Grace Interrupted (28 page)

“Jack wants me to do everything his way. He thinks he understands me, but he has no idea. None.” Davey’s voice lowered, and he glanced toward the kitchen. “I’ve only hung out at this Civil War re-enacting camp for a couple days but I already feel like I’ve learned a lot. About history. About myself even.”

“That’s great,” I said.

The light went out of his eyes. “Yeah, well, what about when they leave again? Then what? I’m back to where I was.”

I bit my lip. “Davey,” I said, “I don’t want to come off like someone giving advice . . .”

He waited. “Go ahead, you might as well. Everybody else does.”

“Why not use the enjoyment you found in Civil War re-enacting as a springboard? Maybe there’s something you want to do that isn’t . . .”

“Gardening?” he prompted.

“I don’t know what other interests you have, but there’s nothing stopping you from learning.”

He seemed to consider it. “How did you get to be such an optimist? I guess you’ve never experienced a personal loss, huh?”

“Are you kidding?” I said. “I’ve just learned to fake it long enough to get through the tough times. By faking it I sometimes even fool myself.” Hearing my words, I added, “Sounds pretty ridiculous, doesn’t it?”

Davey shrugged. “I envy you. I wish I could feel positive about life. I’ve tried, but it just doesn’t work. Not in this life, anyway.”

“Have you ever talked with anyone? Professionally, I mean?”

“Like a psychologist?” He gave an unhappy laugh. “No. My mom tried to talk me into doing something like that, but I didn’t want to.”

“What about your dad?”

He fidgeted. “My dad backed me up. Said that it would go on my record as a mark against me.”

“What record?”

He shrugged. “Any record. All records. Whatever.” He shrugged again. “Lotta good it’s done me to avoid the head doctors, though, huh? I’ll be thirty in a couple of years and I’ve got nothing to show for my life. How much worse of a record can you get than that?”

I decided to change the subject. “When did you last talk with Jack?”

“He doesn’t want to talk to me,” Davey said, playing with a fingernail. “He thinks I think he’s guilty. Of both murders.”

“Do you?”

Eye contact. “No!”

“Have you told him that?”

“He should know.” Davey went back to his fingernail. “And besides, Jack believes what he wants to believe. He knows people still suspect him of the first murder. He clumps me in there with everybody else. Even after all these years.” The thought seemed to depress him. “And now it’s starting all over again. How am I supposed to deal with that now?” he asked rhetorically. “I want to be like those Civil War re-enactors. I want to do something honorable. To make it right for everyone.”

I waited for him to explain what he meant by that, but he went back to examining his fingernail.

“I don’t know why I’m talking with you,” he said quietly, “I just don’t think I can do this anymore.” He finally made eye contact again. “You know?”

“Do what, Davey?”

He glanced toward the kitchen, hunching over as though trying to make himself small. Again, I felt as though I were talking to a child rather than a grown man. “The only reason they arrested Jack this time is because they believe he’s guilty from last time.”

I nodded encouragingly.

“But if they
knew
he was innocent, then maybe they wouldn’t . . .”

Acting on a hunch, I leaned forward. “The only way the police will ever know Jack is innocent is if they found out who really killed Lyle.”

Davey’s face tightened in pain. “I know,” he said under his breath, “I know.”

Mr. Embers strode into the room, lasering his gaze on me. “I thought you were here to cheer Davey up,” he said, “not to open up old wounds. What are you really here for, anyway?”

I stood. “Davey and I were just discussing . . .”

“I know what you were discussing. And your visit is over. You want to talk to Jack, go ahead. Good luck. If last time was any indication, you won’t see or hear from him until he’s ready.”

“Mr. Embers . . .”

“Time for you to go home,” he said. With a nervous glance at his son, he added, “I think Davey should have his dinner now.” He turned back to me. “And next time you feel like stopping by, Ms. Wheaton, call first. We may not be home.”

He and I stared at each other across the family room. In my peripheral vision I noticed Davey avoiding looking at either of us. There was something unimaginably wrong with this family dynamic.

Behind Gordon’s angry glare, I caught a flicker of something else. Fear. I wondered what possible threat I posed to him. I turned to the young man on the sofa, who studiously refused to make eye contact. “Take care of yourself, Davey,” I said. “Have fun at the closing ceremonies tomorrow.”

“Ceremony?” Gordon demanded. “What are you talking about?”

Davey rolled his eyes. “The Civil War group. Tomorrow’s the last day.”

“You’re not going back there?”

Davey made eye contact with his father, a defiant look on his face. “Uh, yeah,” he said in the tone usually reserved for
Duh
! “I am.”

I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Embers,” I said. “Talk to you later, Davey.”

I hadn’t even made it to the sidewalk when I heard the door slam behind me.

I CALLED TANK ON MY WAY HOME.

“Working a little late, are you?” she asked. “It’s Friday night. Shouldn’t you be out on the town?”

Ignoring her invitation to make small talk, I got right to the point. “Can I get a peek at the police report for Lyle Kincade’s murder?”

“Lyle?” she said. “You sure you don’t mean Zachary?”

“I’m sure.”

“Well,” she said, elongating the word, “that’s not usually done. Privacy issues, security concerns, you understand. Allowing you access could impede our progress on the case.”

“It’s been thirteen years.”

“Murder cases are never closed, and this one’s active again,” she countered. “You know our focus.”

I held my breath. “I know.”

“Why do you want to see the old file?” Tank asked. “What do you expect to find?”

I hesitated. “I have a hunch.”

Tank was silent. “A hunch,” she said finally. “Care to share?”

“Not over the phone. But I think I’m right.”

