“Don’t touch that.”
“Would it help if I read a few of these?” Christine opened the book, which had yellowed pages. The print was old-timey and small, and the paper so thin that she could read through to the other side. She read the first line: this dividing line is significant in a discussion of the extent of riparian rights …
“No. That’s a casebook. Reports of decided cases, from all areas of the law. Not just criminal.”
“Do you have any books about the basics of criminal law?” Christine closed the casebook and put it back on the shelf.
“You’re talking about a hornbook. I have a criminal hornbook from law school.”
“Is it still good?”
“Of course. Am I still good?”
Christine let it go. “Where is your hornbook?”
“In one of those boxes.” Griff motioned to the hallway, reluctantly.
“Great.” Christine went back to the threshold and peered down the hall. Stacked boxes lined the walls on either side, making a narrow walkway between, and there was a wooden door on the left. The boxes bore the printed name CHESTER SPRINGS BUSINESS ARCHIVES, but they weren’t labeled on the side. “Are these labeled on top, so you know what’s inside?”
“I know what’s inside.”
Christine didn’t believe him. “Do you remember where the hornbooks are?”
“Far right. Second row. Third one from the bottom. But don’t go in there.”
“Just a minute.” Christine walked down the hall, scanning the boxes. She went to the door on the left, opened it, and flicked on the light. It took her a moment to understand what she was seeing, as she took in the windowless white room about the size of a large storage room, with a neatly made single bed on one side next to a night table that held a small, open carton of milk and an unwrapped packet of half-eaten chocolate cupcakes. Next to the table was a dorm-sized refrigerator, a white IKEA cabinet, and a stainless-steel rack of suits—seersucker, light gray wool, heavyweight tweed three-piece—then a rack of striped bow ties and a row of wingtips on a wire shelf at the bottom, each shoe filled with a cedar shoe holder. Attached to the room on the left was a tiny bathroom with a shower. It was obvious that Griff was living here and didn’t want her to know that. She felt a stab of sympathy for the old lawyer, and sadness that he had come to such dire straits.
“What are you doing?” Griff called from the office.
“I think I found the box!” Christine called back, closing the door quickly so he wouldn’t suspect she had seen anything.
“Don’t touch my boxes!” Griff called out from his office.
“I won’t, I’m coming back!” Christine swallowed hard as she walked back down the hall and entered the office. “I think I found the right box, but I can’t get it out. Do you have a hand cart?”
“Why would I have a hand cart?” Griff sighed, but he looked tired, his lids lower, and Christine knew it was time to go.
“It can wait. Tomorrow, can we borrow a hand cart from the other law firm?”
“Yes, good.” Griff went back to his desk and eased into his desk chair slowly, with a squeak from its dry springs. “I’ll finish up here. You go.”
“You’re the boss,” Christine said, her throat tight. She went to the door. “See you after my morning stops. I’ll keep you posted on what I find.”
“Hold on, I almost forgot.” Griff dug through the piles on his desk, found a manila envelope, and handed it over. “This is from the police. They didn’t have to turn ’em over yet. They threw me a bone.”
“What is it?” Christine took the envelope, intrigued.
“Look ’em over. But not before bedtime.”
Chapter Forty
The Warner Hotel turned out to be as charming as the rest of West Chester, and Christine’s room reminded her of a Victorian dollhouse; it was a cozy size, with a panel of mullioned windows that overlooked a horse pasture, so she didn’t have to bother closing the curtains. She left the windows open since the night air was surprisingly cool and smelled fresh, if vaguely earthy. A bed with a chintz canopy and matching bedspread sat on top of a pink-and-green hooked rug, and the dresser and armoire were both carved antiques. Soft crystal lamps gave off a gentle light, lending the room a serene country feel, but even the lovely setting couldn’t put Christine’s mind at ease.
