The Seven-Day Target

by Natalie Charles

  “My dad prosecuted the wrong person,” she whispered. “The wrong man went to jail—died in jail—for those crimes while the real murderer went free.” Her own words left her feeling numb. She looked at Nick. “What else did the handwriting expert say?”

  “I figure we’re looking for the original Arbor Falls Strangler or someone like him. Molly’s a psychologist, and she said that the person who wrote that letter probably has a schizoid personality, which would make him antisocial and a loner. Or conversely, he may be extremely charming.”

  Libby raked her fingers through her hair. “Well, okay. A loner or a charmer. That doesn’t seem to help very much. Do you think that this is payback for a wrongful conviction?”

  “Could be,” Nick said.

  She knitted her brows. “But the timing still doesn’t make sense. Why now? Henderson’s been dead for years.”

  “Maybe someone else just learned about the wrongful conviction, too. Who else would know that your dad made this...mistake?”

  She flinched at his words. “A mistake? Do you think he made a mistake?” He didn’t move except to look away, confirming her suspicions. “No, you don’t think that at all. You think my dad knew about this, don’t you?”

  He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You’re the one suggesting that something deeper was going on. I would have no way of knowing that.”

  He was right. Libby had a gnawing suspicion that her father may have knowingly done the unthinkable, but she couldn’t explain it. Maybe that suspicion stemmed from the peculiar animosity she sensed from certain people who’d worked with her father. Judge Hayward, for instance. She’d been a public defender when Libby’s father had prosecuted Henderson—did she somehow know? But Libby also found it difficult to accept that her father, the very man who’d taught her right from wrong and fostered her unwavering faith in the justice system, would have knowingly prosecuted the wrong person for a crime. This wasn’t any crime, either: her father had prosecuted the wrong person for a series of murders and requested multiple life sentences. Her father had helped to lock away an innocent man for the rest of his life.

  She felt a rush of heat. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she mumbled.

  Nick rose. “Can I get you something? A glass of water?”

  Waves of heat and nausea passed over her, and she took deep breaths to steady herself. After a minute or two the nausea receded and she was breathing easier. “I’ll be all right.”

  Nick was behind her, and his hands were on her shoulders, kneading her muscles. “You’re so tense.”

  She sighed at the sensation of his touch. His warm hands were heavy and reassuringly strong, and his grip was firm but gentle as he worked his fingers into the knots on her upper shoulders. She sat up and leaned her head back, relaxing against his tight stomach. Her shoulders were tinged with slight achiness as her muscles softened, sending a dizzying rush of blood to her head. She moaned softly. “That feels amazing.”

  The compliment only served to encourage him, and soon his fingers were tracing slow, firm circles to the base of her neck. His touches on her shoulders and her neck stirred memories of his touch on other parts of her body. Her breathing became shallow as she fell under his trance, her head tilting softly this way and that as he commanded her body. She was utterly under his control, and she wouldn’t want it any other way.

  He stopped, resting his hands on her shoulders and whispering, “Feel better?”

  “Oh.” She sighed. “You stopped.”

  There was a knock. “That’s breakfast.”

  Nick opened the door, and Libby heard him explain quietly that she’d just woken and he didn’t want anyone entering the room yet. She pulled her bathrobe tighter as Nick reentered the room with a cart draped with a white tablecloth and towering with croissants, muffins and Danish. A pitcher of orange juice and a carafe of coffee rounded the breakfast display, which was punctuated by a single pink rose in a glass vase. “How lovely. You ordered breakfast for fifteen.”

  He smiled at her. “I wanted you to find something you’d enjoy.” He handed her coffee in a porcelain cup. “I think that we need to talk to someone who may have some insight. Someone involved with the Henderson trial.”

  She considered the question. “Who do you have in mind?”

  “Henderson’s defense attorney, Christopher Henzel. He’s near seventy, but I looked him up and he’s got a small law practice in the center of Glen Hills.”

  “What’s he practice?”

  “Real estate.”

  Libby blinked. “He’s no longer a public defender, huh?”

  “He hasn’t been for a long time. In fact, it seems he opened this firm less than a year after Henderson went to jail.”

  “In other words Henderson was the last criminal he represented before he decided he wanted to practice real estate?”

  “Exactly.”

  Libby laughed dryly. “Yeah, I agree. We need to talk to Attorney Henzel.”

  “After breakfast we’ll pack up our things. I’ve found a different hotel for us to stay in, and Henzel’s office is on the way.”

  * * *

  Nick tugged at the door of Christopher Henzel’s law office, located on the first floor of a small office building near the center of Glen Hills. “Remember—no details about what’s going on with you. The police are trying to keep certain elements out of the media.”

  Libby nodded. They’d been fortunate that Attorney Henzel had an opening to meet with them that morning. The last thing she wanted to do was to make him regret the visit by burdening him with the gruesome details.

  The receptionist pointed them to a small waiting area furnished with comfortable leather chairs. The office itself was drenched with sunlight and decorated in a cheerful mix of yellow, green and brown. Libby settled into a chair and watched the brightly colored fish dart around the saltwater aquarium on the far wall. Nick sat beside her and reached over to grasp her hand. She drew herself closer to him, enjoying the warmth of his skin against hers. Savoring the moment for a change.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting.” They heard the voice from behind and saw an older but still sprightly man in a white polo shirt and khaki pants. “I was reviewing the results of an especially hairy title search and I lost track of time.

