Wild Justice (30 page)

“Not the one that called Koss,” I said. “The one
that
caller phoned and received two calls from.”

Quinn looked confused. “Okay, but still, you don’t want to use your phone for that. Even a burner.”

“It can scramble the outgoing calls. The number won’t match anything I’ve used before.”

“Shit. I’ve heard of that but where—? Ah. Felix.”

I nodded.

“I partnered with the guy for a week last year and
you
get the toys.”

“Not me.” I hooked a finger at Jack.

“You want one?” Jack said. “Just ask. It’ll cost, though. Not cheap.”

I dialed the number while they talked. It took a moment to connect. Then it started to ring . . . from the end table beside Quinn. He picked up the locked phone.

“Shit,” he said. “You saw that coming, didn’t you?”

“Playing a hunch,” I said. “So whoever phoned Koss also called our hitman. Presumably, he’s the client.”

“We really need to learn who’s at the other end of that phone,” Quinn said.

“Yep.”

There was no pressing need now to crack the hitman’s phone. We still would, but having his number meant we could track his calls. Evelyn would do that. She’d also tried phoning the number that called Koss. It had gone straight to “customer not available.” We tried and got the same, suggesting it was either off or he’d replaced the SIM card.

“The question is,” Quinn said as we settled in again, “who would put out a hit on both you and Koss? I could guess Contrapasso covering a bad hit, but the Aldrich hit wasn’t bad. I’ve been monitoring the case through law-enforcement contacts. Nobody suspects this was anything except a remorseful killer who offed himself. To them, it’s a good-news story. They have no interest in looking closer.”

“Agreed,” I said. “So there’s no reason for Contrapasso to panic and take out one of their own, especially someone as valuable as Koss. Which means we’re back to our original theory that Aldrich had friends. Nasty friends.”

“Right,” Quinn said. “We know a fellow scumbag didn’t kill
him
, but that could be who’s after you.”

I nodded. “Koss might not have been the only person Aldrich called after he saw me.” I looked at Quinn. “Can we get Aldrich’s phone records?”

He nodded. “So the theory would be that this guy is worried either Koss or you know something—or will find something—that will bring
him
down. Which suggests not just some scumbag friend but . . .”

I glanced at Jack.

“Partner,” he said. “Aldrich had a partner.”

Aldrich did not have a partner when he raped me and then raped and murdered Amy. My memories of that night might have shattered, but I’d retained enough pieces to be sure I hadn’t seen or heard anyone else at that cabin. What I suspected, instead, was that we were reverting back to an older theory, one supported by what Shannon Broadhurst had said about Aldrich having met “like-minded friends” later in life. Except, it seemed, more than just friends. A true partner-in-crime, who was worried that Koss or I had found something.

Found what? The journal, of course.

“Is it in the car?” I asked. “Shit. Our stuff. We left our bags at the other hotel.”

“Called,” Jack said. “Paid an extra night. Get it later. Journal’s in the car. With my tools.”

“I could go and grab your things,” Quinn said. “That might be better, so no one sees you guys showing up again.”

I remembered the fancy hotel . . . with the single bed. We could explain it away, of course, but it wouldn’t be easy.

“Nah,” Jack was already saying. “You show up? Ties you to us. Better not. I’ll grab it later.”

“Thanks for offering, though,” I said.

Jack was gracious enough to second that, if only with a grunt. Then he headed out for the journal. Quinn called Evelyn to get her working on the hitman’s cell phone records. There was something I could do, too. Something I should do, as much as I’d been avoiding it. I was still thinking of that when Jack slipped back in, journal in hand.

Quinn was on the phone. I was sitting in the corner of the sofa, deep in thought, and barely noticed Jack until he said he’d be reading in the bedroom. I led him to the other end of the room to not interrupt Quinn’s call.

“I was thinking that I should really get that case file from Neil. I should read it.”

“I can.”

Another smile, a little more genuine. “You finish the journal. I’ll handle the file. Since Neil said there’s nothing on my rape in it, Quinn can read it, too, and help me look at it objectively.”

