Guilty as Sin

by Tami Hoag

  A weird twilight quality to the afternoon. The sky leaden, snow falling thick and heavy. A forest of black, winter-dead trees surrounded the property.

  “I decided to go back to my vehicle and radio for backup,” she said.

  Her heart beat a little harder. She was moving past the shed. Thirty feet and she would be clear of it. She got no farther than fifteen.

  “Someone burst out of the shed.”

  The first blow struck with a power that sent her sprawling headlong. The gun flew out of her hand. She could see it, sailing away, falling, disappearing into the snow. She lunged toward it, kicking, flailing like a beached swimmer.

  “I—I tried to get the gun. He came down on top of me.”

  Black clothing, ski mask, eyes, and a mouth. A short black club swinging down at her.

  “He . . . struck me,” she said, the tension building in her chest. “With a baton—um—like a nightstick. Hard.”

  Again and again. Hitting her shoulder. Hitting her a glancing blow off the side of her head. Striking her right hand as she held it up in defense, the blow so vicious that the pain roared up her arm and exploded in her brain.

  The memory of the pain brought a wave of nausea. She pulled a slow, unsteady breath deep into her lungs.

  “I lost consciousness,” she said quietly.

  “When you regained consciousness, where were you?”

  “Tied to a chair. I don't know the location.”

  “Can you describe the surroundings?”

  “I was blindfolded. I had only a small wedge of vision at the bottom of the blindfold.”

  Ellen paused, resting a hand on the smooth old wood of the witness stand as gently as if it were Megan's hand. From this close she could see that Megan's ashen pallor had nothing to do with the quality of the lighting, and that despite the coolness of the room, a fine film of perspiration misted her forehead.

  “Megan, I realize this is difficult for you,” she said, with genuine sympathy. “But will you tell us what happened while you were held captive in this place?”

  Megan swallowed hard. Control. She was a cop. She had testified a million times.

  She had never been a victim.

  She turned a narrow gaze on Garrett Wright, sitting so calm, beaming false innocence, and damned him to the vilest, blackest corner of hell.

  “He . . . beat me . . . repeatedly,” she said, cursing the tears that filled her eyes. Damned if she would let them fall. “He choked me. He talked about killing me—maybe he would, maybe he wouldn't. He talked about taking Josh. He called it a game.”

  “And he made you a pawn in his game, didn't he?”

  “He told me I would be their next move.” And the sense of helplessness and humiliation had nearly been worse than the pain.

  “Agent O'Malley, even though you couldn't see your assailant's face, you came to a conclusion about his identity. How did you arrive at this conclusion?”

  “Only two people knew I had gone to Priest's home, Garrett Wright being one of them. He had also seen me examining the skid marks at the accident site. If he was involved, he would have known I was onto something.

  “I had met and spoken with Dr. Wright on several occasions. I was familiar with his patterns of speech. I knew his height in relation to my own. I had also noticed he had a pronounced habit of rocking back on his heels. I could see a section of floor beside my chair. I saw his boots, saw him rocking back on his heels while he went on and on about how brilliant he was,” she said bitterly.

  “And did he say anything specific that rang a bell with you?”

  “Yes. I asked him why he had singled out Josh, why the Kirkwoods? With great contempt he said, ‘Why not? Such a perfect little family.' When I had spoken with Dr. Wright earlier in the day, he used the same phrase to describe the Kirkwoods—‘such a perfect family.' ”

  Ellen walked away from the stand, letting the testimony hang there, not only for Grabko, but for the press as well. Let them look at Megan, bruised and beaten; let them look at the well-dressed, well-groomed man who stood accused and begin to realize what a monster they had in their midst.

  Slipping her reading glasses on, Ellen chose a report from the documents Cameron had spread out on the table.

  “The injuries you suffered at the hands of this man were severe, weren't they?”

  “Yes.”

