Dangerously in Love (12 page)

Perry and Reeves arrived at the Church mansion with a search warrant and a few cops from the Chicago Police Department—the SBI had formed a task force with the Chicago Police Department. Perry rang the doorbell. When no one answered, he signaled for the CPD to go around to the back. He rang again. When there was no answer the second time, he looked for a spare key in the usual predictable places. When he didn’t find one, Reeves twisted the knob. It was unlocked, and they entered.

Inside, they spread out. Perry shouted, “Mr. Church, this is Agent Chadwich with the SBI. We have a warrant to search your home, structures, and vehicles.” He didn’t hear a sound except for the slight rustle of his team moving about. Perry and Detective Wilson ascended the stairs, peering into the rooms as they proceeded down the hallway.

When they reached the Church’s bedroom, Perry encountered Hill standing over Adam with a gun in his hand, his eyes glazed over.

Detective Wilson shouted, “Drop the gun! Drop the gun!”

Perry had drawn his gun as well. “Put the gun down slowly, Hill.”

Hill, appearing dazed and confused, asked, “Perry, man, what the hell is going on?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing—but first, I need you to put down the gun.”

“Gun? What gun?” Hill extended his hand, and Detective Wilson unlocked the safety on his own gun and cocked it. Hill looked at his hand and realized he was brandishing a gun. Not sure how he got it, he set it down on the floor then raised his hands above his head. “What the hell’s going on?”

Hill’s head was throbbing, his sight a little blurry. Then he saw Adam, lying lifelessly in a pool of blood.

Perry stepped over the bodyguards’ and Adam’s bodies and handcuffed Hill. “What the hell are you doing here?” Perry whispered.

Detective Wilson checked the pulse of the woman lying on the bed. “She’s dead. Looks like she was shot in the head and chest.”

“What?” Hill said. He turned to look, but Perry hurriedly escorted him out of the room. Hill only got a glimpse of the body on the bed. “What happened to Cate?”

“You killed her, man. Both of them. But why?” Perry asked.

“I didn’t kill them.”

“Don’t say anything else, man. Get yourself an attorney.”

“Call Sam, will you?”

Perry nodded as he eased Hill into the back of his car.

Hill sat in the room for hours, staring at the mirrored window which separated him from the observers on the other side. His half-lit cigar rested on the ashtray as he fidgeted with the lighter in his hand, first flicking the flame then closing the lid and repeating the process. Smoking wasn’t allowed, but no one stopped him. After all, he’d been in this room for several hours without food or water. The least he could do was have a smoke.

After another thirty minutes passed, the third interrogator entered the room. This time, a woman. A redhead with glassy blue eyes. She approached the table, casually dropping a notepad and file folder on it as if she resented having to be in the same room with him. She dragged the heavy, steel-framed chair from under the table and crossed her legs when she sat down, sighing and opening the file folder all at the same time. She unbuttoned her sleeves and rolled each of them to above her elbows, ready to get down to business.

Without looking at him, she began, “I’m Detective Balfour. I know Detectives Wilson and O’Neal have already questioned you, but I would like to go over everything with you one more time.”

He nodded while she flipped through papers in the deceptively thick file folder. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small recorder, turned it on, and set it in the center of the table. She didn’t really need it. There were two cameras at varying angles recording everything said and done in that room. The mirrored glass? Nobody was behind it. As a matter of fact, the room on the other side was now a file storage room.

“Please state your name for the record,” she said as she jotted something onto her notepad.

“Hilton Parker,” he said, still flicking his lighter. “Most people call me Hill, and that’s what I prefer.”

“Okay, Hill,” she said, finally making eye contact with him. “It says here,” she said, pointing to a piece of paper in the file folder and holding it up so that Hill could read along, “that you were a contractor at the Church residence.”

“Yes, that’s right.” Hill set the lighter down on the table without breaking eye contact.

“You were found in the decedents’ bedroom standing over the body of Adam Church wielding a gun?”

“That’s right, except for the ‘wielding’ part.”

“How’d it happen then?”

She watched carefully as he squirmed in his seat, once again fidgeting with his lighter and nervously clearing his throat before answering. She wasn’t an intimidating woman. Her voice was fairly soft, and her demeanor amiable. But this was the third time he’d been asked the same questions. The first time, he had been interrogated by Detective Wilson, a burly older man with a lousy deportment. The second interrogator was a younger man, military type—disciplined, purposeful, clean-cut, fact-driven. Now he sat in front of a woman who seemed to know how to use her femininity to her advantage, when to dole it out and when to reel it in. Hill was no fool. He recognized their tactics. Nonetheless, he was uncomfortable and uncertain of what lay ahead.

