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  Will’s eyebrows furrowed. “They charged Braham with murder?”

  “Here’s the worst part.” She handed him the photocopy she’d made of Tommy’s confession.

  Will seemed surprised. “They gave this to you?”

  “I have a relationship—a past relationship.” She didn’t really know how to explain why Frank had let her bulldoze her way through. “I was the town coroner. I was married to the boss. They’re used to showing me evidence.”

  Will patted his pockets. “I think my reading glasses are in my suitcase.”

  She dug around in her purse and pulled out her own pair.

  Will frowned at the glasses, but slid them on. He blinked several times as he scanned the page, asking, “Tommy is local?”

  “Born and raised.”

  “How old is he?”

  Sara couldn’t keep the outrage out of her tone. “Nineteen.”

  He looked up. “Nineteen?”

  “Exactly,” she said. “I don’t know how they think he masterminded this. He can barely spell his own name.”

  Will nodded as he turned back to the confession, his eyes going back and forth across the page. Finally, he looked at Sara. “Did he have some kind of reading problem, like dyslexia?”

  “Dyslexia is a language disorder. But, no, Tommy wasn’t dyslexic. His IQ was around eighty. Intellectually disabled people test out at seventy or below—what used to be called retarded. Dyslexia has nothing to do with IQ. Actually, I had a couple of kids with it who ran circles around me.”

  He gave his half-grin. “I find that very hard to believe.”

  She smiled back, thinking he didn’t know the first thing about her. “Don’t get hung up on a couple of spelling mistakes.”

  “It’s more than a couple.”

  “Think about it this way: I could sit across from a dyslexic all day and never know it. With Tommy, he could talk about baseball or football until the cows came home, but get him into more complex areas of thinking and he’d be completely lost. Concepts that required logic, or processing cause and effect, were incredibly difficult for him to grasp. You couldn’t talk a dyslexic into a false confession any more easily than you could talk someone who had green eyes or red hair into saying they did something they didn’t do. Tommy was incredibly gullible. He could be talked into anything.”

  Will stared at her, not speaking for a moment. “You think Detective Adams elicited a false confession?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Do you think she’s criminally negligent?”

  “I don’t know the legal threshold. I just know that her actions led to his death.”

  He spoke carefully, and she finally realized that he was interviewing her. “Can you tell me how you reached that conclusion?”

  “Other than the fact that he scrawled ‘Not me’ in his own blood before he died?”

  “Other than that.”

  “Tommy is—was—very suggestible. It goes hand in hand with his low IQ. He didn’t test low enough to be classified as severely disabled, but he had some of the same attributes: the desire to please, the innocence, the gullibility. What happened today—the note, the shoes, the botched cover-up. On the surface, it seems like the kind of thing a person who is slow or stupid might do, but it’s all too complicated for Tommy.” She tried to listen to herself from Will’s perspective. “I know this sounds like I’m hell-bent on going after Lena, and obviously I am, but that doesn’t mean that what I’m saying isn’t scientific fact. I had a hard time treating Tommy because he would always say he had whatever symptom I asked him about, whether it was a headache or a cough. If I put it into his head the right way, he would’ve told me he had the bubonic plague.”

  “So you’re saying Lena should have recognized that Tommy was slow and …?”

  “Not badgered him into killing himself, for one.”

  “And two?”

  “Sought proper medical care for him. He was obviously stricken. He wouldn’t stop crying. He wouldn’t talk to anybody …” Her voice trailed off as she saw the hole in her argument. Frank had called Sara for help.

  Instead of pointing out the obvious, Will asked, “Isn’t the prisoner the responsibility of the booking officer?”

  “Lena is the one who put him there. She didn’t frisk him—or at least didn’t frisk him well enough to find the ink cartridge he used to kill himself with. She didn’t alert the guards to keep a close eye on him. She just got the confession and walked away.” Sara could feel herself getting angrier by the second. “Who knows how she left him emotionally. She probably talked him into thinking his life wasn’t worth living. This is what she does over and over again. She creates these shitstorms and someone else always pays the price.”

  Will stared out at the parking lot, his hands resting lightly on his knees. Though the hospital had closed, the electricity was still working. The parking lot lights flickered on. In their yellow glow, Sara could see the scar that ran down the side of Will’s face and into his collar. It was old, probably from his childhood. The first time she’d seen it, she’d thought maybe he’d ripped the skin sliding into first base or failing at some daring feat on a bicycle. That was before she’d found out that he’d grown up in an orphanage. Now, she wondered if there was more to the story.

  Certainly, it wasn’t Will Trent’s only scar. Even in profile, she could see the spot between his nose and lip where someone or something had repeatedly busted the skin apart. Whoever had stitched the flesh back together hadn’t done a very good job. The scar was slightly jagged, giving his mouth an almost raffish quality.

  Will exhaled a breath of air. When he finally spoke, he was all business. “They charged Tommy Braham with murder? Nothing else?”

  “No, just murder.”

  “Not attempted murder for Detective Stephens?” Will asked. Sara shook her head. “Wasn’t Chief Wallace also injured?”

