Sarah flipped on the overhead light and pulled out the file folder that Katherine Newberry gave her. She skimmed the handwritten notes, learning nothing new. Young Jack maintained his innocence just as he did in his interview with Gilmore.
Next she slid Margaret’s jacket from atop the evidence box, removed the lid and pulled out the first file folder.
Inside the musty manila folder she found a thick pile of photographs, bound together by a frayed rubber band, all labeled in black permanent marker with the date, case number and location. The rubber band snapped when she tried to slide it from the stack. She braced for what she was about to see. After hearing the audiotape of Jack’s account of the discovery of his mother’s body, she knew that the photos were going to be graphic, a harrowing step-by-step visual chronicle of a brutal murder. The first few photos were benign enough. Snapshots of the house, Dean and Celia’s house, Jack’s childhood home. The photographer documented his journey into the house. The mudroom with an array of shoes and boots neatly lined up against one wall. The kitchen, sun shining incongruously through the window, splashing colorful prisms of light onto the floor. The door to the cellar, slightly ajar, smudged with blood. Jack’s fingerprints according to the audiotapes. The steps leading downward into the darkened cellar.
Sarah’s fingers stopped. In the distance she heard the lowing of cattle, a mournful and lonely sound. Her heartbeat quickened and she glanced up, aware of how alone she was. The sun had finally set and except for the car’s overhead light she was enveloped in darkness. No stars dotted the sky; there was no sliver of moon, no streetlights. She almost wished she had gone to a hotel. At least there would have been people around. With shaking fingers she continued to thumb through the photos, finally coming to the pictures she dreaded seeing.
The first shot of Lydia’s body was taken from above. She was lying faceup on the concrete floor, the lid to the freezer still open, her yellow hair, dark and sticky with blood, fanned out on the floor around her. A piece of fabric obscured the top half of her face, her mouth frozen open in a silent scream.
One hand was outstretched and Sarah wondered if she was trying to protect herself or reaching out for someone, pleading for them to stop. Her dress, the color of lemon drops, was hiked up around her waist, revealing long, pale legs.
The next photos zeroed in on her injuries. The fingers on one hand were bloodied and bent at odd angles, broken, Sarah thought, when Lydia must have tried to ward off the blows. Dark purple bruises bloomed across her arms. Next, the camera focused on Lydia’s head wound. A deep gash, four inches long, ran at the edge of her hairline just above her ear, exposing paper-white bone. Sarah had to look away; her stomach flipped dangerously. Who could have inflicted such horrific injuries? Someone very angry or very evil, she thought. Or both. Could Jack have wielded the weapon that did this and then watched his mother die? Not the Jack she knew, the Jack she thought she knew, anyway. But she also would never have believed that Jack could have lied to her so blatantly.
The temperature in the car had dropped and goose bumps erupted along her arms. She reached for Margaret’s jacket and threaded her arms through the sleeves, grateful for the warmth. The next photo was a close-up of the fabric covering her eyes, a dish towel embroidered with flowers, already stiff with blood. At first Sarah wondered if perhaps a police officer had placed it over Lydia’s face to cover up her gruesome injuries, but quickly realized that wasn’t the case. It was part of the crime scene. Jack mentioned on the audiotape that his mother’s eyes had been covered with a cloth of some kind. Had Lydia had the towel in her hands when she was attacked and it had fallen across her eyes when she tumbled to the ground? Or had it been placed there by a killer, too ashamed to look into the eyes of the woman he had murdered?
Suddenly nauseous, Sarah dropped the photos onto the seat next to her, and pushed open the car door, nearly tumbling to the ground as she hurried out. She stumbled to the side of the road and bent over, hands on her knees, willing herself not to vomit, but certain she would feel better if she did. She could taste remnants of the hamburger she had eaten earlier in the back her throat. Something scurried near her through the tall grass, causing her heart to skip a beat. On shaky legs, Sarah stood and made her way back to the car. She held on to the door frame, taking deep breaths until the queasiness passed.
