I saw Gus on the porch of the main house. He was leaning against a post and smoking a pipe. He smoked his pipe infrequently, but on reflection, it was usually a precursor to bad news. Robbie spent the last hour of the drive from Manassas speculating on what could be so important that Gus would fly out to explain it to us. After an hour of what ifs, I was eager to get to the facts, no matter what.
I gave Gus the now well-practiced explanation as to why we couldn’t go into the main house and led him to the bunkhouse. We sat at the kitchen table. In response to an offer of something to drink or eat, Gus simply replied, “Let’s get to it.”
From his briefcase he removed a stack of files, selected one, and handed it to me. “I learned this morning that the FBI was keeping a file on Abigail Nichols. Apparently, she was writing letters to prominent people, asking them to publicly apologize for their family’s involvement in research that used minorities as test subjects and for their support of medical experiments performed on Jews during the war. This letter was received five years ago by an FBI field director whose father held anti-Semitic views. Look at the last sentence.”
I read the sentence out loud. “If you do not comply with this letter, I will release records to the major media outlets that will disclose extensive details of your family’s involvement in these activities and more.”
“The second page has a long list of people supposedly copied on the letter, but when the FBI checked with them, they all denied receiving it. In just a second, I’ll get to the names that are highlighted. So you know, the remaining documents in the file are reports of field agents explaining that they could not find any information about the whereabouts of Abigail Nichols. I included them so you wouldn’t ask, but there’s really no point wasting your time looking for them.”
“Emma said that Abigail had some of her father’s papers that would protect Paul. If someone believed that she would actually release them,” said Robbie, “that would be a motive for murder.”
Gus removed a stack of papers from his briefcase and unfolded them to display a chart arranged with the Anderson Historical Foundation at the top and rows of multiple boxes below. Eight boxes were highlighted in yellow.
“The foundation is structured just like a typical corporation. Basically, it’s not a charity. The foundation purchased the Sweetwater Hospital and some of the other buildings in town. The stockholders include individuals, partnerships, and other corporate entities. I’m still not sure we know all of the individuals involved, but at this point, it doesn’t actually matter. Now look at the names highlighted in yellow on the chart and the highlighted names on the blackmail letter. It appears that the recipients of the letter organized to acquire the hospital, the old Nichols house, and a few other properties. You should note that some of the recipients of the letter are congressmen, judges, and CEOs. This is what you’re up against.”
“Did any of the recipients comply with her demands?” I asked.
“No. A few months later, a second letter went out demanding money and threatening disclosure of even more damaging information. We don’t know if anyone paid, but no one offered a public apology for the alleged activities.”
I studied the chart for a moment. “I seriously doubt that Abigail wrote the letters. She didn’t need the money. It’s odd that no one took the threat seriously enough to apologize but were so concerned that they bought a house and a hospital in the middle of nowhere.”
“Why would these people buy an old hospital and house?” asked Robbie. “I don’t get it.”
“Who knows how rich people think,” said Gus. When I laughed, he added, “You were an enigma before you got rich. One possible inference is that they believed that more documents like the ones mentioned in her letter were hidden at the hospital and in the house. That’s just a guess.”
Robbie grimaced. “So now we have at least eight additional suspects we can identify, any of whom may have wanted Abigail dead.”
Gus gathered the papers from the table. “Eight that are named. The other stockholders are corporate entities that could be shielding someone with something to hide. If Jennifer Rice was killed by one of the foundation owners, then someone figured out that she was actually Abigail Nichols. With your visit to Sweetwater, and your conversation with Kyle Hopper, it isn’t a big leap that you also know who Jennifer really was. Following this line of thought to its logical conclusion, the foundation owners may now view you as a threat, which of course is the very situation you said you would avoid.”
I ignored Gus’ rebuke. “What did you find about Kyle Hopper?”
Gus opened another file. “He was a detective in New Jersey. He wasn’t promoted despite good test scores. He had a reputation with his peers of not being a team player. His partner was investigated for shooting an unarmed suspect. At a grand jury hearing, he refused to back up his partner’s claim that the suspect had drawn a gun. He testified instead that he hadn’t seen the actual shooting—testimony that pissed off his partner, other cops, and the prosecutor.
