by Chris Culver
“I’ll put things right, okay, baby?” she said. “Nobody’ll break us up again.”
“Great,” I said. Mom smiled.
“This family you’re with,” she said, “are they good to you?”
I didn’t mean to, but I thought of Heather, and I felt a warmth spread all over me. My lips curled to a smile.
“They’re nice.”
“Do they have a nice house?”
I nodded again, smiling now. “Yeah. I even have my own room. We have a dog. His name is Chance, and he’s so funny—”
“Your foster father’s a doctor or something, right?” asked Mom, interrupting me. I nodded and forced the smile off my face.
“He’s a dentist,” I said. “He said I had good teeth, but I might need braces soon.”
“That’s real good,” she said. Her eyelids fluttered, and then she looked at me in the eye. “You think you could get some money for me? My job’s going well, but these lawyers are killing me. I want to get you back, baby girl, but it’s expensive.”
I didn’t know what she wanted, so I reached into my pocket and put my lunch money on the table.
“It’s all I have,” I said. Mom picked it up and rubbed it between her fingers.
“This is two dollars. I can’t buy anything with two dollars.”
“It’s all I have,” I said, a tear falling down my cheek. “I was trying to help.”
She stood and put my lunch money in her pocket. “Do better next time. I’ll see you later.”
She left without looking at me again. I stayed there and cried until Mrs. Shapiro came into the room. She rubbed my back and whispered into my ear.
“Don’t worry. You’ll see her soon,” she said. “Your mom’s not going anywhere.”
That was the problem. I had gone to school that morning content with my place in the world. I almost felt like I had a family with Heather and Todd, but they weren’t my real parents. I was cursed. My life wasn’t my own. I didn’t have a choice in what happened. The sooner I learned that, the better.
If I stayed with Heather and Todd much longer, I’d love them. I had to leave while I still could. It would hurt too much to lose them otherwise. I looked at Mrs. Shapiro.
“Can I go back to the girls’ home?”
Mrs. Shapiro startled and then furrowed her brow. “I thought you liked living with the Cohens.”
I wanted to nod and tell her they were the sweetest, kindest couple I had ever met and that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with them. I wanted to tell her that Heather read to me at night, that Todd and I played video games together after school, and that Chance slept at my feet and made me feel safer and more loved than I had ever felt in my entire life. I didn’t, though.
“They’re okay, but I liked the girls’ home better.”
Mrs. Shapiro hesitated but then nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”
I went back to the classroom feeling an emptiness build in me. I didn’t cry. I didn’t want anyone to see me cry. I got in a fight on my way home and punched a girl on the bus. I didn’t even know her. I didn’t know why I hit her, but it felt right. I gave her a bloody lip, and the school called my foster family. Heather and Todd tried talking to me. I wanted to tell them everything I was feeling and that I didn’t want to leave, but I held back. It was easier that way.
Mrs. Shapiro came through two days later, and I returned to the facility for girls. That was the right place for me. No one loved me there. More important than that, nobody could take anything from me there because I didn’t have anything worth taking. The world hurt too much when I had something to lose.
6
After leaving the hotel room, I got status updates from my team. Officer Skelton was still knocking on doors and talking to potential witnesses, but he wasn’t getting very far. If I could believe the witness reports, someone had shot Megan Young—or whatever my victim’s name was—with a powerful but silent rifle and then escaped completely unseen. That didn’t make sense.
Across the street, Officer Flynn was running into problems of his own. The prostitutes wouldn’t talk to him, and the managers at the strip club and truck stop refused to let him look at their video surveillance without a warrant. When Marcus tried to push them, they pushed back and told him to leave or they’d file harassment complaints against him. So we struck out there, too.
While my team worked, I walked through the parking lot in a grid pattern, taking pictures of anything that appeared out of place. In half an hour, I found almost two dozen cigarette butts, three used condoms, thirty-eight cents in change, and a receipt from an ATM. None of that would help my case.
