Eye of the Beholder (51 page)

Koslenko, of course, had no intention of letting Ciancio continue breathing. He tortured him and got Evelyn’s name. He tortured Evelyn and got Brandon Mitchum’s name. Each of these people knew something that could point back to the truth.

The truth being that Cassie Bentley was never murdered. Instead, she got on a plane to Paris using Gwendolyn’s passport, while Gwendolyn suffered a brutal death before being cast off as her half sister Cassandra after the switch of the dental records.

Cassie Bentley pulls her robe tight, watching me. “What now?”

“Gwendolyn’s murder,” I say. “Your mother should have to answer for that.”

But the only way that happens, both of us realize, is if everyone learns about Cassie, living here in France under Gwendolyn’s name.

“I don’t approve of what Mother did.” Cassie brings a hand to her face. “I would have stopped her if I knew. But she did it for me, Mr. Riley. She knew the police would come straight to me after Ellie was killed. She knew I wouldn’t be able to withstand any questioning at all.” She flaps her arms. “But if I’m dead, no one looks for me.”

The same strategy Koslenko used when he put in a substitute for Shelly in her bathtub. If I behaved, he was telling me, she would live, too. Like Cassie lived.

I believe what she’s telling me. Nothing I’ve learned about Cassie Bentley makes me think she could have been part of a diabolical plot. She was kept in the house after Ellie’s death, like Koslenko told me, and then shipped off to Paris. She didn’t know they were going to fake her death. She didn’t know what was in store for Gwendolyn.

Gwendolyn, of course, was a natural choice. She didn’t have any real family or any real home; she bounced from continent to continent so she wouldn’t be missed. She looked like Cassie—they shared a father and their mothers were sisters—and her face was crushed, in any event. And Gwendolyn was probably a wild card, anyway. She couldn’t be counted on to play along in a cover-up. A wild card. She was the perfect choice. Two birds with one stoning.

“Your mother had nothing to do with Ciancio, or Evelyn Pendry, or any of the recent murders?” Koslenko already told me he acted alone, but I want to hear her answer.

She is emphatic, showing much more resolve. “Mr. Riley, she hasn’t talked to Leo in years. None of us has. After everything happened, she gave Leo enough money to live out his life, bought him a house in the city, and didn’t speak to him.”

Right. The police found a safe-deposit box for Koslenko with almost a million dollars in cash. Koslenko was off the reservation. He was acting alone. He was trying to protect the woman he loved, Cassie, from being discovered.

“Mother was in Tuscany, with friends, when Leo started killing. She had no idea until the police got hold of her in Italy.
I
had no idea. When you first came to see me at the lake, it was the first I’d heard of it.”

That makes sense. But then she and her mother talked, they got their stories straight, and they gave it to the cops and me the same way. They gave up Leo, they gave up Albany.

But, in the end, Cassie—as Gwendolyn—came clean, at least enough to spare Albany and Harland. She had probably figured there was nothing she could do to save Leo at that point; he was clearly responsible for the murders of Ciancio, Evelyn Pendry, and Amalia Calderone, plus the failed attempt on Brandon Mitchum. But she
could
save Harland and the professor. She and her mother had us pointed toward both of them, but, that last day, she marched into that parlor and gave up Cassie—herself. She explained who really killed Ellie, to her mother’s obvious surprise, and over her objection. She was trying to do the right thing while keeping her true identity out of the picture. She did the best she could. Her mother was willing to let Albany, or even Harland, take the fall, anything to protect Cassie, but Cassie, in the end, wouldn’t let that happen.

That’s why I’ve been silent on the whole thing, why I wanted to reserve judgment until I spoke to her. Cassie killed a girl, her best friend, but the circumstances are what they are. The law provides excuses—extreme emotional distress, temporary insanity—in a clumsy attempt to reconcile competing societal concerns, to strike a balance between retribution and compassion. I don’t know what a judge would make of this. What a jury would decide. I have seen it better than anyone, the imperfect application of the law to the facts.

I didn’t stop for a single moment to consider whether Terry Burgos was insane. I went to work immediately to dispel that notion, lining up evidence to beat his defense, telling myself that he had a lawyer, that there was a jury, that the system provided safeguards to ensure that the truth came out.

But I was a prosecutor. My job was about more than winning. Yet in every piece of evidence demonstrating Burgos’s psychosis—and there was plenty of it—I saw only an obstacle to victory, a land mine to sidestep, something I had to discredit. I didn’t care whether I was right. I didn’t even ask the question.

Maybe, I will tell myself, what Burgos did was inevitable, that he had a short fuse that something, somehow, was going to light. If it wasn’t Ellie’s dead body setting him off, it would have been something else. Anyone provoked that easily was probably going to do it, anyway. Surely, I will remind myself, he should not be given a pass. He was a danger to society. He did kill four young women. It will be a debate I’ll play out the rest of my days.

“Do whatever you’re going to do,” Cassie says softly, her eyes shining once more with tears. “I won’t fight it. I‘m—I’m so tired of running.”

A prosecutor is given infinite discretion. He can decline to prosecute for any reason whatsoever. I am no longer a prosecutor, but the Mansbury murders were mine, and what happens to Cassie Bentley is entirely up to me, whether I like it or not.

“Good-bye, Gwendolyn Lake.” I leave Cassie standing motionless, staring out over the horizon, wondering if she’ll ever stop running.

As always, I have relied on the talents and insights of others in helping create and shape this novel.

Bill Kunkle, a former colleague and the lead prosecutor in the matter of People v. John Wayne Gacy, was very generous in sharing his experiences and opinions on the prosecution of a schizophrenic serial killer. I wish I had a fraction of your war stories, Bill.

Dr. Ronald Wright, a forensic pathologist in Florida, again was liberal with his time and patience in answering technical questions and in helping make the discussion of dead people more interesting than I ever would have suspected.

My old law school classmate Matt Phillips was kind enough to lend me the brilliant mind of his wife, Dr. Wendy Phillips, who gave me an overview and some needed details on the subject of paranoid schizophrenia.

Jeff Gerecke gave me excellent direction and advice, as he has done for many years, and I am forever in his debt.

I rounded up two of the usual suspects to read the manuscript and offer anything that came to mind. Jim Jann, urban poet and leader of men, always manages to see things that I cannot and clues me in. Jim Minton, from minor details to plot flow to the big picture, always makes my books better. To this group I added Mike McDermott, who let me use his good name (literally) and whose comments on an early draft are greatly appreciated.

J. A. Konrath, who knows a few things about writing of serial killers and who has given me so much advice in my literary career, provided critical commentary, some advice, and a good jolt of encouragement, too. I owe him one—thousand.

Dan Collins, a federal prosecutor and a friend for life, was always there to answer my annoying questions about law enforcement. Or maybe that’s just because I sprang for drinks.

Larry Kirshbaum, my agent, teaches me something every time he opens his mouth. His enthusiasm is infectious and his wisdom limitless.

It’s not easy being my editor. But Brendan Duffy has been outstanding from start to finish in guiding this novel in matters big and small. This book wouldn’t be the same without him. I’m lucky to have such a talented partner in crime.

And finally, my wife, Susan, who listens to my endless jibber ing about my novels and who keeps me balanced and sane and deliriously happy. You still make my heart go pitter-pat.