Face Time (18 page)

“Walk,” the guard instructs. She points the way. I walk.

“Does Dorie have any other visitors?” I say. “Have you seen anyone here?”

“Not many,” the guard replies. “I’m in charge in this block, so I’d know.” She pauses, thinking. “Her pastor from that Unitarian church in Swampscott, for sure. And the battered women’s counselor from the place in Lawrence. ’Bout it.”

I sigh. Great. A church and a woman’s shelter. Two places where anyone who knows anything is sworn to secrecy. Still, it’s better than nothing. “What place in Lawrence?” I ask.

Officer Woolhouse grabs a metal handle, then drags open an expanding metal grate, leaning her whole body into the motion. As the grate collapses, it reveals a massive sliding steel door behind it. The guard pushes a square aluminum plate on the wall and the door begins the grumbling mechanical progress that will put me again on the outside.

“Don’t know,” the guard says. She lifts her hand in farewell, then points the way back into the sunshine. “Shouldn’t have told you what I did.” She grins again. “It’s off the record, Miz—Charlie. Just like they say on
Law and Order
.”

“Not
only does she insist she’s guilty, but it seems like she planned it. And then she tried to cover it up.” I try to prevent my voice from rising as I replay my infuriatingly unrewarding prison interview to Franklin, Oliver Rankin and Will Easterly. The CJP conference room, headquarters for what Rankin annoyingly keeps calling Team Dorinda, is beginning to feel more like the loser’s locker room.

“I’m thinking our story is just about down the tubes,” I say. I can’t even begin to imagine the meeting where I’ll have to explain this to Kevin and Susannah. I tilt back in my upholstered chair, clamping both hands to my head in defeat. “It’s a house of cards. Collapsing on all of us.”

I point to Rankin. “You, Oliver—if Dorinda is guilty, the CJP is going to take a real hit if Oz decides to nail you over taking her case. Will, it’ll look like you’re frantically trying to regain your reputation, but it may just highlight your embarrassing past.” I shrug and snap my chair back to the table, propping my chin in my hands. “As for me and Franklin, we’re just—ah. I don’t even have words for this disaster.”

“Did she tell you how she killed him? How she managed it all? You saw how delicate she is.” Will’s pacing, staring at the floor, not waiting for any of us to answer. He yanks open his tie with a frustrated intensity and wheels to face us. “You know she’s innocent. This whole thing stinks. Something, or someone, is driving her to this. To have confessed.”

“Gaylen, you mean,” Franklin says. “I agree. I think our next step is to find her. I’m still not convinced Ray was her father, by the way. Remember, that guard told Charlotte about the church and the women’s center, and I’m wondering if they might know where she is.”

Something stirs in my brain as Franklin explains our ideas for locating Gaylen, but it skitters away before I can retrieve it.

Oliver Rankin’s confident voice interrupts my thoughts. “Fruit of the poisonous tree,” he says. “We don’t have to prove who actually killed Ray Sweeney. We just have to show the investigation was botched. Or that Dorinda was coerced into a confession. By the police, or person or persons unknown. This is about getting her a new trial, folks.”

“Fruit?” Franklin says.

“Of the poisonous tree,” Will answers. “Oliver is theorizing if we can prove her confession was a consequence of some improper act, something illegal, a judge might—”

“Give Will another chance to prove what he thinks is the truth,” Rankin finishes the sentence. He focuses on me. “Give you a chance to show the public some good old-fashioned journalism. Justice for Dorinda. And it’ll be back to the political drawing board for Oscar Ortega.”

It’s not what I was trying to remember a minute ago, but Ortega reminds me of Tek. And the photos. Which I have in my bag. They’re one of the reasons we’re here.

“But here’s the problem,” I begin. “Dorinda’s got an explanation for everything we think might exonerate her. And the eyewitnesses—the bartender and those customers—all picked out her picture in the Swampscott police lineup.” I try to dig out the photo file as I’m talking, which causes my voice to be directed under the table. I curve myself back upright, still mid-explanation. “Tek’s supposed to be e-mailing me all their names, but I haven’t heard from him yet.”

I place the manila folder on the table and deal out the photographs, one at a time. Six faces. Five strangers, and one familiar.

Rankin and Will come around behind me, looking over my shoulder at the photo spread that three years ago convinced police and prosecutors Dorinda was a killer.

Six middle-aged brunettes, no scars, no moles, no unusual characteristics. All could be somebody’s suburban mom. All dressed like they’re ready to pick up the kids at soccer or head to the Stop & Shop. One in Red Sox T-shirt, one in a turtleneck with the Ralph Lauren polo pony, one in a designer sweatshirt. And of course, Dorinda.

“Who are the other people?” Franklin asks. “Where do they get those photos?”

