A Blood Thing Page 8

  “As his attorney,” Addison continued, “I don’t have to know everything for the arraignment on Monday—I actually have all I need right now—but I’m hoping he’ll be more forthcoming eventually.”

  “It’s a bit hard to break through his walls, but once he gets to know you and realizes you’re on his side and not one of the people responsible for sticking him behind bars, I think he’ll open up to you—though he may need a reminder about Henry telling him he’s allowed to talk to his lawyer.”

  “I’m not sure I connected with him as well as I could have this morning,” Addison admitted. “You prepared me for him, told me what to expect, but I wasn’t as skillful as I probably could have been. I’ll be better at it when I see him again tomorrow.”

  The waitress arrived, topped off their cups, then weaved her way through the room, stopping at a few other tables to offer refills.

  “Molly . . .” Addison began before trailing off.

  “Yes?”

  She looked down into her coffee a moment before continuing. “There’s only one time that I ever put a defendant on the stand, but I think it might help Tyler’s case, if this goes to trial.”

  “You think it’ll go to trial?”

  The lawyer did a slight shoulder shrug, combining it with a face Molly interpreted as I’d love to tell you otherwise, but . . .

  “And if it goes to trial,” Molly said, “you might want him to testify?”

  “He came across to me as very sympathetic. The jury would like him.”

  “That’s good.”

  “It is. But I’m wondering whether . . .” She trailed off again.

  “Whether he’s capable of it?”

  “That’s right. I’m just looking for your impressions here. I’m really wondering how you think he might hold up under questioning, whether direct examination by me or cross-examination by the prosecution.”

  Molly thought for a moment. “I’m not sure. When he’s scared or nervous, he gets flustered. He might say the wrong thing.”

  Addison nodded. “Might not be the best thing then. I’ll think about it. And we’ll have him undergo complete medical and psychiatric evaluations.”

  “What for, exactly?”

  “A variety of things. Mostly capacity to be culpable if it were proven that he did, in fact, do what he’s accused of. And depending on the medical and psychiatric evaluations, we may be able to get a helpful concession or two from the court if we need them.”

  “Like what?”

  Addison paused. “You know, I don’t need to bog you down with all of this right now. Your plate is full. Let’s get through the arraignment and worry about the rest later. But, Molly?”

  “Yes?”

  “Eventually, you’ll get to visit him, and when you do, we might need whatever connection you have with him to figure out what he’s not sharing with me.”

  For the next few minutes, Addison discussed what to expect at the arraignment, their chances of the judge agreeing to bail, and conditions the court might attach to any such agreement. She asked questions, taking notes, and patiently answered Molly’s questions in return.

  Finally, Addison asked, “Anything else I can tell you before Monday?”

  “After the arraignment, will Tyler be going back to jail?”

  “Most likely.”

  “All the way until trial?”

  “Maybe.”

  “That could be months, right?”

  Addison nodded.

  “He’ll never survive that,” Molly said. “You met him. You saw how he is. He wouldn’t . . .” She trailed off, shaking her head.

  Images came unbidden—not memories, exactly, but snippets of them . . . putting ice cubes into Tyler’s steaming soup; huddling on his bed with him in the dark, in their footed pj’s, riding out a thunderstorm together; showing him over and over how to tie his sneakers; resting her hand on his hot, feverish cheek; telling him that he wasn’t stupid and that anyone who called him that was nothing but a bully.

  “He can’t stay in jail,” she said emphatically.

  “I’m going to argue for bail,” Addison said. “It was a violent crime, so the judge might deny it, or he might set bail so high that there’s no chance of you guys paying it, even if you’re as rich as everyone thinks you are.”

  “But there’s a chance?”

  “Judge Finley’s reasonable. Plus, there are a lot of extenuating circumstances I can argue. So yeah, there’s at least a chance I can get him house arrest. He’d wear an ankle monitor, be restricted to the house, probably, but he’d be home.”

  Molly thought for a moment. “That would be good. That would be really good. He needs that.”

