Execution of Innocence (10 page)

“I noticed that. Hannah is controlling Mary.”

“Absolutely. And she has her on a tight leash.”

“How?” Sharp asked.

“Fear. She gave Mary the story Mary gave us.”

“How does the PCP in Dick's blood fit into all of this?” Sharp asked. “In front of the girls you acted like you knew.”

“That was mostly show. But we’re dealing with a crime of aggression and PCP is famous for making people aggressive.”

“Your logic is circular,” Sharp said. “You're saying Dick did do it then. He's the one with drugs in his veins.”

“No. I mean there could be a connection here that we're missing. Maybe someone gave Dick the drugs without his knowledge.”

“So he could shoot Charlie?”

“Possibly,” Riles said.

“Then who shot Dick? The same person who drugged him?”

“Exactly,” Riles said.

“You're reaching, Steve.”

Riles agreed. “I’m bent over backward and kissing my own ass. Maybe even the murderer's ass. That reminds me. I want to run down the medical records on Dick, Charlie, Mary, and Hannah. I told Pierce we'd done it already. We need those records to cross-type the blood samples. Then I want photos of the tracks out at the Crossroads, and the place past there, where the other blood puddles are. We need to secure those areas with live bodies. When the town wakes up, over half the local population will rush out to see where Dick died. When does Howard wake up?”

“He just went to bed. And I think he has his other job to go to today.”

“Wake him up now. Tell him he’s working for us for the next two days and no one else. Threaten to give him a promotion. Send him out to the Crossroads. In fact, on second thought, tell him to meet me there. I want to take the pictures. I have my camera in the car. That way I'll know they're done right.” Riles stopped and rapped his office table lightly. “I need to give Pierce something stronger by ten o'clock or we lose the girls. For all I know, they’ll go out and shoot each other.”

“Maybe Charlie will show up and tell us his version of the story.”

“Charlie’s dead,” Riles said, standing. “While I’m out there I'm going to look for his body.”

Sharp also stood. “I'll run down the records. Do you plan on sleeping today?”

“No. You?”

Sharp smiled. “Since we both may be out of work by tomorrow I may as well put in one last hard day.”

Riles eyed him. “It could come to that.”

Sharp nodded. “Where you go I go.”

“Even if it's in the wrong direction?”

Sharp patted him on the back. “No guts, no glory. You’re taking chances, I probably should be doing the same. When do you want to meet?”

“In two hours. Here.”

“To say goodbye to the girls?”

Riles groaned. “To wring their pretty necks. God, teenagers aren't what they used to be. When I was in high school it was only the guys who killed people.”

“It’s a sad world,” Sharp said.

Riles didn't speak to anyone else before he left the station.

Riles was an amateur photographer. He hadn't been exaggerating when he said he was the best one to photograph the crime scene. He always carried his Nikon and several boxes of film in the trunk of his car. Even though the sun was filtered by a cover of clouds, he wasn't worried about the light. He knew enough about film speed and lens apertures to record exactly what he wanted.

Naturally he stopped first at the Crossroads, where Dick had been found. The scene had been contaminated by footprints, a problem almost impossible to avoid in snow. Working quickly, Riles shot the frozen blood puddle from various angles, and then shot the path to the gun. The two trails of footprints that led in the direction of the revolver matched the prints he had found at the other puddles: New Balance running shoes and Nike walking shoes. Pierce should be impressed, but Riles knew it wouldn't be enough.

There was no sign of Deputy Howard. Riles wrote a note for him and pinned it to a tree and then proceeded toward the second spot. He actually parked down the road from the puddles, trying to photograph the tire marks in the snow that led to the frozen blood. Of course these had also been contaminated from earlier swing-bys. But he managed to get several clear shots of the tire tracks that had been there first. He was quite sure they would match Mary's tires.

Finally Riles photographed the two mysterious puddles. In his heart he was convinced that one belonged to Dick, the other to Charlie. He examined the latter, smaller puddle carefully. A faint trail of blood drops led away from it toward the first set of tire tracks and then stopped. They had picked up his body, Riles thought, and dumped it in the car trunk. Unless they had prepared the trunk ahead of time, there should be traces of blood in Mary's car still. He would check the vehicle before he went back in the station. By no coincidence, he had Mary’s car keys in his pocket.

