The Invisible Wife

by Thomas Fincham

  Fisher’s gaze was focused on Cary Gilford as he led them inside the house. She wanted to study his behavior. In her experience, one spouse often was to blame for the other’s death.

  There was a body on the floor in the living room. The victim was female with silver hair and wearing a white dress.

  She had a knife stuck in her chest.

  Fisher’s first instinct was the same person who had killed Big Bob and his son had done the deed, but there was a big, glaring difference. In their case, the killer had not left a knife behind.

  The Milton PD had upgraded their evidence gathering technology. Previously, fingerprints that were lifted from the scene used to be taken back to the station and run through the police databases, which could take hours. Now, all the detectives had to do was lift the fingerprints using a special strip, photograph the results on their cell phones, and upload the file to a server online. The server would then run the print through the various databases the department was linked with. The entire process from start to finish took less than twenty minutes.

  Holt proceeded to do just that.

  While they waited for the results, Fisher decided to survey the scene. She walked around the living room, examining every inch. The beige carpet was now stained with red. She spotted two wine glasses on the coffee table. One still had some wine left in it. She lifted the empty one up with a gloved hand and held it up in the light. She could clearly see smudges on the glass. She decided to grab prints from both the glasses, uploaded them, and headed straight for the kitchen.

  She needed only a second to see that a knife was missing from the wooden block.

  If she had to guess, it was the same knife in the victim’s chest.

  She returned to the living room. Holt was staring at his cell phone. He held the phone up for her and said, “I think you better take a look at this.”

  She was shocked.

  Lee Callaway?!

  Several years back, Callaway had been arrested for drunk driving. The Milton PD had his prints in the system.

  “This isn’t right,” she told Holt.

  Holt, to his credit, ran the prints again. While they waited, her cell phone buzzed. The results from the wine glasses were back. For one of the glasses there was no match found in the system, but this only meant whoever drank from the glass was never fingerprinted.

  The fingerprints on the second glass were matched 99% to a Lee Callaway. His mugshot popped up on her cell phone along with all the details of his DUI arrest.

  Fisher’s knees buckled. She almost fell onto the sofa, but she was able to regain her composure and hold onto the armrest for support.

  They proceeded to gather further evidence. After that, they had no choice but to bring the suspect in for questioning.

  She was grateful Holt let her conduct the arrest, but it was no secret she was friends with Callaway.

  For that very reason, she was now behind a glass wall, staring at Holt and Callaway in the interview room.

  She prayed Callaway had an explanation for what they had found at the house.

  SEVENTY-NINE

  Once Fisher had cuffed Callaway at the restaurant, she had taken him outside. He was confused, and he kept asking her why she was doing this. She told him that it was his right to remain silent and that anything he said can and will be used against him in a court of law. But he was not listening. He wanted answers and she would not give them to him. At one point he got angry with her and he said something which he now regretted. Never once did she retaliate. Her eyes were moist, and it looked like she was on the verge of breaking down. Holt appeared out of nowhere and had taken possession of him. His grip was strong as he pushed him into the backseat of a waiting car. Holt had then driven Callaway to the station, and after getting booked, he was placed in the interview room.

  “This is a mistake,” Callaway said.

  Holt was seated across from him. His arms were crossed over his chest and he had a stern look on his face.

  “I’m afraid it’s no mistake,” Holt said.

  “Where’s Dana?”

  “She’s not here.”

  “I want to speak to her.”

  “That won’t be possible.”

  Callaway tried to cover his face with his hands, but the cuffs on his wrists were attached to the table.

  Callaway held up the cuffs. “Is this necessary?”

  “Standard procedure,” Holt replied.

  Callaway stared at him. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “I enjoy my work, if that’s what you mean,” Holt shot back.

  Callaway did not look like he believed him.

  He and Holt had a history. Callaway thought Holt was like a Rottweiler who, when he had a suspect in his grasp, would not let go until he had a conviction. Sometimes it did not matter to him what evidence he had, only that he got the suspect in the end.

  Holt, on the other hand, thought very little of private investigators. To him they were unnecessary to society, and they impeded real police work.

  “Let’s go back to last night,” Holt said.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Whatever you can tell me.”

  “Like what?”

  “Did you go to Mrs. Isabel Gilford’s house?” Holt asked, emphasizing the “Mrs.” on purpose. He was fully aware of Callaway’s tendency to sleep with married women. Another thing he despised about him.

  “I did go to her house, yes,” Callaway conceded. “But I didn’t go there to spend the night.”

  “Then why did you go?”

  “She asked me to come.”

  Holt raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

  “She hired me to follow her husband.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “She believed he was cheating on her.”

  “And?”

  “I had proof that he was.”

  “What kind of proof?”

  “I had photos.”

  “Where are these photos?”

  “I don’t have them. I gave prints of them to her.”

  Holt studied him. “We found no such photos anywhere in the house. And believe me, in a murder investigation, we go through the crime scene with a fine-tooth comb.”