When I reached the edge of the asphalt, I stopped and looked around.
Vic Conroy had built his hotel, strip club, and truck stop at the bottom of a bowl-shaped depression. Wooded hills surrounded the buildings on all sides. The shooter could have stood anywhere on those hills in a thirty-degree arc and still made the shot. This would not be an easy case.
My boss arrived as I was walking the perimeter of the parking lot. Sheriff Travis Kosen was in his early sixties and had been the elected sheriff of St. Augustine County for about ten years now. Before becoming sheriff in St. Augustine, he had been a detective in St. Louis. He managed the department well, but he was an even better cop. I had learned a lot from watching him.
He parked his SUV near the hotel’s front office and met me by the hotel room in which our victim had died. I filled him in on what we had done so far. He nodded and looked around.
“I’ll put a team together to search the woods. I think we’ve still got a pair of metal detectors in storage.”
“How’s our search warrant coming?” I asked.
“Last I heard, Harry was trying to track down a judge. Meantime, Dr. Sheridan is wrapping it up in Bollinger County and will be here within the hour. If we don’t have a warrant by then, I’ll drive up to St. Louis and find a district court judge who owes me a favor.”
“If that’s how you want to do it,” I said.
“It is, so let’s talk about your victim,” he said. “You think this is Megan Young.”
“Yeah,” I said, turning toward the hotel room. “I only saw her ID, but she’s got the same dimple in her chin, she’s the right age, and she has the same type of hair and skin tone. It’s her.”
“Except that your victim was alive in the very recent past,” said Travis. “Megan died twelve years ago.”
“We thought Megan Young died twelve years ago,” I said. “Nobody found her body.”
“True,” said Travis, nodding, “but there’s a wrinkle you’re overlooking: Christopher Hughes confessed to murdering her.”
“He wouldn’t be the first person to confess to a crime he didn’t commit. The case against him was strong. If he had gone to trial, he would have lost, and he would have gotten the death penalty. Confessing saved his life.”
Travis crossed his arms and stood straighter. “Tread carefully with that line of inquiry, Joe.”
I took a step back and held up my hands. I got where he was coming from. Travis and his partner, Julia Green, had worked the case hard twelve years ago. Without their work, Christopher would still be walking the streets.
“I didn’t mean to imply anything about you. You guys did good work, and I know you wouldn’t knowingly put an innocent person in jail.”
He held my gaze for a moment and then lowered his chin.
“You think Hughes’s lawyer would have allowed him to confess if he hadn’t done it?”
“I don’t know,” I said, shrugging. “Given the evidence against him, maybe his lawyer thought confessing was the only way to keep him out of the gas chamber. Or maybe his lawyer thought he had done it. Or maybe he didn’t take his own lawyer’s advice.”
Travis scratched his temple and then looked down. “Case is closed, Joe. Megan Young died a long time ago. I don’t know who your victim is, but it’s not her.”
“You think I’m nuts, but this is Megan Young. S
he lived with me. I know her, and this is her.”
Travis looked at the ground and nodded. “Okay. I’ll bite. Devil’s advocate, if this is Megan Young, do you understand what that means?”
I nodded and drew in a slow breath.
“Yes. If this is Megan, it means Christopher Hughes didn’t murder her. He’ll get out of prison.”
“Are you prepared for that?”
At first, I didn’t have an answer. Christopher had been my foster father when I was fifteen, and for the first few months, he treated me well. Then he changed and ruined my life. Even if he hadn’t killed Megan, he deserved to rot in prison for the rest of his life, but that wasn’t my call.
“If he didn’t kill Megan, he shouldn’t be in jail for her murder.” I paused before speaking. “You’re right. This probably isn’t Megan. We need to consider every possibility, though. It won’t take Dr. Sheridan long to compare the victim’s dental X-rays to Megan’s.”
