Don't Turn Around

by Hunter Morgan

  As Casey left the courtroom, she checked her watch. It was just after three; she could return to work but decided against it. She wasn’t expected at the hospital today, and she had some paperwork with her she could see to this evening after she put her father to bed, so the day wouldn’t be a total wash. Instead of going to work and ending up staying late, as often happened, she thought she would stop at the grocery store. Then she’d go home and spend some time with her father and make him one of his favorite meals. Maybe they’d even curl up on the couch together and watch one of his favorite movies from his John Wayne DVD collection.

  The last two months, since her father had moved in with her, had been difficult for her, but she knew they had been difficult for him, too. Once a well-respected and popular English professor at the University of Maryland, he had had to give up his independent living to move into assisted-living care. It had been even harder for him to leave his apartment to move into his daughter’s house, because that had meant admitting he could no longer care for himself. As she had told Adam, her father was ill, but not so ill that he was unaware of his state. He knew that his lapses in memory and judgment had reached a point where independent living was no longer possible.

  Casey followed the long hallway flanked by courtrooms and turned into the entry hall where she’d had to leave her cell phone at security. She was standing in line to collect it when she heard Adam call her. She turned to see him hurrying toward her, tan trench coat and briefcase in hand.

  “Miss McDaniel. I’m glad I caught you.” He glanced at the people in front of and behind her in line. “Could I speak with you for a moment?”

  She stepped out of line and followed him to an alcove down the hall. “How did it go?” She was half smiling as she spoke, already thinking about that drink he had offered, but her smile fell as the look on his face registered. “Oh, please, don’t tell me,” she groaned.

  “I’m really sorry, Casey.” He shook his head. “I requested a continuance because the DNA results aren’t back yet on the suspected murder weapon. Judge Trudeau denied my request so I had to nol pros—”

  “Nol pros?” She gripped her briefcase in frustration. How could this be happening? She’d been in and out of the courthouse enough to know that justice wasn’t always done. But the law couldn’t fail her this time. Not today. “I don’t understand.”

  “Nolle prosequi. It’s a legal term meaning that at this time, the state chooses not to prosecute.”

  “You chose not to prosecute?” she demanded, louder than she intended. Two men in suits passing in the hallway glanced in their direction. Casey lowered her voice as she looked back up at the attorney. “How can you choose not to prosecute? He murdered her.”

  “It means we choose not to prosecute at this time. It’s sometimes a necessary evil of the process. We knew going into—”

  “I don’t understand how this could happen. You didn’t say anything about this when I was in your office.” She didn’t give him a chance to speak. She wasn’t angry with him, but she was angry. Angry with a system that would fail Linda. That would fail women like her. “What about his fingerprints on the knife?”

  “Inconclusive,” he said. “We need the lab report.”

  “So now nothing happens until the DNA evidence comes in positive for Linda’s blood?” She shouted her last words.

  His hand was warm on her arm, even through her jacket.

  “I’m sorry.” She shook her head as if she could shake off the feeling of helplessness that had manifested itself as anger. She’d been experiencing the same thing at home with her father. “That was unprofessional of me. I just—” She looked away and then back at him. “What can you do now?”

  “We can have Gaitlin reindicted. It will take a little time, but—”

  “I can’t believe this is happening.” Casey turned away, still in disbelief. It was as if she didn’t know what to do next. What to say. It had never occurred to her that Gaitlin could be set free. No one she had talked to from the Department of Justice had ever brought up the possibility.

  “And so that’s it?” Casey threw up her hand and let it fall. She thought of Linda calling to her in her nightmares. How loud would Linda be now that Gaitlin had been set free? “That’s it?” she repeated. “Charles Gaitlin stabs his ex-girlfriend to death, and after only four months in prison, he’s set free?”

  Adam steadied her shaking hand. “We’ll reindict.”

  “You can do that? It’s not…” She searched her mind for the correct legal term. “Double jeopardy?”

