Читать книгу Off the Beaten Path - John Schlarbaum - Страница 8

There are days when I have zero velocity, which is an actual scientific term. It relates to the highest position a ball thrown up in the air can achieve before beginning its descent back to earth. Neither moving upward nor heading downward. A sliver of time when the ball is frozen in space.

Looking at Debra Stanfield’s box of evidence resting at the feet of a courier caused my zero velocity moment. I was temporarily stymied whether I should move forward with this investigation or decline to sign for the package, halting my involvement in its tracks.

Stop, go?

Left, right?

Over, out?

The two reports Debra had promised to send arrived a few days after Dawn and I returned from our trip. Both documents were on the thin side, although each P.I. did speak with several people the police had interviewed during the initial official investigation. The problem: no one had a clue why or who would want to kill this popular woman, aside from her homicidal husband wishing to trade up. Throughout history this storyline has been told time and again and, from all appearances, it was the only narrative that fit this tragedy.

Yet, something didn’t feel right.

I’m always bothered when no hard evidence is found at a crime scene. Much was made at Eric’s trial about the open patio doors the killer had purportedly gained entry and escaped through. According to Debra though, these doors were usually unlocked during the late afternoon and evening, when Lucy liked to read in the garden. In addition, the gate into the fenced backyard had a latch but no lock. Therefore, anyone strolling by could quickly enter the yard and walk into the kitchen in a matter of seconds, without detection.

The prosecutor hammered home that there was no indication anyone else had been in the house the night of the murder. The few stray fingerprints, hairs or fibers examined were all traced back to friends or family who’d recently visited the McDowells. No mystery prints were found.

This leads me to the following conclusions: Eric did it, a family member or friend did it, or the killer was very careful about not leaving anything behind. The last theory was the one I’d pursue. A person that meticulous is either a pro-for-hire or an obsessive compulsive thinker who’s watched a lot of crime shows, learning how best not to be caught.

For Eric to murder his wife, and leave her in a pool of blood, only to return an hour later smelling like an Irish Spring commercial, would even stretch the imagination of Dr. Seuss. Such cases do exist, with the murderer using the Would I be that stupid? argument in court later on. From the few news articles I read after returning home, another popular scenario had Eric paying someone to kill Lucy. The failure with that logic is, why pay good money to do the deed, and immediately screw yourself over with a horrific alibi and squeaky clean hair?

I couldn’t make the poor courier wait any longer and signed my name beside the X. “Have a great day,” he said cheerfully, trotting down the walkway.

“What’s left of it,” I muttered, picking up the banker’s box full of evidentiary goodies supplied by Eric’s former lawyer’s office, as attorney George Mulhall had recently passed away.

“We felt under the circumstances he was a good lawyer but physically he was very overweight,” Debra had told me over the phone.

“Did he die of a heart attack?” I’d asked her.

“Nope, hit by a bus stepping off the curb, while shoving a hot dog down his throat,” she’d replied. “All that hard work at law school, making plenty of money and done in by a Greyhound.”

“I hope you’re referring to the bus company and not the hot dog,” I’d said with a bemused laugh.

That conversation had taken place three weeks ago.

When Dawn arrived home, she saw the still unopened box inside the front door. “Did you lose the instructions on how to open that?” she asked. “Or misplace the scissors?”

“I might be losing my mind,” I replied. “I’m not sure I want to get involved in this case.”

“Not enough money in it for your trouble?”

I handed her the envelope that had been attached to the side of the box. “Oh, my fee is not the problem.”

Dawn took out the enclosed bank draft and whistled. “Apparently. Wow, we could vacation in Italy for a month. Longer, depending on the exchange rate.” She gave me a withering look. “Are you now against living like the rich? Should I be searching for a new Sugar Daddy to fulfill my needs?”

“This Sugar Daddy is still able to fill all your needs,” I laughed. “I’d love to take you on a trip with all that dough but that’s what’s bothering me. There’s too much of it being thrown my way and it makes me nervous.”

“Isn’t this a retainer that you bill against?”

“Usually. The thing is I’m not a greedy man,” I stated proudly. “The amount I quoted Debra was five times lower than what that’s made out for. There are only two reasons for such an exorbitant amount: Debra is really bad at accounting or she’s treating this as a game she believes she can pay to win.”

“I didn’t get the impression she was a diva who thinks she can buy loyalty or use her wealth to intimidate anyone.”

“It feels like a bribe.”

“To do a good job? How is that a bribe?”

“Bribe might be too strong of a word,” I conceded. “I guess I should find out what’s in the box first and then I’ll make my decision, okay?”

“Fine with me. While you do that, I’ll make eggplant parmesan for dinner to keep the Italy vibe going,” Dawn said walking into the kitchen.

For such a big box the contents were not all that plentiful. The most substantial item was a hefty court transcript of the ten-day trial. There was also a picture of a beaming Eric and Lucy on their wedding day. A few of the other enclosed folders that caught my eye were marked: School, Life Insurance, News Clippings, Police Reports and Julie Trenton.

I picked out the Julie Trenton file, curious what tantalizing information the police and defense team had got out of Eric’s mistress, aside from the obvious. In newspaper snapshots, she was on par in the attractiveness department with Lucy, with short brunette hair, an oval face, and wide eyes that were no doubt the result of being confronted by hostile reporters on the courthouse steps. I already knew the basic plot she’d peddled under oath: Eric began working late on a new project that required her help. Then over a two-week period, one dinner break turned into innocently massaging her boss’ tired shoulders, followed by a glass of wine to relax, which culminated into a full blown skin-on-skin body rubdown on the office couch.

