by Matt Coyle
“What is it?”
“Well, son, it would be unethical to discuss the case with you unless I knew you were ridin’ our horse.”
“If you don’t mind, Buckley, I’d like to see the horse before I mount it.”
“Son, you’re pushing me up ’ginst a cactus.”
“Maybe it would help you to learn a little bit about Randall.” Rita Mae bounced from her husband’s side, bent down under the coffee table, and came up with a photo album. She set it down next to the glass of milk and the plate of cookies that was now short two.
Rita Mae hovered over my shoulder as I thumbed through the album. She smelled of vanilla and baby powder, and offered a running commentary of each photograph. The pictures were familiar to anyone with a family. Randall riding a bike with training wheels, opening gifts with his parents around a Christmas tree, kicking a soccer ball, swinging a cut-down golf club, hugged by adoring grandparents, later holding his baby sister, class pictures, sitting in front of a computer.
In the pictures, Randall seemed like a normal kid. Big smile when he was young, a little distant as a teenager. He had dark hair and a melon face atop a doughy body. Black horn-rimmed glasses framed intelligent brown eyes. By the time he’d reached his teens he’d thinned down, but still had a soft outline. He now had the looks and bearing of a nerd. But nerds’ status had changed since my time in high school. Now it was chic. The only thing unusual about the photos was that the earliest ones of Randall were as a five-year-old.
“He seemed like a happy child.” I closed the photo album. “But, if you don’t mind me asking, why are there no baby pictures of Randall?”
“When Thomas met Alana, she was a single mother and Randall was already four.” Rita Mae returned to her husband’s side. “But Thomas adopted him and grew to love him like his own. We all did. He was a wonderful child.”
“Randall’s real father didn’t fight the adoption?”
“Randall never knew his real father.” Jack Eddington shifted in his chair. “At least that’s what Thomas said Alana told him. It didn’t matter. Thomas was the perfect father for a boy in a situation like that. And Randall respected and admired Thomas.”
Respected and admired. What about loved?
“How did you feel about Alana?” I’d noticed Jack’s mouth tighten when he’d mentioned his late daughter-in-law’s name.
“I liked her just fine, Mr. Cahill.” Anger flashed behind the pain in Jack’s eyes. “But I don’t see what that has to do with getting my grandson out of prison.”
I glanced at Rita Mae, and she’d started slowly wringing her hands.
“Just getting background, Mr. Eddington. And you can call me Rick.” I grabbed my third cookie. “What made your son the perfect father for Randall?”
Rita Mae jumped in before her husband. “He was loving and kind, and taught Randall how to behave like a gentleman.”
“I’d imagine a boy from a broken home might have to learn a lot of new behaviors to fit into society.” The kid and his father were just too perfect. That’s not how I remembered my childhood. If I was going to find the truth that nobody knew, I needed to start with the truth that Jack and Rita Mae already knew.
“Randall was a wonder—”
“The boy wasn’t a saint.” Jack cut off his wife. “He had some problems when he was young. It was to be expected. But Thomas showed him a firm, but fair, hand, and Randall grew into a fine young man.”
“What kind of problems?”
“Mr. Cahill, it sounds like you are working for that corrupt police department and not us.”
Jack’s face flushed a leathery pink. “Maybe we should find a detective who will be on our side.”
I suddenly changed my mind about reaching for that fourth cookie.
“Now, Jack.” Rita Mae patted her husband’s thigh. “Mr. Cahill is just doing his job.”
Jack let go a breath and nodded his head. “I guess you’re right. Proceed, Mr. Cahill.”
“Please, call me Rick.” Hard to feel like a mister while eating milk and cookies. I turned to Buckley. “Tell me about this new evidence.”
“Son, we’re still at a Mexican standoff. I can’t tell you anything until you agree to take the case.”
“If this evidence is so compelling, why wouldn’t I take the case?” I caught myself reaching for a cookie and redirected my hand to scratch my knee. Four cookies would have been rude without agreeing to join the team.
