by T. K. Walls
The sun was starting to come up, and Emily slowly stood and brushed sand off her legs. She had spent the better part of the early-morning hours sitting in the sand, staring at the water, thinking about James, his confession, his death, and the detective. In her core, she knew she was responsible for James’s death. She had prematurely halted the investigation, prosecuted the easiest defendant to convict, and ignored the evidence that pointed in a different direction. She couldn’t blame the media or the state for pushing his conviction, because they didn’t. She did.
The state had wanted the right defendant convicted, not just anyone. But she had wanted to prove herself as a new prosecutor, and she had needed to be the attorney who prosecuted this case. She was elated when Detective Connard brought her the confession, and when she presented it to the press, she conveniently forgot she had exculpatory DNA evidence that not only was James innocent in this case, but that the actual offender had been arrested and charged with a different rape and murder. After James’s death, the DNA evidence was leaked to the press.
In the end the Johnson family sued the state, collected a couple million, and moved away. Emily was terminated from her positions as chief prosecuting attorney for the city and legal counsel for the news program. After a year of hiding from public view, Emily purchased a law practice from a family friend who was retiring. The absolute last topic or case she wanted to remember or be reminded of now was James. She wondered if the detective’s death had anything to do with James’s death. But what frightened her more was the thought that finding the card on her car was somehow connected to Detective Connard and maybe even the Johnson case.
Emily turned away from the water, took her cell phone out of her pocket, and called Sheriff McNeil. He answered on the first ring. Before he could say hello she started talking, fast at first but then forcing herself to slow down. “Sheriff, I’m sorry to call you at this hour. This is Emily Bridges. I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m the person who found the body on the shore.”
“Uh, yeah, I remember,” muttered the sheriff. “What do you want that couldn’t wait until eight o’clock?”
“I need to tell you I think I know who he is. The body, that is… I know him.” Emily paused, nervously waiting for him to say something.
After a few seconds to process this new information, he said, “OK, Counselor, who is he?”
Emily hesitated, knowing it would be hard to explain why she hadn’t recognized the floater when he was found on the beach. She also knew she couldn’t tell the sheriff about the photo she’d found on her windshield. If she did, he would think she was somehow involved in this murder.
“He was a police detective I once worked with. I didn’t work with him directly, and only on one case. He was loosely involved in an investigation of a suspect I prosecuted,” she replied.
“So, Counselor, you’re telling me the body you found in the water is none other than a police detective you once worked with and knew? How did you miss this?” he yelled into the phone.
Emily tried to explain how she hadn’t remembered at first that she had worked with him. “Boston is a big city with thousands of police officers. It’s impossible to remember each one. Even the officers don’t all know each other!” she said.
“Counselor, tell me, what case was he loosely involved with when he worked for you?” The sheriff was now fully awake, and his voice did not hide his irritation with Emily.
“Well, uh, Sheriff, he didn’t work for me. I said he was loosely involved in a case that I managed.”
“I see. My mistake, OK? Now, how about you tell me what case he was ‘loosely involved’ with? Can you do that, Counselor?”
Emily responded softly, “That would have been the Johnson case.” She found it very difficult to say James’s name.
“Let me guess: the James Johnson case? I remember that case, as do most people in this country. If I understand you, this is the police detective who acquired the ‘confession’ you used to convict an innocent, mentally deficient kid who was later brutally murdered, and whose family sued the city and caused you to almost lose your license to practice law. And you expect me to believe you forgot who this cop was? Lady, I am not that stupid!”
“Sheriff, I don’t expect you to believe me, but if I had anything to hide, I wouldn’t have called you to tell you I remembered who he was!” Emily said. “I tried very hard to forget everything about that case, the confession, and the detective. It destroyed my career and almost my life. I just wanted to move forward and put that awful part of my life behind me so I could practice law the way I first intended, with no drama and no media.”
The sheriff was silent for a few seconds and then sternly replied, “I am sure James’s family wishes they could move forward and put it behind them too, but they can’t because their son is dead, and he didn’t need to die.” The line went dead.