  “According to the medical report, marked people's exhibit C, you sustained a concussion, multiple severe contusions, bruised kidneys, cracked ribs, damage to your right knee. Nearly every bone in your right hand sustained multiple fractures—extensive damage that will require a number of operations if you're to have any hope of regaining mobility.”

  She paused, looking up at Megan with sympathy, with apology. “Agent O'Malley, considering the extent of the damage to your hand, can you realistically hope you'll ever be able to resume your full duties as a field agent for the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension?”

  The question hit Megan like a brick to the solar plexus. The answer was one she had evaded and denied and lain awake nights contemplating. It scared the hell out of her. All she had ever wanted in life was to be a good cop. And if she couldn't be a cop, then what was she—who was she?

  The tears blurred her vision, and she blinked furiously as she lifted her chin to a proud angle. “It's not likely. No.”

  Ellen glared at Costello. “Your witness.”

  He rose, his expression cool, unmoved, his brows drawing together as he consulted a newspaper clipping. “I have to confess, I'm a little confused here, Agent O'Malley. You've told the court you were investigating aspects of the Kirkwood abduction on the twenty-second. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “But according to an article in the Star Tribune, dated Saturday, January twenty-second, you had already been officially relieved of your post, temporarily suspended from active duty. According to your special agent in charge, Bruce DePalma, you had been replaced in the Deer Lake region by Agent Martin Wilhelm the day before because of your mishandling of the investigation.”

  “That's a lie,” Megan said sharply.

  Costello arched a brow. “You're calling your special agent in charge a liar?”

  “No, Mr. Costello,” she said plainly. “I'm calling you a liar.”

  Judge Grabko gave a little jolt in his seat, scowling ferociously. “Agent O'Malley, I expect a certain decorum in my courtroom. Especially from those in law enforcement.”

  Megan made no effort to apologize. If the pompous old fart wanted contrition, he'd damn well have to ask for it.

  Costello pressed on, having no desire to break his rhythm. “You'd been working the case for ten days with no satisfactory result. One suspect had died in custody—”

  “Objection,” Ellen snapped, rising. “There's no point to this attack. Agent O'Malley isn't on trial.”

  “Your Honor, we feel Agent O'Malley's status with the BCA, as well as her mental state on the twenty-second, are very much factors here—”

  “This is a hearing, Mr. Costello,” Ellen said, “not a trial. You have the right to cross-examine the witnesses, not impeach them.”

  Grabko smacked his gavel down. “This is my courtroom, Ms. North. I will oversee the implementation of the rules.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” she said tightly. “Please do.”

  “Objection overruled. Please continue, Mr. Costello.”

  Costello stepped out from behind the table and sauntered into the open area in front of the bench. “Had you been directed by Special Agent in Charge DePalma to appear at BCA headquarters in St. Paul on Saturday the twenty-second?”

  “Yes,” Megan admitted grudgingly.

  “And yet you were wandering around Deer Lake, looking at skid marks, asking questions—by your own admission, continuing an investigation that you no longer had any connection to. Is that correct?”

  “No. I still felt a very strong connection to the case. Josh was still missing. I still had questions. I felt obligated t
o try to get answers. Appearing at headquarters did not outweigh the need to find a child in danger and apprehend the creep responsible.”

  “So you defied direct orders from your superior?”

  “Delayed.”

  “Because you didn't want to let go of the case?”

  “I may not have been agent in charge of the investigation any longer, but I was still a cop,” Megan said. “I felt a moral obligation.”

  “There was quite a lot of hoopla surrounding your assignment to the Deer Lake region, wasn't there?” Costello asked, changing lanes with the skill of a Grand Prix driver.

  “I guess.”

  “You're being modest. You were the first woman in the history of the BCA to hold a field post. Isn't that right?” he said with phony amazement.

  “Yes.”

  “There was a great deal of pressure on you to solve the Kirkwood case? More so than if you had been a man?”

  “I wouldn't know,” Megan said, deadpan. “I've never been a man.”

