by Chris Mooney
'I apologize,' Bryson said. 'I'm trying to understand, as I'm sure you are, what this person was doing inside your daughter's home.'
Hale shifted his attention to Darby. 'I understand you spoke with this person.'
Darby nodded.
Hale waited for her to speak. When she didn't, he said, 'Are you going to tell me what he said? Or are you going to keep me in the dark?'
20
Tim Bryson answered the question. 'It's part of our investigation.'
Hale's gaze never left Darby. 'Why did you want access to my daughter's home, Dr McCormick?'
'I've recently been assigned to your daughter's case,' Darby said. 'I wanted to get a feel for her, to try and get to know her.'
'Mr Marsh paged my answering service. When I spoke to my assistant, she said you were rather adamant in wanting to get inside Emma's place. There was talk of a court order.'
'I wanted to investigate a new lead.'
'Which is?'
'It's part of our ongoing investigation.'
'See, this is the problem I have with you people.' Hale's tone remained courteous. 'Every time you come here you expect me to answer your questions but you refuse to answer any of mine. Take this religious statue you found inside my daughter's pocket. I've asked you what it is and you won't tell me. Why?'
'I don't blame you for your frustration, but we need -'
'My daughter's home was released back to me. I allowed you access. I think I have a right to know why.'
'We're not the enemy, Mr Hale. We're after the same goal.'
Hale went to take another sip of his drink, realized the glass was empty and looked around for the bottle.
'I noticed that you haven't cleaned out any of Emma's things,' Darby said.
Hale put the glass down on the table, leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs.
'It's rather difficult to explain,' he said after a moment. He cleared his throat several times as he brushed lint off his pants. 'Emma's house, the way she left things… it's all I have left of her. I know this is going to sound irrational, but when I'm in there, looking at her things, the way she left them, I feel… I can still feel her. It's like she's still alive.'
Bryson said, 'When was the last time you were inside Emma's place?'
'Last week,' Hale said, standing.
'Have you hired a private investigator to look into your daughter's death?'
'I wouldn't call him that.' Hale walked to the corner of the room, picked up a bottle of Maker's Mark bourbon from the small bar and refilled his glass. 'Dr Karim is a forensic consultant.'
'Ali Karim?' Darby asked.
'Yes,' Hale said as he sat back in the chair. 'Do you know him?'
She knew the name. Ali Karim, a former pathologist for the city of New York and, without a doubt, one of the best in the field, now ran his own consulting firm. Karim had been hired as an expert witness on a number of prominent criminal cases, most of which were in the media. He had written several bestselling books and was a staple on the talk-show circuit.
'Why did you hire Dr Karim?' Darby asked.
'I wanted someone to tell me the truth,' Hale said.
'I don't understand.'
'My daughter was shot in the back of the head with a twenty-two calibre weapon. Detective Bryson told me she died instantly. That's not exactly true. The way the bullet entered her skull, Emma was alive for several minutes. My daughter suffered. Horribly.'
Bryson spoke up. 'Mr Hale -'
'I understand why you said it, and I don't blame you.' Hale sipped his drink. 'I didn't know about your daughter, Detective Bryson.'
'Excuse me?'
'I was told your daughter died. From leukaemia.'
'Your point, Mr Hale?'
'You know what it's like to lose a child. You know that kind of pain. And while I appreciate your intentions to spare me the details of my daughter's death, I've asked you, repeatedly, for information. I've asked you to tell me the truth. I want to know how she died, what this person did to her – I want to know every detail. That's why I hired Dr Karim. They're looking at this case from a fresh perspective.'
'They?'
'Karim has recommended the names of several investigators to review the evidence.'
'What are the names of the investigators you've hired?'
'I haven't hired anyone yet.'
'Have you met these people?'
'No.'
'How did you find Dr Karim?'
'I've seen him on talk shows over the years. He has experience in these types of homicides, so I decided to call him and he agreed to review Emma's autopsy. He supported all of the medical examiner's findings, by the way.'
