by Harlan Coben
Wilde shook the man’s hand. Raymond Stark’s grip was firm. “So nice to meet you, Wilde.”
“You too,” Wilde said, because he had no idea what else to say.
Raymond Stark smiled up at him. The smile lit up his face. “They found you in the woods when I was being held at Red Onion,” Raymond said. “That’s a maximum-security facility in Virginia. I’d just gone in, and I still had hope, you know? Like they’d realize they got it wrong and I’d be free any second.”
This man, Wilde realized, had been in prison for more than three decades.
“I read every story about you back then. The whole idea…I mean, you had no connections, no family. No past, right?”
“Right.”
“I don’t know if that’s a blessing or a curse.”
Saul sat down and signaled for Wilde to do the same.
“Thanks for coming,” Raymond said to Wilde.
Wilde looked at Raymond, then at Strauss. “Do you want to tell me why I’m here?”
“In 1986, Raymond was arrested for the murder of a young man named Christopher Anson. Anson was stabbed to death in the Deanwood section of Washington, DC. The claim was that Anson had gone into the wrong neighborhood to buy drugs, though that part was mostly kept out of the press to protect the victim’s rep. Anyway, he was stabbed once, in the heart, and robbed. You would have been too young to remember it, but it was a big case. Anson was a rich, white college student. There were calls for the death penalty.”
Raymond put a hand on Wilde’s arm. Wilde turned and looked into the jaundiced eyes.
“I didn’t do it.”
“You can imagine what it was like—the media, the mayor, the pressure to solve the case. The cops supposedly got an anonymous tip that Anson had been buying drugs from a black kid in Deanwood, so they dragged in every black kid they could find, stonewalled, kept them awake, started up with the enhanced interrogations—again you know the deal.”
“I do,” Wilde said. “What I don’t know is why I’m here.”
Strauss pressed on. “Eventually, one kid said that Raymond sold drugs to rich white guys.”
“Marijuana,” Raymond said. “That part is true. I mostly just delivered.”
“A judge issued a search warrant, and a DC Metro detective named Shawn Kindler found a knife under Raymond’s mattress. Tests showed it was the murder weapon. You can imagine how fast it went downhill from there.”
“The knife wasn’t mine,” Raymond said. Again he met Wilde’s eye. “I didn’t do it.”
Wilde said, “Mr. Stark?”
“Call me Raymond.”
“Raymond, I’ve seen the biggest sociopaths look me in the eye like that and lie to my face.”
“Yeah, I know,” Raymond Stark said. “Me too. Every day of my life. I’m surrounded by them. But I don’t know what else to say, Wilde. I’ve spent thirty-four years in here for something I didn’t do. I’ve tried my best. I studied hard, got my high school equivalency, college degrees, even a JD. I wrote letters and briefs for other inmates and myself. But nothing happened. Nothing ever happens.”
Raymond folded his hands on the table and looked off. “Imagine being in a place like this every day, screaming out the truth every way you know how, but no one ever hears you. You want to hear something weird?”
Wilde waited.
“I have this recurring dream that I’m getting out,” Raymond said with a hint of a smile. “I dream someone finally believes me—and I get set free. And then I wake up in the same cell. Imagine that for a second. Imagine that moment when I first realize that it’s just a dream and I try to hold on, but it’s like grabbing smoke. My mother used to visit me twice a week. She did that for more than twenty years. Then they found a mass in her liver. Cancer. Ate her up. And I wonder every day, every hour, if the stress of seeing her son locked up for something he didn’t do weakened her immune system and killed her.”
“Raymond,” Strauss said, “tell Wilde how you ended up in that chair.”
Raymond slowly shook his head. “If it’s all the same, Saul, I’ll pass on that. A sad story like that won’t make you believe me, am I right?”
Wilde said nothing.
“So I’m not asking you for pity or to believe my face or my eyes,” Raymond said. “Instead I’m just going to ask you for a few more minutes. That’s all. No pleading about how innocent I am. No emotion. Just let Saul finish what he wants to say.”
