Indefensible (28 page)

Saturday, 4:42 a.m.

D
awn lightened the highway to a pale black, studded with a darker patchwork of the potholes for which Nova Scotia highways were famous. Jamie Gainsford slowed his car to look for the track to his cabin. It had been three years since he'd been here. He was glad for a little daylight to help his search.

There. The gate was almost obscured by shrubs, but the No Trespassing sign could still be seen.

He turned off the highway. He'd made good time. In fact, the timing was perfect. He had enough light to find the track yet was early enough that there were few cars on the highway to note his arrival.

He stopped in front of the gate and slipped out of his car. The air was fresh, soft. His breath eased out of his chest. He was finally here. He was closer to Lucy. Not that his cabin was very close to Prospect; it was two hours away from Halifax. But at least he was in the same province.

During the drive from Toronto, he'd figured out the
final leg of his plan. He could see no flaws. That was the beauty of a simple plan. Less chance of it getting screwed up.

He'd grab Lucy during Randall Barrett's bail hearing, which he guessed would be in four or five days. He'd call Penelope Barrett on Monday and caution her that Lucy should not be permitted to attend because she wasn't emotionally stable. Lucy had told him that she liked to take Penelope Barrett's dog for long walks, and he'd suggest to her grandmother that Lucy be encouraged to do so. It would be easier for him to abduct Lucy if she wasn't in the house.

He unlocked the gate barring the track. The headlights of his car caught the tall, weedy bushes and small saplings that had sprouted in his three-year absence. The gate swung closed with a rusty squeak that made his teeth clench.

After five minutes of spine-jarring bumping, and a near miss with a stump that Jamie barely remembered in time to spare his muffler, he pulled into the small yard in front of his cabin. A few trees had been cleared to allow sunlight.

Compared to Jamie's luxuriously appointed house in Toronto, the cabin was primitive. But Jamie had done his best to fix it up after he bought it from the nephew of the old hermit who had built it with his own two hands—staining the shingles a deep caramel, caulking the windows to keep out the winter chill and overhauling the cellar. Over the years, he added more homey touches: a zebra-skin rug, a rocking chair, bookshelves, several games. But no mirrors.

It was just the way Jamie wanted it.

He parked the car in front of the shed, leaving the headlights on. He unlocked the small outbuilding, sweeping his flashlight around the interior, squatting to illuminate the underbelly of the truck that he had left untended. Selling it had been out of the question; he suspected too much evidence lay embedded in its seats. He ran the light around the truck's interior, along the bed and under the tailgate, making sure that the truck hadn't become home to a creature that might take it into its head to attack him.

No, the shed had withstood the attempts by the woods to overtake it.

He hurried back outside and hoisted a battery out of the trunk of the rental car. It took only a few minutes to replace the truck's dead battery. He turned over the engine. It came to life with nary a complaint. He shut off the engine and returned to his car. Lifting a suitcase out of the trunk, he walked over to the cabin.

His heart began to pound.

He unlocked the front door, the key slipping from his fingers when the unmistakable foulness of rotting flesh met his nostrils.

No. It wasn't possible.

A body could not still stink three years later.

He dropped his suitcase, skimming his flashlight over the main room of the cabin.

There, by a broken window, lay a dead raccoon. It had feasted on the poison Jamie had left for any pests that infiltrated the cabin.

He found a shovel in the shed and carried the rotting corpse out to the back, flinging it as far as he could into the woods.

The next corpse would require a little more effort.

He'd buried Becky Murphy in the basement.

And even though her corpse no longer smelled, he didn't want any reminders of her in the cabin.

Not while he waited for Lucy.

Monday, 11:30 a.m.

E
ddie Bent settled himself in a chair in McGrath Barrett's boardroom. “Nice view.” Halifax Harbour lay below them, silver shimmering on blue.

Kate grinned. “It's overkill to book the boardroom for just this box of files, but I decided to make a point with Nina.”

It was time to take a stand with McGrath Barrett. The firm needed to understand that, as of now, Randall Barrett was a client. No more backstabbing.

And she'd forced herself to treat him like a client, and not visit him at the correctional center over the weekend. She could not afford to have the lines blurred. Not until the case was over. She'd seen him briefly this morning, at the Supreme Court. He'd looked like crap.

“The police must have been working all weekend to put this together,” Eddie commented. The box in question had been given to Kate by the Crown this morning. It contained evidence against Randall that the Crown was required by law to disclose, such as the interviews of
witnesses, including Randall and his family, the medical examiner's preliminary findings, the FIS notes, a blood/alcohol report and whatever else the police had dug up.