  “I’ll do my best.” She paused, waiting. “No more questions?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Okay.” Addison stood, dropped a twenty on the table. “I’ll see you in court on Monday.” She started to walk away.

  “Rachel?”

  Addison turned back. “Yes?”

  “That defendant you put on the stand? How’d that turn out?”

  After a brief hesitation, Addison said, “I still believe it was the right thing to do.”

  Molly wasn’t sure the cryptic reply was what she wanted to hear. She watched the lawyer leave the café, then spent the next half hour staring blankly down at her cold cup of coffee.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Henry sat at his desk in the IAU, ignoring the files stacked on its surface, as he’d been doing for the past three hours. His active investigations could wait; he was busy with other things. First, he’d looked into Gabriel Torrance. Squeaky-clean record prior to his conviction for a nonviolent crime. No known criminal associations. There was simply no obvious reason why anyone would go to such extraordinary lengths to secure his early release from prison. Henry would go over it all with Andrew and see if his brother—a former assistant state attorney and ex–attorney general—could see something that Henry couldn’t.

  Second, he was striking out in his efforts to identify their unknown caller. He’d eliminated Andrew’s prints from those taken from the mystery phone; then he’d run the remaining ones through the FBI’s integrated fingerprint system, all of which led to . . . nothing. No hits, which meant their caller didn’t fall into any of the numerous categories of people whose prints end up in the Feds’ database, including those who had been arrested, been employed by state or federal government, served in the military, applied for a gun permit in states requiring them, worked in professions requiring government licenses or background checks, and a few other categories that likewise didn’t apply.

  Henry took a sip of his coffee, sweetened with four sugars—he didn’t like coffee all that much, but he needed the caffeine and he loved the sugar—then leaned back in his chair and thought a moment. He lifted his phone off the desk and looked again at the texts he’d exchanged with Andy an hour ago, as if they would somehow contain new information.

  Henry: Any photos or video of our guy?

  Andrew: No. I checked. Only of me.

  Henry: Nothing of you mingling with the masses after your speech?

  Andrew: No. Small turnout. They don’t film the crowd unless it’s big enough to make me look important.

  Henry: Did your press guy check with the local newspeople?

  Andrew: Yes. No luck there.

  Another dead end.

  He’d already driven back to the new senior center to look for exterior security cameras in the vicinity that might have captured the area where the ribbon cutting took place but hit a figurative brick wall. Dead ends appeared to be the day’s blue-plate special.

  He sighed and reached for his coffee mug, only to find it nearly empty. He locked the door behind him and headed for the break room. Just before he reached it, he heard Andrew’s voice. He turned the corner and found a handful of cops sitting at tables or leaning against walls, all facing the TV on the wall in the far corner of the room. On-screen, Andrew was standing behind a podium looking grave.


  “I understand that you all have questions,” he said. “The public has questions. And I’ll do my best to answer them, given a little time. But for now, I’m going to ask you to—”

  Offscreen, a woman called out, “With respect, Governor, you’re right. The public does indeed have questions.” Henry recognized the voice as belonging to Angela Baskin, a reporter with one of the local news stations. “And it seems as though you—”

  “Ms. Baskin, I’m standing before you today specifically so I can answer questions. I will do so as your governor . . . one who happens to be in a fairly unique and, yes, tragic situation. Tragic for Sally Graham and her family, of course. But also tragic for my brother Tyler, who I believe in my heart to be innocent. And tragic for our family, as well. So I’ll respond to questions in my official capacity, but at the same time, I’d like to ask you to respect our family’s privacy at this extraordinarily difficult time.”

  “Governor . . .” Henry heard Baskin call out.

