Don't Turn Around

by Hunter Morgan

  Casey’s heart was pounding again, another wave of adrenaline kicking in. As she walked up the street, approaching the vehicles, the hard gravel crunched under her feet. She was surrounded by people: men, women, children, all shades of color from pale white to dark brown. But as she walked toward the flashing lights, she felt alone. Alone and empty and scared.

  Casey loved her job. But she hated it. Hated the fact that a hospital needed a victims’ advocate.

  She craned her neck in search of Linda. Linda was thirty-two. Divorced, no children. A clerk at a convenience market. Average height. A brunette with a pretty smile that would have been prettier had it not been for her smoke-stained teeth.

  There were police, firemen, and paramedics milling around. Someone opened the ambulance’s rear door and cold white light spilled out.

  Casey didn’t see Linda anywhere. She’d have been hard to miss. There were no other women present except for one chunky paramedic and a black police officer, both of whom she knew from the hospital. How hard could Linda be to spot with that bright pink cast?

  “Excuse me, ma’am. You’ll have to step back.”

  A beefy arm barred Casey’s way. She looked up at an officer in a bright orange safety vest.

  “I’m Casey McDaniel.” She fumbled in her back pocket for the ID that she’d had the good sense to grab off her dresser before she left the house. “I’m the victims’ advocate at Sussex County Hospital. Linda Truman called me a few minutes ago. I was the one who notified the police of the break-in.”

  He moved the beam of his flashlight over her ID. “You talked to Ms. Truman a few minutes ago?”

  His gaze met hers and Casey felt a trickle of fear. She fought it. “Yes. I need to see her. I promised her I would meet her here. I…I was assigned to her case at the hospital a few weeks ago when she came in, beaten by her boyfriend.”

  He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of Linda’s trailer. There was an old Nissan pickup with a tennis ball on the antenna parked in the driveway. He looked back at Casey, not meeting her gaze this time. “Can you come with me? Detectives’ll want to talk to you.”

  “I’ll be happy to speak with the police, but first, I’d really like to talk to Linda. If that’s possible. I promised her—”

  “Officer Chatham, this is…” The male officer hesitated.

  “Casey McDaniel,” Officer Chatham cut in. “We’ve met.”

  Casey observed the slender young African American woman in the blue uniform. She was no taller than Casey but appeared so in the regulation hat.

  “Casey,” the female cop murmured.

  “Chanel.” Casey moved closer to her.

  The officer who had escorted Casey walked away.

  “The victim was one of your clients?” Chanel looked at her from under the brim of her hat.

  Casey felt light-headed. The victim. She didn’t like the way Chanel said it. But Linda was a victim, wasn’t she? Her ex-boyfriend had beaten her half to death a few weeks ago. “Is she all right? She was pretty scared when she called me.”

  When Chanel didn’t answer immediately, Casey knew. She knew. “No,” she whispered.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “She’s dead?” Tears sprang up in Casey’s eyes.

  “Bled out before we got here. Multiple stab wounds.”

  “She’s dead?” Casey repeated. She looked toward the trailer, pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead. “He killed her? But I just talked to her. Less than half an hour ago. She said he was trying to break in the back door.”

  Chanel settled her hand on Casey’s shoulder, facing her, then spoke directly to her in the same way that Casey had been trained to talk to her clients. Her voice was calm, soft, but strong. “Did Linda Truman say who was breaking into her house?”

  “It was her ex-boyfriend.” Casey fought her tears, fought to remain professional. “She said it was Charles Gaitlin.”

  Chapter 2

  Four Months Later

  The phone rang and Casey bolted upright in her bed.

  “Casey? Oh, God, you have to help me,” Linda Truman begged. The room was pitch black.

  The phone continued to ring and Casey recoiled against the headboard, pulling the bed linens to her chin.

  The phone jangled so loudly that it seemed as if she was surrounded in the darkness by ringing phones.

  “Casey? Casey, it’s him! It’s him. He says he’s going to kill me.”

  Casey drew her knees to her chest, her heart pounding.

