The Seven-Day Target (16 page)

Nick tapped his fingers against the table and leaned forward in his chair. “The person who wrote that confession is dead. So if we were looking for the person who wrote that letter, or for someone like him, we would be looking for a person who would be considered a loner, right?”

“Well, not necessarily,” she replied. “That’s often how a schizoid personality will present itself, but sometimes people are very skilled at hiding their antisocial tendencies. You may be looking for someone who is quite charming.”

Nick groaned. “So a loner or the life of the party, then? I thought you were supposed to make this easier for me.”

Molly laughed. “Sorry, Nick. People are complicated.”

His forehead was tense. “I’m kidding. You have no idea how helpful that was. Thank you.”

“Glad to help. This stuff does get the pulse racing, doesn’t it?” She sounded breathless.

“Yeah, I love violent crime,” he said wryly. “Hey, I don’t know if you heard, but it looks like I’m going to be stationed in Washington, D.C., in a few months. I just found out yesterday.” Bureau policy dictated that he was required to spend three years in an office in a major city, after which Nick would have more flexibility in choosing the office he worked in.

“I hadn’t heard. We’ll miss you here in Pittsburgh. I was stationed in Manhattan, but Washington will be great. Will you be living in Virginia or Maryland?”

“Too early to tell. I have to start house hunting.” He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and turned. Libby was standing in the doorway. “Molly, sorry, but something came up and I have to go. I’ll talk to you later,” he said, watching Libby. “Thanks for your help.” He disconnected the call and turned to Libby with a smile. “Morning, sunshine.”

“Morning.” She rubbed her eyes and yawned. She’d thrown on a bathrobe, but she hadn’t bothered to smooth her sexy, disheveled hair.

“I ordered up breakfast. I hope you don’t mind muffins and eggs.”

“That sounds perfect.” She seated herself on the couch, tucking one leg beneath her. Nick tried not to think about whether she was wearing anything beneath her robe.

“I sent those handwriting samples to an expert at the Bureau. That was her on the phone just now.”

“And? What did she say?”

“I gave her two samples. The first was a letter sent by the Arbor Falls Strangler to one of his victims, and the second was the confession written by Will Henderson.” He paused. “Libby, they were written by two different people.”

“Oh, my God.” Her brow knit and she stared at the floor, deep in thought. “That means Henderson wasn’t the Arbor Falls Strangler. He confessed to crimes he didn’t commit.”

* * *

This was the news she’d feared. Her father had locked up a potentially innocent man. She picked absentmindedly at a frayed thread on the terry-cloth robe. It didn’t seem possible that Dad would have known he was prosecuting an innocent man, and yet she’d learned only last night that he’d slyly helped to orchestrate her breakup with Nick. The coldness of that betrayal unnerved her. Could anything in his past surprise her anymore?

“My dad prosecuted the wrong person,” she whispered. “The wrong man went to jail—died in jail—for those crimes while the real murderer went free.” Her own words left her feeling numb. She looked at Nick. “What else did the handwriting expert say?”

“I figure we’re looking for the original Arbor Falls Strangler or someone like him. Molly’s a psychologist, and she said that the person who wrote that letter probably has a schizoid personality, which would make him antisocial and a loner. Or conversely, he may be extremely charming.”

Libby raked her fingers through her hair. “Well, okay. A loner or a charmer. That doesn’t seem to help very much. Do you think that this is payback for a wrongful conviction?”

“Could be,” Nick said.

She knitted her brows. “But the timing still doesn’t make sense. Why now? Henderson’s been dead for years.”

“Maybe someone else just learned about the wrongful conviction, too. Who else would know that your dad made this...mistake?”

She flinched at his words. “A mistake? Do you think he made a mistake?” He didn’t move except to look away, confirming her suspicions. “No, you don’t think that at all. You think my dad knew about this, don’t you?”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You’re the one suggesting that something deeper was going on. I would have no way of knowing that.”

He was right. Libby had a gnawing suspicion that her father may have knowingly done the unthinkable, but she couldn’t explain it. Maybe that suspicion stemmed from the peculiar animosity she sensed from certain people who’d worked with her father. Judge Hayward, for instance. She’d been a public defender when Libby’s father had prosecuted Henderson—did she somehow know? But Libby also found it difficult to accept that her father, the very man who’d taught her right from wrong and fostered her unwavering faith in the justice system, would have knowingly prosecuted the wrong person for a crime. This wasn’t any crime, either: her father had prosecuted the wrong person for a series of murders and requested multiple life sentences. Her father had helped to lock away an innocent man for the rest of his life.

