Every Breath You Take (34 page)

Caroline was standing behind Billy, her hands protectively on his shoulders. “Does he have to go through it all again? Can’t he just write it down?”

In response, Torello looked at the kid. “One more time, from the top.”

The fourteen-year-old rubbed his eyes with his palms and said shakily, “I went out to the farm with my dad, just like we planned to do that weekend. I thought we might scare up some quail on the Udall place, so I took the shotgun from the house. While we were walking, my dad told me he was going to sell our farm to the developer who’d bought Udall’s. We started arguing. I told him he couldn’t do that, and then—”

“Why did you think he couldn’t do that?”

“Because the farm was supposed to be mine!” Billy said fiercely, his meek attitude vanishing. “My grandpa Edward always said it would be mine someday, but he forgot to leave it to me in his will.”

“Okay, and then what happened?”

“My dad and I were arguing, and I was so upset that I wasn’t looking where I was going. I tripped and the gun went off.” Reaching for a box of tissues on the table, he scrubbed at his eyes. “My dad was only a few feet in front of me when he fell. I tried to give him CPR, but there was a big hole in his chest, and I got blood all over
me, and I freaked out. I was scared my mom would never forgive me and I’d go to jail. The old well was just a few feet away, so I pulled the cover off of it, and I … I … You know the rest.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“I dragged my dad over to it, and pushed him down the hole; then I threw the shotgun in after him.”

Caroline lifted one hand from his shoulder and briefly covered her eyes while a visible tremor shook her entire body.

“What about fingerprints on the shotgun?” Torello prompted. “What did you do about those?”

“Oh, yeah. I wiped them off on my jacket before I threw the gun down the well.”

“Then what?”

“I went back to the house, but then I started thinking I’d done the wrong thing. I should have called an ambulance and the police, so I called Grandpa Cecil, and I told him what had happened. I asked him what I should do. He told me to sit still and not call anyone until he got there. It took him a long time, because it had started to snow.”

“What did Cecil do when he arrived?”

“He-He told me nothing could help my dad anymore, and that we had to think about saving me and sparing my mom. He said my dad wouldn’t want me to go to jail for an accident, and that my mom would never get over it if she knew how my dad died. He said he’d tell the cops I spent the weekend with him instead of going up to the farm with my dad.”

“What about your father’s vehicle? How did it end up being abandoned twenty-five miles away from the farm?”

Billy paused to wipe his eyes again, but they looked dry to Gray. “Grandpa Cecil said it would be better if the cops thought my dad wasn’t at the farm when he disappeared.
That way, they wouldn’t search as hard up there and maybe find the old well. Grandpa Cecil said I should drive my dad’s car and follow him down the highway until he found a good place to leave it.”

“You’re only fourteen. Do you know how to drive?”

Billy shot him a disdainful look. “I’ve been driving up at the farm since I was twelve. Driving on the highway when it was snowing wasn’t easy, but I did as good as my dad could have done.”

On the other side of the two-way glass, MacNeil grimaced and looked at Gray. “That kid is a total sociopath.”

“We’re almost done, Billy,” Torello said encouragingly. “Now, let’s skip ahead two months to January. The search for your father has been called off, no one is looking around at the farm for him anymore, but you went to see Mr. Elliott and told him you heard Mitchell Wyatt pretending to your mom that he’d never been at the farm. You knew that would make us suspect him, and it would also renew our interest in searching the farm again. Why did you open up that can of worms when you’d gotten away with everything already?”

“Because the developer who bought the Udall place came to see my mom about buying our farm. While he was there, he said they were starting to break some ground and they were going to put a stone wall up on the property line. I knew they’d find the old well, because it was right there.”

“Okay, so you were thinking. You were using your head,” Torello said as if that was a compliment. “You figured they’d find your father’s body, so you tore a button off Wyatt’s coat, drove up there yourself one day, and planted the button under the well cover where it would be found.”

Billy nodded, looking flattered by Torello’s comments.

“But what made you decide to try to pin everything on Mitchell Wyatt?”

