CHAPTER FIFTEEN

MONICA

 

 

 

 

 

 

I plugged a key into a metal plate mounted to the wall outside the interview room door. “You know how these work,” I said to Agent Emory Mullins. “Just turn to the right and the video will start recording.”

“Got it.” Mullins’ auburn hair was trimmed in a practical boy cut. She wore a navy two-piece suit and no jewelry. Minimal makeup—just a touch of mascara. She was all business. I liked her. I pulled the key from the switch and handed it to Mullins, who put it in her pocket.

We stood in the middle of the secured waiting room, a cluster of chairs sitting by racks of literature—help for domestic violence, self-defense classes, McGruff the Crime Dog. “Coffee and water are through that door in the break room,” I went on. “Give the door a tug and Angie will let you through.” Like all the doors in the station, the telecommunicators had control via a switch panel at their desk. “Vending machine’s right here, if he wants a snack.”

“Sounds good.”

I glanced up and down the waiting room and tapped my foot, wondering if I was forgetting anything. Any minute, Baron Hackett would walk through the door. Nerves raced up and down my spine. Finally, I’d know what kind of kid he was: a model young citizen, or a petty criminal who broke into locked buildings and attacked anyone who got in his way. Hopefully, I’d also find out whether he was working for Sergeant Horace Stubbs. I could feel the truth churning in my gut. Stubbs wanted those records destroyed. He’d found the most unlikely kid to do it. He’d crafted what he thought was the perfect crime. My fists clenched and loosened at the thought of finally seeing the man behind bars where he belonged.

“Anything else you need?” I asked.

Agent Mullins shook her head. “I think that’ll do. Thanks for letting me use your facility.”

I shrugged. “Any time.” In fact, I was delighted. This was officially Mullins’ case, not mine due to that conflict of interest problem. I wouldn’t have any part in the interview or in following up with clues that may be revealed. But at least I’d be close to the action.

The door from the lobby buzzed open and a young man walked through. I stood a little straighter, nostrils flaring, a dog on alert. This was him, I knew it. Baron Hackett. My eyes scanned up and down, mining for clues. He was tall. Muscular. Of course. Quarterback. For the occasion, he’d dressed casual yet smart: khaki shorts and a striped polo shirt, royal blue and white. His dark hair was styled in a carefree, windblown look. A diamond stud glittered in one ear and a cowrie shell necklace hung around his neck. He looked every bit the accomplished yet popular boy all of Badger High was in love with.

“Hello,” he said, shoulders square, his presentation completely on-point. “I’m looking for Agent Mullins.”

“That’s me.” Mullins shook his hand. “Thanks for coming in. Is there anything I can get you before we start? Water? Coffee? Need anything to eat?”

Baron shook his head. “I’m good, thank you. I’m ready whenever you are.”

“Perfect.” Mullins nodded toward the interview room. “C’mon in and make yourself at home.”

Baron strode through the door. Before following him in, Mullins plugged the key I’d given her into the switch and turned it to the right. Then she stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.

I spun on my heel, hip-checked the lock on the door to the break room, and made for the stairwell; the elevator was too slow for my patience levels. I took the steps two at a time and coursed down the hall to the detective bureau. At my own desk, I threw myself into my chair and grabbed for my computer mouse. Something soft and squishy filled my hand instead—the foam stress trout Lehman had given me. I batted it aside and found my mouse a few inches away. I woke up my computer. The video software was already open on my screen. I parked a set of headphones over my ears and hit play. After a second of blackness, the screen filled with a bird’s-eye view of the interview room downstairs.

Baron Hackett sat on one side of the gray, Formica-topped table, the camera pointed toward his face. Agent Mullins sat opposite him.

“Address?” Mullins was saying, her hand moving across a notebook on the table in front of her. She was still gathering the basics. Baron provided the answers one-by-one as she requested them. When she was done, she leaned back in her chair. “Thanks, Baron.” She crossed her legs and laced her fingers around her knee, by all appearances ready to start the interview proper.

But Baron spoke up first. “I think you’re looking for this.” He reached into a cargo pocket on his shorts and laid something small, white, and rectangular on the table.

A key card.

I sat upright in my chair, pulse racing.

Mullins stared at the key card, lips parted. She was off her game. I could see it. Baron was in here based off an anonymous tip—a junk tip, as the majority of them were. She hadn’t anticipated a confession. And first thing in the interview? Unheard of.

But she only froze for a beat before switching gears smoothly. “Can you explain where you got that?”

