Legal Thriller: Michael Gresham: Secrets Girls Keep: A Courtroom Drama (Michael Gresham Legal Thriller Series Book 2) (22 page)

W
e turn
off of the main drag onto Moors Road when we are five minutes from my house. The officer is running with his lights flashing but turned off his siren five minutes ago. He has told me he was doing that so as not to alert Jana of our approach.

I am sitting belted into the passenger seat, praying as we rush along. I have heard from Marcel and he is on the way to my house. I have called Father Bjorn and told him what's happening and he is in the vestry in prayer for my situation.

When we arrive at my house, two other police cars are already there. Their occupants have remained inside the squad cars at my earlier request. Good, I am thinking, as I decide what comes next.

Then I phone Jana's number. It rings once. Twice. Then it goes to voice mail.

I check my gun, ensuring the safety is on but it’s loaded and ready.

The police officer protests, but I have no patience with his point of view.

"Look, officer, I don't have time to argue with you. Jana Emerich is inside my house with my wife and daughter. You can't expect me to go inside unarmed. He'll be armed, so please."

The police officer remains adamant. I remind him that as an officer of the court I have a permit to carry and as the homeowner, I have a right to defend my property and family. Then I make my decision. I've got to offer myself in place of Danny and Dania. Most likely I'm who he really wants anyway.

I walk boldly to my front door and ring the bell.

No answer, so I ring again.

Still no answer.

I circle around to the back of the house and try the patio sliding door. It opens a crack but then the twist lock secures it against entry. It is locked from the inside. So I step down to the guest bedroom window and try sliding it open. This is the room where Jana was lodged while he was staying with us. This is the room in which he probably smoked his pot and, unless I am totally off-base, the window just might be unlocked as he undoubtedly stood at it at one time, blowing marijuana smoke into the cold winter air.

I lift against the window frame and, to my huge relief, it slides up and open. I lead with my upper body inside the room and then leap forward, coming through the window head-first, and arching down onto the floor. I am as quiet as I can possibly be and collect myself once I am inside. Then I stand.

I can hear voices coming from my bedroom. So I peer out into the hall. My bedroom is off to my left. I begin creeping down the hall, my back pressed against the wall as I go.

I am not a physical person. I have never been in a fight, have only been hit by a man's fist maybe two times in my life--while conscious, at least. My gun is out. I decide it will just have to be me against him.

I freeze. Jana's voice can be heard coming from my bedroom. He is talking gibberish, as if he's speaking to our baby.

Without my okay the police are suddenly pounding the front door. I am alarmed beyond saying: they have decided to ignore my demand that they allow me to speak with Jana before they act. Then I hear the front door flying open after a loud crack and the sound of feet hurrying inside. I am beside my bedroom door when Jana's head suddenly protrudes, looking away from me and down the hallway toward the family room. Just as he starts to retreat back into the bedroom I swing my gun with every muscle against the back of his head.

I discover I'm much stronger than I knew. His head flies across the space of the door and slams into the door frame. He slumps down to his knees, gripping the back of his head. Without knowing it is going to happen, I launch my body on top of his and begin pummeling him with my fists. He loses consciousness under my blows and I am still screaming him and punching him when the police approach me from behind and pull me away from Jana. His face is bloody and his eyes wildly askew in their orbits. Have I killed him? I don't know and really don't give a damn.

Then I am on my feet. Danny is sprawled half-on the bed. Her feet are on the floor but her back is against the bed cover. Her neck is bleeding profusely down one side. I jump to her side and begin applying pressure to the spurting artery. It slows somewhat.

Then I hear paramedics scrambling into the room around the remains of the altercation in the hallway and I am pleading with them to save Danny's life. Then I see my little girl, seated on the rocking chair, gently swaying up and back and watching the activities in her parents' room.

"What about her carotid artery?" I plead with the EMT who is holding what looks to be a gauze pad to the wound. "Is she going to do die?"

I am frantic, beyond control, and the EMT is busy. Others are doing the ABC's: airway, breathing, and listening to her heart sounds.