“Cate had. . .” He paused and shook his head slightly then corrected himself, “She had asked me to come over.” He hesitated again, considering whether he should elaborate. He noticed Detective Balfour writing notes with one hand and gently caressing her leg with the other. She remained silent as if waiting for him to continue. Hill picked up his cigar and began to light it.

“Would you mind not lighting that?” she requested.

Hill put the cigar down and placed his lighter next to the ashtray.

“Thank you,” she said with a slight smile. She cleared her throat then dove into her next question. “Why would she ask
you
to come over, particularly at such a late hour?”

That was a question that, under other circumstances, he’d have been happy to answer—even brag about. But now, he knew it would be used against him. He suspected that his answer would provide a motive for them to build a case against him. The way she posed the question, he knew exactly what she was going for, and he was determined not to take the bait.

“I’ve answered all of these questions before, and I’m not answering another question without my attorney present,” he said, folding his arms across his chest.

“Okay.” She put down her pen and began stacking all of her papers together in a pile. She closed her file folder and set her notepad on top.  “Why don’t you do yourself a favor and just confess. Stop wasting everybody’s time.”

Hill ignored her and just stared at the mirrored glass.

“Do you know what’s interesting?” Detective Balfour waited for Hill to respond, but he didn’t. He just looked at her. “We heard from Caitlin’s attorney. She was very upset. She said Caitlin was frightened of you. Why?”

This interrogation was maddening. Hill didn’t believe her and he wasn’t about to dignify that accusation with a response. Besides, he knew the interrogators tended to lie in order to get a reaction or glean more information. He wasn’t buying into it and remained quiet.

She went on, “We found your phone in the Church’s bed. Someone called your phone repeatedly between nine-thirty and eleven. Guess what tower your calls hit? One in the area of the Church mansion. That means you had been there at least an hour and a half. What happened, Hill?”

“I said I’m not answering anymore questions without my attorney,” Hill reiterated.

“Just one more question, then I’m done.” Detective Balfour looked Hill squarely in his eyes, leaning in closely as she reached for the tape recorder, and asked, “So was it before or after you raped and murdered Caitlin Church that you killed Adam Church?”

Hill pounded his fist on the table, stood up, and dove toward Detective Balfour, but she moved swiftly out of his reach. “I did
not
kill Adam! And I didn’t rape and murder Cate,” he shouted as he wiped the spittle from his mouth. His forehead perspired, and his respiration increased. He stumbled back into his chair, pounded his fist on the table again. “I loved her,” he said in a near whisper.

“So you say.”

Perry walked into the interview room. Detective Balfour leaned toward the table to grab the recorder she’d dropped when Hill had lunged for her. She turned off the recorder, briefly observing Hill.

“Yes, I do say so. And did it ever occur to you that I might have been framed?”

“Framed? Who would want to frame you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe one of Adam’s associates. His cronies or even a rival. You know his ilk. You tell me.”

“Why would anyone want to frame
you
?”

“I don’t know. All I know is I didn’t kill them.”

“So you say.”

“Yes, I say so . . . again.”

Perry tapped the detective on her shoulder and motioned for her, in a friendly manner, to step out of the room. She nodded.

Hill wiped the nervous perspiration from his forehead, not acknowledging Detective Balfour’s presence as she remained in the room, examining his behavior. After several seconds had passed, he heard her heels clicking against the tile floor as she moved towards the door. She looked back at him once more as he nervously lit his cigar, then walked out the door.

Perry pulled up a chair, sat across from him, and said, “Samantha’s on her way.” He turned off the cameras and handed Hill the cell phone. “She wants you to call her.”

Hill took the phone and called her.

“Hill, what happened? Perry told me a little.”

“I don’t know. I think I was drugged and framed.”

“By who?”

“I don’t know. Somebody who wanted Caitlin and Adam dead.”

“Why were you there?”

“Did you quit your job yet? I mean, are you still an assistant state’s attorney?”

“I gave my notice, but yes, I’m still there wrapping up my cases. If you want me to represent you, I’ll talk to the SA about leaving immediately.”

“I need you, Sam. I need you to represent me. I couldn’t ask for a better lawyer. But I don’t want to be responsible for you quitting your job. I can call Ken Logan. I’m sure my dad could convince him to represent me.”

“I told you that Bill and I had already discussed my quitting. So I’ll talk to the SA. Let me do this for you, Hill. I want to help you.”

“Thank you, Sam.”

It was the morning of the sentencing hearing. Hill had been behind bars for several months already. Now he knew what his former clients felt like. Helpless. His fate rested in the hands of his attorney and the judge. There was no jury. There wasn’t going to be a trial. Samantha, with her legal savvy and knowledge of how the state’s attorney’s office ran, was able to work out a plea deal. Hill was to plead guilty to two counts of voluntary manslaughter.

