Sullivan's Justice (13 page)

“Your brother could have injected Goodwin, then struggled with her, causing them both to fall into the pool. Afterward, he went to the bathroom, where he neatly laid out his wallet to dry, then accidentally knocked the syringe into the sink. He stripped off his wet clothes, placed them in a plastic bag, then went outside in his jockey shorts. He might have thought it was too risky to dispose of the body. Besides, how could he get rid of Suzanne Porter’s remains? Two bodies is one too many, especially in an eight-hour period. So he intentionally set off the alarm, knowing the company would dispatch an officer. Now he’d have a witness who saw him sobbing over the body, and we’d assume a maniac was running loose in the neighborhood killing women.”

The maniac he was referring to was her baby brother. Carolyn felt as if she were about to break apart. She had loved and protected Neil since infancy. Her parents hadn’t planned on having more children after her. They were studious people who wanted their time to themselves. But she had pleaded for a sister or brother. When her mother came home from the hospital with Neil, she had placed him in six-year-old Carolyn’s arms. Other girls had dolls; Carolyn had little Neil. He grew into an adorable, chubby little boy, hanging onto the legs of his big sister and following her around the house like a puppy.

She pushed the past aside and looked up at the detective. “Let’s forget that Neil’s my brother. Why would a killer this methodical, as you described him, leave a syringe behind? Even if he knocked it into the sink by mistake, he would have checked the house before he staged the scene by the pool.”

“He forgot,” Hank said, shrugging. “By the time he set off the alarm, he had murdered another woman. This wasn’t the same as the first murder. Suzanne Porter was a stranger, or at least that’s what we’re assuming. Killing a stranger isn’t the same as killing someone you know, particularly a girlfriend. He was rattled, so he missed things. He had too much to do, and the clock was ticking. I’m fairly certain the Goodwin murder was impulsive. She did something to make him angry. He could have struck her and she fell, causing the injury on her forehead. That’s when he panicked and shot her up with drugs.” He stopped, rubbing his chin as he thought. “There’s another more sinister scenario. What if your brother started seeing Laurel to prime her as a future victim? Insignificant schoolteacher. Who would make a fuss if she disappeared?”

Carolyn blinked back tears, her struggle to remain rational disintegrating. “Next time you want a sounding board for your outlandish speculations, find someone else.”

Officer Cutter knocked on the door. “The coroner wants your permission to transport the body.”

The detective ignored him. “You know I’m not supposed to discuss the case outside of the department. Whether you realize it or not, I’m trying to prepare you.”

“Right,” Carolyn said facetiously.

“Hire an attorney,” Hank told her, his eyes as cold as marble. “Your brother’s going to need one. And if you have even an iota of concern for the women who lost their lives today, keep an eye on him. Trust me, if he kills again, you’re going to regret it.”

Before they left, Neil gave Detective Stevens the contact information for his housekeeper, Addy Marshall. He wanted to call Melody himself, but his sister talked him out of it. Under the circumstances, she thought it was better if the police handled it.

Carolyn asked Hank if they could leave through the backyard to avoid the reporters. The small house behind the swimming pool was also cordoned with police evidence tape.

As soon as they opened the gate leading to the alley, a female reporter for the
Ventura Star
shoved a microphone in Neil’s face. A man with a Minicam perched on his shoulder began filming. Neil instinctively threw his hands up. “Did you know the victim? Was she your girlfriend? How long have you been dating?”

“He has nothing to say to you,” Carolyn said, positioning herself in front of Neil.

Her car was parked on the street in front. She motioned for her brother to follow her and darted through a side yard, then dropped down behind two large trash containers. Once the reporters had passed, they waited, then finally made it to her white Infiniti and ducked inside, speeding off down the street.

By tomorrow morning, Neil Sullivan would be famous for more than his artwork.

 

 

 

 

 

C
arolyn lived in a modest one-story house near Ventura College, a far cry from her brother’s sprawling house in Ocean View Estates. The exterior was painted white with blue shutters, and the walkway to the door was lined with blooming rosebushes. Her sixteen-year-old son, John, took care of the yard in exchange for gas and car insurance money.