Travis nodded, his face serious. “It wouldn’t take long if we could find Megan’s dental records. She’s been dead for twelve years.”
“They’re at Todd Cohen’s office. He’s a dentist in Kirkwood. He took care of the teeth of a lot of kids in foster care.”
“Fine,” said Travis, nodding. “This is your investigation, and you seem to know the dentist. You call him.”
I shook my head. “Dr. Sheridan should call him. Todd might remember me.”
“And that’s a problem?”
“Yeah. Todd and his wife tried to adopt me when I was in elementary school. I screwed it up.”
Travis knew more about my past than anyone in St. Augustine County. He nodded.
“Okay, kid. I’ll ask Dr. Sheridan to make that call. For now, I’ll keep you on this case. If this turns out to be Megan Young, though, Jasper and George will take over. That clear?”
“We’ll see,” I said.
“No,” said Travis, shaking his head. “If this is Megan Young, you’re too close to this case. No arguments.”
I blinked and drew in a breath. “This may not be her.”
“I’m glad you see that. What’s your next move?”
I put my hands on my hips. “I’ve got my team set up here. As soon as Harry gets the warrant, I’ll have him supervise the search of the victim’s hotel room. I’ll go to St. Louis.”
“Sounds nice,” said Travis, tilting his head to the side. “Do a little shopping, get lunch, maybe see the Arch. Sounds like a nice day.”
“Hilarious,” I said. Neither of us smiled. Travis blinked.
“Why are you going to St. Louis?” he asked.
“My victim’s ID says she lives in St. Louis. I’ll check out the address on her license and talk to her neighbors.”
Travis looked into the hotel room and then to me.
“Sounds like you’ve got this. I’ll get back to work. When you get to the city, make sure you call Julia. She’d like to hear from you, and you need to let the locals know you’re working a case in town.”
I took a step closer and then wiped away some powdered sugar on his collar. “Will do, boss. And next time you get attacked by a funnel cake, be careful. They’re vicious.”
“You’re funny,” he said. “Now get out of here, kid. I’ve got work to do.”
I smiled as I left, but I understood the task I had ahead of me. I had no illusions about this case. If I was right and that was Megan Young in the hotel room, I would spend the next few days gathering evidence that would exonerate one of the most vile men held in Missouri’s prisons. The thought made me sick.
7
It was ten in the morning, and the line for the visitor center at the Potosi Correctional Center already stretched outside the building. James “Sherlock” Holmes went to the prison dozens of times a year, and every time, he found it strange to see kids playing on the lawn while their moms visited inmates. It didn’t seem right. If he had kids and was in prison, he’d call them, but they’d never see him. No kid should see his father in chains.
Sherlock wore a pair of jeans and a blue shirt with the logo of a fruit delivery service stitched across the breast. Beside him in the pickup sat a man he had just met that morning, having been introduced by one of Sherlock’s long-term clients. Though he would enter the prison as a worker from the Franciscan Fruit and Vegetable Company, Sherlock carried a defense attorney’s burnished leather briefcase at his side.
On a routine visit, Sherlock would have walked through the main gate, signed the visitor log, and waited for a corrections officer to show him to his client. He couldn’t afford to have his name on a ledger or his face on a security camera’s feed this time, though. Sherlock had come to talk about a murder.
When the pickup reached the gate, a pair of guards sauntered toward the truck, laughing amongst themselves. For the convenience of a clandestine visit to the facility, Sherlock had paid three thousand dollars to a guard who worked for the Missouri Department of Corrections. With luck, that would become money well spent.
While one guard passed a sign-in sheet through the truck’s window, another reached beneath a pile of romaine lettuce in the back to remove a backpack. Sherlock wasn’t the only thing being smuggled in that morning. Not that he begrudged the Franciscan Fruit and Vegetable Company a little extra profit; he doubted there was much money in produce that most grocery stores would have discarded.