The EMT with the pad at neck wound looks up at me. His words are like music to my ears.

"Luckily we have two internal carotid arteries and a thing called the Circle of Willis that can redistribute the blood flow. So if one carotid is cut, there will be a pressure loss distal to the cut. Then, blood from the other internal carotid will flow around the Circle of Willis and perfuse vessels distal to the cut in the carotid."

"What's that mean?"

"It means she should survive. All else being equal."

"Breath sounds bilateral," says an EMT with a stethoscope plugged into his ears."

"Good BP and vitals," says a third, a woman maybe half my age.

Then I am swaying on my feet and the arms of two police swing up to steady me. The room spins and they lead me to the bed and sit me down. I take Danny's hand in my own.

"You need to let her go, sir," says the female EMT. "We're transporting now."

A gurney has appeared and Danny's inert body is lifted onto its thin cover while the first EMT continues to apply pressure to her neck.

I leap up and come around the bed. I scoop Dania into my arms and jerk the covers off our bed. The wool blanket comes away and I wrap Dania inside a warm cocoon. We are told we can ride in the ambulance with Danny and we hurry after the gurney as it rolls through the house. Jana is restrained face-down on the carpet of the hall. Handcuffs bind his hands together and a knee presses against the back of his head, pinning him to the floor, where he has ceased struggling.

We are in the ambulance, careening around corners and rushing down streets and back roads until we screech to a stop beneath the overhang of our local hospital's ER entrance. Danny's gurney is lowered to the ground and she is rushed away. Dania and I follow. We come to a closed door thorough which Danny, evidently, has disappeared. The orderlies guide me to a chair in a small waiting area and I sit with my daughter snuggled up and held close to my chest. Now we can only wait.

It is several hours before a surgeon in green scrubs comes out through the forbidden door. A surgical mask is hanging half off his face and he is rubbing his hands on his pants.

"It's good," he tells me. "She's going to pull through just fine."

"Can we see her?"

"Sure. Give us about thirty minutes to move her from recovery to a room. Someone will come for you, okay?"

"Okay."

Marcel finds me. He rushes up and I update him. He remained behind at the house to give the police detectives a full run-down on Jana: who he is, my representation of him and the like.

"I came as fast as I could. An officer ran interference for me. So you're sure she's okay?"

"That's what I was told. Thank you."

Dania is asleep in my arms though all of it. I ask a passing nurse for a bottle of milk. She will send someone with one, she says.

Tears come into my eyes and I lower my head. My shoulders shake as it all comes pouring out. Marcel sits down beside me and drapes a heavy arm across my shoulders. We sit like that for a good five minutes. Dania finally stirs and blinks her eyes. A bottle of milk appears with a cafeteria worker who is wearing a hairnet and, with a gracious smile, she hands it off to Dania. We talk in our strange pidgin and I tell her mommy's okay, that we're going to talk to her in just a few minutes. She goes to work on her bottle.

Two police detectives find me and Marcel and Dania before we are allowed into Danny's room.

"Ah," says Marcel in recognition of the two men. "Michael, these are the gentlemen who gave me three minutes alone with Jana in your bedroom."

Says the detective with the long hair and gold watch, "It was amazing. Your guest confessed. It was a miracle how Marcel must have sweet-talked him."

Marcel is smiling ear-to-ear. "Something like that," he says. “Actually we were alone and I said, ‘Hey, how about telling me the truth about Amy Tanenbaum. They can’t do anything with you now and I want to know.’”

“What did he say?”

“He says, ‘I did her. Rudy and I planned them all out. The guitar strings, the mice, the glue—we made a plan. I did Amy, he did Franny, and we both did Scarlett.’”

“He was with Father Bjorn,” I say, “he couldn’t have killed Scarlett. But conspiracy, yes!”

“That’s right,” says the detective with the long hair. “We’re charging him with sexual assault on your wife, and conspiracy to commit murder on all three girls. Your boy is going away for three life sentences. Plus the agg sex assault time. Maybe twenty-five years on that.”