When Carolyn arrived with Neil, she found her boyfriend, Paul Leighton, snoring softly on the sofa. At five-ten, he wasn’t muscular like Brad. His clothes hung nicely on his body, though. He was wearing a white Polo shirt and jeans, and his salt-and-pepper hair was pushed back behind his ears. He blow-dried it straight every morning, but when there was moisture in the air, ringlets formed on his neck and forehead. Since he didn’t spend much time in the sunshine, his skin was chalky white. Paul jokingly said it made him look like a ghoul. She thought it provided an interesting contrast against his mostly dark hair. His eyes were such a pale shade of blue, they looked gray except when they caught the light.

Leaning down, she shook his shoulder to wake him. “Why didn’t you send Isobel over, Paul?”

“I didn’t want to bother her,” he said, yawning. “What time is it?”

“Almost three,” she answered. “Did John or Rebecca wake up?”

“No,” he said, glancing over at Neil. “I guess I’ll head home. I’m sure you two need to talk. If there’s anything I can do to help, you know how to find me.”

Every day, Carolyn became more attached to him. In addition to being her lover, Paul was the type of person who was always willing to lend a hand. Maybe that was the reason he’d become a teacher instead of taking a high-paid position in the private sector. One of his fellow professors at Caltech said he wasn’t self-absorbed like many people in his field, and Paul appeared to have dedicated himself to shaping young physicists’ lives and careers. He’d taken a sabbatical to write a book. His goal was to demystify physics for the general population. In order to distance himself from the university, he’d left his home in Pasadena and rented a house three doors down from Carolyn’s.

“I’ll meet you in the kitchen in five minutes,” she told her brother, stopping to turn off the Christmas-tree lights. “Have some cookies and milk. It might make you feel better.”

Stepping outside with Paul, Carolyn filled him in on the evening’s events. The rain had stopped, but the night air was damp and frigid. She rubbed her hands together to warm them. He removed his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. Placing a finger under her chin, he tilted her head up and kissed her.

“Sounds like you went for a walk in hell,” he said, his hands encircling her waist. “I’ve had a few of those days myself. Don’t worry, they’ll catch the bastard who did this. You know your brother wasn’t involved.”

His comments didn’t settle her nerves. What Paul and Hank didn’t know was that Neil had suffered a nervous breakdown five years ago. He’d been dating a high-spirited Irish girl who could drink most men under the table. After a night at the pub, they had argued. Neil had become enraged and slugged her, knocking out three of her teeth. Megan O’Connor had agreed not to press charges if Neil underwent treatment at a psychiatric hospital. When he was released, he’d put his life back together. As long as he focused on his painting, he was fine. But in stressful situations, he had a tendency to unravel.

Setting thoughts of Neil aside, Carolyn remembered that they were celebrating Christmas at Paul’s house. His daughter, Lucy, was the same age as Rebecca. John wanted to go to MIT and major in physics. He loved spending time with Paul. The man had become a father figure to both her children. Frank, her former husband, was finally in rehab. A talented writer, he had turned to drugs when his first novel was rejected. A man who wrote technical books like Paul was a world apart from a novelist, or she would have never entered into a relationship with him. Handling one artist was enough.

“Since it’s morning,” Carolyn said, glancing back at the door, “I guess it’s officially Christmas Eve. Are you sure you still want us to come over tonight? We may not be very cheerful.”

Paul clasped both of her hands. “Bring Neil, of course. As for the kids, they can come over as soon as they wake up. Isobel will make them waffles. I know you have to work, so I won’t expect you until later.”

