Page 32 of Don’t Say a Word (Angelhart Investigations #2)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Margo Angelhart

My dad was one of the best people I knew.

And he was in prison for murder.

I knew he was innocent, but it was an off-limit subject. He had confessed. He’d told me he was willing to serve “his time.”

Yes, he confessed. But he never once told me why he confessed to a crime he didn’t commit, or even given me a reason why he’d killed Dr. Devin Klein.

It had been nearly impossible to put it all aside.

Okay, I hadn’t really put it aside. I had looked for information, clues, evidence of my dad’s innocence.

But every time I thought I was close—like when I talked to Klein’s research assistant earlier this year, a woman who took more than a year to track down—I had more questions than answers.

And Dad wouldn’t answer my questions.

So the choice was to never visit and turn my back on the man who loved and raised me—which would have hurt both of us—or see him and not talk about Klein. I opted for the latter.

There would be a time I would come here with some of the answers I sought, and I would ask him for the truth. But until then, I had tabled the subject.

Eyman was a medium-security prison and had regular visiting hours, so there were other people meeting friends and family in the visitor’s center, but being Wednesday morning, there weren’t many. I generally avoided crowded weekend visits.

We hugged—touching wasn’t allowed, but the guards generally didn’t comment if the moment was brief—then sat across from each other at one of the many stainless steel tables.

There was a small outdoor play area through barred windows for families with young kids.

A man sat with a woman, side by side on a bench, watching a little boy play.

They weren’t talking, but I could see the bittersweet happiness in their expressions.

Dad saw where I was looking. “That’s Tim.

He’s a good man, in here for attempted murder.

Pled it down to aggravated assault to get five years.

His son is four and he’s halfway through his time.

I often see him in the chapel. He’ll make it, I think.

He talks about his wife a lot, and she’s stuck by him. ”

Too often felons who were incarcerated for years couldn’t function on the outside. Many were repeat offenders who didn’t care to even try. Prison became a revolving door. And some tried, but got dragged back into the bad decisions that landed them behind bars in the first place.

But some did their time and moved on—and having a supportive family was the number one factor in them turning a new leaf.

“That’s good,” I said, though I wasn’t really paying attention.

“What’s on your mind, Margo?” he asked.

“What, I can’t just spontaneously come to visit?”

“You can, but you don’t. It’s a long drive.”

I could lie to everyone except my parents.

Dad waited for me to talk. He didn’t ask questions to try and get information, and he didn’t push or act irritated or annoyed.

He looked content. Neither happy nor sad.

He’d been inside for three years and promised all of us he would stay healthy—he worked out as much as he could, walked around the yard daily, and read to keep his mind sharp.

A few months ago when I visited, he told me he was tutoring some of the younger men who wanted to get their GED. He said it was fulfilling to help them.

“I was told you were on the list next week.”

I smiled. “Caught me. I asked to come today because there’s another prisoner I want to talk to and I didn’t want to come here without seeing you too.”

“I don’t think I would have known either way.”

“ I would have known.”

I looked at him—really looked. Dad was tall, over six one.

He gave his height to Jack and Tess. He had dark blond hair that had gone mostly gray, but it looked good on him, mostly white instead of silver, distinguished.

He hadn’t lost much, if any, a fact that seemed to relieve my brothers.

He had never had a beard or mustache, and remained clean-shaven while in prison as well.

His blue eyes were clear and bright. He seemed as well as anyone could be while behind bars.

But I missed him. I missed stopping by the house and talking to him about whatever was on my mind. Laughing over dinner, rewatching our favorite movies, relaxing on the porch in the evening.

“Why are you sad?” he asked.

Because you’re in here , I thought.

I said, “The same reason.”

He didn’t comment.

Then I changed the subject. We talked about family and what Tess had planned for Mom’s birthday tomorrow. Dad told me he asked Aunt Rita to pick up a specific gift from him, but didn’t tell me what it was. Then I told him about my case and why I wanted to talk to Ben Bradford.

My dad had always had a good poker face, but I could tell he didn’t agree with my plan.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” I said.

“People make decisions—big and small—for a multitude of reasons. Why do you think this man will share information with you when he chose not to share it with the police when it may have helped him reduce his sentence?”

“Fear,” I said.

Dad was right. I’d already considered that Bradford wouldn’t tell me anything of value, but I was good at reading between the lines.

“I don’t have any reason to believe that Elijah was or is connected to Bradford’s drug operation,” I said. “I want to understand how it worked, because then maybe I can make sense of what information I do have.”

“Do you think that this kid was involved in dealing drugs?”

I shook my head. “I think he may have stumbled on a crime and was unsure what to do with the information he had.” I told him what I found on Elijah’s computer.

“I think Elijah was suspicious of someone he worked with. There were photos of people coming out of the store, and there’s no reason I can think about why he would take those pictures, except that he was looking for someone or watching someone.

And none of that may have anything to do with how and why he died. ”

Dad looked me in the eye. “Why don’t you turn the information over to the police?”

“Because they closed the case. They’re not going to reopen based on my gut telling me something weird is going on. Elijah’s mom deserves to know if her son was killed, if he died trying to do the right thing.”

Dad slowly nodded. “I understand why you care, Margo. But put yourself in Bradford’s shoes. Consider his motivation for remaining silent, and what you can offer that would make him want to share anything.”

“I’m not going to rat him out.”

“How does he know that?”

Okay, good point. I didn’t have an answer.

“He’s a father,” Dad continued. “Fathers will do anything to protect their family.”

