by Betty Webb
Maybe I’ll tell Lena about that. Even better, I can pretend I saw something, just to make sure the cops fly up to Alaska and arrest him again. All us kids know he was really messing with Elena, we talked about it all the time, but she was scared to admit it to anyone but Mom, so it wouldn’t be bad for me to, like, lie if it gets him caught, would it?
I’m so mad at myself for thinking Kyle would do anything to hurt Mom and Dad and Alec and Misty, but he was so good to me I could really kinda see him doing something majorly extreme if he thought I was being hurt like Elena was being hurt, but I never actually told him to do anything like that, did I? I was just mad because Mom said me and Kyle should, like, cool it.
Me and Kyle, we’ve found true love! Why’d she want us to stop loving each other just so years and years could go by and I’d wind up in a marriage like hers and Dad’s? I love them both, but Mom would’ve been happier with somebody else, maybe even with that weird old Ralph guy next door, he’s so crazy about her he’d do anything for her, and everybody knows it. But he sure doesn’t know I know it.
And Dad, he’d be happy with whoever, just as long as they stayed out of his way and let him buy a million cars. Why shouldn’t Dad buy what he wanted? He worked hard, didn’t he, so why shouldn’t he buy up every car lot in Scottsdale?
Me, I’m gonna buy whatever I want, too. Once the cops let me out of this shitty place and Kyle and I make it big in Hollywood, we’re gonna take our money and buy a whole library and, like, turn it into a house and we’ll rescue all the abused and lonely animals, and we’ll invite Mom and Dad and Alec over for dinner and we’ll…
Oh.
Chapter Fifteen
Lena
It took a while to recover from my interview with Ali. Fortunately, I’d found a parking space on the shady side of the building, so I was able to sit in the Jeep until I stopped shaking. Cruelty never came easy to me, especially toward a child, but it goes with the territory. There are times we investigators must harden our hearts in order to get the truth. Those times always come with an emotional blow-back.
Five minutes and a couple of tissues later, I cleared my throat and speed dialed Stephen Zellar. I’d like to say Ali’s attorney was all joy at the news she was ready to retract her confession, but I’d be lying. In an only mildly pleased voice, he said, “Nice work, Ms. Jones. I’ll get down there before she has a chance to change her mind.”
“She won’t.”
“You never know what kids will do.”
I let that pass. “But now that she’s retracting it, that’ll help get the case against her dismissed, right?”
“It’s a step in the right direction. What would really help is if you could get some proof to back up her new story.”
He was right, of course. “So once she formally recants, what then?’
“We’ll have to wait and see. But first, I have to arrange an emergency meeting with the judge and Aaron Hyatt, the county attorney. The weekend’s coming up, and if I remember correctly, Judge Benson’s taking his family up to Sedona. Six kids, the wife, two brothers-in-law, the mother-in-law, the whole clan.” A laugh, then a very un-Zellarish comment. “Sucks to be him.”
Judge Benson’s family problems were none of my concern. “Can you manage it today?”
“Rest assured I’ll have Babette clear my calendar as soon as we hang up. She’ll also place calls to Benson and Hyatt. They are both reasonable men, which is a plus. One reminder, though. In the event that I am able to get Alison released, which isn’t certain, mind you, since she is an orphaned minor and there is yet no designated guardian. If, and I stress if, she’s released from juvenile detention, as a minor she will still be under the auspices of Child Protective Services. Their oversight will continue unless Dr. Teague is granted guardianship, or at the very least, temporary guardianship. Perhaps even then.”
Given my own experiences with CPS, the fact that the girl would remain under their jurisdiction alarmed me. Most group homes and foster parents were fine, but the ones that weren’t fine were horrific. “Will you call Dr. Teague or shall I?”
“I’m going to be very, very busy for the next few hours, so I will leave the honors to you. Then I’ll finalize everything. If he accepts. Now, I have to go…”
“One more thing,” I interrupted.
“There always is with you, Ms. Jones.”
“Ali wants to attend the funeral.”
