Death Angel (36 page)

“No. When I got up the next morning he
was already at work. When he came home, the reporters were out front and you
were coming over. We only had a few minutes to talk before you arrived. To be
perfectly honest, I didn’t think about his wet clothes again until after
Hepburn was identified. Even then, I didn’t ask him.”

“Why not?” Carl asked, studying her.

“You can’t imagine what that day was
like. For Richard, it was an emotional roller coaster. He was positive that the
second death meant he wouldn’t be a suspect anymore. Then with the discovery
that the dead man was connected to Jenny’s murder, he was convinced he was
facing possible arrest. If I questioned him then, I knew he would think I
doubted his innocence. I didn’t know it would be the last time I’d see him.”

She pressed the tips of her fingers
against her trembling lips. He didn’t rush her. Dark smudges ringed her eyes,
giving her face a haunted quality. He knew nothing he could say would ease her
pain. He was neither her friend nor confidante. He was her interrogator.

She blinked several times, and then
continued speaking. “In Richard’s statement to you, he said he had gotten home
just after five. He knew that I left the house before five because I’d told him
so before you arrived. But the rain hadn’t started much before five. As wet as
his clothes were, he didn’t get home until at least six. Maybe even later.”

For the first time since she’d made up
her mind to talk to him, she was avoiding Carl’s eyes. Her hands gripped the
arms of the chair as if only the pressure kept her from bolting for the door.
Much as he felt sorry for her, he knew he had to force her to tell him what she
was holding back.

“If you keep it inside, Kate, it’ll just
be something else gnawing at your guts.” He spoke from the heart and hoped
she’d hear his sincerity. Her bottom lip trembled. When she raised her eyes, he
could see how close she was to tears.

“He was very drunk. He was mumbling,
talking to himself. I don’t really know how aware he was of me. He said
something about not wanting to hurt me. Said he shouldn’t have gone and then he
said —”
 

She swallowed hard but couldn’t get the
words out. Carl couldn’t wait, afraid she’d lose courage.

“What did Richard say, Kate?” he asked,
his voice a command.

“He said, ‘I had to go. He was going to
tell.’ ”

Twenty-four

“ ‘H
e was going to tell
?’ That’s what Richard
said?”

Carl kept his voice neutral, showing
nothing but curiosity. He could understand why Kate had been reluctant to tell
him this before. It was a damning statement.

“Yes. I don’t know if they’re the exact
words but they’re close enough.”

“Did you draw any conclusions from what
he said?”

“No.”

He let it go. It didn’t matter what
she’d thought. Her situation had been a nightmare, and she’d coped the best she
could. He gave her a chance to catch her breath while he looked back over his
notes.

“As you think about the last couple
months is there anything that strikes you as out of place. A little thing.
Maybe a detail that nagged at you but didn’t seem particularly important.”

She thought for a moment, her gaze
unfocused as she retraced the past. At one point her eyebrows jerked and then
they both drew together. Carl tried not to get his hopes up. Finally she looked
across the desk at him.

“Several things come to mind. One is a
question. When I was going through Richard’s office the other day, I came
across the computer printout of the cars with PF license plates. Were all of
those people checked out? Like for alibis?”

Without knowing what had prompted her
question, Carl answered as fully as he could. “No. You’ve seen the list, so you
know it wasn’t feasible in the time frame that we had. Better than half the
people in town have the plates.”

He could see the disappointment on her
face. “You must understand, Kate, that the possibility always existed that the
car was stolen or borrowed. We used the printout as a cross reference for
anyone who turned up on any other list. Is it important?”

“No. I was just curious.”
 

Although he suspected she was holding
something back, he didn’t challenge her. “You said there were several things.”

“Richard’s knife is missing. It was a
small Buck penknife. Black. I gave it to him one year for Christmas and he
always carried it in his pocket. It should have been with the things that were
found in the car the day he disappeared, but I couldn’t find it.”