“My second cousin, Chad Rauch, is an officer with the Lake Geneva Police Department,” Baron replied. “I took it from his jacket pocket on June 9th, two days ago. Then I used it to break into the police station that same night.”

I shifted an eyebrow at him. You cocky bastard. So that was Baron’s type: the attention whore. Winning awards wasn’t good enough for him. He wanted renown, for good deeds or evil. He wanted the world to know what he’d done. What he was capable of.

I leaned back and tapped a finger on my chin. So our hapless rookie, Chad Rauch, was Baron Hackett’s cousin. Correction: second cousin. That’s how I’d missed the connection despite all my research. I hadn’t thought to look up distantly related family. I snarled to myself. Stupid oversight. I’d do better next time.

To her credit, Mullins was now taking everything in stride. She didn’t so much as unlace her fingers. “Baron, it’s my duty to inform you that you are now under arrest.”

“I understand,” he replied.

“You have the right to remain silent…” she proceeded with the rest of the Miranda warning.

I clasped my hands in front of my mouth like an eager, finger-biting prayer. This was it. We’d gotten him. The person who had attacked Steph Buchanan. Steph and her family would be relieved. The entire police department could relax. We’d avenged our pack member. Sent another low-life piece of shit to jail. I wished I knew who had called in with that anonymous tip. This one had been golden. Nail on the head. I’d like to personally thank the girl. But I’d probably never know who it was.

“Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?” Mullins concluded.

“I do.”

“Do you waive the right to have an attorney present during questioning?”

“Yes. And I’d like the chance to speak freely before you proceed with your own questions.”

Mullins waved a hand. “Go ahead.” She’d be an idiot to turn him down. He was on a roll and there was no bean he wouldn’t spill.

But I frowned. Something was wrong. He was so… polite. There was no pride. No boasting. He wasn’t acting like an attention junkie. He could be on the Autism spectrum, but I wasn’t convinced of that yet. What was this, then? A need to unload? But that didn’t feel right, either. I stared intently into Baron’s face, desperate to understand. His features remained calm, smooth. He could have been taking an interview regarding a job for which he knew he was well-qualified. I leaned an elbow on my knee and chewed a nail. He was one up on me. I hated this.

“First, I apologize for any wrongs I’ve done,” Baron proceeded, “and any harm I may have caused. I needed a particular set of records. Records pertaining to a former LGPD officer, Sergeant Horace Stubbs.”

This was it, the part where Baron admitted he was working for Stubbs. That Stubbs was desperate to clean up a dirty past. To not only lock Roger Holland up but to throw away the key. I tasted sweet victory. I fixed my eyes on Baron Hackett and waited for it.

“My only goal was to prove the innocence of a man who has been serving time for a murder he never committed. Roger Holland.”

My jaw fell loose. Wait, what? As I sat gaping, the leg-up Baron had on me expanded into a decisive lead and I was eating his dust.

“Please explain,” Mullins said.

“On August 29, 1995, Roger Holland was arrested for supposedly murdering his friend, Kent Bullinger. The arresting officer was Sergeant Horace Stubbs. But another officer present that day, Officer Monica Steele, filed a written complaint against Stubbs, suggesting that he had altered crime scene evidence to make the death appear as a murder, not an accident. No one ever followed up on Officer Steele’s complaint. Holland went to trial for murder and was convicted and has been behind bars ever since.”

I stared at Baron Hackett. What was happening?

Mullins tapped her pen on her notepad. “Do you realize you’re raising very serious allegations against an officer of the law?”

Instead of answering, Hackett pulled a paper from his pocket and unfolded it on the table. “Here’s a copy of the complaint that was filed by Officer Steele. Until now, I believe no one ever laid eyes on it, besides Steele and her lieutenant at the time, Theodore Townsend. On the morning of June 10th, I mailed the original to Roger Holland’s attorney. My guess is that he’ll use it to demand a retrial.”

I stared at the screen, my mind and my emotions a total blank. This wasn’t about Stubbs covering his ass. It wasn’t about Baron being the hired grunt. Baron was—

Baron was me. The over-achiever. The whistle-blower. The one small voice bent on seeing real justice done, whatever the cost. I couldn’t approve of his methods. I never would. And yet in a weird way, we were on the same side. It twisted my soul into a pretzel to try to wrap my mind around it.

I bowed my head over my desk and massaged my temples. Well, this was why we’d handed the case over to D.C.I. Completely drunk on bias and revenge, I’d refused to consider other possibilities. Damn idiot.

