The Grave Soul (29 page)

“That's so sad,” said Jane.

“Yeah. It is.” She rubbed her ear. “I suppose you're wondering why I wanted to talk to you.”

“I am.”

Katie opened her mouth, then closed it. “I'm not sure where to begin.” Clearing her throat, she tried again. “A couple of nights before Dad died, Doug Adler brought Evangeline over to the hospital. When Kevin arrived a few minutes later, I asked if they'd mind if I went down to the cafeteria to get myself a sandwich and a cup of coffee. They told me to go, to take as much time as I needed. When I got back maybe half an hour later, I found that Evangeline and Doug had gone. I didn't go in right away because Kevin was sitting by the bed holding my dad's hand. He was crying. Dad was crying, too. The only other time I ever saw my father cry was when my mother died. Kevin kept saying, over and over, how sorry he was. That he'd made a mess of everything. That he'd single-handedly wrecked the lives of all the people he loved most.

“Needless to say, I had no idea what he was talking about. He begged my dad for forgiveness. He was almost inconsolable. At one point my dad lifted his hand and put it on Kevin's head, smoothed his hair. Because of the stroke, that had to have been a real battle for him. The whole scene was heartbreaking. I backed away from the door and gave them some time. When I approached the room again, I made sure my shoes slapped hard against the tile so they'd know I was coming. Their eyes were red when I entered, but they'd mostly regained their composure. Kevin left almost immediately, saying he'd be back first thing in the morning.”

“Did you ever find out what it was about?” asked Jane.

Katie rose and stepped over to the front window. Turning her back to Jane, she said, “Yes, I did. I assume you already know. That's why you went to the nursing home to see my dad. You wanted to find out if your suspicions were accurate.”

“Did he tell you what happened?”

“It was difficult for him to find words, but his mind was still clear. Slowly, haltingly, he explained that he'd helped the Adler family cover up Delia's murder.”

“That must have been hard to hear.”

“Very.”

“Did he tell you who committed the murder?”

“Kevin.”

So there it was. A “dying declaration” in a criminal case didn't fall under the hearsay rule. Walt Olsen's statement would be permissible in court, if Katie was willing to testify. For Jane, it was one more nail in Kevin's coffin. “Have you talked to Kevin about it?”

“No. And I don't intend to.” She sat back down on the love seat. “For years, I had the sense that my father had a secret, something that ate at him. I even talked to my mother about it once. She said she'd sensed it, too, but had no idea what it could be. That night, after Kevin left, Dad did his best to explain. He made it clear that covering up a murder was a crime—the single worst thing he'd ever done as a police officer. After that day, he said he never again felt like he deserved to wear the uniform. And then, opening his eyes and looking straight at me, he said that he'd do it again in a heartbeat. He said those last words perfectly. No hesitation.”

“Did he tell you why he did it?”

“I didn't ask and he didn't say. He was exhausted by the admission. I wasn't about to push him for more detail.”

“Of course.”

“The next night, he motioned for me to bend down close to his mouth. He whispered, reminded me of the old wooden box in his room at the nursing home. He always kept personal papers inside. In his broken speech, he told me that there was a letter in there addressed to me—that I should go get it right away. He died in the wee hours of the following morning.” She flipped open the folder. Inside was a typed letter. “Here,” said Katie. “You might as well read it.”

Jane took it and read silently. It started out, “To Whom it May Concern,” and then detailed everything Walt Olsen had done on the day of Delia's murder. How Evangeline had called him to the scene. That Brian Carmody, Evangeline's younger brother, the owner of a funeral home in Union and the elected county coroner, had joined him. That Brian, Kevin, and Walt had carried Delia's body out of the ravine. That Brian had pronounced the death a murder by manual strangulation, and that Kevin admitted to the crime. How Delia's body was whisked away in the coroner's van. And finally, that Brian's intention was to cover up the marks on Delia's neck and send the body to be cremated. The letter, amazingly enough, had been notarized. At the end of the letter, Walt had added a handwritten personal note:

My dearest Katie: There is no excuse for a police officer to act as I did. I deserved to be criminally prosecuted and sent to prison. Every day of my life I have lived with the shame of my actions. I am an old man now and there is no way to change any of this. I leave it to you to decide what should be done. Give the letter to the police, or burn it. My ultimate crime was putting love and loyalty above honor and duty. I will meet my Maker one day soon, and He will tell me if I did right or wrong. Perhaps I did both. In any event, I trust your judgment more than mine. I only ask that you remember me kindly as the loving father I always tried to be. Dad.

Jane looked up, tears in her eyes.

“He told me he wrote that last part the day before his stroke. If you hadn't gone to see him, I never would have received that. Knowing his thoughts mean the world to me.”

Jane handed the page back.

“No, you keep it.”

“Me?”

“I've thought about this and nothing else for weeks. I can't bring myself to turn my father in, and yet maybe that's what needs to be done.”

Jane felt a sudden rush of adrenaline. This was exactly the piece of evidence she'd been looking for, and yet now she, too, had a dilemma.

“I pray that you'll be given the wisdom of Solomon,” said Katie. Rising and looking down at Jane, she added, “With so many lives hanging in the balance, you're going to need it.”

 

40

The vibe was mellow inside the Sportsman's Tavern when Jane entered just before closing time. Kevin was wiping down tables, singing along with the Righteous Brothers'
Unchained Melody
on the jukebox. Only one customer remained seated at the bar—an old guy with nothing better to do than nurse his last inch of beer.

When Kevin looked up to see who'd come in, his face brightened. He even looked a little relieved. But then the memory of what had gone down must have penetrated because the smile dissolved into a frown. He switched off the music, then called, “Hey, Burt, time to call it a night.”

The old guy turned and nodded to Jane. “Evening,” he said.

“Morning,” she responded.

“I suppose you're right.” He finished his drink in two sips. “I'll catch you tomorrow,” he said, tossing a look at Kevin. As he shuffled to the door, he donned a fur-lined cap with earflaps. “Cold out there,” he said to Jane with a wink. The bell above the door jingled as he trudged out.

As Jane glanced around, she unbuttoned her sheepskin jacket, making sure she had easy access to the holster clipped to the back of her belt.

“Surprised to see you here,” said Kevin, moving behind the bar, tossing the white towel over his shoulder.

Jane kept her distance. “Have you talked to your daughters today?”

The question seemed to confuse him. “
Daughters
?”

“I met Grace this morning.”

A silence followed her comment, brief but undeniably charged. “You just never quit, do you?”

“No, I don't.”

“I thought I made it clear the last time we talked that you were to leave this town and never come back.”

“Funny thing about that last
conversation
,” said Jane. “I don't remember a word of it. It's called retrograde amnesia. Often happens after a traumatic injury. I'd say that the beating I took falls under that heading, wouldn't you?”

He pulled the rag off his shoulder, dropped his gaze to the bar.

“Why, Kevin? Why did you do it?”

His eyes inched up. “You really don't remember?”

“I vaguely recall dragging myself out to a highway, getting picked up by a van. I remember looking at myself in a mirror in a bathroom somewhere, seeing my face all bruised and bloody.”

“Honestly, Jane, I'm glad you're here. I was worried and hoped you'd be okay. I've thought about you so many times.”

“You should have been worried. I suppose, since I don't remember much, you could lie, tell me whatever you want, but I don't think you will. Some part of the man I met and got to know during the time I worked for you had to be real.”

His eyes searched the row of glowing lanterns hanging above the tables. “I wasn't the one who hurt you.”

“Right. It was your evil twin.”

“Look, I just wanted to talk to you away from the bar. I had to find out how much you knew, and what you intended to do with that knowledge. Mostly, I needed to convince you to leave town, to get the hell away from me and my family and never come back. You lied to me about who you were, why you were in town.”

