Officer Herd waited for her to continue, but Chase bit her tongue. She had answered the question, and that was all that was required of her. One of the few things that her father, a litigator, had impressed on her many years ago was that when people started running their mouths, offering information that wasn’t requested, they got themselves, and others, in trouble.
And that wasn’t a can of worms that she intended to open. Not when her friend’s career, and perhaps even his freedom, was on the line.
“Sergeant Adams? Is there anything else that you would like to add?”
Chase shook her head.
“No. Have I not answered your question?”
Roger Albright leaned over and whispered something into Herd’s ear. The officer nodded, then turned back to her.
“This isn’t a trial, Sergeant Adams. This is simply an inquest to determine probable cause, and to help us figure out the next course of action.”
Chase nodded and, again, Herd waited.
Eventually, the officer sighed, and Chase repeated, a little more sternly this time, “Have I not answered your question?”
It was Roger who answered, which surprised her given that she thought it impossible that with his lips pressed as tightly together as they were that the man could actually speak.
“You have, Sergeant Adams. Please tell us what happened after you arrived at the scene, leading up to your encounter with Dr. Campbell.”
A terrifying image of Beckett stepping out of the shadows, his hands dripping with blood came to mind, and she shuddered.
“I inquired about my ex-partner, Damien Drake, and then about Suzan Cuthbert.”
“Who did you inquire to?”
“Detective Yasiv. He said that both were okay, and that both were going to make it.”
Herd scribbled something on a pad in front of him, then picked up the line of questioning from Roger Albright.
“Did you ask about Craig Sloan? Did Detective Yasiv mention his name?”
Chase shook her head.
“No; I was just happy that my people were going to survive. That was what mattered most.”
“And what did you do next?”
“I was distraught, and because I was suspended at the time, I went down the side of one of the houses to collect myself.”
Roger Albright leaned forward.
“Please tell us what happened next.”
Chase breathed deeply.
As we rehearsed, she reminded herself. Just as we rehearsed.
“The first thing I saw was Craig Sloan’s body, although at the time I didn’t know it was him—I had never even seen a photo of the man before. He was lying on his back, and he didn’t appear to be moving or breathing. There was a pistol at his side. Then I noticed Dr. Campbell in the shadows. He was… he was visibly upset.”
The three men discussed this amongst themselves for several seconds.
“In your initial report, you stated that you saw blood on Dr. Campbell’s hands. Is this accurate?”
Chase indicated that it was, and Roger nodded.
“Did you notice anything that might have been used to strike Craig Sloan?”
Chase didn’t hesitate.
“There was a rock near his body, which was also stained with blood.”
“Thank you. Now, let’s get back to the gun for a moment. You said it was near the body; approximately how far was it from Craig Sloan?”
“It was several feet from his hand,” she replied instantly.
Again, a short discussion.
“Thank you for your cooperation, Sergeant Adams. You are dismissed.”
Chase blinked, thinking for a second that she had misheard.
“Excuse me?”
“You are dismissed,” Roger Albright repeated.
Chase simply stared.
No, this isn’t right. I’m supposed to talk about Craig Sloan, about the seven people that he murdered, about how Beckett’s insight led to us identifying him as the killer.
Her father’s warning went out the window.
“Craig Sloan… he murdered… there were—” she stammered.
“That will be all, Sergeant Adams,” Roger repeated.
“But—but—”
Roger’s face twisted into a scowl.
“Sergeant Adams, I want to remind you that while this is not a trial, anything you say here today may be used at a future date. Now, please, as head of this inquest, I would like to ask you again to please step down.”
Chase glanced around nervously, her eyes darting first to the three officers, then to Beckett, who didn’t seem to realize what was going on.
She swallowed hard, and debated saying something else, but eventually decided against it.
As she stood, and walked toward the door, she tried to subtly get Beckett’s attention, to implore with only her eyes that he should stick to the script.
But Beckett didn’t even look up. Instead, he reached for his water, his hand shaking so badly now that it was dangerously close to spilling.
Stick to what I wrote in the note, Beckett. Stick to the note, or we’re all going to go down for this.
CHAPTER 3
“You alright, hon? You look tired.”
Colin Elliot lowered his spoon into the bowl of cereal and then proceeded to rub his eyes.
“Was up late last night writing, then went for a run,” he groaned as he stretched his calves. “Might have pushed things just a little too hard.”
Ryanne walked over to her husband and laid a hand on his shoulder. He leaned into her, resting his head against her hip.
“You’ve been pushing too hard, Colin. You’re going to burn out.”
Colin pulled away and looked up at his wife. Her face was round, and while it wasn’t entirely unpleasant, it wasn’t exactly pretty, either. Her lips were on the flat side and her nose was a little too thin. She had dark circles around her eyes, a matching raccoon set to his own, but this wasn’t what caught him off guard.
It was her smile. It wasn’t a patronizing grin, but a genuine expression of gratitude or maybe—maybe—even affection. He could hardly believe that this was the same woman who had screamed at him the other night, screamed so long and loud that the police had come to the door to make sure that everything was alright.
