Raoul laughed. “Oh, no, Katherine. I won’t be confessing. You see, it will be your fingerprints on the knife and, with your history of, shall we say, mental unbalance, it will be a no-brainer for the authorities to charge you with the murder.”
I stared at him, speechless. All of this had been carefully orchestrated. And my father had paid the ultimate price.
“Here,” he said handing me my cell. “I don’t need this and you might want to avail yourself of a good attorney.”
Then he waved his hand, as if dismissing me, and pulled his own phone from his pocket.
I wanted to stay and scratch his eyes out, but I knew I had little time left.
“You’ll pay for this, Raoul,” I said. “You and Hettie. I won’t let get you get away with it.”
He stared at me, then turned and began speaking into the phone.
I fled the room.
Late July, 2017
Storm Island, Maine
I STOOD HIDDEN in a copse of trees while they wheeled the gurney carrying my father’s body to the waiting ambulance. Knowing I would be arrested soon, I tore myself away from the scene and, suppressing my grief, hurried back to the carriage house.
My goose was cooked. The only thing that could corroborate my story was Mom’s journal and that I had lost somewhere in the tunnels during my encounter with Vlad.
I could go look for it, but I was pretty sure I wouldn’t find it. I’d made a mistake mentioning it to Hettie. She, most likely, passed the information on to Raoul and he would send Vlad to fetch it. No, the journal couldn’t help me now.
But feeling sorry for myself wouldn’t help either. Time was rapidly slipping away. I was lucky that all this happened on Storm – an island where things moved much more slowly than on the mainland. It would take the police a while longer to sort things out since they didn’t have ready access to a crime lab or other investigative facilities here.
Quickly, I stripped off my clothes which were streaked with my father’s blood and walked over to the sink to wash my hands and arms. Then I threw on fresh pair of jeans and a T-shirt.
I wrapped my ruined jeans and sweatshirt in an old towel and took them outside to hide behind the woodpile. The police would, I was sure, eventually find them, but, at least for now, they were out of plain sight.
The offending articles gone, I hurried back to the living room where my tablet was charging. Quickly, I Googled “criminal attorneys in southern Maine” and began reviewing the results. I settled on one, a Matt Snyder. He was young, a few years older than me, but was considered one of the best in the area.
Nodding, I pulled out my cell and sent him a text, then entered his number, along with those of three other attorneys, into my address book.
I walked to the window. A police cruiser, followed by a dark sedan, had just pulled into my driveway. A man stepped out of the sedan and I recognized him as one I had seen wearing an overcoat outside of Stormview. He was, most likely, the detective in charge.
He stared at the carriage house for a moment, then directed one of the uniformed officers to go around back. Apparently, he was concerned that I would flee the scene.
I sent another text as I waited for them to knock on my door. I started to shut down my phone when it chimed letting me know I had a message.
I opened it.
It was from Snyder. It was brief and to the point. He would meet me at the station and I was to keep my lips zipped until then.
A loud rapping on the front door startled me. The man in the overcoat apparently had his minions in place, assuring that I would not escape, and was now ready to confront me.
I took a deep breath to steady myself, then I opened the door.
“Yes,” I said. “Can I help you?”
The man in the overcoat did not smile.
“Dr. Pomeroy?”
“Yes, I’m Dr. Pomeroy. May I ask who you are?”
“I’m Detective Branch from the Portland Police. May I come in?”
I stood firm. “May I see some identification?”
The detective frowned, but pulled his golden badge from his pocket. It confirmed his identity and also informed me that he was with the Homicide Division.
Handing the badge back to him, I smiled as I stepped aside to allow him entry.
“What can I do for you, Detective?” I asked, trying to look as innocent as possible.
“There’s been a death at Stormview. Someone you know.”
My heart was pounding, but I continued to put on a pretense of ignorance.
“Someone I know? Oh, dear, it’s not Hettie or Raoul, is it?”
“No, the deceased has been identified as Dr. Hamilton Pomeroy, your father. And, he didn’t just die. He was murdered.”
I gripped the back of the sofa, feigning shock. “My father … he’s dead? How? Who would want to hurt him?”
The detective took a step closer to me. “That’s what I’m here to find out. Where were you between seven p.m. and nine p.m. tonight?”
“Why, right here. I was tired and planned on making it an early night.”
“Can anyone corroborate that?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
Branch didn’t answer, but instead began pacing around the room. What he was looking for, I didn’t know. Maybe my bloody clothing.
He finally stopped and faced me again. “We’d like you to come to the mainland for an interview.”
“Sure,” I answered, nodding. “If you give me the address, I can catch a water taxi in the morning.”
“No, not in the morning. We’d like you to come with us right now.”
I looked confused. “But how would I get back? And, really, I have to make some calls … let people know about my dad.”
I let my voice break as I said those last words and somehow conjured up tears that now fell freely down my cheeks.
But the detective gave me no sympathy. “I’m afraid I have to insist,” he said.
As he spoke he motioned to one of the uniformed officers who had entered my house behind him, to his side.