“Yeah, lying sure is a mortal sin, isn't it? I mean, you'd know if anybody would.”

“I thought we were friends.”

“In another time and place, we might have been.”

“My brother came along that night. He was the one who got rough with you.”

“
Rough
?”

“I know,” he said, eyes cast down again. “I know. I never intended any of that. When Doug gets drunk, he's hard to control. He slugged me in the stomach and shoved me into the snow, then he started in on you. I finally dragged him off and pulled him back to the car. I told you to wait for me, that I'd be back. I had to get Doug calmed down. It took longer than I'd expected. He eventually agreed to sit in the car while I ran to get you, but when I reached the clearing, I saw that you'd gone out to the road. Laurie's Windstar was parked there, so I knew she had you—that you were safe. But then I got to thinking that you might convince her to drive you straight to the police station. That you'd file an assault charge against us, maybe even tell them what you thought you'd found out. Doug and I drove over to the government center. The Windstar was nowhere around, so we got the idea of driving to Hannah's house, thinking that Laurie might have taken you there. Sure enough, the van was in the drive. We ran up and banged on the door.” He stopped. “You don't remember any of this?”

“Nothing,” said Jane.

“We demanded to be let in. Hannah came out on the front steps. She refused to let Doug into her house because he was so obviously angry—and hammered. She acted like she didn't know what we were talking about. She eventually let me in, but you weren't there. You must have told Laurie what had happened when she picked you up, but she refused to talk about it. At that point, since I assumed you'd heard what I said to you, I figured you were sufficiently frightened and that you'd taken off. Only thing is, when I got back to the bar, your SUV was still parked behind the building.” Kneading the white towel, he added, “You may not believe me, but I'm sorry about what happened.”

“Really? If Doug hadn't been there, and if I refused to do what you asked, how
rough
would you have gotten?”

He hesitated before answering. “I don't know.” Approaching his next comment more warily, he said, “You said you met Gracie this morning. How—”

“Guthrie Hewitt and I came back here last night. We drove to the farmhouse this morning. Kira was in the process of feeding us this fake story about how her mother died when Grace appeared out of nowhere and said it wasn't true. She gave us the real story, which came as a complete surprise to Kira.”

“Oh God,” groaned Kevin, placing both hands flat on the counter to steady himself. “Can this get any worse?”

Jane moved up to the bar, removed the package of photographs from her pocket, and dropped them in front of him. “You said there was no proof that Delia was murdered. You might want to take a look at that.”

“What is it?”

“Photographs of the crime scene. Strangulation marks are clearly visible on your wife's throat.”

He pushed the package away. “I don't need to see them. I was there. Tell me how Guthrie got them?”

“They were sent to him in the mail along with a note that said, ‘Proof Delia was murdered. Stay out of it or the same thing will happen to you.'”

Kevin seemed confused. “Who—”

“Father Mike looked at the handwriting and said it was Doug's.”

His smile was bitter. “Ah, Dougie. I can always count on him to do the wrong thing, especially when he's had too much to drink.”

“So you admit you murdered Delia?”

“Are you wearing a wire?”

The comment struck her as funny. “No, Kevin. No wires. No recording devices. Just you and me talking.”

He considered that for a moment, then seemed to accept it. “Whatever I say means nothing without proof. That's critical to any investigation and you don't have any.”

She shrugged.

“Those photos may show that my wife was murdered, but that says nothing about who did the deed. The death was ruled accidental. There's nothing out there that points to anything else.”

“You've covered your tracks well,” she agreed.

“Thank you.”

“Still, I've managed to figure most of it out.”

“If you say so.”

“I know what happened. I know you did it. But I don't know why.”

“Why would you care?”

It was a good question. The answer slipped out before she could stop herself. “Because I don't want to hate you.”

The tightness in his face eased. “You think understanding why someone does something mitigates the action?”

“No.”

“Then?”