Death is in the Details

by Heather Sunseri

  Maybe Gus was hiding inside. I stepped into the trailer, flipped on the light, and cursed.

  The place had been trashed. Someone had emptied out every drawer and pulled all my possessions from closets, shelves, and storage spaces. Who did this? And why?

  What were they looking for?

  I picked up a drawer and slid it back into its spot. I gathered up eating and cooking utensils and dumped them in the sink to be washed later. I found a couple of julep cups on the floor and held them up to Luke. “They obviously weren’t looking for valuables.”

  He scoffed. “Those would have been the first items I would have taken.”

  Despite the circumstances, I was thankful we could keep the banter light. It kept me from panicking.

  I went to my bedroom. My clothes were all over the bed and on the floor. My sheets had been stripped away, and my mattress was sliced in several spots, as were the pillows, their insides pulled completely out.

  “Whatever they were looking for… they thought I would put it in the pillows?”

  “Faith, do you keep any of your crime scene photos here? It’s conceivable someone might want those. I know you’re not supposed to, but maybe you keep a backup?”

  “I don’t. I upload them to the server, and then delete my—” I stopped abruptly, then turned to my closet.

  “What?” Luke said. “Do you know what they were searching for?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  I pulled out what few items that were left inside my closet, then popped open the secret compartment in the floor.

  The box was still there. They hadn’t found it.

  But who would even have known it was here? Or what was in it?

  And what, specifically, were they after? My copy of the crime scene photos didn’t even include the photo of the leash. Would they be interested in the journals? They would include a description of the needlepoint gifts Leah had given us all for Christmas that year. I wasn’t sure.

  I removed the lid and verified that everything was still inside.

  “You going to tell me what that is?” Luke asked.

  Flashing police lights shone through the windows and tires crunched on gravel. And then I heard Gus’s soft cry. The cat leapt up the steps and into the trailer.

  “There you are!” I stepped around Luke and picked up Gus. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again!” As I scratched the back of Gus’s ears, she meowed and rubbed her face against mine. “Did you see who did this?” I asked her.

  “I’m glad Gus is safe,” Luke said in a low voice. “But do you want the police to see what’s in that box?” He nodded toward the container, and his tone suggested that he knew it would be best that we kept its contents between us for now.

  “Not yet,” I said. “But if you’ll help me make a quick report and give me a place to stay… I’ll show you what I think someone was after.”

  “Deal. I might even let you bring your cat.” Again he kept things light and comfortable between us, this time with a grin.

  I returned the smile. “I saw your face when you realized she was missing. You like Gus.”

  “I like you,” Luke said. “And I figure your cat is part of the package.”

  We went out to greet the police officer. It took twenty minutes to give him our statements. I knew he wouldn’t take fingerprints—it’s usually not worth the trouble. In fact, police tend to get rather irritated when victims of break-ins insist on fingerprinting, then get upset when police leave behind a huge mess and find nothing usable.

  And I certainly wasn’t going to ask for prints. I didn’t need them. I was fairly certain I already knew who had broken into my trailer.

  Thirty-One

  Safely in Coop’s warm barn apartment, Luke handed me a mismatched pair of bowls so that I could feed and water Gus.

  “Thanks for letting us both crash here,” I said.

  “I’m just glad the two of you are okay. Now tell me what’s in the box.”

  I straightened at his direct tone, then went over to the box I had set on the long farm table. I took out the old family photos and set them aside. “These are from my childhood,” I said. “The few photos I could find in Aunt Leah’s collection. Most of my childhood went up in flames with the fire.”

  His face softened with pity, a look I hated. I think he knew it, because he quickly got back to business. “What else? Surely someone didn’t break into your home for baby photos.”

  “No, I don’t believe they did.” I tucked the journals into the bottom of the box, then pulled out the crime scene photos and set them on the table. “But they might have broken in for these.” I pulled the photo from Ethan out of my coat pocket and tossed it on top of the others. “Or more likely, this one.”

  He flipped through the stack. “These are from the night your mom died. Where did you get these? When we talked to the prosecutor, they couldn’t produce them—system glitch or something.”

  * * *

  “Ethan had a copy. It’s part of the exculpatory evidence. He got it through… back channels.” I was deliberately vague; there was no point telling him I had stolen most of these photos, and though I didn’t like Tabitha Green, I wasn’t about to rat her out specifically. She had helped uncover the truth, after all.

  “And this one?” Luke asked, holding up the late addition. “You seem to think this one is significant?”

  I looked down at the floor, then back up at Luke. He waited patiently for me to say something. Or maybe he was processing through his own thoughts and conclusions.

  “Okay…” he said. “How about we start with a different question. Why did you call me tonight? Why not Finch? Or your uncle? Or even Chief Reid? He seems rather protective of you.”

  “I don’t think protective is the right word,” I said. I looked toward the windows. They were dark, and you couldn’t see anything on the other side of them. I always hated the thought of someone being able to see inside windows that I couldn’t see out of. Too many scary movies as a child, I supposed.

  “Come on, Faith. Give me something.” Luke lifted his hands then dropped them in frustration. “Surely by now you trust me.”

