by Marie Force
“The jury has found New York socialite Barry Gooding guilty on all counts in the grizzly stabbing murder of his wife Giselle in their Park Avenue penthouse just over two years ago.”
“Yes!” Michael pumped his fist into the air. “Yes!”
“Assistant District Attorney Brian Westbury had this to say after the verdicts: ‘It’s a great day for the City of New York and for Giselle Gooding’s loved ones. Justice has been served.’”
While Brian’s tone was reserved and professional, Michael could hear the excitement in his son’s voice.
“I’d like to thank everyone in my office who worked with me over the last two years to get this killer off the streets and to provide closure for the Goodings’ two young children, whose bravery and courage has been an inspiration to us all. District Attorney Stein will hold a press conference later tonight. I’ll let him take it from here. Thanks.”
“Nice job, son,” Michael whispered. “Nice job.” He picked up the phone and dialed a number in Florida. “Did you hear?” he asked when Mary Ann answered.
“Just now on TV. How about that boy of ours?”
“I’m busting,” Michael confessed.
Mary Ann laughed. “I can picture it. Has he called you yet?”
“Not yet. I’m sure he’s bogged down with the media and a bottle of bubbly.”
“You’ll get a call before the night is over.”
“I know.” He stabbed his fork at what was left of his dinner. “How’s the weather?”
“Gorgeous. I wish you were here.”
“I’ll be down next weekend.”
“I guess I can wait that long.”
He paused and then forced himself to ask, “You doing all right?”
“Define all right,” she said with a laugh.
“I know. Me, too. Fifteen years. Impossible to believe.”
“Life has some nerve going on like nothing happened, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah.” Tugging on the raised corner of the beer bottle label, Michael said, “I wonder what he’d be up to these days.”
“With his good looks and smooth talk, he’d probably be a millionaire several times over by now.”
Michael laughed. “Then I could finally retire, and we could live large in Florida year-round.”
“That would work for me.” Her voice softened. “You understand why I can’t be there right now, don’t you, Mike?”
“Of course I do.”
“When you talk to Brian, ask him to call me when the dust settles.”
“I’m sure you’ll hear from him today or tomorrow.”
“Will you take some flowers to the cemetery this week?”
“Sure.”
“Tell him his mother is thinking of him.”
Michael’s throat tightened with emotion, but he managed to say, “You got it.”
“Love you.”
“You, too, babe.”
Michael clicked off the phone and set it on the table. He attempted to return his attention to the files, but his concentration was blown. Pushing back the kitchen chair, he got up, dropped the plastic dinner tray into the recycling, and then wandered down the hallway. He rested his hand on the doorknob to Sam’s room and worked up the wherewithal to open the door.
The room was just as Sam had left it: clothes in piles on the floor, three pairs of size twelve sneakers scattered about, scraps of paper on every surface, shelves of trophies and mementos, and a rumpled bed. For years after the accident, the room had smelled like him—an appealing combination of sweat, cologne, and youthful exuberance. Now, it was musty and lifeless.
At times, Michael could still hear his boys running through the house as toddlers, as Cub Scouts, as Little League standouts, and as high school stars. The two of them, looking so much alike that sometimes even he had to take a second look before he called them by name, were always together, always close, always a pair until one was gone.
During the chaotic years of working and raising a family, a man doesn’t have time to prepare himself for the day when his house will once again fall silent. He doesn’t know until it’s too late that the quiet can break a father’s heart.
When she was home, Mary Ann dusted in Sam’s room once in a while, but otherwise they kept the door closed. They’d talked about cleaning out the room but had never gotten around to doing it. Michael suspected they might’ve moved if the specter of dealing with Sam’s room hadn’t hung over them.
Michael sat on the bed and reached for the photo on the bedside table. On one side of the double frame, Sam and Jenny were decked out for her junior prom. On the other side was a group shot of the eight friends in formal attire at the same prom. Tracing his fingers over the picture, he brushed away the dust that had settled on the glass. Such beautiful kids, Michael thought, and such an awful waste.
He and Mary Ann had set out to have four children but had been blessed with only two—one right after the other. They’d tried for years to have more, and when it didn’t happen, they had thrown themselves into enjoying every minute with their two boys. The six others in the picture had become their extras, and they had mourned the loss of every one of them—and suffered through the added burden that came with being the parents of the one who’d been driving.
Fortunately, they’d never once felt an ounce of recrimination from any of the other parents. He suspected they had taken a “there but for the grace of God go I” philosophy, knowing that by the luck of the draw it’d been Sam Westbury behind the wheel that night when on any given night, it might’ve been one of their kids driving the doomed car.
Not a day had gone by in fifteen years that Michael hadn’t thought of Sam and the lingering questions surrounding the accident—questions that had never been answered to Michael’s satisfaction. But after more than thirty years in uniform, he knew the only thing that could clear his son’s name was the one thing he didn’t have: hard evidence.
Despite constant, relentless effort, he’d never found a shred of evidence to prove anything other than what they already knew: the car driven by his son had taken the curve on Tucker Road at a speed of at least forty miles per hour—fifteen miles above the speed limit—barreled into a massive oak tree, and burst into flames on impact.
