Guilty as Sin

by Tami Hoag

  “The Holloman case and Denny's death complicate our situation,” Ellen admitted. “But if we go on the assumption they're tied to Josh Kirkwood's case, that it's Wright's accomplice carrying on the game, then we're still focused on nailing Wright.”

  “That could be a dangerous assumption if it's wrong,” Wilhelm stated.

  “But it's not wrong,” Mitch said. “We know the kidnappings are related. The thing we can't be sure of is Enberg. The autopsy is scheduled for Monday. If we're lucky, we'll get the word on fingerprints Monday, as well.”

  “Did Denny's secretary know anything about any late-night appointments?” Ellen asked.

  He shook his head. “She said it was a light day. Three appointments with clients and a couple of reporters dropping by for comments. He didn't have anything scheduled after five, told her he was going to stay late and do some paperwork. I've got guys talking to the clients, trying to get a handle on his state of mind. Barb, the secretary, said he was down about the Wright case, but that he didn't want to talk to her about it.”

  “No witnesses from around the shopping center?” Cameron asked, tapping the end of his fountain pen against his legal pad, impatient for a break.

  “None yet, but we haven't been able to track down the night staff from the Donut Hut. They're gone to Mankato for the day—skiing.”

  “Well, we know one thing,” Wilhelm said. “Wright didn't kill him. He was still sitting in jail at the time.”

  “Grabko remedied that situation,” Mitch muttered.

  “It may actually work to our advantage to have Wright out on bail,” Cameron offered. “If we can put him under surveillance, he could lead us to the accomplice, to Dustin Holloman, tie the whole mess up in a nice, neat bow.”

  “Somehow I don't think he'll be that obliging,” Mitch said. “But I've already assigned a plainclothes detail to him, in case there's a God after all.”

  “I've assigned an agent to the surveillance team, too,” Marty Wilhelm said without enthusiasm.

  “I'm assuming nothing has turned up from the search of Wright's home?” Ellen asked.

  He shook his head. “Nothing at all out of the ordinary. You might think he's an innocent man.”

  Mitch gave him a look that could have frozen fire. “I don't think he's an innocent man, Agent Wilhelm. Neither does your predecessor. And you had damn well better not think he's innocent either.”

  “Hey, I've got an ongoing situation in Campion—”

  “Garrett Wright is an ongoing situation,” Ellen stated sharply, pulling Wilhelm's attention back to her. “We've got a probable-cause hearing in less than a week and a judge who has ‘Innocent Until Proven Guilty' embroidered on his underwear. I need every scrap of ammunition I can get to nail Wright. Costello fired his first shot today—he's going to try to get the arrest thrown out.”

  “Fuck him!” Mitch jumped to his feet. “That was a righteous bust!”

  Ellen held up a hand. “I said he would try. He won't succeed if we have anything to say about it. I don't believe he'll convince Grabko, but in the meantime he'll be feeding his theories to the press, tainting the jury pool.”

  “Goddamn weasel,” Steiger muttered.

  Ellen turned to Wilhelm again. “Tell me you've got someone working with the computer equipment you confiscated from Wright's home.”

  “Yes, but they're not going to find anything. We all know that.”

  “The notes from Josh's and Dustin Holloman's kidnappings were computer generated and printed on a laser printer. Garrett Wright owns a laser printer.”

  “But the thing doesn't have a memory. There's no way to tell if the notes came from that printer,” Wilhelm argued. “And so far we haven't found a computer diskette labeled ‘Terroristic Threats and Creepy Poetry.' Wright isn't stupid enough to have hung on to anything incriminating.”

  Mitch glared at him. “Well, you would know more about stupidity than the rest of us, Wilhelm, but I know this—guys like Wright get cocky. And when they get cocky, they get careless.”

  “He told Megan they had done this sort of thing before,” Ellen said. “He told her they had committed murder. If that's true, then he has to have left a trail somewhere. And if he's proud of his accomplishments, I can't believe he hasn't kept some sort of souvenirs. No luck on the search for another property in the area?”

  Steiger shook his head. “Not in Wright's name. Not in his wife's name. Nothing for Priest or Childs.”