  Angela Baskin wasn’t a friend to Andrew Kane. To Henry, it seemed as though an undercurrent of disapproval always flowed just beneath the surface of her coverage of him during his campaign and the gubernatorial race, and even more so since he’d won the election. Perhaps she was suspicious of any politician around whom no hint of a scandal had ever swirled. Maybe she’d been on Jackpot Barker’s payroll, like so many others had been. Henry had heard she was driving around in a new Jaguar lately, which seemed a bit of a reach for a reporter on a local news station. Whatever the reason, her stories about Andrew never had the same impartial feeling as stories by other reporters. Henry could only imagine her satisfaction, her outright excitement, about this story.

  “Ms. Baskin, please . . .” Andrew said.

  “Gonna be a rough ride for our beloved governor,” someone in front of Henry said. Sean Duhon. Henry had never liked him.

  “My heart bleeds for him,” another detective said. Kelsey Watroba. She was smart. Henry had almost asked her out once or twice. He sure as hell wouldn’t do so now.

  “Karma’s a bitch, ain’t it?” Aaron Rydell that time. Henry actually liked Aaron.

  He understood where they were coming from. Though Andrew’s investigation into the Vermont State Police—as part of his larger efforts to scrub away the stain of Jackpot Barker’s administration—had yielded only two bad apples, even that minor result contributed to an erosion in the public’s trust in the VSP, which didn’t endear the new governor to anyone in the department. Most believed that Governor Kane could have gone about the entire affair a little more quietly.

  Though Henry understood their animosity, and their satisfaction at seeing the governor squirm under questioning, it pissed him off that no one gave a thought to their brother Tyler, whom Henry likewise believed was innocent. He reluctantly admitted to himself, though, that if his last name weren’t Kane, he’d probably be saying the same things they were saying.

  On TV, Andrew said, “And while I continue to believe Tyler is innocent, my office and my family are interested in finding the truth, whatever it may be, and seeing that Sally Graham’s murderer is brought to justice . . . whoever he may be.”

  Henry knew Andrew well. He was doing the best he could up there. He looked strong, forthright, and determined, and still managed to seem fairly sympathetic. But Henry knew he was struggling inside. Henry was witnessing his brother’s worst moment in the public eye.

  “Oh, I’m sure you want to see someone brought to justice,” Duhon said to the TV, “as long as it isn’t your retard brother.”

  Aaaaand . . . that did it. Henry began to squeeze his way through the others, heading for the coffee machine. “Excuse me,” he said once or twice. As he passed Duhon, he bumped him a bit harder than necessary. “Excuse me.” He reached the coffee maker and filled his cup. “Hey, Duhon, I was just thinking about you the other day.”

  “Yeah? Why’s that?”

  “I can’t remember. I’ll have to think about it. I’m wondering if something crossed my desk recently with your name on it. I can’t be sure, though . . .”

  Everyone in the room knew what that would mean. On TV, Andrew kept answering questions, but all eyes were on Henry and Duhon now.

  “Bullshit,” Duhon said.

  “Yeah, probably.” Henry added four sugars to his coffee. “But no big deal if it did, right? You’re probably squeaky clean, aren’t you? There’s nothing I’d find if I looked into you, asked around about you a bit, is there?”

  Duhon tried to scoff, but it sounded more like an aborted sneeze. “You’re no better than your brother.”

  Henry nodded. “You got that right. And you know what? Neither are you. Or anyone else in this room.”

  He shouldered his way back across the break room. At the door, he turned and put on a thoughtful expression. “I’ll see if I can figure out where I saw your name recently. When I do, you may hear from me. Till then, have a nice day.”

  He left and had gone no more than four steps when he heard Duhon refer to him in a terribly unkind way. Someone told him he’d shut the hell up if he was smart. Someone else said no one had ever accused Duhon of being smart. The last thing Henry heard was someone say, “I don’t know about you guys, but I can’t wait to see how Kane’s brother committing murder plays on social media.”