Carl jotted the word “knife” on a
Post-it and stuck it to the telephone to be dealt with later. “I’ll check the
list of things that were returned to you. If it’s on the list then it may have
just been misplaced. Either way, I’ll get back to you.”

“I’d appreciate it. The knife holds a
lot of good memories.” She reached for the carafe of water and filled her
glass. She drank it slowly. “Ever since Jenny died, we’ve had crank calls but
there were several that were different.”

He listened as she described the first
call from the person she called the Whisperer.
 

“I wish you’d told me.”

“I couldn’t. By then you already
suspected Richard. If I said I’d received a call from someone saying he’d been
in the forest preserve and seen Richard attack and kill Jenny, you’d have been
convinced he was guilty. Admit it.”

Carl pushed his chair back, too restless
to remain seated. He walked to the window. Oblivious to the sunlit scene, he
stared outside. She was right, and he knew it.
 

Turning, he faced Kate.
 

“You’re right. If you had told me about
that call, I would have taken it as further confirmation that Richard was
guilty. I don’t know if my opinion will change when I’ve sifted through
everything we’ve talked about today, but I will promise to keep my mind open.”

Her eyes were steady on his face, her
expression closed. Whatever her assessment, she merely nodded her head and
finished up the narrative by describing the series of phone calls on the day
that Walter Hepburn was killed. He didn’t tell her that he already knew about
the calls to the house or the last one to Richard’s office.

“Okay. For the moment, let’s go back to
that first phone call. You didn’t recognize the voice?” he asked.
 

She shook her head. “It had no real
substance. Just a whisper. Neither male nor female. It could have been anyone.”

He pulled over the desk calendar. “It
was a Monday when you got that first call, and the series of calls on the day
Hepburn was killed was also a Monday. I don’t know if it means anything, but
it’s curious. During the last call of that series when the person asked to talk
to Richard, did you feel it was the same voice as the one you call the Whisperer?”

“Yes. I think so. But again I can’t be
positive.”

“Did Richard ever mention any calls?”

“He never said anything, but when he was
home he didn’t like me answering the phone. And the ones later —”

It was the shock on Kate’s face that
tipped Carl off to the fact she had inadvertently let something slip. “Later
than what?”

Kate’s lips were pressed firmly
together, spots of color dotting her cheeks. At first he thought she was
embarrassed but when she looked at him, anger was clearly evident.

“Someone called a week after Richard
disappeared. He wanted me to believe that Richard was still alive. His words
were: ‘I’m safe.’ The second call came about a week later. Same words. Same
whispered voice.”

“Did you ever think the calls might
actually have been from Richard?”

“Not for an instant. They infuriated me.
It seemed like the purpose was to make me lose faith in Richard. I told you
before that running away would not have been his style. So if he didn’t run
away, he had to be dead. Maybe Richard was so overwrought that he swam out too
far and then between the cold and the distance couldn’t get back to shore.
Although it was an accidental drowning, I feel Jenny’s murderer was just as
responsible for his death as he would have been if he’d actually murdered
Richard.”

Carl had been staring down at his notes,
and felt a spark of excitement at Kate’s final words. Although at one time he’d
given a cursory thought to the idea that Richard had been murdered, none of the
evidence supported it. With some of the additional information that Kate had
provided, it might be interesting to reconsider that possibility. He made a
note, and looked across at Kate.

She sat perfectly still, a speculative
expression on her face. He sensed that she was weighing whether or not to tell
him something.
 

“You know, Kate, every piece of
information helps in the investigation of a case. Small, random items can make
all the difference when it comes to presenting a case to the jury. In a trial
it’s imperative to have a solid case in order to ensure a conviction. Have you
any information you’d like to add?” he asked.

Her body language indicated her
withdrawal. He knew the interview was over before she spoke.

“No. I can’t think of anything else I
need to tell you,” she said.