  Snickers rattled through the gallery. Grabko bumped his gavel and glared at them.

  “The press was scrutinizing, quite literally, your every move,” Costello went on. “Headquarters was breathing down your neck. You were operating under tremendous stress. Is that a fair assessment?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you wanted very badly to solve the case? In fact, your very career was riding on it?”

  “I wanted to solve the case. That was my job.”

  “You were desperate?”

  “Determined.”

  Costello turned his profile to the gallery and smiled the charming, wide, white smile, shaking his head. “You have a stubborn propensity for rationalization, Agent O'Malley.”

  “Objection!” Ellen snapped.

  “Sustained. Please confine yourself to questions, Mr. Costello.”

  He nodded slightly and moved back to the defense table. Dorman sat at attention like a trick poodle, holding out the proper statement, which Costello accepted and paged through.

  “Agent O'Malley, at any time during the course of the investigation, was Dr. Wright considered a suspect in the disappearance of Josh Kirkwood?”

  “No. Not until he abducted and assaulted me and Chief Holt ran him down.”

  A muscle ticked in Costello's jaw. His dark eyes flashed as he turned toward Grabko. The judge leaned over the witness stand, temper rouging his cheeks above his beard.

  “Agent O'Malley, I'm quite certain you know better than to answer in such a manner. Do so again and you may be held in contempt.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” She tipped her head in a way that would seem deferential to Grabko but kept him from seeing her eyes.

  “Isn't it true,” Costello went on, “that in fact you had considered a number of other people as suspects, including Paul Kirkwood?”

  “As dictated by standard operating procedures involving abductions, the immediate family was considered as part of the dual investigation.”

  “You were a little more rigorous in your consideration of Paul Kirkwood than someone just going through the motions.”

  Megan narrowed her eyes at him. “I'm a good cop. I never ‘just go through the motions.' ”

  “That's admirable. So you were dead serious when you brought Mr. Kirkwood in to be fingerprinted?”

  “Mr. Kirkwood was fingerprinted for elimination purposes only.”

  “You spoke with Dr. Wright and his student on the twenty-second,” Costello said, switching tacks again. “But you actually went to Harris College in search of Professor Christopher Priest. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I wanted to ask him some questions.”

  “Did you consider him a suspect?”

  “There was that possibility.”

  “You gave Dr. Wright the impression that you would be going out to Christopher Priest's residence later that day. Can you say whether or not Dr. Wright or Todd Childs might have spoken about that afterward with other people?”

  “I couldn't say.”

  “Is it possible your conversation might have been overheard by someone in the hall outside the office?”

  “I couldn't say.”

  “So you can't conclusively say that Dr. Wright was only one of two people who knew you were going to Professor Priest's home?”

  “To my knowledge, he was.”

  “What time was it when you arrived at Priest's home?”

  “Approximately one forty-five P.M.”

  Costello arched a brow for his audience. “But Dr. Wright had specified Priest wouldn't be back until around two-thirty. Why did you get there so early?”

  Megan cocked her head to a belligerent angle. “I wanted to be there to welcome him home.”

  “Agent O'Malley,” Grabko cautioned.

  “You considered him a suspect,” Costello said.

  “Asked and answered,” Ellen said wearily, rising. “Your Honor, can we ask Mr. Costello to cut to the chase here? It simply isn't relevant whether there was one suspect or a dozen. Dr. Wright is the man who was apprehended.”

  Grabko's face tightened as if he wanted to deny her but couldn't. “Let's move on, Mr. Costello.”

  Costello didn't bat an eye. “Agent O'Malley, did you see the face of the person who attacked you at the Priest residence?”

  He hit her from the side, sent her sprawling. The gun flew out of her hand. . . .

  “No.”

  “Did you see the face of the person who assaulted you while you were held at this undisclosed location?”

  The pain came from all directions at once, striking her shoulder, her knee, her hand, again and again.

  “Agent O'Malley?”