  Sara felt a blush work its way up her chest. She imagined Frank was calling it that even after the beating he gave Tommy in the middle of the street. “The arrest report said murder. Nothing else.”

  “The way I see it is that I have two issues here. One is that a suspect killed himself while he was in Detective Adams’s custody, and two is that I’m not sure why she arrested Tommy Braham for murder based on his confession. And not just his confession, but any confession.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You don’t just arrest someone for murder based solely on their confession. There has to be corroborative evidence. The sixth amendment gives a defendant the right to confront his accuser. If you’re your own accuser and you recant your confession …” He shrugged. “It’s like a dog chasing its tail.”

  Sara felt stupid for not making this connection hours ago. She had been the county medical examiner for almost fifteen years. The police didn’t necessarily need a cause of death to hold someone for suspicion of murder, but they needed the official finding that a murder had been committed before an arrest warrant was issued.

  Will said, “They had plenty of reason to hold Braham without the murder charge: assault with a deadly weapon, attempted murder, assault on a police officer during the course of duty, assault during the course of arrest, evading arrest, trespassing. These are serious felonies. They could hold him on any combination for the next year and no one would complain.” He shook his head, as if he couldn’t grasp the logic. “I’ll need to get their reports.”

  Sara turned around to the back seat and retrieved the copies she’d made. “I’ll have to wait for the drugstore to open in the morning so I can print the photographs.”

  Will marveled at her access as he flipped through the pages. “Wow. All right.” He skimmed the pages as he talked. “I know you’re convinced Tommy didn’t kill this girl, but it’s my job to prove it one way or another.”

  “Of course. I didn’t mean to …” Sara let her voice trail off. She had meant to influence him. That was the point of them being here. “You’re right. I know you have to be impartial.�
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  “I just need you to be prepared, Dr. Linton. If I find out Tommy did it, or can’t find solid proof that he didn’t, no one is going to care how he was treated in jail. They’re going to think your Detective Adams saved them a lot of their tax dollars by avoiding a trial.”

  Sara felt her heart sink. He was right. She had seen people in this town make assumptions before that weren’t necessarily rooted in fact. They didn’t embrace nuance.

  He gave her an alternate scenario. “On the other hand, if Tommy didn’t kill this girl, then there’s a murderer out there who’s either very lucky or very clever.”

  Again, Sara hadn’t let herself think this far. She had been so concerned with Lena’s involvement that it hadn’t occurred to her that Tommy’s innocence would point to another killer.

  Will asked, “What else did you find out?”

  “According to Frank, both he and Lena saw marks on Spooner’s wrists that indicated she was tied up.”

  Will made a skeptical noise. “That’s really hard to tell when a body’s been in the water that long.”

  Sara did not revel in her feelings of vindication. “There’s a stab wound, or what they think is a stab wound, in her neck.”

  “Is it possible that it was self-inflicted?”

  “I haven’t seen it, but I can’t imagine anyone would kill themselves with a stab to the back of the neck. And there would’ve been a lot of blood, especially if her carotid was hit. We’re talking high velocity, up and back, like a hose turned on full blast. I would guess you’d find anywhere from four to five pints of blood at the scene.”

  “What about Spooner’s suicide note?”

  “‘I want it over,’” Sara recalled.

  “That’s strange.” He closed the folder. “Is the local coroner any good?”

  “Dan Brock. He’s a funeral director, not a doctor.”

  “I’ll take that as a no.” Will stared at her. “If I transfer Spooner and Braham up to Atlanta, we lose another day.”

  She was already a step ahead of him. “I talked to Brock. He’s happy to let me do the autopsies, but we’ll have to start after eleven so we don’t disturb anyone. He’s got a funeral tomorrow morning. He’s supposed to call me later with the exact time so we can coordinate the procedures.”

  “Autopsies are done at the funeral home?”

  She indicated the hospital. “We used to do them here, but the state cut funding and they couldn’t stay open.”

  “Same story, different town.” He looked at his cell phone. “I guess I should go introduce myself to Chief Wallace.”

  “Interim Chief,” she corrected, then, “Sorry, it doesn’t matter. Frank’s not at the station right now.”

  “I’ve already left two messages for him about meeting up with me. Did he get called out?”

  “He’s at the hospital with Brad. And Lena, I imagine.”

  “I’m sure they’re taking some time to get their stories straight.”

  “Will you go to the hospital?”

  “They’re going to hate me enough without me trampling into the hospital room of an injured cop.”

  Sara silently conceded the point. “So, what are you going to do now?”

  “I want to go to the station and see where they were keeping Tommy. I’m sure they’ll have an extremely hostile patrolman there who’s going to tell me he just got on shift, doesn’t know anything, and Tommy killed himself because he was guilty.” He tapped the file. “I’ll talk to the other prisoners if they haven’t already let them go. I imagine Interim Chief Wallace won’t show up until the morning, which will give me some time to go over these files.” He leaned up to get his wallet out of his back pocket. “Here’s my business card. It’s got my cell number on the back.”

  Sara read Will’s name next to the GBI logo. “You have a doctorate?”

