I speak to Kevin while he is still on the phone with Marcus. “Tell him to follow us at a distance.” I want it this way so that Eddie doesn’t see Marcus with us, since that could easily get him to run away again. I also don’t want to have to listen to classical music for four hours.
Kevin and I are in the car within fifteen minutes. I don’t see Marcus, but then again I never do. I trust that he will be there if we need him, but my hunch is that this time we won’t.
This time Eddie has come looking for us.
Luckily, the weather today is fine, if one doesn’t mind freezing cold, so the drive is much easier. I’m also anxious to get there before Eddie can change his mind, so my foot is a little heavier on the gas pedal than last time.
The motel that Eddie has directed us to is the Peter Pan Motor Hotel, a two-story establishment that makes the Parker Motel look like a Ritz-Carlton. As with the Parker, the parking lot wraps around the place so that guests can park in front of their rooms. My guess, based on the classiness of the place, is that many of their guests only take their rooms for an hour or so in the afternoon.
Eddie told us his room number, so there’s no reason for us to stop off at the front desk. We park near the outdoor staircase, since his room is on the second floor. I look around for Marcus but can’t find him… business as usual.
Kevin and I walk up the stairs and then around the building toward the room. I feel a flicker of nervousness at what is about to happen. It’s unlikely that Eddie would be leading us into a trap, but there is always that possibility. Kevin was absolutely right to call Marcus.
We reach room 223, and I knock on the door. As I do so, I see that it is only half closed and can be pushed open. I wait for someone to answer, but no one does. I hope Eddie has gone out, maybe for a bite to eat, and will be back soon. I’ll be really pissed if he’s bailed out on us again.
I push open the door and call out, “Eddie?”
No answer, so Kevin and I enter the room. The bed is unmade, there are some papers on the desk, but no sign of Eddie. I go toward the open bathroom door and look in.
There is a skylight in the bathroom, with a metal latch. One end of the rope is tied to this latch, and the other end is tied to Eddie’s grotesquely twisted neck as he gently swings, his feet about eighteen inches above the bathroom floor.
• • • • •
I’VE SEEN DEAD bodies before, both murder victims and otherwise, but it’s not something I’m likely to get used to any time soon. For some reason the image of Eddie’s shoes, slowly drifting in the air, is one I believe that I will never forget.
Kevin comes to the door to see if I’ve discovered anything. “Holy shit,” he says, mostly to himself.
I close the door with us on the outside of it. I ask Kevin to call 911 as I look around the room, and it doesn’t take long to find the note sitting on top of the desk.
It’s a rambling two-page letter, in longhand but legible. I’m careful to just nudge the edges of the pages so as not to smudge any fingerprints, but there is no way I’m not going to read this. It consists of a confession of guilt to the murders of Liz Barlow and Sheryl Hendricks, as well as an apology to the victims, the victims’ families, and God, for what he has done.
Included are three paragraphs in which he describes the murders as having been committed because Liz broke off their “engagement” and he just went “crazy” at the prospect of a life without her. His last paragraph is a specific apology to Jeremy for the pain he has caused him. He acknowledges burying the bodies on Jeremy’s property, as well as putting specks of the victims’ blood in Jeremy’s truck, which he says was parked in Center City.
Kevin and I wait outside the room for the local police to arrive, since we have neither a desire to contaminate a crime scene nor hang out with a dead body. Four local patrolmen arrive in two cars, and after confirming that we are the ones who called the discovery in, they proceed to enter the room without waiting for any detectives. It is clear that their training regarding crime scenes consisted of watching two episodes of CSI: Miami, but that’s not my problem.
The state police arrive about ten minutes later, and the officer in charge, Detective Woisheski, immediately removes the local officers from the scene, instructing them to set up a perimeter in the parking lot. My guess is, he does this just to give them something to do and get rid of them, and if a perimeter had already been set up, he might have instructed them to open a lemonade stand in the parking lot.
He tells Kevin and me to wait where we are, and it’s about a half hour before he comes out of the room and over to us. “And you would be who?” he asks.
“I’m Andy Carpenter and this is Kevin Randall. We’re attorneys.”
He looks skyward briefly, as if for help. “Just what I need. All right, tell me what you’re doing here.”
“The kid hanging in the bathroom was a potential material witness in an upcoming murder trial in Findlay.”
“The one where the two college girls got sliced up?”
I nod. “The very one; we’re representing the accused. Eddie-that’s the kid in there-has been on the run, and we’ve been trying to find him. He called this morning, told me where he was, and we drove right out.”
“So rather than talk to two lawyers, he hung himself. Makes sense.”
“Sounds like you cracked the case, Detective,” I say.
“Did you read the suicide note?” he asks.
“He left a note?” I say, putting on my best shocked expression.
“Don’t bullshit me, Counselor.”
“I may have read part of it,” I admit.
“Which part?”
“The part where there was writing.”
“So if this is legit, your client walks,” he says.
“I would describe it more as a horrible injustice having been averted.”
“I bet you would,” he says.
He questions us for another half hour, but it’s clear that he sees nothing in the room or situation to make him think this is other than the suicide it seems. I’m not so sure, but I’m certainly not about to tell him that. Before we leave, I reverse the roles and get some information from him, mostly concerning what office will be the base of the investigation, and where the note will be held. That note, as Woisheski correctly noted, could well be Jeremy Davidson’s get-out-of-jail card.
On the way back I call Laurie and bring her up-to-date on what has transpired. She has, of course, not been at the scene, yet she shares my immediate suspicions of it. “Why would he call to talk to you and then kill himself before he was able to?” she asks.
“Maybe he wanted to turn himself in because of his feelings of guilt, but then those feelings became so overwhelming he couldn’t deal with them,” I say. “Or maybe he would rather be dead than in prison.”
“Maybe,” she says, not believing it. “Did the scene look legit to you?”
“Pretty much,” I say. “Though hangings are not in my area of expertise.”
She asks if I’ll give her a formal statement when I get back, and I agree, providing it’s over dinner. I am a hell of a negotiator.
Kevin and I spend the drive back kicking this around from a legal standpoint. I debate whether to inform Lester of what has happened, but decide against it. I’d rather he find out from Judge Morrison, who we plan to tell tomorrow morning. We are going to tell him about it in the form of a motion to dismiss the charges against Jeremy Davidson.
Kevin and I are still discussing our legal strategy when Laurie arrives, and she volunteers to make dinner for us. We include her in the conversation, since we trust her completely. Also, whatever strategy we decide on will soon be part of our motion and therefore no secret from anyone.