“Everybody who has a hunch thinks she’s right. Until she’s not.”

I waited.

She gave a resigned sigh. “You got time now? Come down to the station. You and I will look over it together.”

“I’ll be right there.”

 

 

THE EMBERSTOWNE POLICE STATION WAS housed in a former raised-ranch single-family home in the middle of a small subdivision that had probably cropped up about the same time the Embers’ home had. The blue-sided structure was freshly painted and featured new windows, but the building still resembled a house more than it did a hub of law enforcement, despite the parked squad cars surrounding it.

I’d been inside before but had never gotten used to the smell. The new indoor-outdoor carpet’s freshness did little to mask the sour and stale odors that permeated the building’s pine-paneled walls, and the dropped ceiling that had yellowed with age and who-knows-what else.

Just inside the front door, visitors were faced with the choice to go up or down. Down the short flight were interrogation rooms and the lockup. If you could call it that. Lockup consisted of a scarred bench and handcuffs attached to either end. I’d often wondered what would happen if the police arrested more than two people at one time.

Tank stood at the top of the entrance steps. She tilted her head to her right and disappeared, leaving me to follow.

Upstairs, in a tiny office with one equally tiny window, I took a seat at her metal desk. “Where are Rodriguez and Flynn?” I asked.

“Home for the weekend. With me being from out of town, I don’t have much to do here other than work, and we have a murder on our hands. I like keeping busy.”

“Me, too,” I said.

Atop the desk in front of her, was a thick expandable file covered in heavy blue cardboard. “Before I let you see this, I need to know what you hope to find.”

I chose my words carefully. “If my hunch is right, Jack is innocent.” I pointed to the blue folder. “Of Lyle’s murder.” I met her gaze.

“Uh-huh,” she said. “You weren’t here when this murder happened. Neither was I.”

I sensed I was in for a lecture.

She tapped the blue cover. “It’s not written here in black and white because it can’t be. But every cop who was on duty thirteen years ago says the same thing: All their manpower was devoted to this case. They investigated hard. Yet Jack Embers was the only suspect they came up with. They all believe he’s guilty. Unfortunately, knowing something and proving it are two different things. They couldn’t make it stick, so they let it go. I trust these people. I trust their judgment.”

“Which may have been clouded,” I said, gauging her reaction. “I have another theory. I can’t prove it, not yet, but there may be something in the file—something that confirms what I suspect.”

“This file could just as easily prove you wrong. Are you willing to risk that?”

I nodded.

She came around to my side of the desk and took the seat next to mine, repositioning the book so we could both read it at the same time. She placed her hand atop the cover, fingers spread. “I’m doing you a favor, you have to do me a favor.”

I knew what was coming and sucked in a breath.

“Before I open this,” she said, “no more dancing around the issue. You’re going to tell me right now. Who do you think killed Lyle Kincade?”

I let out the breath I’d been holding. Very quietly I said, “Gordon Embers.”

She stared at me, expressionless, then got up and shut the door. As she reclaimed her seat, she said, “This better be good.”

 

 

I TRIED TO AVOID LOOKING TOO LONG AT THE pictures of the crime scene but the full-color images imprinted themselves on my brain faster than I could pass them to Tank. “Gruesome,” she said, echoing my thoughts. “You sure you want to do this?”

“I’m sure,” I said.

“What exactly are you looking for?” she asked. “Detectives from this department went over this file hundreds of times. They could never get enough evidence to stick against anyone. Not even Jack.”

“Because Jack didn’t do it. According to the guy who delivered his pizza, Jack was in his college apartment at the time of the murder. Far enough away that he couldn’t have made it to Lyle’s home and back. He couldn’t have done it.”

“Pretty flimsy alibi.”

I looked at her. “Not if it’s true. Which it is.” I turned to the reports filed and to statements taken from everyone who had been interviewed. “I think there’s a chance Gordon’s alibi won’t hold up.”

Tank was shaking her head. “I’ve been talking to some of the older guys on the force here. They all swear Gordon was laid up with a back injury. He couldn’t move.”

I sifted through more pages. “Where’s the doctor’s report?”

Tank frowned and joined me in my search.

“If your alibi is a back injury, don’t you think you’d have a doctor’s report?” I asked.

“You think he made it up?”

“Gordon Embers supposedly hurt his back during an altercation with Lyle a week before the man was murdered. Here’s something.” I tapped a report. Tank read over my shoulder.

Frances had been wrong in this instance. Gordon Embers had most definitely been present the week before the murder when Jack and brother Keith went to “visit” Lyle. A complete list of injuries to all parties was included in the report. Jack’s gashed face and Lyle’s broken knee. Keith had apparently suffered a punch to the kidney and a broken nose. According to the report, Gordon had sustained no injuries.

Beneath this report was a statement issued by the police department to the press claiming that Gordon Embers had arrived on the scene just as his sons and Lyle Kincade started fighting. He was credited with breaking up the violence before it escalated further, and had been commended for his involvement.

“Nice way to get him off the hook,” Tank said as she skimmed another page. “Here, I found the doctor’s report. Take a look.”

She handed me a statement from Gordon Embers’s doctor dated several days after the altercation. Dr. Pfinster diagnosed Gordon with a severely pinched nerve in his back. He had recommended bed rest for a month and prescribed a combination of powerful painkillers.

“Those would choke a racehorse,” Tank said. “Gordon must have been down for weeks.”

“
If
he took the meds,” I said, skimming the reports. I knew what I was looking for.

Tank stared at me. “Why wouldn’t he?”

“What if he made it all up? What if there was no back injury? What if he faked all this to provide himself with an alibi?”