“I do appreciate your time, Mr. Collins, so I’ll get to the point,” Max said. “I became interested in the Justin Stanton murder in San Diego when my staff uncovered two other similar cases. Justin was murdered nearly twenty years ago, when he was seven years old. He was taken from his bedroom while his parents were out, drugged, suffocated, and buried in a shallow grave a short distance from his house. He was found within twenty-four hours, but there was little to no evidence, and while the police looked at the parents and family members, no one fit.
“As my staff and I investigated, we realized there were several unusual similarities. But there’s one key fact that connects with your son’s death: in each of these cases, the fathers of the boys were having an affair.”
Max let that information sink in. Richard immediately understood what she was saying.
“It’s not the same,” he said, his voice scratchy with emotion.
“Justin’s father is the district attorney of San Diego, so we had assistance in putting together information that wasn’t available to the general public. And because these murders were all five or more years apart and in different California jurisdictions, the police didn’t make the connection.”
“How did you?” Patricia asked. Her hands were entwined with her husband’s, but she was far more in control. “Poor Matthew was killed in Florida.”
“Because Lucy’s brother is a forensic psychiatrist and was able to help us form a profile of sorts. When we had that, we went back to Stanton and he went through employee records looking for a woman who left employment shortly after Justin’s murder. We followed up with the other two connected cases. One woman worked with either the mother or father of each dead boy.”
“Then why aren’t the police here?”
“Because,” Lucy said, “we have no hard evidence. But we think you can help—you know this woman.”
“We? Are you a cop?”
Lucy showed her badge. “FBI. But I’m not here officially—I’m here because I’m Justin’s aunt.”
“I don’t understand,” Richard said. “What does this have to do with Matthew’s death?”
Patricia bristled. “You can’t think that Richard has anything to do with any of this.”
“Of course not,” Lucy said. “Have you been in contact with your ex-wife, Danielle Sharpe, at any time after you left Florida?”
Both Patricia and Richard stared at Lucy.
“Danielle?” Richard said.
Lucy said, “We have a theory, but no proof. We know that you were with your mistress the night Matthew was killed—”
Patricia jumped up. “I can’t believe you would do this to my husband! Hasn’t he suffered enough? First his son is molested and murdered, then his ex-wife makes his life a living hell, and now this? You have to bring it up again?”
“It’s okay,” Richard said, taking his wife’s hand.
“It’s not okay!”
“A living hell?” Max said, needing to take the emotion out of the room. “How so?”
“No, I’m not doing this again. Don’t, Richard.”
Richard stood up and said to Max and Lucy, “Can you excuse us for a minute?”
Max didn’t want to let them out of the room—there was something here, she could feel it buzzing around the room. But Lucy spoke before Max could stop them. “Take all the time you need,” she said.
They walked out.
“What are you doing?” Max said. “Did you hear them? Bet you a million bucks that Danielle has been tormenting him for years. ‘Living hell.’ And now they’re going to clam up and sanitize whatever they tell us. Maybe call a lawyer. Maybe he’s calling the police right now to have us removed.”
“You have a vivid imagination,” Lucy said.
“We were so close!” She cleared her throat to lower her voice. “You should never have let them walk out.”
“We are close, Max, and I’m definitely not taking your bet. He’s heard from his ex recently.”
“How do you know that?”
“His face when I mentioned her name. I don’t think he told his wife, but Danielle has reached out to him.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying. They’re not—screwing around or something?”
“No. I think Patricia was right—Danielle tried to make Richard suffer. But Richard remarried, moved, was able to get on with his life. Danielle couldn’t. But there’s more here than hatred of her ex-husband. She blames herself as much—or more—than her ex.”
“How do you get that?”
“It’s everything, Max—it’s not just the husbands who are cheaters. The wives were all working. In a traditional household, the father works and the mother stays home with the kids.”
Max almost laughed. “It’s the twenty-first century—certainly not the status quo now.” And she couldn’t imagine not working. But something on Lucy’s face had her asking, “If you had kids, would you quit your job and raise them?”
“I can’t answer that question,” Lucy said.
“What I’m saying is, in this day and age there are many two-income households. It’s common. Sometimes because both parents want to work, and sometimes because both parents have to work. Either way, even twenty years ago no one batted an eye when a mother went back to work after having a kid.”
“It’s not about the mother working, it’s about the mother not being home when her son was in danger. It’s a primal instinct to protect our young. We talk anecdotally about mother bears and their cubs, but it’s based on observable truths. Danielle certainly blames Richard because he was with another woman when Matthew was killed. But she blames herself even more. There is an intense self-loathing, which she has projected onto other families.”
Max glanced up and saw Richard in the entry of the living room. Lucy had to have seen him when they were talking. Why had she continued? Did she want Richard to hear?
Patricia wasn’t there. “I need to talk to you without Patricia,” Richard said. His eyes were moist. “You think Danielle killed someone. A child.”
“Yes,” Lucy said. “Do you think she’s capable?”
“I don’t know.” He sat back down heavily on the couch. “What do you want to know?”