Neil was at work, which proved that on a case I lose all sense of time. I said I’d call back but he was doing paperwork and happy for the interruption.

“I can e-mail it to you,” Neil said. “I scanned it all a couple of days ago. And, yes, I expect you to be very proud of me for knowing how to
use
a scanner. I actually have one on my new printer but hadn’t gotten around to figuring it out. This gave me the perfect excuse. I’ve now officially entered the twenty-first century.”

“Congratulations. You’re a couple of steps ahead of me. I think the lodge printer still uses a ribbon.”

He laughed. “Then you’ll be even more impressed to hear that I have the file on a thumb drive, so I can e-mail it to you right now.” I could hear him pecking on the keyboard. “And there it goes. One case file, sent electronically.”

“I owe you.”

“You do. And I’ll take a weekend at the lodge with the kids this winter. They want to learn cross-country skiing.”

“You’ve got the weekend and private lessons.”

“Great. I’ll expect a call later, to talk about the file.”

Reading Amy’s case file was as hard as I thought it would be. Maybe harder. When we first found the journal, I’d expected to read details on Amy’s murder that I’d never wash from my mind. Yet I’d been ready to do it. The case file, with its cold, documented facts, should have been easier to digest. It wasn’t. Because those facts weren’t written by anonymous professionals.

I’d read a summary of the case years ago, but it had been just that—a typed summary. This was very different. I recognized the handwriting of Dr. Foster on the autopsy—the same Dr. Foster who’d been our family physician most of my young life. I read the report and I heard his voice and I imagined him there, working on Amy, his former patient. The notations about the crime-scene photos were all in Neil’s writing. I read a badly spelled typewritten report and didn’t even need to check the signature to know it was Myron Young, who’d gone on to replace my father as chief. Other reports had curt notes in the margins, the pen pushed so deep I could still feel rage emanating off the page. Uncle Eddie—Amy’s father.

My father and uncle hadn’t been allowed to work the case—it was bad enough they’d been first on the scene. But while other police had assisted the prosecution in gathering evidence, it was clear Dad and Uncle Eddie had kept abreast of the investigation, making their own notes and keeping track of the evidence.

There were the pages and pages of meticulous notes written in my father’s hand. I read those, and I was back at my kitchen table, sipping hot chocolate, watching him work as my mother and brother slept. Those were some of my most cherished memories and now, seeing his notes here, detailing some of my worst memories . . . It was almost more than I could take.

I think having Quinn there made it harder. I’d rather have read them alone. No, I can be honest now—I’d rather have read them with Jack. Quinn tried to distract me by keeping it professional, hashing it out, trying to help me distance myself from these pages, but I couldn’t distance myself. I didn’t want to.

That’s how it had always been with Quinn. We could talk for hours, and they could be deep conversations and heated debates that got to the core of our beliefs, but . . . Evelyn once said that for Quinn, it was all about the head. Cerebral. She’d been referring to his vigilantism, but the same could be said for the connection I had with him. I told Quinn what I thought, not what I felt.

Jack came to the door a few times, standing in the opening, where Quinn couldn’t see from his angle. I’d feel him watching me and look up to see him there.

The file contained both the police work and trial papers. There wasn’t much in the police part that I didn’t already know, especially the early events my father and uncle had been involved in. I’d heard the story so many times I sometimes felt that I’d been there.

When my father and uncle left the station, they took two cars. There was no need for that, but neither could bear to be the one in the passenger seat, helplessly urging the other to go faster, Jesus Christ, can’t you drive
faster
? They even took separate routes, each certain they knew a quicker way. They raced through town and barreled down the rutted back road so fast that my uncle nearly ripped off his muffler. The road didn’t go the entire way to the cabin. But my dad continued past the end of it, driving the car in so far it needed a paint job afterward. Only when it would be faster to run did he and my cousin Pete leap out with my uncle and Myron Young right behind them.

