* * *
The next few days dragged like a traffic jam on a California freeway. I passed the time in my cell reading and thinking; the only interruption came at mealtimes. I didn’t mind reading, but the thinking part wasn’t so good. I worried that my dad wouldn’t be able to find any good leads. More than that, I worried that he would give up on me, just as he had after my mom died.
I kept going back to all the bad decisions I’d made. If only I’d walked out as soon as the shop owner gave me attitude. If only I hadn’t gone back to the store to confront him. If only I hadn’t driven to his house. The “if only’s” were driving me crazy.
My dad found a criminal attorney to take my case, but meeting with him didn’t make me feel any better. Even though he didn’t ask, I told him I was innocent. I could tell from his reaction that he didn’t believe me. I guessed that in his line of work, he got lied to more times than not.
When I got word that my dad was back to see me, I felt torn between hope and dread. I walked into the jail visiting area and one look at his face pushed me to the dread side.
“The evidence against you is pretty strong, mostly due to credible eye-witnesses. There are two people who saw you leave the store and throw the trash can against the building. Both are educated, employed, with no criminal records and no tie to you or the murder victim.”
“That figures,” I said. “In other words, they’re honest, upstanding citizens who will testify that I was an out-of-control, raging lunatic.”
My father’s face was grim. “I’m afraid so. The other witness is a neighbor walking his dog who can place your truck at the scene of the crime. Your truck stood out to him because it was pretty beat up and he’d never seen it in the neighborhood before. It also struck him as odd that it was parked in the victim’s driveway close to midnight, which in his mind ruled out your being there to work on the house or something like that. The witness told the police he thought about calling them to check it out, but decided he was overreacting, so instead he wrote down the license plate number.”
“I only parked on that driveway for five minutes or so. There’s no way I could have committed a murder in that amount of time.”
“Unfortunately, the witness lives four houses down from the victim on the same side of the street. So once he passed your truck, he couldn’t see when you left. As far as anyone knows, you could have been there for hours.”
I could already feel the noose tightening around my neck. “Did the cops even bother to look for other witnesses, anyone who might have seen me come and go?”
“They did, and so did I. I canvassed the entire block and no one else saw you. All the jury will know is that your truck was parked in the victim’s driveway during the window of time that the medical examiner will testify the murder took place.”
My father pulled on his ear lobe, a gesture I remembered he used to make when he was in “cop mode” discussing a case. “Is there anyone you saw on the way home? Did you stop for something to eat or to get gas -- anything like that? Even if you caught someone’s eye at a stoplight, I might be able to track him down to confirm your story.”
I didn’t even have to think about it before answering. Over the last few days, I’d already played through my drive home over and over in my mind and I knew no one could give me an alibi. “I don’t think so, unless one of my neighbors saw me come home.”
My dad shook his head. “No. I thought of that as well. I already checked with them and no one saw you that night.”
“Then I’m pretty well screwed, right?”
My father reached across the table, and his hand gripped my forearm -- the first contact we’d made in a decade. His touch made me feel as if I was a kid again, desperate for his approval.
“I’m not giving up,” he said, “even though the detectives assigned to the case have. They’re convinced you’re the killer, so they’ve stopped looking for other suspects. I know you’re innocent, so I’m going to keep looking. I’m going to comb through the victim’s life. We know the real killer is out there; I just have to find him.”
“What if the murder was random? Or a burglary? The killer could be anyone.”
My dad sat back in his chair. “We got lucky there. Nothing taken from the victim’s home, so that rules out burglary. In fact, the police found a few hundred dollars of cash in his pocket and an expensive watch on his wrist.”
“So the killer could have been someone Cahill knew?”
“Yes, the murder is what we detectives classify as personal. In other words, the killer looked like he had a grudge against the victim.”
“How did you determine that?”
“The killer used a knife from the victim’s kitchen and stabbed him in the chest nine times. That indicates a crime of passion.”
My father’s eyes searched the visiting room and he leaned in closer, his voice a whisper. “There was something else. The killer shoved a bar of soap down the victim’s throat. Irish Spring -- probably because Cahill was Irish. That’s not random. The killer was making a statement. Most likely insinuating the victim was a liar.”
“But that could be tied to me, too, right? I could have been making a point that the owner falsely accused me.”
“That’s how the detectives on the case are going to spin it. But we know they’re wrong. We know there’s someone else out there who had a grudge against the victim. So I need to dig into the victim’s life and find the real killer.”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky and the real killer will confess.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. The only ones who confess are nut jobs who didn’t do it, but who get off on the publicity. That’s why the police are keeping the incident with the soap under wraps to make sure no one comes along to claim credit for a murder he didn’t commit.”
My stomach was in knots. “All the evidence points to me.”
“Then I’ve got to find someone else it points to,” my dad said. “I swear to you, son, I will find a way to prove you’re innocent.”