“What did he say?” Henry asked.
“First, he made me confirm that I wasn’t going to grant clemency to Gabriel Torrance.”
“And then?”
“Then he said, and I quote, ‘The plot thickens. The noose will tighten. And in case you wonder, which you will soon . . . the blood is definitely Sally Graham’s and the DNA is indeed your brother’s.’ Then he hung up.”
“What blood?” Molly asked. “What DNA?”
“He didn’t say. But I think we’re going to find out before long.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Wyatt Pickman looked at the digital readout on the food scale on the kitchen counter. For a sandwich, each slice of whole wheat bread had to weigh between twenty-five and thirty grams. If he couldn’t find two slices that fit the bill, he would have to eat something else. Fortunately, these slices were perfect, weighing in together at 58.6 grams.
He opened the jar of creamy peanut butter and, with a practiced hand, spread it on one of the pieces of bread. As always, not too thick a layer, not too thin. He weighed that slice. Perfect.
Next, with his usual precision, he spread raspberry jam on the other slice. Weighed it.
Finally, even though he knew that each slice of bread, covered with the appropriate spread, weighed the proper amount, he put the sandwich halves together and weighed the finished product, just to be certain. Perfect, as expected.
He measured exactly sixteen ounces of milk and poured it into a glass. Then he sat at the table and ate his sandwich in eight bites, four bites per half, with one sip of milk between them. He tried to make each sip as close to two ounces as possible, but he didn’t measure them out. That would have been a bit obsessive. When he was finished, he washed his plate and glass, dried them, and returned them to their respective cabinets.
He left the kitchen, walked down a short hall, and entered the living room, which didn’t contain a stick of furniture. Instead, taking up almost the entirety of the large space, resting on a twelve-by-sixteen-foot plywood surface supported by strategically placed sawhorses underneath, was a diorama Pickman had been constructing of the midday portion of the Battle of Antietam, the bloodiest battle in US history—in fact, the bloodiest day in the country’s entire history. The product of fifteen months of painstaking work, the tableau was as magnificent and beautiful as it was historically correct. The ground was topographically accurate as of the date of the battle, with ground elevations, trees, structures, fence lines, bridges, and of course, troop placement. Each building had been painted to reflect photographs he had found through his research. Each stand of trees contained, to the best of his ability, the proper number of trees. And while he couldn’t possibly populate his battlefield with all 127,300 soldiers had who fought that day, he allowed 3,244 of them—each just an eighth of an inch tall—to stand in for the rest.
Because 192 square feet of surface was too large to allow him access to sections toward the middle, he’d had to work on the project in four-by-four-foot sections before adding them to the project as a whole. That meant that once a section was complete, unless it was near one of the edges, he couldn’t make any changes to it. Accordingly, he’d had to plan the entire battlefield out to the minutest detail ahead of time. That was fine with him, of course. That was the way he liked it. He had completed ten of the twelve four-by-four sections that way, and was halfway through the eleventh. After a year and a quarter of work, he expected to be finished in another three months at most. He allowed himself to feel a small surge of pride as he passed out of the living room again and over to the door under the stairs, which led down to the basement.
He entered his war room and sat at the desk, on which the black binder he thought of as his bible lay open to a tab titled “Governor Call # 3 (if necessary).” The call he’d made to the governor a little while ago had gone as he’d expected it would. If Kane had agreed to grant clemency to Torrance—which, honestly, would have been a surprise this early in the game—Pickman would have turned directly to Section G of the bible and proceeded from there. However, given Kane’s fully anticipated refusal, he flipped to Section E and skimmed the pages there detailing the next phase of the plan. After reading his narrative summary, he studied the map he’d drawn months ago. He took note of the GPS coordinates of the location where he had to go. The “Items Required” part of Section E listed what he would need, all of which he kept in the closet at the end of the war room, along with the rest of the items Pickman would use to execute this beautiful but complicated plan. Some of the things were stored in cardboard file boxes, others in sealed Ziploc bags or airtight Tupperware containers, as needed. He opened the correct box and removed the plastic bag containing what he needed, then slipped it into his duffel bag. He put the bible in there, too, and the burner phone. He picked up the voice changer, chose a different setting, and spoke into it as a test.
“Hello, police?” he said, his voice sounding higher than his natural one, like that of a teenage boy. “I was jogging in the park, and I found something that you should see.”
He nodded. The gears of his plan were turning with the precision of a Swiss timepiece. Everything was perfect. He was ready.
Unfortunately for the Kanes, they couldn’t possibly be.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
After leaving his siblings and sister-in-law, Henry made a quick trip to his office to grab a file, then headed to the town of Barre, the self-proclaimed Granite Center of the World due to its vast deposits of the stone, deposits that yielded granite famous for its even texture, fine grain, and exceptional resistance to weather. Henry’s navigation system took him through a small neighborhood to a medium-size two-story house set on a small but well-maintained lot on a pleasant street. A big shade tree dominated the front yard, a rope swing with a plywood seat hanging from the lowest branch.