As they ran, they saw a figure through the trees, fleeing the cabin. Dad told Myron to stay with Uncle Eddie, while he and Pete went after the fleeing figure. It wasn’t much of a chase. Aldrich was already at his truck, parked down a side trail. My father saw it speeding away. That’s when, according to the file, he heard Uncle Eddie “call out” from the cabin. He didn’t “call out.” I remembered overhearing Pete say Uncle Eddie’s screaming was the worst thing he’d ever heard.

Dad called the station to get an APB out on Aldrich’s truck, then ran to the cabin. He went inside and found his brother with Amy. She was dead. Strangled. Raped and strangled.

Dad wanted to stay, but Uncle Eddie begged him to go after Aldrich. There was nothing more to be done for Amy except get her justice. Dad caught Aldrich packing to flee town. There was a standoff at the house where he’d rented a room. Shots were fired when Aldrich came out with a hunting rifle. Aldrich was hit in the shoulder and taken into custody.

I’d known about Aldrich being shot. I’d known who shot him, too. My father. Now, though, reading the file, I thought instead of Wayne Franco. Of how I’d shot him when he’d reached into his pocket, giving me an excuse. Had the same thing happened here? I’d never know. Did it matter? Maybe not.

We were getting ready to start the trial pages when Jack came out of the bedroom.

“Dee?”

I looked up.

“Need a coffee. Want a stretch?”

“I would love both,” I said, getting up. “Thank you.”

“I’ll join you,” Quinn said.

Quinn closed the laptop and was pushing his chair back when his cell phone rang. He answered. It was Evelyn. Jack murmured that we’d bring him something and prodded me to the door. Behind us, I could hear Quinn saying, “Can I get back to you with that? Ten minutes?” Then, “All right. I’m looking it up.”

Jack ushered me out.

“Lucky timing,” I said as we headed to the elevator.

“Not really luck.”

“You asked Evelyn to call him?”

“Sounded like you needed a break. From the file. From Quinn.” He paused. “Reading the file
with
Quinn, I mean. He’s behaving.”

“He is on his
best
behavior.”

“And you kinda wish he was being an ass.”

“Yes, I kinda do.”

There was a coffee shop two doors down. Jack took me the other way instead and we walked until we found one a couple of kilometers away. We discussed the file as we walked and he knew exactly what to ask to make me open up. I told him how I felt about what I had read, the memories it was bringing back, the issues and the conflicts. Jack didn’t say much, but he said all the right things, and by the time we returned I was ready to tackle the next part.

On to the trial transcript, annotated in my father’s hand. And this was where I began to see the case break down. The job of the police is to accumulate enough evidence to make a case against the accused. It’s only when the case goes to trial that the holes begin to show. And here, they were bigger than I’d ever imagined.

According to the version I grew up with, my father and uncle had seen Drew Aldrich fleeing the scene. In truth they had seen the figure only from the back and noted build, clothing, hair color. At trial, three witnesses testified to seeing Aldrich earlier that evening. He’d been wearing a light T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers—as he was when he was arrested. The man running from the scene had been wearing a dark shirt.

“Why was it an issue at all?” I asked Quinn. “Aldrich confessed to killing Amy—he said it was an accident. Why
not
admit he was the one running?”

“The discrepancy bolstered the case against your family’s reliability.”

The next problem followed immediately after, with the standoff at his apartment. Witnesses said Aldrich did indeed threaten that he had a rifle. He even came to the door holding it . . . but he was holding it out, showing that he was surrendering. That’s when my father shot him.

Again, the prosecution could argue that it was night. The door was not well lit. All my father saw was a gun. But it still added to the defense’s story. My father overreacted, which was very uncharacteristic of him and therefore supported the idea that he was responding as a grieving uncle.

I knew from the journal that Amy had prearranged our meeting with Aldrich that night, but I’d never realized that had come out in the trial. There was even evidence of a phone call from Amy’s house to Aldrich’s apartment the day before, when apparently she’d given him the train number and arrival time; he’d jotted down the info on a piece of paper that had been found in his wallet. From there, it became much easier to say Amy willingly had sex with Aldrich.