by Laurel Dewey
Emily took a sip and looked at Dan. The realization of what occurred hit her, as did the consequence of Dan observing everything. “Oh, no.” She looked at Jane with apologetic eyes.
Jane patted Emily on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. Dan understands that you thought you saw your dad.” She gave Emily a look of “Please play along.”
“Your dad’s not gonna hurt you again, Emily,” Dan said sympathetically.
Emily looked questioningly at Jane. “I told him your real name,” Jane assured her. “I also told him how we had to leave Denver because of Dad.”
Emily glanced at Dan then back to Jane. “Dad. Right.” “You rest, okay? I’m gonna walk Dan to the door.” Dan leaned down, cupping his hand across Emily’s forehead. “Don’t you worry, sweetheart. Ol’ Dan’s gonna make sure nothin’ bad ever happens to you again.” He planted a kiss on her cheek and followed Jane outside the front door.
The cacophony of carnival noises echoed from across the street. “I can stay if you want me to,” Dan stated in earnest.
“Thank you but I think I need to be alone with her.”
“Will you call me if you need me?”
“Yeah. I will.”
Dan took a step off the porch. “You remember our ‘trouble signal,’ right? Garage and front porch lights on?”
“Got it,” Jane said nodding. She walked back into Emily’s bedroom and sat on the edge of her bed. Tears began flowing down the child’s cheeks. “Hey, come on,” Jane said in a reassuring tone. “I did some fast talking. He doesn’t know the truth.”
“I don’t know why,” Emily said through her tears, “but that man at the fair. He looked . . .” Emily couldn’t put words to what she felt.
Jane didn’t want to pursue it but she had no choice. “He looked like what?”
“He had something shiny in his right hand. Then it was like cherry juice was on the shiny thing. Cherry juice . . .” Emily tried to reconcile the idea of cherry juice, not wanting to even consider the alternative. “Then suddenly, I had cherry juice all over my hands . . . Why would there be cherry juice?”
“I don’t know,” Jane said quietly.
Emily traced what she could of the memory against the experience at the carnival. “When I was in the closet at my house, I think I saw the man who . . . the man who . . .” The memory ceased. However, the terror drove Emily into Jane’s arms. “When is it going to stop?” Emily said through her sobs.
“When you see it, I suppose.”
“I don’t want to see it! I don’t want to see it!” Emily pulled back. “I want things to be the way they were. I want my mommy and daddy back. I want to go to the park with A.J. I want everything right again!” Emily fell back into Jane’s arms.
“I wish I could make it so, kiddo. You’ve just gotta remember those happier days. Let’s talk about something else. Let’s talk about . . . ah, you mentioned going to the park with—”
“With A.J.” Emily said sniffling.
“Who’s A.J.?”
“My best friend. I told you? Don’t you remember? She moved away with her family and never said good-bye!”
“Right. I remember. Tell me about her.”
“She was the best friend ever! Her mommy and daddy and my mommy and daddy all went to park together for a picnic. I have pictures from that day. Remember?”
“Sure.”
Emily slipped off the bed and located her Starlight Starbright navy blue vinyl case on a nearby chair. She unzipped the case and handed the photo packet to Jane who turned on the bedside lamp. The first photo featured Emily’s parents and herself sitting on the picnic blanket. Emily tenderly stroked her mother’s face in the photo with the tip of her finger. “Dad ate two big servings of Mom’s potato salad that day,” Emily said lovingly.
“So, who took this picture?” Jane asked, trying to pull Emily out of her funk.
“A.J.’s daddy. There’s a picture of him in there.” Emily sifted through the photos. “Here he is with A.J.’s mommy.”
Jane politely took the photo, glancing down at it. At first, the full effect of what she saw didn’t hit her. But her mouth went dry as she held the photo closer to the lamp. It was Bill and Yvonne Stover staring back at her.
“And here’s me and A.J.!” Emily said, revealing the final photo.
It was Amy Joan Stover.