Emily turned back toward the water. For the first time in her adult life, she didn’t know what to do. Part of her wanted to call Eric and tell him everything, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She desperately wanted someone to confide in, and with Rachel gone, there was no one. She walked back to her house still wondering if the detective’s body had anything to do with the photo she had found on her car. Deep down, she knew it did. What scared her most was that she had no idea who was behind the dead body or the photo, and there was no one she could trust or turn to for help.
NINE
MAC HAD HUNG UP ON EMILY. It was just after five a.m., and she had woken him with a ridiculous story of how she finally recognized the guy she’d found on the beach. Plus, she was connected to the body. He was pissed off. How the hell did she expect him or anyone to believe she hadn’t remembered who the floater was? He had to notify the coroner, but he wasn’t going to call the guy at five in the morning. He would call him later.
Unfortunately, later came faster than he would have liked. The alarm went off promptly at six; he reached over and tapped the iPhone, instantly silencing the sound. Sitting up, he looked around his room. His house was very neat and tidy, but his bedroom was always a mess. His uniforms were tossed over a chair, and an old wooden quilt rack doubled as a clothes hanger, stacked with jeans and shirts. He used an old folding dinner tray as a nightstand. Occasionally it would collapse, spilling his cell phone and water bottle onto the floor.
Mac slowly threw his legs off the bed, rubbing his face with his hands and mulling over Emily’s admission that she knew the identity of the body. He decided it was time to notify the coroner.
“This is Davis,” said the voice on the other end of the phone line.
Still sleepy, Mac cleared his throat before speaking. “Yeah, Doc, good morning. It seems Emily, the new attorney in town, did know the identity of the floater. She called me a little bit ago and said his name is Detective Connard. She didn’t remember his first name. Said she worked a case with him in Boston. I will contact the Boston Police Department later this morning and arrange for a positive ID of the body. Do you have a cause of death yet?”
“Actually, we do, and it’s a strange one. By the way, good morning back,” said Ryan Davis. “Cause of death was asphyxiation. Normally, in an asphyxiation death, the eyes will have broken vessels that indicate choking, but given the time he spent in salt water, the eyes were too degraded. Anyway, I won’t bore you with all the gory details, but I have only heard of this type of case and never seen one. In fact, I wasn’t even sure this was a real way to kill someone! Have you heard of burking?”
“Uh, no. What the hell is burking?” Mac walked into his kitchen to get a pot of coffee started. He was going to need the caffeine.
“We didn’t see any bruising on the body, but the lungs appeared to have been deprived of oxygen. It appears his death was caused by burking. The first recorded cases originally began in the early 1800s. In Scotland there were several murders committed by smothering the victims by pushing the jaw upward while blocking the mouth and nose and compressing the torso at the s
ame time. This has the same effect as choking, but it doesn’t leave any marks or bruises. And it’s also a slow death. Not a very pleasant way to die, if there is a pleasant way to die. But this method takes time and strength.” He paused to allow Mac a moment to process what he was telling him. “I remembered a professor in medical school telling a story about ‘anatomy murders.’ Anyway, I rechecked the body, and as it happens, this is the cause of death. It’s the only thing it can be.” Ryan knew the cause of death probably created more questions for the police than answers, but at least it was a start.
“OK. So, Doc, in your opinion, it would take a fairly strong person to do this, right?”
“Yes, it would, unless the victim was unable to fight back. For instance, if he was intoxicated or drugged. But this guy had a blood alcohol level of point oh four, and with a weight of one hundred eighty pounds, he wouldn’t have been intoxicated, and he should have been able to fight off his attacker.”
“You think a woman could have done this?” Mac asked.
“No, Mac, I seriously doubt a female could have killed this guy and then stuffed him into a
scuba suit. Well, at least not alone, anyway. Maybe if she had a partner. But, Mac, this murder was well thought out. Whoever did this knew exactly what he was doing. This wasn’t a heat-of-the-moment killing, and the scuba suit just adds to the intrigue.”