“Later, he was accused by a Federal task force of being corrupt, which seems like payback for not backing up his partner. On top of that, his partner was his wife’s brother-in-law. His wife divorced Kyle, alleging spousal abuse. He took to drinking and gambling. His gambling debts disappeared after a witness was shot dead before testifying in front of a grand jury investigating the guy he owed money to. Kyle was never indicted and took disability retirement. It’s hard to say what he might do, but I wouldn’t put a lot of faith in what he tells you.”
“It’s a little late for that, but thanks. So what about Paul Thomas?”
“We have several candidates for your guy, but the one who stands out is a sociology professor at Jefferson College. He’s the right age, color, and mindset.”
“I know you’re good and all, but how can you tell about his mindset?” asked Robbie.
“The gentleman described in this biography is rather famous within sociology circles for his writings about eugenics,” he replied. “He also published a book of poems. I must admit that I had to look up eugenics and that I don’t know much about poetry. But he doesn’t seem to be a happy man. Read this and tell me what you think.”
He handed each of us a page containing a poem entitled Faded Genes.
Am I white?
Am I black?
Am I what I seem? Oh, to be cursed By faded genes.
My blood is impure
I can’t marry a white,
But I’m not a black man My skin is too light.
I am a stranger to both races, I’m caught in between
A victim for life
Of my faded genes.
Robbie tossed the paper on to the table and leaned back in her chair. “This just gets more and more painful to deal with,” she said. “The guy’s kidnapped so he won’t be killed by a doctor working with Abigail’s father. He grows up not knowing who the hell he is, and Abigail is murdered by some rich guys who are hiding something.”
“Listen to me, both of you. You don’t know who killed Abigail or why. It could have to do with the foundation or it may have been about something else entirely. Her brother or Paul may have had a reason to kill her. Even Albert Loftus may have killed her. Given the complexity of the case and the inability to definitively identify who killed Abigail, you need to accept that it’s too dangerous for you to be playing detective.”
“We can’t tell the cops what we know because of Reggie,” I said. “He’s our client. He asked us to find his cousin so we can reunite his aunt with her son. That’s what we’re going to do.”
“You’re making a mistake, but I know better than to argue with you.” He handed me another file folder. “This is information about Albert Loftus. He doesn’t look like a killer, but he’s had some bad luck. He got a job and managed to stay out of trouble for a while. Then he hurt his leg in an accident and was let go. I could see how that might make him angry enough to revert to his old ways. Beating an old woman to death seems a bit extreme, but the capacity of humans to cause misery to others has ceased to surprise me.”
“How bad was his leg injury?” I asked.
“Torn knee ligaments. If I remember correctly, he wears a brace and walks with a noticeable limp. Is that important?”
I looked at Robbie. “Yeah. I think it is. Thanks.”
Gus again declined refreshments and boarded the helicopter. The cats scrambled under the bed as the copter lifted off. Robbie followed me to the living room.
“Okay. So what are you not telling me now?”
I reached for the case file that Reggie left and handed her the transcript of the anonymous caller. “The tipster said that he saw a man running out of the front of the house.”
Robbie looked at the transcript. “So?”
“Albert can’t run. He wears a brace and walks with a limp. That means that Albert was set up. Someone put the jewelry in his car, watched him leave, and called the police.” I handed her another document. “A neighbor reported seeing a man running from the garage. The police assumed that it was two people seeing the same thing, albeit from different angles. I think the neighbor saw the real killer, and it wasn’t Albert. The tip to police came from the killer.”
“I assume the prosecution is aware of the case’s weakness,” said Robbie. “Certainly the defense counsel will figure this out. This could be good news.”
I shook my head. “Under these circumstances, Albert will be offered a plea bargain to avoid the death penalty. Basically, go to trial and risk death or agree to a life sentence. Given that Albert has no money, his attorney isn’t going to want to put up much of a fight. Life in prison is still a death sentence, only a slow and cruel one for an innocent man. Of course, if we tell Reggie that Albert’s innocent, he will disclose what he knows to the prosecutor.”
“So what do we do?”
“Because of our representation of Reggie, we can’t intercede on Albert’s behalf. Albert’s and Reggie’s fates are in our hands, and for now they seem to be tied together.”
“Unless we find out who actually killed Abigail”
“That’s seems to be where we are.”
Robbie handed the reports back to me. “Maybe it’s time to let Reggie talk to Detective Hunter and explain what we’ve learned. That would clear Albert, and I think Reggie would feel better.”
