“I was found innocent,” he said. “Never even went to trial.”
“Just because they didn't have enough evidence to convict you, doesn't mean you were innocent. Anyway, the reason you're here is to talk about Glenn Fleming. Why don't we start at the beginning. When did you first meet him?”
“I don't remember meeting a guy by that name.”
Detective James slid a photograph across the table. “Let me refresh your memory. This is Glenn Fleming.”
William glanced at it, scratched his cheek, and shook his head. “Sorry. Never seen him before.”
“Maybe your partner Chloe Goodwin will have something to say. She's on her way here right now.”
William looked up with a flash of concern, but quickly recovered. “Never met her, either.”
“What really happened, William? Maybe you killed Glenn by accident when you robbed his gallery. Accidents do happen.”
“Why would I confess to something I didn't do?”
“Have it your way.”
Detective James bowed his head to view the file in front of him. He flipped the pages and took his time. “Mr. O'Connor, do you own a gun?”
“Several. It's my constitutional right.”
“Proper licenses and registrations for all of them I presume?”
“Of course.”
Detective James looked up from the file and smiled. “Tell me about your restaurant, Barbecue Billy's. How long have you owned it?”
“Since 1991.”
“Over twenty years. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
“Now tell me about your little side business, Mr. O'Connor.”
“What side business?”
“Illegal gun distribution,” Detective James said.
William chuckled. “No idea what you're talking about.”
“Thing is, we've been watching you for years. I have to say, you cover your tracks pretty well. But eventually, even the most clever operators make mistakes. Greed is usually a factor.”
William remained silent.
A faint buzzing sound prompted Detective James to consult his phone. A broad smile appeared on his face. “Guess what, Mr. O'Connor. We got the results of the boot print. An exact match to the ones found at the crime scenes. We can now charge you with armed robbery, which carries a maximum fifteen year sentence.”
William shook his head. “This is bullshit.”
“William O'Connor, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent.”
After being read his Miranda rights, William leaned forward. “Okay, look. If I tell you everything I know … if I confess to my part in all of this, what can you offer me?”
“If you confess to armed robbery and manslaughter, it's likely you'll escape the death penalty. But you'll need to tell me everything before any lawyers get involved.”
“Okay, okay.” William rubbed his face, his tough exterior rapidly fading away. “That guy Glenn contacted me. I thought he wanted to buy a gun, but he had a different job in mind.”
“What kind of job?”
“He offered me money to help him commit suicide.”
Detective James stared. “Why would Mr. Fleming hire you to kill him?”
“He said he needed his death to look like a murder so his wife could collect his life insurance. It was all his idea for me to rob the other galleries. Said it would help prove a burglar shot him. I thought it was too risky, but he offered me five grand. Five hundred up front, and forty-five hundred on Friday night when I showed up at his gallery to shoot him.”
Detective James leaned back and sighed in frustration. “From the beginning. And start with the first time you met Glenn Fleming.”
“Glenn found an ad I placed on Craigslist. I listed my services as a “freelance supplier. When Glenn explained what he wanted and told me he was willing to pay big, I didn't want to do it at first. I thought the guy was tapped in the head.”
“Did he explain why he wanted to die?”
“He didn't want to discuss it, but it was obvious he'd been thinking about it long and hard because he already had a plan.”
“That's quite a story, Mr. O'Connor. Do you have something in writing? A contract, perhaps, with Glenn's signature?”
“Well, no.”
“Do you have any proof? Maybe a recording of the conversation?”
“No.”
Detective James shook his head. “
“I'm telling you the truth,” William said.
“I see what you're trying to do, Mr. O'Connor. You're trying to manipulate the justice system. If Glenn's death is ruled a suicide, the murder charge would go away. But there's no evidence to support that Glenn Fleming hired you to kill him. I think whatever business you guys had went bad, and you decided to seek revenge.”
William closed his eyes, shook his head, and uttered something under his breath.
“What's that, Mr. O'Conner? Maybe I should leave you here alone for a few hours to come up with a more believable story.”
Detective James left the interrogation room and joined me next door. He paced the small room, hands on hips. “Does this guy think we're stupid or what? I can tell you right now, the prosecution is going to have a field day with this one. I have to talk to the chief, so … what are you going to do?”
I checked my cell phone. “I called Elizabeth a few hours ago to give her an update of what's going on, but she hasn't called me back. I'm afraid to tell her about all of this.”
“Maybe you should wait,” he said. “It's not worth upsetting her. I have a feeling Mr. O'Connor will change his story. Maybe you should head home and check back later.”
“Okay.”
“By the way, Sarah, great work. Thanks to you, we've got him good.”
When I left the police station around 5:45 p.m., I headed straight to the Hometown Diner. I was starving and I needed some caffeine. The place wasn't crowded and I was thankful for that. I needed peaceful surroundings to help clear my head. This business with William O'Connor and his confession about Glenn had my insides tied up in knots.
I ordered the dinner special – Chicken Parmesan with roasted vegetables – and a black coffee. While I waited, I called Elizabeth again. This time she answered.