  That last comment slowed Henry’s steps. He thought a moment. Then he hurried back to his office, trying not to spill his coffee.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  On Monday morning, a mere two and a half days after his arrest, Tyler looked a year older to Molly. Led by a sheriff’s deputy, he shuffled into the courtroom in the same clothes he had been wearing when he was arrested. His hands were cuffed in front of him, attached to a chain around his waist. The deputy directed him to an empty chair at the defendant’s table next to Rachel Addison, who sat waiting, her suit conservative yet undeniably chic, her posture perfect. Molly hoped he would turn and see her, see that she was there for him as best she could be, but he simply sat beside his attorney. The deputy took up a position five feet behind him, just in front of the railing separating the gallery of onlookers from where the action would take place.

  Molly knew it must have been her imagination, but Tyler’s skin looked gray, as though sunlight hadn’t touched it in months. A three-day growth sprouted in patches across his chin, cheeks, and neck. He was a creature of habit—rituals seemed to soothe him—and from the day he was old enough to shave, he’d done it with great care every morning. He didn’t always lift the toilet seat when he urinated, or wipe it clean when his aim was off, but when it came to shaving, he was meticulous, so she knew the hair on his face must have been bothering him. And knowing that bothered her.

  She watched him sitting with his shoulders slumped, his head bowed. It pained her not to be able to walk up to him, tousle his hair, and let him know that she was there for him and always would be. At least he wasn’t completely alone, with Rachel Addison seated beside him.

  The room was packed with spectators, the seats filled with members of the media as well as citizens looking for an interesting alternative to one of the daytime courtroom reality shows. For those in attendance, the arraignment of the governor’s brother on a murder charge was obviously a must-see event. Despite the crowd, though, other than the defendant, Molly was the only Kane in attendance. Andrew had thought it would be a mistake to be there. He didn’t want the whole affair to become more of a circus than it was already likely to be. More important, he didn’t want to appear to be trying to influence the proceedings with his presence, a move that would play very badly in the press, and worse, wouldn’t look good to Judge Finley, with whom he’d been friendly since Andrew’s days as an assistant state attorney. That made sense, she supposed. Henry, too, was absent, saying that he was working on something related to Tyler’s situation and couldn’t be there. She had no reason to doubt him—he loved Tyler almost as much as she did—but she still wished he were there, for both Tyler and her. Instead, she sat
utterly alone in the packed gallery and watched as Judge Reginald Finley read the charges against her dear twin brother and asked how he pleaded.

  Rachel Addison stood, and at her gentle urging, Tyler did, too. After a discreet nudge, he said, “I’m not guilty.” Then he sat down.

  A murmur rippled through the room, as though this were something no one could have foreseen, as though such a plea was shocking and unheard of, despite the fact that this was how nearly every arraignment played out.

  The judge wrote something down, then shuffled a few papers up on the bench. He looked toward the defense table.

  “Ms. Addison, where do we stand on competency? Though I don’t have specifics, Mr. Tyler’s general condition isn’t unknown to me. I don’t see a motion here on the issue. Are you planning at this time to raise competency to stand trial as an issue?”

  “I’m not, Your Honor. He’s innocent, and he wants his day in court to prove it.”

  “He may be innocent, Counselor, but he won’t be in my court if he isn’t competent to stand trial.”

  “Of course. I believe it may be common knowledge that my client suffered a traumatic brain injury when he was a child, just seven years old, which left him with intellectual deficits. But he can recall and relate, and I believe he has sufficient depth of understanding of both his situation and these proceedings to assist with his defense. And he is highly motivated to do so. If the situation changes at any point, Your Honor, we will of course notify the court immediately.”

  The judge nodded thoughtfully, then looked at Tyler. “Mr. Kane?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  Addison said something softly to him, and he stood again.

  Finley said, “Son, one of my jobs is to make sure you’re the kind of person who should face a criminal trial.”

  “Oh,” Tyler said. “Well, if you ask me, I’m not.”

  A few titters sounded from the gallery. Finley ignored them.

  “I don’t think you understand. I’m not asking whether you are innocent or guilty. What I mean is, I have to decide whether you fully understand the charges against you, and whether you understand these proceedings and those that will follow, and whether you will be able to converse with your lawyer so as to assist in your own defense.”