Secrets of the Last Castle

by A. Rose Mathieu

  “So it’s my fault?” Elizabeth snapped.

  “No, it’s just…”

  “Just what?”

  “I don’t have a choice what case I investigate.”

  “Oh, and I have a choice who I defend.” Elizabeth’s hurt was quickly replaced by anger.

  There was truth to that statement, but Grace didn’t respond because it would have made things between them even worse. Silence was her best option.

  Elizabeth rose and walked to the door. “I’ll show you out.”

  Propped up against the couch, Grace remained on her knees, rubbing her hand across her eyes and silently praying that this night would end differently. She chastised herself for coming, warning herself that nothing good would come of it, but she couldn’t help it. She just wanted to see her. Realizing her mistake, she pushed herself up with great effort and walked to the door. She stopped in front of Elizabeth. “I’m sorry.” Grace heard the door close behind her, but she didn’t look back.

  Chapter Five

  Grace sat at her desk, staring at the words on a crisp white paper, unable to form their meaning as the letters seemed to dance around the page. She pinched the bridge of her nose in an attempt to thwart a nagging headache. She was exhausted, but sleep eluded her. By morning, she had come up with two choices—resign or complete the Francis case. The first was not a true option because her father depended on her, so that left choice number two. By the time she reached the office, Grace convinced herself that she needed to find the identity of the old woman. She wasn’t sure why because this wouldn’t have been the first case where an unidentified person was killed, but this wasn’t a murder in a homeless camp, and somehow finding the woman’s identity seemed important; or perhaps, it was just a desperately needed distraction.

  The coroner estimated the woman’s age to be between seventy to seventy-five years old, which gave Grace the idea to search the archive records. Over the last year, the county had been making efforts to integrate the paper records created before the county went digital into the database, but as the efforts were still underway, Grace knew there was a significant number of records that were still not included. As such, Grace began making inquiries into the records department, archive unit, cold case unit, and any other unit that might be remotely connected to her search for any information. She realized that it was a ghost of a chance, but it was something to do.

  The paper silently sitting in front of her, seemingly mocking her, offered no clue. It gave the description of a woman’s white leather handbag, with gold-plated clasps at the top, and a small handle allowing it to rest on a woman’s arm as she strolled. It was quietly refined and spoke of a different era. Lettering in red lipstick covered much of the outside, and based on the prints, Grace knew to be the woman’s doing, but only a few of the words were legible and none of them made sense. Much of it was smeared by both the suspect’s and the police’s handling of the bag. If there was a message, and she wasn’t convinced that there was given the impulsive nature of the murder, it was indiscernible now.

  The contents were equally telling, yet had nothing to say. There was a silver hairbrush with a wide face and a quaint scene filled with trees and flowers that reminded her of the countryside etched into the back and down the slender handle. The fine hair trapped between the bristles was identified to be the old woman’s. A matching silver compact mirror and lipstick tube, used to mark the outside of the purse, completed the set. That was all Grace had—no name, no identifying marks, nothing but a leather handbag and a trio of trinkets, beautiful and useless.

  After the murder, police units scoured the alley and the surrounding blocks for a wallet or any other identifying piece of evidence that might have been discarded, but came up empty. Either the woman intentionally traveled light and with no identity, or someone found the wallet before the police did. Although the latter was the most plausible explanation, Grace began to believe the possibility of the first and wanted to know why.

  * * *

  Elizabeth stared up at the ceiling, leaning back in BD as far as she dared. She began to notice images of a squirrel formed by the small holes in the yellowing, industrial ceiling tile. The more she stared at it, the more it began to look as though the squirrel was walking an alligator. It seemed that the ceiling provided as much insight into the Francis case as the notes she had in front of her. Why did she agree to take this case? By all accounts, Jackson Francis murdered a poor, elderly woman who seemed to have no family, but as terrible as that sounded, the toll this case was taking on her fledgling relationship with Grace troubled her more.

  With the preliminary hearing only a day away, she spread across her desk several note cards with pertinent facts of the case, like puzzle pieces. She moved them around as if a new position would provide a new perspective, but the pieces just didn’t fit—no wallet or identity, no known family, the phrases “key to the castle” and “beware of the knights,” Jackson’s statement that she gave him the purse, and a handful of red words written in lipstick on the outside of the purse. She resigned herself to the futility of the effort and began stacking the cards in a pile, when she froze. She grabbed at the file that was pushed to the side and began riffling through the papers, scanning her notes and police report. “It’s not here.”

  Chapter Six

  “People versus Francis,” the court clerk announced, and Elizabeth rose as the remainder of the case number was recited. Camille, who sat patiently through the morning court calendar, nervously gripped the wooden seat of the bench as Elizabeth squeezed past her to approach the defendant’s table. Jackson emerged from a holding room behind a fortified wooden door and was guided to the seat next to her.