  He took the card back from her and stared at the printing. Instead of answering her question, he said, “The numbers are good. Can you tell me where I can find the closest hotel?”

  “There’s one over by the college. It’s not very nice, but it’s fairly clean. It’ll be quiet since the kids are on break.”

  “I’ll get supper there and—”

  “They don’t have a restaurant.” Sara felt a flash of shame for her small town. “Everything’s closed this time of night except the pizza place, and they’ve been shut down by the health department so many times that only the students will eat there.”

  “I’m sure there are some snack machines at the hotel.” He put his hand on the door handle, but Sara stopped him.

  “My mother made a huge dinner and there’s plenty left over.” She took the file from him and wrote her address on the front. “Crap,” she muttered, scratching through the street number. She had given her old address, not her parents’. “Lakeshore,” she said, pointing at the street directly across from the hospital. “Go right. Or left if you want the scenic route. It’s just a big circle around the lake.” She wrote down her cell number. “Call if you get lost.”

  “I couldn’t impose on your family.”

  “I’ve dragged you all the way down here. You could at least let me feed you. Or let my mother feed you, which would be far better for your health.” Then, because she knew he was not a stupid man, she added, “And you know I want to know what’s happening on the case.”

  “I don’t know how late I’ll be.”

  “I’ll wait up.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  WILL TRENT PRESSED HIS FACE TO THE CLOSED GLASS DOOR of the station house. The lights were out. There was no one at the front desk. He rapped his keys on the door for a third time, thinking if he used any more pressure, the glass would break. The building overhang wasn’t doing much to keep the rain off his head. His stomach was grumbling from hunger. He was cold and wet, and extremely irritated that he had been ordered to this small-town hellhole during his vacation.

  The worst part about this particular assignment was that this was the first time in his working life that Will had ever asked for a whole week off from work. Back home, his front yard was torn up where he had been digging a trench around the sewer line from his house to the street. Tree roots had taken over the ninety-year-old clay pipe, and a plumber wanted eight thousand dollars to change it out to plastic. Will was digging the trench by hand, trying not to destroy the thousands of dollars worth of landscaping he’d planted in the yard over the last five years, when the phone rang. Not answering didn’t seem like an option. He’d been expecting news from Faith—that her baby was finally coming or, even better, that it was already here.

  But, no, it was Amanda Wagner, telling him, “We don’t say no to a cop’s widow.”

  Will had put a tarp over the trench, but something told him his two days of digging would be erased by a mudslide by the time he got back home. If he ever made it back home. It seemed like he was destined to spend the rest of his life standing in the pouring-down rain outside this Podunk police station.

  He was about to tap on the glass again when a light finally came on inside the building. An elderly woman headed toward the door, taking her time as she waddled across the carpeted lobby. She was large, a bright red prairie-style dress draping over her like a tent. Her gray hair was wrapped up in a bun on the top of her head, held there by a butterfly clip. A gold necklace with a cross dangled into her ample cleavage.

  She put her hand on the lock, but didn’t open it. Her voice was muffled through the glass. “Help you?”

  Will took out his ID and showed it to her. She leaned in, scrutinizing the photograph, comparing it with the man in front of her. “You look better with your hair longer.”

  “Thank you.” He tried to blink away the rain pouring into his eyes.

  She waited for him to say something else, but Will held his tongue. Finally, she relented, unlocking the door.

  The temperature inside was negligibly warm, but at least he was out from the rain. Will ran his fingers through his hair, trying to get the wet out. He sta
mped his feet to knock off the damp.

  “You’re making a mess,” the woman said.

  “I apologize,” Will told her, wondering if he could ask for a towel. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. He smelled perfume. Sara’s perfume.

  The woman gave him a steely look, as if she could read what was going through Will’s mind and didn’t like it. “You gonna just stand there all night sniffing your handkerchief? I got supper to make.”

  He folded the cloth and put it back in his pocket. “I’m Agent Trent from the GBI.”

  “I already read that on your ID.” She looked him up and down in open appraisal, obviously not liking what she saw. “I’m Marla Simms, the station secretary.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ms. Simms. Can you tell me where Chief Wallace is?”

  “Mrs.” Her tone was cutting. “Not sure if you heard, but one of our boys was almost killed today. Struck down in the street while trying to do his job. We’ve been a little busy with that.”

  Will nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I did hear that. I hope Detective Stephens is going to be okay.”

  “That boy has worked here since he was eighteen years old.”

  “My prayers are with his family,” Will offered, knowing religion paid currency in small towns. “If Chief Wallace isn’t available, may I speak with the booking officer?”

  She seemed annoyed that he knew such a position existed. Frank Wallace had obviously given her the task of stalling the asshole from the GBI. Will could almost see the wheels in her head turning as she tried to figure out a way around his question.

  Will politely pressed, “I know that the prisoners aren’t left unattended. Are you in charge of the cells?”

  “Larry Knox is back there,” she finally answered. “I was about to leave. I already locked up all the files, so if you want—”

  Will had tucked the file Sara had given him down the front of his pants so that it wouldn’t get wet. He lifted his sweater and handed Marla the file. “Can you fax these twelve pages for me?”