See No Evil (7 page)

But Julia knew what the victims went through. They were scared, true, but more than that they were deeply humiliated. The hurt didn’t end with the physical pain. They suffered emotionally for the rest of their lives. On top of that, Emily would have had to talk to a judge, possibly take the stand and testify. Her word against a respected jurist. And now, three years later, any physical evidence was gone. No proof. Even a mediocre attorney could rip Emily’s story apart.

“Why didn’t you tell someone?” Dillon asked Emily quietly.

“I don’t know. Who’d believe me? And…I tried to forget. I didn’t want to think about it. Ever. And then, a month later, he was there, outside my bedroom when I was leaving for school. He told me I was a good girl because I kept my mouth shut, and so he knew I’d liked it.” Tears streamed down Emily’s face. “He said he’d have a surprise for me when I got home from school and not to be late. That’s when I ran away.”

Dillon said, “When you came home after you ran away, when did your stepfather start hurting you again?”

“He didn’t touch me, not like that. Instead he”—she drank more water, coughed—“he made me give him a blow job every Wednesday afternoon. I started drinking to get rid of the taste.”

She had no more tears, her voice was a monotone.

“And one day I read a newspaper article about a rapist he put in prison. He was quoted. ‘When a woman says no, she means no.’ And I realized then, I’d never said no. I just did what he told me. It was all my fault. And I got drunk and spray-painted the courthouse.”

Dillon tried to reassure Emily. “It wasn’t your fault. You are not to blame for what he did to you.”

“Goddamn bastard,” Connor whispered, his body radiating the same tension building within Julia. He dropped her hand and paced.

Dillon reassured Emily, and steered her back to what happened yesterday at the house. The day Victor was murdered. “You said you came into the house but didn’t hear your stepfather. I don’t understand what you meant.”

“Every Wednesday I come home as close to six as possible. Hoping he’d be busy. But he always heard me, like he was waiting. Watching through the security camera. He would call out for me. He now had something on me. He said if I didn’t come and do what he wanted, he would call my probation officer and tell her I was habitually breaking curfew. I had no choice.”

“But yesterday he didn’t call for you.”

She shook her head. “I thought he was on the phone. Maybe had company. I ran upstairs and was so happy. I locked my door. Safe. And stupid. I got some rum. I know I’m not supposed to drink, but it numbs me, makes the bad stuff go away. I can forget about him, forget everything.”

“This is important, Emily. I want you to think hard. Why did you go downstairs?”

“My flask wasn’t full, so I ran out of rum. I thought I could sneak down to the parlor and get a refill. So I did.”

“What time was that?”

She thought, then gave a halfhearted shrug. “Six-thirty. Maybe later. I’d taken a bath when I got home. I put on my robe and went downstairs. Barefoot, so he couldn’t hear me. Tiptoed. Filled the flask and put it in my pocket.

“Everything was weirdly quiet in the house. I was drunk, I knew it, but I was scared ’cause something was wrong or out of place, but I didn’t know what. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Victor’s library door open. He never leaves it open when he’s in there. And I had to know where he was. If he wasn’t in his library, was he looking for me? I was very quiet. I walked down the hall and looked in the room.

“He was dead. I’d imagined it before in my head, just like this, but there was so much more blood. So much more.”

On her bed, Emily began to rock back and forth, back and forth. Julia clasped her hands together to force herself to remain calm and not burst into the hospital room.

“It was like I was in a trance,” Emily said. “It took forever to walk across the room, but I did. I had to look closer. He was dead. Just like I dreamed.”

“Did you touch him?”

“I think…I think I did touch his desk, maybe his arm. It was unreal, seeing him dead. I thought I was hallucinating. This was a drunken nightmare, and I’d wake up in the morning and Victor would still be alive.”

“What did you do next?”

“I ran, slammed the door shut—I don’t know why. It’s not like he could chase me. He was dead. I don’t know what I was thinking, but I was scared. It was exactly like I’d planned. I’d wanted to kill him. I wanted to! But I didn’t. I don’t think I did. I don’t know anymore. I just don’t know.” Emily rolled over and curled into a ball, sobbing.

Dillon soothed her, assuring her he would return and no one would hurt her. He left the weeping girl. Julia, too, felt comforted by Dillon’s soft, rhythmic words. Her heart rate slowed, and she was better able to process the evidence without the cloud of too many emotions.

Julia turned to Dillon when he exited Emily’s room. “Can I see her?”

“Yes, in a minute.” He looked at his brother Connor. “What are you doing here, Con?” The three of them stood in the observation room outside Emily’s room.

