Truth Be Told

19

“What the hell time was your plane, Brogan? Here it’s been however many years-and suddenly now you can’t live without me?”

Jake slung his briefcase onto the too-luxurious-for-government-issue wing chair in the corner of the office, shook Nate Frasca’s outstretched hand. He’d left Boston when it was still dark, arrived at Dulles before eight, grabbed a taxi, and battled the beltway morning traffic to the ordinary-looking brownstone in the three-syllable streets way past Dupont Circle. Ordinary on the outside, at least.

“Yeah, worried you’d blow it in the big time.” Jake gestured to the lacquered white office walls, the lofty floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the wall-to-wall windows with the view of the winding green trails and iconic stone bridges of Rock Creek Park. “Guess I was wrong. Or maybe you’re fooling them, too.”

Frasca waved Jake to a plush leather chair, gestured to a tray with a shining silver pot, a matching sugar bowl, and tiny pitcher of cream. A lacquer tray presented twisty glazed crullers and three bagels. “I know it’s not Dunkin’s,” Frasca said. “Sorry I can’t make you feel at home.”

“I’ll live,” Jake said. He poured a steaming cup, ignored the add-ons. “You doing okay, Nate? Getting some downtime, finally?”

A shrill beep interrupted, followed by a voice over an intercom. “Dr. Frasca? Fifteen.” And then silence.

“Welcome to D.C.,” Frasca said. “Downtime, my friend, is somewhere in the future. So cutting to the chase, Jake. I hope we get to grab lunch, maybe tomorrow? Sorry you had to come all his way, but it’s all classified, archived, no copies. We had no choice. There’s some DVDs, too, of the confessions. You can watch them in that laptop on the console. The false confessions are labeled ‘F.’”

“That’s why you get the big bucks,” Jake said. “Thanks.”

“I’ve got a hell of a day, too Washington to describe.” Frasca stood, packed his briefcase while he talked. “But while we’ve got a few minutes-sounds like you’ve got an interesting thing going on.”

Jake painted the Thorley confession with quick strokes. Told Frasca how every year the cops took a beating from the press, taunting the hell out of them for the still-open case. How Carley Marie’s parents came back to Boston every year, made a big deal of trying to ensure their daughter wasn’t forgotten.

“The legacy of Lilac Sunday,” Jake said. “One dead girl, one still-grieving family, a killer on the loose, and a colossal failure for the BPD.”

“Your grandfather’s case, right?” Frasca took a swig of Diet Coke, put the plastic bottle on a silver coaster. “Potentially significant, that this Thorley’d show up confessing to that one with you now on the force. Did he know your grandfather?”

Jake frowned, considering. Did Gordon Thorley know his grandfather? Never crossed his mind. How could they have been connected back then? A punk from the suburbs and the sixty-five-year-old Boston police commissioner? Lots of ways, actually.

“I don’t know, Nate.” He eyed his dark coffee, swiveled the cup in its delicate saucer, left it there.

“Could be it’s you he’s after now.” Frasca dropped the empty plastic Coke bottle into a blue recycle bin tucked under an antique-looking side table.

“Keep that in mind,” he went on. “Sometimes in these confessions there’s an element that pushes someone over the edge. Guilt that finally festers, the poison of remorse, or-” He paused, interrupting himself. “It’s almost the twentieth anniversary, right? That could be an emotional trigger.”

“Trigger? I thought the anniversary made it-” Jake paused. Thorley showing up, right as the anniversary loomed? The Supe’s annual push to close the case? “Well, more unlikely.”

“The contrary. Anniversaries are frequently significant. They’re symbolic, and that makes them powerful. Waco? Ruby Ridge? Oklahoma City? The bad guys can’t resist. It’s like returning to the scene. They think the history makes the action more potent.”

Jake nodded. History. The cardboard boxes of case and investigation records his grandfather kept, now stacked on metal shelves in his parents’ basement. There’d been some thought of destroying them, but Grandma Brogan wouldn’t allow it. It’s history, she’d insisted. It’s trash, Jake’s mother had argued. She’d called them “toxic records of failure and unhappiness.”

Gramma Brogan, as always, won. Did those boxes of history contain some answers?

“Lilac Sunday’s less than a week from now,” Jake said. Five days. How well he knew. “Thing is, Nate, I don’t see how Gordon Thorley could know I’d be involved. It seems too elaborate. I gotta think this is something else.”

“Something else what?” Frasca clicked his briefcase closed.

“That’s why I came five hundred miles. To ask you. Who would confess to a murder they didn’t commit? Why?” Jake stood as Frasca headed for the door. Were there answers in the stacks of files he was about to open? “Or, hello. Maybe he’s guilty. I’m equally satisfied with that. Just tell me how I’m supposed to know.”