Mullins leaned forward and glanced over the report. “How did you know this document even existed?”

“I work with Roger Holland’s granddaughter, Melissa Kraft. The family has always maintained that Roger was innocent. That he’d never kill his best friend. Melissa’s mother claims that at the time of Roger Holland’s trial, Officer Steele implied that the trial was somehow unlawful. That another officer was to blame.”

I closed my eyes and groaned. I’d forgotten all about that. I’d been furious that the case had been allowed to proceed to trial. In a moment of unscrupulous rage, I’d let something slip. It’s not your dad’s fault; it’s Stubbs’. Something to that effect. No doubt it had given the family hope. But of course, they’d never had any evidence. None of us had.

Mullins picked the document up and read it more carefully, the report I had crafted so passionately as a young cop. The one that had branded me as an idiot back in the day. When she was finished, she turned to Baron once again. “So you broke into the Lake Geneva Police Department to steal this written complaint. You did it to try to exonerate a prisoner. Did you also attack a police department employee who arrived on the scene to investigate your break-in?”

Baron flexed his jaw. His eyes saddened, yet refused to look away from Agent Mullins. “It was an accident. I had what I’d come for. I was leaving. Then I saw the woman in the hallway. I stopped to decide what to do. But I bumped a board that was leaning against a wall. It hit her on the back of the head. I made sure she was breathing comfortably, then I left the building. I never meant to hurt anyone.”

Mullins looked at him dubiously. “Why, Baron? Why break into a police station? Why take the risk? The risk of being intercepted, the risk of being caught. You didn’t even know Roger Holland.” She glanced over her notes. “You weren’t even born at the time of his incarceration.”

I knew his answer before he spoke it. I knew it because I’d said the exact same thing to my then-husband. Why are you doing this, Monica? he had pleaded with me. We’d only just bought the picture frames for the snapshots of us being sworn into office. He knew as well as I did that blowing the whistle on my superior, a man who had the favor of his own superior, could spell the end of my fledgling career. That was back when we’d actually cared about each other.

Baron put his finger on the paper between him and Agent Mullins. “This complaint has been sitting in the LGPD’s storage room for eighteen years. At least one person still working for the department knew it was there. And yet she never did anything about it, even when the people who previously stood in her way were retired. For eighteen years, an innocent man has been in jail while the guilty one walks free.” Baron stared deeply into Agent Mullins’ eyes. “I did it because—”

I said it with him. “—no one else had the guts to do the right thing.”

I closed my eyes and remembered the way my ex had looked at me. The understanding. The acceptance. The unspoken promise that he would stand by my side, no matter the blowback. And he had. Of course, that had been a lifetime ago, another world ago, and God only knew where he was now. Maybe rotting in hell, like I often hoped he was. But at the time, his support had meant everything to me.

I let Baron’s accusations soak in. I was the one who’d let that piece of paper languish in storage while Holland languished in jail. I’d tried to raise Cain at first, but Lieutenant Townsend had hushed it all down. Laughed at “how little I knew.” Implied I was a dumb female. That maybe I shouldn’t wear the badge. Law enforcement was a man’s world—more blatantly then than it was now. I’d gone from fighting for an innocent man to fighting for my own right to be on the police department.

Baron and Mullins’ interview rolled on, as I knew it would for hours. I would listen to every minute, even though it felt like stabbing needles into my chest. I should have fought harder for Roger Holland. Instead, I’d unwittingly left it to a teenager to finish the work I’d abandoned, and to do it in a way that had harmed one of our own telecommunicators. It sickened me to admit it; I owed it to Baron Hackett for finally setting the record straight. Holland’s. Stubbs’. My own.

He was going to prison for this. There was no question. He’d still broken into a police station, stolen police property, and injured a police department employee, intentionally or otherwise. Due to the seriousness of the offense, he might even be tried as an adult, which would carry with it stiffer penalties. Maybe the judge would show lenience, take into account Baron’s motives and absence of any prior record. But the fact remained: he was giving up his freedom for someone else’s. When Holland had first been arrested, I had acted all tough. But when the going got hard, I’d faltered. I utterly lacked Baron’s kind of courage. When it came down to Holland’s freedom or my badge, I’d chosen my badge.

My eyes filled with angry tears. Angry with myself. With my failure. My eye found the rainbow trout on the corner of my desk—Gone Fishin’. I grabbed it and flung it across the room.