Since the accident, two more rattled drivers had reported seeing a man standing in the middle of Tucker Road, but Michael and his officers hadn’t been able to catch him. Years of beefed up patrols in the area had yielded nothing. Tired of seeing him defeated by the situation, Mary Ann had encouraged him to let it go, but he never would. As long as he had a breath left in him, he would work to clear his boy’s name.
Michael returned the photo to Sam’s bedside table and left the room, closing the door behind him. In the room that used to be Brian’s, Mary Ann had set up her sewing machine and Michael had installed a computer. He chuckled at the dichotomy—a shrine to the boy who’d died and nothing in Brian’s old room to remind them of the boy who had lived. Not that he would care. True to his word, Brian had never come home again after he left for college.
The phone rang, and Michael dashed into the kitchen to answer it.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Dad, did you hear the news?”
Michael smiled at the rare sound of euphoria in his son’s voice and a party going on in the background. “I sure did. Congratulations, Bri.”
“Thanks. It’s a huge relief. That bastard was guilty as sin, but he had one hell of a defense attorney. I was sweating this one big-time.”
“You did a great job.” Michael had read every word written about the trial and knew Brian had left nothing to chance.
“My eyes are burning from the champagne they sprayed at me when I got back to the office.”
“Enjoy the celebration. You’ve certainly earned it.”
“You’ve just got to wonder how a guy can do what he did in front of his kids.”
“He’s a monster, and thanks to you, he’s exactly where he belongs tonight. Where are the kids now?”<
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“Living with Giselle’s sister in Missouri, and I hear they’re doing a lot better. They were amazing during the trial.”
“I read about them in the paper.”
“Their testimony definitely sealed the deal. Hopefully, they can move past it now and have relatively normal lives.”
“With luck, they won’t remember much of it,” Michael said, even though he was skeptical. Some things could never be forgotten. “Mom sends her congratulations, too.”
“I’ll call her when we hang up.” Brian paused before he asked, “How’s she doing?”
“She seems to be hanging in there.”
“And you?”
“I’m okay. Tough time of year for all of us.”
“Yeah. I could come up if you don’t want to be alone that day.”
“What’s this?” Michael joked. “You? Come home?”
“I would if you needed me.”
“I know, son.” His good boy had grown up to be a nice man. “But it’s not necessary. We’ll plan a weekend in New York soon. Mom will fly up to meet us.”
“Saul’s been making noise about me taking a vacation now that the trial is over.”
“When was the last time you had one? A real one?”
“He says six years, but I think it’s more like three.”
“I believe him.”
Brian laughed. “What the hell am I going to do with a vacation?”
“Oh, I don’t know, relax maybe? Read a book? Get laid?”
“Christ, Dad,” Brian huffed. “Is that necessary?”
“Absolutely necessary to your health and well-being.”
“All right, this conversation is over. I’m calling my mother who would never dream of saying such a thing to me.”
Laughing, Michael said, “You need to get yourself a life outside of that office.”
“I tried that—twice, in fact—and as you well know, I discovered I’m a much better workaholic than I am a husband.”
Michael grimaced. “I’m sorry. I was out of line.”
“Don’t go all serious on me, Dad. I like you better when you’re busting my balls, even if it’s embarrassing.”
A knock on the back door brought Michael to his feet. “It’s open,” he called. To Brian, he said, “Congratulations again. I couldn’t be more proud of you.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Give your mother a call.”
“Will do.”
“Talk to you soon.”
He ended the call as his deputy chief, Matt Collins, came into the kitchen still in uniform.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Matt said. “I brought those files you called about.”
“No interruption. Thanks for the files.” Michael added them to his pile on the table. “That was Brian. Did you hear he won?”
“It’s already on the radio. You must be thrilled.”
“I’m thrilled and relieved,” Michael admitted. “Beer?”
“Sure, I’m off duty.”
Michael opened two bottles and handed one to Matt. “Back in the swing after your vacation?”
“Give me another day, and I will be.”
“How’s everyone in Milwaukee?”
“Good. My parents are enjoying the hell out of retirement, and my sister’s kids are getting big. It was nice to be home.”
“Glad you had a good time.”
“So big win for Brian, huh?”
“Yeah. He sounded really happy just now.”
“With good reason.” Matt followed Michael to the living room. “That was quite a trial. He’ll be in hot demand after a win like that.”
“He gets recruited all the time, but he loves what he’s doing in New York. Plus he works for a decent guy who gives him a lot of leeway. He’s got a good thing going there.”
“I’m glad to hear he’s happy and doing well. He surely deserves it.”
“You know it.” Michael took a drink from his bottle. He had never forgotten the gentle care this man had shown his son at the darkest moment of Brian’s young life. Matt Collins was much more than a colleague to Michael. “Anything going on?”
“Not here. Quiet shift.” Matt set his bottle on the coffee table. “But we got word an hour ago there’s been another rape. This time in Smithfield.”
“Son of a bitch,” Michael hissed. “Another kid?”
“Sixteen.”