There was a knock on the door. When it opened, the housekeeper poked in her head and in broken English said, 'Mr Hale, police are on the phone. They said it emergency.'
Hale excused himself and picked up the phone from his desk. He listened for several minutes, then said 'Thank you' and hung up.
'I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to cut this meeting short,' Hale said. 'One of my buildings has been burglarized. Is there anything else I can help you with?'
'Yes,' Bryson said. 'Mr Marsh told us that backup copies of the building's security tapes are stored at your Newton office.'
Hale nodded. 'The tapes are burned onto DVD. It saves on storage space.'
'I'd like to look at them.'
'I don't suppose you'll tell me why.'
'We're pursuing a theory.'
'Of course,' Hale said, sighing. 'You might as well follow me to Newton. That's where I'm going. It appears someone broke into the building.'
'What's the address?'
Hale wrote it down on a sheet of paper. 'I'll meet you there,' he said, ripping the sheet off the pad and handing it to Bryson. 'If you'll excuse me, I need to make some phone calls.'
Darby placed her business card on his desk. 'If this man approaches you, or if you think of anything else, you can call me or Detective Bryson. Thank you for your time, Mr Hale. I'm sorry for your loss. I truly mean that.'
21
The afternoon sun reflected off the rolling sheets of snow and ice. Darby put on her sunglasses to cut the glare. She waited until she was seated inside Bryson's car before she spoke.
'Did you know Hale hired Karim?'
'No.'
'You don't seem surprised.'
'It's what the rich do. They buy their way out of everything.' Bryson started the car and leaned back in his seat, probably wanting to give the engine a chance to warm up. 'Take the JonBenet Ramsey case. Their little girl is murdered, and what do the parents do? They hide behind lawyers and hire top-of-the-line forensic consultants. They get all these so-called experts involved, and wouldn't you know, they put up enough roadblocks to prevent that case from ever going to trial.'
'The Boulder police were sloppy at the crime scene – and don't get me started on how the district attorney behaved.'
'My point is the rich think they operate on a different playing field,' Bryson said. 'And guess what? They do.'
'Do you want to talk to Karim?'
'You're a peer. He might be more willing to share information with you.'
Darby wasn't expecting much. Legally, Karim didn't have to share anything.
'What do you think about our conversation in there?' Bryson asked.
'When we spoke about the intruder, Hale kept fidgeting – stubbing out the cigar, shifting in his chair and looking at his drinking glass. He barely gave us any eye contact.'
'It could be that he's pissed off at us because we won't share information and we haven't been able to give him any closure.'
'He seemed nervous.'
'I picked up that, too. Then again, I'd be nervous if I employed the services of the nation's number four Most Wanted felon.'
'That's quite a leap, Tim.'
'Maybe.' Bryson put the car in gear and drove down the driveway.
'He seemed genuinely surprised about the break-in,' Darby said.
'It's awfully convenient.'
'It is. Still, Fletcher might be working alone.'
When Bryson reached the end of the driveway he said, 'Do you have kids?'
'No.'
'I had one, my daughter, Emily. She had this really rare form of leukaemia. We took her to every specialist under the sun. Seeing everything she went through, I would have sold my soul to the devil to spare her life. I know that sounds overly melodramatic, but it's the honest-to-God truth. You'll do anything for your kids. Anything in the world.'
Darby thought of her mother as Bryson turned onto the main road.
'The other thing they don't tell you is that the pain never goes away. It hurts as much now as it did the day she died.'
'I'm sorry, Tim.'
'Guys like Hale aren't used to living with question marks. The man can buy anything he wants. His net worth, I hear, is somewhere north of half a billion dollars.'
'You think he's made some sort of Faustian deal with Fletcher?'