“Ms. Chandler hired me.”

Dillon said, “Good. I’ll need to talk to Emily again, and we need someone to follow up on what she tells me. She said she ‘pictured’ Victor’s murder, that she planned it. I need to know exactly what she means by that. Maybe she did plan it, talk about it to someone else.”

Julia shook her head. “The police will be all over her for it. She didn’t mean that.”

“We don’t know what she meant until she tells us,” Dillon reminded her.

“This is an obvious case of sexual abuse,” Julia said, her voice cracking. “Stanton won’t prosecute, even if she was somehow involved.” She cleared her throat. “I need to be with her.”

“Julia, we still don’t know exactly what happened,” Dillon cautioned her.

“Are you saying she’s lying?” Julia exclaimed.

“No.”

Connor interjected, “What Dillon means is that Emily was impaired yesterday. She might not have all her facts straight. We need to verify everything she says, find out exactly what she meant about ‘planning’ Victor’s death.”

“Whose side are you on?” Julia asked them. “I thought you were here to help her, not interrogate her—” Julia stopped herself, rubbed her face, and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

“You haven’t slept, you’re stressed, it’s understandable that you’re edgy. Go in, talk to her. What Emily really needs right now is family support.” Dillon paused. “Where’s her mother?”

Julia glanced at Emily through the observation room’s window. She’d stopped crying, but her body was still curled into a ball. She looked so small. “Crystal…she has issues.”

“Everyone has issues, Julia.”

“Crystal is defined by her status. With men, with money, with society. Having a child didn’t fit into that.”

Reluctantly, Julia continued. She didn’t like thinking about Crystal and her brother, Matt, and her problems with her brother before he died.

“Crystal and Matt were in college and she got pregnant. I’m convinced she deliberately got pregnant because of who Matt was. His connections, his money, his name. They married and everything seemed okay for a while.”

“A while?”

“Matt adored Emily. Adored her more than Crystal, or so Crystal thought. She played all these mind games with him—pretending to be ill, pretending to have secret admirers—every game in the book. Eventually, Matt tired of it. I don’t know the details. He knew I didn’t like Crystal so we rarely talked about his marriage. It had been a sore point in our relationship, something I regret because we lost so much that we had before Crystal came into the picture. But I knew something was going on. Matt asked me to review all the legal documents that Emily was associated with, and he made me executrix of her trust. Then…he died.”

“A car accident, right?” Dillon asked.

It had been the worst night of Julia’s life, and she couldn’t go into the details for fear of cracking. The guilt scratched at her, trying to control her again. She pushed it back. “Six years ago. It was awful. Losing him, then battling Crystal just to see my niece. Very unpleasant.” Unpleasant? Julia sounded like her mother. That entire year had been Hell.

“And what’s Emily’s relationship with her mother?”

“Crystal doesn’t have real relationships. Unless you can do something for her. It’s all about connections. Crystal’s only connection to Emily is through my brother, a dead man she certainly never loved.”

Dillon sighed, made some notes. “I don’t think it’s in Emily’s best interest to go home,” he said, “but circumstances may change in the next few days. Right now, the best thing for Emily is to keep her here. But I don’t think she’s suicidal. I’m going to put her under a nondisclosed medical observation for seventy-two hours. That should give you,” he said to Connor, “some time to follow up on her comments.”

“First place I’d go is to her shrink,” Connor said.

“I’ll talk to him,” said Dillon. “He won’t give you anything.”

“And you’ll share?” asked his brother.

“Of course.”

Connor nodded. “The police have the house and Emily’s possessions as evidence, but I’ll follow up with her friends, her school, her affiliations, anyplace and anything to find out who she might have talked to about her feelings toward Victor. Verify her whereabouts yesterday, her state of mind. I’ll call around to see what kind of evidence Will and Gage have. I still have a few friends on the force.”

“We should regroup tonight and compare notes, go from there.”

“Can I see her now?” Julia asked, only half-listening to Dillon and Connor’s plans.

Dillon nodded. “Yes, but then go home and get some sleep.”

She just shook her head, then glanced at Connor. “Thank you.”

Connor watched Julia enter Emily’s hospital room. The two men observed the young girl carefully. Her response to Julia was warm and tearful. They embraced and both women cried. Connor felt distinctly uncomfortable. He’d never thought Julia Chandler capable of real emotion. He knew she cared about Emily, though she’d played the runaway situation a lot differently than this.

“Emily has been very forthcoming,” Dillon continued, “but there’s something she knows and either can’t remember or doesn’t want to say.”

