The Dead Daughter

by Thomas Fincham

  Callaway rubbed his chin. This isn’t promising, he thought. “Does Mike have family in Milton?” he asked.

  “No, but his dad lives about fifty miles away in Maryland.”

  “Did you call him?”

  “I did, and he’s not heard from him either. Him and Mike don’t get along too well, so I doubt they’d keep in touch.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Roth entered the Gardeners’ residence with his assistant in tow. Accompanying them was the court-appointed officer.

  Roth pulled on a pair of latex gloves, a box of which he always kept in his car. As a criminal defense lawyer, there was no telling what he would have to do in order to win a case. He once had to dig through the garbage outside a crack house to find evidence that ended up exonerating his client. He could have asked his assistant to do it, but Roth was not sure what he was looking for until he saw it with his own eyes. This was why he had come to the Gardeners’ home. He wanted a first-hand view of the crime scene. During the course of a trial, he might have to take the jury step-by-step through the entire house. In order to make them feel an emotion or get a reaction, he had to feel and react first.

  He pulled out a voice recorder and after reciting the time, date, and place of recording, he began his tour.

  He started with Kyla Gardener’s bedroom. The bedsheets, pillow cases, and mattress had been removed. At the trial, the bloodstains on them would be analyzed in great detail. Roth was not too concerned about this. He was certain the blood was hers and hers only. Paul Gardener was not cut anywhere on his body, so there was little chance his blood was on any of the items in the room.

  Roth thought of something. His eyes scanned the floor, moving from the bed to the hall. There were no drops of blood anywhere. If Paul was drunk and in a rage, as the prosecutors were going to paint him as, there would have been blood everywhere. The fact that blood was only confined to the mattress spoke volumes to him.

  He motioned for his assistant to take photos of the bedroom and the hallway.

  He moved to the stairs. Again, there was no blood. He got down on his haunches to confirm.

  According to Barrows, after stabbing his daughter, Paul had proceeded to go downstairs to his car in order to hide the murder weapon. Yet there was no trail of blood leading from the bedroom to anywhere on the main floor.

  Could someone under the influence of alcohol have the clear mind to know where to hide the weapon? And could they have done it without spilling a single drop? If they were fully aware of their actions, why did they not just dump the knife in the gutter somewhere instead of leaving it where it would end up incriminating them?

  There was also the matter of the bloodstain on Paul’s golf shirt. Even without the blood analysis, he was sure it belonged to Kyla. Paul had no visible cuts on his skin. But how did Kyla’s blood get on him, and why only on a certain part of the shirt? The rest of his clothes were clean, including his pants.

  Roth moved to the kitchen and then the guesthouse. He stared at the spot where Paul was found asleep by his wife. If he had the presence of mind to know what he was doing, then why not just run away? Why stay at the scene of the crime?

  Roth’s job was not to have answers to all the questions. His job was to raise additional questions against the narrative the prosecution was forming.

  He had his assistant snap photos of the guesthouse. Again, he saw no blood anywhere. How could someone so drunk be so careful?

  The only spot that had any blood was on the recliner where Paul was sleeping. The recliner was sitting in the evidence locker at the Milton PD, and the blood could only have come from Paul’s shirt.

  Roth spent another hour surveying the scene before he left.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  There was something about what Mike Grabonsky’s wife had said that stuck in Callaway’s head. He was now on his way to Maryland. The home of Mike’s father was the very last place Mike would be, and that was what made it the best hiding place.

  The house was on a winding road. Callaway almost missed the exit when he drove up. Luckily, he had the GPS on his phone to guide him.

  The residence was a double-story house with a long, open porch. A Ford 4x4 was parked in front. Callaway pulled up next to it, parked, and got out of the car.

  The front door swung open. A man came out, holding a shotgun at the ready. He wore a trucker’s hat, white t-shirt, camouflage vest, and black boots. His face was hard, and his gray eyes were focused on Callaway.

  “You’re trespassing,” the man growled.

  Callaway put his hands up. “There’s no sign that says I am.”

  “I don’t need a sign. You’re still on my property.”

  “My name is Lee Callaway, and I’m looking for Mike.”

  “I don’t know any Mike. Now get lost before I start putting holes in your vehicle.”

  Callaway did not like having a gun aimed at him, and he detested being threatened.

  “I’m not here to cause trouble,” Callaway said. “Some bad people are looking for your son, and I want to make sure I speak to him before they do.”

  “This got nothing to do with me. I haven’t talked to Mike in years.”

  “Then I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

  Callaway was about to get back in his car when he said, “You might be interested to know that the guys who are looking for Mike were over at his house. They tore up the place pretty bad. Scared your daughter-in-law. She’s worried for your grandkids. Just thought I’d pass that along to you.”

  The man said nothing. His steely eyes were fixed on Callaway.

  Callaway got in his car and left. When he was back on the main road, he drove up it a bit and then pulled into a neighbor’s property so he could keep watch.

  The Ford 4x4 drove by a couple minutes later.