'His daughter was kept somewhere for half a year, endured only God knows what and then the son of a bitch decides to put a bullet in the back of her head,' Bryson said. 'Hale's been very vocal in the press about his opinions of us. He believes we've done a shit job. If he feels he can't get justice from us, maybe he's decided he can get it somewhere else.'
22
Jonathan Hale stands in front of the living-room window, rubbing the antique locket holding Susan's picture between his fingers. During the day he carries the locket in his pant pocket; at night, he wears it to bed, afraid that if he places it inside a drawer he will somehow be leaving Emma, putting her on the same shelf as Susan, his dead wife, and start the process of forgetting.
Only you can't forget your children. You won't ever forget the frantic phone call from Kimmy, your daughter's best friend, Kimmy asking why Emma is skipping class and not returning any phone calls. Is she sick, Mr Hale? Is everything all right? You'll never forget that agonizing moment when you discover your daughter's empty home or how you forced yourself to keep swallowing the fear minute-by-minute as those first few days bled into a week then stretched into two, then four, then seven, and yet you keep believing the police will find her alive as the months roll by, there's still time, there's still time. You're still clutching that hope and your faith in God when the doorbell rings and you see the detective standing on your front step. You won't forget the painful look on Detective Bryson's face when he tells you the news that a woman matching your daughter's description has been found floating in the river. He opens a folder and you see a picture of a woman's bloated face, the skin waxy and white, picked apart by fish. She is wearing a platinum chain and antique locket – the same one you gave your daughter last Christmas. You remember Emma sitting in the chair tucked in the warm folds of her bathrobe, sunlight pouring through the window and the backyard full of fresh snow. You see her opening the locket and you remember the look on her face when she sees the picture of her mother, dead all these years. You remember that moment and a thousand other ones as you stare at the picture inside the folder, at the white card with the morgue number lying below her chin, and yet you still believe it's a mistake, it has to be a mistake.
The detective waits for you to say, 'Yes, this is my daughter. This is Emma.' Only you can't say the words because once you do, you are saying goodbye.
Hale turns his attention to the groundskeepers clearing away the snow. He wishes it was still fall, his favourite season. He pictures the leaves blowing across the front lawn, that wonderful crisp, clean smell in the air, and it triggers a memory of Emma at seven – she's running across the colourful leaves, screaming, a shoebox gripped in her hands. Inside the box is a blue jay. One of its wings is injured; the other flaps frantically, trying to seek flight.
You need to help the bird, Daddy, he's hurt.
Wanting to wipe away that look of fear from his daughter's face, Hale grabs the phonebook and calls veterinarians as the bird makes high-pitched, painful sounds. Finally, he finds one that treats birds – it's in Boston, a short distance away.
Hale knows how this is going to end. He is hoping to spare Emma but she insists on going with him.
When the vet delivers the news, Emma turns to him to solve the problem. He tells her how God has a plan for all of us, even if we don't understand it. She cries and he holds her hand on the way back out to the car without the bird and she doesn't talk on the way home. A year later she would hold his hand again as he led her away from her mother's grave, reciting the same speech.
Hale remembers deeply believing in those words, in his faith. He doesn't believe any more.
He reaches for his glass. It's empty. He refills his glass with fresh ice. Susan's old cookbooks sit on a shelf next to the stove. When she was alive, she always cooked. Now he has people who cook for him. Several times they have followed the recipes Susan had scrawled on index cards or marked off in her favourite cookbooks but the food never tastes the same.
On more than one occasion, he has tried to throw out the cookbooks. Each and every time he felt as though a part of him was being torn in half. He donated all of Susan's clothing without a problem but he can't part with the cookbooks. Dumping them – even giving them to a friend – it was like saying goodbye in pieces. I can only give you away in pieces. Hale thinks of all Emma's things waiting to be packed up and wonders what items would tug at him, beg and plead not to be thrown away, to hang on to be remembered.
Glass in hand, Hale stumbles back to his office – he is intensely drunk – opens the door and sees Malcolm Fletcher sitting in a leather chair.
