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“Take a closer look at her,” Thomas suggested, enlarging the image.
Johnson leaned in.
“Now look at this.” He cut the screen in half and scrolled through images taken twenty years before, pictures of the people who had testified or made statements in the McIntyre Massacre trial. Eventually he stopped scrolling at a shot of a teenaged girl with a pixie face and long red hair parted down the middle.
“Oh, God.” She glanced at Thomas. “Brittlynn Cadella?”
“Right. Chad Atwater’s secret girlfriend, the one he eventually married.”
“His alibi.” She straightened and trained her gaze on the screen where the image of the Marlie look-alike was.
Thomas pulled at his collar and said, “I can’t help but wonder what she’s doing at the protest. You’d think she’d want to be as far away from Jonas McIntyre as possible, to lay low.”
“Apparently not. She and Chad live up on the mountain, not far from the ski resort where he teaches lessons. Let’s go and see what she has to say for herself.”
“And for Chad.”
Thomas scooted back his chair and found his jacket hanging on a hook near the door. “Maybe this time he’ll speak for himself.”
Johnson laughed. “Ten to one she’s his alibi again.”
“If they need one. I can’t see either of them being involved in killing Margrove,” he admitted, unable to tie all the loose strings together.
“Unless Margrove dug up something we don’t know about, something that Chad is worried will incriminate him in the massacre two decades ago.”
Slipping his arms through the sleeves of his jacket, Thomas admitted, his frustration growing, that he felt that they were closing in on something, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. “I just don’t understand a motive here. But there’s one way to find out. Want to take a trip up to the mountain?”
She nodded. “Thought you’d never ask.”
They were on the way out of the building, Thomas with keys in hand, when they ran into Gleason’s secretary, Lorna Driscoll, who was carrying two water bottles toward the lieutenant’s office. “Oh, Detective Johnson,” she said, “Lieutenant Gleason is looking for you.” A glance at Thomas. “You too,” she added quickly, hurrying along the short corridor.
“What is it with you and Gleason?” Thomas asked under his breath as they turned to follow Lorna down the short hallway.
“Uncle Archer?” she said, her dark eyes glinting.
“He’s not your uncle.”
“No, but he and I share a common interest,” she said, winking. Then, “Don’t get the wrong idea. It’s through a charity for disabled kids.” She was no longer teasing but didn’t elaborate as they walked through the doorway.
Gleason was seated at his neat desk, sports paraphernalia still in place. “I saw the detectives in the hallway, thought you wanted to talk to them.” Lorna deposited a bottle on the corner of the lieutenant’s desk.
“Right.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve just got a second. Sit, sit.” He waved them into chairs as Lorna slipped out of the office and closed the door behind her. “I don’t have time for an update now, but tomorrow morning,” he said, “I’ll want a full report.”
Johnson was nodding. “You got it.”
Gleason cracked open the water bottle and got down to business. “I talked to Randy Isley this morning. Cut through a lot of red tape but was actually able to get through on the phone.” He shook his head, bald head shining under the overhead lights. “Poor guy. I don’t know if he’ll make it.” Gleason’s forehead wrinkled and his mouth pulled into a frown. “Anyway, he reminded me about something, something you should have seen in the old reports.”
“Something missed?” Johnson asked.
“Just not paid a lot of attention to at the time. Isley and I were deputies at the time when the massacre happened up at the McIntyre place, and we were there when Edmund Tate was pulled out of the lake. He was about gone.” Gleason took a deep drink from the water bottle, then rotated it in his hands. “They’d pried the kid who was screaming her lungs out away from him. I’m talking about the girl, Kara McIntyre.”
“Yes,” Johnson said, on the edge of her seat.
“And Tate, he was coughing and sputtering, making no sense at all.”
Thomas had seen as much in the old statements.
“None of us could make out anything intelligible, but the word he kept muttering and gurgling that was in any way intelligible was ‘Simplify. ’ He kept saying it over and over.” Archer chewed on his lower lip as he thought, obviously carried back in time. “He was just so determined to spit it out. He actually grabbed one of the EMT’s jackets and raised himself up from the stretcher to say it.” Clearing his throat, he snapped back, checked his watch again and pushed back his chair. “That’s it. What Isley told me. That and reminding me that we screwed up the evidence chain on the murder weapon, which I’m all too aware of. The only other thing I learned from Isley other than he wants to buy me a drink when we meet again. Now, I’ll expect that report in the morning.”