The Dead Daughter

by Thomas Fincham

  “If you knew the case was unwinnable from the beginning, then why did you take it on?” Callaway asked.

  Roth shook his head. “I did it for the Lester family. I’ve known them for years. Barron and Richard are my firm’s best and oldest clients. When Paul was taken into custody, I received a call from Barron to get his son-in-law out. At that time, the Lester family thought it was all a mistake. They believed Paul was innocent and that there was no way he could have hurt Kyla.”

  “But now they have changed their view on that,” Callaway said.

  “In light of the recent evidence, yes they have.”

  “Are they pushing you to convince Paul to plead?”

  “Yes and no. They want this matter behind them as soon as possible. They have made this known through the media as well. But I also think it’s a smart decision now for Paul take a deal if it’s on the table. He’s still relatively young. By the time he gets out on parole, he can still rebuild his life.”

  “What if he is innocent?” Callaway asked.

  Roth’s head fell to his chest. “If he went to prison for a crime he didn’t commit, then I have failed him as his lawyer.”

  SEVENTY-TWO

  Callaway took the file Roth had given him and headed straight for the nearest diner. He found a seat in the back of the restaurant. He ordered coffee—extra strong—and he told the waitress to top up the cup whenever it was almost empty. He would need the caffeine to help him get through the file because there was a lot of material. Photos from the crime scene, statements from witnesses and the accused, notes from the detectives, lab reports, and even the medical examiner’s analysis.

  After two hours and six cups of coffee, a couple of things stood out to him. The first was the position Kyla was found in the bedroom. She lay on the bed with her arms resting next to her body on either side. Her head faced the ceiling with her eyes closed. If one were to ignore the blood, they would assume she was sleeping.

  Then there were the clothes she was wearing. They were not sleeping attire. She was dressed as if she was ready to go out. Was she preparing to run away? Perhaps with Pedro? But Callaway could not find anything in the file to indicate that she had packed her bags for such a trip. So that theory did not hold.

  Next was the autopsy report. It stated that Kyla had died of asphyxiation, not from the stabbing. If it was the other way around, blood would be everywhere.

  Another thing that caught his attention was the knife found in the glove compartment of Paul’s car. The knife’s tip was clean while the rest of the blade was covered in blood. It did not make sense because Kyla’s body was full of puncture wounds, which could only have come from the knife being thrust directly into her body.

  The last thing that made him pause was the bloodstain on Paul’s golf shirt. It was a long, smooth streak, not drops splattered all over. It was also on the back of the shirt, not the front. It would make more sense during an altercation for the blood to spray on the front of the shirt, but there was not a single drop there.

  Callaway’s eyes narrowed. A theory began to form in his head. It seemed farfetched, and if he told someone what it was, they would laugh him out of the room. But it was all he had to go on with right now.

  The waitress came over to top up his cup for the seventh time. He put his hand over the cup. “I’m done,” he said.

  She looked relieved. “I was kind of worried you would keep going. You sure you don’t want anything to eat? It would help with all that coffee in your system.”

  He thought a moment. “You know what? I am kind of hungry.”

  She smiled. “We have the cheeseburger special today. It comes with fries and your choice of drink. I would recommend anything but another cup of coffee.”

  “Yeah, that’s sounds good. And I’ll get plain water with it.”

  “Coming right up.”

  He pulled out his cell phone and sent a quick email.

  SEVENTY-THREE

  Callaway returned to his office. The first thing he did was turn on his laptop. Back at the diner, he had taken his time with the special the waitress brought for him. The cheeseburger was the best he had tasted in a long time. Maybe it had a lot to do with the amount of coffee he had consumed. Once the caffeine wore off, he was famished. He savored each bite of the burger, and the fries were just right: not too crispy and not too soggy.

  He checked his watch as the laptop booted up. He hoped enough time had passed for the recipient of the email to check her message. When he signed into his browser, he smiled.

  There was a reply from Echo Rose. Callaway had met her in Fairview when he had gone there to follow up on a lead for another case. She had wanted to hire him for a job. He turned it down because the information was decades old. He did not think he would be able to complete the job. But then he found himself in a bind, and it was only when she put her life on the line that he was able to solve his case. He then gave his full attention to solving her problem. Last he heard from Echo, she was grateful for his help. He now needed her help.

  Echo was not only resourceful but also had a way with computers. One could say she was an amateur hacker.

  He clicked open the email. Echo’s message contained the usernames and passwords to various online accounts and social media sites. They all belonged to Kyla Gardener.

  Callaway was not sure how Echo managed to find them on such short notice. He was just thankful that she did.

  He punched in the address of a social media website and signed into Kyla’s account. The first thing he noticed were the heartfelt messages of sadness from friends, classmates, and even strangers. He assumed they were strangers because next to their names were icons to request friendship. They were not clicked, so Kyla most likely did not know them or did not want to befriend them.