Sarah looked at the passenger’s-side seat. The photos were strewn across the seat and onto the floor in a jumble. She left them where they lay.
She considered packing up the box, driving directly back to the sheriff’s department and handing it over to Margaret. No, Sarah told herself. She got back into the car and reached into the box to pull out another folder. This one chronicled the findings of the medical examiner who conducted Lydia’s autopsy. Cause of death: blunt force trauma.
Though she wanted to turn away, she was compelled to keep looking at the autopsy photos. Lydia was stretched out upon a metal table, a white sheet pulled up over her chest. Someone had rinsed the blood from her hair and it was slicked back away from her face, now peaceful, the earlier terror smoothed away. Her eyes were closed and except for the ugly gash along her hairline she could have been sleeping.
A close-up of the injury to Lydia’s head revealed a curved laceration. Whatever Lydia had been struck with had a rounded, sharp edge.
Since the murder had taken place in 1985, Sarah knew it was a little early for the wide use of DNA testing, but several sets of fingerprints had been found at the scene. Jack’s, Amy’s, Lydia’s and John’s fingerprints, identified from his military record. No murder weapon was ever found, but both Amy and Jack in their interviews with the sheriff’s department said the cellar had been home to many old farm tools over the years. Something from the cellar could easily have been used as a weapon.
A note from the medical examiner stated that the injury was consistent with a blow from a heavy object with a curved, sharp edge.
The subsequent files offered little new information, just a rehashing of the scant facts and a jumble of suppositions from the people of Penny Gate who, as the public support of John Tierney faded, shared glimpses of the darker side of their friend and neighbor. Quiet, kept to himself. Had a bit of a temper. Waved his shotgun around at deer hunters who came on his property without permission.
The lone ally for John was his sister, Julia. My brother loved Lydia. He would never hurt her, never do this to his family.
Sarah picked up the pile of photos from the seat next to her and began to organize them by the small number written on the back of each. Her eye snagged on a familiar image. She took a closer look. A pair of hands. Even without the notation that identified the subject as Jack, she thought she’d know them anywhere. Jack’s hands. His knuckles were bruised, fresh lacerations looked raw and painful. The next photo showed the palms of Jack’s hands; three half-moon indentations marred each palm. What would cause such marks? A murder weapon? Sarah shoved the thought from her mind.
They knew who committed this murder: John Tierney. The only reason he wasn’t arrested, tried and convicted was because they couldn’t find him. A small voice buzzed in her ear like a pesky insect: Then why had Jack lied to her about everything if he didn’t have something to hide?
The final photos showed Jack without a shirt. He was slim and bony chested, large footed and large handed, a boy who hadn’t yet grown into himself. No other marks blemished his body, no wounds of any kind. Surely, if he had been Lydia’s attacker, she would have fought back, scratched and clawed trying to protect herself. Unless, of course, the attacker was your son, and the blows were unexpected.
Sarah knew that she would never get the graphic images of Lydia from her mind and wondered how Jack could possibly have recovered from finding his mother in that awful state. No wonder he rarely came back to Penny Gate, didn’t want Sarah here or his daughters. It made a little more sense now.
Sarah peered into the box.
She had breezed through every single piece of paper. There were photocopies of the school attendance records and even the handwritten rosters that the teachers used to mark whether a student was present or absent for a particular class period. Highlighted in yellow on three of the rosters was Jack’s name with a capital A written beside it. As Jack had stated in his interview he had skipped three of his afternoon classes.
There were copies of phone bills in the months leading up to the murder. The same number was highlighted three times. At the bottom of the page someone had scrawled Raymond Douglas—known drug dealer.
Had Jack been using drugs as a teenager? Had his parents found out? Had he skipped school that day in late May and been confronted by his mother. Had he lashed out violently? No, it wasn’t enough. Plenty of kids used drugs and didn’t murder their mothers. But plenty of kids did, a small voice whispered in her ear. She had just heard a news story about a teen from Great Falls who killed both his parents in their beds after they had threatened to send him to a rehab center.