  I fidgeted with my hands. “That’s why I called you,” I said softly. “I do trust you.”

  “Then tell me what’s special about this photo.”

  “I’m not really sure,” I lied. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust him—at least, that’s what I tried to convince myself—but I needed to first talk to Uncle Henry about the photo. If I was wrong about the conclusion I had drawn, I would ruin what was left of my family.

  I approached Luke. I took the photo from his hands and set it on top of the others. I let my eyes drift slowly from his chest, up to his eyes, then to his lips. “This case isn’t going anywhere tonight.” I moved closer.

  When I bent my knee, it knocked against his leg. I slid my hands to his waist and stared at his chest.

  He took in a deep breath. “What are you doing?” He grabbed my shoulders firmly, holding me in place. “Don’t play games with me, Faith.” His gaze narrowed.

  I decided to leak out a little bit of truth. “I have thoughts—assumptions, really, but I need to be careful. What Ethan told me tonight… it could ruin someone’s life. If it’s true.”

  “Do you believe Ethan?”

  “I believe he deserved to be let out of prison. I believe he wants to find out who put him there and who’s trying to harm me now. And I believe he wants to know who murdered his father.”

  Luke relaxed his hold, so I moved in close again, sliding my hands to his back.

  He wrapped his arms around me. “I want to find out who’s trying to hurt you, too. Did Ethan, or do you, have any ideas who that might be? Assuming for a second that it’s not actually Ethan.”

  I lifted my hand and placed my fingers over his lips. “No more talk tonight.”

  I could see the torment in his eyes. I was starting to see that this man might actually care about me as much as he cared about find
ing a killer. He was trying to do the right thing—but what was that?

  I let my hands roam up his back, to his shoulders, and down his arms. I let them linger along his hips, then moved them around to the front of his body. I knew the moment I had him, and there was no turning back.

  His lips crushed against mine. He kissed me hard with intent and heat. His hands slipped under my shirt, touching my waist, my back, and continuing to roam.

  I lifted his sweater over his head, and he returned the favor. We left a trail of clothing as we stumbled to the spiral staircase. He grabbed my hand and led me upstairs.

  When we got to the top, he finished undressing me, and we fell into bed, leaving the details of a killer for another day.

  It didn’t take long for Luke to fall asleep after we’d made love. I got up, dressed, and using a dim lamp, I got to work on his evidence board. Gus sat on the table, cleaning herself.

  I placed the photo of the dog leash next to the other evidence in my mother’s murder. By itself it didn’t prove anything, but it was enough for me to question everything I’d ever believed about my family—and it broke my heart in the process. It was a miracle I was holding my emotions together at all. My mind was working overtime to come up with reasons the leash didn’t mean what I thought it meant.

  I pushed those emotions aside, and studied the board.

  Luke was a good investigator. He had boxes of files stacked against the wall, yet he had managed to transform the copious information into a concise timeline of twelve years of cases, making notes and drawing links. Some of the notes were clearly an attempt to find commonalities among the cases. He had drawn lines between a few of the cases, but had come up short with others.

  I zeroed in on a case from two years ago, in a town just outside of Knoxville, in which the parents of a nine-year-old boy, Connor Bale, were murdered. Luke had written on a pink Post-It: victim of molestation by Catholic priest. According to a newspaper article pinned just above, the parents had known about the molestation for months. Even when the priest was arrested for child pornography, the parents didn’t report the molestation of their son, because they feared what it would do to them socially and within their Catholic parish. It was ultimately the boy’s pediatrician who reported the possible molestation to authorities—and then, under police interrogation, the mother broke down and admitted the truth.

  That followed the pattern of some of the other cases. Parents who were aware of an inappropriate sexual relationship involving their child, but who remained silent about it.

  Other cases had a slightly different pattern. News reports suggested sexual abuse of a minor, but there was no indication that the murder victims had known about that abuse. Yet I suspected they did know—in every case. Because that was the killer’s motive. To punish those who knew. Those who knew and said nothing.

  But that raised another question: if the sexual abuse didn’t make the news until after the murders… how could the killer have known about the abuse? And how could the killer have known the victims were staying silent?

  I followed one of Luke’s strings from the newspaper article to a yellow Post-It note: Pediatrician: Dr. Littleton, Lexington. “Lexington” was circled.

  Why had those parents driven their little boy all the way to Lexington to see a doctor?

  I went carefully through the dates of all the cases, but this time, I did so with a fresh eye. I grabbed an aqua Post-It pad, since that color had not been used yet, made my own notes, and stuck them in the center of any case that I could add information to.

  Then I stood back and looked at my handiwork.

  As I examined the timeline—and at the horrible truth it revealed—I began to cry. Uncontrollable but silent tears streamed down my face.

  I did one more thing. I pinned a piece of twine to the board.

  It stretched from the picture of the dog leash… to the photograph of Finch.

  Thirty-Two

  I left before Luke woke. I left my journals on the table, key pages marked with Post-Its, and added a note: Thanks for letting me borrow your car. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Everything is explained on your timeline and in these journals.

