I made a mental note to have a handwriting analyst check the charge
receipt for Clarissa's purchases last Saturday at
Nordstrom. My guess is that the signature would be close, but not
quite right. I was also pretty sure that, as much as Susan had joked
about Clarissa being the reluctant shopper, we'd find out that Susan
hadn't bought anything for herself that day.
"But it was his idea," Susan was insisting. "He's the doctor. He's
the one who cooked up this whole thing about using the food in her
stomach. You tell me, how could I come up with that myself? I still
don't even understand it."
Russ poked me in the side with his elbow. "She's got a point there."
I nodded. "Sure. Townsend came up with the idea of throwing us off
with the take-out container from Sunday, but she's still the doer. You
met Townsend. It had to have been the other way around. Clarissa
confronts Susan; Susan kills Clarissa and then tells Townsend he'd
better help or she'll pin it all on him."
"It would certainly explain why the guy's been a walking corpse. But
what about the poly?"
"He passed it because of the questions." I told him about the
transcript of Townsend's interview. He was asked if he'd been at the
hospital Sunday, if he killed Clarissa, and if he hired, solicited,
ordered, or asked anyone to kill her. But they neglected to ask the
money question: "Do you know who killed your wife?"
Chuck was asking Susan to walk them through the rest of the plan.
"Townsend called Gunderson to come over for Clarissa's .. . to get
Clarissa," said Susan. "He came over and took Clarissa to the
Glenville property, then stashed the hammer at Jackson's."
"And how would Gunderson know that Jackson had a grudge against
Clarissa? Your story's not adding up." Chuck did a better bad cop
routine than most. His tone struck the perfect balance between anger
and dismissiveness.
"She's cooperating, OK?" Johnson said.
Susan looked at Johnson. She probably recognized the routine, but she
played along anyway. "Townsend told him about Jackson."
"And Jackson just happened to work for Gunderson? Wrong again,
Susan."
"Clarissa got Gunderson to give Jackson a job. I told you she felt
sorry for the guy. I think she was probably trying to turn what she'd
done into some kind of good deed. Karma and all."
"God, she's good," I said.
"Maybe," Russ said, "but I still can't believe she hasn't law-ye red
up."
I shook my head and smiled. "That's because you don't know Susan Kerr.
She thinks she's way too smart for all of this. She's been
manipulating people her whole life, getting away with it every time.
And she probably figures, Hey, she's a woman, she's in here first;
she'll be the one to get the deal. She's convinced Gunderson and
Townsend will go down, and she'll waltz out with a few months of local
jail."
"That's not going to happen, is it." It wasn't a question.
"No way," I said.
"Ready to call Duncan?"
"Let's do it."
It took a good forty-five minutes, but we finally laid it all out for
the boss.
"And you think we've got PC for Townsend and Gunderson?" "I do," Russ
said. "We've got a coconspirator implicating Townsend directly in the
murder, and at the very least she's implicating Gunderson in the
cover-up. Add the circumstantial evidence of the various connections
between everyone, and we've got enough for warrants."
"Start working on search warrants," Duncan said, "but call their
lawyers and give them an hour to turn themselves in."
"What?" I screeched into the speakerphone. "You've got to be kidding.
This is a murder case, Duncan."
"No shit, Samantha. But we're not dealing with a bunch of gang bangers
here. You don't need a perp walk on this one. They'll turn themselves
in."
"Right," I said. "Just like Susan Kerr did. In case you forgot, we
pulled her off a plane after she tried to kill me."
"Don't be dramatic. She locked you in a room," Duncan argued.
I looked at Russ and shook my head. "Yeah, Duncan, without any air."
"Look, Samantha. You're new to this. We let guys TSI all the time,
even in murder cases. Russ, if you're worried about it, call the
airlines and make sure they know not to let these guys fly out. But
giving them an hour's not going to kill anyone."
If only he'd been right.
When the deadline came, Gunderson was there with Thorpe, but Roger had
been stood up. We dispatched cars immediately, but we were too late.
Townsend Easterbrook was dead.
Seventeen.
A week later, I attended the funeral with Chuck and my father.
I don't know why I went or why I made anyone come with me. Maybe
because death was still new to me. Or maybe part of me actually felt
sorry for him.
Susan Kerr may have tried to put all the blame on Townsend, but in the
end he had the last laugh. He had found one decent concluding act to
his life. He left a note. He'd probably written it as the final dose
of painkillers settled in, but I was confident it was reliable. Unlike
most coconspirators, Townsend no longer had a reason to point the
finger at others. He just wanted, finally, to tell the truth.
These are my words, not his, but the truth went something like this:
Townsend Easterbrook had believed that building the pediatric wing was
the most important accomplishment of his life. He knew he'd earned his
position more for his administrative skills than his healing ones, and
the new wing was his way of securing a legacy at the hospital. Several
months earlier,
Susan Kerr had offered to help, and Townsend had happily accepted. The
money came rolling in.
But then, on the Friday before Clarissa's death, he discovered the
deal's strings. Clarissa sat him down and told him that, in exchange
for Susan's generosity, she had rigged a decision in favor of a company
in which Susan had an interest. She said she'd done it to help the
hospital wing and out of loyalty to Susan, but now things had gone too
far. Susan was asking her to do even more, and Clarissa planned to say
no. The money would dry up.
Townsend told her to put her foot down. Screw Susan. They'd build the
wing without her.
But that's not what happened. Clarissa left the house to meet Susan on
Saturday for lunch. A couple of hours later, Townsend got a call.
Something was wrong with Clarissa, Susan said. He needed to come
over.
When he got there, Clarissa was dead, lying in a pool of blood in the