The original tire tracks continued deeper into the woods, along the narrow road that led to Whistler. Riles was tempted to follow them but felt time was pressing. He had already spent ninety minutes taking pictures, fifteen rolls of film. Few laymen realized how exhausting homicide cases were. Documentation was everything. The state police would bring out their own people and duplicate his efforts, and then some. Judge Pierce did have a point. If the girls had been at the murder scene, they should be able to find a piece of definitive evidence. Riles’s instincts were working overtime, and he knew Hannah still had plans Mary didn’t even know about. He was sure of it.

Back at the Crossroads, Riles found Deputy Howard dozing behind the wheel of his patrol car. Riles woke him roughly and told him to tape off the entire area. Howard complained that he didn't have enough tape and Riles told him to find some. Riles had hired Howard and felt it was his right to yell at him as often as Howard needed it. Yet he liked the slow-brained guy.

Back at the station, Riles went to Mary’s car, an old Honda Civic, and opened the trunk. He slipped on a pair of latex gloves. It took him only a moment to spot the bottle of Lysol.

It was half-empty.

“Mary,” he muttered as he photographed it before removing it from the trunk. He searched the trunk carefully; Mary normally kept the space clean. Later the tech boys would go over it carefully but to his unaided eye there wasn't a sign of blood. There was, however, a half-used box of plastic garbage bags. Few items would have been more effective at containing blood spills. Riles muttered Mary’s name again but this time he added a curse.

Inside the station, he found Kohner and Sharp sitting in his office. From the expressions on their faces, they had the results of the initial blood typing and the information wasn’t good, or at least, not good for the case he was trying to build. For relatives of Mary and Hannah, the information might have been wonderful. Riles plopped down in his chair.

“Give it to me,” he said.

“All of our young contestants have been treated at Maple Memorial at one point in their lives,” Sharp said. “Their records are as follows: Dick is type A; Hannah is type B; Mary is type AB; and Charlie is a universal donor, type O. Because they are all different, the positive and negative RH factors are unimportant.” Sharp paused. “Are you ready for this?”

Riles shrugged. “Sure.”

Kohner spoke. “The first puddle of blood you found at the Crossroads is type A. That must be from Dick. The second larger puddle you found closer to Whistler is also type A. So, you are right, Dick was probably killed there and then dumped at the Crossroads. The second puddle out there is type O. Again, you're probably right that it belongs to Charlie. They both must have died within moments of each other, certainly within a few feet of each other.”

“What about the blood in Mary’s hair?” Riles asked impatiently. That was what mattered most at the moment. Connecting at least one of the girls to the dead and the missing. Sharp and Kohner glanced at each other before Sharp answered.

“The blood on Mary’s hair is type AB. She has a cut on her head. It seems to be nothing more than her own blood.”

“Did you ask her how she got the cut?” Riles asked, feeling a sinking sickness in the pit of his stomach. There was no question—Pierce would have to let the girls go. Riles reflected on how unlucky they were; each of the people involved had a different blood type. The odds were against that, but not excessively so.

“She said she couldn’t remember,” Sharp replied.

“Naturally,” Riles mumbled. He held up the bottle of Lysol he had found. He still had his gloves on. “In the trunk of Mary's car.”

“It’s something,” Sharp said.

“It ain’t much,” Riles growled. He turned to Kohner. “How did the stain on their skin go for powder marks?”

“I used only a fraction of our samples,” Kohner said. “I'm sending the bulk of them out to private labs. They'll do a much better job than I can here. But they may not be able to get past the Lysol. I was unable to.” He paused. “There's no
clear
sign of expelled powder on either of the girl's hands.”

“Is there any sign?” Riles persisted.

“Yes,” Kohner said. “But it's so faint and so compromised by the other chemicals, I doubt that it would be allowed in a court of law.”

“Who had it on her hands?” Riles asked.

“Hannah,” Kohner said. “On the left hand.”

“Hannah is left-handed,” Riles said, remembering.

“It's another piece of the puzzle,” Sharp said hopefully.

“Pierce is too old to play with puzzles,” Riles said.

