Storm Gathering (31 page)

Bill Cassavo met Aaron at the jail early Monday morning. They walked together toward the room where the guard would bring Mick.

“The fact that he ran is only going to hurt us,” Bill said with a heavy sigh. “We had a good shot of proving him not guilty before. But now things have changed.”

Aaron glanced at him as they walked. “We’ll just have to work with it. It’s all we have.”

Bill nodded. “It doesn’t guarantee defeat. I’m telling you, the prosecution doesn’t have a lot to go on here, other than Mick was at her apartment. It’s all circumstantial. As long as a body doesn’t show up, I think we’re in the game.”

“What about Sammy Earle?”

“My investigator is already on it. He’s definitely got a motive. One can never be sure why they chose Mick over Sammy. But the more we have on Mr. Earle, the better.”

A guard unlocked a large metal door for them.

“I just can’t get over those flowers, Bill. They mean something, but I don’t know what.”

“The ones that were signed Sammy but billed to an obsolete credit card? The police are kind of pretending like they don’t even exist, aren’t they?”

“I don’t think they know what to make of it. It doesn’t fit into the theory that Mick did it, that’s for sure. And if Sammy did it, it seems rather obvious.”

Another guard let them into a room full of long metal tables and orange plastic chairs. Bill and Aaron sat facing the door so they could see Mick coming.

“How’s he feeling?” Bill asked.

“They released him from the infirmary early this morning. He’s going to live, but other than that, I don’t know too much. Last night he looked like he was knocking on death’s door.”

Aaron saw Mick through the small window of the room. The scrubs hung on him. Mick’s dreary eyes met Aaron’s, then shifted to Bill’s as the door to the room opened.

“Sit here,” the guard instructed and put a firm hand on Mick’s shoulder, pushing him into the seat as if he couldn’t do it by himself. The guard chained his leg to the chair but uncuffed his hands.

“Hi,” Aaron said gently.

Mick didn’t respond.

“Mick,” Bill tried, “you should know, the detective followed them to the pond. It wasn’t a setup. They had no idea.”

Mick’s eyes shifted back and forth between the men. Then he stared at the table. “Okay,” he murmured.

“How are you feeling?” Aaron asked.

“If I died in the next five minutes, I wouldn’t be upset about it.”

“We’re going to get you out of here,” Aaron said.

“I’m not holding my breath.”

“Things aren’t adding up. There are a lot of things about this case that don’t make sense if you’re the fall guy,” Aaron said.

“I’m confident I can build a good defense case,” Bill added. “They don’t have a body. They don’t have anything other than your admission that you were there.”

“That seems to be enough.” Mick sighed.

“Do you remember anything from that night? anything more?” Aaron asked.

“Things have become less foggy. But I don’t remember anybody coming in and taking her, if that’s what you mean.”

“What do you remember?”

“Bits and pieces of conversation. Taylor seemed to be searching for who she was. Apparently she came from a pretty rough background.”

“Did she say that?” Aaron asked.

“No. I found it out. Talked to her mother.”

Aaron and Bill exchanged glances. “When?”

Mick shrugged and smiled. “I’ve been doing a little investigating in my spare time.”

“No kidding. What else did you find out?”

“Sammy Earle’s a woman’s worst enemy. According to his secretary, he ruined Taylor’s credit when they broke up.”

Aaron shook his head while Bill feverishly wrote notes down. “Wow. Who else did you talk to? The president?”

“Crawford. According to him, you’ve been doing some investigating too.”

“Finding out everything I can, brother, to prove your innocence.”

“I just wish I knew what happened to Taylor. We had this weird connection. Nothing really even romantic. Just two people who could connect.”

“My money is on Earle, and I think that’s where we need to focus,” Bill said. His cell phone rang, and he excused himself from the conversation.

Aaron shook his head and sighed. “He just got that thing, and it rings all the time. I think I liked pagers better.”

Mick leaned forward and in a hushed voice said, “Aaron, I can’t afford an attorney like Bill. I’m going to have to have a state defender.”

“Don’t worry about the cost. I’ll take care of it.”

“I’ve gotten myself into a real mess here.”

“I’ve been pray—” Aaron stopped himself. His brother didn’t want to hear it.

“You’ve been praying what?” Mick asked.

“Um . . . praying for you.”

“Probably what kept me alive,” he said with a boyish grin. “I ran through a fire to escape!”

Aaron laughed. “That’s what I heard. Pretty bold move.”

