Truth Be Told

60

“You did not,” Jake said. “You did not kill Carley Marie Schaefer, Mr. Thorley. You could not have done it.”

Jake unzipped his briefcase, pulled out an accordion file envelope, untied the dark red string, flapped open the cover. He drew out his grandfather’s file, opened it. Had he found the truth in those pages from the past? Time had no guideposts in the BPD interrogation room, no clock, no computer, no window; no reckoning except the timelines of the stories that unfolded here.

“Could not have-how do you know that?” Hardesty said. “Brady rule, Detective. If you’ve got exculpatory evidence, you’re required by law to provide it.”

Thorley picked up his ginger ale can, sloshed it back and forth, maybe checking how much was left. Put it down.

“You’ll have it, Hardesty,” Jake said. “Mr. Thorley, let me ask you. Did you know my grandfather was the police commissioner? Back when Carley Marie Schaefer was killed?”

“So?”

Jake saw Hardesty roll his eyes. Guy must be a pain to represent. Sullen, unresponsive. Insisting he was guilty.

“So this. Commissioner Brogan kept an extensive file of the investigation of the Carley Marie Schaefer murder. The commissioner vowed to find her killer, but-”

“And now he has,” Thorley said.

“Gordon, I’m not kidding,” Hardesty said.

“You could be right,” Jake said. “He has.”

“What?” Hardesty stood again.

Jake flipped through the paperwork, pulled out a page of tiny square photos, the junior class of Attleboro high school, class of 1995. He pointed. “Second from the right, second row down. Junior class. You see? Read the names at the bottom.”

He held out the photo, Hardesty took it from him.

“Carley Marie,” the lawyer said.

“Exactly. So, Mr. Thorley, early on you told us you ‘had a thing’ with her. She was in high school. But you were ‘older.’”

Jake pulled out another folder, drew out another page of pictures. “And look, here you are. G Thorley, in your baseball jersey, on a page of the senior class. ‘Older.’ Yes, you were. And a baseball star. Before you took to armed robbery, I guess.”

“See? Everything I said was true. This proves it.”

“Well, here’s the thing. On the night of the murder, Lilac Sunday, the Attleboro Eagles had a big game. Which you-varsity pitcher, in the rotation that night-would not have missed. And didn’t.”

Jake pulled out a photo, black-and-white, a blurry image of an extended leg, an arm with leather glove on one hand, and umpire making the unmistakable “out” sign.

“You probably don’t have to read the caption,” Jake said. “You made the big out. Go Bombardiers.”

Hardesty was shaking his head, dismissive. “All very dramatic, Brogan,” he said. “But Carley Marie was probably killed overnight, we all know that. Some baseball game, historic as it apparently was, would have long been over.”

“True,” Jake said. “Except for-well, Mr. Thorley? You want to tell us? Or shall I show your attorney your get-out-of-jail card?”

“My-?”

“Or shall I say, your ‘I was in jail’ card. All you crazy kids got plastered after that game, trashed the locker room and the coach’s car, and spent the night in the Attleboro lockup. Here’s the police report. Here the story from the paper the next day. No names in it, you were juveniles, but this morning I called a retired Attleboro cop. He remembered the whole deal.”

“Let me see that,” Hardesty said.

“It’s easier to tell a lie if part of it’s true. There’s not so much to remember, right?” Jake said. “You and Carley Marie were in high school together. That was true. But maybe that was all. Question was, who else would have known that? Who told you what to do and what to say? If you don’t answer me-it doesn’t matter. Because I already know.”

Peter held the police report in one hand, the blurry copy of the news story in the other. Dated 1994, a stilted but unmistakable account of the “rambunctious in victory” varsity baseball team who’d stolen a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon from someone’s parents’ house and “caroused” through the school and the parking lot. “Authorities report the students’ parents insisted they should be taught a lesson, and were kept in the city lockup overnight. School officials are considering whether graduation should…”

“Hardesty? Your client’s lie won’t work,” Brogan was saying. “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt here, that you didn’t know. If he gives up the real story, right now, it’ll make things much easier. I’m sure you can explain that to him.”