  She looked to Wilhelm. “You haven't found anything in his background?”

  Wilhelm dug through a messy file folder on the table in front of him and tugged out a typed report. “He was a Boy Scout.”

  Cameron took the papers. “Any merit badges for cruel and unusual behavior?”

  “I've read the report,” Wilhelm said. “There's nothing out of the ordinary. His parents split up when he was a kid. He was raised by his mother, an office manager for a shoe factory in Mishawaka, Indiana. National Honor Society in high school, graduated with honors from Ball State, went on for his master's and doctorate at Ohio State,” he recited the history in a bored monotone, surreptitiously checking his watch. “He came here from the University of Virginia and before that Penn State.”

  “He gets around for someone in a profession where tenure is the big brass ring,” Cameron said.

  “Have you checked with NCIC?” Ellen asked. “They can scan their database for similar crimes in other parts of the country.”

  “The man has no record, Ms. North.”

  “All that means is he's never been caught,” Mitch said. He began to pace. “Jesus Christ, Wilhelm, if you don't want to do the job, fucking delegate. I'll call NCIC myself.”

  Wilhelm scowled at the table, color splashing across his cheekbones. “I'm doing my job, Chief Holt. I can't do everything at once.”

  “I'm beginning to wonder if you can manage to walk and chew gum at the same time—”

  “Time out!” Ellen shouted, rising from her chair. The men looked at her with surprise and annoyance for interrupting their argument. “We've got a case to make. You guys tear each other's throats out on your own time.”

  “This is pointless,” Steiger grumbled, waving a hand at them.

  Before he could take his foot off the chair, a beeper went off. Everyone but Phoebe reached for a pager.

  “It's mine,” Steiger said, reaching for the phone on the table.

  Tension crackled like static in the air as he punched in the number and waited. No one spoke. Ellen knew that they were all thinking the same thing, that they were all thinking the worst and hoping for the best.

  “Steiger,” the sheriff barked. A muscle ticked in his cheek, marking time as he took in the news. Four seconds . . . five seconds . . . Air hissed out between his teeth, taking his color with it. “Shit. Keep it quiet. Don't do anything. I'll be right there.”

  He slammed the receiver down. “That was Campion. They found the boy's boot with a note inside. ‘Evil comes to him who searches for it.' ”

  The three cops grabbed their coats and headed for the door, grim-faced and silent.

  “I'll be there as soon as I can,” Ellen promised.

  Cameron closed the door behind them and clamped his hands on top of his head. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”

  Phoebe shoved her glasses up into her hair and covered her eyes with her fingers.

  Ellen sank back down on her chair. “Look at the timing,” she said, her gaze catching Cameron's. “Just as Costello is about to start his press conference with Garrett Wright standing beside him, a clue is found in an identical case twenty miles away.”

  “You think Costello knows?”

  Tony had shown his colors before, but could he be that cold, that ruthless? Could he know the name of the person who held the fate of Dustin Holloman and not tell them?

  “I don't know,” she whispered.

  “That poor little boy,” Phoebe squeaked behind her hands.

  “The best thing we can do for him is our
jobs,” Ellen said, fighting to push away the mental fatigue and uncertainty. “Cameron, I want you to write the best damn brief in history on exigent circumstances and probable cause regarding the Fourth Amendment. We're not letting Wright weasel out of this on a technicality.”

  “You got it.”

  “I also want you to ride herd on Agent Wilhelm. Keep after him about digging into Wright's background. He should have a man on it full-time. If they can't catch Wright's accomplice, then his past is our way in.”

  “I'll make some phone calls.” He slid into his chair and started making notes.

  “Phoebe, it's your job to run interference.” Ellen caught one of the girl's wrists and gently pulled her hand away from her damp face. “Are you listening to me?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “I know you're used to giving the defense attorneys free access to files and information. We've always had an open-door policy. You're going to slam that door shut in Tony Costello's face. If he wants something from this office, he has to request it in writing. Make this as inconvenient for him as possible. I'm never in when he calls. He never gets in to see me without an appointment. Understand?”

