The Shadow's Edge (11 page)

             
                                                                                   
20

              Kat Stedman hadn’t slept well in weeks. When Charlene up and disappeared a few months earlier she’d had a few twinges of anxiety but she had managed for the most part to put that behind her. Billy Lamont was, after all, an asshole. Who could blame Charlene for finally deciding to pull the plug on the jerk? Still, it was very strange that Charlene hadn’t called her to tell her what she was doing. Just disappearing like that, without a word? It was hard to reconcile. Then John Croop had gotten himself killed and the revelations about his secret life had surfaced. That’s when her mind had really started working overtime, remembering ten years earlier when she and her son, Devon, were living in Rumford.

             
Devon was in grade eleven when he came home from school one Monday afternoon looking for all the world like he’d just lost his best friend.                “What on earth is wrong, honey?” she said.

             
“You know the party I was at on Saturday night?” Devon asked.

             
“Yeah …”

             
“The police were at school all day talking to me and everybody else who was there. Susan Critchley’s mom says Susan never came home Saturday night.”

             
“Oh my God. What do the police think happened?”

             
“I think they figure she’s like dead or something.”

             
“Did anything happen at the party? Was she fighting with anybody?”

             
“I don’t know. She’s Bobby’s girlfriend. He’s such a creep. I don’t know what she sees in that guy. He treats her like shit. Lots of the kids think maybe he did something to her.”

             
“Do the police suspect Bobby?”

             
“I don’t know, Mom. But I’m telling you the guy is seriously weird. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw his sorry ass.”

             
Kat didn’t know Bobby well but the little she had seen of him over the years he had always seemed nice enough. Just an average kid like most of the others. But when she thought about it he was always the one blamed when something was missing or somebody’s stuff got broken. He was a good looking kid and the girls all seemed to think he was real cute, although the guys didn’t seem to like him nearly so much.

             
But the thing with Susan, that was a whole different thing. Surely Bobby wasn’t capable of actually hurting someone, especially not his own girlfriend.

             
A couple of days later the whole town was shocked when Susan’s body was found in an abandoned house. She’d been beaten and strangled to death. At first Bobby had been front and center as a suspect in the murder but then the police found Susan’s blood on the sole of Steven Nelson’s shoe. Steven had also been at the party. The focus of the investigation then shifted and, eventually more evidence surfaced, specifically pictures of Susan, obviously taken without her knowledge, found in Steven’s school locker.

             
The thing was, Devon had been absolutely adamant that there was no way Steven was guilty. “Not a chance, Mom,” he said. “Bobby framed him. You ask any of the kids. They all say the same thing.”

             
“The kids have to tell the police how they feel.”

             
“Everybody’s scared to, Mom. Nobody wants to end up like Susan.”

             
The whole episode had come to a sad end a few weeks later when Steven was also found dead. A suicide.

             
Kat had moved from Rumford to Colville four years later while Devon was attending college in New York. Thinking back now she remembered his dismay when he had come to visit her in her new place after he graduated and learned Bobby was now living in Colville too. “Remember what I told you, Mom,” he said. “The guy is bad news. Make sure you stay the hell away from him.”

             
Then three months ago Devon and his new wife had visited. Kat had mentioned her friend Charlene had disappeared under rather mysterious circumstances. Devon hadn’t said much but Kat could tell by the way he looked at her that he was thinking about Bobby. Then Devon saw in the news that John Croop had been killed and that incriminating pictures of Charlene Lamont were found on Croop’s property. Devon called that night. “Mom, this is way beyond coincidence,” he said. “Look at the parallels.”

             
She had to admit it was hard to ignore.

             
“I know him,” Devon said. “He’s too smart to get caught but he’s guilty as shit. I can feel it.”

             
Try as she might since then she hadn’t been able to convince herself that her son was wrong.

             
                                                                                   
21

              As Christine Darrow had anticipated, Callie was arrested, charged with murder, remanded into custody, and delivered to the Androscoggin County Jail in Auburn to await trial. Afterward Darrow and I went back to her office to talk.

             
“Can’t we get her out on bail?” I asked.

