Sullivan's Justice (27 page)

Placing his son on the floor, Dr. Graham began CPR. “Come on, Jeremy!” he yelled. “Don’t give up on me, son. Fight. Fight for your life.”

Where in God’s name were the police and ambulance? Perspiration poured off Graham’s face. He had to do something fast or his son would die.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dr. Graham saw Jessica huddling against the wall. A muscle in her face was jerking and her eyes were open. She was obviously in shock. The rifle was resting on the floor a few feet away.

No wonder no one had come. His daughter had never made the phone call. He couldn’t think of it now. He grabbed a battered brown leather case that had once belonged to his father. So the children didn’t stumble across it, he kept it in a hidden storage area inside his closet. If only he’d kept the rifle in the same place. He removed a scalpel and sliced through the cartilage, his fingers grasping the interior part of the rib cage as he separated his son’s chest. He yelled at Jessica several times, praying the girl would snap out of it and get help. He couldn’t notify the authorities. He was holding his son’s heart in his hands.

The light seemed to suddenly grow dim. Dr. Graham’s efforts to save his son had failed. He stared at the rifle, seeing it for what it really was—a hideous killing machine.

He had once been a registered member of the NRA. One of his uncles had built the five-pound rifle. His father had presented it to him on his tenth birthday. When he realized that the world would be better off without firearms, he’d sold his extensive gun collection. All but the lightweight rifle, one of his few links to his now-deceased father. Jeremy must have used the rifle without his permission, irresponsibly leaving the ammunition in the chamber.

A moment ago time had been racing. Now an eerie silence had settled over the room. Death had won. Dr. Graham felt as if he had somehow stepped outside the world. He kissed his wife for the last time and pulled the sheet over her head. Removing the bloodstained bedspread, he stroked the hair back from Jeremy’s forehead, then covered his son as well.

Hoisting Jessica into his arms, he carried the child down the stairs to the living room and gently placed her on the sofa. “Jessica,” he said, his voice shaking, “can you hear me? It’s Daddy. No one’s going to hurt you, baby. It was my fault, understand? Daddy should have never left the gun where you could find it.”

Dr. Graham said her name again, then moved his hand back and forth in front of her face. When she didn’t blink, he unbuttoned her pajamas and examined her body to make certain she hadn’t been injured. He couldn’t remember the precise sequence of events. His brain was mush. His heart was shattered. His shoulders shook as he sobbed.

He headed to the kitchen to call the police, then turned and walked back up the center staircase to the master bedroom. His daughter had witnessed something so devastating that her mind had shut down. She might never come out of it. Her healthy body could continue to grow within the confines of a hospital, her mind locked in a catatonic state. During his internship, he had seen children frozen like statues.

He dropped to his knees. “Take me, God,” he cried, staring at the ceiling. “Strike me dead. Please, please, please, anything but my precious daughter.”

What reason did he have to live? His medical practice would be ruined, his wife and son would rot in their graves, and his daughter might never recover. Even if she did, the horror of this night would haunt her forever. The person she loved the most in the world was her brother.

Without thinking, Dr. Graham picked up the rifle and carried it to the garage, placing the barrel into his mouth. Holding back his desire to kill himself, he set the rifle down on the concrete floor. Removing the shells, he placed them in his pocket, then found a sledgehammer in one of the cabinets. He struck the gun with all his might, emitting a tortured cry with each blow.

An overweight police officer with a pie-shaped face grabbed him from behind and wrestled him to the ground. He saw a smaller officer with dark hair standing next to Jessica. He watched as the officer bent down and clasped the girl’s hand. When Dr. Graham tried to speak, the larger officer placed his foot on his neck.

“What happened here, sweetheart?” the smaller officer asked in a gentle voice. “Can you tell us who hurt the people upstairs?”

With her pink pajamas soaked in blood and a streak of chocolate across one cheek, Jessica raised her arm and pointed an accusing finger at her father. “He did.”

“Who is this man?”

“My daddy.”

“Are you certain, honey?” the officer continued, exchanging glances with his partner. “Did you see him fire the gun? How can you be sure your father did these bad things?”

