CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

 

Several days after the bullet was removed from his stomach, Robert Leighton felt good enough to sit up in his hospital bed. He was still in a state of shock that, not only had Ashley fought with him, she’d actually shot him. As angry as he’d been, Robert feared what he might have done had he taken that gun from her. The outcome could have been far worse.

He sipped lukewarm orange juice through a straw. Ashley had been to see him and wished him a speedy recovery. But she’d deflected comments about them and their future, which left Robert feeling empty.

Damn, I really messed things up this time. Can I blame her if she leaves me for good?

He still loved her and always would. There was nothing like a brush with death to make a hardheaded, self-destructive man reassess his life.

But what could he do to hang on to the only woman he’d ever really wanted to be with for a lifetime?

That had to take a backseat for now, as he was forced to answer some tough questions from Detective Dennis Cramer. Not wanting Ashley to be blamed for something that was entirely his fault, Robert was prepared to take his lumps and absolve her of any guilt for shooting him.

Thinking as a lawyer, Robert figured that he could plead guilty to violating the protective order and maybe even roughing up Ashley a bit. At worst, he would get probation and a firm requirement to go to anger management therapy.

What he hadn’t counted on was underestimating Cramer’s agenda and apparent desire to take him down.

“Aside from the way you’ve mistreated your wife and my employee, we’ve got another not so little problem, Leighton...” Cramer said.

“Yeah, what’s that?” Robert asked uneasily.

As if on cue, another man came into the room.

“This is arson investigator Blake Piazza,” Cramer said.

“Got here as soon as I could, Dennis,” Piazza told him.

“What the hell’s going on here?” Robert tried to control his nerves as he looked from man to man.

Cramer didn’t mince words. “It involves a fire that was set at the battered women’s shelter on Wilson and 51st Street last month. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you, Leighton?”

Robert flinched, sensing that the detective already knew the answer. Still, the attorney in him could only think: deny, deny, deny.

So he did. “Not a damned thing. Why the hell would I?”

Hovering over him, Cramer said, “Because a witness is prepared to testify that she saw you running from the building shortly after the fire started.”

“You’re bluffing,” Robert said haughtily. Still, he remembered seeing a woman that night when he made his way to the street thinking that he was free and clear. He’d assumed it was a dead issue, since she’d been inconsistent in her statements to the police about who or what she had seen.

“There’s more,” Cramer said. “We got a court order to search your house and office and found some clothing fibers and carpet fibers that match some found at the scene of the fire.”

Robert attempted a sardonic chuckle, but it hurt too much. So he tried to belittle the detective. “We both know that those so-called matching fibers don’t prove a damn thing. They could have easily come from any number of sources. It’ll never hold up in court—”

“Maybe, but strands of your hair can only come from one source, Leighton...”

“What are you talking about?” Robert was suddenly perspiring.

“We believe you left critical evidence that will definitely hold up in court when you broke into the basement window...or when you were trying to get out of S.A.W. House. DNA evidence won’t lie, as I’m sure you tell your clients all the time.”

“We know you set the fire, Leighton,” Piazza added. “The only question is do you plan to come clean about it now or pay the price later?”

Cramer added, “When you put it all together—including your wife’s statement that you came in late that night, smelled like smoke, and changed clothes—it doesn’t look too good for you.”

Robert was starting to see that, and it scared him like never before. He mentally reviewed his options. The last thing he wanted was to go to prison for arson. Yes, he had wanted S.A.W. House to go up in flames. But it was never his plan for anyone to get hurt. He’d counted on those bitches to have more than enough time and common sense to evacuate the burning shelter.

He had only wanted to scare that conniving bitch Selene Herrera off her high horse enough to get her to back off from interfering in his private life. He’d decided that Ashley would not become another one of her pet projects that she could save from her big, bad husband. Not if he could help it.

But that was then and this was now. It was clear that he’d really boxed himself into a corner. And there was no easy way out.