“They must have gotten Dorinda’s from her home, an album, something. The others? Sometimes they’re cops wives. Or even cops,” Rankin replies. “They find people who match the description of a suspect in some way. That’s supposed to keep it fair, so the suspect isn’t the only one wearing glasses, for instance. They don’t want someone to say ‘she kind of looked like that.’ They only want positive IDs.”

“But, damn it. In the best of circumstances, remembering what someone looked like is not easy,” Will says. He leans across the table and picks up the photo of Dorinda. I twist around to watch him. He’s staring at the photo as he continues. “Especially if it’s in a dark place. And the suspect is a stranger.”

“I mean, this was a bar, near closing time, people had been drinking,” Franklin says. “It just all seems so—”

I look back at the photos, trying to imagine whether I could pick out Dorinda after seeing her once, as a random stranger. The Ralph Lauren preppie, bobbed hair and bangs, doesn’t look like her at all. The Red Sox woman has freckles. The one in the sweatshirt—I pull my reading glasses from their perch on top of my head and look closer.

“Hang on a second,” I say. It’s still too dark in here to see close-up details. Frowning, I search for better light. Finally I take the photo to the coffee station at the end of the room. I flip on the light over the sink, and hold the photo underneath.

I must have made some sort of sound, because Franklin comes to stand beside me, pulling the photo closer to him. “What do you see? There’s nothing but a woman who’s not Dorinda wearing a black sweatshirt.”

I’m trying to contain my excitement. I’m almost afraid to say anything. I could be wrong, of course. But with growing certainty, I know I’m not. A breath of life creeps back into our story. It may not be the story we started with, but if I’m right…

I ease the photo out of Franklin’s hand and carry it back to the conference table. I offer the picture to Rankin and Will. Will takes it first.

“The logo on her sweatshirt,” I say, pointing. “How would you describe it?”

Will looks at me, then Rankin, baffled. “Uh, okay…” He brings the picture closer to his face, then away again. “It’s a shield,” he begins. “Some kind of a crest? It has letters—
S
then
J
. Then it says 1969.” He shrugs and hands the photo to Rankin. “Some clothing company founded in 1969. Right?”

“Wrong,” I say. I take the photo back, and this time, give it to Franklin.

“Puff Daddy,” I say. “I mean, P. Diddy.”

Franklin grins and starts to nod. “You rock, Charlotte,” he says. “You’re right. It’s the logo of Sean John, Diddy’s clothing line. You know, the music mogul. The rapper.”

Rankin and Will exchange a bewildered glance. Will gestures the floor to Rankin. “So?” the attorney says.

“Well,” Franklin says, his smile beginning to match my own, “Charlotte and I are researching counterfeit clothing. It could be our next story. Anyway, as a result, we’re familiar with all the logos. All the designer logos, the ones that get copied and resold.

“So?” Rankin repeats. “You two have lost me here.”

“So,” I reply, “We know the ‘founded in 1969’ thing is a gimmick. A marketing ploy to make the company seem more established, I guess. But Sean John’s clothing company—the women’s part—was founded in 2005. Nobody was wearing a sweatshirt like this in 2004. They didn’t exist.” I know I’m talking too fast, but this is what we’d been hoping for. Some glitch in the police procedure. Some flaw in the technique they used to put Dorinda away.

I take the picture back, then point to the logo. “You see? This had to be taken after 2005. At least a year after the murder. No one was shown this photo in the summer of 2004. Couldn’t happen. Someone who didn’t know fashion fell for the 1969 date, but no question—this array is fake.”

“Designed to make all of us go away, you think?” Franklin takes the photo back and looks at it again. “It’s as if they’re trying to…” He looks at me, searching for words.

“Change history.” I finish his sentence.

“And there’s no one who could have designed this corruption of justice but Mr. Oscar Ortega,” Rankin says. His chair creaks in protest as he swivels, back and forth. I can almost watch his mind calculating.

“Or Tek Mattheissen,” I put in. “And what if it’s not the only time? What if they’re cleaning up a series of fraudulent witness identifications?”

“This is a cover-up of the worst kind,” Rankin continues, accelerating into performance mode. “Planting false evidence.” He smacks his fist on the table. “Three years after the fact.” Smack. “Police and prosecutorial misconduct.” Smack. “Obstruction. Yes.” He shoots the fist in triumph. “Ortega is going down.”

“And Dorinda could be freed,” Will says. He’s picked up her photo again, holding it with both hands, looking at it, not at us. “When a judge hears about this.”

The guys’ voices tumble over each other, the volume rising as they share ideas and strategies. But an unpleasant reality insists on ruining my discovery. I sit down at the far end of the table, by myself, trying to think.

