there was half a kilometer of gravel before reaching the dirt lane that ended at Jack McMillan’s place. Almost there. He’d been walking on this road not for a couple of hours but for twenty-five years. The journey was about to end.