Max had a million questions, but she glanced at Lucy. Lucy was running this show. Maybe she had from the minute she stepped into the lounge at the US Grant on Thursday afternoon. Max’s control was only an illusion that Lucy wanted her to keep until they broke the case open.
“Let’s start at the beginning,” Lucy said. “You were young when you married.”
He nodded. “We were both in college. I was a senior, she was a freshman. Love at first sight, I suppose.”
This was no happy reminiscing.
“We married because Danielle got pregnant. I loved her, and the baby. I wanted to do the right thing. We were happy, I thought. But Danielle was always clingy. Needy, I guess. I chalked it up to her being young and insecure about our marriage, but I tried. And Matthew, we loved him. After he was born, it was good, really good. I’d already graduated. She took a year off, then finished school. Juggled Matthew and classes. I was working for a major insurance company, nine-to-five mostly, but I was promoted when Matthew was five and started traveling. I told Danielle she didn’t need to work if she didn’t want to—I was making more money, and she really hated her job. She said she wanted to go to law school, and I supported that. She was working and going to school and I was traveling and she was always suspicious. Several times she’d show up at my hotel room. Said she wanted to surprise me, and the first time I was thrilled—it was fun and exciting. But then … it turned weird.”
“How so?”
“She would show up at work in the middle of the day. She would call at odd times. If I didn’t answer right away, she’d leave a long message. If I called her back she would accuse me of avoiding her. I wasn’t, but then I began to. It was awkward. She showed up at a company dinner with one of our biggest clients and made a scene. It was
after that I suggested we separate … and she almost had a breakdown. I found out then that her mother had been married twice—and each time her father or stepfather had an affair and left her mom for another woman. Her mom and I never got along—the woman was bitter and manipulative and what is it called? Passive-aggressive? Say things to Danielle like, ‘Oh, I love your haircut, it covers your big forehead,’ or ‘That dress is amazing, it hides your fat ass beautifully.’ I’m sure growing up like that had to wear her down, and she was always self-critical and critical of me. But she begged me to forgive her, and we had Matthew—I loved that kid so much.”
“And yet you still had an affair.”
“I’m not proud of it. It just happened … and I didn’t know how to get out of it.”
“It wasn’t with Patricia.”
“God, no. Someone I worked with. She was married as well, neither of us were happy, it started innocuously … and then well, you can guess.”
“What happened the night Matthew was kidnapped?”
“I had a dinner meeting. Marlena and I stayed after for drinks. Her husband was out of town—he was a pilot and he took extra legs because their marriage was so bad. She knew he was having an affair, too, and I think she wanted to stick it to him by screwing me in their bed. I planned on being home by ten—we had a high school girl who babysat, and I knew Danielle had a late class and then would study until the library closed. But I fell asleep. Woke up when Danielle called at twelve thirty and said Matthew wasn’t in his bed. I—I lied to her at first, but when the police came everything came out, because I didn’t know what happened to my son and I wanted the police to find him.”
“We have the basics from the investigation,” Lucy said, “but no details.”
“He was found five days later in an open field, under a pile of construction garbage. But … the police said after the autopsy that he’d been only been dead for twenty-four hours. They arrested Paul Borell. Found Matthew’s clothes. His blanket … his favorite stuffed animal … in Borell’s basement. And blood. My little boy … he was hurt, then Borell killed him.”
“How did he die?” Lucy asked, her voice so soft Max almost couldn’t hear her.
“He was strangled.”
“And he was sexually assaulted.”
Richard’s voice cracked. “Y-yes.”
“Patricia said that Danielle made your life a living hell. How?”
“She blamed me. I blamed myself. I should have been home.”
“But she knew you were working late legitimately.”
“Yes. But I was supposed to be home by ten. And I wasn’t, and my son was kidnapped.”
“What about the babysitter?”
“She fell asleep on the couch. She was sixteen—she didn’t hear or see anything. Poor girl fell apart, too. Danielle was so cruel to her, and she got into drugs and drinking. I don’t know what happened—they moved away a year later.”
“And you?”
“I had to move. Danielle would show up at my house, she’d come to the office, she left awful messages on my door, on my phone. The police arrested her once when she attacked me, but I dropped the charges. I mean—I hated myself. So a year later, I moved here. I met Patricia at a grief support group through a community church. Her husband had died—he was young, it was a tragic highway accident—and it took a while, but I finally forgave myself.”
“Have you seen or heard from Danielle since you left Tallahassee?” Lucy asked.
“I haven’t seen her, but she calls me every once in a while. The first time—I talked about it in grief counseling, so Patricia knows about it. She was worried about me so I never told her that Danielle has called me many times over the years.”
“Define many?” Max said.
“At first she would call me on the anniversary of Matthew’s murder and yell at me, blame me. I took the calls because I wanted to be punished. But then it stopped. Years pass and I don’t hear from her, then she’ll call every day for a couple weeks. The first time she called after Patricia and I married, she was in the room and made me promise never to answer the phone again if it was Danielle.”
“But you did.”