  “We just got here,” Nick said.

  Henzel’s frame was thin, and his brown eyes contained a warmth that Libby found reassuring. “An FBI agent left me a message wanting to talk about William Henderson,” he said. “It piqued my interest.”

  “I left you that message. Special Agent Nick Foster.” The men shook hands. “And this is Libby Andrews.”

  “My father prosecuted Mr. Henderson.”

  Henzel seemed unsurprised. “You have your father’s eyes.”

  He led them into a modest conference room and library. Libby and Nick pulled up chairs.

  “I would offer you something, but I don’t know how to use our coffee maker. Would you like some milk or orange juice?”

  They both shook their heads. “Thank you, Attorney Henzel,” said Libby. “We’re fine.”

  “Well, then, what brings you here? You know I haven’t practiced criminal defense in almost thirty years, and I haven’t looked over the Henderson files in nearly as long.”

  Nick said, “We’ve been reviewing some old files, and we’ve noticed some...discrepancies.”

  “You’ve been reviewing the case files?” Henzel looked interested. “For what purpose, if I may ask?”

  Libby and Nick exchanged a glance. “We’re writing a book,” Nick replied.

  Henzel replied with a short “Hmm” before sitting back in his chair. “Please continue. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “As Nick said, we’ve noticed some discrepancies in the files. A handwriting expert at the FBI compared the letters the Arbor Falls Strangler sent to his victims’ families with the confession Henderson wrote. She concluded that Henderson didn’t write those letters.”

  “You’ve involv
ed a handwriting expert at the FBI? This must be some book.” Henzel’s face remained still, and he pressed the tips of his fingers together. “What kinds of discrepancies did she notice?”

  “The person who wrote the letters to the victims’ families was highly educated and showed signs of having a schizoid personality. The person who wrote the confession had a grade school education at best,” Nick said.

  “We know that Henderson wrote the confession,” Libby continued. “What we don’t know is why he would confess to crimes he didn’t commit. We’re here because we’re wondering whether Henderson may have said something to you.” She noticed Henzel flinch in hesitation. “Henderson is dead, so there’s no longer an attorney-client privilege to preserve.”

  “Of course,” Henzel replied, folding his hands in front of him. He paused to scratch his eyebrow, and he seemed lost in thought. “I must have looked at those letters and that confession dozens of times, but the truth is I never noticed a difference in the handwriting.” He raised his gaze to meet Libby’s. “If I had, I would’ve raised that question at trial.”

  She leaned forward and lowered her voice, speaking to Henzel kindly. “That must have been quite a trial for you. You were charged with defending someone who’d practically confessed to being a serial killer. That couldn’t have been easy.”

  “I received death threats for defending him,” Henzel said, his voice calm. “I became a criminal defense attorney out of a sense of...obligation, I suppose. I had ideals. I believed in ‘innocent until proven guilty,’ and I thought that by putting forth a strong defense I would protect all of society from overzealous prosecution.” He looked at the table and assumed a faraway expression. “I was a fool.”

  The statement thrust Libby back against her seat. “Why were you—”

  “Henderson was arrested at work,” Henzel continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “He was a dishwasher at the country club. Someone spotted what appeared to be bloody clothing in his duffel bag and reported him. The police later identified that clothing as belonging to the sixth victim. Of course Henderson told me he was innocent. He swore the clothing had been planted in his bag, said he’d never killed anyone. You know how it goes.” He directed that statement toward Libby.

  “They’re all innocent.” She smiled. “At least I’m not the only one who hears that.”

  “In that way, at least, he was just like all of my other defense clients.”

  “But something made him different,” Nick prompted.

  “Quite a few things, really. I realized early on that Henderson had a benefactor of some kind. I don’t know who he was. I just know that Henderson was receiving lots of money from someone. His wife was, at least.”

  “Did this benefactor pay your legal bills?” Nick asked.

  “No, I was the public defender assigned to the trial, so I was paid by the taxpayers. But Henderson didn’t have a penny to his name. He’d never been able to hold down a steady job in his life. Suddenly his wife was buying fur coats and going out for fancy dinners.” Henzel shook his head. “I remember Will telling me about the job at the country club, and he would talk about it like it was the funniest thing in the world. He was washing dishes to feed people who could, as he put it, ‘buy and sell him twice before sunset.’ I always got the sense that he hated those people, the upper echelon of Arbor Falls, so to speak. But he also wanted to be accepted by them. He desperately wanted their approval.”

  Libby rested her chin on her palm. “Do you think that’s where he met this benefactor, at the country club?”

  “Could be,” Henzel said. “We never talked about it. I didn’t want to know. But at the beginning, when he was first arrested, he was desperate to get out of jail. He said that he needed to work and that his wife needed his support. Then he changed.”

  “Changed? How so?” Nick asked.

