Chris Mooney - The Secret Friend

'I helped Jenny with all the wedding stuff, you know, going with her to look at dresses, picking out flowers. She was paying for the whole thing herself. Jenny was working a lot of overtime at the hospital to help pay for the cost of the wedding. God knows I couldn't help her, not on a waitress's salary.

'Michael's family was real rooty-toot; thought their shit didn't stink,' Tina Sanders said. 'Jenny didn't say this, mind you, but I think Michael's the one who pushed for the big wedding. His parents offered to pay, but Jenny said no. She was proud that way. She was going to pay for everything herself. She wanted a nice, simple wedding, not some fancy ballroom gala. Michael's parents weren't too happy about it. He was a nice guy. Kind of uppity, I guess, 'cause he was a doctor and all, but he treated Jenny real well.'

'What was Jennifer like?'

Tina Sanders clutched the cigarette box between her palms as she spoke.

'She was a good kid, obedient, did what she was told. I never had any problems with her. She had a real positive outlook on life, never complained, was real passionate about her job – she really believed she was helping people at McLean's. That's the first mental hospital she worked at. I don't know why she left. The patients were much better there, kind of easier to manage, she said. Jenny, she loved to help people. She shouldn't have taken that job at Sinclair.'

'Why do you say that?' Darby asked.

'During the last year, she became real moody and withdrawn. She didn't call as much. When we got together, she barely talked. She said she was having problems sleeping. She said it was the stress of the job plus working overtime to pay for the wedding, the talk of layoffs and the possibility of the hospital shutting down for good. I didn't know she was pregnant – that explained the mood swings.' The old woman rubbed a finger over the crucifix. 'She could have told me. I wouldn't have judged her for getting knocked up.'

'Did she normally keep secrets from you?'

'No. No, she didn't. We were close, like I said. Jenny not telling me about the pregnancy, it really bothered me for a while, but I understood. She wanted to get married in a Catholic church. Getting knocked up before you're actually married, well, I don't have to tell you how the Catholic Church frowns upon such matters.'

'Did your daughter ever talk about or mention a man with black eyes?'

'You mean like they were bruised or something?'

'I was referring to the actual colour of his eyes,' Darby said. 'This man, his eyes are completely black. He's tall, about six feet or so, has pale skin and dresses very well.'

'I don't know anyone like that.'

'Excuse me for a moment, Miss Sanders.'

Darby left the conference room and from her office retrieved the computer-printed photograph of Malcolm Fletcher, the one from the FBI website.

'Have you seen or met this man, Miss Sanders?'

'Is this the man who killed Jenny? Are you telling me you found him?'

'No, we haven't. Have you seen or met this man?'

'No.'

'Did Jenny ever tell you about meeting or seeing such a man?'

'If she did, I don't remember. Did you find her body?'

'We found this photograph in connection with another case,' Darby said. 'I'm sorry, but that's all I can tell you.'

'I don't understand. The man I spoke to specifically told me you had information on what happened to Jenny. He said you would tell me the truth.'

'I am telling you the truth.'

'It sounds to me like you got nothing. Why did he tell me to come all the way down here for this?'

'Miss Sanders, what you've told me is extremely helpful. I'm sure a detective will want to stop by and speak to you about your daughter. Will you be home later today?'

'What else do I have to do? You think I'm going dancing?' Tina Sanders reached for her walker. Darby stood to help but the woman waved her off. 'I can do it myself, thank you.'

'Has anyone else besides yourself touched this piece of paper?'

'No.'

'Before you go, I was wondering if I could take your fingerprints.'

'For what reason?'

'I need a comparison set of prints,' Darby said. 'I want to see if anyone else has touched this picture.'

Darby's cell phone rang. It was Tim Bryson. She told him where she was and what had happened. Bryson asked her to keep the woman there.

'Detective Bryson is on his way up,' Darby said. 'He'd like to speak to you for a moment.'

'If you find the man who killed Jenny, I want to talk to him. I want this man to know I forgive him.'

'You forgive him,' Darby repeated.

'You can wipe that look off your face. I'm not some crazy old bat.'

'Miss Sanders, I don't -'

'I don't expect you to understand, but I'm going to tell you anyway.' Tina Sanders gripped her walker. 'After Jenny died, I decided to go back to my Catholic faith. I go to St Stephen's almost every day. Father Donnelly said I had to let go of the hate, and the only way to do that was to forgive this man. That way I can keep Jenny alive, keep her close to me and remember the good parts. That's what I'm left with now, the good parts.' Tina Sanders eased back into a chair. 'It took a long time to get to this place, a lot of crying and anger, but once I decided to forgive this man – I mean truly forgive him – the good Lord Jesus took away the pain. Now every day I'm surrounded by Jenny's love. When I die, Jenny and I will be reunited in heaven.'

Darby wondered what the woman had managed to discover on the other side of her grief to inspire that type of faith.

Boston detectives worked out of the fifth floor in an area called the bullpen. Pairs of desks sat facing each other down a long, gymnasium-type space lit up with crummy fluorescent lighting that glared off the computer monitors. Phones rang day and night.

While the police department's top slot was held by a woman, the ranks of beat cops filled with women of every shape, size, age and colour, the detective bullpen was still boys only. No matter what time of day Darby came here, no matter what the season, the bullpen always smelled to her like a men's locker room – sweat and testosterone masked by too much aftershave and cologne.

It was 5 p.m. on Monday. Detectives filling out paperwork, typing on their keyboards and talking on the phone watched her as she walked down the aisle.

Tim Bryson sat in the corner near one of the coveted window spots, elbows propped up on his desk and chin resting on his folded hands as he read through a NCIC file for Jennifer Sanders.

'How did you make out with the photograph?'

'Tina Sanders' prints are all over it,' Darby said. 'I sent Coop over to dust the mailbox, but I'm not holding out any hope.'

'Here, take a look.' Bryson pushed himself away from his desk and stood. 'I'm going to get some coffee. You want one?'

'I'm all set, thanks.'

Darby felt the warm spot he had left in his chair. On the corner of his desk was a framed picture of a young girl with long blonde hair and a gap-toothed smile. His daughter looked no older than ten.

The first part of the NCIC file was pretty much a rehash of what Tina Sanders had told them. Darby scanned through the text, stopping when she found the investigative notes.

For the first six months, Danvers investigators had worked the patient angle. Maybe one of her former patients had abducted her. Jennifer Sanders was an attractive woman.

By the end of the year, with no witnesses, evidence or leads, detectives decided to investigate the murder-for-hire angle, the theory being that Witherspoon, wanting to break off the engagement but feeling trapped by the pregnancy, had hired someone to murder his fiancee. Witherspoon was an odd duck, they thought, cold and guarded. Witherspoon submitted to several polygraphs. Each time he passed. Detectives kept working on their theory, interviewing known contract killers.