“Rick you have to appreciate the situation we’re in.” Buckley gave me a half smile of creamed-corn teeth. “Chief Moretti built his reputation on arresting Randall. That and the Windsor case helped propel him to becoming police chief. If he got wind of our new evidence, I believe he’d do just about anything to stop us before we got started.”
“You don’t have to tell me what Moretti’s capable of, Buckley. He and I are hardly friends. Anything you tell me won’t get back to Moretti.”
“Well, ah.” He twirled his hat in his fingers some more. “Your boss, Mr. Reitzmeyer, still has a fairly close relationship with LJPD.”
“You contacted me, Buckley, and you told these nice folks that I was a man of integrity. Apparently, you didn’t mean it.” I stood up and looked down at the Eddingtons. “I’m sorry, but your grandson was convicted of murder. I didn’t become a private investigator to set murderers free. Unless you can give me a reason to believe Randall is innocent, I’ll have to thank you for your hospitality and be on my way.”
Rita Mae’s hands did the spin cycle as she and her husband traded a long look.
Jack turned his attention from his wife to Buckley. “Tell him what he wants to know, Timothy. My wife seems to trust Mr. Cahill. That’s good enough for me.”
“I meant no harm, Rick. I know you’re a good man. Please, sit back down.” Buckley shifted on the sofa like his ass was suddenly sore. “A witness has come forward with information that a suspect has bragged about the murders.”
“Does the new suspect have a record?”
“Drunk and disorderly, and drug possession.”
I shot a glance at the Eddingtons, huddled together for support. The look in Rita Mae’s eyes had weakened from hope to desperation.
“Mr. and Mrs. Eddington.” I stood up. “Would you excuse Mr. Buckley and me while we talk out on the balcony?”
“Of course.” Jack Eddington stood up and walked over to the sliding glass door and opened it.
Buckley looked at me with wide eyes and a pinched mouth and sectioned up to his feet. A low groan accompanied the movement of each section. He put on his cowboy hat, smiled at our doorman, Jack, and joined me on the balcony that overlooked the pool three stories below.
“Is this private confab really necessary, Rick?” The homespun country had left his voice and been replaced by the ragged edge of big-city irritation.
“This is for your benefit, Buckley.” I walked to the far side of the balcony that was hidden from the Eddingtons’ view by their curtains.
Buckley followed me with a sour look smeared across his face. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“I didn’t think you’d want those nice folks in there hear me call you a con man.” I fought the urge to punctuate my words with a finger to Buckley’s chest. “Is this how you’re supporting your new wardrobe? Fleecing retirees out of their life’s savings by playing on their desperation?”
“Listen to me, you Peeping Tom.” Buckley surprised me with a quick step toward me. He got so close the brim of his hat bounced off my forehead. His face burned crimson under the hat. “I’m not pocketin’ a red cent above expenses unless we get that boy a new trial.”
I took a step back, leaned against the balcony’s iron handrail, and looked down at the 1960s pool area. The December sky hung heavy and gray down on the afternoon. The pool was empty except for a lone, swim-capped geriatric pushing through the winter chill.
I’d never seen Buckley in court, but if he could fake the sincerity he’d just shown me, I wanted him on my side.
And, if he couldn’t fake it, I wanted him on my side too.
“All right, Buckley.” I turned from the pool to face him. “I apologize for questioning your motives. Just tell me you have more than a small-time hood bragging about what a big man he is.”
“He ain’t a small-time hood. The convictions were plea deals.” Buckley’s color faded back to its normal ash gray. “He’s a capo with the Raptors, by the name of Steven Lunsdorf.”
I’d never heard of Lunsdorf, but I had the Raptors. They were a violent biker gang that trafficked in drugs, extortion, and murder for hire. The case suddenly got interesting.
“You got anything else?”
“The witness claims the suspect told him where he hid the murder weapon.”
“Did you check it out?”
“Not yet.” Buckley scratched his beard. “I don’t know enough about the witness yet to show the police my hand.”