  “He wasn’t as desperate to get out of jail. He seemed untroubled by the usual court delays.” Henzel frowned. “Then one day he told me he knew who the real killer was, that he was...how did he put it? ‘Negotiating a price.’”

  “Negotiating a price? With the Strangler?” Nick leaned forward over the table.

  “Yes. That’s the way I understood it.”

  “Henderson was in prison this entire time, wasn’t he?” Libby asked.

  “Yes. He was being held without bail.”

  “So if he was having visitors,” Libby said, her brow creasing as she thought, “then the prison would have a record of that.”

  Henzel shook his head. “Except that there was no such record. I checked. Henderson’s wife came to see him every now and again, and that was it. If he was negotiating something with the benefactor, then that benefactor had friends who didn’t make him fill out the visitor paperwork.”

  “So if I understand this correctly,” Nick began, “Henderson professed his innocence and seemed impatient about being held in jail, but then he received a lot of money from an anonymous benefactor. Later he signed a statement confessing to have played a part in the murders.” Nick sat back against his chair and stared out the window as he thought about this. “You think that he was paid to take the fall?”

  “I do. I think that the Strangler was a very powerful person in Arbor Falls, and I think that he must have cut some kind of a deal with Henderson. If I had to guess, Henderson was promised the things he’d always wanted. Money. Respect. Notoriety. In return, Henderson would sign a confession, plead guilty to lesser offenses and suffer through the trial. There had to be a murder trial. The mayor wanted his pound of flesh. In return Henderson would be treated well in jail and his wife would be cared for.” Henzel’s face darkened. “But his wife wasn’t cared for. Not for long, anyway. Shortly after Henderson was sentenced, she was found dead in their home. Strangled.”

  Libby felt a wave of coldness wash over her. “Was she killed by the Strangler?”

  “The police never made that connection. If they had, they would have had to admit they’d locked up the wrong person. No, the medical examiner ruled her death a suicide by hanging. But Henderson told me she’d been killed. He was certain of it.” Henzel was quiet. “That’s when Henderson started telling anyone who would listen that he was innocent, that the Strangler had paid him to take the fall. As soon as Henderson started talking, of course...”

  “He was killed,” Libby finished in a whisper.

  Henzel nodded. “Whoever did it made it look like a suicide, but I never believed it.”

  “We found newspaper accounts of a woman who claimed to have seen the Strangler walking from a victim’s house, covered in blood,” Nick continued after a brief silence. “Why didn’t you call her to the stand? She could have introduced reasonable doubt.”

  “Yes, Mrs. McGovern was one of the first people I tried to contact when I received Will’s case.” He sighed. “Unfortunately she’d died a year or two earlier. Natural causes. I suppose that can happen when it takes ten years to arrest a suspect.” His tone was bitter. “I offered those newspaper articles into evidence, and I even called the reporter who interviewed her to the witness stand. The state countered with evidence that Mrs. McGovern had been legally blind, and the reporter admitted he didn’t know whether she’d been wearing her glasses or not. It was a disaster.”

  “But someone must have known something,” Nick said. “Henderson was talking, people were being bribed to look the other way when a mysterious visitor came calling at the prison—”

  “Believe me,” Henzel replied, “even if someone knew something, no one was willing to say anything. It was a death sentence. And for what? A sense of justice?” He snorted and shook his head. “No one ever said a word.” He was quiet for a moment. “No, I take that back. There was a prison guard who approached me once, telling me that Henderson had been receiving a strange visitor, that all kinds of rules were being broken to protect this visitor’s identity. The guard told me that something was going on, but he wouldn’t get more specific than that. He said he was going to speak with his
superiors about it.” Henzel closed his eyes. “He was found dead in his home a few days later. Shot in the head.”

  “Oh!” Libby covered her mouth with her hands.

  “The police report said all signs pointed to an apparent burglary. I knew better.”

  Libby shivered as a silence fell across the room. Then Henzel continued. “Henderson only confessed to planting the signs. That was the arrangement, I suppose. I think he thought that he would have some leverage with the Strangler if he didn’t confess to all of the crimes, that he could turn state’s witness if the Strangler stopped making payments. Will Henderson wasn’t the smartest client I’ve ever had. Some people took advantage of that.”

  Libby bit her thumbnail as she thought. If the Arbor Falls Strangler was a powerful, well-connected person in the community, there could have been a vast conspiracy to convict Henderson. She felt sick to her stomach. What had her father done? What had her father known when he went to trial? Her mouth was dry as she said, “Do you think my father knew about this?”

  Henzel’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I would have no way of knowing that.”

  “I’m only asking your opinion. I would ask my father directly, but he passed away last week.”

  “I’d heard. I’m sorry for your loss.” Henzel remained unmoved.

  “We need to know what Judge Andrews knew,” Nick said.

  “For your book, I suppose?”

  Libby swallowed and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Based on his icy response, she suspected that Henzel knew something about her father, something that made him think less of him and of her. Guilt by association, just as she’d experienced with Judge Hayward.

  “Look, I don’t know what my father did. I’ve learned over the past few days that you can know someone your entire life without ever actually knowing them.” The words brought tears to her eyes, and she blinked them back. “I just want to understand what happened. That’s all.”