Page 44 of Dead Man's List

Navarro lifted a brow. “Night shift sergeant said you were here at four a.m.”

“I couldn’t sleep. My brain was racing, so I came in. But I’ll go home and sleep soon.” She’d go to Mom and Pop’s. It was Sunday and she’d missed family dinner, but her mother would have made her a plate.

She wondered what Sam was doing for dinner. He shouldn’t be alone tonight, not after discovering three bodies in less than two days. Then she remembered he’d gone to see Georgia and Eloise. An evening at the retirement center always seemed to lift his spirits.

And that she was worried about how he was doing after such an emotional day? She’d freak out tonight when everyone else was asleep.

Kearny Mesa, San Diego, California

Sunday, January 8, 9:30 p.m.

William Weaver refused to let them into his apartment, a tiny little place in a not-so-great part of town. Considering he’d once owned a home in La Jolla and had been a respected professor, his social status had plummeted significantly.

Of all the people on the suspect list, Weaver had the biggest reason to want Munro dead. At least that they knew of so far.

“We can talk here,” he said, leading them to a small picnic area outside his apartment building.

Though it wasn’t a cold night, it was chillier than Kit liked. But at least Weaver hadn’t completely shut the door in their faces.

“I’ve been expecting you,” he said as they sat at a picnic table.

“Why?” Connor asked.

Weaver snorted. “Right. I’ve got to be at the top of your suspect list, considering I said in front of cameras that Munro would be sorry for what he’d done to me.”

He’d given a press conference when he’d been formally cleared by the police of all child molestation charges three years ago, but not many reporters had shown up. The press conference hadn’t been televised at all, and any print or online articles had been nearly impossible to find if one hadn’t been expressly searching for them.

Which no one really had been. It was a sad fact of life that the media would splash a scandal on page one of the news and get it trending on social media, but a retraction was generally buried behind the obituaries.

“It might not have been your wisest move,” Kit said.

Weaver shrugged. “I have literally nothing to lose at this point, Detective. My wife believed the lies. She took my children away. We have joint custody now, but I can see the doubt in my kids’ eyes when it’s my weekend. They come into my apartment, go straight to the room they have to share because a one-bedroom is all I can afford now, and I don’t see them until their mother picks them up. When they do look at me, I see fear in their eyes and it guts me. Every single time. My wife has apologized for doubting me, but the damage has been done. I could never trust her to believe in me again.” He exhaled wearily. “I’m suing the university for wrongful termination, but that’s going to drag through the courts for years. No one will hire me in my chosen field. You know how I earn a living now, Detectives? Night shift at a convenience store. There is literally nowhere I can go, no job I can apply for, where the stink of Munro’s false accusation doesn’t follow me. Yes, I was cleared. But no one really believes it. Not enough to hire me.”

“I’m sorry,” Kit murmured. Because she was. She remembered the accusation and had wished the man to perdition for hurting children. Until she’d learned the charges had been dropped against him.

She’d questioned the move by the prosecutor’s office at the time. It was far easier to believe the worst about someone than to believe they’d been purposely vilified.

Weaver sighed. “Thank you. Look, I’m glad the man’s dead. I’m not going to lie about that. I hope he suffered. A lot. But I didn’t kill him. I’ve led a boring life since my world fell apart. I go to work, come home, watch any old movies I can find for free on a laptop I bought used because the police destroyed the one they confiscated from me when they arrested me.”

Kit winced. She’d read that in his file, too. The department owed this man some form of restitution, but she doubted he’d ever get it.

“Where were you on Tuesday evening, sir?” she asked. “Between seven and nine?”

A sad smile ghosted over his lips, leaving his eyes haunted. “One of my sons plays the violin and had a recital Tuesday night from seven to nine. The theme was New Year’s Possibilities.” His laugh was bitter. “I sat in the back. Left at eight forty-five. My son never knew I was there. But I couldn’t miss it. I take whatever scraps I can get.”

Bitter was nowhere close to what this man was feeling.

Kit couldn’t say that she blamed him. “Did anyone see you there?”

“Yes, a few. One of the other parents saw me. Gave me a dirty look. Picked up his toddler and moved to another seat.” He hesitated. “My ex-wife saw me, too. I’d hope that she’d tell the truth and confirm my alibi, but I don’t know if she will.”

“We’ll ask her anyway,” Kit said. “What about the music teacher?”

Weaver shrugged. “Her husband saw me. Wouldn’t meet my eyes, but he knew I was there. When the last kid started to play, he leaned over my shoulder and asked if I’d leave. So that I didn’t make a scene.”

“Did you?” Connor asked.

“Of course. This was my son’s evening. Not mine.” He looked away, but not before Kit saw a tear streak down his cheek. “Nothing of his will ever be mine to share again.” He cleared his throat, still looking away. “Did Munro suffer?”