Jane tried to remember what Professor Kindell taught them in Journalism Law and Ethics 101, or even 201, but that was almost fifteen years ago, and it seemed much more logical back in j-school. Now, faced with real-life journalism law and ethics, the black-and-white textbook pages were almost laughably unhelpful.

Each decision was different, that was journalism reality. The only basic certainty, the unchangeable, was to tell the truth. How you did that, and when, and whether there actually was “truth”-that was the stuff her class never discussed.

Jane tapped on Victoria Marcotte’s office door, heard a “come in” from inside. This new city editor was no Murrow, but at least she was someone to talk to. And they had a lot to talk about.

Elliot Sandoval’s lawyer had called Marcotte, offering a deal. He’d provide all the inside info on the Sandoval investigation, but only if the paper agreed to hold off running the full story until the case was adjudicated. He’d called it “a front-row seat at a murder case.”

Jane couldn’t have agreed to such an arrangement with Sandoval’s lawyer on her own. “Risk” and “gamble” were not concepts she was comfortable with, nor were “scooped” and “fired,” either (or both) of which were unpleasantly looming possibilities if this deal went bad.

“Have a seat, Jane.” Victoria Marcotte pointed to the couch. Her chocolaty leather jacket was probably worth Jane’s salary for a month. Two venti paper cups, both with lipstick imprints, stood by her computer.

Jane ignored the couch, grabbed one of the strappy black and chrome chairs from against the wall, scooted it closer to the desk, sat there.

“Legal agrees we’re on solid ground,” Marcotte said. “If there’s an arrest, I’ll send another reporter, Chrystal or whoever. You’ll eventually do a big takeout-multimedia, goes without saying, that’s who we are these days, right?-on the story of an accused murderer. How he felt, how he was treated, how he was nailed, how he was charged-or not-how he was ultimately exonerated. Or not. However it plays out. Use TJ when you need pictures. Got it?”

It was similar, Jane theorized, to how network reporters were embedded in the Gulf wars. Or those long-term projects on 60 Minutes. It wasn’t breaking news, where you went live, telling everything you learned as soon as you learned it. It wasn’t “day of” news, which aired the same day you reported it. This was a long-term, long-form investigation. She might have time to make it important. Life-changing. Award-winning. Still, holding back information didn’t feel comfortable.

“Are you sure that we’re okay with-,” Jane began.

Marcotte’s phone buzzed.

“He’s on the way up,” Marcotte said. “Peter Hardesty is the lawyer’s name.”

Jane wished she had known that earlier so she could check him out. She’d asked Sandoval for the name, but she’d been too distracted by Jake to realize he hadn’t told her. She hated going into this meeting playing catch-up, with no research or background.

“What if Sandoval’s guilty?” Jane said.

Marcotte patted at her hair, then smiled at Jane, conspiratorial. “Then we have an even better story.”

The first key hadn’t worked, neither had the second. Or the third.

Standing on the front porch of a two-story redbrick house in Jamaica Plain, Liz McDivitt glanced around, checking for nosy neighbors or a late-morning mailman. Or, worst of all, someone from the bank.

It had been a snap to pull up Aaron’s REO records on her home computer. Her in-house password was essentially all-access when it came to the real estate department, so she knew exactly which homes were in Aaron’s portfolio. He’d used this key chain-the one he’d tossed at her, ridiculous-to open the house on Hardamore last night. Made sense keys to other empty houses were on this chain, too. The chain had about a million keys, and big metal “A” dangling from it. Atlantic & Anchor Bank, she assumed. Or Aaron.

Key number four. It slipped into the lock perfectly. She took another reconnoitering look. No cars in neighboring driveways, no kids on bikes, not even any birds in the saplings lining the sidewalks. The last of the red tulips, unhappy in the heat, were giving up their petals, but someone had mowed the grass. Made sense. Part of Aaron’s job was to keep the place up, since city inspectors could fine the bank if properties were neglected. Not the best thing for the bank’s image, first taking people’s homes, then leaving them to rot, ruining the entire neighborhood. She gave the key a twist.

Nothing. Her shoulders slumped. Should she even be doing this?

Clearly not, she had no business. But something was up with Aaron, she’d been awake all night, thinking about it. Replaying it.

Pursing her lips with the memory, she yanked key number four out of the lock, flipped to key number five. If she predicted correctly, this would be another empty house. Why she wanted to make certain of that, she wasn’t sure.

The key slipped in. Turned. Clicked. Worked.

All she had to do was turn it again. The door would open.

What would her father do? What would he think?

Lizzie stopped, fingers on the key, and almost laughed. Well, that, at least, was an easy one. She would never tell him about any of it. Never never never.

She turned the knob. And pushed.