Wednesday, September 18
Rutherford Towers
Phoenix, Arizona
THE FALCONER FILES. Caitlin couldn’t believe that the evidence files from her father’s case were sitting on the breakfast table in front of her. She didn’t know what markers Spense had called in to get them, and she didn’t care if it was against policy to remove them from the evidence room—from the horror stories she’d heard about old files going missing, they were probably safer in her care than in police custody anyway. The only thing that mattered now was that at long last, fifteen years after her father had been executed, she was going to see with her own eyes the evidence that had convicted him.
A rather jubilant whistling came closer and closer, then Spense wandered into the kitchen and shot her a goofy grin. “Hey, doll,” he said, as if they were an old married couple, and this was just another ordinary day. He rattled around at the refrigerator and eventually produced a frosty mug filled with her favorite breakfast drink—her favorite anytime drink really—an Arnold Palmer. “I can whip up some scrambled tofu if you like, doll.”
Considering he’d gotten her the evidence files, slept sitting up in her closet after her night-terror, and proven himself to be a really good kisser, she decided not to complain about the doll. Whatever name Spense chose to call her, she didn’t mind. Even when they’d been on opposite sides, she’d secretly liked that he was the only one bold enough to call her Caity. Something made her let out a dreamy sigh. Maybe it was the sparkle in his eye when he looked at her, or maybe it was the warmth in his smile. Or maybe it was the way her heart expanded at the sound of his voice—perhaps the feeling of tenderness that sometimes swamped her out of the blue, just because she’d caught a glimpse of his profile. “No thanks. I think I’ll stick with this. I don’t have much of an appetite.” She was too jittery to think of food, and if anything was going to tempt her, it wouldn’t be Spense’s cooking. She favored him with her own goofy grin, took the mug he offered, and sipped it, resolving to think about last night later. There was no denying that had been a doozy of a kiss. But today, the Falconer files were uppermost in her mind.
“You and me, Caity. We all good now?”
“Yeah. We’re good.” The mug wobbled in her hand, and she set it down and steadied her hands by wrapping her arms around her waist. “Can I tell you something?”
“Of course.”
She shivered, then faked a laugh. “That was semirhetorical.”
“Then you should’ve used the signal.” He tugged madly at his ear.
“Right. I’ll try to remember. Anyway, here goes. I’m feeling a little nervous about opening this box. Not because I think I’ll find out my father killed Gail Falconer. In my heart, I know he didn’t. But I don’t look forward to reliving all those terrible memories. I’m afraid looking at evidence, reading the witness statements, will bring the trial back to life for me. And that was a terrible time. I don’t want to go back there.”
“Then don’t open the box. No one’s forcing you. From what you’ve told me, your mother doesn’t want to relive the past either. She’s not pressing anyone to reopen the case.”
“But she wants my father’s name cleared. I’m sure of it. It’s only that she doesn’t want me to live in the past. That’s the reason she doesn’t approve of my digging around and hiring private investigators. She’s protecting me from my own obsession—that’s how she puts it.”
“Have you ever considered the possibility your mother might be right? No matter what you find inside those files, Caity, even if you managed to somehow get your father’s conviction overturned, it won’t bring him back to you.”
That’s where Spense had it wrong. She wanted her pure, untainted memories of her father back. And the only way to exorcise that tiny yet malignant seed of doubt was to see the evidence with her own eyes. “I have to do this, Spense.” Then, heart pounding in her chest, she opened the box and pulled out the first file. In big red letters it read:
Falconer, Gail
Case Closed.
SPENSE HOPED TO hell he hadn’t done the wrong thing getting Caity those files. But after last night, there was no going back. He finally understood that no matter how much he wanted to protect her from the truth, sooner or later she’d have to face it. At least now, he could be there with her when she did. And there was something more, too—Caity was so certain of her father’s innocence. Family members often deluded themselves, but she was a smart woman. And whether by nature or nurture, she had incredible empathy for others. It was hard to believe she’d been sired and raised by a sadistic monster. He’d read the trial transcripts, but now he wondered if he’d missed some detail that might suggest her father’s innocence.
Caity let out a sharp gasp and covered her mouth, then dropped the crime-scene photo of Gail Falconer’s brutalized body.
“Is this the first time you’ve seen this?”
She nodded, and her hand fell to her lap. She stuck up her chin. “The judge excluded me from the trial on a few select days. This must’ve been presented on one of those days.”
“I’m sorry. You okay to go on?”
“Of course.” She was already shuffling through a batch of police reports. “Spense, did you know they found Gail’s DNA in the trunk of my father’s car?”
He did. That was one of the strongest pieces of evidence against him. Coupled with Thomas Cassidy’s confession—coerced or not—and the fact he was on campus at the time, along with a wild story about receiving an anonymous phone call that his wife’s car had broken down at the university, meant prosecutors had had a slam-dunk case.
“Don’t you think it’s odd they never found his DNA at the scene, though? I mean, she’d been tortured and raped, and her engagement ring was pried from her finger. How is it possible for the killer to have left no DNA?”
“It’s possible, Caity. If the killer was careful enough.” He scratched his head. “But you’re right. It doesn’t add up. If the killer was organized enough to get rid of all trace at the scene, why would he leave blood evidence in the trunk of his car?”
Her face had flushed bright red. “Because my father wasn’t the killer.”
Suddenly, Spense got to his feet. He had a wild hair of his own, but it wasn’t about the Falconer case. It was about Sally Cartwright. “I’m going to ask that Gretchen advise the task force to take another look at the DNA in the Sally Cartwright case. I mean, if Kramer was smart enough to leave no trace evidence, why was he stupid enough to get caught with the temporal-bone trophy in his possession? They need to look again.”
“You think it’s too late to do that in my father’s case?”
It killed him to dash her hopes, but he wasn’t going to lie to her. “I’m not saying it’s impossible, but it’d be much harder with a case that old. I’m not sure DNA is the right place to start with the Falconer murder.”