After a moment’s silence, he said, “Excellent. If I can arrange it, no guarantee there, either, it will look good, very good. Our Miss Alison has turned out to be a wise young woman, hasn’t she? Do me a favor and convey her wishes to her uncle, and I’ll take care of whatever red tape is necessary on that front. And then we’ll see.”
Agreeing to keep in touch, we ended the call, but not before the tenor of Zellar’s final comments registered: he believed Ali was only playing to the court of public opinion by her request to attend her family’s funeral. Did that mean he wasn’t convinced of her innocence? If her own attorney wasn’t sure she hadn’t killed her family, how would her story fare with the public, which had already been incited to a near-lynch mentality by the non-stop news coverage? Only yesterday the Phoenix Morning Herald, a yellow rag seldom lauded for excellence in journalism, had published an alarming two-page spread on the upsurge of what they termed “killer kids,” detailing the bloody deeds committed by children across the country during the past decade. It read like a horror novel.
Nothing like influencing potential jurors while two as-yet-presumed-innocent kids sat in jail.
Aware that I was entering verboten legal territory yet again, I called Curtis Racine, Kyle Gibbs’ attorney and gave him a highly unethical summation of my meeting with Ali. His reaction was more emotional than Zellar’s.
“Looks like someone finally talked that girl into showing some sense,” he said, after venting a cheer. “Couldn’t be you, could it, Ms. Jones? Unfortunately, there could be a downside to this. If the girl really does withdraw her confession, it could put my own client in a precarious position. But remember, we’re not having this conversation. I would never talk to an opposing counsel’s investigator. Never.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. And I’m not talking to you, either. Be that as it may, Kyle will only be harmed if he continues to cling to his own crazy story, which is why I called you, even though we’re not, as you say, having this conversation. When you talk to Kyle, and I hope you manage it today, stress that Ali only confessed to planning the murders because she thought he was the killer. Once he realizes Ali had nothing to do with the murders, he’ll tell the truth, too.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“In matters like these, I usually am.” My voice conveyed more confidence than I felt. There was always the chance Kyle would suspect he was being played by the authorities, and Ali hadn’t changed her story at all.
After ending the call, the sweat rolling down my face alerted me that I had been sitting in the heat of the day for far too long. The outside thermometer on a billboard across the way registered a hundred and ten, and shade or no shade, I was beginning to feel light-headed. Time to hydrate.
A few minutes later I was ensconced at Echo Coffee, drinking a giant-sized latte and several glasses of water. Although it was too late for the lunch crowd and too early for the Early Bird dinner crowd, the place buzzed with customers yakking away on their cell phones. From the snatches of conversation I heard, most were job-hunting, although it sounded like the haggard-looking man in the booth closest to me was on a conference call, hashing through a financial settlement with his soon-to-be ex-wife.
Finally rehydrated, I joined the chattering masses by placing a call to Dr. Teague. It didn’t take long for Ali’s uncle to understand the rapidly changing game plan.
“Guess that means I’ll have to accept responsibility for her.” He didn’t sound enthusiastic.
; Poor Ali. Even if she escaped becoming a ward of the state, it didn’t take a fortune-teller to foresee her future: a boarding school far away from her uncle, followed by a university equally distant. Unlike his murdered brother, Dr. Bradley Teague exhibited no desire to be a father. He was too busy saving the world.
“Tell me, Dr. Teague, did you know your brother worked as the state executioner?”
A pause, as if he was gathering his thoughts, then, “We had words about it, yes. And it created a rift between us, even more so than that IVF business. To tell the truth, I haven’t spoken to my brother or his family since I found out. That was, what, three years ago. Doctors should save lives, not take them. We are pledged to…”
Fearing another self-righteous sermon, I cut him off at the pass. “You didn’t feel it was necessary to tell me what you knew?”
“It’s not like Arthur’s extracurricular activities had anything to do with his death. I thought Ali did it.”
