Stay Close (22 page)

It felt good to be home.

In the end, Megan had done nothing wrong. She gave Broome the important information he needed and returned to where she belonged, unscathed. As she padded through her home, Atlantic City was getting smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror. The only thing that had thrown her slightly off her game was seeing Ray, with
Lucy looming behind them. She had felt the ache all the way back—the same one she’d always had with Ray—but there were things you can do and things you can’t. The idea of “having it all” is indeed nonsense. Still, that desire, that electricity as though your whole being were suddenly revved up to the tenth power, that feeling that she wanted to be close to Ray and then even closer and then that’s not close enough… it, of course, still haunted her. Sure, she could try to deny it. She had and would again. But if you have that feeling, what do you do about it? It is there. Do you lie to yourself? Do you control it and forget it and move on? And was it a betrayal to admit that she didn’t feel that way with Dave—or was that normal with a man you’ve known so well? To be expected, perhaps even good?

She felt something deeper and richer with Dave, something driven by years and commitment, but maybe that was just fancy talk. That sort of electricity—had she ever felt it with her husband? Was it fair to even compare or think such things?

Were such thoughts alone a betrayal?

You don’t get to have it all. No one does.

She loved Dave. She wanted to spend her life with him. She would lay down her life for him and the kids without a moment of hesitation. Wasn’t that, in the end, the pure definition of true love? And when you took a step back, wasn’t she really just glamorizing her days in Atlantic City and her time with Ray? We all do that, don’t we? We either glamorize or demonize the past.

She approached her and Dave’s bedroom door. The lights were off. She wondered now whether Dave would be in there—or had he gone out? She hadn’t considered that before. He’d be upset. He had every right to be. Maybe he had run off. Maybe he’d gone out to a bar and drowned his sorrows.

But as she started inside, she knew that wouldn’t be the case. Dave wouldn’t leave his children alone, especially during a time of crisis. A fresh wave of guilt washed over her. She saw now the silhouette of her husband in the bed. His back was to her. Looking at his still form, she felt scared about his reaction, but there was relief too. She suddenly felt that it was truly over.

Seventeen years ago, Stewart Green had threatened to kill her. That was what had drawn her back to the past as much as old yearnings—the fear that Stewart had somehow survived, that he was back—but Lorraine had probably been wrong on that one. Either way she had done what she could. She had done the right thing. Megan was home now. She was safe.

It was over. Or it was about to be.

The decision that had been tormenting her for the entire car ride home—the last sixteen years really—was suddenly clear. She couldn’t, pardon the pun, dance around her past anymore. She had to come clean. She had to tell Dave everything. She would have to hope, after all the years, that love would conquer all.

Or was that just another comforting lie?

Either way, Dave was owed the truth.

“Dave?”

“You’re okay?”

He hadn’t been sleeping. She swallowed, felt the tears sting her eyes. “I’m fine.”

Still with his back to her, he said, “You sure?”

“Yes.”

She sat on the edge of the bed. She was afraid to move any closer. Dave kept his back to her. He adjusted the pillow, settled back in.

“Dave?”

He didn’t reply.

When she touched his shoulder, he recoiled.

“You want to know where I was,” she said.

He still wouldn’t look at her, still wouldn’t say a word.

“Don’t shut me out. Please.”

“Megan?”

“What?”

“You don’t get to tell me what not to do.”

Finally Dave turned toward her, and she saw it in his eyes—the immense and unfathomable pain. It sent her reeling. Lies, she could see, wouldn’t work. Neither would any words. So she did the only thing she could. She kissed him. He pulled back for a second, but then he grabbed her behind the head and kissed her back. He kissed her hard and pulled her down toward him.

They made love. They made love for a long time without saying a word. When they were done, both completely spent, Megan fell asleep. She thought that Dave did too, but she couldn’t be sure. It was as if they were in different worlds.

I
N 1988
, R
AHWAY
S
TATE
P
RISON
officially changed its name to East Jersey State Prison at the request of the residents of Rahway. This request was more than understandable. The residents felt as though being identified by the notorious prison unfairly stigmatized their city and, worse, lowered property values. It probably did. Still, absolutely nobody other than the residents of Rahway called it East Jersey State Prison. It was a little like the state of New Jersey itself. It might be officially known as the Garden State, but come on—who called it that?

Heading up Route 1-9, Broome could see the prison’s huge dome, a sight that never failed to remind him of some great basilica in Italy. The maximum-security prison (by whatever name) kept around two thousand inmates locked up, all male. The prison had housed boxers James Scott and, notably, Rubin “Hurricane” Carter—the man featured in the Bob Dylan song and Denzel Washington movie. The
Scared Straight!
documentaries, in which juvenile delinquents were purportedly rehabilitated by being berated by Rahway lifers, were also shot here.

After going through the usual security rigmarole, Broome found himself seated across from Ricky Mannion. They say prison shrinks
a man. If that were the case here, Broome would hate to have seen Mannion before his arrest. Mannion had to be six-six and weigh over three hundred pounds. He was black with a cleanly shaven head and arms that could double as oak trees.

Broome expected the standard prison machismo, but Mannion was giving him pretty much just the opposite. Mannion’s eyes flooded with tears when he looked at the badge.