She couldn’t shake the sadness that seemed to sink into her bones as she showered, wrapped her wet hair in a fresh towel, and cocooned herself in a soft terry bathrobe. She kept thinking about Griff’s tiny quarters, stuck into what must have been a repurposed storage room, and she found herself liking him, even though he was a complicated man. There was so much she didn’t know about him, like how a man with so much family could be so completely alone, if not lonely. She respected him as a lawyer and admired the energy he was putting into Zachary’s case, and she could forgive him his occasional crankiness, especially after what she had seen.
Marcus was always in the back of her mind, too, and Christine kept checking her phone to see if he had called or texted, but he hadn’t. She’d held out hope that he would appear at the hotel, having reconsidered his position, but she knew that she was in denial. Marcus wasn’t that kind of man, and this rift went too deep to be repaired quickly. She guessed that if he hadn’t called yet, he probably wasn’t going to; she glanced at the digital clock on the night table, which read 9:45.
Christine’s gaze traveled from the clock to the ultrasound photo of the baby, which she’d left on the night table, and she picked it up and eased into a sitting position on the bed, eyeing the image. She felt a surge of the overwhelming protectiveness and love that she’d felt the first time she’d seen the image and every time she’d looked at it thereafter. She remembered the fragile heart she’d seen beating on the monitor, and her loving eyes took in the grayish figure eight of the baby’s body, growing inside her. The sight of the baby renewed her strength and resolve. She had to stay strong and accomplish what she came for. She had come this far and she hadn’t been wrong yet. If she could keep going, she had a chance of exonerating Zachary and putting her marriage back together.
Christine set the ultrasound photo aside, fetched the envelope Griff had given her, and climbed into bed with it. She sat cross-legged in the middle of the bedspread, opened the old-fashioned brass brad, and peeked inside to see a bunch of photos, which she shook out onto the bed. The top one landed faceup, and just one glance made Christine’s gut wrench. She swallowed hard and picked it up, to see it more closely in the low light.
It was a photo of Zachary that the police must have taken after his arrest, the night of Gail Robinbrecht’s murder. It appeared to be taken in a home setting, evidently at the crime scene, though an unusually bright light shone on Zachary and illuminated him in a clinical way, probably for evidentiary purposes. It showed clearly the blood that was spattered on his face, dotting his cheeks and forehead, obliterating his handsome features. There was even blood in the front of his hair, darkening and stiffening his tawny bangs. His round blue eyes looked directly at the camera, in mute shock. His lips were parted, and there was blood on his upper lip.
Christine sighed, and it only got worse as her gaze traveled downward in the photo. Blood covered Zachary’s upper chest in his Ralph Lauren polo shirt, which must have been white before it was covered with gruesome crimson blotches, radiating from the center as if he had been shot in the chest. His hands hung at his sides but they were covered with blood, and there was blood on his forearms, too; some in droplets and others in smears, as if it had been rubbed or wiped. He was wearing khaki pants, and blood dripped down them in teardrop shapes. His shoes were brown loafers, but she didn’t see any blood on them. She looked more closely, but still didn’t see any blood on the upper of his shoes.
She set the photo down and picked up the others, counting them quickly. There were eight photos, and out of habit, she set them out on the bed, four in the top row and four in the bottom, the way she did at school, when she u
sed flashcards for sight vocabulary with her younger students. Then she sorted the photos according to setting; there were four photos taken in the home setting, so she put them on the top row, and there were four photos taken in an institutional setting, probably the police station, with a bright white background, fluorescent lighting, and a gray-white counter and cubicles in the background.
Christine started with the top photos, which were front, back, and views of Zachary from both sides, showing the blood spatter that was all over his face, body, clothes, and skin. But not on the uppers of his shoes, and she didn’t know if it was meaningful or chance. She examined each photo carefully, trying to look at it in an objective way but failing. Maybe it was her current mood or maybe it was the fact that she was just a teacher from suburban Connecticut, but she couldn’t get over the horror of what she was seeing. She wanted to believe that Zachary wasn’t guilty, but it was hard to do with so much blood on him, and she couldn’t find a way to justify it to herself. His expression in each of the top four photos was basically the same; his eyes unfocused and oddly opaque, without any of the warmth she had seen at the prison or any of the connection she had felt there.