Ali. Your niece. The one you haven’t seen in three years, you cold-hearted son of a bitch. I took a deep breath and forced myself to calm down. “If you’d told me what you knew, it would have saved a lot of work.”
“Why?”
Oh, for God’s sake. “Because it means plenty of other people had a motive to kill your brother!”
The clattering and chattering in Echo ceased. Baristas and job-seekers alike turned their heads to stare, mouths agape. The man who had been arguing with his soon-to-be ex-wife stopped snarling at her and joined the gawking crowd. With difficulty, I lowered my voice.
“Don’t you even care, Dr. Teague?”
Another pause. “When’s the soonest my niece might get released?”
The man was hopeless. “There’s no guarantee on that, and even if it happens, it’ll depend on how fast Stephen Zellar can work his magic. In the meantime, we need to talk about the funeral. Have you arranged it yet? Ali wants to attend.”
“She does?” He sounded downright disapproving.
“Yes, Dr. Teague. She does.”
A sigh. “All right. As it stands now, the memorial service will take place at ten a.m. Tuesday, the interment following immediately afterwards. Side-by-side plots, of course. I’ve, uh, I’ve prepared a eulogy for Alexandra.” His voice wobbled as he pronounced Alexandra’s name, revealing feelings that ran deeper than toward his brother or nephew. Or his niece, for that matter.
But I let it go. “Call Zellar and tell him to draw up the guardianship papers. Or leave a message re that, if he’s not in. As for the funeral, if the judge allows Ali to attend, remember that she will be under guard. What church and cemetery are we talking about?”
Teague named a church he probably wouldn’t have chosen if he had known more about its liberal bent—a couple of its priests were always getting arrested for protesting various human rights abuses—but his choice of cemeteries was refreshingly old-fashioned. Instead of the new easy-to-care-for modern burial grounds that banned anything other than ground-level plaques, the cemetery hewed to the old custom of marble crypts and weeping angel statuary.
“See you at the memorial service, then,” I said.
“Oh, you don’t need bother to attend.”
“Yes, I do.” After today’s conversation with Ali, the kid might hate me, but at the very least she deserved to be around someone with feelings.
After ringing off, I called Margie Newberry, told her the funeral plans, and asked her to get the word out. I didn’t want the Camerons’ last day on Earth to be accompanied only by Dr. Teague and a priest who didn’t even know them. Margie, bless her crusty heart, agreed.
Next, I called the Honorable Juliana Thorsson. As soon as I started to explain Ali’s new situation, she demanded I drive over for a confab. She actually used that word.
***
Twenty minutes later I was sitting across from Thorsson in her overly air-conditioned living room, but this time I welcomed the frigidity.
“You’ve done fine work, Ms. Jones,” she said, after hearing the latest developments on the case. Despite her words, her blue eyes remained as chilly as her air-conditioned condo. I could feel goose bumps popping up on my bare arms.
“Thank you. Since I’ve managed to get Ali to recant her confession, as well as finding a host of new suspects, you may not need my services anymore. If you wish, I can mail my final invoice to you Monday.” Not that I planned to stop working on the case. Just the opposite. I had every intention of finding out who had killed the Cameron family, but I could do that on my own dime.
Oblivious to my thinking, Thorsson gave me a wintry smile. “Final invoice? Oh, I think not.”
“Well, then, you can wait until the charges are dropped against Ali, which they probably will be. Eventually, that is.”
Those frigid eyes didn’t flicker. “Our arrangement still holds.”
“Which was to pave the way for getting charges dropped against your…” I’d been about to say “daughter,” but was Ali really Thorsson’s daughter in any accepted sense of the word? The politician was merely an egg donor. She hadn’t raised Ali, held birthday parties for Ali, shuttled Ali to soccer games, bandaged Ali’s bloody knees, soothed Ali’s tears, or done any of the things real mothers do. Strictly speaking, Thorsson was a biological lend-lease apparatus, nothing more. “…uh, Ali.” I rephrased. “Granted, even with the recanted confession, it can take a while.”