“And Marcel, you just asked Jana nicely?”

Marcel gives me a wicked grin. But I know. I know Marcel and how he works. But no one else needs to know. Besides, he’s not a cop. A citizen can beat a confession out of someone and it’s still a good confession. I nod ever so slightly at him.

"So," says the thinner of the two. He is wearing a natty sport coat and gray slacks; his partner is impeccably dressed in a navy suit. They make quite a duo. “Are you up to giving us a statement?“

I’m not, but I want to get it over with.

“Okay.”

They then take my statement with a recorder and advise me they'll return tomorrow to speak with Danny. We all shake hands and I am glad they are there. Marcel and the first detective lapse into a chat about firearms while I rock the baby in my arms and she looks up at me, guzzling her milk down. The second detective says he's going for coffee and wanders off.

It takes twice as long as the doctor said--a full hour--before I'm allowed into Danny's room. I hand the baby off to Marcel and go inside alone. To my great surprise, the head of her bed is elevated and she is able to look into my eyes when I approach her. I lean down and kiss her on the mouth. Her neck is remarkably free of dressings--just a small four-by-four taped over her surgical wound. An IV is plugged into the back of her hand and a heart monitor is clipped on an index finger. Other than that, she's doing remarkably well and her color is back.

"Hey," I say. "I'm so glad you're going to be okay."

"Hey, yourself," she says hoarsely. "Did you get him?"

"I did."

"He heard the window slide up in his old room. That's the only reason he didn't finish strangling me with the wire. He let go and waited at the door. I passed out then. When I came to, we were in the ambulance and I heard the siren. You and Dania were with me. Is she all right?"

"Yes. Marcel has her right outside the door."

"Bring her to me, please."

I step out into the hallway and return with Dania. Danny outstretches her arms and takes her baby to her chest. She kisses the top of her head and lays her cheek on the baby's crown.

"This is good, Michael."

"No more criminal law," I suddenly blurt out as tears rush into my eyes. "I cannot tell you how sorry I am!"

"Nonsense. We'll go on doing what we do. We just won't invite any more of our clients to move in," she says with a smile.

"We'll talk about it."

Marcel sticks his head inside and tells us he's off. Then he returns and comes to Danny's bedside. He leans down and kisses her forehead. He takes her hand in his paw and squeezes it. Then he turns and is gone.

"Love that guy," Danny smiles.

"I know. I love him too."

"So, I know they arrested Jana. What else?"

I spread my hands. “He confessed to conspiracy to commit murder of all three girls. He’s going away forever.”

"My God!"

"Oh, yes. We really missed the call on that one."

“Where does that leave us?”

“He’s going away for many years for what he did to you, too.”

“You know what he did?”

“You’ve been examined. We know what happened.”

Just then, Father Bjorn comes rushing into the room.

"Marcel called me," he says breathlessly. "How are you, Danny?"

He takes her hand and holds it to his chest before she can reply.

"Let's pray."

He says a short prayer and while he does, Danny's eyes find mine.

I return her look but she is suddenly gone.

She is asleep, as the pain pump has delivered another dose through her IV. I study the fine blue veins of her eyelids, then take Dania back. Father Bjorn steps away.

Then he lays a hand on my shoulder.

"Thank you, Michael."

I reach up and touch his hand.

Words are unnecessary, still I want to tell him about Jana. He should hear it from me.

I turn but he is gone.

With the baby in my arms, and a silent room all around me, I back into the visitor’s chair and find that it is a rocking chair. I breathe against my daughter's hair. Her head carries a smell like no other in the world.

I hold her, hold on tight, just me between her and the world.

Just me, and I am a better man for it.

T
wo months pass by
. At last, an answer. There will be a new baby.