When Judge Sterling walked to the bench, Hill felt like the heavens were smiling down on him. By the time it was all said and done, Judge Sterling said, “Ten years for each count, to be served concurrently.” When the gavel went down, Hill’s fate was sealed. It could have been so much worse.

Hill was given a moment to say goodbye to his family and friends before being hauled off to serve his sentence. His father cried. The last time the judge had cried was when Hill’s mom died. Between the hugs and tears, Hill realized something he hadn’t before. There were a lot of people who loved and cared about him. And he had disappointed and shamed them all.

“I want you all to know—and I truly hope you believe me—that I did not kill them. I’m innocent. Someone framed me.”

“I believe you, son.” The judge kissed both of Hill’s cheeks, but Hill wondered if his father was telling the truth.

Perry leaned in for a hug. Hill was a little misty-eyed but tried not to let it show. Then he turned to Samantha, giving her a long, tight hug around her very pregnant belly. She was due in two weeks. When they released, Hill cupped her belly and smiled. He kissed her lips and mouthed ‘thank you’ before being taken away.

“To exact revenge for yourself or your friends is not only a right, it’s an absolute duty.” ―
Stieg Larsson

Samantha was overcome with feelings of deep apprehension. She wasn’t sure if it had something to do with her sleeplessness or with having to deliver the news to Hill. She’d never really enjoyed visiting him in that awful place, but she hadn’t been apprehensive, either. She grabbed a large coffee and a bowtie from Dunkin Donuts and pushed through the six-hour drive.

She sat in the waiting room, wearing an old pair of jeans with a DKNY T-shirt. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail, and her makeup was minimal. She didn’t wear jewelry or carry a purse whenever she visited Hill. She traveled light. It was too much hassle to visit with anything more than her keys and ID. She always made sure the gas tank was filled before leaving Chicago, and she’d carry fifty dollars in her pocket for a meal and gas on her way back home.

Through the guarded, heavy steel doors, Hill emerged. Samantha noticed his previously lustrous platinum blonde hair had become dingy white strands gathered into a ponytail. His physique was more muscular than she remembered, and he had a goatee, something he hadn’t had the last time she visited, which was about six months ago.

When he saw her sitting there, he smiled like a kid on Christmas morning. She stood up and reached out for him. They hugged long. He didn’t want to let go. She was all he had, and he looked forward to her visits, no matter how few and far between they were becoming. She was the first to let go, but he held on a little while longer, enjoying the lavender scent of her hair, her floral perfume, and the warmth of her hug.

“Let me look at you,” he said. His enthusiasm far outweighed hers.

She smiled. He made a hand motion for her to do a spin. She smirked a little then twirled like a ballerina.

“Wow, Sam. You look like Dorothy Dandridge. Spitting image,” he said.

She did. She’d heard that a lot. Even her body was similar in build.

“It’s so great seeing you. I’ve missed you. I wish you could visit more often.”

“Me, too,” she said softly, although she didn’t mean it. She certainly could have visited more often—she just chose not to.

Silence
.

“The years are going by quickly. Not at first, but now they seem to be passing okay.”

She nodded. He had adapted to prison life but not without cost. He’d been disbarred—no more thoughts of practicing law when he got out. And he’d changed, too. He talked differently. He walked differently. He looked hardened. Rough. He’d served five of the ten years he had been sentenced for voluntary manslaughter, and the psychological scars were definitely evident.

She reached her hand across the table, holding his hand in hers. “This isn’t a social visit, Hill. Not really.”

His eyes widened as he leaned against the back of the chair.

“I’m afraid I have some difficult news.”

He removed his hands from hers and leaned back in his chair, balancing on the two back legs of it. He folded his arms across his chest and looked down at the table.

She watched the second hand on the clock tick one second at a time until it reached the twelve. She sighed and shook her head, hating what she had to tell him.

“What’s going on?” Hill leaned forward, and the two front legs dropped to the floor. He reached out, taking her hands in his, watching her chin drop to her chest. Tears streamed down her cheeks, dropping onto her T-shirt. “What is it, Samantha?”

“Your father . . .”

“What about him?”

She could hardly get the words out. Tears streamed down her face. “Your father passed away.”

Hill covered his head with his hands, trying to suppress a yell. He didn’t want his visit cut short, because of an outburst but it was virtually impossible to hold in his emotions.

“Your father was so highly regarded and respected by so many,” Samantha began. “Everyone loved him. Including the warden. I was able to get you a seven-day pass so you can attend to your father’s affairs and burial.”