The girl stared up at him with a flat, unemotional gaze. When she spoke, her voice had an eerie sound to it, almost as if another person or a machine were speaking for her. “I know he did it,” Jessica said. “I know he did it because he told me he did. Is he going to kill me, too? Don’t leave me here alone with him!”

 

 

After Hank left the coroner’s office, he grabbed a cheese-burger and fries from Carl’s Jr. and wolfed them down in his car. A short time later, he rang the doorbell at the residence of Stanley and Jane Caplin. The day was overcast and the air was brisk. Their home was located in the marina and had a boat dock. The property appeared modest from the outside, but the land alone was probably worth close to a million dollars.

Mrs. Caplin kept the chain in place as she cracked the door and peered out. “I’m Detective Sawyer,” he said. “May I come in?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. “Stanley has been expecting you.”

Jane Caplin was small, maybe five-two. Her body was reed thin, and her limp brown hair made him think of cancer victims. Her pain was so deep, the detective had to look away. The mothers seemed to suffer the most. There were two ways to deal with a tragedy of this magnitude—either find release through anger or throw yourself into a bottomless pit of despair. As time went on, the strong ones reached a level of acceptance. Judging from her anguished eyes, he doubted if Mrs. Caplin would ever recover from her daughter’s death.

They must have purchased the property twenty years ago, Hank thought. The furnishings looked dated and the floor was covered with shag carpeting. A day after Christmas and he didn’t see a tree or any decorations. He spotted some pine needles scattered across the tile entryway. They must have had a tree and then taken it down after Laurel was killed. There was nothing to celebrate in this house. Under the circumstances, a Christmas tree was almost obscene.

As the detective followed Mrs. Caplin down a hallway leading to the study, Laurel Goodwin’s life was displayed in pictures. He glanced at the smiling girl frolicking in a swimming pool, the teenager dressed for her first prom, the proud college graduate, the glowing bride, and finally the lovely teacher surrounded by her adoring students. Now she was no longer the dissected body in the morgue. She was Laurel.

The pictures suddenly stopped, just as Laurel’s life had ended so abruptly. There was a large empty space near the door leading into the study. Mrs. Caplin must have saved it for her future grandchildren. When one person was killed, the detective had heard, an entire world was annihilated. All the generations that would follow her would never be.

Hank felt an odd sensation in his stomach. Perspiration popped out on his forehead. The walls were dark wood and the hall was narrow and confining. Mrs. Caplin’s picture wall, he decided, had become a wall of sadness.

Stanley Caplin stood around five-seven and weighed over two hundred pounds. He was wearing a brown golf shirt and a dark pair of pants. A cigar was smoldering in an ashtray beside his brown upholstered recliner. No wonder he’d felt sick, Hank thought, shaking the man’s hand. He’d been so distracted by Mrs. Caplin and the photographs, he’d failed to realize how badly the house reeked of cigar smoke. “Can we talk outside?” he asked, pulling out a handkerchief and placing it over his mouth and nose.

“Oh,” Mr. Caplin said. “Don’t worry. I’ll put it out. It was too chilly to go outside. Besides, some of those newshounds might come around.”

Hank reluctantly took a seat on the sofa, folding his handkerchief and placing it back in his pocket. The man thought he could solve the problem by putting out his cigar. To get rid of the stench, the house would have to be knocked down and rebuilt.

He assumed Mrs. Caplin had followed him into the study. He looked back at the door and discovered she’d disappeared. “Doesn’t your wife want to be present?”

“Janie’s not well,” the man said, scratching the day-old stubble on his chin. “She’s been in bed most of the time since we heard Laurel had been murdered. She’s a wonderful woman. Laurel was our only child. Janie had something wrong with her fallopian tubes. It took us ten years and two operations before she got pregnant.”

Hank pulled out a tape recorder and placed it on the coffee table. “My memory isn’t so good these days,” he told him. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“No,” Mr. Caplin said, his dark eyes narrowing. “Did you arrest that Sullivan guy yet? Murdering son of a bitch. He killed Suzanne Porter, too, I hear. Her husband called me again last night. Young fellow. Taking it real hard. We both hope Sullivan gets the death penalty.”