I slipped the reports into the file and tossed it onto the café table. “I’m sure the prosecutor would be really pleased with Reggie coming forward and exonerating Albert. No jail time in exchange for blowing up the prosecution’s case.”
“If you’re going to get snarky, then I’m free to remind you that you said learning the truth leads to hard choices. You don’t want Reggie going to jail. Great. But you know that the odds of you finding out who killed Abigail are pretty slim. Tell Reggie and let him make the choice. I know it sucks, but that’s where we are.”
Robbie was right, but I fought against admitting it. “How about we talk to Paul tomorrow? Maybe we can eliminate him from the suspect list. Then I can call Reggie and tell him what we know.”
“I don’t see how that will change anything, but I want to hear what Paul has to say. I mean, the story is as fascinating as it is tragic.”
“I need to talk to the Residents about the letters Abigail wrote to Ruth, so I can drop you off in town. I’ll pick you up in the morning about eight thirty, and we’ll see what Paul has to tell us.”
When I arrived at Heartwood House, the Residents were in full rebellion. The wireless network had gone down and Cecil, Harry, and Carrie were busy blaming each other while trying to restart it. Apparently, Harry had read something on the web about adding a security key and now no one could log on. Cecil decided he could fix the network by resetting the router to its factory default settings, but that changed the network name, the encryption key, and the administrative login name and password. Lora Jean joined the fray when she lost connection to a chat room and demanded that someone fix the network immediately.
All of this became my problem the moment I stepped into Heartwood House. I connected a laptop to the router and logged into the router interface using a browser. I was in the process of restoring the settings when more bickering broke out about who told whom to do the things I was doing. Finally, I shooed them all from the study and shut the door, but even then I could hear accusations and denials, mostly about how angry I was and whose fault it was. These were the symptoms of cabin fever.
With the household reconnected to the Internet, I opened the door to the study and found three worried faces staring at me. “I need help with my murder case, but you have to promise me you can get along.”
“We weren’t angry at each other,” said Carrie.
“I wasn’t,” said Harry.
“Me neither,” agreed Cecil.
“I think Shep just misunderstood because he has tax problems,” said Carrie.
I didn’t even try to follow the logic of that statement. “That’s probably what happened.”
Back in the study, I put the letters on the desk. “The blonde woman with the baby was named Abigail Nichols. Sadly, she was also known by the name Jennifer Rice.”
“That means she’s dead?” asked Harry.
“I’m afraid she is.”
Harry lowered his head and took a slow, deep breath. Carrie patted his hand.
“Before Abigail was murdered, she wrote letters to Ruth Littleton. I need you to read the letters and see if Abigail said anything that would help us find out who killed her.”
Carrie took the bundle of letters from the table and held them reverently in both hands. “These are private letters,” she said. “I don’t think it’s right to read them.”
“But we want to find out who killed her,” said Harry.
“How about we do this?” I said. “You all read the letters. You decide what’s personal and what isn’t. Personal matters you keep secret, even from me. Then you can sign a promise not to tell anyone else about the secret parts.”
“That works,” said Carrie.
“I’ll get yellow pads,” said Cecil.
“If you find anything important, you call me.”
I went through the kitchen to the sunroom on the south side of the house. This had always been my favorite place to sit, especially on a cold sunny day. Reilly would sometimes join me with his guitar and strum chords. Today, the sunroom was occupied by a pair of cats, each of whom took turns glaring at me for disturbing the tranquility.
I sat in a cushioned chair washed in a sunbeam and closed my eyes. I was eager to enjoy the moment and to stop the chatter in my head, but the effort was futile. My future and Abigail’s past took turns spewing out questions I couldn’t answer.
I opened my eyes to find Frieda carrying two cups of some steaming beverage. To my surprise and delight, it was cider with a stick of cinnamon and a splash of rum. “You look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders, Shep. This might help lighten the load.”
She gently lifted a small cat from the chair next to me, sat down, and put the cat in her lap. The feline spun around twice, then flopped over and purred loudly.
“I think I owe you an apology,” she said, rubbing the cat under the chin.
“Me or the feline?”
“You of course. I complain a lot about you getting involved in things. I don’t want you to get hurt. I couldn’t abide you getting yourself killed. But I haven’t said how proud I am that you want to make things right. Reilly had that quality. I think he’d be proud of you, too.”
“That’s nice to hear,” I said.
We drank cider as the sun sank toward the horizon and for a short while, my head was noiseless and thought-free.