Robin Burcell - Face of a Killer

“Eleven in a few days. We’re going to have cake. You should stop by,” she said.

Prescott happened to look toward the lobby just then, saw the arrival of a tall, thin young woman. At last. Sydney Fitzpatrick. She did not, however, look happy to be there. When he chanced to catch Mary’s expression on seeing her older daughter, he realized something was up. Even Gnoble saw it, because he asked, “Mary, what’s wrong?”

She looked away, and the tears Prescott thought he imagined were definitely there, ready to spill. “It’s Sydney. She went to San Quentin.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She went to see him. Wheeler. You know she’s been talking about doing it for years.”

“I thought when I’d called her that she’d changed her mind.”

“She didn’t.”

“Oh my God. Mary. I’m sorry.”

She tried to smile. “It’s fine. I just don’t understand why.”

“Maybe I should talk to her again.”

She nodded, then turned away.

“Prescott, take Mary to have some of that wonderful punch.”

“Right this way, Mrs. Fitzpatrick-Hughes.”

Gnoble left them, walked toward the lobby, and it was everything Prescott could do to settle Mary in with a paper cup filled with punch, seat her at the tables, then hurry toward the lobby to make sure he was kept apprised of their conversation. Lucky for him the senator was waylaid by several well-wishers, and by the time Prescott arrived, Gnoble was merely greeting her. “Sydney? How’s the FBI treating you?”

She held Gnoble’s gaze. “I don’t appreciate you using my father’s murder for your campaign, Senator.”

“Senator? What happened to Uncle Don?”

“The Uncle Don I used to know would never have used tragedy for personal gain.”

Goddamned Chronicle, Prescott thought, as Gnoble said, “That wasn’t me, you have to believe it. They’re out to sell newspapers, and took everything I said out of context.” She said nothing, but her eyes spoke volumes. This was not something Gnoble was going to be able to fix so easily. “I heard you went out to the prison today. Your mother’s extremely upset,” he said, just as his wife, Marla, walked up to take her place at his side. Tall, thin, her blond hair swept up in a chignon, she gave Sydney a warm but neutral smile, no doubt picking up on the tension.

“I did go,” Sydney said.

“I thought we agreed you weren’t going to go? What happened?”

She held Gnoble’s gaze, her mouth pressed together as though trying to decide if she should even answer. And finally, “No, you agreed I shouldn’t go. And it wasn’t your decision to make. So I went. And he says he’s innocent.”

“They all say they’re innocent. It’s called self-preservation.”

She looked away. “I think I believe him.”

“Believe him? Why?”

“He knew things. Things that wouldn’t make sense to anyone unless they knew my father particularly well.”

“What things?”

She glanced to the skating floor when her sister called out her name, then waved as the young girl glided past. “I’m really not comfortable discussing this here.”

“That makes two of us,” he said, then paused to smile for a photographer. “Sydney. I read that investigation. I spoke with the investigators back when it all happened. He’s guilty. That’s precisely one of the reasons I’ve decided to run again. Keeping a man like Wheeler alive for twenty years does nothing but torture him as well as the families of the victims. I’m going to do something about this.”

“Something I’m sure your constituents will appreciate.”

“Something I was hoping you’d appreciate.”

“It’s not going to bring my father back. And what if that man is innocent?” she asked, crossing her arms, clearly disturbed by whatever it was she’d found.

Marla Gnoble reached out, placed her well-manicured hand on Sydney’s arm. “Then you need to come forth with whatever it is, dear,” she said, her voice soothing and low. “They’re going to execute him in ten days, and if you have something that will exonerate him, my husband needs to know. This affects too many people. You, your mother

…”

“I’d rather she didn’t know all the details just yet-”

“-and,” Gnoble interjected, “not to sound crass, but it affects my campaign.”

“For God’s sake, Donovan,” his wife said. “Pretend you’re not a politician for once. Can’t you see what this is doing to her head? My God, Sydney. Have you talked to anyone about it? Anyone besides my idiot husband, that is?”

“No.” And then, as if coming to some sort of internal decision, Sydney looked Gnoble in the eye, her expression cold, hard. “Do me a favor. Leave my family and especially my father out of your campaigning.”

“Sydney.” He grasped her arm, and she stopped, looked at him. “You have to believe me. That article was not my idea. I’ve known you since you were born. You know I’m not like that.”

“I don’t know what to believe right now.”

“Then believe me when I say I’ll help you in any way I can. If you think he’s innocent, I will stand by you. But I have to know what proof you have, and it’s got to be something more than his word. There are police reports and physical evidence showing otherwise. I’ve just come out publicly staking my reputation on his guilt, for God’s sake,” he said, trying to keep his voice low.

“This isn’t politics. It’s my father’s life.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I can call someone, the best investigator, have him look into it. Come talk to me. At my office, away from the cameras.”

“I’ll think about it.” She walked off.

Prescott thought Gnoble looked as though he’d go after her, but then his shoulders sagged, and he turned away, stared out to the kids skating round and round. His wife gave him an exasperated look. “For such a smart man, sometimes you’re an absolute idiot,” she said.

Prescott cleared his throat. “Sir?”

Gnoble ignored him, but his wife said, “Prescott, a few moments, please…”

“Of course. I have a couple calls to make anyway.” Prescott took out his cell phone, stepped away where he wouldn’t be overheard, hit the speed dial. “It’s Prescott,” he said, when the man on the other end answered. “What have you heard on the Wheeler case?”

“The Innocence Project is turning him down, and the governor’s a Republican, so I’d say he’s toast.”

“They’re turning him down?”

“That’s what I heard.”

“It’s confirmed. Sydney Fitzpatrick went out to the prison. She’s pretty upset, and I don’t-”

Prescott glanced up, realized he was being watched. By Sydney Fitzpatrick’s young half sister.

He laughed into the phone as though whatever they were talking about was some big joke. “Hold on,” he said to his caller, keeping his tone jovial. He wondered how much the kid had overheard, and looked right at her, gave his best disarming smile. “Shouldn’t you be skating, young lady?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be out there making sure the senator’s shaking hands?”

He decided she was too young to figure things out. “You’re absolutely right. And I’m going to start now.”

“Is my sister upset with your boss?”

“No. Of course not. It’s just this thing with her father. The time of year. She’s worried.”

The girl glanced back at her sister, before pinning her shrewd and annoying gaze on him. “I think she’s upset about that article in the paper, so if you don’t mind, I don’t think I want to take any pictures with you guys.”

“Your mother really wants you all to pose for a get-together photo. It’ll make her happy. And think what it’ll do for your future, to be seen with a senator.”