Henry pulled to a stop in front of the house. He left the file on his seat and headed up the front walk. He rang the doorbell, and a few seconds later, State Police Detective Thomas Egan answered the door wearing sweatpants and a navy New England Patriots sweatshirt.
Egan eyed Henry warily. “Yeah?”
“Detective Egan, I’m Henry Kane, Internal Affairs.” He flashed his badge, which he’d had ready in his hand so as not to reach into his pocket and risk alarming a trained police detective.
“IA?” Egan said with evident distaste, but also with a look of poorly concealed unease. “What’s this about?”
Henry heard a woman’s voice inside, then a male teenager’s muffled reply.
“Well, I think you may have some idea what this is about,” he said, “but you’d be only half right. Wanna come outside and talk for a few minutes?”
Egan glanced over his shoulder into the house, then looked back at Henry, then over his shoulder again. “Tammy? Guy from work just showed up looking for my input on something. I’m going outside for a minute.”
He stepped onto the porch. The second he’d closed the door behind him, he whirled around, the motion bringing him close to Henry. His face was hard. He radiated menace. He knew better than to touch a fellow law enforcement officer, though, especially an Internal Affairs detective.
“You came to my home?”
“Relax, Egan.”
“My wife and kids are inside, asshole.”
“I told you to relax. This isn’t what you think. And it’s time you stood down, or you’ll be going back into your house through that window behind you.”
Egan breathed heavily into Henry’s face for a moment, then took half a step back. Just half.
“If this isn’t what I think it is, then what is it?”
“Well, I’m not gonna lie; it’s a little of what you think. I know what you’ve been doing. I have proof of it.”
Egan considered that. He glanced at the window behind him. “Screw you. I’ve done nothing wrong. Now get off my porch.”
He turned toward the door.
“You sure that’s how you wanna play it?” Henry asked.
“I’m not playing at all. Trust me.”
Henry ignored the implied threat. “Me, either. Wanna see my proof? It’s right in my car.”
Egan took another glance at the window, then started walking toward Henry’s Taurus.
Eight minutes later, Egan, in the passenger seat, was shaking his head, looking both angry and defeated. He had the file in his lap and several eight-by-ten-inch photos in his hands. He hadn’t even seen the video yet. Henry was behind the wheel, giving him time to process what he’d read and seen.
“Who else knows about this?” Egan asked.
“Nobody. Yet. There are suspicions—that’s how I got involved—but nobody knows for sure. Except me. And your little buddy Simmons, of course, but only because, like an idiot, you brought him along a few times.”
“Is he the one—”
“He had nothing to do with this. Leave him alone. He could be in trouble, too. Because of you.”
Egan processed that. “This a shakedown? You looking for a cut?”
“I’m offended by the suggestion.”
“Is that a no?”
“It’s a no.”
“Then what the hell do you want? This isn’t exactly procedure, coming to me unofficially like this, so you obviously want something from me.”
“You catch my name?”
Egan thought a moment. “Kane, right?” The light popped on. “You’re the governor’s brother. And your other brother . . .”
“Now we’re getting there.”
Henry could see it in Egan’s eyes, the calculations he was running in his head. He didn’t yet know what Henry wanted of him, but he was deciding that it must be important; therefore, he might have some leverage of which he hadn’t been aware moments ago. The very beginning of a smirk began to grow at the corners of his mouth. Before it had the chance to fully bloom, Henry decided to yank it by its roots.
“Let me remind you that you haven’t even seen the video yet, Egan. I could absolutely bury you. Your career dead. Public disgrace. A prison sentence. Probably followed by a divorce. I don’t know anything about your relationship with your wife, I admit, but I’ve seen it happen in situations like this.”
“Cheap shot,” Egan said, dropping the photos into the file.
Henry shrugged. “I don’t care.”
Egan’s gaze shifted to his house. Henry could see movement through the windows.
“What do you want from me, Kane?”
“Information about Tyler’s case. I’m the accused’s brother. I can’t get it myself.”
“What kind of information? I’m not gonna risk my career for—”
“You already risked your career, you dumbass. You flushed it away. I’m offering you a chance to fish it out of the sewer.”
Egan said nothing for a moment. “What kind of info you looking for?”
“Nothing that would compromise the investigation. I just want to know what they have against my brother.”
“You’ll get that stuff when the state turns it over in discovery.”
“That could be weeks. I’m not a patient guy.”
Egan rubbed the back of his neck, thinking. “I’m not on your brother’s case. That’s the Major Crime Unit. I’m BCI,” he added, referring to the Bureau of Criminal Investigations.
“Yeah, but I heard they’re recruiting guys for legwork. You could be one of those guys.”
“How?”
“Ask for the assignment.”
“That would look fishy.”
“Say you hate the governor, same as every other cop in Vermont, and you want to see justice done in this case. Whatever you have to say.”
“I’ve got cases of my own to work.”
“I do, too. Yours is one of them.”
Egan blew out an exasperated breath. “And if they don’t take me?”
“You might know guys on the case. You work out of headquarters, same as them. And if you aren’t already pals with any of them, you could get to know a couple. Chat them up. Either way, get me what I want. Keep me in the loop.”