  He’d be angry that I took his vehicle without waking him, but he’d forgive me when he saw my contribution to his evidence board.

  However, I would never forgive myself for what I was about to do to my family. A family that had been through so much. A family that had worked so hard to put itself back together after the fire, the deaths, the trial.

  I thought back to the early days after Finch and I finished up our schooling—vet school for him, undergraduate for me—and came back to town. Finch set up his practice in Paynes Creek to be near me. Aubrey, who was estranged from her parents, supported him emotionally and financially while he got his practice up and running. It didn’t take long; his natural charm and easygoing demeanor led to near-instant success. Within a year his fledgling practice was well in the black, and Aubrey was continuing her work at the behavioral health center in Lexington. She’d started there as an intern, and then became a full-time therapist.

  And they both assumed I’d move in with them. But I didn’t want to cramp the newlywed couple just getting their adult lives in order. I purchased the Airstream, remodeled it, and moved back onto the farm I grew up on. Most people thought I was crazy—and maybe I was. But I had more good memories than bad ones on that farm.

  And I remembered everything. I had vivid memories of every single thing I had done. Everything anyone had done to me.

  Everything they had ever said to me.

  And right now, I wished I didn’t.

  By the time I pulled into Uncle Henry’s and Aunt Leah’s driveway, my hands were shaking, my breathing was shallow, and a cold sweat had broken out over my entire body. I walked carefully up the sidewalk to my aunt and uncle’s modest white clapboard house. Aunt Leah’s bright yellow mums, scarred by the snow and ice, were starting to turn brown and die.

  I didn’t bother to knock. I pushed through the front door and stood inside the foyer, my feet suddenly heavy with dread.

  Aunt Leah walked out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Hi, Faith, honey. You want some breakfast?” She paused mid-wipe and studied me. “You okay?”

  I didn’t answer—I couldn’t. I only stared at her.

  She called out to Uncle Henry. “Henry? Come quick.”

  I heard Uncle Henry’s heavy footsteps coming down the stairs. “What is it?” he asked in a pleasant voice. But when he saw me, his cheeks drooped. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve seen the evidence,” I said in a low voice. My eyes bored into Uncle Henry’s.

  He remained silent.

  I said it louder. “I’ve seen the evidence that freed Ethan from prison and convinced the commonwealth’s attorney to not even bother with a retrial.”

  He took a couple of steps toward me, and I instinctively backed away. This wouldn’t go away with a hug or a kind touch to my arm.

  I looked down at my fidgety hands, then up at Uncle Henry. Moisture filled my eyes. “He didn’t do it.” I paused, gauging his reaction. He remained stoic. “But you’ve always known that.”

  “What’s she talking about?” Aunt Leah asked.

  Something akin to agony flitted over Uncle Henry’s face. “Let’s go sit down.”

  “I don’t want to sit down!” I shouted. “I want you to tell me the truth! Right here. Right now!”

  “Faith, honey. I will tell you the truth. But I need to sit down to do it.”

  Aunt Leah, visibly shaken, said nothing as she followed Uncle Henry toward the kitchen. I walked behind them. I stretched my fingers wide, then curled them into fists. My heart was racing with anxiety like a jackrabbit fleeing a fox.

  We’d had very few serious conversations over the years, but they almost always occurred at Aunt Leah’s kitchen table.

  Apparently Aunt Leah had been making a country breakfast. She walked to the stove and began flipping
the bacon and eggs.

  “Turn the stove off and sit down, Leah,” Uncle Henry ordered.

  “Let me finish this,” she said, clearly trying to mask her fear by staying busy. “If we’re going to have a serious talk, we should at least eat.”

  Uncle Henry approached his wife, took the spatula, and set it aside. He turned off the gas burners, pushed the pans aside, and placed his hands on her shoulders. “I need you to sit down.” He leaned in and kissed her forehead.

  He then walked over and pulled out a chair for her. When she was seated, he sat in the neighboring seat and nodded toward another chair.

  I shook my head. “I don’t want to sit.”

  Aunt Leah stayed quiet. I wondered if she already suspected part of the truth. Perhaps she even knew it, all of it, and had been expecting this day would come.

  I removed my phone from my coat pocket and pulled up a photograph I’d taken of Luke’s evidence board. I zoomed in on the photo I’d tacked onto the board and slid the phone in front of Uncle Henry. “That photo is from the crime scene.” I stuffed my hands back in my pockets. “Ethan thinks that’s your leash—the one you used for Scout. But it isn’t, is it? That’s Finch’s leash for Sally Brown, his new puppy at the time. He was at the house that night, wasn’t he?”

  Uncle Henry closed his eyes. His head fell forward. “Where did you find this?”

  “Does it matter? Had Ethan’s attorney received this photo—as required by law—it might not have changed the verdict. But it would at least have convinced detectives to explore the idea that someone else killed Mom and Eli.” I leaned into the table. “But you know what would have changed the verdict? The witness statement and the time-stamped video that proved he couldn’t be guilty. Had that evidence not been buried, or had evidence not been planted in his car, he would never have been arrested, let alone convicted.”