The problem with the Porter case, Hank thought, was there was absolutely nothing to go on. The husband was at his office with ten other people, the house had been impeccably cleaned, and the couple’s friends and relatives said they were like newlyweds. Other than a six-digit stock portfolio and a lot of sexy underwear, the wife had nothing to hide. No former lovers, no enemies, no drug or alcohol abuse. Eric Rittermier, the neighbor’s boy, had looked promising as a suspect in the beginning. Even owned a motorcycle, but his girlfriend swore he was banging her in his bedroom at the time Suzanne Porter was killed.

He turned back to Stanley Caplin. “Tell me about your daughter’s relationship with Neil Sullivan.”

“The first or the second time?” Caplin asked, leaning forward in his chair.

“Start from the beginning.”

“Laurel was a good student,” he said. “Then she started dating Neil in her junior year in high school. We weren’t really happy about the situation. You know, her dating. The boy came from a respectable family, so we thought it was okay. Besides, he was kind of a prissy boy. Janie thought he might be gay.”

“What happened?” Hank asked, pulling out a toothpick and sticking it into his mouth. “Why did they break up?”

“I caught the little shit smoking dope in my backyard,” Caplin shot out. “He was giving drugs to my daughter. Laurel’s grades had started dropping. We didn’t know what was wrong until I saw it with my own eyes.” He sighed, his mind drifting back in time. “I put a stop to it. I forbade Laurel to see Neil again or I threatened to turn him in to the police. She buckled down and graduated at the top of her class.”

“When did she start seeing Sullivan again?”

“Sometime last year, I guess,” Caplin answered, shrugging. “My wife and I didn’t know.”

“You accused Sullivan of dealing narcotics. Do you have any proof ?”

“Proof,” the man said, his voice loud and abrasive. “You’re asking me for proof? Didn’t you find a syringe in his bathroom? The last time I talked to you, you told me the coroner found a puncture wound on Laurel’s body and that might be what killed her. The piece of shit shot her up with something. The man lives in a million-dollar house and drives a Ferrari. You think he earned all that selling paintings? That art stuff is his cover. He’s a drug dealer. What more proof do you need?”

“We’re investigating all of Neil Sullivan’s activities,” Hank said. “If he was dealing narcotics, we’ll find out eventually. Sullivan said she was living here. Is that true?”

Caplin took some deep breaths before speaking. “She moved back in with us after her husband threw her out. Can’t say I blame him. I would have done the same thing if I was him.”

“Can you elaborate?” Hank said. “I’m not sure I understand.”

Caplin answered in a hushed voice, “Laurel was cheating. I never told my wife.”

Rats, the detective thought, seeing his case spin off in another direction. Adultery was historically one of the prime motives for murder. “Do you know this man’s name?”

Caplin was staring at the floor, lost in his thoughts. Hank waited a few minutes, then spoke, “Sir, I asked—”

“I heard you,” Stanley Caplin said, picking up his cigar and clamping his mouth on it. “I don’t know his name, okay? You’ll have to ask Jordan. All I know was he was young, too young. Maybe eighteen or nineteen.”

“How long had Laurel been teaching school? She taught eleventh grade, right?”

“Yeah,” Caplin said, garbling the words through clenched teeth. “I know what you’re thinking, that the guy was a former student or something. I heard as much as I wanted to hear. When it comes to sex, a man doesn’t want to know what his daughter is doing. Jordan will have to fill you in on the rest.”

“The night of the murder,” Hank said, “you told me Laurel’s ex-husband had called you recently. Do you recall what transpired during that conversation?”

“First of all,” Goodwin said, “Jordan is still her husband. They split up two years ago, but their divorce isn’t final. Laurel refused to sign the settlement papers. She thought they could patch things up. I told her it wasn’t going to happen. She wouldn’t listen to me.”

Hank stood, feeling as if he were going to suffocate if he didn’t get out of their house. He’d have to go home and change his clothes. “I need to get in touch with her husband,” he said. “I also need the exact time and date he called you.”

Stanley Caplin walked him to the door. “It was about three days before she . . .” He stopped and wiped his eyes. “This is hard. Never thought I’d have to bury my daughter. When are you people going to release the body?”