Unreasonable Doubt (20 page)

Chapter Thirty-eight

“Doug Kibbens killed himself one year to the day after the murder of Sophia D'Angelo,” Winters said. “I can't believe that's a coincidence, so I have to ask why.”

McMillan shrugged. “Case was a tough one, even for experienced guys. I guess something happened to make him remember.”

“Perhaps,” Winters said. “Or perhaps guilt finally got the better of him.”

McMillan's gaze was stony, his eyes blank. A vein twitched in his forehead, and he scratched at the rough red skin on the back of his right hand. “You better not be going around town slandering the name of a good cop and a good man, Winters. Doug didn't kill that girl.”

“I know he didn't. I know you didn't, either.”

McMillan let out a bark of laughter. “Now we got that straight, why don't you get the hell off my property?”

Smith kept her face impassive. What was Winters playing at? He was clearly onto something. And McMillan knew it. The crude comments designed to put Smith into what McMillan thought of as her place, were gone, as was the macho swagger and the tough-old-timer routine. The retired cop didn't so much as look at her, all his attention was focused on John Winters. He tried to keep the sneer on his face, but he couldn't do it, and Molly Smith saw traces of what might have actually been fear. He scratched faster.

“Her killer,” Winters said, “has spent the last twenty-five years in an unmarked grave up near Winlaw. No name, no identify. No one to mourn him.”

The vein in McMillan's forehead beat harder. “What's that got to do with me?”

Winters reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out two pieces of paper. Smith's eyes just about popped out of their sockets as she tried to get a look without appearing interested enough to turn her head. Rain beat steadily on the roof of the porch.

Winters passed the pictures to McMillan. The older man sucked in a breath, but he didn't make a move to take them. “Thought you'd be interested, Jack.” Winters held one up. “I took these pictures yesterday, in front of a room full of witnesses. The originals are now in the evidence locker. One's a photo of a photo, as you can see, of a man's hand. Constable Smith,” Winters showed the picture to her, “do you notice that the tip of the index finger is missing?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you see the bracelet in the photo?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Recognize that bracelet, Jack?”

McMillan coughed. “Cheap piece of costume jewelry. Dime a dozen probably.”

“Maybe. But it does have some considerable importance to this case, doesn't it? Constable Smith, you may not be aware of this, but even though her colleague testified Sophia was wearing a new bracelet the day she died, it was never found.”

“Is that so, sir?” she said. “I'd say that's very interesting.”

“Therefore, you might be wondering why a bracelet apparently exactly the same as Sophia's is lying beside the hand of what appears to be a dead man.”

“Give it up, Winters. You got nothin'. A hand, a piece of junk jewelry you bought at some five and dime. Might even be your own hand, doctored up a bit, photoshopped. What do you want me to say? Oh, my God, it's Great Uncle Ralph. Always wondered what happened to him.” McMillan spat.

“I also found this,” Winters produced the second photo. “The original is, of course, now in custody, but I took a couple of pictures.”

It looked like a receipt to Smith. Just an ordinary receipt.

“From a gas station near Winlaw that's no longer there. The date is September 12, 1991.”

Smith had to bite her tongue to keep from saying, “So?” A gas station receipt from eight months after the murder? What possible relevance could that have to do with anything?

“Date mean anything to you, Jack?” Winters said.

“Not that I recall.”

“What makes it mean something to me is where I found the receipt and the original of this picture. A very interesting place,” Winter said, calmly. “Want to know where that might have been, Jack?”

“No,” McMillan said. But he made no move to go inside his house or to order them off his property. That would be all he'd have to do, and Smith and Winters would have had no choice but to walk away. His eyes flicked between the photos Winters was holding and the sergeant's face.

A branch broke in the trees close to the side of the house. Smith's eyes moved, but she could see nothing and it didn't happen again. She gave it no more thought. An animal, seeking shelter from the driving rain.

***

Walt broke into a trot as he followed the police truck. He kept to the cover of the bush, not wanting to be seen if the driver checked the rearview mirror. According to the map, this road ended just up ahead. And, according to the satellite view from Google Earth, McMillan's house was the last one. The police truck slowed and made the turn into McMillan's driveway. The property was unkempt and overgrown, and the wild forest crowded in. For once, Walter thought with a grim smile, luck was on his side. He could get close without being seen. He stood quietly next to a pine tree, heedless of water dripping onto his hat, soaking into his shoes, and waited. For some reason, the cops were waiting also.