“Same M.O.?”
Matt nodded. “Tied her up and left her stark naked in the woods. She was there all night.” His expression was grim when he added, “He did some nasty shit to her. Another clean job, though. Not a trace of DNA.”
“Let me guess—a popular cheerleader type?”
“You got it.”
Michael rubbed a weary hand over his face. “One here, one in Smithfield, one in Cranston. Without the DNA, though, all we have is the M.O. to tie them together.”
“It’s got to be the same guy.”
“We’ve got a serial sex offender on our hands here. Tomorrow I’ll get with the other chiefs to form a task force.”
“I’ll take the lead on behalf of Granville, if you want,” Matt offered.
“I’d appreciate that.”
“I did some digging around on the computer earlier. I put a few parameters into the unsolved statewide files and got an interesting hit. Remember the young couple in Pawtucket that was murdered about five years ago?”
“Carjacking?”
“That’s the one.”
“What about it?”
“Both were tied up and raped. No DNA. Not a hair, not a fiber, nada.”
“How old were the victims?”
“She was nineteen, and he was twenty-one. I called up the coverage that was in the Providence Journal. Before she graduated, she was the captain of the cheerleading squad at Shea High School.”
“Jesus,” Michael whispered.
“There might be others. Do you want me to keep digging?”
“Yeah, but keep it quiet. We don’t want to set off a panic until we know more.”
“I agree. I’ll keep you in the loop.”
“I don’t like the feel of this.”
“Neither do I.”
Michael left the station at noon the next day. After a brief stop at the florist, he drove on to the cemetery and parked his town-issued sedan at the foot of the hill. Carrying a vase of pastel tulips, he started up the hill to the large granite stone bearing the name WESTBURY. Engraved beneath were the words “Samuel Michael, April 5, 1978 – May 19, 1995, Beloved Son, Grandson, Brother & Friend.” Michael crouched to tug some weeds from around the stone and placed the tulips on the base.
Every time he came here, he was struck by the wrongness of it all. People were right when they said parents shouldn’t have to bury their children. It was unnatural, and the pain of it didn’t lessen with time the way those same people said it did. Rather, you somehow learned to live with it and to accept that it was a permanent part of you now, something you carried like a heavy suitcase every moment of your life.
“Mom says hi,” he whispered, feeling somewhat foolish. He didn’t really believe Sam could hear him. With all his heart, he wanted to think it was possible, but the practical side of him didn’t buy it. However, since he had promised Mary Ann…
“She’s at the house in Florida, but she wanted me to tell you she loves you and she’s thinking of you—always, but this week in particular. You would’ve liked the place in Florida, Sammy. There’s a pool in the complex and a beach nearby. We’ll probably move down there permanently if I ever decide to retire. We’ll see. Brian won his big trial, and they interviewed him on TV last night. It’s pretty amazing to turn on the tube and see your own boy talking with so much authority and expertise.” He brushed at some dirt on the stone. “Well, I just wanted to come by and say hello, and to let you know…” His eyes filled. “I miss you every day, and I love you.”
Standing, he stared at the stone for a long time before he turned to leave. He was startled to fi
nd Jenny’s mother, Jean Randall, waiting for him.
She walked over to him. “I’m sorry, Mike. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“You didn’t.” He kissed her cheek. “How are you, Jean?”
Her face lifted into a sad smile. “Oh, you know.”
“It’s always tougher this week.”
“Even after fifteen years.”
He nodded in agreement and gestured to the paper she held in her hand. “What’ve you got there?”
“Just some trash I found on Jenny’s grave. Honestly, I don’t know what makes people do the stuff they do in cemeteries.”
“Why? What is it?”
She held up the piece of paper with the words “CHEERLEADER WHORE” written in vivid red ink.
Michael’s breath got stuck in his throat, and he worked at keeping his expression neutral. “You found that on her grave?”
“Right at the base of the stone.”
“Do you mind if I take it? I’d like to have it worked up. We might be able to figure out where it came from.”
“I’d hate to start something over litter.”
“I’d hate for that to go unpunished.”
She handed the paper to him. “You’re right.”
He pinched his fingers around a corner and took it from her. “I’ll let you know if anything comes of it.”
“How’s Mary Ann?”
“Good. She’s enjoying Florida.” Michael forced himself to make conversation when all he wanted was to get that piece of paper into an evidence bag and then scour the cemetery for anything else that might be waiting to be discovered.
“Do you get down at all?”
“Every couple of weeks for two or three days. Whenever I can.”
“Be sure to tell her I was asking for her.”
“I’ll do that. I haven’t seen Bob at the Lodge lately. I’ve been meaning to give him a call.”
“He’s been under the weather, so he’s sticking closer to home these days.”
“Nothing serious, I hope.”
“Just this time of year,” she said with a shrug. “I saw Brian on TV last night. He looks wonderful, all handsome and grown up. You must be so proud.”
“I am. He’s done okay for himself.”
She glanced at Sam’s grave and then quickly brought her eyes back to Michael. “I’m sure you need to get back to work.” Squeezing his arm, she added, “Take care of yourself, Mike.”