  “We’re still in the preliminary stage. Double jeopardy doesn’t apply. We’ll reindict. We’ll take the DNA evidence into the prelim and we’ll go to trial with a strong case for life in prison. Or, after the prelim, maybe he’ll change his plea to guilty and he’ll still go to prison for life.” He squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry. I know this doesn’t seem right, but it’s the way the system works. It has to. But thanks to that system, we can still make the charge stick.”

  “And you still think you can make that happen?”

  He met her gaze. His eyes were green with little flecks of amber. “Absolutely.”

  She shifted her gaze to a spot on the wall behind Adam’s head, her eyes burning. She’d already made a fool of herself in front of Adam once today. If she cried now, she’d be mortified. “But Gaitlin still goes free, today.”

  “The judge has already released him.” He hesitated. “I’m sorry.”

  Casey took a deep breath and exhaled, releasing the pain. Suddenly, she was tired. Weary to the bone. “Okay, then. That’s that for now.” She hooked her thumb in the direction of the security desk, and the outside world. “I’m going to go home, put my slippers on, and have a cup of tea.”

  “I don’t suppose you could be persuaded to join me for a drink?” When she didn’t answer him at once, he went on smoothly, “Or an early dinner…or a cup of coffee? Tea?”

  “No, but thanks.” She turned away. “I think I just want to go home and check on my dad. Curl up with a good book.”

  “Thank you,” he called after her as he set his briefcase down to put on his coat. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Casey waited in the long line at the security desk, collected her cell phone, and made a beeline for the door. Out on the sidewalk in front of the impressive brick courthouse, an autumn wind whistled. With her free hand, she drew her suit jacket closer to ward off the chill. She had parked her car two blocks away in a public lot behind the bank. It was a long walk in the cold, but she had purposely left her coat in the car, thinking she would have one less thing to carry all day. Despite her father’s warning this morning, she hadn’t expected the temperature to drop so fast.

  By the time she reached her Toyota hybrid, she was shivering. Standing at the driver’s side door, she dug into the side pocket of her briefcase in search of her keys but came up empty-handed. She was sure she had dropped them in that compartment, with her wallet and lipstick. But they weren’t there. Aggravated with herself, she started to pull through the other compartments, but with all the files and loose sheets of paper and various pamphlets, she couldn’t find them. Her fingers numb with cold, she was having a difficult time picking through the mess.

  She walked to the hood of the car and plopped her briefcase on top. “Where the heck could they be?” she muttered under her breath, giving the briefcase a good shake. She was rewarded with the telltale jingle of keys. She hadn’t lost them. They were there. It was just a matter of—

  A crunch of loose gravel on the pavement behind Casey made her spin around. She’d been so engrossed in the key search that she hadn’t heard anyone approach.

  “Well looky here, if it ain’t Linda’s good friend Casey McDaniel.”

  Instinctively, Casey shrank back, clutching her briefcase to her chest. “Mr. Gaitlin.”

  Chapter 3

  “Guess you’re surprised to see me, huh? Out free and clear?”

  Charlie was definitely stereotypical
of a woman abuser. Average stature. Bad haircut. Pinched face and watery eyes that couldn’t be trusted. He could easily have been cast in a made-for-TV movie.

  “They decided not to prosecute me, which is a good thing for me, seein’ as how you said all that bad stuff about me. Made up those lies.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Casey managed.

  “Sure you do. Tellin’ the police that night in the hospital that I hit Linda. Tellin’ lawyers. Makin’ up lies. Makes a man kind of angry. Know what I mean?” He threw back his shoulders in a bullying posture and took another step toward her.

  Casey stared at Gaitlin, her heart pounding. For a moment she couldn’t move, couldn’t react. All these years, and still she hadn’t forgotten that feeling of terror, of vulnerability.

  But she wasn’t defenseless. No woman was. No woman had to feel that way. She told her clients that all the time. Stop feeling and start thinking, she told herself.