“Wouldn’t do it again. Lucky for me, there was a stream that ran through the field. I have no hair left on the back of one leg. However, I did learn that it’s really not that helpful to be soaking wet, because it causes steam burns. Who knew?”

They both chuckled and Aaron said, “Probably every firefighter in America.”

Then Mick said, “I prayed too.”

The men smiled at each other.

Aaron said, “Bill and I will get to work on your case. We’ll leave no stone unturned. And I called Mom and Dad this morning. They believe in you. Don’t doubt that.” Aaron reached into his pocket. “I almost forgot. I went by to get your mail, and this was in your mailbox.” He handed him the envelope.

“What is it?” Mick looked down and opened it, pulling out cash. Aaron watched as he quickly counted it. “I can’t believe this.”

“What’s wrong?”

“This is the exact amount that was stolen out of my wallet.”

“You had money stolen?”

“Yeah. But I couldn’t quite figure out when. The only thing that made sense was sometime at Taylor’s, but I could never put it all together.”

Aaron and Mick stared at each other across the table.

Bill approached. “You’re not going to believe this. My investigator just called, and he’s pulled up some very interesting information on Sammy Earle.”

“What?” Aaron asked.

“Let me guess,” Mick said. “Found out that Earle was involved in a controversial shooting in Vietnam.”

Bill and Aaron looked at Mick.

Bill’s mouth was hanging open. “How’d you know?”

Mick offered a sly grin. “Like I said, I’ve been poking my nose around.”

“What happened?” Aaron asked Bill.

“According to my investigator, Earle witnessed his best friend get shot to death in Vietnam by another U.S. soldier. Earle has sought psychiatric help for it. He’s a known alcoholic. Anyway, the soldier who shot Earle’s friend was court-martialed. Earle testified against the man, who claimed he was saving Earle’s life because his buddy was getting ready to kill him by accident.”

“So Earle testified on his dead friend’s behalf.”

“That’s right.”

“It certainly gives us a good idea about his past,” Aaron said.

“So was he found guilty?”

“Yes,” said Bill.

“And then he disappeared,” Mick added. Bill and Aaron couldn’t hide their astonishment. Mick smiled mildly. “Patrick Delano, right, Bill?”

Bill nodded.

“What do you mean he disappeared?” asked Aaron.

“Disappeared before he was sentenced. Escaped somehow, but there’s not a lot of information on how he did it.” Bill looked at the money on the table. “What’s that?”

Mick fingered the bills. “A clue that may lead us to prove that things aren’t always as they seem.”

It had been over a week since Aaron had put on his uniform. It felt heavy. He drove toward the police station, wondering how he would be received. How many people believed in Mick’s innocence? How many in his guilt? Uncertain about how he would feel seeing Jarrod again, he tried to sympathize with his situation. Jarrod was young, impressionable, and easily persuaded.

At the back of the building, Aaron parked his car and got out, hoisting his belt up and touching his badge. Mick had used it wisely, but Aaron had been dumb not to report it stolen. Aaron walked through the back door and down the long hallway. He noticed a certain empty, eerie silence through the hallways. Where was everyone?

As he turned the corner, he heard murmuring. His heart skipped a beat, and he felt unbearably self-conscious. Nearing the break room, he could hear distinguishable voices. A large group of people surrounded the small television.

“What’s going on?” Aaron asked.

The group jumped and glanced from Aaron to the television.

Captain Bellows was standing near the front, and he looked uneasy as he approached Aaron. He took Aaron’s elbow and guided him outside the room.

“What’s going on?” Aaron demanded again.

“Stephen Fiscall was found dead in his home about twenty-five minutes ago.”

“W-what?” Aaron stammered. “How?”

“Looks like he shot himself in the head.”

Aaron shuttered. “Suicide.” He turned to walk back down the hallway.

“Kline! Get back here!” Bellows called after him.

“I have to go!” Aaron said, picking up his pace.

“Kline!” Bellows hollered as Aaron pushed the back door open. The bright sun blinded him while he raced to his car.

Aaron sped toward Cottonwood Valley, his thoughts twisted around in shock. He pulled into the neighborhood, which was barricaded four streets away. Pulling his car to the curb, he flashed his badge and ran toward the amassed cars in front of Fiscall’s home.

Yellow tape crisscrossed the porch. Detectives Halloway and Martin stood on the sidewalk by the front door and watched him approach.