Colin swallowed hard and tried to put the image of her face, beat red, her mouth twisted in a snarl, out of his mind.
“Had to finish the book,” he said quietly. “Need to get it out quickly.”
Something flashed across Ryanne’s face, something unpleasant, and her hand slipped off his back. She looked as if she were going to say something, but before she had a chance, laughter suddenly filled the kitchen.
“Juliette, have you eaten breakfast yet? We have to leave soon,” Colin said with a half-hearted smile.
Juliette bounded into the kitchen, her long blond ponytail swinging side-to-side.
“Nope. Colby took it,” she replied, twisting her shoulders as she spoke.
Colin shook his head and turned to his other daughter, who followed Juliette into the room.
“Is this true, Colby?”
“Colby took it,” the girl repeated, imitating her sister.
Colin turned to Ryanne, but she had already made her way to the sink, taking his half-finished bowl of cereal with her.
And Ryanne took mine.
“Come on, guys. No fighting this morning, okay? Daddy’s tired. Just finish your breakfast and then put your shoes and jackets on.”
Juliette looked at him as if he had two heads.
“I told you already, I didn’t get a chance to eat it. She took it.”
Colin turned to Colby who, unlike her sister, had her hair tied on the top of her head in a bun. With a sigh, he said, “Did you, Colby? Did you take Juliette’s breakfast?”
Colby shrugged.
“So what if I did? I’m the older sister, and if I want another bowl of cereal, I can have one. If we weren’t so poor, then maybe we could all have t
wo bowls of cereal. Carla Banks gets to have as much cereal as she wants, you know.”
Colin’s eyes bulged.
How does a seven-year-old get so much sass?
“You’re only six minutes older than me!” Juliette cried, missing the point entirely. “Six minutes!”
“That’s enough,” Ryanne snapped, as she leaned over the sink, her back to them. “Get your shoes on, and if you keep bickering, then nobody is going to get dinner tonight.”
And there it was: the anger from the night before creeping back into her voice.
She’s getting worse, Colin thought. It used to only be me she yelled at, but now she’s getting short with the kids as well.
Colby pursed her lips and pushed her chin into the air.
“I’m still older. Six minutes, six hours, what does it matter? I’m the big sister.”
Colin sighed and rubbed at his sore calves.
“That’s enough!” Ryanne bellowed. She slammed her hands on the side of the sink and spun around. “That’s enough!”
Colin cringed, thinking about the neighbors, hoping that they were already at work.
What had the police officer said? If we come back, we’re going to have to keep you separated for the night. Maybe even bring child services in.
“Please, Ryanne, it’s fine. I’ll take them to school today.”
Ryanne’s eyes blazed into him, a scowl forming on her lips. Colin quickly stood and put his arms around his girls and guided them toward the front door before his wife could get her hooks in.
“C’mon girls, put your shoes and coats on quickly, okay? We’re going to be late for school.”
Both Colby and Juliette looked at him for a moment and he saw something in his eyes that broke his heart.
Fear, he thought with a pang of guilt, they’re afraid of her.
There was something else in their juvenile expressions, too, something that he hadn’t seen before.
Was it anger? No, that wasn’t quite right. Disdain, maybe?
“Please, girls. Hurry.”
Without argument, the girls went to the entrance and started to get ready for the cold. Colin followed, and slid his own boots on. He turned back to say goodbye, and was surprised to see Ryanne standing only a few feet from him, hands on her hips.
“I’m going out today,” she informed him. “Don’t expect me home until later.”
Colin nodded.
“That’s fine. I have writer’s group this afternoon, anyway. But do you think you can pick the girls up from school?”
Ryanne’s scowl deepened, and he knew exactly what she was thinking because she had made it explicitly clear the other night.
Must I do everything around here? Can’t you get a real fucking job? Or how about you write a fucking book that people actually want to read?
Colin swallowed hard as he waited for the backlash. But while Ryanne’s eyes narrowed to slits, she exercised what was for her unprecedented control, and he turned back to the girls.
“Say bye to mommy,” he said softly. “Give her a kiss then let’s get moving. The bus is leaving.”
CHAPTER 4
Beckett felt like he was dreaming. In fact, everything that had happened since the night Dr. Moorfield’s burnt colonial had been set ablaze for a second time felt like a horrible nightmare.
Every morning he awoke asking himself the same question: Did I do that? Did I really do that?
Everything pointed to the fact that he had: the newspaper reports—although they had thankfully kept his name out of it—this very inquiry, and, worst of all, the memories.
In his mind, he heard the sickening thud of the rock colliding with Craig Sloan’s skull, he could feel warm blood first on his hands then coating his wrists, and he could see the man’s eyes roll back in his head.
After spending more than a decade surrounded by dead men, Craig was the first he had personally been responsible for.
But there was something underlying all of these sensations that was even more alarming.
Something that truly terrified him.
“Please state your name and position for the record,” Officer Herd instructed.
Beckett leaned forward and cleared his throat before answering.