  Snapping out of her daze, Casey quickly assessed the area around her. Damn, damn, damn, she thought. There wasn’t a soul in the parking lot. Cars passed on the street, but from this distance, with windows up, she doubted anyone would hear her if she screamed. She wouldn’t have to run far to get someone’s attention by stepping out into the street, but she’d put herself in a bad position when she’d moved to the hood of the car. Gaitlin had her backed up against it now. Trapped.

  “Don’t take another step toward me, Mr. Gaitlin,” she warned loudly, using one hand to hold the briefcase against her chest while she held up the other to stop him.

  “Or what?” he grunted. “What’re you gonna do?”

  He had the aggressive male body language that women all over the world were forced to endure every day. He was like a strutting rooster with his chest thrown out, his shoulders back, his fists clenched as if he would strike her at any moment. He was pathetic. Charles Gaitlin was a pathetic man. But a dangerous pathetic man.

  Casey had pepper spray. She always carried it with her, but it was on her damned key chain, somewhere in her briefcase.

  She couldn’t believe she’d been this foolish. She knew better than to enter a parking lot without having her keys ready. It was one of the very first precautions she taught in the safety course she presented to local women’s groups.

  The engine of a car revved, and out of the corner of her eye, Casey saw the taillights of an old blue sedan light up. One of the taillights was cracked. The engine sputtered as the car backed out of its space, sending loose gravel flying.

  Thank God. There was someone else in the parking lot.

  Gaitlin saw the car, too.

  He shoved his hands down into the pockets of his pants, the sides of his ugly brown suit billowing out as he relaxed his stance. His thin comb-over came unglued from behind his ear and danced in the wind. He was a ridiculous-looking man. Casey shouldn’t be afraid of him. But she was afraid. Afraid, just as Linda had been, and with good cause.

  “Guess I best be goin’. Ride’s here.” He nodded in the direction of the car, which was now pulling behind Casey’s car. There was a woman driving. A woman who looked so much like Linda that Casey did a double take. The driver was smaller than Linda, her hair lighter. Upon closer inspection, Casey could see that she really didn’t resemble Linda much, except for the look on her face. The woman had the look of an abused woman.

  “Guess we can’t visit anymore today.” Gaitlin started around the front of the blue car. “But if I was you, missy, I’d have eyes in the back of my head.” He winked at her and opened the passenger-side door. She heard the door groan as it scraped metal on metal.

  Still watching the car as it pulled out of the parking lot, Casey fumbled inside her briefcase. She was now shaking so hard that her teeth chattered.

  At long last, her fingertips curled around the ring of keys in the bottom of the bag and she yanked them out. Safely inside her car, she locked the doors, turned over the engine, and flipped the heat on high.

  Had it been her imagination, or had Charles Gaitlin just threatened her?

  He couldn’t have. Wouldn’t have dared. Would he?

  As Casey sat with her hands clenched on the steering wheel, the car heater blasting, she slowly began to thaw. When she finally stopped shaking, she put the car into reverse and eased out of the parking lot.

  Taking the Georgetown Circle, she headed east toward home. There was no way she was going to the grocery store now. All she wanted to do was get inside her house and lock the doors.

  Should she call the police? Tell them what Gaitlin had done?

  But what exactly had he done? The exchange in the parking lot couldn’t have lasted much more than a couple of minutes. He didn’t touch her and what he had said was her word against his.

  His word against hers.

  That was what her father had said about Billy Bosley. Tears stung Casey’s eyes and she wiped at them in frustration. All these years and had she not come any further than this?

  No, she’d just had a bad day. A bad day in court. A run-in with a loser in the parking lot. There was no need for self-loathing or self-doubt. Casey knew she just had to push through. Push through, enjoy the weekend, and get prepared to do her job again, come Monday morning. Charles Gaitlin might be free right now, but he would have his day in court. Adam Preston III would see he was found guilty of murder and Linda’s death would be avenged.

