Тесс Герритсен - I Know a Secret

Under the bright lights of the Boston PD interview room, Bonnie Barton Sandridge looked even more disheveled than she had on the street. Her scraped chin was scabbed over and the streak of mascara was smeared like a bruise across her cheek. Jane and Frost sat facing her across the table, where all her belongings were laid out: A wallet with sixty-seven dollars in cash, three credit cards, and a driver’s license. An Android cell phone. A key ring with three keys. Some wadded-up Kleenex. And, most interesting of all, a small spiral notebook, half its pages filled with detailed notes. Slowly, Jane flipped through the pages and stopped at the most recent entry.

She looked up at Bonnie. “Why were you stalking Holly Devine?”

“I wasn’t stalking her.”

Jane held up Bonnie’s notebook. “You have her workplace address written in here.”

“Booksmart Media is a business. Their address is public information.”

“It’s no accident that you just happened to show up at the pub where she was sitting. You followed her there from her job, didn’t you?”

“Maybe I did. I’ve been trying to interview her for weeks, but she’s a hard gal to pin down. Tonight was the first time I got close enough to say boo.”

“So you bought her a glass of wine. Then tried to sneak her out the rear exit.”

“Holly’s the one who insisted we leave the back way. She said people have been following her, and she wanted to shake them off. And that glass of wine I sent her was just to break the ice. To get her to talk to me.”

“About the Apple Tree?”

“The book I’m writing is about ritual-abuse trials. I plan to devote a whole chapter to the Apple Tree.”

“The Apple Tree was twenty years ago. That case is old and dead, isn’t it?”

“For some people, it’s very much alive.”

“Like Martin Stanek?”

“Is it any surprise that he’s still obsessed by it? That trial tore apart his family. It destroyed his life.”

“Funny how you don’t mention the children’s lives that were ruined.”

“You just assume he’s guilty. Did it ever occur to you that the Staneks might have been innocent?”

“The jury didn’t think so.”

“I’ve spent hours interviewing Martin. I’ve combed through the trial transcripts and read the accusations against him. They were absurd. In fact, one of the kids who accused him twenty years ago wanted to retract what she said. She was ready to sign a sworn affidavit that none of it was true.”

“Wait. You spoke to one of the kids?”

“Yes. Cassandra Coyle.”

“How did you find her? Did you stalk her too?”

“No, she found me. The children’s names were sealed by the court, so I didn’t know their identities. Last September, Cassandra got in touch with me after she read my articles on ritual-abuse trials. She knew I’d written about the McMartin case in Los Angeles and the Faith Chapel case in San Diego, and she urged me to write about the Apple Tree trial.”

“Why?”

“Because she’d been having flashbacks. Remembering details that made her realize Martin Stanek was innocent. I began to look into the case, and it didn’t take me long to conclude the trial was a farce, just as Cassandra thought. I don’t believe the Staneks committed any crimes.”

“Then who abducted Lizzie DiPalma?”

“That’s the burning question, isn’t it? Who really took that girl? The kidnapping set the stage for everything that followed. The hysteria, the satanic-abuse charges. That sham of a trial. Lizzie DiPalma’s disappearance terrified the community, and they were ready to believe anything, even tigers flying through the air. That’s what my book is about, Detective. How otherwise-reasonable people can be turned into a seething and dangerous mob.” Her face had flushed a deep red. She released a breath and sank back in the chair.

“You seem pretty upset about this, Ms. Sandridge,” observed Frost.

“I am. You should be too. We should all be upset when an innocent man spends half his life in prison.”

“Upset enough to help him plan his revenge?” said Jane.

Bonnie frowned. “What?”

“A number of children claimed that the Staneks abused them. Three of those children are now dead and one is missing. Did you help Martin Stanek track them down?”

“I didn’t even know their names.”

“You knew Holly Devine’s name.”

“Only because Cassandra told me. She said Holly was the very first child to accuse the Staneks. Holly started it all, and I wanted to find out why.”

“You do know that glass of wine you sent to her will be analyzed? And when it comes back positive for ketamine, you’ll be pretty much screwed.”

“What? No, you’ve got it all wrong! I’m just trying to expose the truth about American justice. About a time when hysteria sent people to jail for crimes that never even happened.”

“Lizzie DiPalma’s abduction certainly happened.”

“But Martin didn’t do it. Which means the real killer is still out there. That should worry you.” Bonnie glanced up at the clock on the wall. “You’ve had me here long enough. Unless I’m under arrest, I’d like to go home.”

“Not until you answer this question,” said Jane. Leaning forward, she stared Bonnie straight in the eyes. “Where is Martin Stanek?”

Bonnie was silent.

“Do you really want to protect this man? After what he’s done?”

“He hasn’t done anything.”

“No?” Jane opened the folder she’d brought into the room, pulled out an autopsy photo, and slapped it on the table in front of Bonnie. The woman flinched at the image of Cassandra Coyle’s corpse.

“I knew she’d been murdered, but I didn’t know about...” Bonnie looked at Cassandra’s empty eye sockets and shuddered. “Martin didn’t do that.”

“Is that what he told you?”

“Why would he kill the woman who was trying so hard to exonerate him? She was ready to swear the abuse never happened, that she was coached by the prosecutor into telling those crazy stories. No, Martin wanted her alive. ”

“Or so he told you. Maybe you’re just the world’s biggest patsy. Maybe he used you to track down his victims. You find them, he kills them.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she said, but there was now a note of doubt in her voice. Clearly this was a possibility that Bonnie hadn’t considered: that Martin Stanek, the man she believed to be a tragic victim of injustice, had reeled her into acting as an accomplice.

“Martin never blamed the children,” said Bonnie. “He knew they were only pawns in a bigger game.”

“Then who does he blame?”

Bonnie’s face hardened. “Who else but the adults? The ones who let it happen, who made it happen. That prosecutor, Erica Shay, used the trial as a springboard for her career, and, sure enough, she went on to bigger and better things. You should talk to her. You’ll find out she never gave a damn about the truth. Only the scorecard.”

“I’d rather talk to Martin Stanek, so I’m going to ask you again. Where is he?”

“He doesn’t trust the police. He believes you all want him dead.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s scared! He had no one else to turn to.”

“He’s at your house, isn’t he?”

Bonnie’s face tightened in panic. “Please don’t hurt him. Promise not to hurt him!”

Jane looked at Frost. “Let’s go.”

“That woman was the last piece of the puzzle,” said Jane. “Bonnie tracked down the victims, followed them into bars. Spiked their drinks. And then he did the rest.” She glanced at Frost. “Remember that cocktail waitress who recognized Cassandra Coyle’s photo?”