“Merry Christmas,” Carolyn said, waving as he took off down the sidewalk. She didn’t want to spoil things, but if Neil refused to come along, she would have no choice but to stay with him. Recently she’d seen the same frenzied look in his eyes that she saw at the time of his breakdown. The psychiatrist had diagnosed him as manic-depressive and prescribed lithium. Although she thought it was safer if Neil took the medication, she personally thought the doctor was wrong. No one simply had a breakdown anymore, a low spot in their life where they did something they wouldn’t normally do. It seemed that anyone who spent time in a mental hospital was diagnosed as either manic-depressive or schizophrenic. The fact that the experts had so few labels for their diagnoses made her doubt their credibility. It would be similar to having only two crimes. Multiple personalities had almost disappeared, seemingly more fitting for the movies than reality. Oh, she’d almost forgotten. He wasn’t simply neat. Neil had been diagnosed with another label—obsessive-compulsive disorder, or OCD. A lot of bachelors in his age bracket were neat. She thought their desire to have everything in order was one of the reasons they remained single.

Regardless of how she felt, Carolyn had to ask herself the question: could Laurel’s refusal to marry Neil have caused him to spin out of control enough to kill her? Banish the thought, she decided, entering the house and locking the door. She felt guilty for even thinking that her brother could be a murderer. As Paul had said, they’d find the killer and everything would be fine.

Even on the day before Christmas, she couldn’t set aside her work, especially now that Brad was in the hospital and several of their top investigators were out sick. The report on Raphael Moreno had to be finished before the hearing that morning. Carolyn needed to be up in just over three hours. Sleep wasn’t going to be a luxury she would have this night.

After the hearing, she would stop by the hospital and see Brad. When she’d spoken to the emergency room physician, he’d told her that it might be six weeks before Brad could return to work. Why had he insisted on interviewing Moreno? Jealousy, she decided. He might be her supervisor, but his reputation as an interviewer was not anywhere as strong as hers. Brad was also hardheaded. When he was working with criminals, Brad’s attitude frequently led to trouble.

Carolyn felt responsible for what had occurred. She had pushed Moreno to the breaking point. Her plan had been to return and fake outrage that he’d been left in the room so long, maybe even bring him some cigarettes, candy, and gum, hoping he might soften and open up. Now they would never know what had caused him to commit the crimes, or more important, whether or not he’d had an accomplice.

When she entered the kitchen, she found Neil sitting at the table in the dark. “What sounds good?” she asked, turning on the lights. “I can make you a sandwich. How about some eggs and bacon?”

Neil snapped at her, “How could I eat at a time like this?”

Carolyn busied herself loading the dishwasher, telling herself that Neil’s edginess was understandable. Rebecca was thirteen now and was supposed to help with the chores. She’d have to talk to her. This was the third day she’d come home to a sink full of dirty dishes. “I may have to take over Brad’s job while he’s out on leave,” she said, opening the refrigerator and grabbing a soda.

“When will I be able to go back to my house?” he said, ignoring her comments.

“I don’t know,” Carolyn told him, popping the cap on her diet Coke. Since his recovery, Neil had done exceptionally well. While she juggled her kids, a demanding job, and law school, all he’d had to worry about was what he was going to paint and which woman he was going to sleep with. She remembered the reed-thin boy who’d been bullied by his class-mates. Before he’d started dating Laurel in high school, rumors had spread that her brother was gay. Neil had no interest in sports or other so-called masculine interests. All he’d ever wanted to do was paint and draw.

The tragedy had struck at the worst possible moment. Neil had already been tipping into depression because of his finances. Resuming his relationship with Laurel, according to her brother, was the only good thing in his life. She didn’t understand why he’d been so down. The house alone was worth almost a million, and Neil had paid off his mortgage several years back. When her brother had asked if he had enough money to support a family, Carolyn had laughed, telling him he could support a wife and a dozen kids. Neil also had his stock portfolio, the paintings he had in storage, and the flashy new Ferrari. Her brother had more money than the average person earned in a lifetime. In one night, though, everything had changed. If the DA prosecuted him for murder, his assets would begin to disappear.

“You can stay here as long as you want,” Carolyn said. “Why don’t you try and get some sleep. The bed in the guest room is made up. The TV you gave to John is in there if you want to watch it. Since he got his license, he’s not around enough to use it.”

“Thanks,” Neil said, his voice picking up for the first time tonight. “I doubt if I can sleep.”

“You need to rest,” she told him. “Hank Sawyer wants you to come down to the station as soon as we hire an attorney.”