“Lucky for you no one was physically hurt and the damage relatively minor,” Cramer said, sensing the attorney wanted to cooperate before making it any worse for himself. “My advice is to come clean, make financial restitution, and throw yourself on the mercy of the court, Leighton. You’ve had a good career as an attorney, earning your way to respectability. That will probably count for something in your favor. Either way, this isn’t going to go away...”

Robert reluctantly took heed of the detective’s warning. The better part of him wanted nothing more than to use his considerable skills in the courtroom to defend himself. There was a good chance he could establish just enough reasonable doubt to get off or have a hung jury. But he could also wind up being convicted and serving hard time. His career would be ruined in the process. Not to mention his marriage, if there was anything left of it by the time he got out.

Robert was man enough to admit that he’d dug a hole too deep to climb out of without soiling himself. Perhaps his best bet was to confess to a lesser charge, take what he had coming, and hope that when all was said and done Ashley would find a way to forgive him for the hurt he’d caused her. And maybe she would even still want to be his wife...

Robert eyed the detective and arson investigator. He knew they were hoping for a clean resolution to this.

“Let me call my lawyer and then we’ll talk,” Robert said.

* * *

After putting the squeeze on Robert Leighton regarding the fire at S.A.W. House, Detective Cramer turned to the other crime he wanted to talk to him about: The Woods Strangler case. It was a long shot that Leighton was their man, but he would be a fool to rule him out at this point.

Gathered in Robert Leighton’s hospital room were Geoffrey Rawlings and Leighton’s attorney, Kenneth Olander.

Cramer gazed sharply at Robert Leighton. He was sitting up in bed, showing some signs of discomfort, but clearly on the mend. One could only hope that his wife’s full recovery from his abusive ways was forthcoming.

“Is there anything you’d like to tell us about the strangulation murders in The Woods?” he asked him.

Robert blinked petulantly. “Is this a joke or what...?”

“We ain’t playing games here, man!” Rawlings said. “We’ve got a string of dead women and a killer on the loose who just might be an arsonist on the side.”

Kenneth Olander quickly came to his client’s defense. “I understood this was supposed to be a general inquiry about the murders from a criminal attorney who might have some information to pass along. If you’re suggesting that Mr. Leighton actually had something to do with this—”

“No one’s suggesting anything,” Cramer stated coolly. “In the spirit of cooperation that we’re trying to foster here, this seems like a good time for your client to get anything off his chest that he cares to share—with your permission, of course.”

“It’s obvious you have a problem with good looking, career-oriented women, if your wife is any indication,” Rawlings said, playing the heavy role that Cramer believed he sometimes played too well. “So maybe you decided that beating her to a pulp wasn’t enough to satisfy your cravings to teach women a lesson. Maybe strangling women who were like your wife made you feel you were putting them all in their place—permanently...”

“That’s preposterous,” Robert said, nearly lifting off the bed. He winced in pain at the effort. “I am NOT a killer!”

Cramer leaned forward. “In that case, I’m sure you’ll have no problem providing an unshakable alibi for every murder.

Olander whipped off his glasses. “My client has nothing to hide, but I don’t think this is the time or place to answer any more of your questions—”

“Seems like a good time to me,” Rawlings said. “It’s not like your client is ready to go home yet.”

“You can ask whatever you want,” Robert snapped. “It won’t make any difference. I didn’t kill anyone. And it’s your job to prove otherwise.”

“Does that mean you can’t account for your whereabouts during the times in question?” Cramer asked bluntly. “Or won’t?”

Robert sighed. “It means I’ll only cooperate to the extent that I can, without jeopardizing my rights or adding to the undue stress on my wife right now.”

“Believe me, if you are The Woods Strangler, her stress and your troubles will get a hell of a lot worse,” Rawlings promised.

Before Robert Leighton could utter another word, the doctor entered the room and cut the interrogation short.

Cramer was still skeptical that Leighton was their serial killer. But the attorney’s stubbornness and the unanswered questions figured to keep him right in the thick of their investigation.