The Dead Daughter

by Thomas Fincham

  Paul turned to him. “Why are you doing it if not for the money?”

  “I don’t know who killed your daughter, but I don’t think it’s you.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “What makes you so sure you did it?”

  He was met with silence.

  Callaway asked, “Tell me what happened that night.”

  Paul rubbed his temples. “It’s all foggy. Whenever I try to think about it, I come up blank.”

  “Okay, then tell me what you do remember.”

  He took a deep breath. “I came home straight from work. I wasn’t drunk like they wrote in the papers, I’m sure of that.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know, or else I wouldn’t have been able to drive home. I did have a drink once I was inside, though,” he said. “I grabbed a bottle from the liquor cabinet and headed straight for the guesthouse.”

  “Was your daughter home?” Callaway asked.

  “I’m not sure. She’s twenty. She doesn’t need or want me to watch over her like I did when she was younger.”

  “What about your wife?”

  “She was home. I saw her car parked in the driveway, but I never spoke to her. We’ve been estranged for some time. Usually when I get home, she’s up in her room. We don’t talk. I’ll warm up whatever food is in the fridge, or I’ll pick up takeout on my way home. I’ll have my dinner in the guesthouse, sitting in front of the TV.

  “Is that what you did that night?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t think I had any dinner that night.”

  “Okay, then what happened?”

  He took a deep breath and shook his head. “I don’t remember, I really don’t.”

  “Think hard, Paul. Your freedom depends on it.”

  He shut his eyes tight. “I think I passed out on the sofa. Wait! I remember a noise, I don’t know what it was… it was like a hissing noise… like someone was releasing air… but I do remember it tasting… sweet.”

  Callaway was confused. “Sweet?”

  “Yeah, I know it sounds weird,” he said. “Everything about that night was weird.”

  Callaway rubbed his chin. He said. “I want to see everything Roth has on your case. The detectives’ notes, the lab reports, the autopsy findings, everything. I want to review it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Also, have you had a drug test?”

  Paul was confounded. “Why? I don’t do drugs.”

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  Holt and Fisher were in the DA’s office.

  Barrows said, “I had a lengthy discussion with Evan Roth.”

  “About what?” Holt asked.

  “About the possibility of a plea deal.”

  “Gardener is willing to plead guilty?” Holt said, not the least bit surprised by this.

  “Not yet, but I get the feeling his defense may go in that direction.”

  Fisher said, “How many years are we looking at?”

  “If he goes in front of a judge and confesses to the crime, then I don’t mind asking for life with a chance of parole after twenty.”

  “What did Roth think of that?” Fisher asked.

  “He wants fifteen years with a chance of parole after eight.”

  “Bullshit!” Holt howled. “No deal.”

  “Calm down!” Barrows said, putting her hand up. “I haven’t agreed to anything.”

  “You shouldn’t either,” Holt said. “And what about Pedro Catano?”

  “What about him?” Barrows replied.

  “We can also charge Gardener with his murder and ask for a double life sentence.”

  “Do you have concrete evidence that Gardener was responsible for Pedro Catano’s death?”

  “We have…”

  Again, Barrows put her hand up. “The evidence linking Gardener to Catano is all circumstantial. The call to Kyla from Pedro on the day of her death, the assertion by Pedro’s ex-girlfriend that Kyla and Pedro were romantically involved, the assumption that Kyla was pregnant with Pedro’s child—that will not hold up in court. Did you conduct a gun residue test on Gardener when you arrested him?”

  Holt stared at her. “No, we had no reason to. Kyla Gardener had been stabbed.”

  “Exactly. We don’t have any proof that Gardener had pulled the trigger of the gun that killed Pedro. Unless you find the gun with his prints on it, I’m not going to go in front of the judge and ask that that additional charges be laid on Mr. Gardener.”

  Fisher could see Holt was steaming.

  Holt said, “We have him by the balls. He is cornered and he knows it. He wants to find a way out, and we shouldn’t give it to him. No deal.”

  Barrows sighed. “We also have to see what can be gained from this by the DA’s office.”

  Holt shook his head. “Politics.”

  “Without state funding, we don’t exist, so we have to see how each case impacts us. We have to ask ourselves what the public benefit in this is.”

  Holt said, “The public is devouring this story by the mouthful. Each day, something new and sensational shows up. We have a father who murdered his only child. We later find out the child was pregnant, and that she was not even his child. You don’t get any more sensational than this.”

  “We also have the family of a sitting senator involved.”

  Holt pointed a finger at Barrows. “I knew it was politics!”

  “Senator Lester has connections, including with the state governor. He wants this to end as soon as possible. I don’t blame him. He is up for re-election. He doesn’t want his name or his family’s name splattered across the headlines much longer.”

  “He’s probably afraid of what else might pop up if it goes to trial,” Fisher said.

  “You are probably right,” Barrows agreed.

  Holt said, “Did you see the Luiz Catano press conference?”

  “I did.”

  “Then you know Senator Lester also wants us to go after Gardener for Pedro’s death.”