“Are you here to help me?” Mannion asked Broome.

“I’m here to ask some questions.”

“But this is about my case, right?”

Mannion wasn’t behind a glass partition—they sat across a table from each other, his arms and feet cuffed—but he still looked like the proverbial kid pushing his nose against the glass.

“It’s about the murder of Ross Gunther,” Broome said.

“What did you find? Please tell me.”

“Mr. Mannion—”

“I was thirty-one when they arrested me. I’m almost fifty now. Can you imagine that? In here all that time for a crime I didn’t commit. And you know I’m innocent, right?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Mannion smiled then. “Think about losing all those years, Detective. Your thirties, your forties, all rotting in this sewer, trying to tell anybody, everybody, that you didn’t do it.”

“Must be tough,” Broome said. Mr. Understatement.

“That’s what I do. Every day. Talk about my innocence. Still. But people stopped listening a long time ago. Nobody believed me then. Not even my own mother. And nobody believes me now. I scream and I protest and I always see that same look on every face. Even if
they ain’t rolling their eyes, they’re rolling their eyes, if you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean. I still don’t see the point.”

Mannion lowered his voice to a whisper. “You’re not rolling your eyes, Detective.”

Broome said nothing.

“For the first time in twenty years, I have someone sitting across from me who knows I’m telling the truth. You can’t hide that from me.”

“Wow.” Broome sat back and frowned. “How many times have you given someone that line of bull?”

But Mannion just smiled at him. “You want to play it that way? Fine. Ask me whatever you want. I’ll tell you the truth.”

Broome dived in. “When you were first questioned by the police, you said that you’d never met Ross Gunther. Was that true?”

“No.”

“So you opened with a lie?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You’re joking, right? I didn’t want to give them a motive.”

“So you told a lie?”

“Yes.”

“You told the police you didn’t know Gunther, even though at least five people saw you attack him at a bar three days before his murder?”

The chains rattled as Mannion shrugged his massive shoulders. “I was young. And stupid. But I didn’t kill him. You have to believe that.”

“Mr. Mannion, this will go faster—and better for you—if you dispense with the protestations of innocence and just answer my questions, okay?”

“Yeah, sorry. Just a reflex, you know?”

“You’ve had a lot of time to think about this crime, right? Let’s say I believe you. How did the victim’s blood get into your house and car?”

“Simple. It was planted.”

“So someone broke into your car?”

“I don’t lock my car in my own driveway.”

“And the house?”

“The blood wasn’t found in the house. It was found by the washing machine in the garage. I left the garage door open. Lots of folks do.”

“Do you have any proof that the blood was planted?”

Mannion smiled again. “I didn’t at trial.”

“But you do now?”

“That’s what I was trying to tell everyone. That I had proof. But they said it was too late. They said it wasn’t enough.”

“What proof, Mr. Mannion?”

“My pants.”

“What about them?”

“The police found Gunther’s blood in my car, right?”

“Yes.”

“And they found a ton of blood on my shirt. I’ve seen the crime scene pics. They showed them at the trial. The killer practically sawed Gunther’s head off. There was a lot of blood.”

“Right, so?”

Mannion spread his hands. “So how come they didn’t find any blood anywhere on my pants?”

Broome considered that for a moment. “Maybe you hid them.”

“So, just so I got this straight, I somehow hid my pants—and underpants and socks and, hell, since it was cold out that night, my parka—but I left my shirt behind for the police to find? Oh, and since it was about thirty degrees out that night, why would I have just been wearing a short-sleeve T-shirt anyway? Why would the blood be on that and not on a coat or a sweater or a sweatshirt?”

Good points. Certainly not enough to overturn a conviction, but for Broome’s purposes, it made a lot of sense. Mannion looked at him now with such hope. Broome, cruel as it might seem, gave him nothing back. “What else?”

Mannion blinked. “What do you mean, what else?”

“That’s all the new proof you have?”

The big man blinked harder. He looked like a little boy about to cry. “I thought you were innocent until proven guilty.”

“But you were already proven guilty.”

“I didn’t do it. I’ll take a lie detector test, whatever.”

“Again let’s say you’re telling the truth. Who would have it in for you like that?”

“What?”

“You’re claiming you were framed, right? So who would want to see you behind bars?”

“I don’t know.”

“How about Stacy Paris?”

“Stacy?” Mannion made a face. “She loved me. She was my girlfriend.”

“And she was stepping out on you with Ross Gunther.”

“So he said.” He folded his arms. “It wasn’t true.”

Broome sighed and started to rise.

“Wait. Okay, it wasn’t like that.”

“What was it like?”

“Me and Stacy. We had an understanding.”

“What kind of understanding?”

“It was that world, you know?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Mannion. Why don’t you tell me?”

Mannion tried to raise his hands, but the shackles stopped him. “We were exclusive in our personal lives. But professionally, well, that was okay, if you know what I mean.”

“Are you saying Stacy Paris was a prostitute and you were her pimp?”

“It wasn’t like that. I cared about her. A lot.”

“But you pimped her out.”

“Not me. It was just, you know, what she did sometimes. To make ends meet. I mean, it was part of what she did.”

“What was the other part?”

“She danced.”

“Danced,” Broome repeated. “Like what, ballet at Lincoln Center?”