  Callaway’s eyes darted around the room as if he was searching for an explanation. “Who found her body?”

  “Her husband.”

  “Then he must have taken them.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Why wouldn’t he?” Callaway spat. “He was in those photos.”

  Holt fell silent. “Do you have a backup of these photos?” he asked.

  Callaway opened his mouth but then shut it. He looked away and said, “They were on my camera. I can’t find it.”

  Holt snickered. “How convenient.”

  Callaway’s head began to spin. He had to shut his eyes to make the dizziness stop.

  Holt slid a glossy 8x10 across the table. Callaway opened his eyes and saw that it was an enlarged photo of a bloody knife.

  Holt said, “We found a knife at the crime scene. It was lodged in the victim’s chest. This knife had your fingerprints on it. Why is that?”

  Callaway felt like throwing up. “That’s not possible,” he slowly replied.

  “Just to be certain, we ran the prints several times through our database, and each time it came back with a match. They are yours.”

  Callaway’s eyes began to tear up. “I’ve never seen that knife before.”

  “It came from the victim’s kitchen.”

  Callaway’s shoulders slumped. “I didn’t kill her.”

  Holt leaned closer. “You agree that you were with the victim last night?”

  Callaway nodded.

  “Do you also agree that you and the victim were having wine last night?”

  He nodded again. “We had several glasses, and I think by the end, we were both drunk. Maybe that’s why I passed out.”

  “We found prints on the wine glasses. One set belo
ngs to you, and we assume the other belongs to the victim. She’s not in our system, so we couldn’t get a match, but I am certain a toxicology report would show her consuming alcohol prior to her death.”

  Callaway shook his head. “She was alive when I… I…”

  “You what?”

  Callaway looked at him. “I… I don’t remember what happened at the house. I only remember waking up this morning. It was as if I had blacked out the entire night.”

  Holt almost chuckled. “You can’t use the same excuse that your client Paul Gardener used.”

  “Paul was innocent,” Callaway said.

  “Yes, thanks to you. But this time you’re charged for murder and not someone else.”

  Callaway swallowed.

  “I want my lawyer.”

  EIGHTY

  Forty minutes later, the door to the interview room opened. A man wearing a striped suit, leather shoes, and a gold watch entered. The watch’s dial was encrusted in diamonds. The watch likely cost the man more than Callaway made in a year. He was clean shaven, and his hair was slicked back, making him look like a 1940s gangster.

  The moment Holt had uttered the name Paul Gardener, Callaway knew what attorney he was going to call.

  Evan Roth had been Paul’s lawyer at the time of his arrest. Callaway hoped Roth remembered what he did for his client.

  Roth smiled and extended his hand. “Mr. Callaway, I was surprised to receive your call.”

  “Thanks for coming,” Callaway said.

  Roth placed his expensive briefcase on the table, unbuttoned his suit coat, and sat across from Callaway. Roth was one of the most sought-after defense lawyers in the city. He was the best, and he did not come cheap.

  “I didn’t know who else to call,” Callaway said.

  “You made the right call.”

  “I have some money. I can…”

  Roth held up his hand to stop him. “We’ll discuss fees later. Right now, tell me what happened last night and this morning.”

  Callaway laid out his story in detail. When he was done, Roth said, “Okay, so I’ve heard your version. Now, based on the evidence against you, they—I mean, the prosecution—will create their own version of events. I’ve been through these kinds of situations too many times, so I know how they think. They will say that you and Mrs. Gilford were involved in a passionate affair…”

  “That’s a lie,” Callaway interjected.

  The smile on Roth’s face never dropped. “They will say that. But we will refute it. They do have your fingerprints on the murder weapon, however…

  “I don’t know how they got there.”

  “And you were seen fleeing the scene.”

  “I didn’t see anyone at the house,” Callaway said.

  “Yes, but a neighbor saw you leave.”

  Callaway’s face creased. “When?”

  “According to a statement, a neighbor was walking his dog in the morning when you nearly ran them over in a hurry.”

  Callaway remembered.

  “The neighbor gave the detectives your license plate number.”

  Callaway sighed and shook his head in disbelief. He looked up at Roth. “What motive do I have for killing Mrs. Gilford? She was my client.”

  “I agree. I don’t think they have a motive yet, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they come up with something when they go before a judge.”

  “Cary Gilford had a motive,” Callaway said.

  “The dead woman’s husband?”

  “Yes. He was having an affair with his assistant, and I had seen Isabel Gilford with bruising around her face.”

  Roth’s eyes narrowed. “That’s interesting. Did she report it to the police?”

  “I told her to, but I don’t know if she did.”

  “Don’t worry, we can always pull up records to see if he had a history of violence.”

  Callaway liked the sound of that.

  Roth said, “You said you don’t remember anything from last night.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Do you think you were drugged?” Roth suggested. Paul Gardener could not remember anything either when he was charged with murdering his daughter.