Sarah shook her head in frustration. Why couldn’t she just let it go? Jack had lied to her, yes, but it didn’t make him a murderer. Besides, the sheriff was confident he knew who the killer was: Jack’s father. John Tierney had murdered his wife and taken off. Tragedies like that happened every day. But how did he get away? that small, insistent voice asked. According to the sheriff’s notes, John’s truck was found hidden in the cornfield that separated the Quinlan farm from the Tierney farm. What had Celia said when she was driving Sarah to her home? She could walk straight through the cornfield from her house and it would take you fifteen minutes to get to Hal’s. How would John have left town without his truck? Did he have an accomplice? None were mentioned in any of the files.
Sarah returned the last of the files to the box and caught sight of another audiotape at the bottom. She pulled it from the box. She rubbed her eyes and checked the time. It was nine o’clock.
Could the tape wait until the next day? She was so tired. She slid the cassette into the manila envelope that held the other audiotapes. She would listen to it tomorrow.
Though she hated to, she needed to get back to Dean and Celia’s house. She had no idea how she was going to explain her extended absence. Could she put on a mask, just like Jack had for all these years? Could she pretend that all was well with her marriage, that she didn’t know all the sordid circumstances surrounding Jack’s youth and his mother’s death? Sarah started the car and pulled onto the winding road that would take her back to her husband, now a stranger. How was she going to casually discuss her day and chat about their daughters with him?
And more importantly, how was she going to crawl into bed tonight with a man she knew was a liar and who could have been capable of so much worse?
14
SARAH PULLED DOWN Dean and Celia’s lane, past the barn, past the clothesline where Jack’s mother once hung the freshly washed sheets, and pulled up in front of the kitchen window where she had surely looked out and watched her children in play. Sarah turned off the ignition and sat staring at the house. The porch light illuminated the declining condition of the home. Sarah recalled the crime-scene photos where there was an array of flowers cascading from pots that hung from the eaves, a stark contrast to the yellow crime tape stretched across the porch.
She hated the thought of going inside, but she was exhausted and she wanted to let Jack know she was done with his lies. She would stay through Julia’s funeral, but then she was going back home. She glanced over at the box. She peeled Margaret’s jacket from her shoulders and laid it across the box, hooked her purse over her shoulder and stepped from the car. She glanced at the house to make sure know one was looking out a window and quickly transported the box to the rear of the car and closed the trunk with a soft click.
“Sarah?” Jack’s voice came from somewhere behind her. She scanned the farmyard and saw Jack and Celia coming her way from the direction of the large barn. They were walking side by side; just a fraction of space separated them. “What’s in the box?” Jack asked.
Sarah thought fast. “Just a few items I picked up at the store since we’re staying a little longer than planned. I bought a box so we could just mail the things that wouldn’t fit in our carry-on bags back home.” Jack appeared satisfied with this explanation. “What are you two doing out here in the dark?” she asked. The porch light was too weak for her to clearly examine their faces, but there were no secretive, knowing looks between the two of them. No indication that something clandestine had been going on.
“We were working on the details of Julia’s funeral mass,” Jack said, “and decided to go for a walk. Are you okay? Where have you been all this time?”
“I was just driving around. Thinking.” Sarah shoved her hands into her pockets. The evening air was cold on her skin and she missed the warmth of Margaret’s jacket. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Sure, let’s go inside,” Jack said, starting for the house.
“Let’s walk,” Sarah suggested. She wanted to be as far away as possible from the house and out of earshot when she said the things to Jack that needed to be said.
“I’ll see you inside,” Celia said. “I’ll put some coffee on.”
The earthy scent of soil and manure rose up from the ground, and the gentle murmur of livestock settling in for the night was somehow comforting as Sarah and Jack walked in silence toward the barns.
From within the house someone flipped a switch and a pair of floodlights affixed to the house came on, bathing the farmyard in a warm light. Sarah wondered why Celia hadn’t turned on the same lights for her little walk with Jack. Sarah wished she would turn them off. What she had to say would be easier said in the dark.
“What’s going on, Sarah?” Jack asked once they started walking. “I was getting really worried.”