“Can you believe this?” Halloway said quietly.

Aaron shook his head. “Crime-scene techs in there?”

“Yeah, along with Crawford and his team.”

Martin jabbed his thumb toward the door. “Found him at his desk in a silk robe and slippers, one gunshot through the head.”

Halloway studied Aaron. “You okay? Heard they got Mick last night.”

Aaron nodded.

“You look beat. Why are you here?”

“I had to come see this for myself. I’m supposed to be at work.”

A shadow crossed the doorway, and Aaron glanced in. Shep Crawford was walking across the entryway. He looked directly into Aaron’s eyes, held them steady for several seconds, and then walked on.

Aaron, Martin, and Halloway watched a technician lift fingerprints off the doorknob. Halloway shook his head, staring at the man. Martin was glancing around at the frenzy. All Aaron could hear was the stern
no
 that he had heard the day he had come here, intending to knock on Fiscall’s door.

A wave of chills raced down his body.

Crawford was kneeling by Fiscall’s body, his small flashlight tracing the wood underneath the desk. Fiscall was slumped to the side, purple blood snaking down the left side of his face, his right hand stiffly dangling over the side of the chair. A small pistol lay at Fiscall’s foot. A water glass was shattered against the wood floor near where Crawford knelt.

Randy Prescott came up beside him. “What are you looking for?”

Crawford didn’t answer but continued to flick his flashlight toward the floor. Then he fell forward, his hand crunching against the broken glass. He cursed and stood up.

“You okay?” Prescott asked.

Blood dripped from a large gash below his thumb. As Crawford held it up to examine it, a stream of blood fell onto Fiscall’s forearm. Crawford cursed again, this time loud enough for everyone to hear, and grabbed the bottom of his shirt, wrapping it around his thumb. “Somebody get me a Band-Aid! Prescott, make notes right now. Mark the exact places my blood hit Fiscall.” He clasped his hand around the wound and backed up slowly.

The medical examiner, Douglas June, approached and said, “Let’s go outside.”

In the front yard, Crawford opened his hand, and the ME wrapped his thumb. “You’ll need stitches,” he said, winding gauze around it. Crawford stood silently as June secured the wrap with tape. “You sensing something here?” June asked, ripping off the tape and patting it into the gauze.

Crawford massaged his thumb. “There’s something not right.”

“I heard the guy was pretty depressed about his family leaving him.”

“Come with me.” Crawford led June back inside to Fiscall’s body, warning him not to step on the glass. “What’s your estimated time of death?”

June shrugged. “I’ll know more precisely when I get him back to the lab, but I’d say somewhere between ten and midnight.”

“Look at this,” Crawford said. He pulled on medical gloves and pointed toward the bloody, matted hair on Fiscall’s left side.

“I see a bullet hole.”

“Ever so slightly indented?”

June looked closer. “Okay. Yeah.”

Crawford stood up. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Dr. June, but isn’t it true that the gas from the muzzle of a gun puffs out the skin?”

June glanced back at the wound and nodded slowly. “You’re exactly right.”

“So why is his skull indented instead?”

“As soon as I can get this body, I’ll have a lot more information for you,” June said.

“We’ll work as fast as we can.”

Chief Sandy Howard walked toward them, his face drawn into a professional but stern expression.

Prescott shifted uncomfortably, his eyes wide and set toward Crawford.

“Lieutenant, give me an update. I’ve got a swarm of reporters out there wondering why someone is dusting for fingerprints inside the home of a DA who killed himself.” Sandy’s eyes shifted to Fiscall’s cold, pale body. He shook his head remorsefully.

“Sir, I think we have a homicide made to look like a suicide,” Crawford informed him.

Sandy’s bulging eyes widened. “A homicide.” He glanced to the gunshot wound on the side of Fiscall’s head. “Don’t say it flippantly, Shep. If we’ve got a murdered DA here, things are going to go mad very quickly. You better be sure of what you’re saying.”

June said, “There is something fishy about the bullet hole. As soon as I get him, I’ll be able to confirm it.”

Sandy swallowed, glancing around the room. Crawford pointed to an 8-x-10 photograph of two black Labrador retrievers sitting on the edge of Fiscall’s desk in front of a picture of his family. “I saw two bowls of dog food and water in the kitchen. Where are those dogs?”

The three other men standing around the body stared at the picture for several seconds.

“Prescott, get another detective, and go search the property. Hurry.” Crawford made a strict gesture, and Prescott exited the room.