  He scrolled past the individual messages, tributes, and poems that pretty much summed up that she was loved and would be missed forever.

  He scrolled all the way back to the day she had died. He then slowly went through each of her posts. There were dozens

  Why do young people think anyone would be interested in what they did each and every minute of the day? he wondered.

  While working as a private investigator, Callaway had become aware of the dangers online. If you posted anything, no matter how mundane or obscure, it was forever available to those who wanted to find it.

  Callaway found copious amounts of dirt on client’s spouses just by conducting a simple online search. And if he had Echo’s skills, it would cut his work by half. He would not even have to leave the office in some cases. He could do all his work with his fingers.

  The naiveté people displayed when they assumed their lives were hidden to strangers online was baffling. Anyone with even the most basic computer knowledge could find out whatever they wanted about you. And it had become even easier now that everything contained a computer chip. You did not even have to hack a cell phone or computer. You could hack the computer system of a vehicle and find out where the individual commuted to each day. You could hack into the thermostat of a home and find out where someone lived. The possibilities were endless.

  He was scrolling through the lists of posts when his eyes fell on one.

  On the day of her death, Kyla had teased that she was going to be making a big announcement.

  Callaway believed the announcement was either about her pregnancy or that she was getting married soon. The post had a dozen thumbs-up responses. He clicked on the post to see who had liked it. He spotted Pedro’s name in the list. No surprise there.

  He was about to move to the next post when he saw there was one thumbs-down. He clicked the image, and a profile photo appeared on the screen. The man’s eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses, and his was face was tilted to the side, as if he was looking away from the camera.

  Callaway jotted down his name.

  The social media site also had a feature where users could tag all the places they had visited on a particular day. The user’s visits showed
up on a map with tiny red dots. If you clicked on the dot, a post or photo would appear, depending on what the user chose to provide.

  Callaway began to make notes of all the places Kyla had visited. He was going to retrace her steps on that fatal day.

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  Callaway was back at the safe injection clinic. “That was quick,” Callaway said to the medical professional.

  “I requested a fast turnaround,” the man said. “I figured you needed it for a job.”

  “I did.”

  The man handed him the test results. “Whoever your client was, they had some serious stuff in their system.”

  Callaway suspected the medical professional might have guessed the client was Paul Gardener, but he was not worried the test results would leak to the press. Whoever came to the clinic, addict or not, their privacy was strictly protected. If the authorities suddenly decided to raid the clinic, they would find nothing. The clinic never asked the addicts their real name.

  Callaway scanned the test results.

  His mouth dropped.

  He looked up at the medical professional in disbelief.

  “Rohypnol?” Callaway asked.

  “That’s what they found in the blood sample you left.”

  Rohypnol, AKA “the date rape drug,” was initially created to treat insomnia, but it began to show up as a recreational drug at clubs, raves, and music festivals. Callaway knew that when this drug was administered for sinister purposes, it could render a person not only unconscious but also cloud a victim’s memory. Is this why Paul’s memory about that night is foggy? Callaway wondered. That would explain a lot.

  According to Holt and Fisher’s notes, Paul showed signs of confusion, sluggishness, and looked hungover. They attributed this to the bottle of scotch found in the guesthouse. What they failed to realize was that these were all signs of Rohypnol poisoning.

  Callaway resumed reading the test results.

  His eyes widened. “Chloroform?” he said.

  The medical professional nodded. “When you said your client had blacked out and did not remember anything, I requested that the tests focus on certain chemicals. As you can see, there is a high chloroform concentration in the blood.”

  “All I know is it knocks people out, but I’m not too familiar with it as a drug.”

  “Throughout history, chloroform was used for its anesthetic purposes. But because of its high volatility, its use was discontinued. It’s colorless, and it’s sweet-smelling.”

  “Did you say sweet?” Callaway asked.

  “Yeah. People have said it smelled sweet.”

  “And you’re sure it was in his system?” Callaway asked.

  “If the sample you brought us belonged to your client, then yes, your client came into contact with those chemical agents.”

  SEVENTY-FIVE

  When Callaway explained the results of the drug test over the phone, Paul had no idea how any of them could have gotten in his body. He was horrified at the mere thought of it. Callaway was certain Paul had not taken them on his own volition. He did not come across as the type of guy who partied hard at night or consumed recreational drugs. But he was under a lot of stress. His marriage was falling apart, and his business was struggling, so he could have consumed Rohypnol to ease the tension. But there was no explanation for why he would have chloroform in his body. It just did not make any sense.

  But one thing was for sure. Paul was the telling the truth when he said he did not remember anything from that night.

  In order to solve how Paul might have gotten these drugs in him, Callaway had to go back to the scene of the crime.