             
“I’m going to make a bail application today,” Darrow said, “ but I’m not hopeful. We’re looking at murder and kidnapping charges here and she was on the run until today. It’s not likely they’re going to let her out now that they’ve finally got her in custody.”

             
“What about if we plead mental incompetency?”

             
The look on Darrow’s face indicated she had given it some thought. “We’d be venturing into a tricky area if we do that, Mr. Parmenter. By pleading diminished capacity she’d be given a competency examination and might well be found incompetent to stand trial, in which case she’d be released to an institution. But – and this is a big but - we’d in effect be admitting she was guilty of premeditated murder. She’d then be at the mercy of a team of psychiatrists as to how long she would be confined to an institution before being judged sufficiently recovered to warrant release. It’s not a gamble I’d care to take. I think our best chance is to convince a jury that she was sane when she killed Croop, that she had reasonable cause to fear for her life, and that there was no premeditation involved. I am concerned, however, with the lack of conclusive evidence against Croop in the Charlene Lamont case. The evidence against him has not been tested at trial. There is no proof that she’s dead. The Maine State Police have initiated a nation-wide search for her but without the certainty of Croop’s guilt in the matter of her presumed death we’re taking a chance that the jury may not buy Callie’s story. The truth is we have no proof that Croop raped Callie or threatened her at all. Nothing but her word. And as I’ve already stressed, the prosecutor is going to do everything he can to discredit her story. The thing is, given her mental condition, I’m afraid it won’t be all that hard to do.”

             
“You haven’t exactly painted a rosy picture here, Ms. Darrow,” I said.

             
She raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders. “It is what it is, my friend.”

             
It didn’t take a quantum physicist to see that more evidence against Croop in the Lamont case would benefit Callie’s case for defensible homicide.

              That night I sat in my hotel room searching for a way to help my wife avoid going to prison, or at best an institution, for killing a scumbag I knew in my heart was guilty of Charlene Lamont’s torture/murder. If it were somehow possible to find Charlene’s body the problem would be resolved. That, unfortunately, was not something I was capable of doing. The other thing that would reinforce the certainty of his guilt would be to find additional incriminating evidence against him.

             
I had no idea, of course, where I might find such evidence.

             
But I knew this: Callie would not go to prison for killing Croop. Not while I was able to draw breath. If I couldn’t
find
the proof I needed to set her free, then I’d damn well manufacture it. By colluding with Callie to provide false information concerning the details of Croop’s death I was already sliding precariously in the direction of a cavernous hole; the fabrication of bogus evidence against him would simply nudge me a little closer to the edge of the abyss.              

              Arrestees on remand awaiting trial are not convicted criminals. Accordingly, where possible, they are not held in the general prison population and are accorded many privileges not given to convicted prisoners. Ideally they have a cell to themselves, they have a television, access to books, and non-prison food. Although Darrow was a little sketchy when I asked if it was the reality here in Maine I had to accept that Callie was okay for the time being. I would be allowed to visit her twice a week.

             
As anticipated, our bail application was declined. While we waited for a trial date to be set I spent every waking hour trying to figure a way of deep sixing Croop in order to put Callie in the best possible light when she eventually faced a judge and jury.

             
Walks with Bix were one of the few pleasant ways I had to pass time and also one of the best ways for me to clear my mind.

             
It was during one of these walks that a germ of an idea came to me.

              Other than the pictures of Charlene Lamont found on a flash drive in John Croop’s home there was nothing yet found to positively connect the two. It was true that the flash drive had Croop’s finger prints on it but, still, as damning as that might sound it really only proved that he had handled the device - it did not constitute proof that he was responsible for the content. In my mind we needed, if not proof, then compelling evidence that Croop and Charlene Lamont shared a more tangible connection.

             
Without being obvious about it I was able to learn three important things about Billy Lamont: where he lived, where he worked, and what his hours of employment were. Fortunately for me, Lamont lived in a rural area on the outskirts of town. There were other homes on small acreages within sight of his place but they were not particularly close by.