Mac thanked the coroner for the update and then called the Boston Police Department to notify them of the detective’s death. He hadn’t even had his morning coffee, and the next thing on his agenda would be to talk face-to-face with Emily. He wasn’t buying her story that she had “suddenly” remembered the floater’s identity. Mac planned to be at her office when she opened her door.
TEN
EMILY WENT TO THE OFFICE EARLY. She couldn’t sleep, and she knew the sheriff would be stopping in. She had every intention of being ready for him and his questions. She had buried the part of her life in which Connard had played a role. He was less than a distant memory. Part of her knew Connard had coerced a confession from James, but that was in the past. She was pouring her second cup of coffee when the sheriff walked in. Figuring it would benefit her to sound positive, she greeted him warmly.
“Good morning, Sheriff. I had a feeling I would be seeing you today. Do you want any coffee?” She held out a cup.
Mac accepted the coffee and politely followed her into the conference room. He noticed she was walking more confidently than the last time he had seen her. She was dressed in a suit that accentuated her figure while also making her appear professional and a little bit cold—just the way he remembered her from her TV show. The conference room was narrow and long, with a long oval table in the center. The chairs were much too large for the room but were comfortable. On the wall facing the door was an old portrait of a young man. Interesting painting, Mac thought. Not what you would think would be in a law office. Mac waited for Emily to sit down before speaking.
“Nice painting,” he said, nodding toward the wall.
“It’s a print,” Emily replied.
“It’s a good one.”
“It was a gift.”
Changing the subject, Mac continued, “I am sure you know why I’m here this morning, Emily. As you know, you called me very early this morning to report that you recognized the victim who was found on the beach. When did you realize you knew the identity of the body?”
“Like I told you on the phone, I called you as soon as I realized who he was,” Emily said. “I know you don’t believe me, but when I worked in Boston, I didn’t know all the police officers. There are hundreds. Yes, I did know a few very well, but I didn’t know Connard. I only knew of him. And frankly, after the James case, I truly tried to forget everything, including the detective who acquired the confession, and that was Connard. We weren’t exactly friends, and I never saw him outside of work. In fact, I only saw him a few times at work.”
She paused to sip her coffee and then, avoiding his gaze, slowly continued. “When I first saw him lying on the sand, I thought I knew him. But I couldn’t place him. Then I convinced myself I was imagining things. Have you ever met someone you thought you knew but couldn’t place?”
Mac didn’t answer but waited for her to continue.
“Well, that’s how I felt, but after a few days I let it go. Last night I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk. It finally came to me who he was. I called you as soon as I remembered. That’s it, nothing more.”
Emily gently placed her coffee cup on the table, drawing a deep breath while folding her hands around the cup as if gaining strength from the heat of it. She looked defeated, older than her years, and worn out. Mac wasn’t sure if this was the toll of the James case or her fall from grace. Maybe it was simply the effects of a sleepless night. He remembered watching her on television, her hair and clothes perfect, speaking with an arrogant tone of entitlement. She was excellent at berating the accused and equally talented at churning public outcry. Because of her, at times a case would be moved out of the area in an effort to afford the accused a fair trial. She was that good. This person sitting at the table was not the person he was used to watching. She wasn’t even the person he just watched walk into the conference room. He knew her better than she thought, and he also knew this behavior was an act.
“Emily, when did you first meet Detective Connard?” he asked.
“When did I first meet him?” she asked. “I thought I already told you he was the detective who got the confession from James.”
“Right. That’s what you said, but that wasn’t my question. Let me repeat it. When did you first meet Detective Connard?” He was carefully watching her reaction. The sullen attorney persona was gone, and the cold, calculating attorney was back. He wondered which personality was real.