Then the truck doors opened and they got out.

He expected to see the young cop and the overweight older one, instead it was Sergeant Winters first and then Constable Smith. Walt watched them cross the yard. They walked cautiously, checking out their surroundings, moving with care.

It was obvious they were not welcome guests. Interesting.

The two police officers climbed the steps to the porch. The door of the house opened and Jack McMillan came out, two dogs at his side. The dogs barred their teeth and growled. Walt had seriously underestimated McMillan's dogs. These weren't pets that could be bribed into ignoring an intruder by a handful of meat and a friendly pat. Again, his luck held. The rain-soaked wind was blowing from the east, away from the house, and the dogs' attention was fully occupied by the two people on the porch.

Walt edged around the yard, keeping to the shelter of the trees. He couldn't hear what was being said, but it was easy to tell by the posture of everyone involved that this was not a friendly visit. The dogs moved. They went into the house, and McMillan shut the door on them. Walt let out a sigh of relief.

An equipment shed, moss-covered roof, cracked and rusty hinges, rotting doorframe, was set a few feet back from the house, at the side closest to the front door. He slipped through the woods and emerged from the shelter of the trees at the rear of the house. He crept forward, keeping himself between the house and the shed. Here, the wind was cut off and he could hear the men talking.

“Doug Kibbens killed himself,” Winters was saying, “one year to the day after the murder of Sophia D'Angelo.”

So, Walter thought, Winters was investigating the case, not just going through the motions. Good for him. Man was a fool, though, if he thought McMillan was about to confess to murder. Over the years Walt had considered that McMillan himself, either alone or with Kibbens, had killed Sophia. He'd dismissed the idea. McMillan had arrived only minutes after Walt called the police. His uniform had been clean, as had Kibbens' when he showed up. The killer had to have gotten some of the woman's blood on him. Walt couldn't see them, try as he might, having a full set of protective clothing in their cars and being able to get cleaned up and changed fast enough without anyone noticing.

The police would be finished here soon. If his luck held, McMillan would stand on the porch and watch them leave. Then, before he could let his dogs out, Walt would suggest they have a long-delayed talk. He mentally settled down to wait.

“Are you interested in where I found these items?” Winters said.

“No,” McMillan replied. His voice cracked and he cleared his throat.

Chapter Thirty-nine

Smith certainly was interested. “Why don't you tell me, sir?” she said.

“Happy to, Constable,” Winters replied. “When Doug Kibbens died, his desk was cleared out. Standard procedure. His ex-wife wasn't interested in taking anything so it was put in a box and the box sent to storage. It's sad, I think sometimes, how little we leave behind and how quickly we can be forgotten. All the legacy of a man's life and career fit into one small office box. I'm surprised you didn't take some of his stuff, Jack. Or at least have a look through it.”

“Make your point, Winters.”

“My point,” Winters said, “is that it mustn't have so much as crossed your mind that Kibbens would leave evidence behind. If an officer familiar with the case had gone through his desk, he would have found it and known it was important. Instead, they got a junior clerk to do it, and she didn't even open the envelope. Just packed it all up and sent it away. The man with the missing finger joint dead in the woods. Sophia's bracelet beside him. A gas station receipt from Winlaw. Not hard to put the pieces together. Did you know, Jack, that a body was found in the bush near Winlaw a number of years ago when a major storm washed away part of the mountain? A man with part of his finger missing. Never identified. Never claimed. He had been properly buried, deep enough that passing animals wouldn't dig him up. I wonder who would do that?”

“Biker gang, probably,” McMillan said. “No loss to anyone. I'm surprised you'd spend your time on that, Winters. Got nothing better to do?”

“Better than exposing corrupt cops? You owe a lot to Doug Kibbens, Jack. His conscience got the better of him. It must have been pretty bad for him to end up killing himself. Too bad he took the coward's way out, though, rather than confessing. But he did leave a confession of a sort, didn't he, Jack? In his desk drawer for someone, for me, to find all these years later.”

“Sorry to hear that,” McMillan said. “Imagine, Doug hiding evidence. I wonder what made him do something like that.”