Chapter 24
Jane felt as though someone had kicked the crap out of her. The realization that the Stover and Lawrence families were best friends was a frightening turn of events. When Jane saw the photo of Emily and Amy Joan Stover sitting together, an ominous sensation came over her. The photos—the answer to part of the massive puzzle—were at Jane’s fingertips for over a month and she never thought to look at them.
Once Emily fell asleep, Jane gathered the photos and walked into the living room, closing Emily’s door behind her. She placed the twenty-four photos in sequence on the coffee table and sat on the couch. The impact and implications of a Stover/Lawrence association suddenly came full circle. As far as Jane was concerned, this changed everything. She checked the imprint date on the back of the photographs. May 2. Jane thought back to specific dates in May and, after counting backward, realized May 2 was a Sunday. It was also exactly one week to the day—Sunday, May 9—before Stover and his family was granted around the clock protective custody along with twenty-four hour house arrest. Jane retrieved her leather satchel from her bedroom and carried it back into the living room. She pulled out the Stover file, along with the various newspaper clippings regarding the case. Jane poured over the fine print in search of dates. Buried within the police report, Jane came up with several insights. By late April, Bill Stover had agreed to testify against the Texas mob in exchange for keeping his cocaine and meth addiction out of the papers. While Stover never disclosed how much he was planning to reveal, there was a notation in the police file that he had “agreed to reveal judicial corruption and drug connections that went to the core of Denver’s influential residents.” Jane had read that sentence ten times and always assumed that Stover was going to spill his guts about fellow entrepreneurs and businessmen who provided laundering fronts for the Texas mob and who possibly lied in court about their actions. That was still a viable possibility. However, Jane ruminated on the possibility that the nefarious trail of corruption started where crimes are supposed to be solved—the Denver Police Department.
Immediately, Ron Dickson’s name popped into Jane’s head. Here was a guy who had constant access to evidence—everything from pounds of cocaine to hundreds of thousands of dollars in cash and jewelry. Jane knew that tampering with that evidence was somewhat easy if you knew the ropes. As thorough as the booking process was, there were always the inevitable loopholes that a smart and often desperate evidence tech could use to their advantage.
The process was fairly straightforward. Once detectives logged evidence on the Property Report Form, certain items were then transferred into plastic K-Pak bags. These are thick, heavy-duty, heat-sealable bags that offer the ultimate protection in preserving the integrity of crime scene evidence. When drugs are placed into the K-Pak bag, the bag is weighed. That weight is then notated on the outside of the bag, along with the item number of the evidence, the case number, the date and the detective’s initials. From this point, crime scene items are transported downstairs to evidence where the K-Paks are sealed and stored on one of the many metal shelves that house hundreds of thousands of pieces of evidence. Due to the overwhelming amount and the inherent confusion that can cause, it was not out of the realm of possibility that evidence techs could tamper with items and not get caught.
However, there were two ways their criminal actions could be discovered. First, to get inside the K-Pak bag, the heat seal on the packet must be broken. Resealing the packet and making it look as if nothing was touched is almost impossible. If the K-Pak had to be opened for official business such as court trials, the action was always noted on the outside of the packet, along with the date. It w
as not worth it for the evidence tech to forge a fake “official purpose” on the K-Pak since that could be easily tracked. Due to the sheer number of items and backlog of evidence from years ago, it was easier for the evidence tech to take the risk, open the K-Pak, reseal it as best he could and cross his fingers that no one would notice.
The second way to discover criminal negligence in the property room was via an audit. Audits could not be done on a whim—there had to be verifiable suspicion for such an undertaking. It had been more than one year since the last audit of the evidence room. The fact that Chris—who was low on the proverbial influential totem pole—was able to convince Brass to audit the property room was a testament to his persuasion. His forthright, choirboy looks didn’t hurt when it came to influencing a department to embark on what could turn out to be a massive internal and media embarrassment.