Wilde was going to say that he didn’t have the time right now, that he was in the middle of an industrial-strength problem of his own, that even if he was convinced that Raymond Stark had been railroaded, it would make no difference. Wilde couldn’t do anything that Saul Strauss and his organization couldn’t do better.
What stopped him from saying that was that Wilde realized there had to be a reason, a good reason, why Strauss had driven him up. Strauss had some idea what was going on with Crash Maynard and Naomi Pine, and yet he had still insisted on making this journey. So rather than lose time protesting his presence, Wilde saw little harm in showing some respect and giving them another few minutes. It wouldn’t change anything back at Maynard Manor, which was more than ever feeling like worlds away from Sing Sing.
Raymond Stark nodded at Strauss to go ahead.
“Two years ago,” Strauss said, “we at the Truth Program discovered that Detective Kindler planted evidence in at least three cases to reach his arrest quota and up his profile as a crime fighter. The DC attorney general’s office is now being forced to reexamine a number of Kindler’s arrests. They’ve vacated one conviction already. But they’re moving slowly, and no one wants to touch the Christopher Anson murder.”
“Why not?” Wilde asked.
“Because the case was so high profile. Everyone thought Raymond was guilty—fellow officers, prosecutors, the media, Anson’s family and friends. It would be more than an embarrassment now if it came out that the knife was planted. And even if we could prove that, plenty of people would still say Raymond was the killer. It’s like OJ. Tons of people think Mark Fuhrman planted the bloody glove—but they also think OJ did it.”
Strauss handed him a grainy photograph of a young white man with a big smile and wavy hair. He wore a blue blazer and red tie. “This is Christopher Anson, the murder victim. The photograph was taken two weeks before his murder. He was twenty when he was killed, a junior at Swarthmore College. Christopher was the quintessential all-American boy—basketball captain, debate team, three-point-eight GPA. The Ansons are a big blue-blood family in Massachusetts. They summered in a huge estate in Newport. You get the idea.”
Wilde said nothing.
“I tried to approach the Anson family with what we learned about Detective Kindler. They didn’t want to hear it. In their minds, the killer is caught and got what he deserved. It’s not an unusual reaction. You’ve been believing one thing for over thirty years. You become vested and blind.”
“Saul?”
It was Raymond.
“Wilde has been very patient with us,” Raymond said. “Show him the other photo now.”
Strauss hesitated. “I’d rather put it in more context first.”
“He’ll get the context,” Raymond said. “Show him.”
Strauss reached into the manila folder and pulled out another photograph.
“At first, this didn’t mean much to us. But then Arnie Poplin made that comment.”
He handed Wilde a group shot of about thirty or forty young people, all well dressed, healthy looking, and vibrant. The photograph had been taken outdoors on white concrete steps. Some of the young people sat, some stood. The first face Wilde recognized was Christopher Anson standing second from the left on the top. Wilde quickly realized that the other portrait of Christopher Anson that Strauss had showed him had been this same photo, just cropped and enlarged.
In the background, above the smiling faces, Wilde could see the familiar white dome of the Capitol building in Washington, DC.
A chill began to
creep down his neck.
“Christopher Anson spent that summer interning for a Massachusetts senator.”
Wilde’s eyes traveled along the picture. He got it now—saw it all—but he waited for Strauss to point it out. Strauss pointed to a face two away from Christopher Anson.
“That’s Dash Maynard.”
His finger moved down to the young woman who hadn’t changed much over the years. “That’s Delia Maynard, née Reese”—and then the finger slid to the face next to her—“and that, my friend, is the current senator for the great state of New Jersey, Rusty Eggers.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOUR
Back in the Sing Sing parking lot, Wilde called the Maynards to see whether there had been any news. There hadn’t been. Two hours remained until the kidnappers promised to release Crash.
When they got back in Saul Strauss’s car, Wilde said, “So let me see if I have your theory right.”
“Go ahead.”