“I think you’re right.”

Dillon said, “I was surprised to see you, considering your history with the counselor. Why are you doing this?”

“I like the kid.” When Dillon didn’t say anything, Connor added, “I found Emily when she ran away. I didn’t know—she never let on what Victor had done to her.”

“What was her state of mind back then?”

“She was living on the streets. She was scared, tired, and using drugs. She cleaned up, promised she wouldn’t…” Connor sighed. “Maybe I just didn’t see the signs. I knew she didn’t want to go home. I should have found out why.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over it, Connor. Julia’s guilt is enough for everyone.” Dillon paused. “Tread carefully.”

“Don’t I always?” Connor smiled.

“Can you say that with a straight face?”

The outside door opened and Officer Diaz stepped into the observation room. Dillon asked, “What’s wrong?”

“The press is all over the building. I just thought you’d want to know.”

“Thanks,” Dillon said. “We’ll go out the doctors’ garage. It’s secure.”

Connor watched Julia and Emily talking. He could barely make out what they were saying, but Julia was trying to convince the girl that she should have told her about the rape.

“I would have taken care of it, honey.”

“I was scared, Jules.”

Jules.
He remembered Emily always called her that. Never “aunt.” More like an older sister. Friend. Confidante.

But Emily hadn’t confided in anyone, and the pretty teenager was now the prime suspect in a murder case.

EIGHT

D
R.
G
ARRETT
B
OWEN WAS
a renowned leader in anger management. Expert witness and oft-appointed court psychiatrist, he handled an array of celebrity and charity cases, from the rich to the poor and every stripe in between.

Dillon didn’t have time to read Bowen’s numerous publications in every major psychiatric journal, but he wasn’t surprised to see Bowen was a minor celebrity in his own right with a two-book deal, the first of which was being published in three months:
Exploit Your Anger for Health, Wealth and Happiness.

While Bowen handled some charity cases—and made a big deal about them—his client list favored the wealthy. Upon arriving at Bowen’s suite of offices, Dillon took note of the opulence, the fine art and rare antiques complementing the predominately modern decor. The only personal effects on Dr. Bowen’s desk were several framed photographs of his family—a lovely wife with a teenaged son. Dillon remembered reading a while back that Bowen was a widower. Another picture was of a beautiful woman of about forty and Bowen on a yacht, another an older picture of Bowen as a very young man with who appeared to be his parents and sister.

Dr. Bowen himself looked the part of quiet wealth—in his midforties, manicured hands, expensive yet business-casual attire, hair graying perfectly at the temple. Dillon wondered if he dyed it to appear distinguished.

At that moment, Dillon completely understood why Emily didn’t trust this man. Teenagers, as did most people, got their first impressions based on appearance, but unlike people with more experience, teenagers routinely stuck with that impression, good or bad. Emily hadn’t said anything to that effect, but she certainly hadn’t told Bowen about her stepfather’s sexual abuse. Dillon made a mental note to check the judge’s contributor reports and charity listings for cross-references between Bowen and the Montgomery family.

Crystal Montgomery was attracted to the trappings, the feeling of wealth and confidence. These same things repulsed Emily. If Emily had been allowed to pick her own psychiatrist, perhaps she wouldn’t be in the position she was today.

Or perhaps not. Victor Montgomery was still a child predator and rapist, and Dillon couldn’t muster a whole lot of sympathy for his death. The main thing that disturbed him was that someone had either taken justice into their own hands—never a good thing—or Montgomery’s murder had nothing at all to do with Emily. That meant running through the judge’s criminal court cases one by one.

“Thank you for taking the time to see me today, Dr. Bowen,” Dillon said.

Bowen steepled his fingers. “I was on my way over to the hospital to talk with Emily when you called. I was…surprised, to say the least…when you told me you were her doctor.”

Dillon didn’t want to let on exactly what his role was. He didn’t like Bowen’s tone. “We both have Emily’s best interest at heart.”

“I didn’t know you worked for the police department.”

“I’m in private practice. A consultant, not on payroll. Much like yourself. I’m low profile.”

“Don’t be humble. You’ve handled several cases that garnered extensive media attention. The recent killer—the guy who glued his victims’ mouths shut—wonderful profile and analysis. I saw that interview with Trinity Lange. And the Lorenzo case a year ago, the Steiner trial—your analysis there was particularly fascinating, by the way—then the Brooks suspected murder-suicide. Your testimony turned the case. You have a knack for speaking straight with the average person.”

Dillon disliked the press attention he’d received, mostly because of the media’s propensity to sensationalize every detail, often to the detriment of victims and survivors. “The press just made it seem that way.”