So, Jane thought, if this was the corruption that Bill Stover was prepared to reveal in court, where did it lead? Planting evidence, perhaps? Unfortunately, Jane knew that was nothing new for big city cops. Her mind went back to that silver cigarette case that mysteriously jumped from the Lawrence crime scene photo and into the supposed possession of the street bum. That was certainly a case of tampering with evidence and, possibly, planting of evidence. Or maybe it was all about losing key evidence so a criminal would walk. Sure, that was a consideration. However, if key pieces of evidence went missing on a regular basis, it would be too much of a red flag. The more Jane considered the possibilities, the more she crossed off the latter idea. Her gut told her that whoever did this would pick and choose the evidence very carefully so he or she would not draw attention to omission.
Weyler’s comment about trouble “downstairs” was an obvious tip-off to the results from the property room audit that Chris demanded. And when Weyler mentioned it, Jane remembered his voice becoming tense and evasive. Was he feeling the heat because it looked bad for his Department or was he feeling the screws tighten because he was part of the deceit? Jane tried to play the process through from beginning to end. Somebody was obviously screwing around with evidence and doing God knows what for God only knows what reason. This brought it all back to Ron Dickson, the “good Christian.” The soccer dad. The guy who collected money for D.A.R.E. The fellow who appeared naive but genuine to Jane. Could she have been wrong all along about this man? Or, perhaps, was someone using him higher up on the Department’s food chain? Jane knew that Ron would be an easy target to deceive. Between the massive confusion downstairs when large amounts of evidence poured in and Ron’s naturally trusting nature, someone he respected higher up in the Department could have slipped behind the counter and stolen key case evidence.
But for what bigger purpose? And, if that was the big corruption revelation that Bill Stover was prepared to disclose, how did the Texas mob fit into this theory? While no one was quite sure, the mob appeared to be pursuing the same old schemes: drugs and fronts for laundering money. They also seemed to have the finances to back them up as well as the power to put mortal fear into those who stood in their way. From the little Jane knew about them, they had to have a tightly-knit infrastructure, built upon blackmail and death threats. And when the Texas mob made a death threat against you, there was almost nothing you could do to prevent it.
They didn’t choose Bill Stover out of thin air. He was an easy blackmail target. You can’t be Denver’s “Entrepreneur of the Year” and also have a secret lust for coke and meth. You might as well walk around with a big “Blackmail Me!” sign on your chest. He willingly allowed his Denver convenience stores to be used as fronts for laundering money. Along the way, he befriended a few drugged out mob lackeys who carelessly bragged about who knew who protected what in Denver. It was a sweet deal for all concerned until law enforcement got wind of the shady dealings and made Stover a “lose-lose” offer he couldn’t refuse.
Jane considered the old “Follow the protection money” lament her dad mentioned. Stuck in Peachville, there was no way to do that. Even if she could research the trail via the telephone, it would take hours standing at The Pit Stop pay phone.
She looked back at the picnic photographs. Jane figured that by May 2 when the photos were snapped, Bill Stover knew he was headed for court and imminent house arrest. Staring at the faces of Bill and Yvonne, Jane noticed a stressed demeanor in their appearance. It was the same troubled look she caught on the faces of David and Patricia Lawrence when she saw their photo displayed on their refrigerator. Jane chalked that up to a bad day. But perhaps, there was more to it.
Given the fact that the two families were obviously very close friends, Jane wondered if it was possible that Bill shared information with David. After all, Bill Stover knew he was going to testify against the mob. He was also a struggling drug addict who may have not been able to keep his mouth shut. Jane knew that pattern all too well. Whenever she needed to get information about a perp, her first stop was to the street junkies who were more than happy to trade good information for a few bucks to buy their next hit. Addicts had no code of integrity; addicts just wanted to cover their ass and get a fix. They’d sell out their mother if someone promised them an eight ball.
Jane scrutinized the photos more closely, trying to form a story from them. But the more she stared at Bill’s tense expression and David’s equally preoccupied countenance, the more questions she had. The only one who might be able to shed light on any of it was lying in her bed and in no shape to answer questions.
The following day, Jane desperately wanted to quiz Emily but the child was still smarting from her gory flashback at the carnival. By the end of that Sunday, Emily had spent most of the day sitting in the backyard, staring vacantly into space. Her mood shifted from apprehension and embarrassment in the morning to a sullen, angry disposition as evening fell. Jane noticed that even an unexpected visit from Dan that evening didn’t alter Emily’s brooding temperament. It was as if a resentful shift had taken hold. Gone was the innocent, inquisitive kid. Instead, a confused, frustrated child emerged who felt manipulated by everyone around her.