  Callaway followed.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Fisher got off the phone and said, “It was Barrows. She spoke to Paul Gardener’s lawyer, and Gardener refused to a plea deal.”

  Holt smiled. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day. Now we can hang him for murdering his daughter.”

  They were at a hotdog stand located outside the Milton PD. They had already braved the long line and were enjoying their lunch.

  “Barrows doesn’t think it’s a slam-dunk case,” Fisher said. “We still don’t have a motive.”

  “We don’t need a motive,” Hold said. “We know he was at the house when she was murdered. We have the murder weapon, and we have the victim’s blood on him. If that’s not a slam-dunk, then I don’t know what is.”

  Fisher did not look convinced. “There was something else Barrows mentioned.”

  “What?”

  “We need to go and speak to Mrs. Gardener.”

  “Why?” Holt asked.

  “I’ll fill you in on the way over there.”

  The drive was close to an hour. They pulled up to a house that resembled a mansion. The house was all white: white exterior façade, white columns, and white window frames. The home came complete with a white fountain with two angels spraying water from their harps.

  Fisher drove around the fountain and parked by the front door. They got out and rang the doorbell.

  A Filipino lady answered the door. They introduced themselves and asked for Sharon Gardener. A few minutes later, they were escorted into a spacious room. The first thing they noticed was that it too was white, from the white paint on the walls to the white furniture and white rug. This room is so bright, it could put your eyes out, Holt thought.

  Sharon Gardener entered the room. She was wearing a dark green robe and no shoes. She wore no makeup, and her hair was dishevelled. Her eyes were puffy and red. She looked like she had not slept since the night her daughter was killed.

  “Please have a seat,” she said.

  Holt and Fisher sat on the sofa. Sharon took one of the chairs. “Can I get you anything to drink?” she asked.

  Holt and Fisher shook their heads.

  “I
f you change your mind, I can have Margaret get you something,” Sharon said.

  Holt and Fisher assumed Margaret was the Filipino lady who opened the door for them.

  “This is a nice place,” Fisher said, looking around.

  “It’s my brother’s house. He’s a doctor, and he’s done well for himself.” Sharon then got straight to the point. “Do you have any news regarding my husband? Isn’t that why you came here?”

  Fisher looked over at Holt. He let her take the lead. “We came to ask you a few questions.”

  “Me?” she said, genuinely surprised. “I told you everything I know back at our house.”

  “You didn’t tell us everything, Mrs. Gardener,” Fisher said.

  “Call me Sharon. And I’m not sure what you are talking about.”

  “On the night of your daughter’s…um… death…” Fisher was careful not to say murder, or else Sharon might break down in sobs. “You said you had taken sleeping medication and slept through the entire night.”

  “I did.”

  “We have information that contradicts that.”

  Sharon sat up straight. “What information?”

  “There are photos of you leaving the house that night.”

  Sharon’s face turned pale. “How?” she asked.

  “Your husband had hired a private investigator to follow you. He caught you on camera.”

  Sharon looked like she was about to faint. Her hand shook as she placed it over her mouth. She looked away for a few seconds. “What was on the photos?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

  “We don’t know, but the prosecutor has seen them. And according to her, it clearly shows you with another man.”

  Sharon put her hands over her face. “Oh my God.”

  Fisher paused to let the information sink in. “Did you turn off the security cameras that night?” she asked.

  Sharon dropped her hands to her side and nodded.

  “Why?” Fisher asked.

  “Why else do you think?” she replied. “I was going out to meet another man that was not my husband.”

  “You were having an affair?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us this when we first spoke to you?”

  “I was embarrassed and horrified. I’m not proud of what I have done, and I didn’t want the world to find out. I also didn’t…”

  She let her words trail off.

  “You also didn’t what?”

  “I also didn’t want Kenny’s wife to find out.”

  “Is Kenny the man you were with that night?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s his full name?”

  “Kenny Goldman.”

  “What does Mr. Goldman do?”

  “Kenny is a yoga instructor. I met him at his yoga studio. I never intended things to get personal between us, but Paul and I were having problems, and I needed someone to make me feel beautiful again.”

  Holt and Fisher were silent.

  “I’m sorry I lied to you. I never intended it that way. I just never thought it was a big deal,” Sharon said.

  “It is a big deal,” Holt said. “We always thought your husband had turned off the cameras to hide the crime he was about to perpetrate. We now know that’s not the case. This means because of your actions, we don’t have any record of what happened that night.”

  Sharon Gardener put her hands over her face and began to sob uncontrollably.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Paul Gardener made his first court appearance. He was dressed in a simple suit, a plain white shirt, and a tie without any pattern. He was clean-shaven, and he wore nothing that was expensive or attracted attention. The media had gathered inside and outside the courtroom, and whatever they captured, whether in photographs or the written word, would influence potential jurors’ minds as to whether he was guilty or not. Roth did not want Paul to come across as someone who was wealthy and privileged. Jurors could use that information to punish him.