There was a first. He agreed with a cop. He and Jake Brogan-who’d been acting like he had some kind of chip on his shoulder-were now in this together, on the same side. And now, flipping their usual roles, it was the cop who apparently had evidence his client was not guilty.

“Mr. Thorley,” Peter began. “Detective Brogan is right.”

Peter paused, letting that sink in. He was sure Brogan’s face registered the irony for an instant. “If you’re doing this for your family-whatever it is you’re doing, whoever it is you’re covering for-they’d rather have you home. They’d rather have you be the good guy. You helped them keep their house, maybe. But however you think you’re working that, whatever someone promised you, your sister will be haunted forever, thinking that the Lilac Sunday killer is her brother. You’re trying to help them by branding yourself as a murderer? Is that what you want?”

Brogan had taken out the photo of Carley Marie again. Showed it to him, then to his client. “And what about Carley Marie’s family?” Brogan said. “You can be the hero, Thorley. The hero. Not the villain.”

Jake’s cell phone vibrated against his jacket pocket.

Damn. He hit OFF. Focused on Thorley. An icicle of sweat had started, down the side of the suspect’s cheek. He’d swiped it away with the back of one hand. Thorley’s orange jump suit, county issue, wilted on his narrow shoulders.

Jake had one more card-at least-to play.

“We’re not done, Thorley,” Jake said. He checked with Hardesty, his unlikely new ally. Got a nod, go ahead.

“The only one who’d pay an innocent person to confess to a crime is the person who actually did it,” Jake said.

“So we need to know-,” Hardesty began.

“Hang on,” Jake interrupted. He pulled up a chair, as close to Thorley as he could get. Opened his grandfather’s files. Grandpa’s notes. And they’d led Jake to the answers. Commissioner Brogan helped solve this case after all. Jake would tell Gramma later, when Lilac Sunday was finally closed.

“Mr. Thorley,” Jake continued. “Showing you this photo of the baseball game again.”

“So?” Thorley didn’t look up. “I’ve seen it.”

“Who threw you that ball?”

“How do I know?”

“Let me refresh your recollection, then,” Jake said. His phone buzzed again.

Dammit. He punched it off. “It appears my grandfather had talked to some students at Attleboro High. Here’s a list of their names, and I found every one of them in the yearbook. The principal’s there, his name is crossed off, apparently he must have had a good alibi, too. There’s also this name.” Jake put the paper down. Pointed.

Hardesty stood, leaned over the table.

“Gary Lee Smith?” Hardesty said.

“Ring a bell?” Jake said. “Who was Gary Lee Smith, Mr. Thorley?”

“Parole officer. You know that.” Thorley mumbled the words, aimed them at the floor.

“Correct. Went off to play minor league ball, got cut, became a parole officer. Your first parole officer, specifically, the one who argued for your release at the parole board. The one who died in the car accident. The one who-well, let’s let your lawyer see for himself.” He handed Hardesty the yearbook photo.

“The-,” Hardesty began.

“Catcher,” Jake said. “The guy who threw you that ball. But he was in jail with you, too, the night of the murder. Couldn’t have killed Carley Marie, either. Maybe he knew her? But the Commissioner crossed him off his list, because Smith was in jail, too. With you. He couldn’t have known how you’d be connected with him again, all those years later.”

Thorley didn’t speak. He sat so still Jake checked, briefly, to see if his sunken chest was moving. Finally one of Thorley’s hands, flat on the gray metal table, curled slowly into a fist. Then, just as slowly, uncurled.

“Gary Lee Smith argued for your release,” Jake said. “And his boss, parole board chairman Edward Walsh, agreed. Lost his job over it. But eventually, as your parole officer, and your pal, Smith found out you were dying. Was that what made you the perfect fall guy? You’d confess, you’d get your family’s house back, you’d die. Who came to you with that deal?”

Jake leaned in close to Thorley, tried not to breathe the scent of bleach and cigarettes and fear.

“Who killed Carley Marie?” Jake kept his voice still, still as the room.

“You know this.” Peter’s voice, almost reverent.

“It’s over,” Jake said. “Just tell us. Who killed her?”

“I don’t know,” Thorley said. “I. Don’t. Know.”

He looked up, his eyes widening at the reality.

He’d confessed.