  “I’m sure that’s what it came across as, but from what I heard from my sources, Senator Lester wants to see a quick end to this mess. The only way for that to happen is for Gardener to confess to the crime. The press conference was a way to pressure him to do just that. If he does, I will work out a deal with Roth.”

  “No deal!” Holt said for the umpteenth time.

  “I have superiors I have to report to,” Barrows said. “I do what I am asked.”

  “You do what is right,” Holt said.

  He stormed out.

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  Outside the DA’s office, Fisher said to Holt, “What’s bothering you? Ever since we took on this case, you’ve wanted to nail Gardener even when not all the evidence was there.”’

  “I just don’t like parents murdering their children,” he replied in a low voice.

  Fisher now understood.

  Holt was a devout Catholic. He did not believe in abortion, and he most certainly was against infanticide. Holt and his wife, Nancy, were unable to have children of their own. They decided to adopt, and they were fortunate to bring a child over from Ukraine. The boy was four, and he was malnourished. They later discovered he had been suffering from years of neglect. They loved the boy like he was their own blood. With a lot of care and attention, they were able to get the boy back to good health.

  But on the seventh month after the boy’s arrival in the United States, he was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer. The doctors were not sure how he got it, but they were certain the birth parents had known and had done nothing about it. Holt was furious. He wanted to sue the birth parents and have them charged for child abuse. But he had more important things to worry about. He had to find a cure for his adopted son. He paid for the best health care money could buy. He and Nancy took the boy to the best specialists they could find. They devoted all their time and energy to help him get better. But before the year was up, the boy died. Holt held him in his arms as life left his tiny body.

  Holt
was devastated and heartbroken. Nancy went into a deep depression she still had not been able to fully come out of.

  Holt was angry. He did end up suing the adoption agency, but before the case could proceed further, the agency closed its doors and the people involved disappeared. Holt flew to Ukraine to pursue them, but he had no jurisdiction, and the local police were no help. He tried to find the boy’s birth parents, but that was a futile attempt. He felt lonely and lost. It was as if no one cared what happened to the little boy who was his adopted son.

  “You know,” Fisher said to him, “Kyla was not four years old. She was turning twenty-one in a few months.”

  Holt stared at her.

  “She was old enough to take care of herself.”

  “Maybe she never thought someone who was supposed to protect her would end up harming her,” he said.

  “You have to let it go,” she said. “We have done our job. We have to let the DA’s office do theirs.”

  Holt’s shoulders slumped, and then he nodded.

  SIXTY-NINE

  The place was tucked between a Laundromat and a barbershop. The front windows were covered by heavy blinds, and if you went inside, you would see tables, chairs, and a TV in the corner. But if you went up the side stairs to the second floor, you would enter the safe injection clinic for addicts.

  It was created by a group of concerned medical practitioners who were fed up with the opioid crisis in the city. There were too many deaths due to overdoses. The elected government officials were not willing to make drug addiction a priority, so the practitioners took action. Funds were privately raised, and a makeshift clinic was established.

  Whenever Callaway dropped by, which was not very often, he was always shocked to see the people who visited the clinic. Their eyes were vacant, their faces shrunken, their skin a pale gray or yellow. They were in the deep clutches of their addiction. Their lives revolved around when they got their next hit. Nothing else mattered, not even their lives.

  The clinic provided them with a safe and monitored site to inject themselves with their drug of choice. Critics would argue that the clinic was enabling them to become even more dependent on drugs. The practitioners countered if the addicts were left to take drugs on their own, they would share dirty needles with each other, administer more of the drug than the body could handle, and they would engage in dangerous and illegal activities. By going to the clinic, they did not have to steal, pimp, or do anything else in order to get their next high.

  Callaway took the stairs up to where he got in line with about half a dozen people who were lined up in front of an enclosed booth. As they got to the front, they spoke to a woman behind the glass. She then slid a small tray with the desired drug and paraphernalia across the counter. The users then walked over to a smaller booth in the corner and administered the drug under the watchful eye of a medical professional.

  Callaway spotted him standing in the corner.

  He smiled as Callaway approached. “What do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I need something tested,” Callaway said. After meeting with Paul, Callaway had gone out and purchased a drug kit from the local pharmacy, which he used to take a sample of Paul’s blood. His movements had caused a big commotion when the press caught him leaving and returning to the house. He did not care.

  Callaway held up the vial with the dark red liquid.

  “I’ll put it with the other samples,” the man said. The clinic sent samples to the lab to see if addicts were making progress. The clinic’s aim was to wean the addicts off the drugs by slowly reducing their dosage.

  “What name do you want me to use?”

  “The same one I use all the time.”

  “Gator Peckerwood it is.”

  Callaway smiled. He had done a few favors for the people at the clinic, so they were willing to reciprocate. He blackmailed a city official who was opposed to the creation of the clinic. Callaway followed this official until he caught him acting boorishly outside a pub. The official agreed to back off if Callaway destroyed the evidence. Callaway agreed to do so, but he still kept a copy in his DVD box in case the official decided to change his mind.

  “And what should we be looking for?” the man asked.