  The phone still rang. It wouldn’t stop. The voice, Linda’s voice, was coming from somewhere in the room, but Casey couldn’t see her.

  “Casey?”

  “Linda?” Casey cried. She heard a loud thump and a splinter of wood. Someone was breaking through her bedroom door. No, through the trailer door!

  Linda screamed, a bloodcurdling, shrivel-your-guts scream, and Casey cringed, covering her ears with her hands, trying to make it stop.

  But it wouldn’t stop. The phone kept ringing.

  Casey wakened with a start, the phone still ringing. Her eyes flew wide open. No…not the phone. Her alarm. Her alarm clock was buzzing.

  She sat up and pressed the button on top of the digital clock with a shaky hand. Taking a deep breath, she leaned back on the pillows and closed her eyes, pulling up the comforter. The room was chilly. Her heart was still pounding.

  Just a dream, she told herself, taking another deep breath.

  Linda had been haunting Casey’s dreams for months, as if calling to her from her grave. But Casey knew it wasn’t really Linda haunting her; it was Charles Gaitlin.

  “Have a seat.” The receptionist motioned to a wall lined with sad metal chairs. “Mr. Preston is taking a call, but he’ll be with you in just a second.”

  “Thank you.” Casey managed a nervous smile and walked back to the waiting area. She sat in the chair closest to the door and set her brown leather briefcase on her lap.

  The receptionist returned her attention to her keyboard and Casey glanced around. The Delaware Department of Justice office for Sussex County was like any other state office Casey had ever been in: scuffed green floor tile, a maze of narrow hallways and tiny offices, and a sea of overworked, underpaid employees. From where Casey sat, she could see through a glass partition to a room of cubicles that boasted gunmetal gray desks and outdated computers and fax machines.

  A large white clock with black hands and numerals ticked. She’d had a difficult time getting the appointment with Assistant Deputy Attorney Adam Preston III. Even though she was a potential witness in the case against Charles Gaitlin, she’d been told by some nebulous voice on the other end of the line that the county prosecutor didn’t meet with witnesses this early in the trial process. Casey had gleaned from a little poking around on the Internet that Adam Thomas Preston III was considered one of the best and brightest in the state and that the Republican Party had great hopes for his future. Home grown in Delaware, he was the son of a retired Superior Court judge, and the grandson of a former state senator.

  But Casey didn’t care how big a hotshot he was; it was important to her that she speak to him about Linda’s case. Unwilling to be deterred by the runaround she had gotten with the Delaware Department of Justice, she had sent Preston an e-mail, and he had responded to it personally, saying he would be happy to speak with her. The appointment had originally been scheduled twice, but both times it had been rescheduled by someone in his office. The clerk who had called most recently to reschedule had been short with Casey, warning her that Mr. Preston had only ten minutes this afternoon before he would have to leave for court for the Gaitlin preliminary hearing.

  Charles Gaitlin had pleaded not guilty to the charge of the murder of his ex-girlfriend Linda Truman at his arraignment. Because he had not been able to make bail, he had been held in Sussex Correctional Institute since then. Casey had read in the newspaper that his grandmother had hired an attorney for him. The preliminary hearing scheduled today in the co
urthouse would determine whether there was sufficient evidence to bring him to trial for murder.

  Casey glanced at the clock again, tapping her foot nervously on the tile floor. She only had ten minutes with the deputy attorney and two had already been used up in the waiting room. She inhaled and exhaled, trying to will away her jitters.

  Now that she was actually here, she wasn’t sure why it had been so important to her to see Preston before Gaitlin’s preliminary hearing. Numerous statements had been taken by the police the night Linda was killed. A bloody knife purported to have been seen in Gaitlin’s possession a week earlier had been discovered in Linda’s yard. What did the prosecuting attorney need Casey for?