When we meet for coffee in his diocesan office, Father Bjorn is looking like a man who has spent too many nights waiting up for the adolescent who’s stayed out beyond curfew. Having a son who has been thrice-convicted for first degree murder will do that times one thousand. Under the best conditions, parenting an adolescent is an exercise guaranteed to exhaust and drain even the toughest player. Parenting a serial killer while serving
in loco parentis
to an entire parish must be somewhere on the road to sainthood for Roman Catholics. We’ll see what the Pope decides to do for Father Bjorn—whether he’ll recognize the merit and grit of our priest and commence the search for two miracles or whether his sainthood will be the other kind, the kind that isn’t celebrated, the kind that happens once a month through prison Plexiglas. Time will tell, I am thinking as my priest pours our coffee.

“This time I called you,” I mention to him. “I called you because in my heart of hearts I am struggling with a personal problem involving us both.”

“Both, meaning you and I?”

“Yes. You see, Father, your son impregnated my wife, Danny, when he assaulted her.”

Father Bjorn slumps in his chair, closes his eyes, and mutters a long prayer. Then he looks up at me, meeting my eyes again.

“How can I make this right, Michael?”

“Father, it isn’t your wrong to make right. So you can’t.”

“But still—”

“No, let me tell you why I’m here. It’s not about guilt or responsibility or sin or repentance—none of that. The simple fact is, your son has made you a grandfather. A grandfather to my wife’s son.”

“Sweet Jesus!”

“Yes. I will be the stepfather to my wife’s son. I don’t know how else to conceive of this except by the common terms we all use in our everyday language.”

“Oh, oh, oh!” he exclaims, tears in his eyes. He produces a folded handkerchief and wipes at his eyes.

“But we are going to want this child christened. And we will dedicate him to the Church. And we will want you to perform the service. Would you be able to do this thing for us?”

He shuffles his feet uncomfortably as he struggles to right himself in a world that must be swaying on all four corners for him. I am struck: it is too much at once for this dear man. His personal tragedy continues to lap at him, his youthful sin refusing to extinguish.

“Of course I will do it. The only reservation being that I first go to the Church and seek its guidance.”

“How long will that take?”

“Months. Maybe a year.”

“We wanted to have him christened sometime in his first ninety days.”

“Maybe you should select a different priest.”

“Maybe we should.”

We both sit there, watching the cloud of motes dance between us in the morning shafts of sunlight separating his chair from my own.

“But here’s the saving grace for us all. We are going to list me on the birth certificate as the child’s father. He will take my name, Michael Gresham. He will grow up as my son because I will not see him suffer even a jot or a tittle of shame for what his biological father has done. That slate will be wiped clean. There will no longer be any reason for you to be known as the child’s grandfather and there will be no reason for the child to know you as his grandfather. The thread will be severed along with his umbilical cord and it will be concluded.”

“That would be the best thing.”

“We’ll be lying on his birth certificate. And you will forgive the perjury of his mother and I in making this choice?”

“Consider it forgiven.”

“There’s a world of theology at work in this.”

“More than I can comprehend,” says my priest. “It overwhelms me and leaves me shaken, unable to contend.”

“Then I’m doing the right thing by claiming biological fatherhood.”

Again we study the dust floating across the light.

“One thing,” he begins slowly. “How are you sure the child really isn’t your own offspring?”

“You’ve seen those ads on TV? The ads for erectile dysfunction?”

“ED?”

“Yep. That’s me. And my prescription was awaiting refill at the time this child must have been conceived. Which was the exact day your son raped my wife.”

“Sweet Jesus! Why did I ask?”

“Because you’re a good man and you would have guided me free of all this if you could have. But you can’t and I can’t. What’s done is done. It’s our work now to confirm and protect innocence no matter the price.”

“Then I join you in that. I will have no claim on your boy.”

“That’s what I really came here to know.”

“Well, you have my joinder in this.”

“Your lineage will end with you, Father.”

“So be it. As it turns out, it’s a win for the world.”

Now it’s my turn to sit uncomfortably, my mission concluded, my son’s genetic code interrupted and changed by my will.

A peace spreads over me, then, and I am calm as I visualize the double helix of a DNA chromosome morphing into something it was not.

Rebirth.

It always begins with us.