“Read her her rights and cuff her,” he said to the officer. “Dr. Katherine Pomeroy, I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Dr. Hamilton Pomeroy.”
He stepped aside and let the officer cuff me and read me my rights. I only half-listened, intent on watching Branch as he pulled his cell from his pocket and speed dialed.
I caught the gist of his conversation. He was waiting for a judge to issue a search warrant for the carriage house. Apparently, he couldn’t proceed further until one was granted.
He then walked around to the back door to let in the second officer.
“You stay here,” he instructed the man. “I don’t want anyone messing around in this building until we get that warrant.”
“Yes, sir.”
Then, he turned back to the first officer, who now held me by the arm. “Take Dr. Pomeroy to the cruiser and call the boat and tell them we’re on our way.”
“Yes, sir.”
The officer escorted me to the waiting vehicle and, being careful to avoid my hitting my head on the way in, secured me in the backseat. He then returned briefly to the house.
Sitting in the rear of the police cruiser, the full impact of my situation washed over me, and, for a moment, panic began to set in. I slid along the bench to the far side, behind the driver’s seat. The passenger door would open up onto the woods and I knew, if I got that far, I could find a deer path that would eventually lead me to the shore. But what would I do then and where would I go? And, besides, the door was for sure locked and there would be no way for me to open it.
No, I was better off not even trying. I would have to play out this farce and put my life in Matt Snyder’s hands. I would be booked and fingerprinted and, possibly, have to spend a night in jail. But I was confident that Snyder would get me out on bail and it was for that eventuality that I needed to plan.
Arrested
IT TOOK ABOUT forty-five minutes to get to
the station. The rain had finally let up so I didn’t need to worry about getting drenched walking from the car to the front door. A uniformed policeman kept a firm hold on my elbow as he escorted me up the steps. Detective Branch followed.
Once inside, I noticed a man in animated conversation with the officer who was manning the night desk. He turned when we walked in. I recognized him immediately. It was Matt Snyder.
“Where are we going?” I asked the policemen who was in charge of me.
“Booking.”
“What will happen there?”
“They’ll take your fingerprints and mug shot, collect your valuables … stuff like that.”
He started to escort me from the room, but Matt moved to block our path.
“Dr. Pomeroy, I presume,” he said, smiling at me.
“Yes, and you must be Mr. Snyder.”
“One and the same.”
He gave me a nod, then turned to my escort.
“Dr. Pomeroy is my client and, after you complete the booking process, I expect to sit down with her and talk – alone. In between, there will be no questioning. Got it?”
My officer nodded, but Branch, who was watching the encounter intently, looked positively pissed. He approached Snyder.
“Matt, good to see you,” he said, feigning congeniality. “I take it you’ve been engaged to defend Dr. Pomeroy?”
“Yes, I have,” he replied.
“Well, we need to get a statement from her as soon as possible and, perhaps, we can clear all this up without undue complications. Why don’t we all sit down and talk after she’s booked?”
Matt’s face became deadly serious. “Dr. Pomeroy will make a statement when I advise her to. Not before. First, I need time alone with my client. Until that happens, she’s not speaking to anyone.”
“Matt, be reasonable. We have her dead to rights – two eyewitnesses and, I’ll bet you dollars to donuts, her fingerprints will be all over the murder weapon. She’s got a history of mental illness, you know. It would be to her advantage to come clean about what happened and, if she does, perhaps the D.A. will agree to a plea.”
Matt grinned. “Perhaps your ‘eyewitnesses’ are not as reliable as you think. Maybe they have a stake in all this and are counting on Dr. Pomeroy’s conviction. No. No one speaks with Dr. Pomeroy until I say so. Is that clear?”
Obviously not happy with this turn of events, Branch nodded, then, without saying a word, turned and stalked off.
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” I said to my attorney.
“No problem. Now you let this officer guide you through the booking process. It’s a bit humiliating, but just grit your teeth and bare it. As soon as it’s over, we’ll talk.”
He patted me on the shoulder, nodded to my officer, then walked away.
I watched him go. Matt Snyder was a wickedly handsome man. Tall with sandy-blonde hair worn just a tad too long, he looked more like a surfer dude than a top-notch criminal lawyer. His eyes were an icy blue and I could imagine him making his summation to a jury, mesmerizing every woman, young and old, on the panel. I was glad I had chosen him.
My thoughts were broken as my escort once again took me by the elbow and steered me to the booking area. There, I was fingerprinted and photographed. They took inventory of all my personal belongings and had me sign a form attesting to them. Then I was taken to another room where a policewoman did a body search and stood in attendance as I changed into an orange jumpsuit.
Finally, I was taken to my cell.
As the policewoman closed the door, I shuddered. Just days before, I had been walking the beach, hand in hand, with a man I loved. Now, I was in jail being charged with the murder of my father. I shook my head, wondering at the cruel twist of fate that had brought me to this place.
The officer started to walk away, but I stopped her.
“Ma’am, can you tell me when I get to talk to my attorney?”
The officer smiled. “He’s probably arranging that right now. I’d expect they’ll come take you to a private room within a half hour. You got Matt Snyder?”