We can prove this photo array was not the one shown to the witnesses after the murder. And that certainly proves there’s some outrageous police misconduct. But as for Dorinda? That’s what’s annoying the hell out of me. It could be a knockout blow to Oscar Ortega and the D.A.’s office. But it doesn’t for a moment prove Dorinda is innocent.

I cross my arms over my chest, bummed that my Perry Mason moment of detection triumph doesn’t insure Dorinda’s freedom. I calculate the impending losses. Dorinda’s freedom. Rankin’s reputation. Our story. My job.

But on the other hand, I realize, slowly unwinding from my defensive posture, it doesn’t prove she’s guilty, either. Even if Dorinda actually was in the bar, it doesn’t mean she killed anyone. It doesn’t.

It must all go back to my adventure in the archives. That must have been Tek, trying to scare me off the trail. And when he couldn’t, I’m guessing his slimeball Plan B was to bring out the phony photos. But I’m not going to let some half-assed attempt to frighten me send me cowering back to covering cat shows, no offense to Botox. There are people who know the real story. What really happened that night. We just have to find them.

“T
OMMY WHO
? Bennigan? “I keep my eyes on the road and one hand on the wheel while I scrabble in my purse for a pencil. “Hang on, Franko. Got to get a…” I find a pencil, but of course it’s broken, so I toss it into my Jeep’s backseat and scrounge for another. “I’m amazed you got the police report this fast. Imagine, they’re actually following the public disclosure law. Probably a first in the annals of the Swampscott PD. Okay, got the pencil.”

“It’s Bresnahan,” Franklin says, then spells it.

I write the name on the little notebook I keep clipped to the sun visor.

“Tommy Bresnahan, according to this police report, was the bartender the night of the murder,” Franklin continues. “Latest whereabouts, according to the report, U-N-K. Apparently he was the fourth bartender in four months. Easy come, easy go. Cops told me the bar owner’s apparently working the place himself now. DeCenzo, remember? He’s given up on hiring outsiders.”

“Well, you can find this Bresnahan if anyone can,” I say. “Do bartenders need licenses or anything? Moron!”

“What?” Franklin responds. “Moron? How should I know if they need licenses? I can find out, though, but gee…”

“Not you,” I reassure him. “Some idiot’s decided up here in the city of Lawrence, a red light means go. Which makes my green light mean stop. Anyway, how about this for our afternoon plan. You want to try to track down this Bresnahan? And what about Tek’s partner on the case? The guy in Detroit.”

I steer around a corner, trying to read the street signs, but of course this is Massachusetts, so there aren’t any. “You get them, and after I find Gaylen—cross fingers—I’ll head to Swampscott and see if I can sweet-talk the bar owner into giving me more info on this Bresnahan. I bet DeCenzo has job applications, paperwork, something. But it’ll have to be later when his place opens.”

The house numbers on what I think I remember is Eckman Street are getting higher, so I’m pretty sure I’m headed in the right direction. And then I see the house.

“Listen,” I say. “I’m just pulling up in front of the Lawrence Collective. If we’re lucky, and we often are, that little ingrate is going to be in my clutches any moment now. And Dorinda is one step closer to getting her life back.”

As Franklin clicks off, I realize Dorinda’s life may not be the most rewarding to “get back,” if her daughter is guilty of killing the hardly lamented but nevertheless dead Ray Sweeney. Her own father, if Dorinda is to be believed. I know Franklin still thinks CC Hardesty is the father. If CC knew about Gaylen’s birth, maybe he thought so, too. And I wonder what Gaylen believes.

Before I can give myself a good answer, I realize I’m at the inconspicuously ordinary front door of the Lawrence Collective, a dingy clapboard three-decker. I know from a story we did a few years ago on battered women that it’s a front for a hideaway. A shelter for women who don’t want to be found. It offers a roof, good food, anonymity—and counseling. The guard said Dorinda’s counselor was based in Lawrence. Only two places here do prison counseling. One told me they didn’t go to Framingham, so this is the only place left she could be. And if she’s here, maybe she’ll know what really happened.

I push a small square button on a dingy intercom screen. There’s a blast of static, then a wary voice buzzes back. “Yes?”

I look up, remembering they’d rigged the tiny lens of a surveillance camera above the door. I smile into it and wave, then answer. “It’s Charlie McNally, Channel 3.” The directors here turned out to be good sources for the shelter story. If I’m lucky, they’ll still be around.

A grating metallic click snaps the lock open. Crossing my fingers, I go inside. When I locate the director, Rosemary Pannatieri, and tell her waht I’m after, she looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. She throws a plaid-shirted arm across my shoulder as we walk through the empty living room toward her nook of an office. I remember it’s basically a closet. An actual closet with the clothes bar still in place above her desk. There’s room for her chair and a visitor’s. And that’s all.