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CHAPTER FIFTY

HUNTINGTON BEACH, CALIFORNIA

TUESDAY, MARCH 28, 2023

11:00 P.M.

When Detective Burns reentered the interview room, she brought along only one cup of coffee. Marc Atherton sat with his arms crossed, staring down at the tabletop. He seemed to have recovered some of his composure, so Monica took her time, sitting down and arranging the paperwork in front of her. Once it was time to resume the interview, she took a roundabout approach.

“So how long have you and Joel Franklin been an item?” she asked.

“What makes you think we’re an item?” Marc demanded. “We’re writing buddies. That’s it.”

“Oh, come on,” Monica returned. “We obtained search warrants for your phone and for both of Joel’s phones as well—you know—his real one and the burner. We have a lot of reading to do as far as the actual messages are concerned, but it turns out there are literally dozens and dozens of calls between your phone and Mr. Franklin’s burner. That indicates there’s a lot more going on between you than a writing-buddy relationship.”

Marc hesitated before he answered. “Awhile,” he said, finally answering her question. “Like I said, we met at the Meet and Greet shortly after he arrived in town and hit it off. Shortly after we hooked up, Joel was hired to be the caretaker for Michael Lafferty, who had just been diagnosed with ALS. Michael’s partner, Adam, worked full-time, and they needed a caretaker 24/7. Then, after Michael died…” He shrugged. “I guess you know about that.”

“So you two have been involved the whole time, since before Joel married Adam Brewster?”

“Off and on,” Atherton admitted. “We’re not exactly exclusive.”

“What about Adam? Does he know about you and Joel?”

“I doubt it. I come from the wrong side of the tracks. Adam and Michael were both born with silver spoons in their mouths. Considering my background, Joel thought it best for me to keep a low profile.”

“By background you mean the time you spent in prison?”

Marc Atherton nodded. “Among other things. So as far as Michael and Adam were concerned, I was Joel’s screenwriting partner and nothing more.”

“But you’re partners in more ways than just writing, aren’t you,” Monica asserted. “I suspect there’s a mountain of material in your electronic devices, including previously deleted messages, texts, and searches that will tell us exactly that. At the moment, we’ve only had a chance to examine communications that were exchanged around the time of Chuck Brewster’s murder. For example, on the night of Sunday, March 12, at 9:03 p.m., just hours before his time of death, you received a one-word text from Joel’s burner that said, ‘Done.’ What did he mean by that? What had he done?”

Marc shrugged. “I have no idea.” But his eyes said otherwise.

“I don’t think that’s true,” Monica responded. “I believe you know exactly what Joel had done. We have heard from various witnesses that Joel Franklin was exceptionally attentive toward Mrs. Brewster during the course of the party—that he brought her food and beverages and chatted her up. Then later on, when it was time for her to leave, she was so inebriated that she required assistance in order to make her way upstairs. We learned Joel was the one who actually escorted her to her bedroom.

“As a result, we’re wondering if maybe, in the course of bringing her all those beverages, it was Joel’s job to slip her something—a sleeping potion of some kind or maybe even a smidge of scopolamine. Whatever it was, it knocked her out so completely that she slept right through what was happening while you stabbed her husband to death seventeen times.”

Marc made no effort to respond verbally, but the shocked expression on his face spoke volumes.

Monica continued. “As I said, we’ve barely scratched the surface as far as your internet interactions with Mr. Franklin are concerned, but we did take a close look at the one immediately following the ‘done’ one. That one says, “Last one on the left.” Is it possible that’s a reference to one of the sliders on Mr. Brewster’s back patio, perhaps the one leading from the patio into the family room?”

Again, Marc didn’t respond, but Monica could tell that she was wearing him down. His legs were twitching nervously under the table, and so were his hands.

“So here’s the deal, Mr. Atherton. We have video surveillance that shows Mr. Franklin was at the Hilton Garden Inn at the time Mr. Brewster was murdered. We can physically place you in the area of the crime scene. We found smears of Mr. Brewster’s blood in your rental car. It’s clear to us that you’re the individual who wielded the knife, but I don’t believe you acted alone, and what I said earlier still goes. The first to squeal gets the deal.

“I’m a cop not a prosecutor,” Monica added. “I can’t negotiate plea deals, but I can let prosecutors know when someone assists us in an investigation. So here’s your last chance to help yourself, Marc. Tell me about Joel Franklin’s involvement in all this, because I’m guessing this plot was far more his idea more than it was yours. Still, if you’re willing to take the whole rap, that’s entirely up to you.”

Suddenly Marc’s face crumpled and he seemed close to tears. “He hated his parents.”

“Who hated his parents,” Monica asked. “Joel?”

“No, Joel told me that Adam hated his parents. His mother died of cancer when he was in his teens. She was barely in the ground when his dad married again, this time to one of Adam’s mother’s good friends. That’s when all the trouble started. His father and his new stepmother threw Adam out of the house because he was gay. It happens, you know. People who are treated that way learn to deal with it, but they never get over it.”

“You’re saying this all happened because of that long-ago betrayal?” Monica asked.

Marc nodded. “Joel said it seemed like Adam had done just that—that he was okay with it, but then just a few months ago, when his dad showed up out of the blue and wanted to be back in Adam’s life, it was too much. He had, like, a PTSD episode—a complete breakdown. Adam told Joel that he didn’t want to have anything to do with either his father or his stepmother. How dare his father come breezing back into his life and act like nothing happened? But then Adam realized that his father was loaded—he’d made a fortune in the video game industry, and it occurred to him that if his father died and his stepmother turned out to be the killer, he, Adam, would inherit everything.”

“What happened then?” Monica asked.

“Adam asked Joel if he and I could make that happen for him. His dad’s upcoming birthday party seemed like the perfect opportunity. Joel said Adam promised each of us fifty grand if we could make it work. We figured that having a hundred thou between us would give us enough money to go somewhere cheap like Idaho or Montana and start over. Joel said that as long as I wasn’t carrying my phone when I did the job, nobody would be able to figure out I was involved. He also said that I needed to stab the guy a whole bunch of times so it would look for sure like the wife did it.”

Monica was shocked. She had sat through Adam Brewster’s interview and had never for a moment believed that he was involved in his father’s murder. Was he that good of a liar? She still wasn’t sure.

“Is there a chance that Joel lied to you about Adam wanting his father dead?” she asked.

“No way,” Marc said, looking uncertain. “Why would he do something like that?”

“I don’t know,” Monica answered, “but he was certainly wrong about one thing. Phone or no phone, we were smart enough to find you. So here’s a pen and paper,” she added, pushing a tablet and pen across the table. “I need you to write down everything you just told me. Once you’re finished, sign it. Chances are, if you’re willing to testify against your co-conspirators at trial, there’s a good chance the prosecutor will take your cooperation into consideration.”

“Do you think that’ll help?” Marc asked.

With seventeen stab wounds in the back? Monica thought to herself. I doubt it.

Aloud she said, “Let’s hope.”