I nodded.
“Lucky girl,” she said grinning. “He’s a hunk. And, a damned good attorney.”
I managed a smile.
She nodded once then turned and swiftly walked down the hall and out of the lockup area.
Not knowing what else to do, I sat on my cot, trying to wrap my head around all that had happened. My father was dead and I was being framed for his murder. Raoul, that debonair man about town, had killed both my parents. All for the sake of money.
They’d taken away my cell phone during the booking process and I wondered how I’d find out if I’d received any response to the text I’d sent before they arrested me. I hoped so. I was beginning to formulate a plan, but right now everything depended on Matt Snyder.
I thought about him and what I would say when we met. I couldn’t tell him the whole truth … it was too bizarre … and I was afraid that if I did, he, too, would jump to the conclusion that I was mentally unbalanced. No, I had to tell him an abbreviated version of the truth. One that put me in a good light … one he would believe.
I lay down on the cot, wrinkling my nose at the smell of stale urine and alcohol, as I concocted the story I would tell my attorney. I had to be convincing and sympathetic. If I could do that, then I knew Matt would move heaven and earth to get me out on bail. And, once outside, I would see to it that Raoul paid a heavy price for his crimes.
Attorney/Client Meeting
THEY CAME TO get me about forty minutes later. I was escorted by two officers, one on each side, down to a small room outside the lockup. I was wearing cuffs and my feet were shackled together. Matt was waiting for me inside.
“How are the accommodations?” he asked, grinning at me.
I grinned back. “I’ve seen better.”
Matt motioned for me to take a seat, then he waved the remaining police officer over to us.
“Can’t we dispense with the handcuffs, Officer?” he asked. “I don’t think Dr. Pomeroy’s going anywhere.”
The policeman nodded and undid the cuffs. I rubbed my wrists gratefully.
“Okay,” said Matt, once the officer had left the room. “Let’s go over what happened and then I’ll see what I can do to get you outta here.”
“Good.”
“Why don’t you start by telling me a bit about yourself?”
I launched into a shortened version of my life, emphasizing the last few years and my residency in surgery at Memorial. Everything I told him was designed to make me look like an honest and respectable citizen. I talked about my family and the strong bond between my father and me, forged after the unexpected death of my mother.
He listened attentively and asked few questions. I think he was trying to put me at ease so that when we got to the night of the murder I would be more relaxed.
“Okay,” he said when I finished. “You have good background. We can use that. Now, tell me what happened last night.”
“Don’t you mean tonight?” I asked, puzzled.
He glanced at his watch. “It’s after midnight.”
“Oh,” I replied. “But first, let me explain to you what I’m doing here in Maine and on Storm Island.”
I went on to tell him a little something about my breakdown, which I explained was caused by the stress of my residency training. I told him the truth about being sent here to be cared for by my aunt, who was a well-known psychiatrist.
“Things were going great,” I said, leaving out everything about the nightmares and hallucinations. “I was feeling good and thinking about leaving residency training and becoming a family practitioner on the island. My father was supportive of this.”
“Okay. But let’s get to last night. They’ll be coming for you soon and I need to put together my argument in favor of dismissal and/or bail.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m sorry. Okay. There isn’t really much to tell. I was home … at the carriage house … all e
vening. I didn’t know anything until the police knocked on my door.”
He looked at me a bit skeptically. “Why then would your aunt and uncle tell the police you stabbed your father?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. It seems so extreme.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I don’t like to tell unsubstantiated tales, but I guess I have to. I stumbled on some information that my uncle, Raoul Kassis, might have been involved with a doctor back at Memorial … a psychiatrist by the name of Conway. My father accused this doctor of using unauthorized, experimental drugs on patients and reported him to the Medical Board. I was going to tell my dad about Raoul’s involvement the next morning before he left for California. I guess I should have told him sooner.”
Matt was silent for a moment, then looked at me quizzically. “But how would your uncle have known about this information you say you had?”
“I told my aunt about it,” I lied. “I thought she should know what her husband was up to. I guess I made another mistake.”
My voice broke and tears welled in my eyes. I couldn’t go on.
Matt reached over and patted my hand. “It’s okay. We can work with that.”
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to me.
“Thank you,” I said, wiping my eyes.
“Okay, I think that’s enough for now. However, I have to say, I don’t believe you’re telling me everything. But that’s okay for now. You sit tight and I’ll go see if I can get a judge to sit for your arraignment. It might be tonight … I mean, this morning … but, maybe not. You might have to spend the rest of the night in jail. Do you think you can handle it?”
Still crying, I nodded silently.
“Good. As soon as I know something, you’ll know. Okay?”
Again, I nodded.
He rose and buzzed for the guard who cuffed me again, then led me back to my cell. Once there, I lay down on my cot and closed my eyes. I needed to get some sleep. If Matt managed to get me out, I was going to need all my wits about me for what was to come next.
Storm Island: A Kate Pomeroy Mystery (The Kate Pomeroy Gothic Mystery Series Book 1) Page 24