  By the time she pulled into her neighborhood, Casey was feeling better. A little less tense. Less self-deprecating. She’d just go home, have a nice quiet evening with her father, and she would feel better tomorrow. Although she hadn’t stopped at the grocery store, she was certain she could whip up a decent comfort meal from the pantry, even if it wasn’t her father’s favorite. It didn’t really matter anymore because he couldn’t usually remember his favorite foods. Only Casey could.

  She turned onto her street. The neighborhood was new, less than five years old and centrally located between Georgetown and Lewes, twenty minutes from SCH, where she worked. A school bus ahead of her flashed its red lights and she braked. Mrs. Cline, a neighbor from across the street, walked on the sidewalk, all bundled in a coat and hat and scarf. Her poodle, also decked out in a coat, trotted in front of her, tugging on its rhinestone leash. Stopping behind the bus, Casey waved to her.

  Mrs. Cline waved casually as she walked by.

  The bus pulled forward as a little boy ran across a front lawn toward an older sibling waiting on his doorstep. As Casey eased forward, she saw Mrs. Cline, having apparently just realized who was in the car, waving at her. Then waving toward something farther up the street.

  Casey braked again, looking back, but Mrs. Cline continued along the sidewalk in the opposite direction.

  What in the world? Casey wondered.

  She didn’t have to wonder long. She made the bend in the road and there, standing on her front lawn, was her father dressed in a pink chenille bathrobe. It was Casey’s favorite bathrobe, the one she kept on the back of the bathroom door.

  And boxer shorts. Her father was wearing nothing but boxer shorts and an open bathrobe. He was spraying the flower bed with a hose.

  She pulled into her driveway, hitting the garage door opener fastened to the visor. But instead of waiting for the door to go up so she could park inside the garage, she stopped in the middle of the blacktop driveway, jumped out, and ran across the lawn. “Dad, what are you doing?”

  Frazier, her father’s old boxer, barked excitedly, rushing to greet her.

  “Dad?” She looked down at the dog, which was bouncing up and down in front of her excitedly. “Hey, boy. Good boy, off,” she ordered, trying to pull her suit jacket close against the cold wind while attempting to prevent the big dog from jumping on her with his muddy paws.

  “Dad?” She walked up behind him and reached around to take the hose from him.

  Frazier continued to bark, now dancing in the muddy flower bed.

  Casey’s father stared at her for a moment. A half s
mile of recognition rose slowly on his face. “My daughter.”

  “Yeah, Dad. What are you doing out here in the cold?” The bathrobe fluttered open in the wind, exposing his bare chest and bird legs. She dropped the running hose and reached around him to grab the ties of the pink robe and fasten them around his waist.

  He made no attempt to assist her.

  “You need a hat and a coat and shoes if you bring Frazier outside. You know that, Dad.” She wrapped her arm around his shoulder and tried to turn him toward the house. “And pants. We wear pants outside.”

  Ed McDaniel resisted her.

  She groaned, praying silently for patience. “Dad, come on. It’s cold out.” She glanced toward the street at the sound of squeaky brakes.

  The bus had turned around in the cul-de-sac and come back. It had stopped to let Jenny Rousseau off directly across the street, and the elementary kids remaining on the bus had their faces plastered to the windows. They laughed and pointed at the old man in the pink bathrobe.

  “Dad, you’re going to be arrested for indecent exposure. Come on.” She gave him a little push. “Frazier, come, boy.”

  The old boxer bounded past them.

  “Dad, follow Frazier.” She nudged him, trying to keep her tone even. When her father suspected she was annoyed with him, he could be obstinate.

  Her father slowly turned. “Watering the mums. They look dry.”

  “Dad, they’re dead. It’s October and we’ve had a cold snap. They’ll come back next year.” Her arm around his thin shoulders, she urged him toward the front porch. “Why are you out here without a coat? You told me this morning high of forty-three with winds at four knots.”

  “High of forty-three, low of thirty-eight,” he said.