“Spelling has a lawyer out in the hall,” Sharp said reluctantly. “He wants to talk to you.”

Riles stood and set the Lysol down. He tore off his gloves. Sharp would take care of the bottle without being told—he was a master when it came to such details.

“I don’t want to talk to him,” Riles said. “I will speak to the girls for a minute and then we will release them.”

“Unfortunate,” Sharp said. “They’re our best leads.”

“They will be our only suspects,” Riles swore.

Alone, Riles paid the girls one last visit. They sat together in the interrogation room, on the same side of the table, not speaking. Perhaps they feared their words were being overheard. Riles wouldn't have minded eavesdropping on such a conversation, if it wasn’t against the law. He sat down across from them, not bothering to turn on the tape recorder.

“I know you two were involved in the murder of Dick,” he said flatly. “I’m now fairly certain you had something to do with Charlie’s disappearance, too.”

Hannah was sweet as ever. “That's bull.”

He caught her eye. “We know more than you think we know. Charlie also bled a lot tonight, out on the road to Whistler. It’s only a matter of time before we find his body.”

Mary paled and put a hand to her mouth. Hannah smiled.

“Charlie is a mystery,” Hannah said. “A mystery that will never be solved.”

Riles did not smile. “You are a piece of work, girl. Whatever happened last night, it was planned ahead of time. But even so, you can be taken apart piece by piece. In the police business I'm what’s called an owl. I never go home to sleep. I seldom stop to eat. I never stop working. I promise you, dear Hannah, I won’t stop until I nail your ass to the wall.”

Hannah stood. “I assume that means you can't hold us any longer.”

Riles threw Mary's keys on the table. “Get out of here, both of you.”

CHAPTER TEN

On the night of the murder, the night that was supposed to be reserved for fun and games, Mary stood outside, waiting in the cold snow for her boyfriend to reach her. His truck moved slowly toward her over the slippery road. Maybe he was being careful. Maybe he was trying to think what he would say to her. With all their planning, Mary had not stopped to consider what she would say to him.

Charlie pulled up beside her car, parked, and got out. He left his high beams on. Even in the harsh light and the ghastly shadows, he looked great. Just like that, even before he spoke, Mary felt her resolve crumble. She couldn't play this cruel joke on him. He didn't deserve it—he hadn't started it—and of course she still loved him. He stared at her as she processed all these thoughts and emotions. He had on the sweater she had given him for Christmas when he should have had on a heavy coat.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“I'm sorry, too,” she said.

Then they were hugging and kissing.

Then all hell broke loose.

They heard a gunshot in the woods. Hannah came running out of the trees, her face a mask of horror in the truck headlights. She didn’t stop running until she collided with them.

“It's Dick!” she gasped. “He's drunk! He's going to kill you, Charlie!”

Charlie stared at her as if she were the drunk one. “What is your brother doing out here?” he asked.

Hannah grabbed Mary’s hands. “I ran into him down the road. He’s stoned out of his mind and carrying real bullets. We have to get out of here!”

“And what are you doing here?” Charlie asked Hannah.

“Where did he get the real bullets?” Mary demanded.

“I don’t think he ever had blanks,” Hannah said, glancing back the way she had come. A car, also shining its high beams, was approaching rapidly. She grabbed both Mary and Charlie and dragged them toward Mary's car. “We have to get out of here!” she shouted.

“What's going on?” Charlie protested as he got in Mary’s car.

“We’ll explain later,” Mary said, slipping in behind the wheel. Starting the car, she glanced in her rearview mirror. Dick was hanging out the driver's side, the revolver in his hand. He fired off another shot and she turned in time to see the bark on the tree in front of them splinter. Mary felt a rush of terror. There was no question he was packing live rounds. She threw the car in gear and they shot forward.

“Why is he shooting at us?” Charlie demanded.

“Because he hates you,” Hannah said from the backseat, keeping her head low.

“What did I do to him?” Charlie asked. “He's the one who stole my girl.”

“He didn't steal me!” Mary shouted.

They heard another two shots. God knew where they went.

“Shut up and drive faster!” Hannah ordered Mary.

“I'm not running from that punk,” Charlie swore.