  “I saw his feet.”

  Costello looked indignant. “And on the basis of that you would have us try a respected member of the community for heinous crimes?”

  “No! I—”

  “Did you recognize his voice?”

  “You think we'll kill you, clever girl? You wouldn't be the first by a long, long way. . . .” A whisper, soft, disembodied . . .

  “No, but—”

  Costello wheeled away from her. “You didn't see him, couldn't recognize him, he never spoke his name,” he said, his voice growing louder with every syllable. He flung her written statement down onto the table and turned back toward her. “Is there anything you can tell us, former Agent O'Malley, that should make us believe your conclusion that your assailant was Dr. Garrett Wright is anything more than the desperate grasping of a woman who'd bungled the case and had to do something to keep her career from going down the toilet?”

  “Objection!” Ellen shouted.

  Grabko pounded for order.

  The sounds were blocked in Megan's mind by the white noise of fury. The fine thread on her control snapped, and the rage poured through her and out of her.

  “I can tell you he's guilty!” she shouted, coming up out of her seat. “I can tell you he's a sick son of bitch who thinks it's a game to steal children and ruin lives, and he deserves worse than anything this court will do to him!”

  “Order!” Grabko screamed, pounding like a carpenter. The head snapped off his gavel and sailed at the defense table. “Order!”

  The bailiff started toward the witness stand, but jumped back at the sight of Megan's crutch.

  Megan's focus was on Costello, who stood no more than a foot away, his face calm, his dark eyes bright, the barest hint of a smile tightening the corners of his mouth.

  Oh, God, O'Malley, you played right into his hands. Way to go.

  She had to appear just exactly as he had wanted to paint her—obsessed, biased, out of control. Desperate. The realization made her feel ill, dizzy. She sank weakly back into her chair and closed her eyes.

  “No further questions,” Costello said, and walked calmly back toward his client.

  CHAPTER 31

  The State calls Chief of Police Mitch Holt,” Ellen said calmly, as if her first witne
ss hadn't just been hustled out of the courtroom.

  She didn't blame Megan for losing her poise. Considering what Wright had put her through, it was a wonder she hadn't pulled a gun and shot him—and Costello, too, while she was at it. The big question in Ellen's mind was what impact Megan's emotional testimony would have. The press might take her side—or not—but Grabko was clearly pissed off. This hearing was his show and Megan had upstaged him. Would he look at her testimony and see anything but red?

  With luck Mitch would settle the judge and the gallery. He made an excellent witness—businesslike, his face set in the stony no-nonsense expression of a veteran detective. He took the stand and swore the oath, his gaze fixed on the defense table.

  “Chief Holt, will you please tell the court about the events that occurred on the night of January twenty-second?” Ellen prompted.

  “At approximately eight forty-five P.M. I received a call from Agent O'Malley,” Mitch said. “She was in obvious distress. She wasn't allowed to say much. Then an unidentified male came on the line and instructed me to go alone to the southwest entrance of Quarry Hills Park at nine-fifteen.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “He said they had a present for me, that they wanted to win ‘the game.' ”

  “And you went to the park as instructed?”

  “Not as instructed. I immediately sent an unmarked car with two officers to the southeast entrance of the park, another to the southwest, and came into the park myself on foot from the west.”

  “Where the park adjoins the Lakeside neighborhood?”

  “Yes. I waited in the cover of the trees. At nine-oh-five a late-model GMC four-by-four truck entered the park, drove some distance along the road, and stopped. The driver got out, went to the passenger side and let the passenger out, then marched her approximately thirty feet back to the south.”

  Megan, limping heavily, unquestionably badly injured. The fury he had felt then burned again like a coal.

  “A struggle ensued between them,” he stated flatly. “I ran out from the woods with my weapon drawn, announced myself as a police officer, and ordered them to freeze.”

  “At this point, did you recognize either person?”

  “Yes. I recognized Agent O'Malley. The assailant was wearing a ski mask.”