             
I drove by the Esso station to make sure he had reported for work and then drove to his home. I pulled up the dirt driveway and then around back so my presence wouldn’t be noted while I was inside. I brought a few tools to help me with a forced entry if it became necessary but, once again, I got lucky. The back door was unlocked. I walked in and headed immediately to the bedroom. On a bureau adjacent to the bed there were a few things that were clearly feminine in nature – lip stick, perfume bottles, and the like. The item I was hoping to find was in plain sight. A hair brush. I withdrew a dozen or so strands of long blond hair and, careful not to leave any sign of my presence, got out of there.

             
I had been at the Lamont property for no more than five minutes. I saw no one and, as near as I could tell, no one saw me. My ‘break-in’ could not have been easier or gone better.

             
The next stage of my plan called for a visit to the Beaver Lake Road property to which Croop had taken Callie. The existence of this property, and Croop’s tie to it, would only have come to the attention of the police since Callie had been taken into custody. And even then I didn’t know how much of what Callie had told Darrow had been passed on to the cops yet. In any event, I was counting on getting there before a detailed search of the property was made.

             
But there was no denying it was a gamble. If I was wrong and the police had already conducted a search, then the subsequent discovery of my ‘evidence’ was going to make it obvious that someone had planted it.

             
And I would undoubtedly be the suspect of choice.

             
                                                                                   
22

              Christine Darrow met with Norman Bell, the Assistant District Attorney for Oxford and Androscoggin Counties, on the Wednesday following Callie’s arrest. The information about the location of Callie’s reported rape was passed on to Bell at that time, which fortunately was a full day after my visit to the premises to deposit what I hoped would constitute clear and compelling proof that Charlene Lamont had been there.

             
Darrow phoned me following the meeting with Bell. “A trial date has been set,” she told me. “For whatever reason, the District Attorney’s Office wants to deal with Callie’s case as expeditiously as possible. Most likely because it involves the death of a police officer.”

             
“That’s great,” I said. “The faster we can move this along the better.”

             
“Yes,” Darrow acknowledged, “but it means we have to put our case together very quickly. We’ve got less than three weeks to trial.”

             
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked.

             
“When you see Callie do everything you can to keep her spirits up. We need her to be confident and credible in court. In the absence of evidence to support her version of events I’m going to have to put her on the stand. And she’s got to be ready for a rigorous cross examination.”

             
The message was clear: make damn sure she’s got her facts straight and sticks to her story. “I’ll do my best,” I said.

             
“By the way,” Darrow added, “I did an online search of the Beaver Lake Road property in Fairmont. Turns out the property is not owned by a friend of Croop’s after all. Croop is, in fact, the registered owner.”

             
This, of course, was good news. Now there would be no clouding the issue with the possibility that a third party might have been involved. “That should help us, right?”

             
“Definitely,” Darrow responded. “It adds an element of credibility to our defense we might not otherwise have had.”

             
And wait till you find out what the police discover at Mr. Croop’s property
, I thought to myself.

                                                                                    *              *

              Seeing Callie in the confines of a prison was extremely difficult for me. Having spent the last two years in prison myself I knew only too well what life in such a place was like. Even harder to witness, though, was the look of abject sadness on her face. I was waiting for her in the visitation room when she was brought in. The rules permitted us to hug briefly on arrival and departure, and we were also allowed to hold hands, but overt displays of affection were strictly forbidden. I held her for as long as I thought I could get away with and then we sat down opposite one another at a table. “How are you holding up, honey?” I said.

             
“Okay,” she said in a quiet voice. Then, after a short pause, she added, “I don’t like it here, Jack.”

             
Her simple declaration moved me deeply. “I know, baby. I know.”

             
“I’d give anything to go home with you right now, Jack.”

             
“You will soon. I promise. Ms. Darrow told me your trial won’t be long off.”

             
“I’m scared about the trial.”

             
“There’s nothing to be afraid of, honey. You just have to remember what we talked about. You stick to what we talked about, no matter what the prosecutor says. Understand?”

             
She went into a thoughtful mode for several moments. “Is it wrong, what we’re doing, Jack?”