“Give me the file, and I’ll run a background check on the witness, then pay him a visit.”
Buckley smiled, but I held up my hand. “If I don’t believe the wit’s story, I reserve the right to back out. I’ll understand if you and the Eddingtons can’t live with that and walk away now.”
“I’ll explain the situation to Jack and Rita Mae later. Let them enjoy the moment right now. They haven’t had much to enjoy for a long time.”
Back inside the condo, I shook Jack Eddington’s hand, accepted Rita Mae’s hug, and grabbed the last chocolate chip cookie off the plate before I left.
CHAPTER FIVE
When I left the Eddingtons, Buckley gave me a file with the affidavit from the supposed witness, Trey Fellows, along with what he had on Steven Lundsorf, the supposed confessor. During my short time in the Santa Barbara Police Department, I found that most witnesses of street-level crimes weren’t Boy Scouts themselves. I needed to run a background check on the wit before I interviewed him to find out where he scored on the “upright citizen” scale.
The sun had finally burned through the gray and pushed Southern California’s version of winter into the background. The La Jolla Investigations building shimmered like a bronze mirage. I pulled down into the underground parking lot. There were a few luxury sedans and high-end sports cars that belonged to lawyers from the firm on the third floor, like there were every weekend, but no sign of Bob Reitzmeyer’s BMW.
I took the stairs up to the ground floor, used my key card to get into the LJI offices, and walked to my cubicle. I turned on the computer, accessed a national criminal database check, and found one drug possession bust for Trey Fellows. Nothing else.
I did some digging around on a people-finding website and discovered Fellows had a sister who lived in Ocean Beach, just a few miles from his Pacific Beach home. His parents lived out of town.
The file Buckley had given me also had the police report for the Eddington murders. I’d planned to read it at home, but when I’d tossed the witness information back into the folder I noticed the corner of a photograph that had been jostled out from under the police report.
Dark red. Blood.
I hadn’t expected murder-scene photos. Buckley was thorough. Maybe too thorough. I hadn’t been one of those cops who thrilled to the sight of blood. But it pulled at me now. Daring me to look at the wrath of evil. I pulled the photo out and looked at it. My breath caught in my throat. A man, or what once was, lay crumpled on a bed. The left side of his head crushed in like a Halloween Jack-o’-lantern dropped from the second floor. A crown of red-black blood stained the pillow underneath. Across from the man, another blood-streaked pillow and a bare foot propped up above the foot of the bed.
The next photo was of a woman facedown on the floor, her leg extended up against the bed like she’d tried to escape but hadn’t made it. Her head, hair matted with blood, had been beaten, but not crushed into a grotesque mask like the man’s. At least not the back of it.
There were two photos of the daughter, Molly Eddington. The first was of her completely under the sheets on her bed. No sign of blood. In the next one, the sheets had been pulled back. Molly, on her side, looked peacefully asleep, except for the bloodstain pooled under the left side of her face.
There were other photos of the horrific scene. I scanned them quickly. The photos told the story that the report no doubt verified. The man, Thomas Eddington, had been killed first. Next, his wife, Alana Eddington. Probably awakened by the sickening sound of the first few blows to her husband’s head. Without reading the forensics, I’d guess that after killing Alana, the killer went back to Thomas and beat his head into inhuman gore.
Rage. Hatred. Personal.
Photos showed blood spray along the wall next to the door of the master bedroom.
Molly.
She’d been awakened by the murders and had come to the sound. The killer killed her and took her back to her bedroom, then covered her up because he couldn’t look at what he’d done. Again, personal. But this time, regret. Shame. The killer most likely knew the victim.
Family.
Randall.
I’d only seen the crime-scene photographs and already the evidence all pointed to him. The police report would connect the dots. Randall Eddington had murdered his family. I doubted an eight-year, after-the-fact hearsay confession would be enough to convince me otherwise.
Suddenly, I felt a presence behind me.
“I thought you were on vacation.”
I startled. The photos had creeped me out and now a lone voice in the empty building. I swiveled my chair and saw Bob Reitzmeyer.