Sarah wasn’t sure where to begin. “I’m glad you tried to go and see Amy. She’s really scared.”
“Thanks for getting the attorney lined up.” Jack stopped walking. “There’s just so much going on with getting ready for the funeral. Dean is sure that Amy did it and it just looks really bad for her and for a minute there...”
Sarah glanced back at the house and saw a silhouette in an upstairs window. Too wide and tall to be Celia. It had to be Dean or Hal. She kept walking, wanting to reach the shadows at the edge of the floodlights. “I know that Amy could never have hurt Julia,” Jack finished as he jogged to catch up with her.
“Her arraignment is tomorrow morning. I scheduled a meeting at eight with her lawyer. I don’t know if Amy did it or not, but she’s your sister and I think you should be there,” Sarah said, slightly out of breath as they reached the large barn. She leaned her back against the worn, rough boards and looked back toward the house. “You know, Amy thinks that Dean might have been the one to hurt Julia.”
“Dean?” Jack laughed, then sobered quickly when he saw that Sarah wasn’t joking. “That’s crazier than thinking that Amy did it. Dean loves...loved his mom.” Jack ran a hand over his mouth. “Why would she think that?”
“She said that he was the one who brought a bunch of boxes over to her house, including the one with the bale hook. And—” Sarah hesitated “—the other day I saw Dean grab Celia really hard and he didn’t let go until she slapped him.”
Jack frowned. “That doesn’t sound like Dean. Or Celia. I mean, Dean’s always had a bit of a temper, but I always thought the two of them got along fine. Maybe it’s just the stress of everything that’s been going on.”
“I don’t know what happened. I just thought you should know what I saw. But that’s not why I wanted to talk to you.” Sarah stood upright, pushing herself away from the barn with one hand. The sharp bite of weathered wood digging into the palm of her hand caused her to wince. She raised her hand to her face and tried to examine the sliver left behind.
“Did you hurt yourself?” Jack asked, reaching for her hand.
Sarah pulled away. “I’m fine.” She tilted her head back and looked up at the night sky. It was black and all encompassing, and she felt as if she was being swallowed up by the night, by this town, by her husband’s past.
“Sarah?” Jack asked uncertainly. He sounded scared.
“Right after the funeral I’m going home,” she said, trying to keep her voice even and unemotional.
“I don’t plan on staying any longer than I have to, either,” Jack said.
“I mean it—the minute the funeral is over I’m getting on a plane and going back home to the girls. And when we’re home we have to talk about where we go from here. I can’t live with a liar, Jack, I just can’t.” Her voice cracked on the final word. Though she had practiced saying these words the entire way back to Celia’s house, it was harder than she thought it would be.
“What? You want me to move out?” Jack asked in surprise.
Sarah straightened her spine as if this simple act could give her the strength to tell him what she had learned. “I told you that I didn’t want any more secrets. No more lies.”
“But I told you...” Jack began.
“Stop it, Jack,” Sarah said loudly. “Stop lying!” Sarah’s voice echoed across the still night air. A face appeared in the kitchen window. Clearly Celia’s. Sarah turned her back to the house and lowered her voice. “In the past few days I learned that your parents did not die in a car accident like you told me.”
“Sarah, I explained why...”
“Let me speak,” Sarah hissed. “I learned that your mother was murdered and your father was the one who murdered her. And I learned that for a time you were the prime suspect. You were arrested, Jack. Arrested. How could you keep that from me? Every time I turn around I learn something else that you’ve lied to me about.” Despite the cool night, Sarah felt heat rise to her face as she spoke. From across the farmyard she heard the creak of a screen door. Celia stepped out onto the porch, her slim frame backlit by the porch lights. She seemed to hesitate between coming toward them to find out what was going on and returning inside. “And if that wasn’t enough, I learned that your cousin’s wife was your girlfriend and that you apparently had a violent temper, got drunk and did drugs.” Sarah realized that she was crying and that her voice had once again risen enough that Celia decided that she needed to come see what was happening.
Missing Pieces Page 17
