“So criminals never do dumb shit,” says the chief. “They never panic and make a mistake.”
“It was not a mistake, sir. If he didn’t see it, if he accidentally kicked it—something like that would be a mistake. Panicking and rushing, I get. This was not panic. This was careful and intentional.” Jane shakes her head. “He wanted us to find that phone. But he didn’t want to be too obvious about it.”
“He being Simon Dobias.”
“That’s the theory, yes.”
The chief crosses his arms. “Okay, agree to disagree. Go on.”
“Number two, the CSLI is so perfect, so on-the-nose, that it feels staged,” Jane says. “And Simon Dobias is a law professor who specializes in the Fourth Amendment. He has this blog we just found called Simon Says, ha-ha. He writes for lawyers and law students, plus a bunch of law review articles. He writes about how the government can track citizens and invade their privacy. He probably knows more than we do about how to track people with cell phone historical data.”
“Okay, so the CSLI is too convincing. Our evidence is too strong, basically,” the chief summarizes. “Go on.”
Jane takes a breath to control her frustration. She gets it—the idea of a quick solve, in a tidy package with a bow. The first murder in the history of Grace Village, and the police solve it within a week. The Village president slaps the chief on the back, and everyone breathes a sigh of relief, congratulating each other on a job well done.
“Three,” she says. “The mistake in the text messages. Lauren texts that she didn’t sleep well one night because Conrad was snoring, when we know Conrad wasn’t living in that house anymore. I thought, initially, that meant Lauren was lying to her secret boyfriend.”
“But not now?”
“Now I think it’s a mistake. Because Simon Dobias didn’t know Lauren and Conrad were separated. He was fudging these text conversations and trying to seem authentic, but he went too far—he said something wrong, not knowing it was wrong.”
“That’s possible, maybe, but so is Lauren lying to her boyfriend. To Christian.”
“Why did Lauren have her phone on, on Halloween night?” Jane says. “After she dumped her lover, who we’re supposed to believe is Christian Newsome, she said she was leaving town and her phone would stay off. So why did she have it on?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” says the chief.
“Why would Lauren need to keep her phone off at all other times, besides when they were texting?” she continues. “Once Conrad moved out, mid-September, that house was all hers. She didn’t need to hide her texts. And I know they were getting a divorce, but what did she care? There was a prenup, and almost all of Conrad’s money was in a trust she couldn’t reach, anyway. So why would she need to keep her phone off all the time? What was she afraid of?”
“Jane, I have no—”
“And for that matter, sir, why did Christian Newsome turn off his phone at all, ever?” She waves a hand. “He wasn’t married. There’s no record of a marriage, there’s no indication of the presence of a significant other in that condo—a live-in girlfriend, a wife, a boyfriend or husband, for that matter. That man was single. He had nobody to hide that phone from.”
The chief’s eyebrows rise. He puts out his hands. “And what is your theory, again?”
“I’m not sure of anything yet,” says Jane. “I just don’t want to rush to judgment.”
The chief frowns. That’s not a phrase an investigator likes to hear. “All this evidence that we’ve put together against Christian Newsome doesn’t sound like a ‘rush to judgment,’ Sergeant.”
“But it’s worth considering,” says Jane, “that Simon Dobias was pulling strings all over the place here. The phones were off in between the intervals of the text messaging because he didn’t want anyone tracking his movements.”
“So what, Simon Dobias made those text messages from Christian’s phone?”
“Yes, that would be the theory.”
“So—Christian Newsome and Lauren Betancourt were not having an affair?”
“That would be the working theory, correct.”
“They didn’t even know each other.”
“Probably not.”
“Lauren wasn’t having an affair with anyone?”
“Probably not,” says Jane. “She didn’t tell any of her closest friends, Chief. In fact, remember, she told one of her friends that she ‘missed sex.’ Just last week, she’s telling them she misses sex. If you believe those text messages, she had no reason to be missing sex. She was getting it on a regular basis.”
“No chance she was lying to her friends about that fact?”
“A chance, sure, but I’m not sure why she would.”
“And Christian’s razor and trimmer—Simon planted them at Lauren’s house.”
“Correct.”
“So . . . Christian didn’t kill Lauren Betancourt? Simon did.”
“Correct. That’s the theory.”
“Because it sure looks like Christian had the Grim Reaper costume in his house, and it sure sounds like he was wearing the exact boots that treaded all over Lauren’s house.”
“It does, yes, it does.”
“So Simon kills Lauren around eight p.m. on Halloween, then goes to Christian’s house and kills him, plants the Grim Reaper costume, and puts the boots near his feet. Right?”
“That or something very close to that, yes.”
The chief leans back in his chair. “Then answer me this, Sergeant,” he says. “If Simon was sending text messages from Christian’s end of the phone call, who was responding to them? Not Lauren, I presume? Because from everything we’ve heard, Simon and Lauren were like oil and water.”
“That . . . that is the biggest hole in my working theory,” Jane concedes. “If I’m right, that means Simon must have had a partner.”
“And do we have any idea who that partner might be?”
“I haven’t even talked to Simon yet. We canceled tonight after we found Christian Newsome. Look, sir.” She approaches his desk. “I’m not saying I’m right about any of this. I’m just not sure about this answer that has been gift-wrapped for us. I just want to keep looking.”
The chief works his jaw, glances at her. “Well, it’s only been two days, I guess.” He thinks about it some more and nods. “Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to release a statement that we are focusing on a person of interest, that we are in the process of pursuing a few avenues of information, and that it is our firm belief that the murder was a personal domestic issue that poses no further danger to our residents. We can agree on all that, yes?”
“Yes, sir.” No need to mention that the person of interest is now a corpse.
“So tomorrow, go interview this Dobias fellow who interests you so much,” he says. “See what comes of it. But listen, Jane. There is no physical way that Simon Dobias could have been on both sides of all those text-message conversations when the two phones were twenty miles apart. So you wanna convince me to keep this investigation open? Show me the slightest hint that Simon Dobias had a partner in this scheme.”
HALLOWEEN
88
Simon
“I fucked up. I fucked up.” I rock back and forth inside the cab, careful to keep my head down, the Grim Reaper hood covering my face, sweaty from the heat blasting inside the cab and yes, probably from nerves as well.
The cabbie, a young guy with a thick African accent, whose license reads Dembe Abimbola, turns down the pop music. “You okay, sir?” he asks. “Are you going to be sick?”