Broken Grace (21 page)

“It wasn’t like that. I only wanted her to give me a chance. Drop her defenses.”

“When did this happen?”

“Like, a month ago.”

“Did you bring Grace back to your place?”

“No. I took her to Cherry Beach. We kissed. She didn’t resist. I looked in her eyes and knew there was a chance. We got in my car and I knew she’d go anywhere with me. I started driving to my place, but then I played it out. Michael was a pretty big dude. I panicked. I drove her home and got her inside before I left.”

“Was he home at the time?”

“His car was there. It was, like, four in the morning though. He was asleep. I laid her on the couch and left.”

“Did Grace remember being with you?”

“If she did, she never said so. I told her at work that I enjoyed our night together.”

“And what did she say?”

“Not much.”

Hackett nodded.

“But I never drugged Michael. I barely knew the guy. No one ever asked me to kill him, certainly not Grace.”

“Where’d you get the drugs?”

“This guy I know, Tucker. He’s into all sorts of homegrown shit. We were hanging out one night at the restaurant, and I shared my girl troubles and he offered them to me. Said they’d be fun. Said they make girls take a second look, that’s all. Open up to the idea. I never knew they were considered a ‘date rape’ drug.”

Bishop snorted. “You had to know that drugging a woman in order to get her into bed is a crime.”

Jacks rubbed his eyes hard before answering. “I wasn’t thinking. It was dumb.” Hackett and Bishop glanced at each other. “I swear,” he said, “I didn’t kill anyone!”

“And when did you buy the drugs from this Tucker?”

“I didn’t even buy them. He gave them to me!”

“And if we met with Tucker, you think he’d tell us the same story?”

“I don’t know. But it’s the truth. Go find him. He works at that auto shop where they have the card games.”

Hackett’s brows rose. “Was Tucker there last Tuesday night when you went to the card game?”

“Yeah, he was the one who took down Mike when he started going crazy.”

“So Tucker’s like a bouncer at the card games?”

“Kind of, yeah. He’s actually always trying to get in on the games, saying how broke he is, how he needs a chance to win one of those big pots. But his boss never lets him. Makes a good bouncer though. He’s not a big guy, kinda scrawny actually, but no one messes with him ’cause he’s crazy. I heard he bit a dude’s nose once.”

Hackett continued. “Did Tucker know Michael Cahill?”

“No idea.”

“Did you hear any words exchanged between Cahill and Tucker when he was kicked out?”

“Nah. I mean, Tucker’s not a bad guy, really. He may look like a badass with all those tattoos, but he’s always nice to me. He’s a good time. He’s just not afraid of anything. Fancies himself a psychonaut.”

Bishop piped up. “Psycho-not?”

“That’s what he called himself,” Jacks said. “Like an astronaut. I guess there are a lot of these people. He said it was about ‘exploring the frontiers of the mind.’ He thought that all these different drugs unlock different portions of our brains. Very new-agey, really. They all are.”

“Who?”

“These psychonauts. I guess there’s a whole subculture that is completely into experimenting with psychotropic drugs—allegedly for religious or spiritual purposes. I asked him where he got the stuff, where he learned about all this, and he told me everything he ever needed to know was on the Internet. Anyway, he’s a cool guy.”

“Sure he is. He gives out free drugs to rape women,” Hackett said.

Jacks closed his eyes and rubbed his face.

Hackett stood and Bishop followed, and they left Jacks to stew for a bit. Jacks didn’t even ask whether he’d been arrested or if he needed a lawyer. He seemed willing to stay, as if somehow confessing to loving Grace and slipping her the drugs would show that he was cooperating and had nothing to hide.

Bishop leaned against the wall in the hall, arms crossed. “So what are you thinking here?” His cell rang and he held up his hand while he took it. Hackett watched Bishop walk to his desk and jot down some notes during the call. His own line rang then and he went to his desk to answer. It was the phone company. They’d finished gathering Grace’s phone records and had e-mailed the logs to the station. Both he and Bishop were to look out for copies in their in-boxes. He was out of time.