“I'll take the interviews,” Eddie said, flipping the top off the box and pulling out a binder with a DVD held in place by an elastic band. “You take the rest.” He popped the DVD into Kate's laptop, plugged in her earbuds and fixed his attention on her laptop screen.

Kate began with the M.E.'s preliminary findings. She did her best to maintain a professional objectivity as she read the descriptions of Elise's injuries. But to know that the “unidentified patterned injury” had been caused, according to Nick, by someone striking her with a blackjack while she slept made Kate feel sick. She visualized how Elise smashed her head against the concrete stairwell after falling over the balcony, resulting in a “depressed skull fracture in upper occipital region.” Kate wondered how the injuries she had inflicted on Craig Peters were described by Dr. Guthro.

Eddie hummed lightly under his breath as he listened to the statements, flipping to the transcribed notes in the binder every so often and shaking his head. “What kind of question is that?” he muttered more than once.

Kate finally finished her assessment of the M.E.'s report and dug into the evidence box for the next file folder. Therapy Notes from Dr. Jamie Gainsford, Clinical Psychologist was written in black marker on the tab.

“Did you know the police had gotten hold of Elise's therapist's notes?”

Eddie paused the DVD. “Interesting. That's unusual.
Although from what I've seen, they don't have much to go on. They probably were desperate.”

Kate poured herself another cup of coffee. Dr. Gainsford had kept scrupulous notes—the dates coincided with the appointment times recorded in Elise's PDA. But they were handwritten.

“These aren't transcribed, Eddie.” She waved the first page at him.

Eddie glanced over the page. “Doesn't matter. He's just required to keep a record. A lot of therapists don't have secretaries or even receptionists. They run things themselves. I'd only be concerned if the records were spotty.”

“No. The dates all match up.” Kate settled back in her seat with the file. Eddie turned the interviews back on. She was glad he was occupied with the video because she felt slightly clandestine reading the therapist's notes. Maybe because she was curious to see what made Randall's ex-wife tick. She wanted to know what kind of woman Randall had chosen to be his mate, what kind of woman could screw around on a man like him.

It didn't take long for her curiosity to change into discomfort. Dr. Gainsford's notes were terse and to the point, providing a telescopic view of Elise's innermost fears and anxieties. Those should have died with her. But now they would be shared with all kinds of people who would dissect the notes—and subsequently dissect
her
. It didn't seem fair that this woman was a victim of a horrible crime and was now subject to the most intimate scrutiny in an effort to make the perpetrator pay. First her body had been taken apart. Now her mind was fair game to everyone who had a point to prove.

And her heart was, too. Her pain over her relationship with her ex-husband and her son were discussed at every session. It was uncomfortable to read. Did Randall know how much anguish he had caused? Kate wondered. She hoped not. She didn't think he was that heartless.

June 8. Client distressed. Ex-husband forced her to have sexual relations. Emphatic that it was nonconsensual. Refer to rape-counseling center?

Kate's fingers trembled. She reread Dr. Gainsford's note. She had not misread it.

Oh, God.

She dug her fingertips into her temples.
Think, Kate.
He admitted to having had sex with her. But rape? Was it true? Or was Elise exacting some kind of revenge on him? But telling her therapist would achieve nothing; the notes were confidential.

Had Randall raped his ex-wife?

“Eddie,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady despite the pounding of her heart, “have you come across any witness statements that suggest Randall sexually assaulted Elise?”

Eddie paused the video and gazed at her over his reading glasses, which appeared ludicrously small on his fleshy nose. “No. Is that what she told her therapist?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus.” He reached into his jacket, then withdrew his hand. There were no windows he could open in this high-tech office tower to let cigarette smoke escape. “You need to talk to Randall about this.”

Kate shook her head. “You do it.”

He lowered his pen. “Why me?”

She looked away. “I can't.”

His eyes sharpened. “Why not?”

“I don't want to know the answer.”

“Kate, I've known Randall for a long time. I've defended rapists before. He isn't one of them.”

“How can you be sure?”

“It's a dead woman's rantings to her therapist, Kate.”

“You mean confidential records where the victim would have no reason to lie.”

Eddie took off his glasses. “Maybe she had a reason to lie to her therapist, Kate. Sometimes it's difficult for people to admit they've made a mistake. Even to themselves.”

Kate stared at him. “Or maybe Randall was under so much stress between all the stuff happening in the firm, and then his son stealing his money, that he just lost it. He told me he'd been drunk when it happened. And he was drunk the night Elise was murdered. He doesn't remember a thing.”