  “My client doesn’t remember anything from the night before. In fact, he pretty much blacked out the entire night.”

  “Memory loss and loss of consciousness,” the man said, taking notes. “Got it. We’ll see if anything was in his system that might have caused this.”

  SEVENTY

  Paul sat in the living room with his head in his hands. If the press was not bad enough, a group of protestors had gathered outside his mother’s house. They held signs. They chanted slogans. They were loud, and they would not stop.

  He had turned off all the lights in the house. He wanted the darkness to envelop him and take him away from here.

  They called him a child killer when his daughter was a grown woman. They called him a monster, even though he did not remember doing what he was accused of doing. They called him entitled when he had always earned everything he got in his life.

  His mother was in the kitchen. She had gone to make tea, but he knew she wanted to be as far away from the noise as possible.

  His mother had warned him to stay away from Sharon and her family. They were not like them. He came from a humble beginning. His grandfather worked at a factory during the Depression, building trains and railway equipment. His father sold insurance door to door and would be away for weeks or months. They were not poor, but they were always struggling. They never had enough of anything: not enough food, not enough clothing, not enough money, not even enough happiness. Their situation had made them a miserable lot. Before Paul’s eighteenth birthday, his father jumped in front of a subway train. It was ironic. His grandfather had spent his entire life building trains, and his father committed suicide by one.

  Paul had big plans. He would not end up like his father or grandfather. He would not spend his entire life making ends meet. He would be the master of his fate. He would build a company from the ground up, and it would make him enough money to take care of his family for generations.

  He did just that.

  His software company, at one point, was recording sales of over one million dollars a month. There was hope they could double or triple their earnings the next year. But then, everything starting to go in the wrong direction. The mobile company which heavily pushed their apps started to lose market share and soon was struggling to keep a foothold in the industry. Other mobile makers suddenly adopted new operating systems. His company’s biggest mistake was not making their apps compatible for all platforms. By the time they made the changes, it was too late. Consumers had moved on to other apps that were far more advanced than theirs. His company began to spend more than they were bringing in. Whatever cash flow reserves they had were used to update the apps. They became a casualty of an ever-changing technology industry.

  Against his mother’s advice, he had gone ahead and married Sharon. In hindsight, he should have been skeptical of the unexpected pregnancy, but there was a reason beyond having a baby that made him do it. Sharon’s father had offered to pay for their wedding, and he had also agreed to extend him a loan to fund his new business. He needed a leg up to make his dreams come true. And with no bank willing to give him the money he desperately needed, he accepted his father-in-law’s help.

  He sighed. I was supposed to have the perfect family and the perfect life. How did it all fall apart? he thought.

  The chants started again. They were even louder than before.

  He closed his eyes and tried to drown out the noise, even though he knew it was a futile gesture.

  SEVENTY-ONE

  Callaway was at Evan Roth’s office. Roth was not pleased that he had to hand over materials on a case to a third party, but on his client’s instructions, he was forced to oblige.

  He pushed a file across his desk. “I had my secretary make a copy for you,” he sa
id. “It contains everything the prosecution had on the case so we could prepare our rebuttal.”

  Callaway lifted the file. It was thick and heavy.

  “I’m not sure if you’ll find anything useful in there,” Roth said.

  “Probably not, but I still want to take a look.” He moved his fingers across the file as if by doing so, he might conjure up something vital inside.

  “You know they want to charge Paul with the death penalty,” Roth said.

  “I know,” Callaway replied. “But what I don’t understand is, why are you abandoning him at this time?”

  Roth looked offended. “I’m not abandoning him. I’m trying to help him.”

  “By advising him to plead guilty?” Callaway asked.

  “Each day that goes by, new evidence surfaces that has, so far, not helped Paul. When I took on the case, the prosecution had a plea deal on the table. It was for fifteen years with a chance of parole at eight, which is what I’m still trying to get for Paul. As time has passed, the prosecution’s case has gotten stronger, and they are now less inclined to an offer favorable to him. I’d be lucky if I can get him twenty-five years with a chance of parole at fifteen. I’ll keep at it, but I doubt they’ll budge much now.”

  Roth paused a moment. “You have spoken to Paul. Do you know if he is going to plead guilty?”

  “He hasn’t said anything to me.” Callaway did not want to tell Roth that that was what Paul was considering at this point.

  Roth said, “When I take on a new case, I never ask my client whether he did it or not. All I ask are the facts. Based on those facts, I see whether I can win the case or not. In Paul’s case, I didn’t. It doesn’t help me when my client has no memory of what happened on the night of the murder. I can’t argue that he was not at the scene of the crime when he clearly was. I can’t argue that the blood on him was not the victim’s when, in fact, it was. I can’t even argue that he did not commit the crime when the murder weapon was found in his vehicle and his fingerprints were all over it. I can try to build a case around the fact that he may have suffered a psychotic episode that propelled him to act in a violent manner, but that requires Paul to be analyzed by psychiatrists and other medical professionals. It is a long, drawn-out process to identify what his mental state was at the time of the crime. I don’t know if he is prepared for that, or if he has the financial resources to go down that route.”