  As he drove up, he was surprised to see no press outside the Gardener residence. He was sure some reporter would have camped out on the front lawn, just in case something turned up.

  The front door was covered with yellow police tape, but Callaway was not interested in the house. He was interested in what was behind it.

  He took the side path until he was confronted by a wooden gate. It was locked. He peeked through the side opening. He could see the bolt.

  He searched his surroundings and found a tree branch on the ground. He stripped it of leaves and protruding twigs and stuck it between the gate’s openings. He then gently lifted the bolt.

  The gate swung open.

  He entered the backyard. He headed straight for the guesthouse. Fortunately, there was no police tape on the door. That still did not mean what he was doing was lawful, however. He was breaking and entering.

  Callaway did not care. An innocent man’s life was on the line.

  He pulled on a pair of gloves and turned the door handle. He smiled. Whoever was here last had not bothered to lock the door. Maybe they did not think anything useful was left in the guesthouse. Big mistake, Callaway thought. The guesthouse is the key to this mystery.

  He entered and took in the space. He spotted the futon in the corner that Paul had slept on. There was an empty spot next to it. The recliner had been tagged and taken away as evidence. Kyla’s blood was on the recliner. It could have gotten on it from Paul’s shirt. Across from the empty spot was a coffee table. It too was empty. The bottle of scotch and glass would be used to prove that Paul was drunk that night when he attacked and killed Kyla.

  Callaway looked around. He was not sure what he was hoping to find, but it had to be here. He then noticed a window next to the spot where the recliner used to sit. He walked up to the window and moved his hand around it. He felt something at the bottom. He leaned down and saw the window was slightly open. Air was seeping through the crack.

  No wonder the room feels so cool, he thought.

  He left the guesthouse and walked around the structure. There was a narrow path between the guesthouse and the next-door neighbor’s property. Callaway was easily able to squeeze through it and make it to the window. He pulled out a flashlight and shined the light on the ground.

  He spotted a partial footprint hidden by leaves and broken twigs.

  Someone had accessed the guesthouse window from the outside.

  Who did that? he thought.

  SEVENTY-SIX

  Callaway left the guesthouse and walked back to his car.

  He spotted a man standing in the driveway. He was wearing a light jacket, jeans, and a baseball cap.

  There was something odd about the way he stood there. He did not come across as someone who was curious to check out the house where a father had allegedly murdered his daughter. It looked as if the man was paying his condolences.

  The moment he spotted Callaway, he turned and began walking in the other direction. Callaway decided to follow him.

  The man turned and saw Callaway behind him. He quickened his steps. Callaway did the same.

  The man crossed the road and hurried toward a green vehicle parked on the side of the street. Callaway did not want to lose him. He went into a full jog.

  The man bolted. He must have realized he did not have enough time to get inside the car and drive away.

  Damn, Callaway thought, and ran after him.

  The man raced down the street and disappeared around the corner.

  Callaway made it to the end. He saw the man was already making his way up the steep incline of the adjacent street.

  Callaway’s legs burned as he kept up the chase.

  He was panting as he made it to the end of the street. He looked around, but the man was nowhere to be seen.

  He thought about turning back. He could always get the license plate number of the green vehicle and locate the name of the owner, but a part of him was angry that he had lost the man.

  He was about to double back when he spotted the man at the far end of the street. He was cutting through a park, making his way toward a tunnel that went underneath a road.

  From his vantage point, Callaway estimated the man was thirty yards away. He suddenly had an idea. If the tunnel had an entrance, it must have an exit.

  He had to find where this exit was.

 
He hurried down another street. This one traversed an even steeper incline, but it went downhill.

  Callaway made it to the end and cut right. He narrowly missed running into an old woman with a walker. He apologized and kept going.

  He was nearly out of breath and sweating profusely when he reached the other side of the tunnel. He looked around. The man was not there.

  Damn. Am I late? Did I miss him?

  His mouth was dry, his throat was parched, and it felt like his lungs were on fire.

  He should have just gone back to the green vehicle and waited for the man to return.

  Callaway heard a noise coming from the tunnel. He could not see who it was because of the darkness, but he could tell the sound was feet hitting pavement.

  He moved to the side of the entrance and waited as the footsteps became louder and more distinct.

  The man emerged from the tunnel, not seeing Callaway as he hurried by.

  Callaway took three long strides and tackled the man from behind. The man fell forward and hit the ground. The baseball cap flew off his head.

  Callaway turned the man so he was facing him and cocked his fist.

  The man put his hands over his face. “Please don’t hurt me,” he pleaded.

  “What were you doing outside the Gardener residence?”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Answer my question, or else I’ll take you down to the police,” Callaway said.

  “I am Kyla’s father,” the man replied.

  “What?” Callaway asked, confused.

  “I am Kyla’s real father.”