Page 24

Lacey had looked up at that moment, her slim shoulders stiffening, her dark eyes suddenly cold, as she’d stared across the courtroom to the spot where Jonas McIntyre, dressed in a suit and tie, sat motionless next to Merritt Margrove. She cleared her throat, then spoke. Clearly. Crisply. “He said, ‘If I ever find out you were fucking someone else, I’ll take an axe to him first and you next. That way you can watch him die before you go to hell.’”
An audible gasp had come from one of the jurors, a woman with a tight white perm who’d been wearing a pink pantsuit. The other jurors had been somber and tight-lipped, a thin man glaring from behind horn-rimmed glasses, a fortysomething woman turning ashen.
Lacey’s quote, coupled with Kara’s testimony and Jonas’s own past acts of violence, had sealed his fate and become a part of every newspaper report, book, television true crime movie, blog and podcast since. Even though Jonas’s own wounds were real and shown in graphic display to the jury, the DA’s expert witnesses claimed those cuts could have been self-inflicted, and they paled in comparison to the sickening crime scene and the sliced bodies of the victims. Blood had stained the carpets, run on floorboards, glistened on the tile near the fireplace, splattered against the wood that had been stacked in the firebox and even smeared some of the branches of the toppled Christmas tree. The dead bodies had been strewn in two rooms, the leftover carnage of a brutal, barbaric attack. His own family members butchered. Jonas’s violent temper, sparking several times in the courtroom, didn’t help, and his prior convictions were the nails in his proverbial coffin.
“So the DA really thought Jonas managed to stab himself with a sword?” Clearly she was skeptical. “His wounds—”
“Were superficial. Hands, forearms, one leg. A weapons specialist showed the court how it could have happened, how he could have been injured in the struggle.”
She flipped through the file again and scoured a page. “In his original statement, Jonas said the intruder pushed him and he hit his head, was knocked out for a while.” She looked over the edge of the worn file. “But no one believed him?”
“No one who mattered. Not the jury. None of the cops. Not even his family with the one exception of his younger sister.”
“Who testified against him?” With another sigh, she closed the file.
“No one knows for certain what really went down that night, and Jonas didn’t help himself by not testifying. His wounds looked like they came from the same weapon, and all the victims’ blood was found on the blade, even Jonas’s.” Thomas rubbed a hand around the back of his neck, remembering. “His attorney, Merritt Margrove, advised Jonas to take the Fifth.”
“He thought Jonas would incriminate himself?”
“Probably. McIntyre was shell-shocked. No surprise there. Barely spoke to anyone pretrial after his initial statement. My bet is that the lawyer thought the jury wouldn’t convict because of his age and his wounds.”
“But they did.” She straightened and zipped her jacket as a burst of laughter echoed down the hall. “You think the jury got it right?”
“Not a doubt.” The phone vibrated across his desk. He caught the number. Sheila. Again.
He didn’t pick up.
“So what do you think happened to the other sister?” Aramis asked. “The older one. Marlie.”
“That,” he said, reaching for his jacket and slipping his arms through its sleeves, “is the million-dollar question, now isn’t it?”
“She’s never been seen since?”
“Nope.”
Johnson appeared skeptical. “Not a trace?”
“Nuh-uh. And no remains ever found.”
He checked that his keys were in his pocket, then snapped off the light as they walked into the hallway, where wood paneling had aged yellow since the 1950s and decades’ worth of smells from cigarette smoke, body odor or stale coffee couldn’t be erased by any amounts of pine-scented Lysol. Closing the door behind him, Thomas added, “Some of her blood was found at the scene. Not a lot, but she had obviously been injured.”
“Confirmed by DNA?”
“Oh, yeah.” He glanced at Johnson, her jaw set, her black hair glinting beneath the flickering fluorescent lights in the hallway. “There were ‘sightings,’ of course, way back when, in the first six months or so after the murders, but nothing panned out. Lots of calls came into the department, but, over time, they dwindled.” They clattered their way down the stairs, walking single file to allow those bustling up the steps—uniforms and plainclothes officers and administrative workers as well as visitors—up the flight.
At the metal detector near the side entrance, he added, “A lot of the calls that came in were just nutcases looking for a little publicity.”
“Always.”
“A few seemed legit. You know, people whothoughtthey recognized her. But nothing solid ever materialized.”
Shouldering open the exterior door, he felt the blast of frigid December air as it rushed through the streets, snow flurries dancing between the buildings, while cars, trucks and vans inched through the town, moving slowly beneath the streetlights. A bus idled at the corner, belching exhaust beneath a corner lamp as passengers dressed in heavy coats, hats and boots tromped into the idling behemoth. A woman hurrying to catch the bus raced by, the edge of her umbrella brushing against Thomas’s sleeve.
“Oh, sorry, sorry, sorry,” she said without looking his way, and flagged down the driver as she closed her umbrella.
At the station’s lot, Johnson hit the remote on her key fob, then checked her messages. Her lips tightened as she read a quick text while her SUV, a Honda CR-V, chirped, its lights blinking to reflect on the snow piled along the edges of the parking area. “So now what?” she asked, her thoughts returning to the McIntyre Massacre. “You still think Jonas McIntyre killed his family?”
“Butchered,” he corrected.