“Sarah,” she said, sounding breathless. “I was just about to call you. I'm sorry I didn't answer my phone before. I was meeting with someone from the auction house. He's decided to take most of the paintings that weren't on consignment. Anyway, do you have news?”
“Yes,” I said and hesitated. “Maybe we should talk in person.”
“Okay. Good news, or bad?”
“Um, it's kind of a mixed bag.”
“Sarah, please. Just tell me over the phone.”
I took a deep breath and let it out. “The police have a man in custody. He confessed to the crime.”
“What? Are you serious? He confessed to shooting my husband? Who is he?”
“His name is William O'Connor. I found him through Chloe Goodwin. Did Glenn ever mention him to you?”
“No. Doesn't sound familiar. Is he an art thief?”
“No. He owns a restaurant, but he's also involved in the sale of illegal weapons.” I hesitated. “There's something else. Maybe I should meet you back at the police station. Detective James can explain this better.”
“But this is good news, right? I mean, if he confessed then he's going to jail. Did the police find the gun?”
“Not yet. They're probably searching the guy's home and business as we speak. Look, Elizabeth, I'm about to eat dinner right now, but I can be back at the station in half an hour. Let's meet there?”
“No need for you to rush through dinner. Take your time. You deserve it. And thank you, Sarah. I just knew you could do this. I'm so grateful. I'll see you in a bit.”
“Okay.”
When the call ended, my dinner arrived. I wasn't so hungry anymore.
* * *
By 6:25 p.m. I was back at the police station. I noticed
Elizabeth's late model Volvo parked in the lot and wondered what time she had arrived. Had Detective James already told her about William O'Connor's confession? The selfish part of me hoped he had, so I wouldn't have to see the look of shock and confusion on her face. Maybe O'Connor had changed his story.
Just when I was about to exit my car, my cell phone rang. I expected to see Elizabeth's number pop up, but it wasn't her. When I noticed the 312 area code, a knot formed in my chest.
“Hello?” I said.
“Um, is this Sarah Woods?” a soft, elderly woman's voice asked.
“Yes. Speaking.”
“My name is Judith Fleming. I'm returning your call in reference to my son, Glenn?”
I hesitated in order to swallow the lump in my throat. I hadn't expected a call from Glenn's mother so soon, but here she was. “Yes, that's right,” I said. “Thanks for calling me back. I … I'm afraid I have some unfortunate news about your son.”
“He's dead, isn't he?” The voice sounded fearful, yet resigned.
“I'm afraid so. Glenn's wife Elizabeth hired me to find you. She thought you had a right to know. Please accept my condolences.”
“Ms. Woods?” Her tone seemed more urgent. “Can you tell me what happened to Glenn? Please.”
“He was shot during a burglary at his art gallery.”
A long pause. “Is the killer behind bars?”
“He's in custody. Mrs. Fleming, I know this must be so hard for you. I truly am sorry for your loss.”
I could hear her breathing on the other end. Finally she cleared her throat and said, “This is all about Glenn's sister, Esther. She was killed when she was ten years old. It was a tragedy that Glenn could never recover from. All the therapy and drugs couldn't get him right. We tried everything we could to convince him that accidents happen, and he needed to forgive himself.”
“Wait,” I said. “I don't understand. I thought his sister died in a car accident? And I'm sorry to be so blunt, but the information I received indicated that your husband was the one driving the car.”
She sighed. “I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Glenn could never come to grips with it all. It was easier for him to blame his father and me for Esther's death, especially when we had to admit him to a psychiatric hospital for a month because he tried to commit suicide. All we wanted to do was help. You see, my son battled with alcohol since the age of twelve. He was drunk the day he drove his sister to her friend's house. He was only fifteen, and had just gotten his driver's license the month before. I had no idea he'd been drinking, or else I never would have agreed to let him take the car. He was a juvenile, so it never appeared on his permanent record, nor did his name appear in the newspaper. But just the same, he was never able to get over it. The guilt continued to eat him alive. I always wondered if he would get married and be able to live a normal life. I'm glad to hear that he was able to find that.”
I could barely breathe as the blood rushed to my head. I felt dizzy and weak, and said the first thing that came to me. “Thank you for sharing your story with me, Mrs. Fleming. I can't even imagine what that was like.”
“When Glenn's father died a few years ago, I tried to contact Glenn. I sent a few letters, but never got a response until about a month ago. He sent me a beautiful card, but all he wrote inside were a few simple words. 'I love you, Mom. I'm sorry.' I cried for days, just grateful for those simple words. I'd longed for them for thirty years.”
“When did you receive the note in the mail?” I asked.
“It was around the end of March.”
“He must have sent it to you just days before he died.”
A long pause. “You mean my son died a month ago? What day, exactly?”
“Friday, March twenty-ninth,” I said.
I heard her gasp. “The same day Esther died. That … that can't be just a coincidence.”
“Do you … do you think your son could have staged his own suicide?” I asked.
“He was a troubled soul,” she said. “But why? After so many years of dealing with his pain, why would he suddenly give up? Something else must have triggered it. Was he drinking again?”