Carl grimaced at her choice of words. He
didn’t know if it was something he’d said, but she’d decided against telling
him anything more. Given time she might confide whatever she was holding back.
He accepted the dismissal and came around the desk as she stood up and smoothed
down her skirt.

“I appreciate your coming in, Kate. This
has been incredibly difficult for you. You mustn’t think of this as a betrayal
of loyalty. What you’ve told me today may eventually lead to justice for
Jenny.”

He walked outside with her, chatting
about the weather, letting the small talk ease her back into the real world. He
waited until she had driven out of the parking lot before he returned to his
office. He stared at the scribbled notes, circled several entries, and marked a
star in front of the words: computer printout. Why had she asked about the
printout?

Leaning back in his chair, he opened the
top drawer of his desk.
 

He pulled out the crumpled piece of
yellow, lined paper he’d found at the library the day he’d run into Kate. She’d
looked so guilty when she first spotted him that he’d been curious about what
she’d been doing. After she left, he’d looked in the wastebasket and found the
piece of paper with the references to Joseph Garvey.

He placed the paper on his desk, smoothed
it out, and reached back into the drawer. On top of the yellow paper, he set
the cellophane ButterSkots wrapper he’d found in Kate’s kitchen. She hadn’t
mentioned it.

Where did she find the candy wrapper,
and why was she looking up information on Joseph Garvey? He glared at the
starred item in his notes. What did Garvey, the candy wrapper, and the computer
printout have in common? It wouldn’t take long to check. He had a hunch about
what he’d find.
 

He didn’t know what to do about Kate,
but to be on the safe side he’d better have a talk with Joseph Garvey.

Kate sat in the car outside the police
station, wondering if she’d made a mistake. She’d sworn to tell Leidecker
everything, but at the last minute she couldn’t talk about Joseph Garvey. She’d
been about to tell Carl her suspicions when he began talking about trials and
convictions.

She remembered seeing Carl and Garvey
talking together at the Fine Arts Dinner. Would Carl even take her accusations
seriously? He said he wanted the truth, but what if it involved a
well-connected member of the community?
 

Garvey was rich, and he had a ton of
political contacts. He could afford an expert team of defense lawyers. Even if
irrefutable evidence was discovered, she suspected he’d never see the inside of
a prison cell. It had happened in too many high-profile cases. Even if a jury
convicted him, he’d probably end up with a fine, two years probation, and fifty
hours of community service.

What kind of justice was that for the
life of a child?
 

God, how she hated the man who killed
Jenny! It didn’t matter if it was Garvey or someone else. Whoever it was, had
to be stopped. If he wasn’t caught soon, he might kill again.
 

Questions! Everywhere he turned there were
questions. He should have known it would be like this. First it was the COP. He
gave him the perfect solution to the deaths, but the man refused to close the
case. The COP wanted every lead chased down, every detail nailed.
 

And now SHE was asking questions.
 

SHE was small and fragile looking. To look
at HER, he’d never have guessed SHE had so much tenacity. SHE reminded him of
the snapping turtle he’d gotten on his birthday when he was a kid.

Tortuga.

He’d seen it in the pet shop and the
owner, Mr. Collins, let him play with it. The turtle wasn’t big. Six inches
across with a wrinkled neck and brownish green shell. He’d bite at anything.
The best fun was to hold out a stalk of celery. The turtle would scuttle across
the bottom of the box and snap at the celery. He’d cut it off clean. The crunch
sound when the turtle first bit down made his heart jerk inside his chest.

His father had gotten drunk the morning
of his twelfth birthday. Just before he passed out, the old man shoved a
crumpled dollar bill into his hand and told him to get his own damn present. He
bought the turtle and named it Tortuga.

Once he took Tortuga to school. The
turtle was a big hit. He watched the girls squirm when he described how when
the turtle bit down on something, it would never let go. It was a death grip.
At recess he bet the other boys to see who could hold the shortest object
within range of the turtle. They were all too afraid to get close to the
turtle’s beak. He’d practiced and he knew just the range that was safe. Easy
money.