  She’d told herself that she was here to put a real face with a name on the file. The state’s Department of Justice had an overwhelming case load, as did Mr. Preston, Casey was sure. She just didn’t want to see this one slip through the cracks. She didn’t want Gaitlin getting a ten-year prison sentence, and out in four or five for good behavior. She hoped to see Gaitlin tried on a capital count so that he would receive a life sentence. With a one on one with Preston, no matter how brief, Casey was hoping he would go that extra mile in the case. She was speaking for Linda because Linda could no longer speak for herself.

  Or…Casey was here to silence Linda, who still called to her in her sleep.

  A male voice caught Casey’s attention, and she glanced up to see a good-looking man in gray slacks, a white shirt, and a red and black tie striding down the hall toward her, a file in his hand, a cell phone to his ear.

  “I understand perfectly, but that’s not how the contract is worded,” he said to the caller. “The way it’s worded, it leaves open the option to hire private nursing as the family sees fit. I can have a copy sent over to your office with the phrases in question marked, if you like.” He halted in front of the receptionist’s desk. She pointed to Casey. He turned toward Casey, pausing long enough for the person on the other end of the line to speak.

  “Great. I’m glad we’ve cleared this up,” he continued into the phone. “Thanks, John. I’ll get back to you with details once a decision has been made. Have a great day.”

  Casey rose as he disconnected.

  “Miss McDaniel?” he asked but didn’t give her time to answer. “Adam Preston.”

  “Nice to meet you.” She switched her briefcase from her right to her left hand as he offered his hand to her.

  Casey was taken completely off guard. This was Assistant Deputy Attorney Adam Preston? The third? She’d been expecting an older man and certainly not one so good-looking. He was only in his mid-to late thirties, with short, dark hair and an aristocratic face. Very Kennedyesque.

  They shook hands. He had a warm, firm grip.

  “I apologize for cancelling our previous appointments. This job has a way of…well, getting in the way of the job, sometimes, if you know what I mean.”

  “That’s quite all right. I’m just glad we could meet beforehand,” she fumbled, still trying to recover from her total miscalculation. She could usually guess what a person looked like or what kind of person he or she was with very little information. Some might even have accused her of stereotyping. Unfortunately, in her line of work, she had discovered that entirely too often stereotypes were dead on target. People didn’t often surprise her, but Adam Preston III had. The idea made her want to smile.

  “Unfortunately, I don’t have much time.” He checked his watch. “The prelim is in forty-five minutes and Judge Trudeau doesn’t tolerate tardiness.”

  “Not a problem. I actually need to be at the courthouse shortly myself,” she said. “Another case.”

  He stopped outside an open door to an office and gestured for her to go in. On the door was an unobtrusive nameplate. His office. “Please, have a seat.” He smiled down at her.

  She smiled up.

  He had to be six two, maybe six three, making her measly five feet two inches seem even shorter.

  She sat in a black leather chair in front of his desk, which was cherry, not gunmetal gray aluminum. The walls were painted beige, and on them hung various diplomas and certificates of award, which she quickly scanned. Undergraduate degree from the University of Delaware, law degree from Villanova. Filled with legal tomes, cherry bookcases, matching the executive desk, towered in the room. The office was austere, but warm.

  “I appreciate your interest in this case,” Preston said as he took a seat. “Our victims’ advocates don’t get enough recognition.” He tented his hands on the desk. They were clean, neatly manicured, but not fussy. “Now what can I do for you, Miss McDaniel?”

  She took a deep breath, meeting his gaze across the broad desk. “This case hit me particularly hard, Mr. Preston. I’m sure you’ve seen the statement I provided the police the night Linda was murdered. I saw Linda when she came to the emergency room two weeks before her death; she had a broken arm and facial bruises and lacerations courtesy of Mr. Gaitlin. I know she told the police that night that he didn’t do it, but she was just scared. She was actually considering pressing charges at the time of her death.”

  Casey reached out, pressing her palm to his desk. “Linda called me the night she was murdered. She told me he was breaking in. If you had heard the terror in her voice—” Emotion choked Casey and she couldn’t go on.

  “Are you all right, Miss McDaniel?” Preston asked after a moment.

