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ANGELA DAY TWISTED her wedding ring as she perched on the edge of the chair and glanced around the bank lobby. She’d unzipped her parka, and the boots covering her jittering feet still dripped melted snow from the latest December flurries. An oversize bag sat between her feet. The newspaper article from the Chicago Tribune, carefully folded, peeked out from the bag. She got the local paper the rest of the week, but always picked up the Chicago paper on Sundays. The story jolted her memory—a name, a single name she’d heard him say—and might mean nothing, or everything. For days, it niggled the back of her mind, an echo barely heard, insistent, insidious. Inevitable.
Peter had always talked her down whenever she got her back up. He didn’t want her to ask upsetting questions that stirred things up. She twisted the ring again, missing him desperately. Peter died six months ago. Now Angela had nobody to talk her down. Only memories, nothing to fill her days, nothing to stop the questions tormenting sleepless nights.
The bank teller waved and Angela clutched her bag to her chest and followed him into the vault. She signed the safety deposit box log—her throat clogging when she saw the last signature. The box belonged to her dead son, Chris. Her husband had been the executor of his will. But Peter never looked in the box, fearing what he might find in a dead cop’s private files. She had had to jump through several hoops this morning to gain access to the box, but Angela couldn’t let fear rule the rest of her life.
She presented her key, then sat at a private carrel. The teller placed the small metal box before her and left. Angela took a deep breath before opening it.
A thick bundle of papers and file folders stuffed it to the brim, nearly overflowing the deposit box. She removed and paged open the first file. Angela caught her breath and gently picked up a small photo. Her insides quivered. Chris stood proud, beaming, beside his somber bride. On the back, in his familiar scrawl, he’d written: When you’re ready, the answers are here. Her chest tightened. She set the picture aside.
Angela leafed through stacks of newspaper clippings, some dating back decades. She scanned the headlines, and none made much sense. She set each in a neat stack, until she came to the most recent. There! That was the same name, and the same face, featured in the news story stuffed in her purse. She fished it out, unfolded it and spread the two accounts side by side.
The earlier piece profiled Clear Choice Laboratories, a Chicago company credited with solving a number of high-profile cases by identifying incriminating evidence. A picture of the lab owner, Brad Detweiller, grinned with a cocky smugness while accepting grateful congratulations from Detective Christopher Day.
In the more recent paper, a much older Detweiller hid his face from the camera. He dodged questions about a recent lab error that caused a conviction to be thrown out. The news report suggested an indictment might be forthcoming. After scanning the notes more thoroughly, the speculation echoed much of the concerns raised by Chris’s safety deposit box research.
Angela shivered, and blew out several short breaths, trying to calm herself and regain control. She rubbed her arms, looking around to be sure she remained alone. She’d always assumed her son’s murder had had something to do with his wife’s shady past. His note on the wedding picture supported her assumption. Angela still resented how September had disappeared after Chris’s death. But how was Detweiller connected?
Maybe she was reading too much into this. Chris wouldn’t poke a known hornet’s nest without police backup, she argued with herself to calm irrational worries. If he considered this a private family matter, and Detweiller helped him out in some way, Chris might have confided in... Pulling out her phone, she searched the contacts, and called a longtime family friend, then left a message when prompted.
She shifted in her chair, unable to get comfortable as she read through Chris’s notes from the earliest to the latest. Chris expressed surprise and then outrage. Highlighted phrases painted a dark story of a decades-long conspiracy that victimized dozens of innocent children, including his wife. Angela’s breath quickened. His investigation proved Detweiller played a role, but Chris died before he was able to expose the crime. Had Detweiller killed her son to silence him?
Angela gathered up the files with shaking hands and carefully replaced them in the box. At the last moment, before calling the attendant, she slipped the wedding photo into her purse.
“Who else has access to this box?” Angela watched as the teller secured the box and handed her back the key. “It belonged to my deceased son. It’s been nearly two years.” She steadied her voice. “His widow moved away—”
The woman checked. “The listing includes a Mrs. September Day, but she has never accessed the box.”
“Yes, that’s my daughter-in-law.”
Zipping her parka, Angela hurried out to the parking lot, squinting up at the gunmetal clouds. Once in her car she started the engine and turned the defrost blower on high. As she waited for the ice to melt, Angela pulled out the picture again, tracing the face of her son with one gloved finger. “I know you loved her. You saved September, wanted to heal her.” She bit her lip. “And they killed you for it.”
Angela had wanted to love her daughter-in-law, but prickly September kept everyone at a distance. Chris had finally broken through the woman’s brittle exterior after gifting her with a dog. What was his name? Dakota, that was it. The German Shepherd died trying to protect Chris from whoever wanted to keep this horrible secret.
She rocked back and forth in her seat. It was time for the truth to come out.
On impulse she pulled a pad from her purse and wrote a quick note, then tore off the cardboard backing and folded it around the picture to protect it. She should have done more when she had the chance. But maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe she could still get justice for her son.
Her car slipped and slid in the slushy back streets as she drove to the post office. She bought a card and envelope. Angela slid the note and picture inside along with the safety deposit key. After googling the location on her phone, and scribbling the address with shaky hands, she added postage and sent the card on its way.
Her phone burbled. She took a deep breath before answering the familiar number. “Thanks for returning my call. You’re a good friend, and I need your professional advice. Before he died, did Chris talk to you about his safety deposit box?”