Eddie arched a shaggy brow. “A blackout, huh?”

“Yes.”

“That adds a twist. Has he been able to piece together any of his activities?”

Kate shook her head. “No. He was alone that night. He has no one to corroborate where he was until the harbor patrol found him.”

Eddie gave a slow whistle. “I don't think he's capable of murder, Kate.”

“But he's doubting himself, Eddie.” Kate had seen it in his eyes. “And with these notes…” She shook the file folder. “Elise was afraid of him.”

“Listen, let me tell you something. This debate we're
having shows exactly why our job is so important. We are surrounded by evidence—” He gestured toward the papers and reports that were spread all over the table, a white two-dimensional bridge that connected his chair to Kate's. “And it's all written in black and white. Some of the facts are indisputable—Elise Vanderzell took sleeping pills, has an unexplained skin-pattern injury, was killed by brain hemorrhage due to cracking her skull from a fall.”

He held up his glass of water. “See how clear this is? It's transparent. And yet, if you stick this piece of paper behind the glass, like this—” he took the page of Dr. Gainsford's notes from Kate's hand and placed it behind the water “—it's not so clear, is it?” Kate stared through Eddie's glass of water. The words undulated on the page. Some were illegible, others magnified. “And that is because when we believe a fact is indisputable, it is, in actuality, distorted by the perception of those who interpret it.” He passed Dr. Gainsford's notes back to Kate with a flourish. “Nothing is as it seems.”

“That's a wonderfully existential perspective, but we need a theory of the case, Eddie.”

“You are quite right.” He gazed at her like a fond father whose child had just surprised him with her percipience. “You tell me yours and I'll tell you mine.”

“Fine.” Kate blew a strand of hair off her forehead. “I think either Randall did it or his son did. But if Randall suffered a blackout because he was so drunk, how could he have committed the crime the way Nick described it? And leave no trace evidence for the police to find?”

“Kate—” Eddie stuck one arm of his reading glasses between his teeth “—you obviously don't know many
drunks. Let me tell you from personal experience that you can have a blackout and act in a nonintoxicated manner.”

“So Randall could have committed the murder?”

“In theory. Yes.” Eddie put his glasses back on.

“Damn.” Kate exhaled. Then straightened. “But since we're defending Randall—and he hasn't admitted any guilt—we need to build a case around Nick.”

Eddie leaned back in his chair. “Go on.”

“He is obviously capable of violence. His attack on his father was premeditated. Then he accused his father of murder. I think Nick was trying to deflect suspicion from himself.”

“It's very possible. But what about an unknown party? Do you think there could have been an intruder that has not yet been identified?”

Kate shook her head. “The only eyewitness is Nick, and he claims the intruder was his father. There aren't any other suspects. Except Nick, of course.”

“The underachieving son of overachieving parents. Who each have a big life insurance policy.”

“Exactly.”

Eddie tapped his fingers on the table. “But Randall has emphatically stated that he does not want our defense to point any fingers at his son.”

“So we're back to where we began,” Kate said, her voice glum. She stared at the therapist's file. Eddie was right—if they couldn't pin this on Nick, they would have to thoroughly discredit the evidence the Crown provided, starting with Dr. Gainsford's notes. Surely there was some gray to be found in the spaces between those damning black-and-white words.

Eddie pushed back his chair. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to obscure my thoughts in a tobacco-induced haze.”

Kate nodded. “I'll finish up here. Then I'll take this evidence over to Randall. He needs to know what will be said about him tomorrow.”

He'd been blindsided by his son, his firm, and now, it would appear, his ex-wife. Kate didn't know whom she believed anymore, but she would not allow Randall to be blindsided on her watch.

That being said, he'd better not have lied to her.

 

Jamie put his cell phone down on the table in his cabin and rubbed his hands. His nerves tingled with excitement. This was the feeling he had at the end of a long stakeout in the South African bush, when he knew the wait was about to end, that the prey was about to cross into his sights.

Ralph Moore, the Crown prosecutor who had taken over Randall Barrett's bail hearing, had just called him. He'd been reviewing Jamie's notes and had a few questions.

Barrett's hearing, he informed Jamie, was scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. Jamie had tried to cover his surprise—he hadn't thought it would be so soon. If Randall got bail, he would want to be with his family.

And that meant Jamie's opportunity to snatch Lucy would be significantly reduced.

He needed to act quickly.

The waiting was over.