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CHAPTER 10
Afew minutes later, Thomas met Johnson outside the door to the lieutenant’s glassed-in office. Lorna, a fussy sixtyish woman with a dour expression and rimless glasses, waved them inside.
The lieutenant gestured them into the two empty side chairs facing his old metal desk and got down to business. Which was his style. A man of few words, efficient work ethics and no patience for nonsense, he’d worked in the department for over thirty years, was a recent grandfather, and followed the Portland Trail Blazers religiously. He was bald and clean-shaven, his slacks forever creased, his boots spit-polished to a mirror shine. There were bits of basketball memorabilia in his otherwise austere office, two pictures, one of him and his wife on a beach in front of palm trees, the other of two toddlers in striped pajamas and Santa hats, along with the faint tinge of a recently smoked cigarette in the air. At six foot six, he used his height as a form of intimidation when he needed it and though he’d gained forty pounds since his days as a college star forward, he was still a force to be reckoned with. He knew it and used it to his advantage.
“Let’s get down to it.” He slipped a pair of readers onto the end of his narrow nose. “You’re up to speed on the McIntyre case.” He glanced up.
Johnson said, “Yes, sir,” and Thomas nodded.
“’Course you are. Isn’t everyone? The whole damned world. I’ve already started getting calls, and Norah will hold a press conference.” He sighed and shook his head. “I guess we need to go through the motions.” He glanced over the tops of his half-glasses. “Waste of time, if you ask me. I worked the case, you know.”
“I saw your name in the file,” Thomas said, and Johnson gave a curt nod.
“Worst thing I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot in twenty-eight years on the force. Car wrecks, natural disasters, hunting accidents, but . . . a family like that. All of ’em hacked to death—” His lips flattened and he shook his head. “Anyway, the way I see it, the case was solved, suspect found, arrested and convicted a long time ago. Case closed.” He gnawed at his lower lip and his eyes narrowed. “Or I thought so. But now . . . the higher-ups want us to reopen it. Mainly because of public opinion and the fact that we screwed up way back when. It’s a publicity nightmare, y’know?”
Again he checked for acquiescence and got it.
“Good. So, we’ll reopen. You”—he motioned to Thomas—“are in charge. It pisses me off that this happened, but there it is. The press and public are going to demand that we find another killer, and that’s . . . well, let’s face it, that’s most likely impossible. We got our man and we know it.” He nodded, agreeing with himself. “But let’s go through the motions. And by that I mean, look through everything. Check the evidence, statements, autopsy reports, photos, whatever . . . go through it with a fine-tooth comb. Interview witnesses if they’re still alive and if they’ve moved, call them.”
“But you don’t think we’ll find anything?” Johnson ventured.
“You mean anything new?” Gleason frowned. “Nah, nothing significant. So there was a mistake in the handling of the weapon. Doesn’t mean we got the wrong guy.” He let out a huff of disgust. “And it’s not as if the entire case is closed, right? There’s still the missing girl, the sister, uh, Marilee—” He checked his computer screen. “No. Marlie. That’s it. What the hell happened to her?”
Thomas had spent most of last night wondering the same thing.
“Let’s find her. Or, more likely, her remains.” Gleason glanced up again. “Again, it’s probably impossible. A wild-goose chase. I know. But technology has come a long way in twenty years. Who knows? Something might turn up.” He meant bones. A skeleton. Or at least part of one. They all knew it.
“It might,” Thomas allowed, though he doubted it.
The lieutenant asked, “Are there any other persons of interest still around?”
“Possibly,” Thomas said.
“Check them out.” Gleason’s lips were compressed as he skimmed the information. “We’re gonna be crucified by the press; they’ll be saying we were tunnel-visioned about Jonas McIntyre.”
“We weren’t,” Thomas said. “And no one’s saying he didn’t do it; he’s out of prison because of a break in the evidence chain. In my mind, he’s guilty as sin.”
“Glad to see you’ve got an open mind,” Gleason said as his phone buzzed. He glanced down at the screen. Ignored the text.
“It is what it is.” Thomas was unmoved. “Facts are facts.”
“Yeah, okay. I know. But”—Gleason was nodding—“we just need to cover our asses.” He glanced over the tops of his readers. “Without his fingerprints all over that sword, the case against McIntyre was pretty thin. He was, after all, a victim.”
That was the part that had always niggled at Thomas’s brain and created his five percent of doubt. Jonas McIntyre had injuries himself, wounds that he could have self-inflicted, but would he have? Had he been that desperate? That enraged?
Gleason asked, “Did anyone ever check to find out who would have benefitted financially from the deaths? What about the partner? What was his name?”
“Silas Dean. He was there that day. Rumored to have had it out with Samuel Senior, but the only people who told us about it were Jonas McIntyre, and he was trying to push blame on anyone but himself, and Dean himself.”
“What about the little girl?” Gleason glanced between the two detectives.
Thomas nodded. “She confirmed, I think. But she was only seven, just about to turn eight.”
Johnson said, “In her testimony she said, ‘Daddy was yelling at Mr. Dean.’ Merritt Margrove made a big deal of it in court, but the prosecution shot him down as Dean had been at the house hours before the attack and had an alibi. And he wasn’t in the will, nor was there any life insurance where he was the beneficiary.”
Gleason asked, “So, what happened to McIntyre’s share of the business?”
“Dean bought out the estate’s share. It was all handled through the estate’s attorney.”