  Paul was read the charges against him. He pleaded not guilty to all counts.

  This came as no surprise to those present. What did surprise them was the absence of Sharon Gardener. The media was salivating at the chance of getting a photo of her. There was a strong belief that she would appear. It was her daughter who was murdered, and it was her husband who was accused of the crime.

  The reporters and photographers were also surprised that no one from Sharon’s family was there either. Her father was a senator, and her brother was a prominent doctor. Their presence would have made for great copy.

  Paul’s mother was in court, and she made sure to give her son a reassuring smile whenever he looked at her.

  The prosecution and the defense spent over two hours presenting their case as to why Paul should or should not be granted bail. The judge listened to each with great interest. He then deliberated for almost an hour. When he returned, he announced his decision to grant bail, but it came with conditions.

  The amount was set at half a million dollars. Paul’s mother pledged her house as security. Paul was required to hand over his passport, which he promptly did, and he had to stay with his mother for the duration of the trial, if no plea agreement was reached before that.

  When court was adjourned, Roth and Paul left the courthouse and were promptly surrounded by a throng of media as Roth led Paul by his elbow to a waiting SUV. They ignored the microphones thrust in their faces and the questions shouted at them.

  The moment they were in the SUV, Paul collapsed on the seat. The entire ordeal had left him exhausted. He did not expect that this much media would show up at his arraignment, and he did not expect the judge to take almost an hour to make his decision regarding his bail. Paul could not imagine spending another minute inside a six-by-six cell.

  Roth put a hand on Paul’s shoulder. “This is just the beginning, I’m afraid. From now until the trial, you will be scrutinized and vilified by everyone with an opinion. Some have already reached a verdict in their minds as to your guilt. We don’t care about them. We just care about the twelve people who will ultimately decide your fate. So until we get to that point, my advice to you is not to focus too much on what’s going on around you. It will only wear you down. And we need you ready and focused for the time when we go to trial. Do you understand?”

  Paul gave a noncommittal nod and then he turned to the window.

  They were driving in silence when Paul said, “I would like to visit my house first.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Roth said.

  “Why not?”

  “A terrible crime was committed there, and you’re the primary suspect. If you go back, the prosecution could use that against you. They could argue that you only went back to clean up the scene. They might even request that your bail be revoked.”

  Paul nodded in understanding. “What about Sharon? How is she doing?”

  “I’m not sure, but I doubt she’s doing well considering...”

  Paul did not need Roth to say the rest. “Can I see her or speak to her?” he asked.

  “I don’t think she wants to speak to you.”

  Paul turned to him.

  “She knows about the photos your PI took.”

  Paul frowned. “How did she find out?”

  “Through the prosecutor, most likely. In fact, it’s now all over the news.”

  Paul shook his head. “I never wanted it out in public. It was a personal matter between Sharon and me.”

  “It was the only way we could cast doubt on the prosecution’s case against you. Your wife turned off the security cameras, not you. She had lied to the police that she was there all night when in fact she was not. They were going to use her as a witness against you. They always use one spouse against the other when there is a homicide in the family. With you and Sharon on the brink of divorce, I have a strong feeling she would have gone in whatever direction the prosecution wanted her to. She would have done so out of spite to hurt you. Now she can’t say she
saw or heard anything that night when she was not even there.”

  They were silent again.

  “Can I at least see my daughter’s body?” Paul asked.

  “Again, that’s not a good idea.”

  “Then what is a good idea?” Paul snapped.

  Roth was quiet. He knew Paul was angry and confused. He was trying to reach out and touch anything from his life before this nightmare started.

  Paul whispered, “I didn’t kill Kyla. I couldn’t have.”

  Roth had seen this before. His clients who were accused of murder would repeat to themselves over and over that there was no way they were capable of committing such a horrific act. Roth was pleased with this. The more Paul convinced himself he was innocent, the better chance Roth had of convincing the jury that this was true.

  Roth said, “In a few days, when the heat dies down and something else catches the media’s attention, maybe I can try to arrange for you to see Kyla’s body. Right now, though, the perception is that you killed her.”

  “I didn’t,” Paul replied.

  He faced the window again.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Holt huffed and puffed as he paced inside the DA’s office. Barrows had worked with enough police detectives to let him vent. Detectives were a very special breed. When they had someone in their sights, they became obsessed with them.

  All evidence pointed at Paul Gardener being the suspect, and Holt wanted him locked up. It bothered him when a criminal was allowed to walk free.

  “It wasn’t up to me,” Barrows said. “The judge wasn’t convinced Gardener was a flight risk.”

  Holt shook his head and continued pacing.

  “He put up enough assurances to satisfy the judge’s requirements,” she added.

  Holt stopped and said, “It was his wife that screwed us. We should bring her in and charge her for obstruction of justice.”

  “And how would that look?” Barrows asked. “She is a grieving mother whose daughter was potentially murdered by her husband.”

  “What if she murdered her?” Fisher replied. She was sitting in the back and had her arms crossed over her chest.