  “I may have. I mean, I drank a couple glasses of wine.”

  “Was Isabel Gilford drinking too?”

  “Yes. She was the one who kept refilling my glass.”

  Roth nodded. “It might be best to conduct a drug test on you. But first things first. I’ll try to schedule a court date for your bail. Do you know anyone who can put up the money?”

  EIGHTY-ONE

  Holt and Fisher approached the front desk and rang a bell. They were at the address Callaway had provided them upon his arrest. Holt had frowned when he found out the man was living at a hotel.

  How can he afford it? his initial thought had been. But now that he was here, he saw the place was more akin to a motel than a hotel.

  The clerk appeared from the backroom. Holt and Fisher flashed their badges and told him they needed a key to Callaway’s room.

  “That’s funny,” the clerk said.

  “What is?” Holt asked, not smiling.

  “Mr. Callaway was here this morning asking for a key, too.”

  “Why would he do that?” Fisher asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “And did you give him one?”

  “I didn’t have to. Someone had dropped off the key in our lost and found box. Probably one of the cleaning staff found it.”

  Fisher’s face turned hard. Holt had seen that look before when she was faced with something that troubled her.

  “Are you sure about that?” she asked.

  The clerk gave a non-committal shrug.

  “Can you get us a key to the room?” Holt asked the clerk.

  “One moment,” the clerk replied.

  He disappeared into the backroom.

  Holt turned to Fisher. “What’s bothering you?”

  “Everything about this case is bothering me.”

  “I know you had a relationship with him once…”

  “We are friends,” she corrected him.

  “Okay, right, so it is understandable that you have feelings in this case. I just hope it doesn’t conflict with your judgement.”

  “It won’t. Just like it didn’t with you when we were investigating Isaiah’s case,” she shot back.

  Ouch, he thought. She has me there.

  The clerk returned just in time to break the tension. He handed them a key. “It’s on the third floor. If you want, you can take the stairs like Mr. Callaway does.”

  “We’ll take the elevator,” Holt said.

  As they waited for one to arrive, Fisher said, “I know you have strong opinions about Callaway. I just hope they don’t conflict with your judgement on this case.”

  Holt grimaced. “I am going to follow the evidence wherever it leads me.”

  “I hope so,” Fisher said.

  The elevator arrived.

  Holt got the feeling this was going to be a long investigation.

  They took the elevator up and got off on the third floor. They pulled on latex gloves and unlocked the front door.

  Holt sensed that this was the first time Fisher had been here. She looked around the cramped space with disappointment, as if she expected more from Callaway.

  I don’t, he thought. He’s nothing but a skirt chaser who finally took things too far.

  Holt was devoted to his wife, and he abhorred men who slept with married women. In his mind, Callaway was the worst kind. Even so, Holt would view the facts with an unbiased gaze, even if it resulted in setting Callaway free.

  Callaway had retained Evan Roth as his lawyer, which meant they had to be careful with any evidence found at the defendant’s place of residence. Everything of relevance would be documented and photographed, and a copy would be provided to the defense.

  Holt believed they already had sufficient evidence against Callaway. All they were doing here was trying to build a stronger ca
se.

  There was not much to go through anyway. Callaway hardly lived at the hotel. He only used the place for sleep. He had three pieces of luggage with all his belongings and a few articles of clothing hanging in the closet.

  Holt knelt to look underneath the bed. He saw something. He reached in and pulled out a duffel bag. He unzipped the bag when Fisher came over.

  “What did you find?” she asked.

  He did not even have to answer. She knew exactly what it was.

  Inside the bag was a shirt stained with red.

  “Why would he be so careless to leave evidence in his apartment?” she wondered out loud.

  “Just like he left a knife with his prints at the scene,” Holt said. “He never thought we’d link him to the victim.”

  Fisher fell silent.

  Checkmate, Holt thought.

  EIGHTY-TWO

  Callaway nervously paced in the eight-by-ten cell. There was a metal bed and a metal toilet and sink. The security camera near the ceiling that captured his every move unnerved him the most about his confinement. He felt exposed. He knew prisoners had no right to privacy, but he was not a criminal.

  I shouldn’t be here, he kept thinking. I didn’t kill anyone.

  He balled his fists whenever he came up empty at what happened the night before. He felt anger blaze inside him, but he knew he had to keep his fury contained. The prosecution needed ammunition to deny him bail, and if the camera recorded him having a fit, they would argue he was violent, prone to sudden outbursts, and a threat to both the public and himself.

  Callaway did not want to spend even an extra minute locked up. He feared if his bail was denied, he would be hauled from the Milton PD straight to the state penitentiary. Who knew which murderous inmate would become his bunk buddy?

  He shuddered at the thought of a big, hulking cell mate having his way with him.

  I must get out of here.

  The only way for that to happen was if someone posted bail and the judge accepted it. As if on cue, the cell door was unlocked, and the guard held it open.