“Sort of,” I said. He didn’t acknowledge me, his eyes pinned to the photos on my desk.
“The Eddington murders.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah.” I turned back to the desk and shuffled the photos back into the folder.
“What are you doing with those?”
“I…ah.” I stuffed the folder into my backpack and stared at my desk.
“That’s what you’re working on?” Up a couple octaves from his normal tenor. “Some slimy lawyer is trying to get that psychopath a new trial?”
Buckley’s warning about Police Chief Moretti and Bob’s relationship with LJPD pinballed in my head. Discussing the specifics about a case to anyone but the client and the agency was a fireable offense here at La Jolla Investigations. Now Bob was asking me to breach that ethic.
I continued to stare at the desk.
“Rick, I understand you wanting to branch out from infidelity surveillance.” Calm. Fatherly. Arms folded across his chest. “But this isn’t the way to do it. That kid murdered his family. Butchered them. There’s no doubt.”
“This was eight years ago. I thought you’d already retired.” I stood up, hoping to exit the office and the conversation soon.
“No. I was still on the force.”
“Did you work the murder?” Now I wished I had already read the police report.
Bob’s eyes drifted over my shoulder, lost in thought. Then, “No, but that doesn’t make the kid any less guilty. You read the report yet?”
“No.”
“Do yourself a favor.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “Read the report and then decide if you want to try and help get that monster out of prison.”
I was way ahead of him. “Okay.”
“Let me tell you a little story that’s not in the report.” He sat down in the chair in the next cubicle and motioned me to sit. “Three months before the murders, Thomas Eddington called me to investigate a series of thefts at his house. He said he thought the nanny had been stealing jewelry and cash. He didn’t want her arrested, so he asked me to investigate off the record.”
“Was he a friend of yours?” I doubted “off the record” was part of Bob’s MO as a cop. Although, it had been mine. And, apparently, my father’s.
“I used to play in the Eddington charity golf tournament that he sponsored for LJPD every year at La Jolla Country Club. I got to know him a little. We weren’t buddies, but he invited me to play golf a few times o
utside the tournament.”
Charity golf tournament. LJPD must have loved Thomas Eddington. And been eager to catch his killer right away. “Did you catch the thief?”
“Yes and no.” Bob leaned toward me in his seat, like what he was about to tell me was a secret. “I knew the nanny was innocent as soon as I questioned her.” I also knew it was an inside job, so I snooped around in Randall’s room while he was in school and Thomas was at work. I found a stash of weed and one of his mother’s necklaces taped to the underside of a drawer in his dresser.”
“Wow.” Randall as an innocent victim was looking less and less likely.
“It gets better. I confronted Randall with the evidence when he got home from school.” Bob shook his head and let out a breath. “He really came across as dumbfounded and innocent. A nice, polite kid who’d been framed. He said he thought he’d smelled marijuana on the nanny once and that she’d recently been wearing nicer clothes.”
“Did you believe him?”
“Almost. I was debating whether to re-question the nanny when I decided to use an old interrogation trick. I lied and told him I’d fingerprinted the necklace and baggie of weed and that his were the only prints on them.”
“He fell for it?”
“Not right away. That kid was smarter than ninety-nine percent of crooks I’d questioned in the box. He said he’d never been arrested, so LJPD couldn’t have a record of his fingerprints. But I told him that we’d matched them to prints we’d found in his bedroom and on his golf clubs. He wasn’t smart enough, yet, to ask why there wasn’t print powder all over his room.”
“Did he confess then?”
“He never confessed. But his whole persona changed. I swear, his eyes went from brown to black, and he became very confrontational. He was a big kid and I thought it might get physical. I was glad I had a gun.”
“How did Thomas Eddington react when you gave him the news?”
“That was the thing.” Bob stood up. “He didn’t react at all. He thanked me, and that was it. I had the feeling he’d asked me to question the nanny to verify what he already knew. That his son was the thief. Three weeks later, everyone but Randall was dead.”