  Phoebe nodded, bouncing her glasses down out of her hair. She shoved them into place, sniffed, and sat up straighter, putting on her bravest face to accept her duty.

  “Now, turn that television up,” Ellen ordered, nodding to the portable set they had perched on a file cabinet. The channel-eleven news camera was homing in on Costello's handsome face. “In the words of Sheriff Steiger, let's see what shit he's throwing at the wall now.”

  An innocent man is free,” Costello began. A cheer went up from the students gathered on the sidewalk behind the press. “Upon reviewing the circumstances and the facts of this case, Judge Grabko has seen fit to grant Dr. Wright bail and reverse the earlier injustice imposed by the prosecution and the late Judge Franken.”

  The afternoon was growing dark with the promise of night and more snow. Portable lights had been set on the steps of the courthouse to illuminate the players in this melodrama. The cameraman was positioned down the steps, shooting up. The effect was dramatic, with the pillars of the courthouse as a backdrop. Costello looked powerful, his shoulders filling the screen in close-ups, his face as masculine and classic as a Roman sculpture. Garrett Wright stood beside him like a pale shadow, the contrast in their builds and coloring giving him an image of delicacy and refinement.

  Hannah stared at him as the camera pulled in close on his face. She watched the press conference on the kitchen television that sat tucked back into a corner on the counter. The ingredients for lasagna were scattered around it. In the family room Lily was dancing to a tune from the talking candlestick in Beauty and the Beast.

  Josh ignored the video, sitting on a stool in front of the picture window, staring out at the lake. He had taken to carrying his backpack around the house with him, as if he felt a need to keep essential items with him in case he was taken away again. The backpack sat on the floor beside his stool, purple and teal and plump with who-knew-what.

  “Dr. Garrett Wright is an innocent man,” Costello said. “The presumption of innocence is his constitutional right.”

  “And what about our rights?” Hannah murmured, glaring at the television.

  Ellen North had called to break the news about the reduced bail. Not only had the new judge reduced the amount of the bail, he had given Wright the option of securing a bond, which meant he had to come up with only ten percent of the actual amount. For ten thousand dollars Garrett Wright could walk out of jail. No amount of money could free Josh from the prison in which Wright had locked his mind.

  “The investigation of Josh Kirkwood's kidnapping was mishandled from the first,” Costello went on, “and right up to the arrest of Dr. Wright—who had never been considered a suspect. He had never been questioned. He had, in fact, offered assistance and had been consulted for his expertise. He was never a suspect.”

  “How do you explain Dr. Wright's capture?” shouted a reporter offscreen.

  Costello fixed him with an eagle eye. “Dr. Wright was not captured. He was attacked. In his own garage, on his own property. That's the truth of this situation. The Deer Lake police department was desperate to make an arrest. Chief Holt lost sight of his suspect during the chase Saturday night, and he grabbed the first person he could. He couldn't let that opportunity slip by when he had already had one suspect die in custody. He needed to arrest somebody and Dr. Wright was handy. But the fact of the matter is, there is a more viable suspect who remains at large. The kidnapping of Dustin Holloman has proved that.”

  “What about the theory of an accomplice?”

  Costello looked disgusted. “Dr. Wright doesn't have accomplices. Dr. Wright has colleagues and students and friends.”

  Another cheer went up from the assembled fans.

  Fury boiled up inside Hannah, and she stabbed the power button on the set. Costello froze midword; then the tube seemed to suck his image inside it, leaving only blankness.

  She knew the attorney was only doing his job. She knew it was up to the prosecution to prove Garrett Wright's guilt. But it made her sick and angry to see Wright portrayed as a victim. Josh was the victim. Their family had been victimized, their lives torn apart.

  She didn't for a second believe Costello's contention that Garrett Wright had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Costello was paid to make his client look innocent. Hannah had known Mitch Holt since the day he and his daughter had moved to Deer Lake, two years before. Mitch couldn't be bought. If Mitch said Garrett Wright was the man, Garrett Wright was the man. On the night of the arrest Mitch had come to the house, wounded and exhausted, and explained every detail of the chase and capture.