“Because,” Billy said, his face contorting with rage, “that fucking bastard was acting like he belonged in our family. He was stepping into my father’s place, and my mom was letting him do it. He was staying at our house, looking after my mom, hanging around her. I was supposed to be the man of the family, but she was asking him for advice, not me. He even advised her to sell the farm.

“My grandpa Cecil was acting just like her about Mitchell. I used to be Grandpa’s favorite. He always said we were a lot alike, but all he cared about was Mitchell after my dad died. He started ignoring me, and then I heard him tell Mom that he wanted to introduce everyone to Mitchell at his birthday party. He said she had to be there, so that everyone would know she’d accepted him into the family, too.”

“Okay, Billy. I’m satisfied that you’re telling the whole truth and you’ve got all your facts straight. There’s a tablet and a pen. Go ahead and write everything down just the way you told it to me. You want a Coke or anything?”

“I want a Dr Pepper,” Billy announced, reaching for the tablet.

“How about some chili-cheese Fritos to go with that?”

“Yeah, that would be good. How did you know?”

Torello said nothing, but when he turned away, he sent a meaningful glance toward the two-way mirror. In the last two weeks, they’d canvassed every gas station and convenience store between Chicago and the farm, knowing that Cecil would probably have needed to stop at some point. A clerk in a gas station/convenience store recognized Billy’s photograph. Cecil had sent Billy in with cash to pay for the gasoline so there’d be no credit card record, but while he was inside, Billy decided to pick
up a Dr Pepper and his favorite snack food. When the clerk told him she carried only regular Fritos, he’d called the store “a dump” and her “a bumpkin.”

“I can already hear the kind of defense the family is going to stage for this kid,” MacNeil said in resigned disgust. “For starters, they’ll argue that we have no jurisdiction because the crime occurred outside Cook County. He’s fourteen, so he’ll be tried as a juvenile, and once the Wyatt lawyers get into the act, they’ll persuade the mother to let them claim that little Billy was secretly abused by his daddy. Hell, Cecil is an old man with heart trouble. If he dies before this goes to trial, they’ll change their story and it will turn out that Cecil killed William.”

“Not if I can get to Cecil and make him see reason,” Gray said, turning away and starting down the hall. “I’m going to pay a call on him right now, and I want you along for effect.”

“M
R. WYATT WILL SEE YOU IN A FEW MINUTES,”
C
ECIL’S
butler told Gray. It was sleeting, and a fine sheen of icy droplets clung to Gray’s cashmere coat as the butler helped him off with it and carried it toward the hall closet.

Cecil received him in his study, seated behind a baronial desk and surrounded by portraits of his illustrious ancestors. “How are your parents, Gray?”

“They’re fine, thank you.”

The old man studied his features as Gray sat down in front of his desk. “I take it this isn’t a social call?” he concluded.

“I’m afraid not.”

He nodded, turned his head toward the departing butler, and said, “Get Henry Bartlett on the phone immediately.”

“There’s a detective waiting in front to take you down to the station house. Henry can meet you there.”

“Am I being arrested?”

“That depends on how cooperative you are in the next few minutes. Billy has just given us a statement regarding William’s death.”

“What did he tell you?”

Gray saw no reason not to answer, since he knew Henry Bartlett would be able to obtain Billy’s statement within a matter of hours. He gave Cecil the high points of Billy’s confession, and when he was finished, Cecil said
coolly, “And you believe the boy’s story that I was involved?”

“Absolutely. It has bothered me all along that you kept Mitchell’s existence a secret until January. You met him for the first time in August, and the following month, Edward supposedly fell off his balcony to his death. In November, William vanished. And yet, Cecil, you were unconcerned with the fact that your newfound grandson’s return to the family fold coincided with both these occurrences. In fact, you kept his existence a secret from the police who were investigating both instances. Do you know what that told me?”

“That I was a sentimental, trusting old man who was blinded by guilt for denying Mitchell his heritage in the past?” Cecil suggested sarcastically.

“No, that you were a devious, arrogant, manipulative old man who had a need for a new heir apparent you could depend on, but you did not want the police or anyone else to know where he’d been for the last thirty-four years.”