She picked up the second set of four photos, which were also front, back, right, and left views, and she experienced the same sensation of horror, mixed with despair. The bright institutional lighting made the blood shine cruelly and brought up its rich vermilion color, even though it had started to dry at the edges of most of the bloodstains, where it must have been thinner. Christine could see how it made stiff splotches on Zachary’s polo shirt and pants, and it had even begun to clump his bangs together.
She scrutinized each photo, then set them down, so that all eight were looking back at her, and eight sets of blue eyes seemed to see through her, to her very heart. She thought of her baby’s beating heart, so fragile and delicate in its gossamer ultrasound, and it sickened her to think that this was her baby’s father. She looked at Zachary’s eyes and she wondered if she would see them someday, looking back at her in the flesh, the eyes of her own little boy or girl. And even as she hoped that the genetics counselor was right, Christine couldn’t help but wonder if Marcus was right, too, and a propensity toward violence of this deranged degree was somehow carried in the very DNA of her child, who would turn out to be a murderer, the same way that athletic skill, ability with numbers, and even a knack for languages were inherited.
Christine prayed that Zachary wasn’t guilty, but even so, it was a nightmare to imagine that he was in this very situation, covered with the blood of an innocent young nurse who didn’t deserve to die. Gail Robinbrecht had dedicated her life to the care of others, to saving lives, only to meet a horrific end in a random hookup with a deviant, even as she was trying to come to terms with the loss of another man she had loved and lost to the war.
Christine felt tears come to her eyes and didn’t know who they were for, whether they were for Gail, Zachary, Griff, her baby, or Marcus. She couldn’t help but feel that all of them were bound together somehow, tangled up in some flesh-and-blood ball, as if their veins, arteries, nerves, and DNA were wound around each other like so many rubber bands, forming a hard core that could never be torn apart, much less untangled.
Christine wiped her eyes, put the photos away, and sealed them inside the envelope. A wave of exhaustion and despair swept over her, and she set the envelope on the night table, then lay back on the stacked pillows, still in the cottony cocoon of her bathrobe. She had to keep it together, and it was time to get some sleep. She closed her eyes, tried to clear her mind, and let herself drift into sleep.
Because she knew it was going to get worse, before it got better.
Chapter Forty-one
Christine followed Detective Wallace, ducking under the yellow caution tape and walking down the alley beside Gail Robinbrecht’s house. On the way, she snapped photos with her phone, trying to ignore the tension in her stomach. She hadn’t slept well and she’d already barfed up her breakfast, but she’d showered and changed into a fresh denim shirtdress. It had a skinny leather belt, and for the first time, she’d had to move to an extra hole, a fact she noted with mixed emotions. She’d been waiting for her baby bump, but she felt differently now. She was about to see the aftermath of a murder that her baby’s father might have committed.
Detective Wallace stopped at the end of the alley, waiting for her. He was in his forties, with short dark hair and wire-rimmed glasses, and he made a tall, trim, and professional appearance in a black polo shirt with the sewn-in gold emblem of the Chester County Detectives, which he had on with Dockers and loafers. He gestured at Gail Robinbrecht’s wooden stairs, which Christine had only seen from a distance. “Here we go. It’s upstairs.”
“Thanks.”
“Follow me.” Detective Wallace ascended the stairway, she climbed behind him, snapping photos of the backyard, which was also paved with concrete, lined on one side with trash and recycling bins, and bordered by the same wooden privacy fence as Linda Kent’s backyard. It even had the same sign on the back gate, COBBLESTONE PROPERTY MANAGEMENT, and Christine gathered that the duplexes managed by the company would be generally uniform.
Detective Wallace asked, when they reached the top landing, “Before we enter the scene, did Griff tell you the rules?”
“No. Do you know Griff?”
“Everybody knows Griff. He’s an institution.” Detective Wallace smiled as he bent over and unlocked a square metal container with the county seal. “Can’t say I care for his clients, but he does a lot of good for the department. He’s the single biggest donor to the Widow & Orphans Fund. He gives to PAL, too. We’d do anything for him. How do you think you got in here so fast?”