  She replayed the scene in her mind as she went through the motions of preparing supper for her children, her hands shaking so badly she spilled tomato sauce on the counter. It splashed across the tile like blood, the color of violence and rage. For a long moment she just stood there staring at it. She thought of Megan O'Malley, beaten, the lifeblood of her career rushing out of her. She thought of that night Mitch had come, the night she'd told Paul it was over between them. The last lifeblood of their marriage had been drained from them. She thought of Josh and the blood that had been drawn from his arm.

  Hannah didn't know if any of them could ever get back what they had lost. And yet Garrett Wright could make a down payment and buy back his freedom. If he wanted, he could come home to the house down the block. He could resume his residence in Lakeside with no regard for the lives he had wrecked at the end of the street. It seemed he could wipe the slate of his conscience clean as easily as she wiped away the spilled sauce on the counter. No consequences. Clean up the mess and forget about it.

  He won't get away with it.

  Ellen had assured her the county attorney's office was working diligently to bring the case to trial and to convict Garrett Wright. Mitch had told her all the law enforcement agencies involved in the Dustin Holloman case were focused on capturing Wright's accomplice. She had to trust the system. She believed in it, believed it worked more often than not. She had to believe in justice.

  He won't get away with it.

  She slid the lasagna into the oven, wiped her hands on a dish towel, and walked down into the family room. The movie was still rolling, but no one seemed to be watching it. Lily was singing a tune of her own composition and her own language, and wiggling around the cherry trunk that served as coffee table. She had pulled a pair of huge pink play sunglasses out of the toy box and wore them at a jaunty angle. Hannah grabbed a discarded baseball cap and plunked it sideways on her daughter's head, finding a smile that had become too rare in the last weeks.

  “Hey, Lily-bug, are you doing the diaper dance?” she asked, squatting down and wiggling her own behind, sending Lily into a giggling frenzy.

  Hannah laughed, amazed at how good that felt. Then her gaze strayed to Josh and the laughter died. He hadn't moved from the
window, his expression hadn't changed. He didn't seem to be with them. His emotional isolation took on magical physical properties—an invisible force field around him that didn't allow him to see or hear or reach out to the people who loved him.

  The idea came with a swift needle stab of pain. A force field was something Josh would have created a story around . . . before. He was fascinated by science fiction, loved to make up his own tales after watching Star Trek: The Next Generation. Since fall he had carried a notebook with him everywhere—his “Think Pad” he called it—to draw pictures of rocket ships and race cars. He had filled the pages with his thoughts and ideas.

  The notebook was gone now, given over to the state crime lab. The kidnapper had used it as one of his taunts, placing it on the hood of Mitch Holt's truck. Another piece of Josh's childhood gone.

  Even as she thought it, Hannah's gaze caught on the sketch pad the county child advocate had given Josh. It lay on the floor, pushed aside, unused, blank. She shivered at the thought that Josh's mind might be that blank. There was no way of knowing as long as he chose not to share his feelings. He had spent another fifty minutes with the psychiatrist that afternoon staring at the woman's aquarium, watching the fish swim back and forth. His only comment had come at the end of the session. He had turned to Dr. Freeman and said, “They're trapped, aren't they? They can see out, but they can never get out.”

  As he sat staring out the window, Hannah couldn't help but wonder if he felt the same way.

  On impulse, she turned away from him and went back through the kitchen to Paul's immaculate home office. He had yet to clean out the room, though she supposed that day would come when he would box up his half of their marriage and take it all away.

  Hannah found what she was looking for on a shelf in the closet, where Paul kept supplies—a brand-new blue spiral notebook. From the organizer on the desk she chose the most exotic-looking pen she could find—a fat red one with a fancy blue clip and a removable cap. She left the office and went into the laundry room, where one cupboard drawer held gift wrap, tape and string and sheets of stickers. Digging through the mess, she found an assortment of stickers she knew would appeal to Josh and used them to decorate the cover of the notebook. With a laundry marker she carefully wrote Josh's New Think Pad across the center of the cover, then at the very bottom printed To Josh From Mom, and finished the line with a heart.