“I don't think so. He had been gambling, but it appears as though it was no longer a problem. However, his wife Elizabeth told me she had threatened to divorce Glenn just a few weeks before he died. She explained to me her frustration over his lack of emotional and physical involvement. I wonder if that pushed him over the edge.”
“I hope you'll tell her for me that it's not her fault. Glenn has been like that ever since Esther's death. He was pleasant and friendly on the outside, but I think he was dead on the inside.”
“Mrs. Fleming, does the word mockingbird mean anything to you?”
“Why do you ask?”
“It was Glenn's password to his computer. I could never figure out what it meant to him.”
“It was Esther's favorite song. Very popular back in the seventies. Apparently, she was singing it in the car just before Glenn crashed into the fire hydrant. In the months following her death, I'd hear Glenn humming the song to himself at night when he couldn't sleep.”
I took a deep breath, blinking away my tears. “Glenn's wife expressed an interest in meeting you, or at least talking on the phone. If you’re interested, I'll give you her number.”
“Yes. I would like that very much.”
* * *
I walked into the police station with a heavy heart. Elizabeth was talking to Detective James in his office. As they looked over a file on his desk, they both looked up at me.
“How was dinner?” she asked. “I got here a few minutes ago. Detective James was just about to explain what's going on.”
“I just got a call from Mrs. Fleming,” I said.
“Glenn's mother?” Elizabeth asked, her eyebrows arched. “How did she take the news? Oh, it must have been awful.”
“Yes, it was.” I took a few steps toward the pair and addressed the detective. “Has William O'Connor changed his story since I left?”
Detective James looked at Elizabeth, then back to me. “Um, no, he hasn't changed his story. He's sticking to it like glue as a matter of fact. I was just about to tell Mrs. Fleming that I got a call about ten minutes ago. My guys searched O'Connor's home and found some guns. One of them might be the murder weapon. Forensics is working on it as we speak. We also found a few burner phones at the home. I've got a guy working on those to recover any deleted voice or text messages.”
Elizabeth regarded us with confusion. “Wait a minute. What is his story?”
I turned to Detective James. “I think William O'Connor is telling the truth about Glenn.”
He jerked his head back in surprise. “What?”
I nodded solemnly and proceeded to explain the conversation I'd had with Glenn's mother. When I was finished Elizabeth's face turned pale. She collapsed into a chair and hung her head. “This doesn't make sense,” she said, looking up. “Yes, I told Glenn I wanted a divorce. But that morning he died, I told you, he had changed. He came to me and cried for the first time. He said he was sorry for everything. I thought it was a new beginning for us.”
“That was probably his way of saying good-bye,” I said. “He sent his mother a card, basically doing the same thing. The significance of the day he chose to die – his sister's death – only confirms he had probably planned this himself.”
Elizabeth leaned forward, cupping her eyes. “I can't believe he would do this to me. I just don't. Glenn wasn't that selfish. I know he must have been suffering, but … how was I supposed to know about his sister? He never told me. How was I supposed to know he'd want to end his life if I left him? I thought he didn't love me anymore.”
I went to sit next to her and squeezed her arm. “This is not your fault, Elizabeth.”
“Please. Just give me a minute.”
She started to cry, so Detective James gathered up his file and gestured to me. When we exited his office he looked at me with a determined, yet baffled exp
ression. “I'm going to need Glenn's mother's phone number. I'll want to corroborate the story you just told me.”
“Yes, of course.”
“If Glenn has a history of suicide attempts, O'Connor just might be able to beat murder in the first. But murder is murder, for profit or not. I'm still determined this guy will spend the rest of his life in jail. But I'll need all the help I can get. He finally contacted a lawyer, by the way. This game is going to change very soon. I'm sure the attorney will try to discredit his confession somehow, so we'll need hard evidence to prove he shot Glenn in the first place.”
“Is there anything else I can do?” I asked.
He gently squeezed my shoulder. “Maybe you can keep an eye on your client for a few hours. Make sure she's okay. I'm worried about her.”
“Why? Do you think she might try to hurt herself?”
He shrugged. “You never know how guilt will affect people.”
* * *
The cafeteria at the police station was empty at 8:25 as I sat with Elizabeth, drinking coffee. She barely looked at me as she sipped, hands cupped around the mug. Her eyes were swollen, with mascara running down her face. I handed her a napkin, wishing I could say something to bring her consolation, but I knew there were no words. She didn't want to go home. The news of her husband's alleged suicide must have felt like a reopened wound, likely more painful than the initial news of his death over a month ago.
I heard a noise and looked up to find Detective James walking toward our table, a device in his hand. There was softness in his expression that gave me hope.
I sat up straight.
He sat down at our table and addressed Elizabeth, a weary smile on his face. “Mrs. Fleming, my tech expert in the forensics lab was able to recover a deleted voice message from one of O'Connor's burner phones. I think you should hear it.”
Elizabeth looked up. “What is it?”
“We believe it's your husband’s voice, but we need you to confirm it for us, okay?”
Her eyes grew wide. She swallowed hard and nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “The quality of this recording is not the best. You'll have to listen closely. Here we go.”
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