“You’re their golden child.”

Dillon was becoming uncomfortable with this conversation, and couldn’t help but think Bowen was intentionally baiting him. He was about to get the conversation back on track when Bowen said softly, “You’re the only psychiatrist I know who can comfortably work for both the prosecution and the defense.”

It was the passive-aggressive tone, trying to elicit a reaction from Dillon, to see what buttons might be pushed. If Bowen treated his clients like this, it’s no wonder they grew to distrust him.

Dillon knew he’d waited too long to answer and had given Bowen some indication of his anger threshold. Wasn’t that his specialty? Anger?

“I wanted to discuss Emily Montgomery with you, Dr. Bowen,” Dillon said.

Bowen nodded, didn’t say anything. He didn’t take his eyes off Dillon. Did he think the scrutiny would unnerve him?

“When was the last time you saw Emily?”

Bowen turned to his computer screen, tapped a few keys, then responded, “A week ago Tuesday. I see her every Tuesday, but she missed her last appointment.” He didn’t sound like this was unusual. He’d already pulled her file; everything he did now was for show. Dillon couldn’t help but wonder what he was trying to prove—or hide.

“Did she call?”

“She did. Spoke to my secretary and assured her that she’d be back next week.”

“Is that allowed? Considering that her counseling is court-ordered.”

“It is. She’s required to take twenty-six sessions a year, every other week. Her mother insisted that it be weekly, and I accommodated that request. Considering that Emily is being counseled for anger management issues, the more often she can talk out her problems and inner anger, the better for her and less likely she’ll get into trouble down the road.” He sighed. “Can’t say that it helped in this case.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Dr. Bowen looked at him strangely, his eyebrows raised. “Considering she’s being held for murder.”

“I think you’ve been misinformed,” Dillon said. “No charges have been filed.”

Dr. Bowen waved his hand. “You know as well as I that the police are building their case as we speak, and they won’t file any charges until you report back to the court. Seventy-two hours, correct?”

“She’s under a seventy-two-hour assessment.” He saw no reason to correct Bowen’s misperception over which side he was working with.

“Suicide watch, according to her mother.”

Again, Dillon didn’t correct him. “Has Emily ever exhibited any signs of wanting to end her life?”

“Anyone filled with the rage she had when she vandalized the courthouse is capable of ending her life.”

Dillon disagreed, but didn’t argue with Bowen. However, people who were sexually abused, particularly as minors, were more likely to become clinically depressed and self-destructive. “Has she said anything to you?”

“Now we’re getting into dangerous territory, Dr. Kincaid.”

“Are we?”

Bowen straightened. Almost imperceptibly, but Dillon didn’t miss the bristling of his back. “My reports are filed monthly with the court, as per the agreement. You can read my evaluations and assessment of Emily’s progress in them.”

Dillon had been prepared to ask about sexual abuse, but pulled back. He didn’t want to give Bowen any information he didn’t already know.

“I’d hoped I could get your general feelings about Emily, her state of mind, anything that might help me in making an assessment of her emotional strength.”

Bowen sighed and glanced at the computer screen, but Dillon suspected he was thinking more than reading. “Emily Montgomery is a troubled young lady. Ran away from home—twice. Vandalized the courthouse to the tune of nearly a quarter million dollars. Serious damage. Hostility toward her mother, her stepfather, and deep-seated anger at everyone and everything in her life. I believe it stems from losing her father so suddenly, and having a mother who is, for lack of a better word, emotionally immature. Crystal Montgomery wants everything in her life picture perfect—everything to look just fine for neighbors, friends, and anyone else she wants to impress. Emily acting out—undoubtedly to gain her mother’s attention, if not her love—is the imperfect picture that Crystal abhors. But teenagers aren’t perfect, they act up, they need attention, they need guidance.”

Dillon was stunned at the seeming about-face in Dr. Bowen’s attitude. One minute, reluctant, the next, espousing a textbook explanation of the Montgomery family. It had the ring of truth but it seemed too bland. And considering Bowen didn’t know about Judge Montgomery’s sexual abuse of his stepdaughter, Dillon couldn’t help but wonder just how much Emily had lied and manipulated to avoid talking about what truly terrified her.

“One final question, if you don’t mind,” Dillon said.

Bowen nodded, leaned back in his chair, and clasped his hands across his flat stomach.

“Emily’s relationship with her mother and stepfather was strained, but what about her aunt?”