  Elizabeth knew that preliminary hearings were more formality than substance, as the government only needed to establish that there was sufficient evidence to bring the case to trial, not establish the defendant’s guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. There was no jury, only the judge who would decide based on a single witness—the arresting officer. Absent another person bursting through the courtroom door proclaiming his guilt, the preliminary hearing was a foregone conclusion, but she wasn’t giving up without a fight.

  She patiently watched as Officer Christopher Barron was sworn in and diligently went through his employment record with the force, only taking notes once the officer began recounting the arrest of Jackson.

  “My partner and I were driving north on Warren Avenue when I saw the defendant standing at the entrance of an alley. He was holding a white purse,” Officer Barron stated in a professional tone.

  “What happened next?” the prosecutor asked.

  “I instructed my partner to stop the vehicle and I exited and approached the defendant. As soon as he saw me, he threw the purse and began to run. I gave chase and apprehended him.”

  The officer detailed the recovery of the woman’s purse and climaxed with the discovery of the woman’s body in the alley. Inwardly sighing, Elizabeth knew he would make a good prosecution witness at trial. As the prosecutor completed his questioning, the judge looked to Elizabeth, silently gesturing for her to begin.

  “Officer Barron, you stated that you saw my client standing at the entrance of the alley. What was he holding?”

  “A white purse,” he answered cordially, not the least annoyed that he was repeating the same answer.

  “Where did you recover the purse?”

  “Near the entrance of the alley.”

  “Was the purse open or closed?” Elizabeth asked that question for her own curiosity to explore whether the wallet could have spilled out during the turmoil.

  “It was snapped shut.”

  “Was there an exit to the alley on the other end?” She already knew the answer, but wanted to hear him say it.

  “Yes, there is an egress on Green Street.”

  “You stated that it appeared as though the victim had her throat cut.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Was there any blood on my client?”

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nbsp; “No, but if it was a quick attack and done from behind, that wouldn’t be unusual.”

  “And where is the knife?”

  “Excuse me?” the officer asked.

  “You stated that when you found the victim her throat was cut, but neither your testimony nor the police report mentions the recovery of a weapon. Did you recover the knife?”

  “No.”

  “If I understand correctly, you did not see my client holding a knife, you did not find the knife on my client when you arrested him, and you did not discover a knife at the scene? Then how did my client kill the victim if he did not have a knife?” Elizabeth chastised herself for not seeing that fact from the beginning. She was too distracted by the quirks in the case to not see the obvious.

  “I assume—”

  “This man’s life is at stake and you assume?”

  “What I meant to say is that it is possible that before we returned to the alley, the knife was removed by a third person.”

  “Isn’t it equally possible that someone else killed the victim and left the alley through the other ‘egress’ to Green Street?”

  “The defendant had the woman’s purse,” was his feeble attempt at an answer.

  “Couldn’t the true murderer have killed the woman, removed the wallet from her purse, and discarded it? My client simply found the purse lying at the entrance of the alley and picked it up?” Now Elizabeth was having fun.

  “Objection, speculation,” the prosecutor interjected in an attempt to save his witness.

  “I thought that was what we were doing here—speculating,” she said, sarcasm evident in her voice.

  Clearly done with the proceedings and eager to move along his court calendar, the judge asked, “Ms. Campbell, do you have any other questions?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “The court finds that there is sufficient evidence to hold the defendant over for trial. Bailiff please remand him into custody.”

  Elizabeth shook her head in disappointment. She knew to expect nothing less, but hoped that she would pull off the Hail Mary of preliminary hearings; however, her heart felt lighter when Jackson touched her hand and whispered, “Thank you.”

  Elizabeth exited with Camille at her heels, almost mumbling to herself, as her feathers were still a bit ruffled by the judge’s greater concern over his schedule than justice. Once they cleared the courtroom doors, Camille wrapped her arms around her, startling Elizabeth. “Thank you.” Tears welled in her eyes.

  “I didn’t win in there,” Elizabeth said, in case there was any misunderstanding.

  “But you believe him.”

  “Yes, I believe him.”

  As though being pulled, Camille sank to the seat behind her, and Elizabeth helped guide her down with concern. Caught up in her own struggles with the case, she didn’t think of the toll that it was taking on Camille. She guessed Camille was the source of strength in her family, but with her younger brother in prison and her grandmother’s health failing, her strength was faltering.

  Elizabeth knelt beside her and spoke softly. “I’m sorry. I know this isn’t easy on you.”

  “I’m fine. It’s just hard not being able to do anything. It’s like I am watching him drown, and I can’t swim to jump in and save him.”

  “Camille, did the police return any of your brother’s belongings after they arrested him?”

  “They kept his clothes and his shoes, but they gave us his wallet.”

  “If you think of it, can you let me take a look at it?” She really had no interest in the wallet because if the police returned it, there was no evidentiary value in it. However, it had emotional value because it gave Camille a purpose; even if it was small and short-lived, it gave her something to do instead of standing by, helplessly watching.