A moment later, Bishop hung up the phone.

“So?” Hackett asked.

Bishop threw down his pen. “That was my buddy who went over to see Stanford Jones in prison. Stanford Jones, now recovering addict, three years sober thanks to the state of Michigan, seems to have found God. Still says he didn’t kill the Abbotts. Maintains that he found the stuff under the viaduct where he and several other junkies spent most of their days. Said he’d never even gone to Buchanan. He didn’t know the Abbotts and didn’t have a car.”

“What about his prints found on that glass at the house?”

“Said he’d spent a lot of time wondering about it. Apparently, he got pretty philosophical with my buddy. Said he wasn’t sorry to be in prison, that prison saved his life, that maybe someone or something wanted to save him.”

“Oh boy.”

“Yeah. He said prison was a blessing, and he hated to think of where he might be if this hadn’t happened. Said no one deserved the shit he’d put them through.”

“What shit? Who?”

“His wife, the kids. A bunch of fosters. I guess they had foster kids for the state money. Sorry excuse for a man, that’s for sure.” Bishop stood up. “Come on, let’s wrap this up with Jacks.”

Hackett remained in his chair. “Wait. I think we’ve still got something here.”

“What?”

“Jacks has drugged two women with this scopolamine, and his supplier, someone who’s a known crazy guy and desperate for money, is also now connected to Michael Cahill. We know the drug is used to rob people, and Cahill had ten thousand dollars when he was murdered that we can’t find. I’m telling you, this scopolamine turns people into zombies.”

Bishop chuckled and took a seat on the side of his desk. “Rookie, I think you’re getting a little carried away here. Let’s stick to the facts.”

“I’m serious,” Hackett said, pulling out his notepad and quickly flipping the pages. “I spent a lot of time reading all about it. The drug was used in the 1900s during childbirth because it helped women get through labor. They couldn’t remember anything even though they’d been awake and coherent and able to have a conversation and participate in the birth process. Then the CIA started using it to interrogate criminals because they realized people had no free will while on it. They’d do or say whatever.”

“Where’d you get all this information?”

“Internet. Listen.” He checked his notes again. “CIA stopped using it because of the undesirable side effects—hallucinations, disturbed perception, blurred vision, headaches, et cetera. But at least in South America, where so much of the”—he turned back to his notes then and struggled with the pronunciation—“the
Borr-a-chero
tree it comes from is plentiful, it’s a commonly used criminal weapon. Only takes a few minutes to kick in, and if the dose is strong enough, the effects can last anywhere from eight to eighteen hours.”

Bishop put his hands up in defeat. “Okay, pull back a little. Jacks is right; it’s not even a controlled substance. I’m thinking some of what you’ve heard might be a little overblown. And we still don’t know if that’s what was given to Cahill, or even if that had anything to do with his murder. It might be that this is some new recreational drug that’s going around right now, totally unrelated to our murder investigation.”

Hackett interrupted again. “This is serious shit. People are growing it in the States, buying seeds online, and raising plants hydroponically or in gardens.”

“Okay, okay. I believe you. But we don’t know what, if anything, that has to do with our murder. What I do know is that we’ve got a girl with no alibi and a motive to kill, and so far, no other leads are floating to the surface. I think it’s time to share our progress with the prosecutor.”

Hackett’s face flushed; his heart pounded in his chest. His personal feelings were in the way, but someone had to protect Grace. He was almost shouting now. “We’ve stumbled onto this memory-blocking drug, and your prime suspect currently has no memory.”

“What are you saying, that Grace has been slipped this drug? That Grace committed this crime while under its influence?”

“I don’t know what I’m saying yet. I mean, I guess it’s possible,” he had to admit. He flopped back against his chair in frustration. Had the drug made her do something she would never normally do? “We need to find this Tucker guy. Maybe we just got a lead. This whole ‘psychonaut’ business is too weird—Tucker’s obviously on drugs much of the time. Jacks said he was a loose cannon and people think he’s crazy. If he knew Cahill won that money, I mean . . .”