When a guard handed Sherlock the clipboard, he slid three hundred-dollar bills under the clip and handed it back without signing a thing. The guard smiled to himself and pretended to study the clipboard and Sherlock’s face before taking a step away from the truck and waving them through.
When they arrived at a loading dock, another guard opened the rear door and motioned them forward. Sherlock and the fruit delivery person stepped out.
“You’ve got fifteen minutes, buddy,” said the delivery man, already picking up a box of lettuce and carrying it to the dock. “Make them count.”
Sherlock hadn’t done this before, but his driver had briefed him on the procedure. There was only one rule: He could talk to one inmate unsupervised and bring in whatever drugs, food, cell phones, or cash he wanted, but if he brought a weapon, the guards would ban him permanently from the property.
If he followed that rule and paid the price, he’d have fifteen minutes of complete privacy with his client. Three grand was a lot of money for fifteen minutes, but Sherlock considered this an investment. If he could figure out how, he might even deduct it from his taxes.
As Sherlock approached the loading dock, a guard stepped to the edge and held out his hand to pull Sherlock up. Without saying a word, he led him inside to an office in the kitchen. Someone had taped shopping lists, inventories, and work schedules to the walls. The desk was a mess of papers. Inmate #453312, Christopher Hughes, sat in the only chair.
He stood when Sherlock entered. He had the clean and straight teeth of a man who had grown up with money, something few of his fellow inmates could boast. His eyes darted around the room—probably looking for threats—before settling on Sherlock. They looked cool at first, but then they warmed.
“It’s been a long time,” said Hughes.
“Sit down,” said Sherlock. “We’ve got a lot to talk about and little time.”
Christopher sat but didn’t take his eyes from Sherlock.
“When Catfish came to my cell and said I had a visitor, I expected to see somebody in the visitor center.”
“That is where most visitors go,” said Sherlock. “This visit is special.”
“I see,” said Christopher, nodding. “You’re not my lawyer. Why are you here?”
Sherlock pulled a pen and file folder from his briefcase. Inside the folder was a simple representation agreement that listed Sherlock’s hourly fees, his duties, and a brief summation of the attorney-client privilege.
“Knowing what I do, you’ll want me as your attorney of record,” he said. “Sign the paper, and then we’ll talk.”
Hughes scanned the docu
ment and then glanced up. “You think you’re worth five hundred an hour?”
“Oh, I’m worth far more than that to you,” he said. “I can get you out of here.”
“My last attorney said the same thing.”
“I guarantee it,” said Sherlock, holding out his pen. “Sign this paper, and I’ll have you out of here within a week.”
Hughes took the pen and signed his name. “All right. You’re my attorney now. Not that I can pay you.”
“I know your monetary situation better than you realize,” he said, countersigning the agreement and then closing the folder. “That’s why I’m here. How much is your freedom worth to you?”
Hughes crossed his arms. “A man who could get me out of here could name his figure.”
“Half a million cash,” said Sherlock. “I know you’ve got it because I know what you did for a living. This is above the hourly fee you pay me. I will also ask for a third of any fees I can recover from the city and county on your behalf. That five hundred grand isn’t in the contract, so we’ll call it a gentleman’s agreement.”
“A half-mil is a lot of money,” said Hughes, cocking his head to the side. “If you think you can get me out, though, you’re welcome to it.”
Hughes reached into his bag for a second folder. It held a single picture he had printed at his office computer that morning.
“That is a picture of Ms. Kiera Williams, but you know her as Megan Young. An associate of mine shot her last night in St. Augustine.”
Hughes picked up the picture. His hands trembled, and his breath was shallow.
“No shit?”
“No shit,” said Sherlock. “Even in St. Augustine, it won’t take the police long to see through the Kiera Williams identity. Once they find out the victim is Megan Young, I’ll file the paperwork to get you out of here. I’ll also work with the media—they love stories like this. You pled guilty to murdering Megan, but you didn’t do it. I think we’ll have a lot of support.”
