Truth Be Told

59

“Let’s start with the money,” Jake said. “Mr. Thorley-”

“Don’t say a word, Gordon,” Hardesty interrupted. “Brogan, I’m warning you.”

“No need,” Jake said. “Hear me out. Mr. Thorley, we know about the mortgage payments. I assume your lawyer told you that.”

Thorley sat, motionless, in the BPD interrogation room. Blinked once, that was it.

“I told him,” Hardesty said.

“And, sir? We know how sick you are.”

Hardesty stood, his metal chair screeching as it slid on the linoleum floor, almost tipped over. “How sick?”

“I see,” Jake said. “Yeah. Mr. Hardesty, we have it confirmed, by the Department of Correction. I know this is difficult, Mr. Thorley, and I’m sorry-your client’s been diagnosed with a particularly unfortunate type of lung cancer. Diagnosed a little more than a year ago. When I talked to your new parole officer, he called Mr. Thorley ‘poor guy.’ That’s what he meant, I suppose.”

Hardesty looked at Thorley. “True?”

Thorley shrugged, got me. In that one defeated motion, a dismissal of Jake, and Hardesty, and the world.

Hardesty turned away, scratching the back of his head. Paused, then turned back to Jake.

“I’m not clear where you’re going with this, Brogan. This whole discussion is-irregular. I’m on the verge of cutting it off. Since my client did not divulge any illness, and since medical records are confidential, there was no way for me to find out. Only individual parole officers have access to the records, only they know the status of their parolees’ health, and they’re not allowed to discuss it.”

He yanked the chair back into place. “Fine time for Arsenault to play by the book.”

Jake nodded. Arsenault, Thorley’s current parole officer. Worth noting that Hardesty was in the dark about this. Thorley had actively kept it secret, which meant it was important. Jake would propose his theory, and see if anyone bit.

“Cutting to the chase, Mr. Thorley. I’m unclear on how much your attorney knows about whatever is going on, but I urge you to tell us the truth. If someone paid your family’s mortgage to convince you to confess to a murder you didn’t commit-well, let’s put it this way. That’s not going to fly. Because I can find out. And I will. And it won’t work.”

Jake waited, his words dissolving into silence. Gordon Thorley was clearly not the Lilac Sunday killer. But he certainly knew who was. If he decided to tell, Jake’s next risky tactic-asking a question he didn’t know the answer to-would pay off. Big time.

Thorley seemed fascinated by the pitted metal of the interrogation room table.

“Hardesty?” Jake said. “You know about any of this?”

Rubbing his forehead with his fingertips, Hardesty was silent. Finally looked at Jake. “News to me,” he said.

“So let me ask you, specifically, Mr. Thorley,” Jake persisted. “Who killed Carley Marie Schaefer?”

“Don’t answer,” Hardesty put out both palms, stopping him. “Brogan, you know that’s crossing the line.”

“I did,” Thorley said. “I killed her.”

Six o’clock was just over three hours from now. That gave Jane plenty of time to dig into the Lilac Sunday story. Mornay and Weldon offices were open until eight, but Turiello told her business slacked off early evening until the after-dinner browsers of homes took over. So, around six, he said, they could have a bit of “alone time” together.

Meanwhile, Thorley. Had Jane actually been attacked by the Lilac Sunday killer? Had Peter known that? Good thing Thorley was in custody now. Not that it happened in time to help his latest victim, Treesa Caramona. The nightside reporter on the story said Caramona was a street person, no address, no family, no obvious connections. Why’d Thorley kill her?

The whole story was full of dead ends. Not one of the original witnesses Chrystal Peralta had interviewed was findable. Not a trace of them. Frustrated, Jane had called Chrystal again, but her call had gone to voice mail.

Back to the archived articles. Was there anyone else she could contact? Jane read about Thorley’s armed robbery arrest, and his subsequent parole years later. The testimony, the controversy. Some stuff that appeared to be the sports pages. Maybe they’d been copied wrong? A big article on Sheriff Edward Walsh, made head of the parole board. Maybe he’d have some insight into the guy? But parole records were all confidential, except for the hearings themselves, and they were recorded on mini-cassette tapes that took weeks to obtain. Probably no one even had a machine to play them anymore. Talk about dead ends.

Still, if Thorley was arrested for Treesa Caramona, that’d be a good news peg. Jane could find Edward Walsh, and ask him about-wait.

If Thorley was guilty, that meant four years ago or so, Parole Board Chairman Edward Walsh had released the Lilac Sunday killer.

A killer Jake’s grandfather had been unable to track down. A killer the source of Jake’s preoccupation.

A killer now in custody for murdering someone else.

Hell of a story. How could she confirm it?

Jane finally attacked the innards of the Wheat Thins’ unopenable packaging with her teeth, ripping the plastic and spilling the crackers down her front, leaving a trail of salt on her black T-shirt. Annoyed, she moved her chair and heard a crunch under the wheels. The cleaning people would love her.

Her phone rang again. Jake? But of course it wouldn’t be. He was probably convinced she was seeing Peter Hardesty. Ridiculous. But she had to stop thinking about Jake. “Have a nice life”? She stood up, brushed off the crumbs. A couple of the crackers had fallen on her desk, leaving greasy patches on her calendar and note pad.

“Hello? I mean.” She shook her head, swallowed. She was so focused on Jake she’d forgotten how to answer the phone. “Jane Ryland.”

“Jane? It’s Elliot Sandoval.”

“Oh, hey, hello, how’re you doing?” Certainly doing better than while he was in custody. She leaned forward in her chair, hearing more crackers get pulverized under the wheels.

“Fine,” he said. “Calling to ask-have you talked to Peter Hardesty? Did he mention interviewing me?”

Peter. Last night flooded back. Peter’s arrival. Jake. The roses. They hadn’t talked at all. Peter hadn’t called this morning, no surprise. She hadn’t called him, either, not exactly knowing how to handle the flowers.

“No, Mr. Sandoval,” she said. “I think Mr. Hardesty tried to get in touch with me, but-well, what’s up? You okay?”

“Sure,” Sandoval said. “Here’s the thing. Peter and I, we-well, we’re so glad for what you’ve done for me, and MaryLou, and it looks like we’ve found a house, you know? He suggests you’d like to see it with us, this afternoon, maybe? Make it a part of our story. Life goes on, all that. You’ve played such a big role in this.”

Aww. That was simply-nice. Reporters hardly ever got credit for anything, except making trouble, and here was this guy sincerely grateful for what she’d done. Not that she’d really done anything, but maybe it felt that way to him. He was out of jail, after all. What a terrific element for her story. Talk about exclusive.

“Sounds great. With you, and MaryLou? And Mr. Hardesty?” Awkward. She’d have to figure out what to say to him. “I’ve got an appointment at six, but it’s only-” She checked her computer monitor. “Two forty-five.”

“We’re on the way there now, if that’s convenient,” Elliot said. “It’s forty-fifteen Rawson Avenue.”

Where was her notebook? Jane jotted down the address on her desk blotter, calculating. “Can I bring my photographer?”

Sandoval seemed to be thinking. “Well, I didn’t ask Peter about that. Can we-like, talk about it when you get here?”

“Sure,” Jane said. She could roll some video on her cell phone if need be. It wasn’t like she was on TV anymore. “See you in thirty or so. And Mr. Sandoval? Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me,” he said. “This is all you.”