“Arnie Poplin claims to have overheard Rusty admit to killing someone and Dash having some kind of confession to it on tape. You figure they’re talking about Christopher Anson.”
“In short, yes. But there’s more to it.”
“Such as?”
“They were out that night.”
“Who?”
“Christopher Anson and Rusty Eggers. That took a while to track down. These interns—they were all kids from pretty wealthy families, so their names weren’t in the released report.”
“In a case this high profile?”
“Even more reason. ‘We will only cooperate if we’re assured our precious child’s name will not be sullied.’ They struck confidentiality deals before they’d testify. It turns out that the prosecutor didn’t need them for court. The knife discovery was enough. But anyway, a bartender at a local hangout called the Lockwood saw a whole group of the male interns that night. Look, it took a while. We had our best people on this. Most of the interns wouldn’t talk—heck, it’s been over thirty years—but from what we understand, Rusty Eggers and Christopher Anson didn’t get along. Both of them saw themselves as alphas in this group of interns. They were constantly competing. According to the bartender, they had words that night. One of their buddies had to separate them.”
“Rusty and the murder victim?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who separated them?”
“Oh, you’ll like this. We showed the bartender that intern photo from the steps of the Capitol. Guess who he picked out?”
Wilde saw it now. “Dash Maynard.”
“Interesting, right?”
“So after Dash separates the two of them, what happened?”
“From what we can piece together, Christopher Anson storms out. He’s first to leave. Then later—no one can say if it’s half an hour, an hour—but the next person to leave was Rusty Eggers.”
“The police knew about this?”
Strauss nodded. “Their theory was, Anson left early to buy drugs. He’d done it before. Anson was something of the group’s…‘dealer’ is too strong a word. Supplier maybe. So the police think Anson was drunk. He stumbled out to buy drugs in a bad neighborhood. He was well dressed—they were still in suits and ties from interning—and an easy target. Raymond Stark spots him or maybe Anson goes up to him to buy drugs. Either way, the white kid is an easy target. Raymond pulls the knife to rob him. Maybe Anson resists, maybe not.”
“Raymond Stark stabs him.”
“Right. But there are a lot of flaws in that theory.”
“For example?”
“Anson’s body was found in an alleyway. Our expert at the Truth Program examined the crime scene photos. He’s convinced the body was dumped there.”
“So Christopher Anson was killed somewhere else?”
“Our expert says yes.”
“Did Raymond’s lawyer bring it up at trial?”
Strauss shook his head. “He was pro bono. He couldn’t afford an expert.”
“And I assume the prosecution didn’t let anyone know?”
“There’s a chance their expert didn’t come to the same conclusion, but it’s probably classic ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ prosecutorial misconduct. I don’t think it would have made a difference to the jury anyway. If it had come up, the prosecution would just say Raymond stabbed Anson somewhere else and dragged him into an alley, so no one would see.”
Wilde sat back. They took the new Tappan Zee Bridge across the Hudson back to New Jersey. A text came in from Hester:
Rola may have a lead on Naomi’s mother.
Wilde typed a reply:
Be back in half an hour.
Wilde said, “So you think Rusty Eggers killed Christopher Anson?”
“He was there that night,” Strauss began. “They exchanged angry words.”
“Meaningless.”
“On its own? Sure. But years later, Arnie Poplin hears Rusty admit killing someone to Dash Maynard and worrying about a tape.” Strauss took one hand off the wheel and held it toward Wilde. “And yeah, I know Arnie Poplin doesn’t pour all his cornflakes into one bowl, but think about Rusty Eggers’s behavior. He forces the Maynards to hire Gavin Chambers, maybe the best security man in the country, to guard them. Why?”
“Because there are indeed tapes,” Wilde said. “Like the one just released.”
“You think Eggers hired Chambers over that tape of him and Kandi Pate?”
“It could be.”
“It could be,” Strauss repeated, “but it’s not. Because there is one other thing we are leaving out.”
“What’s that?”