***

Winters' story should have brought a burst of justification to Walt. But it didn't. He'd known all along McMillan and Kibbens had concealed evidence that would have cleared him. Was Winters saying the two cops had killed Sophia's killer and dumped his body in the woods? In that case, more than ever, Walt's only question was why. It made no sense.

McMillan wasn't about to talk, and Winters didn't appear to have anything to charge him with. The sergeant was only here to satisfy his curiosity as to what had happened. Walt, however, didn't much care what had happened. He only cared why. He wiped rain water from the back of his neck, touched the gun buried deep in his jacket pocket.

“Tell me about Arlene, Jack.”

“Who?”

***

“Don't give me that. You know perfectly well, who. Arlene Desmond. Walter's wife.”

“Who?” McMillan said. He tried to sound disinterested, but Smith could tell he knew exactly who Winters was talking about. The blood drained from his face, and the vein in his forehead picked up its rhythm. His eyes flicked to Smith. He saw her looking at his right hand, scratched raw. He wiped his hands on the seat of his pants.

“Walter Desmond's wife, Arlene.”

“Yeah, now I remember her. She died, I heard.”

“That's right. She died. Most people think she killed herself. Heartbreak and despair will do that to a person, won't they? People in this town have long memories, Jack. Understandably, they remember Arlene and Walter Desmond in particular. Natural enough, wouldn't you agree? I've spoken to several witnesses who tell me you were having an affair with Arlene Desmond prior to the killing.”

McMillan threw a hard look at Smith. “That Lucky Smith, I'll bet. She always was a poisoned-tongued bitch.”

Smith just about swallowed her own tongue, trying not to react. And not at the insult to her mother, either; Lucky had heard worse. This was news to her. Lucky had specifically said she didn't know anything about the state of Walter and Arlene's marriage.

But this wasn't a court of law. Winters was free to draw all the conclusions he could, no matter how flimsy the evidence.

“Interesting isn't it, Jack, how things have changed in the past few years? These days the gossip would be all over Twitter: the arresting officer had been sleeping with the wife of the accused. Back then, people kept mum about things like that. People, some people, maybe most people, had more respect for the police than they do now. Even in Trafalgar, they believed whatever we said. If Desmond had been arrested, then, ergo, he was guilty. Case closed, right? Sadly,” Winters' voice turned hard and he bit at the words, “things have changed. And that has a lot to do with cops like you and your pal Doug, doesn't it? Cops who'd lie in court, pursue a personal vendetta against an innocent man. Cover up a crime for your own ends.”

“No comment,” McMillan said.

“Was it a shock to you when she didn't give up on her husband? When she insisted on his innocence, no matter what you said? She sold everything they had to pay his legal bills, moved away from Trafalgar to be near him. And then she died. A broken woman. Was she broken because of what had happened to her husband, Jack? Or because she understood that she was partly responsible for all that had happened?”

“Now you're stretching, Winters. You're outta your mind if you think Arlene killed Sophia.”

“Don't be a total fool, McMillan,” Winters snapped. Smith couldn't help taking a peek at him. He'd played it calm and cool up until now, reciting the facts in a bored just-between-us-guys tone. His composure was cracking. If there was one thing Winters hated, Smith had come to realize, it was police officers who put all the rest of them in a bad light. “Arlene didn't kill Sophia, and neither did you or Kibbens. But you were quick to take advantage of the murder to get rid of Arlene's husband. I don't know what you did to convince Kibbens to go along with it, but you're as responsible for his death as you are for Arlene's and for the waste of Walt Desmond's life.”

“This conversation's over, Winters. If you and your girl aren't off my property in one minute I'm letting the dogs out.”

Smith's eyes twitched toward the house. The dogs stood behind the screened door, looking out. They hadn't barked, not once, but their ears were up and they fixed cold, unblinking stares onto her. She liked dogs, a lot. Good or bad, dogs were what people made them. It wasn't their fault if these dogs were trained to be vicious, but they still made her skin crawl. Rain pounded on the roof and trickled between the cracks.

“Now, I have to wonder,” Winters said, “if Arlene was in on it all along, and only when it was too late did she realize what she'd allowed to happen?”

“No,” McMillan said, his voice very low. “She was a good woman. Better than I realized. Better than I deserved.”