She shook her head. “If there’s one thing a politician is expert on, Ms. Jones, it’s image control. Regardless of that ‘person of interest’ phrase the media so loves to use these days, most people will view Ali as a killer until the actual killer is caught and successfully prosecuted, and we’re still a long way from that. Do you want suspicion to follow that girl for the rest of her life?”
I put aside my shock that Thorsson and I actually agreed on something. “Of course I don’t. But you understand that many murders remain unsolved, right? I can’t guarantee anything.”
“Which is understandable. But these days our fine law enforcement officers labor under too many handicaps. That foolish Miranda business, for instance, informing criminals about their so-called rights, I find that disgraceful. And then there’s the forbidding of enhanced questioning, all the new chain-of-evidence rulings, and now this DNA foolishness. It’s a wonder the authorities ever bring any criminal investigation to a successful conclusion. But as a private citizen, you can ignore those encumbrances, can’t you?”
Without waiting for an answer, she continued, “As you know, before I retained you, I checked you out thoroughly and discovered that on these sorts of cases, your solve rate is higher than Scottsdale PD’s. So what if you skip over some of the legal niceties? You accomplish what’s necessary, and that’s the only thing that counts. In fact, if what you’ve just told me about Ali’s father is true, I’ll wager you already have some ideas.”
“Yes, I do, and I plan on passing those ideas to the proper authorities for follow-up.”
A faint expression of disapproval crossed her face. “Unfortunate. Nevertheless, I want you to continue your investigation into the case and identify the killer. Or killers, plural, as the case may be. I never saw how one person, let alone a fourteen-year-old boy, could have killed three people—including one physically-able adult male—without help.”
“Well, there was a gun involved, but according to the case files, the boy’s hand showed no gunshot residue. And the gun, a 9mm Beretta, was never found.”
She grunted. “Nice firearm. Well. I have no problem, Ms. Jones, with you turning your findings over to the police department and letting them make the arrest.” She pointed a stern, manicured finger at me. “But no overt vigilantism. Nothing that would jeopardize the case.”
“You mean I can’t waterboard anyone? Damn!” I gave her a cold smile of my own.
She matched it. “Au contraire, Ms. Jones. I would gladly pay to see th
at. However, given the abysmal state of the criminal justice system these days, I do want to make certain that the person or persons who ruined Ali’s life will have no legitimate grounds for appeal once he has been found guilty in a court of law.”
Ruined Ali’s life. Those were Thorsson’s beliefs, not mine. She hadn’t met Ali, never experienced the girl’s grit.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be careful not to screw up any subsequent trial,” I assured her. “But before I start chasing down other suspects, I’m curious about something.”
Blond eyebrows raised. “What ‘something’ is that?”
“What are your feelings about the fact that your biological daughter’s father served as Arizona’s state executioner?”
She shrugged those elegant shoulders. “Someone has to do it.”
***
Regardless of the Honorable Juliana Thorsson’s confidence in my investigative skills, Desert Investigations faced a daunting task. Finding the Camerons’ killer—or killers, plural—could prove impossible. In the past three years alone, the doctor had executed ten men and one woman, each of whom had a family. One of those family members might have craved a certain rough justice of his own. True, Jimmy could come up with their names, but tracking them down would be time-consuming.
While I suffered through the afternoon rush hour traffic on Scottsdale Road, I let my mind roam, trying to ignore the acrid stink of hot asphalt, the complaints of the Jeep’s over-warm engine. By the time I turned into the Best Western’s parking lot on Indian School Road, I had landed on two questions I should have asked myself earlier, but didn’t.
Question Number One: How had the killer found out Dr. Cameron’s identity? For decades, the names of Arizona’s state executioners had been a closely guarded secret. To keep them from being traced, the executioners were always paid in cash so that their names would not appear on a correctional department payroll check. And although the media always ran in-depth “Death Watch” stories every time an execution approached, no enterprising investigative journalist had yet been able to come up with an executioner’s name. Jimmy had been able to do it, yes, but his level of skill was rare even in hacking circles.