  * * *

  Grace hung up the phone after a terse conversation with an unhappy prosecutor and knew she should be upset, but she wasn’t upset or even mildly annoyed; she was proud. She didn’t tell Elizabeth about the missing knife, a detail that was conveniently left out of the police report and follow-up investigation report. With the state’s only obligation to turn over possible exculpatory evidence in the government’s possession, not the absence of it, the prosecution saw no need to assist the defense in its case. By the tone of the prosecutor’s voice, Elizabeth did well. Who am I kidding? She kicked ass.

  However, for Grace, this resulted in an unpleasant telephone conversation where the prosecutor demanded to know why no progress had been made in locating the knife. In the most diplomatic manner possible, she advised him that she couldn’t simply manufacturer a murder weapon that wasn’t located at the scene. Grace deemed the conversation civil because the terms “asshole,” “jackass,” and “dipshit” were only muttered in her head during the course of their discussion.

  “Detective Donovan.”

  She jumped at the sound of her name and looked up to find a middle-aged man in an ill-fitting suit standing next to her desk.

  “Hey, John, what’s up?”

  “Hear you were looking for some info. You’re going to want to see this.” The older detective from the cold case unit dropped a file on her desk as he spoke.

  * * *

  “Come on, Princess, you’ve pampered and preened long enough.” Elizabeth chastised her best friend, Michael Chan, as he stared at his reflection in the side mirror before climbing into the passenger seat of her Roadster.

  “Girl, you only gave me thirty minutes’ notice. I don’t do rushed. My hair takes twenty minutes alone.” She knew his grooming routine all too well and didn’t need to be reminded. He settled himself in before asking, “So, where are we going?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  After returning from Jackson’s preliminary hearing, she wasn’t so quick to dismiss the woman’s statements to Jackson and the lipstick writing on the outside of the purse, believing the woman may have known her killer and made a futile attempt to pass along a message before her death. She trolled the internet for references to “key to the castle” and “beware of the knights” and found nothing of use, unless she was in search of Sir Lancelot and the knights of the Round Table or other folklore.

  She fared slightly better when she combined it with the lipstick writing, which she spent nearly an hour deciphering from the photos. On one side of the purse, she pieced together the words “for” and “Power,” at least she believed it was meant to be that word as the last letter had been nearly erased. The smudged words “horse plant” were below, although it looked to be part of a larger sentence. On the other side, she could only discern the last three words near the bottom, which were left untouched, “call WHITE DEMON,” the last two words written in all caps. Combining all the words, her search led her to one source, and it happened to be a thirty-minute drive outside the city. Not wanting to go alone, she solicited the company of her BFF, being less than honest as to her plans. It wasn’t her fault that he interpreted, “We may be going to hell for this,” as a euphemism for “it’s going to be a major hang over, call in sick the next day kind of good time.”

  Michael pulled down the vanity mirror and checked his artistically gelled hair once again in case there had been movement while transporting his body inside the car. “So tell me, what’s going on with the lady detective?” he asked to his mirror image. Michael was the only one to whom she confided about “the kiss.” He was elated, calling the relationship long before she could unwrap her own feelings about Grace.

  “Nothing,” was all Elizabeth felt like offering on the matter.

  “Come on, come on, come on,” he chanted, bouncing in his seat.

  “Michael, nothing is going on and nothing will.”

  “Why? I thought things were going well.”

  “They were, until she came over and said that she never wanted to see me again.” She knew she was being dramatic, but it felt good.

  “She said that?”

  “Well, sort of.”

  “Sort of what?�
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  “She’s the detective on the case I’m defending. She said we can’t see each other.”

  “This feels familiar,” he muttered. He flipped up the mirror and turned his body toward her. “Honey, I’ve known you a long time. I’ve seen you date many people.”

  “Hey!”

  “Shush, don’t interrupt. Where was I? Oh yeah, I’ve seen you date many people.”

  “Do you have this scripted?”

  “Seriously, this is the first time that I’ve seen you like this.”

  “Like this?”

  “In love.”

  She had no comeback, no easy banter. She was silenced. After several moments, she finally spoke. “I’m scared.”

  Michael placed a hand on her arm. “I know, but just give it time.”

  With nothing more needing to be said, the remainder of the drive passed with only soft jazz filling the car. Michael paid little attention to where they were going, until they pulled off the main road onto a partially paved road. It was probably fully paved at one time, but neglect left it in a state of chunks of pavement with dirt filled in between, making for a rough ride, much to Michael’s displeasure. The movement was not good for the hair. As the road transitioned to full dirt, the ride relatively smoothed out, and they pulled up to what she could only describe as an old barn with a dozen or so vehicles surrounding it.

  “What is this, an underground club?” he asked.

  “Underground may be partially right,” she said as she stepped out of the car and headed for a wooden door on the side that was partially propped open.

  Michael ran to catch up to her and inspected the area that was surrounded by overgrown brush and trees. He looked at the handful of pickup trucks dispersed throughout the dirt lot. “Is this a hoedown?”

  Elizabeth ignored the question and continued to the wooden building that was larger than the average barn. She guessed it was more likely used as a commercial storage facility for processed hay and probably once doubled as a community meeting hall. The faded paint did little to hide the weathered and warped wood.