“My name is Dr. Beckett Campbell. I am the Senior Medical Examiner for the NYPD, and I’m also an associate professor of Medicine and Pathology at NYU.”
“Thank you, Dr. Campbell. As you overheard me say to Sergeant Adams, this is not a trial, but an inquiry. That being said, please acknowledge that you have waived your rights to having someone from the Royal College of Surgeons or from the American Medical Association to accompany you today.”
“I have.”
“Good. Then we shall continue. Please, in your own words, tell us what happened on the date in question.”
Beckett closed his eyes and scratched his forehead.
“I was with a close-friend—ex-NYPD Detective Damien Drake—and we were looking for the daughter of a fallen police officer whom we believed had been kidnapped by a man who had killed six people over the course of two weeks. I was outside in Drake’s car while he was inside a—” tread carefully, Beckett, “—a condo building in downtown Manhattan. When he came out, he had identified the kidnapper and murderer. We called Sergeant—”
“Slow down, Beckett,” Roger Albright interrupted. “You say you were at a condo in Manhattan. Can you be more specific?”
Beckett shook his head.
“No. It was dark, and I was running on very little sleep.”
Roger’s frown deepened.
“And did Damien Drake say who he was meeting? Who he had acquired the name of the alleged kidnapper from?”
Again, Beckett shook his head.
“He never told me. Perhaps you should ask him.”
“Damien Drake is unavailable for this inquest. Please continue with what happened after you left the condo.”
“I called Sergeant Adams with the name and she referred me to a house that Craig Sloan had burned down once before—when Dr. Moorfield used to live there. We believed that this was where he was keeping Suzan Cuthbert. When we arrived, the place was already on fire. As Drake tried to gain entry, he had an altercation with Craig Sloan down the side of the house. Craig was knocked unconscious, and Drake went into the house to see if Suzan was inside. He instructed me to put Craig in the car and to wait for the police to arrive.”
“He told you to put Craig in the car? Where in the car?”
Beckett hesitated.
“In the trunk. Drake was driving a civilian vehicle that didn’t have a cage between the front and rear seats. He also didn’t have a set of handcuffs.”
Roger nodded.
“Continue.”
“So I put him in the trunk and then started toward the house to see if I could help Drake.”
“Did you ever actually go into the house, Dr. Campbell?”
“No. I was going to enter the house, but I never got there. I heard shots fired from inside the trunk.”
Officer Herd rubbed his temples before commenting.
“And you… ran? You ran away from the man as he came out from the trunk? I mean, he was, in your words, a murderer and he had a gun.”
Beckett thought back to that moment, the fire at his back, the flickering yellow and orange hues illuminating Craig’s snarl. The man had one leg out of the trunk when Beckett had picked up the rock.
“No, I didn’t run.”
“Why not?”
“Because he had a gun, and I thought he was going to take Drake out when he came out of the house. Suzan, too, if she was still alive.”
“What did you do next?”
“I grabbed a rock and struck Craig in the side of the head. I think he was disoriented or maybe deafened by the sound of the gunshots inside the trunk, because he never saw me coming.”
“How many times did you strike Craig Sloan? Once? Twice? Multiple times?” Roger asked.
Beckett re-read Chase’s lette
r that Screech had handed him back in the hospital in his mind.
“More than once, but I can’t tell you how many. No more than three or four, I think. I was just trying to knock him out, but he wouldn’t go down; he kept trying to turn the gun on me.”
Roger made an uh-huh sound. Then he opened a folder on the desk and took out a sheet of paper. He handed it to Officer Lincoln and told him to bring it over to Beckett, which he did.
“Are you familiar with this report?”
Beckett scanned the page quickly.
“Yes. This is the pathology report concerning Craig Sloan’s death.”
“And do you recognize the ME who prepared the report?”
“Yes, of course. Dr. Henrik Karl.”
“And in your professional opinion, is Dr. Karl a qualified ME? A competent doctor?”
“Yes, of course; I trained him myself.”
“Very well,” Roger continued. “Can you please read the official cause of death out loud?”
Beckett found the line.
“Craig Sloan died as a result of multiple blows to the skull with a hard, smooth object. He—”
Roger held up a hand.
“That’s good enough. I’ll ask you again, how many times did you strike Craig Sloan with the rock?”
Beckett shrugged.
“Like I said, more than once, but I’m not sure exactly how many.”
“And is that congruent with the pathology report?”
Beckett didn’t need to read the line again. He knew exactly what it said, in part because he had helped Dr. Karl draft it.
“Yes—multiple in this context means more than one, but the ME could not determine the exact number of strikes.”
Roger Albright locked eyes with him for what seemed like an eternity, before speaking again.
“Thank you for your cooperation, Dr. Campbell. My colleagues and I will now hold a brief, private discussion.”
With that, Roger turned to Officers Herd and Lincoln. The abruptness with which the questioning had come to an end surprised Beckett, and it took a few moments for his heart rate to settle.
The three men spoke in hushed voices, voices too low for him to hear, and Beckett resisted the urge to try and lipread. It was clear to him now that Roger and his IA posse had come to a conclusion even before this entire charade.
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