“The prosecutor?” Bowen seemed surprised by the question and rubbed his chin in thought. “Emily never really discussed Julia Chandler. It seemed to me from the little she did say that they had some sort of cordial relationship, but Emily views her more as an authority figure. Considering Emily’s delinquency problems, I can’t imagine that they were all that close.”

“But you don’t know that with certainty.”

Bowen tensed. “No. Emily rarely talked about her.”

The doctor-patient relationship cleared for Dillon. Over a year of therapy and Emily told Bowen very little about her life, just enough to get by. Dillon wondered how detailed Bowen’s reports to the court were, and whether their accuracy could be trusted.

As if sensing what Dillon was thinking, Bowen said, “Teens are naturally reticent when faced with authority. Close-mouthed. Especially troubled kids like Emily.”

Sounded like an excuse to Dillon.

“Thank you, Dr. Bowen. I appreciate your assessment.” Dillon stood to leave.

“Can I expect a copy of your report?” Bowen asked.

“It will be filed with the court.” Dillon smiled.

“Of course.”

“I’ll review your court documents and get back to you.”

“Please do.” Bowen stood. Some sort of invisible line had been drawn. Dillon wasn’t sure exactly what Bowen’s game was, but something was off.

Dillon walked toward the door, stopping only when Bowen asked, “How did Judge Montgomery die?”

The information would be coming out sooner rather than later. “Penile amputation.” He kept the rest of the details to himself.

Bowen blanched. “Sounds like a sexually motivated crime.”

“Appears so, on the surface.”

“You have a different opinion?”

“I have no opinion at this point.”

“If that’s the case, you have a stronger spine than I thought.”

By the time fourth period ended and lunch began, La Jolla Academy was abuzz with rumors.

“Ohmigod! Did you hear about Emily
Montgomery
?”

“She killed herself.”

“No, she
tried
to kill herself.”

“No, she
pretended
suicide so she wouldn’t be thrown in jail. Her stepfather’s dead.”

“He was a senator.”

“Dummy, he was a
judge.
”

“Maybe one of those people he put in prison killed him.”

“Hey, maybe it was the terrorists, you know, going after people in their homes.”

“Shut up, dumbshit, they use bombs, not knives.”

“Knives? How do you know?”

“I dunno.”

Faye Kessler sat in the far corner of the gym, pretending to eat her lunch. Quiet, reticent, and known on campus as a geek, Faye had few friends at school. That she had been arrested for shoplifting would have surprised not only her teachers, who found her odd but extremely gifted, but her peers, too, who didn’t care enough about her existence to even make note of the occurrence.

Much like her father. If Faye hadn’t broken two display cases at the mall store she’d stolen from, he would have brushed the incident under the rug just like he’d done everything else in his life. She’d gotten his attention for about five minutes. Then he carted her off to a shrink, paid for the displays, and ignored her again.

Get over it.

Yeah, right, she’d been telling herself that for years, ever since her mother walked out, leaving both of them, in order to “find herself” in some country far from America. Faye got a card every August—for her birthday—and that was the only connection with the woman who’d given birth to her, then left seven years later without a second thought.

What Faye
knew
and what she
felt
were two completely different things. Sometimes her feelings bubbled up and she couldn’t control her actions. It was both invigorating and terrifying. But most of the time Faye felt nothing. Except when she was angry. She knew this, understood it, but couldn’t control it.

She spotted Mike Olson across the lunchroom. That fluttery feeling came back, starting in her chest and tingling out, down her spine, making her flush. The same feeling she’d had when Trent Payne had invited her to the movies last year. She thought he liked her because he’d told her she was “really sharp” and could get into whatever college she wanted. He’d seemed so impressed with her that she’d mistaken the attention for something more. When he’d kissed her, the same tingles were there, hot and exciting and forbidden, but then he started hurting her and he wouldn’t stop. He tore her new blouse, the one she’d bought just for their date, and tried to pull off her jeans. He was going to rape her, she knew it, while murmuring nice words in her ear, trying to get her to go along with it.

She’d seen then, in the Cadillac truck his parents bought him for his sixteenth birthday, that he had never liked her. He’d thought she’d be easy, an unattractive girl who never had dates, who no one looked at, who got straight A’s in school but no one noticed, not even the teachers. A little attention from a cute football player and she’d be willing to spread her legs and let him fuck her.

She had more self-respect than that.

Not only did she stop him from humiliating her, she’d broken his nose, and a week later his precious truck got broken, too.

Payback.

Mike Olson glanced over at her. Their eyes met. She couldn’t even swallow.

He turned away. Maybe he wasn’t really looking at her. Maybe he didn’t even know her name.