These terrible things happen to hard working woman all the time, or so I’m led to believe.

Who am I to judge?

Had it been any other person under any other circumstance, Eric’s alibi would’ve been solid. As it happened, watching a movie and having sex at your secretary’s apartment as your wife is brutally stabbed to death, left much to be desired. In this case, being secretive backfired magnificently. Eric’s cover story was he’d met a client for drinks and lost track of the time. I was wondering how he’d have explained away his damp mop top in this scenario. A strip club’s on-stage shower performance gone awry? Then I read he often went to the gym after work, cleaning up there before coming home. This was the reason he first gave to police, which quickly fell apart once records revealed he hadn’t attended the fitness centre in three days.

Moron.

Julie claimed they hadn’t talked about any future plans. “We aren’t in love,” she stated emphatically. “It was just about the sex and maybe some companionship a couple nights a week. Eric wasn’t going to leave Lucy.”

It was reported that Julie’s testimony on the stand was strong, but the female jurists couldn’t get past the cheating aspect, or that Eric had recently “loaned” her $2500 to buy new clothes for work.

Moron’s girlfriend.

The police probe of Julie (unlike Eric’s) was superficial. In their minds she was covering for him and was a possible accomplice, an avenue Detectives Dutton and Ingles failed to go down, presumably not wanting to jeopardize their perfect conviction record. The hired investigators also barely scratched the surface of what made Julie tick. If I took the case, Eric would be my first interview, followed by a sit-down with Julie not long after. If they really didn’t have any connection to Lucy’s murder, I needed to be sure before pursuing other leads I might find.

As we ate at the kitchen table, Dawn and I sifted through the other folders.

“Any gut feelings, yay or nay?” I asked Dawn. On past investigations, I’d found her to be a very good judge of people and trusted her point of view. The difference this time around was she’d met the potential client, whom she thought was genuine in her beliefs.

Dawn put down her fork and pointed to an insurance policy receipt. “I’m a bit troubled that Eric bought this two years earlier, not two months or two weeks, which would have been a dead giveaway he was planning something.”

I nodded in agreement. “Go on.”

“But the thing that really bothers me is the 911 phone call,” Dawn continued. “No one ever found a connection between the killer’s school’s out line and Lucy. The prosecution said it was Eric’s last sick joke because she was a teacher, but to me it doesn’t ring true. That line meant something specific to the killer and to Lucy. When he was interrogated, Eric was so clueless he didn’t know it was a song lyric. The line meant nothing to him.”

“Interesting,” I said stroking my hand on my chin in an exaggerated manner.

“Interesting as in, I never thought of that Dawn, you’re a genius or as in, when I was speaking all you heard was Charlie Brown’s teacher’s voice?”

“Surprisingly both,” I replied with a wide grin.

“Loser,” Dawn said with an equally wide smile. “What about you, smart guy? Share your wisdom with the little people.”

I picked up my empty plate and placed it in the sink. Returning to the table, I said, “What I want to share with the little people is not wisdom, but since you asked.” I sat and organized the folders. “The insurance policy isn’t a big concern for me. Two weeks, two years, doesn’t matter. It only comes into play if it appears to be the sole motive for getting rid of Lucy. From what I can piece together, Eric isn’t the vindictive kind. He didn’t hate Lucy and he already had plenty of money. A divorce seems like the most natural play here.”

“What about his reputation or family pride, once word got out he’d been cheating on his wife with his secretary?”

“Do you think being charged and convicted of murder helped his reputation in the community?” I asked.

“No, but I’m just saying most killers believe they can commit the perfect crime.”

“In this case though, even if someone else was convicted of Lucy’s murder, Eric’s dirty laundry would be exposed in time, ruining his reputation in the process. A dead wife is still going to cause him problems down the line.”

“Then what about Julie’s influence over him?” Dawn countered. “Maybe she gave him an ultimatum.”

“I’ve read all her interviews and get the impression she’s simply an educated young woman who got caught up in an office romance that ended badly—”

“For Lucy.”

“Yes, for Lucy and Julie, and possibly Eric,” I said.

“You appear to be leaning toward taking this case,” Dawn said as she took her plate to the sink.

I cleared the table and put all the folders back in the box. “My intuition is telling me Eric and Julie had nothing to do with Lucy’s killing. They could have been leaving an out-of-town movie theatre with a hundred witnesses, instead of watching television at her place. I think that fateful night began like all their other clandestine evenings, only this time they were caught in a lie.”

“Bad karma.”

“Very bad karma,” I agreed.

“So, if Eric wasn’t involved and there are no new leads, where would you start your investigation?”

I took Dawn’s hand and led her to the couch to relax after our delicious and filling meal. “The lone person left in this love triangle.”

“Lucy?”

“The one and only.”

“Are you saying the victim brought this upon herself?” Dawn asked slowly.

“I’m saying when you eliminate two of the three people in this equation, you’re left no other option than to train your sights on the third party, regardless if they’re dead or alive.”

“Lucy holds the key.”

“In my mind, yes.”

“Her mother isn’t going to like this, you know that, right?”

I took a deep breath and stared at the bank draft on the coffee table. “No, I don’t think she will.”