He was losing Bishop. “I’d rather see if Grace’s prints were on those naked pictures. We should have found out by now, so—” Bishop’s cell buzzed and he looked down to read a text, then began typing a response. Hackett waited for him to finish. He had to tell Bishop about the print results, but if he could just follow up on these leads first . . .

Bishop put down the phone and looked at Hackett. His expression had changed. Bishop eyed him cautiously. “Come with me,” he said. Hackett silently followed him to the hall. Bishop opened the door to the empty interrogation room opposite Jacks’s. “Get in here.” Before he could speak, Bishop shut the door behind them. “I think you’d better start telling me what the fuck is going on here.”

Oh shit.
Hackett didn’t speak immediately. He felt like a child, as his automatic expression of incredulousness tried to mask his guilt.

“I wanna know why you’re concealing evidence.”

It was an instinctive reaction: “I’m not.”

“That was a text from Miles, saying he found another match for the second set of prints on the photos.”

“That’s great,” Hackett said carefully.

“Why didn’t you tell me that Grace’s prints are on those pictures?”

It was the prints. Just the prints. Relief weakened his knees, but before Hackett could respond, Bishop growled, “You know, you accused me earlier of tunnel vision, but all I see is someone determined to find a way to punch holes in our leads and prevent me from seeing evidence that implicates my prime suspect.”

That was when he knew it was over. He had to confess now—the phone logs would only make things worse. But how would he make Bishop see what he knew in his heart?

He took a seat at the table, allowing several chairs and space between them. He exhaled slowly. “I have to tell you something about Grace.”

TWENTY-THREE

H
ACKETT LEANED FORWARD.
There was no turning back now. “I kind of know Grace.”

“What?” Bishop’s face grew brighter, his eyes wide.

Hackett held up his arm, as if Bishop might jump up and tackle him at any moment. “Hold on. Here’s the thing. I didn’t even know her name before this case happened. I swear. I had dinner at her restaurant a few times. I saw her a couple of times out at bars in New Buffalo, and I tried to make conversation. She was always nice but with other people, and I never got her name.”

It must not have sounded too bad yet. Bishop’s face softened and he sat back and crossed his arms. “Why wouldn’t you tell me this?”

“A couple of weeks before the murder, I saw her at this bar, The Pub. She was with some friends who were playing pool, but she was staring off into space, sitting alone in the corner, looking distracted and sad. I tried to make conversation, but she was polite, brushed me off, and said that she had a boyfriend. Then about a week later—this was just about a week before Cahill’s murder—I saw her again and she was in much better spirits. I asked why I never saw her with her boyfriend—I was flirting a bit—and she shared that their relationship wasn’t exactly good. I’ve been through some shit myself, and I could see that she wasn’t happy. I said she was too young to waste time with someone who wasn’t good enough for her. I suggested she break up with whomever it was and meet me for dinner.”

“When exactly was this?”

“Sunday before the murder. We know now that Michael Cahill was at The Rack that night. The dinner date I proposed was for the following Thursday.”

“What did she say?”

“I knew she was considering it. She actually said that she’d been thinking about leaving him for a long time, and she had just gotten word that she’d been accepted for on-campus housing. But she obviously didn’t feel like it was right to talk to me about it. I was just some guy in a bar. She asked about me and I told her about my last relationship. I figured she’d see that I knew it wasn’t easy to end something even when it was wrong. We sat in that corner talking for a long time. Granted, it was mostly about me, but we made a connection. She asked a lot of questions. When she was getting ready to leave, she almost told me her name, but I stopped her. I said she could tell me her name at dinner. It would mean that she had broken up and was free to be with me.”

Bishop leaned forward, elbows on the table, and put his head in his hands without a word. Hackett knew he had to go on. “There’s more.”

Bishop didn’t even look up but waved his hand to continue.

“After she walked out with her friends, I ran after her. They’d all turned the corner, and I asked her to hold up for a moment. She stopped and I took her hands in mine. I said something like, ‘I really hope I see you Thursday.’ She smiled at me without saying a word. And then I kissed her.”