“Rusty Eggers is a stone-cold sociopath. I don’t know if he was born that way or that truck accident that killed his parents sent him off the rails, but it couldn’t be more obvious. He’s charming and ridiculously smart—but he’s seriously damaged. If you look through his past, there are too many people who got in his way who ended up dead.”
Wilde made a face. Strauss saw it out of the corner of his eye.
“What?”
“I’m not a huge fan of conspiracy theories,” Wilde said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Strauss said. “What matters is, if Rusty Eggers gets elected, millions of people may die. That is how it is with charismatic leaders like him. You’re a student of history. Don’t pretend you don’t see the danger.”
They drove some more.
“You sound like a guy with a lot of motive,” Wilde said.
“To do what?” Strauss smiled. “Kidnap two teenagers?”
Wilde turned to him.
“I told you I have sources,” Strauss said.
“So it seems.”
“And you’re missing my point, man. Someone really wants that tape. They’ll do pretty much anything, it seems, to get it. Including kidnapping kids. And their motives may not be altruistic. That’s what I’m trying to explain to you. If they get it before we do, they may destroy it. Or cover it up. And if that happens, Raymond Stark stays in jail for a crime he didn’t commit. That’s the micro level. On a macro level, maybe Rusty Eggers gets elected. You aren’t blind or as blasé as you pretend. You know what kind of destruction Rusty Eggers is capable of unleashing.”
Wilde thought about the tape. He thought about Rusty Eggers. But mostly he thought about Raymond Stark’s dream of being free. How soul-crushing it must be, on the cusp before you wake up, when you realize your release was just a dream, when you know the wisps of hope will soon be gone and you’ll be back in that cell.
“How did Raymond end up in that wheelchair?” Wilde asked.
Strauss was a big man with big gnarly hands. His grip on the wheel tightened. “In a sense, it’s part of the reason why Anson’s family will never accept that Raymond didn’t do it, even if we prove the knife was planted.”
Wilde waited.
“The Ansons wanted the death penalty. There was a quote in the news after the verdict from his father. A reporter asked Anson Senior if he felt that justice had bee
n served. He said no. He said that Raymond Stark will get free housing and free clothes and three meals a day while his beautiful son’s dead body will be eaten by worms.”
Strauss took a shaking hand off the wheel and rubbed his chin. His eyes started blinking. “Raymond was in four months when some guys grabbed him in the shower. They laid him on his stomach on the tile. Two guys grabbed his arms and pulled. Two guys grabbed his legs and pulled. Like he was on a medieval rack. Another guy held Raymond’s face down, so that his nose was pressed against the ceramic. They held him and they pulled his limbs. Hard. And then another guy, a big guy, Raymond said, weighed over three hundred pounds, came over and said, ‘This is from the Anson family.’”
Strauss’s breathing was hitching now. Wilde sat next to him, almost afraid to move.
“The big guy is still standing. He straddles Raymond’s stretched-out body. Then he jumps up in the air, like he’s coming from the top rope at a wrestling match. That’s how Raymond described it. The other men pull his legs and arms even harder, totally taut, painful, and this big guy’s full weight slams into Raymond’s lower back like a sledgehammer. Raymond hears his spine snap, he said, like a strong wind whipping a dry branch off an old oak.”
Silence. A silence so deep, so pure, that it pushed against the windows of the car. A silence that smothered you, that didn’t let you take a breath. A silence that felt like a scream.
“Saul?”
“Yes?”
“Two hundred yards on your right. There’s a spot to pull over. I’ll get out there.”
* * *
Wilde needed the time in the forest.
It wouldn’t be long. He had to get back to the Maynards. But that rain-gray visit to Sing Sing and the night-black story of how Raymond’s spine snapped made Wilde feel that walls both literal and figurative were starting to close in on him. He didn’t know whether he suffered from some form of claustrophobia—he doubted it was severe enough to be labeled a disorder—but Wilde knew that he needed the woods. When he was away from these trees for too long, he felt as though he was suffocating, as though his lungs were ready to completely shut down.