“Thank you,” he said stiffly, but sincerely, “you are quite right. You have always been a rather bright young man.”

“Since we both know you aren’t sentimental or trusting, there’s only one reason left for you not to have suspected that Mitchell was responsible for Edward’s death or William’s disappearance.”

“And that reason would be?”

“That you already
knew
what happened to both men, and that Mitchell hadn’t been involved. With that suspicion in mind, I had already reopened the investigation into William’s disappearance—with you as a target of the investigation—when Billy suddenly came to my office.”

“And told you what?”

“He told me he’d heard Mitchell tell Caroline that
he’d never been to the farm, which Billy said was a lie. That focused us on Mitchell. Now you tell me something, Cecil: When did you find out what Billy had done? When did you discover that he’d planted a button from Mitchell’s coat at the well?”

“Caroline came here right after you had Billy call Mitchell down in St. Maarten. She told me what was going on. She was beside herself thinking that she and I were harboring a murderer in our midst. I told her I felt sure there was some mistake.”

“You knew Billy had planted the button?”

“Are we talking off the record?”

Gray hesitated; then he nodded. “Off the record.”

“I realized at once that it had to be Billy. Who else would have done such a thing? Besides that, he was sitting right in front of me when Caroline told me about the button you’d found, and your suspicions about Mitchell, and the phone call you had Billy make. I could tell from Billy’s face that he was responsible for everything. He smiled at me. He was quite proud of his cunning, actually.”

Gray nodded, thinking things over, surprised that Cecil was so forthcoming, even off the record. “If Mitchell’s coat had been delivered to him any time
before
William’s disappearance, we would have arrested him and tried him for William’s murder. Were you going to let him be convicted, just to save Billy’s hide?”

Leaning forward, Cecil folded his hands on his desk, and said proudly and emphatically, “Mitchell would never have let that happen. He is a survivor, like me, and like them—” Lifting his chin, he indicated the ancestral portraits on the wall across from him.

Rather than pointlessly debate Cecil’s logic, Gray got down to the real purpose for his visit. “In helping Billy, you’ve committed a variety of crimes yourself—”

“We don’t need to discuss that today, and you aren’t
going to arrest me, either. Henry and Evan Bartlett have already assured me you have no jurisdiction in this case. Furthermore, Billy’s confession is worthless because he wasn’t represented by an attorney. You had no right to question him without the presence of the family’s attorneys.”

“His mother was present, and she gave her consent.”

“Caroline is in no mental condition to make sound judgments for herself, let alone for Billy in this situation. You’re wasting your time by—”

“I have one more minute to waste,” Gray said icily, looking meaningfully at the walnut clock on Cecil’s desk. “You’d be wise to let me waste it and to listen to me very carefully, because I can and will have you hauled out of here in handcuffs.”

Cecil leaned back in his chair, brows drawn together in cold affront, but he was listening.

“Henry Bartlett is telling you what you want to hear. I am taking the position that when Billy left home with his father that weekend, he fully intended to kill him at the farm, which means the crime originated in Cook County. Henry can tie this case up for a year or more with motions for a change of venue and motions to have Billy’s confession thrown out, but in the end I’ll win, and you will stand trial with Billy as his accomplice. During that time, the media will have a feeding frenzy, digging up every skeleton this family has buried and hidden for the past one hundred years.”

Cecil’s face was expressionless, but his thin fingers were clenching and unclenching on the desk.

“If you do Henry a favor by dying before the case finally goes to trial, Henry can—and probably would—advise Billy to change his story and claim that
you
murdered William and persuaded that poor young boy to take the rap for it. After all, you’d be dead, and Billy would be paying Henry’s fees, so why would Henry
want to protect your reputation any longer?” Finished, he waited for Cecil to react, watching the little pendulum on the antique desk clock swing back and forth.

“What are you suggesting as an alternative?”

“I won’t charge you as an accomplice, and you will let the Cook County justice system deal fairly with Billy. He’s a juvenile, so he’s already going to get off lighter than he should.”