“I had to—I mean, she was Matthew’s mother. She was grieving. And I suspected she called me after she was drinking or something, because she didn’t sound right. And it would stop. And then I’d almost forget, but it would start up again.”
“When was the last time you talked to her?”
“Wednesday.”
“Last week Wednesday?” Max asked. “What did she say?”
“That she hates me. That she wishes I’d died instead of Matthew. She always asks me if I’m cheating on my wife.” He sighed. “She left messages on my phone the next couple of days. I still have them.”
“I need to hear them,” Lucy said.
Richard looked pained, and he was confused. “I don’t understand. What’s going on? Is Danielle in trouble?”
Max had thought it was perfectly clear. Was Richard being deliberately obtuse? Or was he in denial?
“You ex-wife has killed at least three young boys,” Max said.
Lucy tensed. “We suspect,” Lucy clarified.
“You suspect, I know,” Max said. Before Lucy could backtrack into cop speak, Max said, “We have evidence that your wife worked with the parents of three specific victims at the time the boys were killed. Within a year, she moved to another town, in another job, found another adulterer, and stalked the family until she found the opportunity to kidnap their child in the middle of the night, drug and suffocate him, and bury him in a park with his favorite stuffed animal.”
Tears rolled down Richard’s face.
“Excuse me for being blunt, but if we’re right she’s going to do it again.” Max wasn’t sorry. She needed information and Richard was playing the woe-is-me card and stonewalling them.
Lucy looked at Max with a flash of anger Max hadn’t seen in the cop before. Then Lucy turned to Richard. “Danielle blames you for Matthew’s death, but she hates herself more. She’s stuck in this violent cycle, and she will continue until we stop her. You can help. Do you know where she is?”
He shook his head. “I really don’t. The phone she calls me on is blocked.”
“That’s okay. If you have a record of the calls, I can get a warrant for your phone records.”
“I’ll give them to you. If you’re right—if Danielle—I don’t believe it, but … I thought if anything she would come after me. Or maybe she was suicidal. The first time she called, she was so hysterical I really thought she was going to kill herself. I talked to her because I didn’t want her to die, I wanted her to get help. I thought I calmed her down. She didn’t call for a long time after.”
“We need a warrant to build a case against her, but you can certainly help expedite it,” Lucy said. “Do you have those voice mails?”
He pulled his phone from his pocket.
“May I record them as they play?”
He nodded.
Lucy took out her own phone and pressed a record button, then Richard played his messages.
“I miss Matthew,” a faint female voice whispered. “I miss him so much.”
Then nothing, but the call wasn’t terminated. Thirty seconds later it beeped and the message was over.
“That’s it?” Max said.
Richard shook his head and pressed the next saved message.
“I hate you!” The voice sounded completely different than the pained voice before it. It disconnected immediately.
“How long between calls?” Lucy asked. “What day?”
“On Thursday. Two minutes, according to my phone.”
Lucy frowned. “Next, please.”
“There was a series of six calls that night where she didn’t leave a message—hung up before voice mail.”
Lucy nodded. “Same day as those two?”
“Yes. And then this on Friday night, late.” He looked at the phone. “Two A.M. Saturday morning. I was asleep
, I turn my phone off at night.”
“Play it.”
He hesitated, then pressed Play.
The recording started in the middle of a sentence, as if Danielle had been talking as soon as she hit Send.
“—fucking bitch. Liar! Just like her husband. Just like you. I loved you, and you fucked around. How many, Richard? How many were there before Marlena. How many? How many times have you cheated on Patricia? Or maybe she’s cheating on you. Ha! Serves you right. Why even have children? Why can’t people just do what they promised? They’ll suffer, I hope they suffer as much as you, I hope they—” Beep. The voice mail ended.
“Every day?” Lucy said.
He nodded. “And last night—again, late, my phone says the first three calls came in at two oh-two, two oh-five, and two thirteen. But there’s nothing there. You can hear her moving around or moving things around, but she doesn’t say anything. Until the call at two thirty-five.”
He pressed Play. The first five seconds were silence. Then: “While you were with your whore, a pervert walked into Matthew’s bedroom and carried him off to do awful, awful things to him. He suffered, Richard. He was so hurt. Broken … no child should suffer like that. They don’t deserve him. They don’t care. They’re never home. I hate you. I hate you!” The harsh sound of breaking glass, then the call was cut off.
“Is that the last one?” Lucy asked.
“Yes.”
“She’s going to call again tonight. You’re going to need to answer it.”
“I—I can’t. You don’t understand.”
“I’m going to call the local FBI office and have them here. I want them to see if they can trace the call. She may not stay on the phone long enough, but they might be able to get the area she’s calling from. Even a general region will help us.”
“She sounded drunk,” Max said.
“Possibly. It’s the weekend, she doesn’t have to keep herself together on the weekends,” Lucy said. “Richard, listen to me. This is important. Do you remember the months and years she called you in the past.”
“I do,” Patricia said as she walked in.
Richard jumped up and went to his wife. “Honey—”
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