23
Jonathan Hale had met the man earlier this month. The meeting, at the Oak Room bar inside the beautiful Copley Fairmont Hotel, was arranged by Dr Karim.
It was difficult to sit still. His blood pounded against his ears, and every colour and sound inside seemed bright and loud – the murmured conversations of the business lunch crowd mixed with the clink of forks against china; the deep maroon of the table linens; the afternoon sunlight pouring through the windows, reflecting off liquor bottles sitting on the shelves behind the bar with a mirrored wall.
Eyes watching the front door, Hale sipped his drink and replayed the previous day's conversation with Dr Karim. 'Mr Hale, I've talked about your daughter's case with a consultant. This person is on his way to Boston. He'd like to speak with you privately.'
'What's his name?'
'He's very skilled at finding people who don't want to be found. He's had great success in these sorts of cases.'
'Why won't you tell me his name?'
'It's… complicated,' Karim said. 'I have known this man for thirty years. He's been working exclusively with me for the past decade. He is, without a doubt, the best in his field. He found the men responsible for my son's death.'
Hale was confused. During their initial conversation in which Karim outlined how his group worked on one case at a time until it was resolved, Karim had shared the painful loss of his oldest son Jason, an accidental victim in a gang shooting in the Bronx. New York police, Karim said, had never solved the case.
'I thought you told me your son's case was still active.'
'That's what the police believe,' Karim said.
Hale grew still as the knowledge of what Karim was possibly suggesting sunk in.
'Do we understand one another, Mr Hale?'
'Yes.' Hale's mouth was dry, his skin tingling with an electric sensation. 'Yes, we do.'
'When you meet him you're to answer all of his questions,' Karim said. 'If he agrees to work on your daughter's case, you're to do everything he asks. Whatever you do, don't lie to him.' A man wearing sunglasses and dressed in a sharp black wool topcoat over a black suit stepped up next to the table. The man was tall, well over six feet, with the kind of powerful build Hale associated with boxers. The man's thick black hair was cut short, his pale skin looking bleached in the sunlight.
'Dr Karim sent me,' the man said. His voice, deep and rum
bling, carried a slight Australian accent. The dark lenses hid his eyes.
Hale introduced himself. The man, wearing gloves, shook his hand but didn't take them off as he slid into the opposite seat. He didn't offer his name.
'What can I get you to drink?' Hale asked.
'I'm fine, thank you.' The man rested his forearms on the table and leaned closer. Hale smelled cigar smoke. 'I'd like to talk to you about the religious statue found in your daughter's pocket.'
'What about it?'
'Was it a statue of the Virgin Mary?'
'I don't know,' Hale said. 'The police refuse to tell me anything.'
'Have you cleaned out your daughter's apartment?'
'No. Dr Karim told me to leave everything alone. He's thinking of hiring investigators to come in and take a look at Emma's things.'
'What have you removed from her home?'
'I haven't… I can't bring myself to remove anything.'
'Don't remove anything, don't touch anything,' the man said. 'With your permission, I'd like to look through your daughter's home.'
'The building has a concierge. He'll provide you with a key. I'll call him.'
'I want you to listen to me very carefully, Mr Hale. If we agree to work together, you're not to tell the police about my involvement. For all practical purposes, I don't exist. That condition is non-negotiable.'
'I don't even know your name.'
'Malcolm Fletcher.'
The man waited, as if expecting some sort of reaction.
'And what do you do for a living, Mr Fletcher?'
'I used to work for the FBI's Behavioral Science Unit.'
'And now you're retired?'
'In a manner of speaking,' Fletcher said. 'I'm sure you have people who perform background checks before you hire an employee.'
'It's standard procedure.'
'For your own safety, I insist you keep my name private. If you send my name bouncing through any of the computer databases, I'll find out, and I'll disappear. Dr Karim will swear under oath that he never mentioned my name. He'll also stop working on your daughter's case. Are you a man of your word, Mr Hale?'