One of the crime-scene technicians came through the door. “We’ve got a set of prints off the doorknob and an entire handprint off the front glass window. The rain was so heavy we didn’t get any footprints except—” the tech smiled—“across a patch of dirt on the front porch. A perfect imprint of a shoe. Size 12.”

“Run the prints,” Crawford said.

Sandy was shaking his head. “Our number-one suspect has an alibi.”

“Can’t get a tighter alibi than being in police custody,” Crawford said. “We’ll see if the prints tell us anything.”

“Do you think this is connected to the Franks case?”

“I think we’re getting ready to start a whole new chapter,” Crawford said.

Sandy blew out a tense sigh. “Okay. I’m going to put off the press conference for another hour. Nobody leaks a thing or heads will roll. Understood?” Sandy stared at Fiscall’s frozen face, turned, and walked out of the study.

Crawford pointed to Fiscall’s arm. “Prescott made note of this. His forearm was marked with my blood when I cut my hand on that glass.”

“Okay, I’ll make note of it in my files too,” June said.

Prescott rushed through the door, his cheeks flushed and his hair tangled from the wind. “We found them.”

“The dogs?”

Prescott nodded, catching his breath. “Looks like they were killed near a large tree and then dragged underneath some heavy bushes near the outskirts of the front of the property. Their necks may have been broken.”

“Why would someone break their necks instead of shooting them?” June asked.

“To show they had control of the situation, control of the animals meant to guard Mr. Fiscall, I imagine.” Crawford rubbed his fingers against the stubble on his face and walked out of the study toward the front door.

Stepping into the bright light, he watched law-enforcement personnel scrambling around the yard in haste. Aaron Kline stood by two other officers near the front porch. Crawford looked at the two uniformed officers and said, “Move the crime-scene tape out to the front-fence line where the dogs are before we lose whatever evidence there is.” When the two officers left, Crawford said to Aaron, “Looks like the law was on your brother’s side after all.”

Bill Cassavo sat across from Mick in the early evening of his first day in jail. Mick felt weak but passed on the food offered so far. He doubted his appetite would return for a while. No one expected the judge to grant bail, which was contributing to his appetite loss as well.

Bill was talking about the arraignment hearing, which was set for the end of the week. His words faded in and out as Mick studied the attorney. So much like Aaron. Pulled together, with peaceful, confident eyes. Mick wasn’t sure what people saw when they looked in his eyes, but he figured most of the time his eyes betrayed him. If they were indeed a window to his soul, there was no telling what looked back at others.

“. . . and I’m keeping a close eye on the Fiscall case,” Bill said.

Mick tuned back in. He’d heard the news soon after Aaron left. It was one more bizarre thing trying to insert itself into the mystery that had now overrun his life.

“I’m going to assume it’s related, Mick. It’s the only thing I can do. Rumors are running rampant that this is not a suicide. I know Aaron will keep us abreast of the situation.”

Bill’s remarks vied for his attention, but his mind wandered back to Taylor. And the strange envelope of money that had turned up. Add that to the mysterious death of the DA, who was sure Mick had done it . . . it made his head spin.

Aaron had told him of the flowers that were sent to Taylor before she disappeared, signed Sammy, even though Liz claimed he only used his initials and was usually too cheap to spend that kind of money on flowers. The details attached to how the flowers were paid for fascinated him as well.

He tried to match all of Aaron’s information with what he knew about Sammy Earle. But there were no real links between the two sets of facts.

He hoped that Fiscall’s death was somehow connected. All he could do now was sit. And wait. And think.

And pray.

Another two hours of paperwork begged for attention from Crawford’s desk. Night dissolved into the windows, and the squad room’s fluorescent lights were beginning to strain his eyes. A rare anxiousness tapped at his insides, causing his foot to bounce up and down.

His phone rang and Crawford snatched it up.

Prescott and the other detectives at their desks watched.

“Yeah?”

“Lieutenant, it’s Dr. June. You were right. The skull was crushed. Looks to be something smooth and round, but I can’t directly identify it. That didn’t kill him, though. It would’ve done some brain damage, but he died from the gunshot wound from his own gun.”

Crawford wrote down notes. “When will you conclude?”

“Probably within the next twenty-four hours, I’ll have my full report. It will take a couple more days to get the toxicology screen done.”

On the television, Crawford watched the governor make a statement, presumably about what a fine assistant district attorney Stephen Fiscall had been.