Bishop’s head shot up, the anger in his eyes highlighted by his clenched jaw. “What?”

“It was just a kiss. It was only for a moment, but she wasn’t upset; it wasn’t offensive. Nothing too demanding, it was just . . . I wanted her to remember me. We smiled at each other and she thanked me. She said it was the best birthday present she’d had in years. Then she ran off to join her friends. And I went home pretty sure that we had a date for the following Thursday.”

“And did she show up at dinner?”

“No. Now we know that she got engaged on Thursday instead.”

Bishop stood from his chair and slammed his fist against the table. “Why the fuck didn’t you come clean as soon as you saw her picture?”

“Please. Sit.” Hackett lowered his voice. “I’ll tell you everything.”

“I can’t believe the shit I’m hearing right now. I’m given a rookie officer for this case, a guy who’s never worked a homicide, and this is the shit you pull.”

“I couldn’t say anything. When she didn’t show, I was upset. I even went to the restaurant again on Friday, hoping I could see her and talk to her . . .”

Bishop sat heavily. “Oh my God, it gets worse.”

“She called me. I’d given her my number. She left a message and said she was sorry for not showing. That it was simply bad timing. And she hung up.”

“When was this?”

“I heard the message late Friday, but I think it was from earlier in the day. I’m guessing you’ll find my number on those call logs we just got.”

“Don’t you see what an absolute idiot you are? This is all relevant to the case. For fuck’s sake!”

Hackett dropped his head. “I was afraid. I . . . I saw her on Friday. Leaving the restaurant where she worked. And I chickened out. She looked fine. I mean, I don’t know what I thought she’d look like. I guess I feared I’d see a black eye or something. But she drove off in her car and I followed her home.”

“Goddamn. You’re . . .”

“I know. I don’t know what I thought I’d do, but I watched her walk inside. And then I drove away.”

Bishop was shaking his head.

“I know it’s crazy. I’m not some crazy stalker. I just . . . You know when you meet someone and there’s this spark. It’s so real, it’s like you’ve known this person your whole life, or you’re going to know her your whole life. I couldn’t believe that she didn’t show, and I got worried. I thought, what if this guy is abusive?

“Then on Monday, when I got the call about something going on at that address, I was terrified of what I’d see. I thought I was going to find her dead. I couldn’t even speak. I couldn’t say anything. I just needed to get inside. And then we found him. There was a part of me that was terrified for her but also terrified for myself. What if someone saw me follow her home or saw me with her at The Pub, saw me kiss her? And I walked through the crime scene stunned, my mind reeling, realizing I could be a suspect. I got back to the station and met you and heard I’d been assigned to the case. I had to take it.”

Bishop had no words. His head was in his hands, his fingers circling his temples while veins bulged in his head. He took some deep breaths.

“I know it doesn’t make sense to you, but I really felt something for this girl. We’d barely met, but I knew . . . this girl would change my life.”

Bishop began to speak but Hackett cut him off. “If I’d told you I had asked her out, you’d remove me from the case, saying there was a conflict of interest. I couldn’t do that.”

“Of course there’s a goddamn conflict of interest.”

“I had to find out what happened to her. And then when we found out she was alive and went to the Abbotts’ house, when I saw her, I knew in my gut she didn’t do anything. I know her. I needed to be on this case.”

“You didn’t even know her name.”

“But I know her.”

“You’re an idiot. And now you’ve jeopardized our entire investigation.”

“I—”

“Say we charge Grace, which I still see signs pointing toward. Say her attorney finds out that you asked her out. That she stood you up. Don’t you think a defense attorney is going to scream ‘FOUL!’? That this is a vendetta, that she’s being railroaded?”

“We can’t charge Grace. There are too many unanswered questions. Too many potential suspects here. There’s still a lot to figure out.”

“Well, you’re not figuring shit. You’re off the case. If I have my way, you’re suspended too, and goddammit!” He stood up.

“But . . .”

Bishop pointed toward the door. “Get the fuck out of here.”