William Bernhardt - Death Row

And if her hunch was right, it could blow this case wide open. In a way that none of them had ever imagined.

“Yes, I know a cat is not the same as a lightbulb.”

Ben paced back and forth in his small private office, cordless phone pressed against his ear. “Yes, I know a cat is not the same as a radiator.”

Another pause. “Yes, I know a cat is not the same as a leaky toilet.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” rattled the voice on the other end of the line. “For a moment you had me worried.”

“Look, Joni, I need some help here.” Ben switched the phone to the other ear. He had no idea this was going to be so complicated. “I’m worried about Giselle.”

“I got that part. What I didn’t get is what it’s got to do with me.”

“Well, you’re the handyman, aren’t you? You take care of the house.”

“Riiight.”

“And Giselle is part of the house.”

“So is Mr. Perry, but I don’t take him for his weekly enema.”

“Look, it wouldn’t be a regular thing. I just think maybe she needs to see the vet. And I’m way too busy to take her right now.”

Ben heard a heavy sigh on the other end of the line. “Tell me exactly what’s wrong with her.”

“I don’t know exactly what’s wrong with her. She’s just acting… different. Weird.”

“Like what?”

“Like she didn’t greet me at the door.”

“Horrors.”

“And she was whining and mewling all night long.”

“Cats have been known to mewl.”

“And she doesn’t seem to have any appetite.”

There was a brief pause. “Okay, this is serious. Give me the name of the vet.”

Ben complied. “I really appreciate this, Joni.”

“You should. You owe me big time.”

“I hope you’re not thinking raise.”

“I’m thinking short-story reading, Benjy. And wear a tie.”

She rang off. Ben barely had a chance to return to his work before Christina bolted through the door. “Ben, I’ve got something!”

“Is it catching?”

She whacked him across the face with a manila file. “I’m talking about the case. Ray Goldman.”

Ben’s interest level increased markedly. “What is it?”

“I pored over these files last night. Studying every possible aspect of the case.”

“What did you find?”

“The answer,” she said firmly. “The reason the evidence never added up. The reason there are so many questions that can’t be answered.”

“Okay, you’ve got my attention. What’s the answer?”

“The answer is this: There wasn’t a killer in the Faulkners’ living room all those years ago.” She paused, gripping Ben by the arm. “There were two.”

Mike Morelli wrapped his trench coat tightly around himself as he mounted the large stone steps. “Have I mentioned that I’m not happy about this?”

“All the way here,” Sergeant Baxter replied.

“Well… I’m not happy about it.”

“I remember. You’re one of those investigative detectives who prefers not to investigate.”

He pulled a crumpled sheet of notebook paper out of his pocket. “What’s this place called again?”

“Harvard Organ Clinic.”

“Associated with Harvard University?”

“Located on Harvard Avenue.”

“Right.” He glanced over his shoulder. So far, they’d made this entire trip with a minimum of conversation. Without even looking at each other. She was punishing him, he knew. And the worst of it was, he deserved it.

Mike pondered. Was this perhaps time to make some feeble attempt at reconciliation? It couldn’t hurt. “Baxter, you ever eat at St. Michael’s Alley?”

“Love the place. Great old English-pub decor. Dynamite baked Brie.”

“Yeah. Bass Ale on tap, too.” He stopped outside the revolving door. “You want, maybe, after we finish up here…?”

“Love to. If you promise not to make any cracks about my panties.”

Mike clenched his eyes shut. “Deal.”

“Good. First round’s on me.”

“That works.” He pushed himself through the doors. “But I’m still not happy about this.”

Inside, they were greeted by Dr. Michael Palmetto. When they made the appointment, they’d established that he was the principal supervisor and also that he’d had a good deal of personal contact with Erin Faulkner.

Mike shook his hand-and was impressed. For a doctor, he had a hell of a grip. Now that Mike looked more carefully, he realized that the man was in seriously good shape. Strong muscles and a broad chest were evident, even through the de rigueur white lab coat.

“Thanks for agreeing to talk to us, Doctor.”

“Not at all.” He was a pleasant-looking man with a soothing creamy voice. His bedside manner must be four-star, Mike speculated. “We’re all very fond of Erin.”

“Of course.” Mike noted that he was using the present tense. Was the good doctor in some kind of denial? “How long had you known her?”

“Almost two years. Since she started at the clinic.”

“What did she do?” Baxter asked.

“Mostly clerical work. But I don’t want you to get the impression that she’s just a secretary. She’s ever so much more than that.”

“What, uh… are her duties?”

“Just about everything. Filing, books, photocopies, phone, coffee. But her greatest contribution is in the morale department. Sometimes our work can be… well, somewhat depressing. Dealing with serious disease and illness all day long. But Erin always makes us see the bright side of our work.”

“Doctor,” Mike cut in, “I can’t help but notice that you keep referring to her as if she were still here. Even though she’s… gone.”

“Gone?”

“Dead,” Mike said bluntly.

“Oh, but you see, that’s where you’re wrong, Officer. Erin Faulkner isn’t dead. She isn’t dead at all.”

“Two killers?” Ben was incredulous. “There’s no evidence of a second assailant.”

“I think there is.”

“Erin Faulkner only saw one.”

“Maybe the second killer was in another room. Maybe he arrived late. Maybe he was hiding. But he was there. I’m sure of it.”

“Christina…” Ben crossed the room, letting his fingers drift across his desktop. “If there was any evidence of a second assailant, don’t you think the police would’ve uncovered it before now?”

“Frankly, no. That notation in Frank Faulkner’s Filofax led the police to Ray almost immediately. Finding a gun in his possession convinced them he was the killer. I don’t think they ever looked for anyone else, and quite frankly, if they found evidence pointing to someone else, I’m not so sure they wouldn’t have buried it. You of all people know what measures law enforcement will take to prop up a case. Especially once they’ve convinced themselves that they’ve got the perp.”

“Still… a second killer? Who’s been totally overlooked?” Ben shook his head. “It’s hard to swallow. What’s your evidence?”

Christina opened her file folder and spread it across the desktop. “Evidence might be too strong a word. More like conjecture based on the facts.”

“Such as?”

“Look at this photo of Erin ’s sister, taken at the crime scene.” She slid it across the desk. “Notice the skirt.”

Ben glanced down. “Hardly the place to be admiring someone’s fashion sense.”

“Don’t be a stooge. Look at it.” She pointed. “The skirt is lying smooth. Over her knees.”

“Okay. So?”

“Think about how she died, Ben. She was beaten and stabbed repeatedly. There was evidence of sexual assault. What are the odds that her skirt would be lying down smooth over her legs?”

Ben stared at the picture. “I admit it’s unlikely. But it’s hardly proof of a second perp. The killer probably pulled her skirt down.”