“Or you’ll bury me.”
“In a heartbeat.”
“You’re a prick.”
“Probably. I’m not asking for anything that the defense won’t get eventually, though. I just wanna know what we’re up against as soon as possible.”
“And if I’m able to do this?”
“I’ll bury that file you’ve got there instead of burying you. The video, too.” Egan thought for a moment. “You have to stop taking bribes and payoffs, though,” Henry added. “Big Brother is watching. I can say I couldn’t substantiate the allegations at this time, but you’re on the radar now. You keep doing it, it’s just a matter of time before someone else catches you at it. Or one of the scumbags you’re dealing with cuts a deal and rolls over on you.”
Egan was looking down at the top photo in the stack. He looked up. “You’re as dirty as I am, you know that? Abusing your position for personal gain.”
“Shades of gray, Egan. Different motivations. Whatever. I don’t care what you think of me. I just need you to do what I ask. And don’t think about trying to set me up, because even if I go down in flames, you’ll burn right along with me. Even if they grant you immunity, you think you’ll ever get another promotion? My guess is they’ll probably find some excuse to can your ass, but even if they don’t, you’ll spend the rest of your career in a dead-end assignment, looking over your shoulder, waiting for the ax to fall.”
Egan nodded, thinking.
Henry continued. “Maybe you think I’m a bigger fish than you. That I’m wrong, and you could cut a good deal. Hell, maybe you’d be right. How much are you willing to bet on that, though? Everything you have?” He nodded toward Egan’s house.
After a long moment, Egan shook his head.
“Okay then,” Henry said. “For the record, I think you’re making the right call.”
“And for the record, I still think you’re as bad as I am. Maybe worse.”
Henry considered that a moment. “You’re probably right.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
For three and a half days, they waited for the caller’s threat to materialize into something more. In the meantime, Andrew did his best to run the state’s government while continuing to take searing heat from the media as local reporters and newscasters peddled baseless accusations to the public, accusing him of everything from failing to be sufficiently forthcoming about his brother’s situation—which was true—to trying to use his power and influence to cover things up or even coerce the state attorney’s office to drop the charges against Tyler—which was patently untrue.
Tyler, of course, remained at home, staying inside most of the time, playing video games and watching television. Nearly every day he complained about not being able to leave the property and ride his bike—which he was very distraught to learn had been seized by the police—but he seemed to truly understand how much trouble he would be in if he were to so much as step through their front gate.
Molly spent as much time as she could at home with Tyler, skipping class now and then when she thought she could afford to. Julie suddenly seemed to be a little busier with her schoolwork than usual, leaving Molly to hope that she wasn’t still thinking about moving out. Either way, Molly felt the need to keep a watchful eye on her brother in these early days of house arrest. She wanted to make sure he followed the rules. More than once, she’d found him looking out the window—at the occasional reporter and camera crew taping a segment in front of the house, or merely at the people who either kept their eyes on the house as they slowed their steps walking past, or those who blatantly stood and stared, hoping to catch a glimpse of the now-famous house prisoner. One time he had suggested that he go out and see what they wanted. Molly had tried to explain that he shouldn’t talk to anyone, especially anyone with a microphone and a video camera.
According to Rachel Addison, who spoke with Molly after spending a few hours with Tyler following hi
s return home on house arrest, she was working hard on his defense. For an expert witness, she had lined up a respected psychologist who would meet with Tyler to assess his intellect in order to help determine in what ways his diminished capacity might bolster their defense. Also, Addison said she was close to obtaining from the prosecution a transcript of the verbal statement Tyler had given at the police station, along with the video recording of the meeting—which the state was calling an interview but which Addison considered an interrogation. And she had already drafted a motion seeking to have the statement and the video excluded from evidence on several grounds, including that the statement had been coerced, that some of Tyler’s statements about wanting to go home—about which he had told her—amounted to his termination of the voluntary interview, and therefore should have resulted in his being driven home or being read his rights. Additionally, the motion argued that, given Tyler’s intellectual limitations, the detectives shouldn’t have interviewed him outside the presence of a guardian responsible for his welfare and interests. Addison also had hired experts in blood spatter and crime scene re-creation. Finally, she had a private detective who worked for her firm interviewing people in the neighborhood, hoping for an alibi, and people in the victim’s neighborhood, hoping that one of them had seen someone other than Tyler emerge from Sally Graham’s apartment covered in her blood. They were also hoping to find the anonymous caller who claimed to have seen Tyler leaving the scene, but the Kane family didn’t share in that hope because they were dead certain the anonymous caller was actually their anonymous blackmailer.
For his part, Henry kept looking into Gabriel Torrance, digging deep, but he still couldn’t see why someone would be willing to commit murder to get him out of prison five months early. There simply didn’t seem to be anyone in his life who cared enough about him. Because he had no family, he’d had very few visitors during his nearly five years in prison; the only people who had come to see him were his attorney, who visited a few times shortly after his conviction, and again almost a year ago; and three friends—two of which, Henry learned through online research, had been college buddies, and one an old high school friend.
A Blood Thing Page 14