“OK, so I knew who he was. But I didn’t know him. I was never introduced to him, and I never worked directly with him. My office staff worked with him. And I’m sure you are well aware that the office of the prosecutor has a very large staff. But yes, I did know he was Detective Connard. The first time I actually spoke to him was during the James investigation. I knew the confession was suspect. I didn’t care. I knew his reputation, and I knew who he was,” she said while fingering her coffee cup.
“What was your relationship with Detective Connard after he obtained the confession?” Mac said as he leaned back comfortably in the chair. His interest was more in her behavior and reaction to his questions than in the answers.
She sighed heavily before replying. “Nice try, Sheriff. There wasn’t a relationship. As I told you several times, I worked with him. I did speak to him during the investigation and trial, but after James’s death, when it was determined the confession was coerced, my attorney advised that I not speak to Connard. I followed that advice. There was no relationship. If you are suggesting I slept with him, let me clear that one up. He wasn’t my type. I have a habit of not associating with the people I work with, and that included other staff who worked with the prosecutor’s office. And I sure as hell didn’t sleep with cops, no offense intended.
“Other than that, I did run into him once at a pub. He was at a small table, sitting alone, and he was drinking something. I didn’t ask. We exchanged pleasantries, and that was all. I was meeting an associate at the pub and was in a hurry.”
Mac continued to watch her, trying to decipher if she was telling the truth or creating a story she thought he would buy. “OK, well, if you can think of anything else I need to know, please call the office. Otherwise, I think I am finished for now. And no need to concern yourself with offending me,” Mac said as he pushed his chair back to get ready to leave.
Mac was almost out the door when Emily stood and faced him.
“Make no mistake, Sheriff,” she said with the cold, calculated tone he’d heard her use countless times on TV, “I had nothing to do with Connard’s death. I may have known of him, may have even worked with him, but that’s all. There’s no mystery here. I would advise yo
u not to make one, either. My stumbling upon his body was nothing more than mere coincidence. Whether you choose to believe that or not is on you.”
Mac nodded and responded just as icily, “Make no mistake, Emily, I don’t believe in coincidences. There is a reason why that particular detective’s body washed up on our beach. Not to mention how close to your new home it happened. Maybe your finding him was just a fluke, but he was there for a reason. And I will find out. I don’t make up facts to fit circumstances. If I recall, that’s your method, isn’t it? And by the way, you met with Connard more than once, and it wasn’t in passing at a pub. I have my own sources, Counselor. And mine do not fabricate facts or events.” With that, he left her silently standing in the doorway.
She longed to call Eric, to tell him what she’d found, to ask him for help. But she couldn’t. She watched the sheriff leave, and she had no doubt he would be back.
ELEVEN
GROWING UP AS A CHILD PRODIGY IN A WEALTHY FAMILY, ERIC HAD ALWAYS BEEN SHOWERED WITH ATTENTION FROM HIS FAMILY AND FRIENDS. Whatever he did, he did it better than most. After law school, he excelled with his practice, but he quickly became bored with practicing law and needed another outlet for his energy. As a surprise gift, Emily purchased flying lessons for Eric at Krannert Airport. Eric’s flying instructor was a guy named Brad who was also an MD. Eric and Brad discovered they had a lot more in common than the love of flying and quickly became good friends. Through them, Rachel and Emily became friends. In the beginning, the couples did almost everything together, from dinners and movies to vacationing. Eric continued taking flying lessons until he earned his pilot’s license.
Eric was always high-energy. Flying provided a great outlet for his drive, plus it allowed him the freedom to come and go as he needed without being accountable to Emily. He guarded his private life with a vengeance, and being in a relationship meant that most of his life was open to Emily. Flying gave him the privacy and freedom he craved. Krannert’s International Charter Service was born of both Eric’s and Brad’s love of flying and their mutual need to escape the daily grind of a regular nine-to-five job. It also provided an escape from the women in their lives, not to mention a damn good income. Brad and Eric made sure one of them was always either at the airport or accessible by phone for their clients. They each had their own small private jet that could carry six people comfortably, and their charter service had one luxury jet, owned by Krannert, that had a nice cargo hold and could carry several people.