The sentence hung in the air between us, and I knew he was talking about more than Ben Bradford. I held my breath, willing my dad to say more.

He didn’t. “Be careful,” he finally said. “Both with Bradford and in your investigation. Drugs destroy everyone they touch—addicts, their friends and family, society as a whole. And people dealing them don’t respect or revere life. If they see you as an obstacle, your life will be in danger.”

“I’ll be careful, Dad. I promise.”

Dad left and ten minutes later Ben Bradford walked into the visitors’ room. He looked around, clearly uncertain about the unknown visitor he was called to meet.

I raised my hand. I’d done my research and knew what he looked like.

Like my dad, Bradford had lost weight while in prison, but still looked fit. He’d been overweight but muscular as a football coach; now he was lean and muscular. Though younger than my dad, he’d lost most of his hair and his eyes were tired and wary.

Cautious, he approached.

“You’re not a reporter, are you?”

“No.”

Still skeptical, he stood and looked me over.

“My name is Margo Angelhart. I’m a private investigator and just want a conversation, you and me. No strings.”

Slowly, he sat across from me, keeping his eyes on mine. Skittish, as if he would bolt if I said boo. Odd, for a man who appeared as if he could defend himself.

I’d been thinking about what my dad said, that Bradford had no reason to talk to me about anything. Certainly it wouldn’t be the first time I’d made a mistake, or went down an investigatory road that ended in a brick wall.

But I was here, and I had to try. Because Lena Clark’s death nagged at me almost as much as Elijah’s—and Bradford must have known her.

I decided to focus on Bradford’s connection to the school, with my goal to have him explain how his drug operation worked.

If I understood, maybe I could find a parallel in Elijah’s life—or Lena’s circumstances.

“Do you remember Lena Clark? She was the guidance counselor at Sun Valley.”

He nodded once. “So?”

“She was killed in her office on Monday.”

“What does that have to do with me? I knew her to say hi. We weren’t friends.”

“Lena was helping me find out what happened to a student who died of a drug overdose under suspicious circumstances.”

“I don’t care.”

But he didn’t walk away or ask the guard to be taken back to his cell or the yard. He stared at me, and that gave me hope that maybe I could get something from him.

“I’m trying to understand how your operation worked. Because an honors student with no history of drug use died of a drug overdose, then his guidance counselor was killed not two weeks later.”

“Not my problem,” he said with a quick glance at the guard.

“Did the kids you used know what they were doing, or were they ignorant, just following coach’s orders? From my understanding, only one student knew that you were in charge, but I think we both know that secrets in an operation as large as yours have a way of getting out.”

“I don’t have to talk to you,” Bradford said, sounding angry. “Anything going on at SVH has nothing to do with me, not anymore.”

“A woman was murdered on campus, and the only thing she was doing that might put her in danger was asking questions about a student’s death.

So I started thinking... Elijah died of a drug overdose.

There had once been a very extensive and long-running drug operation at SVH.

The police believed you had a partner—your supplier you didn’t turn on. ”

He laughed.

“Or,” I continued, “maybe another teacher took over for you.”

That was my sticking point. Sun Valley had had an extensive drug operation going on for years. What if it had just gone dormant?

Angie didn’t kill Lena, and unless the police tied her boyfriend Parsons to the crime, someone else found out she was asking questions and, maybe, they feared she would uncover another illegal operation.

Maybe I really was grasping at straws, but why else would Lena be killed in her office?

It was extremely risky, even though it was after-hours.

People were still on campus. It was risky, violent, and spontaneous.

Bradford sat stone-faced.

I continued, remembering what Tess had learned.

“You had Eric McMahon recruit dozens of students to help sell drugs for you. You, or your partner, found out he was turning state’s evidence and tried to have him killed.

When that failed, everything came tumbling down.

Maybe you don’t believe in redemption. I do. You just have to ask for it.”

“I don’t need or want anything from you ,” he said, his voice low and angry.

“Whoever you’re protecting is laughing all the way to the bank,” I said.

“They’re free and you’re in here, your wife is in prison, your kids don’t have their parents.

You won’t be out of prison before your youngest graduates.

For what? Because it could just as easily have been one of your kids who ended up dead of a drug overdose. ”

Bradford got up, slammed his fist on the table, and walked toward the guarded door.

Okay, I went too far. I shouldn’t have mentioned his kids.

I sat at the table and watched him leave, thinking.

His anger could just be that—anger at the fact that he’s in prison. Or he could be angry because he did have a partner and I reminded him that his partner is free and happily continuing their operation.

But it wouldn’t be done in the same way. Because the police had that figured out... The school administrators would know what to look for.

Sun Valley High School had over two thousand students. Hundreds of teachers and staff and coaches. Same operation... but different?

I may have jumped the gun with Bradford. Bradford never gave up his supplier. He claimed he was the supplier, that he brought in the drugs from Mexico and distributed them through his network of kids. The police hadn’t believed him, but he hadn’t budged.

If the police were right, who was his partner? Someone on campus? Were his regular trips to Yuma important or a smoke screen? Would his partner recruit a new Ben Bradford to run his operation, run it himself?

If it was on campus, that might be motive to kill Lena Clark if she suspected something. What if Elijah told someone he trusted about his suspicions? Someone who then betrayed him?

Where did the Cactus Stop photos fit in?

Too many what-ifs and half-assed theories. I needed more information, and that meant talking to as many people as possible. Shake the hornet’s nest. But unlike Lena Clark, I knew what I was doing was dangerous.

Something was here, just outside my grasp. I had to figure it out before someone else died.