Jane tolerated the sullen mood change. But on Monday morning, she was determined to pump Emily for information about the relationship between the Stovers and Lawrences. Emily was still asleep in her own bed that morning when there was a knock on the front door. Jane peeked out the narrow glass panels on the front door and groaned before opening the door. “Hello, Heather.”
“Hello,” she responded with a self-important air. “They’re putting up the decorations for the fourth!”
“The fourth?”
“July fourth?” Heather said with a snotty, “you-certainly-are-stupid” tone. “It’s this Sunday! We have a huge parade. Anyway, I wanted to know if Patty could come and hang out with us while we watch them put up the decorations.”
“Not today.” Jane started to close the door when Heather slammed her hand against it.
“Wait!” she demanded.
Jane felt a strong ire building for this brat. “What?”
“We won’t go far. Just like a block up on Main!”
Jane wanted to scream. “What part of the word ‘no’ don’t you understand?”
Heather stared defiantly at Jane, her left eyebrow arching slightly. An evil grin crept across her face. “Have a nice day!” she said, turning on her heels.
Jane shut the front door and turned to see Emily standing in her bedroom doorway. “I want to watch them put up the decorations!” Emily said emphatically.
“No,” Jane said, lighting a cigarette and walking down the hall to the kitchen to grab her morning coffee.
“Why!” Emily yelled, quickly following Jane down the hall.
“Because I want to talk to you!”
“All we ever do is talk. You and me! I want to be with people my own age!”
“Goddamnit, Emily! I said I need to talk to you!”
“Aw, shit!” Emily said, angrily shoving the kitchen chair under the table. “It’s always about you! It’s never about me!�
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“Hey, what in the hell do you think we’re doing in this fucking town?” Jane took her coffee cup and headed back down the hall to the living room.
“I don’t know. You don’t tell me anything!” Emily said, following Jane. “I just figured we’re sitting around waiting for me to remember whatever it is I’m supposed to remember so you can solve your case and leave this ‘fucking town?’ ”
“Okay, stop!” Jane realized the conversation was going nowhere. “Sit down,” she said with less fire in her voice. Emily remained standing. “Emily?” Reluctantly, Emily complied, stoically crossing her arms across her chest. “You want to cut me off?” Jane asked, noting Emily’s body language. “Fine! But we’re going to sit here and have a rational conversation whether you like it or not.” Jane set down her coffee cup and took a drag on her cigarette as she plopped into the chair across from Emily. “You may not believe this,” Jane said calmly, “but I know exactly what you’re feeling right now.”
“No, you don’t,” Emily said, resentment pouring out of each word.
“Yes, I do. I’ve been on this earth, breathing in and out, longer than you. And I’ve had to endure a lot of shit. I’m not trying to make out like I’ve suffered more than you. I’m just telling you that I know what you’re feeling. You’re pissed off because you want to be in control but the powers that be aren’t letting that happen. I’m yanking your chain every single day, telling you what you can and can’t do. Meanwhile, your memory is serving up little pieces of disjointed crap that doesn’t make sense, but scares the hell out of you nonetheless.” Jane couldn’t help but think of her own chaotic visions of blinding light, Glocks, bizarre wolf faces and backwards dates on hand-prints. “Trust me, kid, I do know what it feels like to see things that disturb you and make no sense.” Emily considered Jane’s statement. “So, you feel like you’re being used. And you know what? You’re absolutely right.” Emily looked surprised. “What? You thought I was going to tell you that you’re not being used? That’d be a lie and I don’t lie to you. The Denver PD used you and I’m using you to try and solve your parents’ murder. If you want to know the God’s truth, I didn’t want this case. Not because of you, but because of what I know you must have gone through.” Jane leaned forward. “I’ve seen what you can’t see. I’ve seen what you don’t want to see. I’ve felt the same fear that you feel . . . And I’ve heard the voices, Emily.”