  She nodded, feeling foolish. She was too professional for this kind of behavior. But someone had to get emotional, right? Otherwise, who would ever mourn the Lindas of the world? Who would ever protect the next Linda?

  Casey pressed her palm to her mouth and nodded. She was impressed by the attorney’s compassion. She lowered her hand, more in control of herself again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” She met his gaze again. He didn’t seem uncomfortable with her inappropriate expression of emotion. “I guess I just wanted to put a name with a face for you.” She reached into her briefcase and pulled out a Polaroid of Linda she’d taken that night in the hospital. She slid it across the desk.

  He picked it up, looked at it, and then slid it gently back toward her. “We have a good case, Miss McDaniel.”

  “A capital case? He told Linda repeatedly before that night that he was going to kill her if she didn’t agree to let him move back in.” Casey went on faster. “Surely that’s premeditated. Mr. Preston, the only way to stop men like Charles Gaitlin from killing their girlfriends, their wives, is for the state to take these crimes more seriously. The only way—”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Preston,” a pert voice interrupted from the doorway, directly behind Casey. “You’re going to be late if you don’t get to the courthouse.”

  Casey rose to her feet, tucking the photo into her briefcase as the woman disappeared down the hallway.

  “I’m sorry I don’t have more time. Really.” He stood, taking his suit jacket from the back of his chair. He seemed to be debating whether or not to share something that she guessed was personal.

  “You want to know the truth?” He lowered his voice. “It wasn’t work that kept me from seeing you yesterday. It was personal,” he confessed. “My grandfather has been very ill. He’s in a nursing home and I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on him while my parents are in Europe. My father just retired and he and Mother had been planning this trip for years.”

  “I’m sorry. Is it serious?” Casey walked around the chair, moving toward the door.

  “I’m afraid so.” He smiled grimly, hesitating again before continuing. “But he’s eighty-eight and he’s had a good life. He’s not going to get better, but I want to be certain he’s as comfortable as possible.”

  He looked at her and she immediately felt a connection to him. As corny as it might sound, she felt his pain.

  “My father recently moved in with me,” she said softly. “He’s only sixty-three, but he has early onset Alzheimer’s. I know how hard it is to see someone you love hurting.”

  Preston came around t
he desk. “Does he know he’s ill?”

  Now the grim smile was hers. “Unfortunately, yes. He gets very frustrated with himself sometimes because his memory is so sporadic.”

  “That must be hard. My grandfather hasn’t been conscious in more than a week. He’s had another stroke. But thankfully, he doesn’t seem to know what’s going on. He’s on a respirator.”

  “He’s lucky to have family looking after him.”

  Preston halted in the doorway, seeming reluctant to go, despite Judge Trudeau’s opinions on tardiness. “And your dad’s lucky to have you. Lot of responsibility, though. You have others to help out? Siblings…a husband?”

  If Casey didn’t know better, she would have thought Adam Preston III was fishing to determine her availability. She was flattered. “No husband. Not even a boyfriend.” She grimaced. “My father says I’m a workaholic.”

  “So does my mother. She says I’m a workaholic, not you.” He chuckled and held up his bare left hand. “So no wedding ring here. Not even anyone remotely interested.”

  He glanced at his watch again and winced. “I really am sorry, but I’ve got to run.” He hesitated, then looked down at her, and in a lower voice said, “This is probably totally inappropriate to ask, but do you think you…you and I could maybe go out for a drink sometime? Commiserate on what it’s like to be workaholics?”

  She smiled. “I’ll consider it. In the meantime, you’d better get going, Mr. Preston.”

  “Adam.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Call me Adam.” He pointed at her, sounding only a little cocky as he backed his way down the hall, and added, “And I’m not going to take no for an answer.”

  Casey sat for over an hour in the lobby waiting to see if she would be needed as a witness to an altercation that had taken place in the hospital waiting room a couple of months ago. The case was finally called, and the young man ended up pleading to a lesser charge. The assistant deputy attorney in the case, a young pregnant woman, thanked Casey for her time and said she was free to go.