             
Her question bothered me more than I could let her know. It was clear she was not as committed to our version of events as she would need to be in court. I knew, however, that to respond quickly and adamantly that what we were doing was perfectly okay would result in a loss of credibility on my part. So, after a pause of my own, I covered her hands with both of mine and looked deeply into her eyes. “Callie, you’re an innocent person who was taken advantage of by a crude and evil man. If we tell the truth strictly as it happened it will mean you’ll go to jail, maybe for a long time. We both know that he deserved what he got. And we know that you don’t deserve to go to jail for what you did. It may not be right in the eyes of the law to lie about exactly what happened but it is necessary in this case.”

             
“Are you sure?”

             
“Yes. I’m absolutely sure.”

             
She pulled her hands from under mine and put them in her lap. She was hunched over like she was caving in on herself. “Maybe it’s me who’s evil,” she mumbled.

             
“You can’t talk like that, honey. You have to be strong. If you do this we’ll be able to have a good life together.”

             
My words were met with stony silence. I was losing her, and I felt helpless to stop it. “Bix misses you,” I said. “He’s miserable all the time.”

             
This brought a tear to her eye. “I love that mutt,” she said with a sad smile.

             
“He feels the same way.”

             
“Jack?”

             
“Yes, honey?”

             
“Do you ever think of Tanya?”

             
Every hour of every day
. “All the time.”
              “Do you miss her?”

             
“Yes, I miss her. Very much.”

             
“Sometimes I think it was my fault, what happened to her.”

             
“Callie, how can you say that? It was your father, it was Reuben, who did that awful thing. You know that.”

             
“But if I had been smarter I would have killed him when I had the chance. I
should
have killed him. Then none of this would have happened. You wouldn’t have gone to jail. And I wouldn’t have … ended up so stupid.”

             
“Jesus, Callie … why would you say something like that?”

             
“It’s true. I
am
stupid. He made me that way with the shitty poison he put in me.”

             
There was no denying our lives would indeed have been immeasurably better if Callie’s aim had been a little better on that mountain in Virginia. She had come upon the scene in time to prevent me from becoming another statistic in the murderous life of Reuben Henderson but he had come out of it with nothing more life threatening than a shattered collar bone. But for a few inches off on her aim he’d have been dead and we would have spent the ensuing years until now raising our daughter to near adulthood. And although I would never, under any circumstances, think of Callie as stupid neither could I deny that she had been forever effected by the toxic injection Henderson had used in his attempt to kill her.

             
“Do you remember what I promised you when we got married?” I asked.

             
She looked a little lost, like she should remember but was having trouble with it. She nodded, not really sure what I was getting at. Then she got it. “You’d love me for better or worse, through sickness and health, forever?”

             
“Right.”

             
She brought her hands back up to the table and tucked them under mine again. “I was so mad at you for those five years you were hiding,” she said. “All the time you were in prison I refused to go see you, even though Miles begged me to. But just before you were due to get out I realized that what you did was for me. You were trying to spare me more pain. I should have known you would never do anything to hurt me on purpose. I’ve always known what a good man you are, Jack. I should never have doubted you.”

             
“No, Callie, it’s me who was wrong. I should have trusted you enough to tell you what I had done.”

             
“I love you, Jack. If you think what we’re doing is the right thing then I’ll do my best to make them believe it.”

             
“Good. Everything will be fine. You’ll see.”

                                                                                    *              *

              When I spoke with Cristine Darrow later that day I assured her I had had a good talk with Callie and that I was convinced she would perform well in court.

             
“I hope you’re right,” Darrow said in an ominous tone, “because I’ve just learned that Richard Mandlin has been appointed as the prosecutor and he is,  not to overstate it, a pit bull. His primary motivation in this trial will be to tear Callie apart on cross. And he’s damn good at doing just that.”

             
The confident feeling I had after leaving Callie took a hard hit on hearing this news. Even I had heard of Mandlin and his reputation for ‘pull no punches’ prosecution. Suddenly it was very clear: there was not even a remote possibility that Callie would be able to stand up to a confrontation with this guy. “It sounds like we need to rethink the decision to put her on the stand,” I said.

             
Darrow sighed theatrically. “I’m afraid we don’t have a choice in the matter. In my opinion, unless the jury hears from her in direct testimony, they will be very reluctant to accept the version of events we’re advocating that led to Croop’s death. And if that happens … she could be looking at serious jail time.”