“He has money?” Christine asked, surprised to think of Griff’s sad little bedroom behind his office.
“He must be worth a fortune, but he gives it all away.” Detective Wallace reached inside the metal container. “My wife’s a librarian, and he gives them money, too. He just paid to renovate the reading room for the kids. He doesn’t make a big deal about it. He didn’t want his name on the reading room. They offered, too.”
“Where does his money come from? Not from his family, I didn’t get that impression.”
“No, he’s self-made, in commercial real estate. He owns the building his office is in.”
“You mean he rents it to that other law firm?” Christine had thought it was the other way around.
“Yes. He owns a lot of office buildings in West Chester.” Detective Wallace held a cardboard box of blue booties, tugged two from the box, and offered them to Christine. “Please put these on your shoes.”
“Okay, thanks.” Christine took the booties and slipped them over her espadrilles, thinking about Griff. The man was a paradox, that much was sure. Suddenly her cell phone began ringing in her hand, and she checked the screen. It was Marcus, so she didn’t get it. “Sorry.”
“You need to wear gloves, too.” Detective Wallace returned to the box. “Are you allergic to latex?”
“No.”
“Here.” Detective Wallace handed her two purple gloves, and Christine put her phone in her purse and tugged them on.
“Thanks.”
“Here are the rules. Please don’t touch anything inside.” Detective Wallace spoke as he gloved his hands. “No smoking or gum chewing. You may take as many pictures as you want. You may not make or receive cell-phone calls or texts.” Detective Wallace went back into the metal box and pulled out a clipboard with a pen attached. “Please walk only in the areas I designate. You’re entitled to see any rooms you wish, but you may not contaminate or disrupt anything. The scene hasn’t been released yet, so it’s still an active crime scene.”
“When will it be released?”
“That, I don’t know. It’s not up to me.” Detective Wallace made a note on the clipboard, which appeared to be a log of visitors to the scene.
“Who’s been here already?” Christine peeked at the log, trying to read
it. “Did the FBI come, or detectives from Maryland and Virginia?”
“That’s police information.” Detective Wallace put the clipboard back in the metal box, then pulled a key from his pocket, opened the screen door, and unlocked the wooden door. “If you have any questions, either you or Griff can call the district attorney. We’re not meant to answer questions on these walk-throughs.”
“Okay.” Christine took the opportunity to look across the way at Linda Kent’s apartment, directly opposite, and she snapped a few pictures.
“Follow me,” Detective Wallace said, holding the door open, and Christine went inside, struck instantly by an intensely horrible odor. It was unmistakably blood, organic and decomposing, and it turned her stomach. She didn’t know if the smell was more powerful because the apartment had been closed up or if it was because of her pregnancy, but she had trouble keeping her gorge down.
“Watch your step.” Detective Wallace turned on the light, then pointed to the floor, and Christine looked down, appalled to see bloody footprints that led from the door, around the kitchen table, and out of the room.
“Ugh,” she heard herself say, snapping pictures almost immediately because she didn’t want to waste time. Some of the footprints were clearer than others, but she didn’t have the heart or the stomach to parse it now.
Christine took a slew of pictures, looking around the small, pretty kitchen, its walls a sunny shade of buttercup yellow, with white cabinets and heartbreakingly charming details; above the sink was a narrow shelf with an array of photographs of Gail with her family and friends, everybody smiling and with their heads together, taken at a Great Adventure park, in bathing suits at the beach, and around a table in a restaurant.
Magnets blanketed the refrigerator, plenty of SpongeBob SquarePants, but more about nursing; one was shaped like a Band-Aid and read, NURSES MAKE IT BETTER, another showed a picture of a nurse in a cape and read, I’M A NURSE, WHAT’S YOUR SUPERPOWER? and a third one said, RN: CUTE ENOUGH TO STOP YOUR HEART, SKILLED ENOUGH TO RESTART IT. Christine felt her eyes tear up as she took pictures, but she suppressed them.