She felt a rush of heat. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she mumbled.

Nick rose. “Can I get you something? A glass of water?”

Waves of heat and nausea passed over her, and she took deep breaths to steady herself. After a minute or two the nausea receded and she was breathing easier. “I’ll be all right.”

Nick was behind her, and his hands were on her shoulders, kneading her muscles. “You’re so tense.”

She sighed at the sensation of his touch. His warm hands were heavy and reassuringly strong, and his grip was firm but gentle as he worked his fingers into the knots on her upper shoulders. She sat up and leaned her head back, relaxing against his tight stomach. Her shoulders were tinged with slight achiness as her muscles softened, sending a dizzying rush of blood to her head. She moaned softly. “That feels amazing.”

The compliment only served to encourage him, and soon his fingers were tracing slow, firm circles to the base of her neck. His touches on her shoulders and her neck stirred memories of his touch on other parts of her body. Her breathing became shallow as she fell under his trance, her head tilting softly this way and that as he commanded her body. She was utterly under his control, and she wouldn’t want it any other way.

He stopped, resting his hands on her shoulders and whispering, “Feel better?”

“Oh.” She sighed. “You stopped.”

There was a knock. “That’s breakfast.”

Nick opened the door, and Libby heard him explain quietly that she’d just woken and he didn’t want anyone entering the room yet. She pulled her bathrobe tighter as Nick reentered the room with a cart draped with a white tablecloth and towering with croissants, muffins and Danish. A pitcher of orange juice and a carafe of coffee rounded the breakfast display, which was punctuated by a single pink rose in a glass vase. “How lovely. You ordered breakfast for fifteen.”

He smiled at her. “I wanted you to find something you’d enjoy.” He handed her coffee in a porcelain cup. “I think that we need to talk to someone who may have some insight. Someone involved with the Henderson trial.”

She considered the question. “Who do you have in mind?”

“Henderson’s defense attorney, Christopher Henzel. He’s near seventy, but I looked him up and he’s got a small law practice in the center of Glen Hills.”

“What’s he practice?”

“Real estate.”

Libby blinked. “He’s no longer a public defender, huh?”

“He hasn’t been for a long time. In fact, it seems he opened this firm less than a year after Henderson went to jail.”

“In other words Henderson was the last criminal he represented before he decided he wanted to practice real estate?”

“Exactly.”

Libby laughed dryly. “Yeah, I agree. We need to talk to Attorney Henzel.”

“After breakfast we’ll pack up our things. I’ve found a different hotel for us to stay in, and Henzel’s office is on the way.”

* * *

Nick tugged at the door of Christopher Henzel’s law office, located on the first floor of a small office building near the center of Glen Hills. “Remember—no details about what’s going on with you. The police are trying to keep certain elements out of the media.”

Libby nodded. They’d been fortunate that Attorney Henzel had an opening to meet with them that morning. The last thing she wanted to do was to make him regret the visit by burdening him with the gruesome details.

The receptionist pointed them to a small waiting area furnished with comfortable leather chairs. The office itself was drenched with sunlight and decorated in a cheerful mix of yellow, green and brown. Libby settled into a chair and watched the brightly colored fish dart around the saltwater aquarium on the far wall. Nick sat beside her and reached over to grasp her hand. She drew herself closer to him, enjoying the warmth of his skin against hers. Savoring the moment for a change.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” They heard the voice from behind and saw an older but still sprightly man in a white polo shirt and khaki pants. “I was reviewing the results of an especially hairy title search and I lost track of time.

“We just got here,” Nick said.

Henzel’s frame was thin, and his brown eyes contained a warmth that Libby found reassuring. “An FBI agent left me a message wanting to talk about William Henderson,” he said. “It piqued my interest.”

“I left you that message. Special Agent Nick Foster.” The men shook hands. “And this is Libby Andrews.”

“My father prosecuted Mr. Henderson.”

Henzel seemed unsurprised. “You have your father’s eyes.”

He led them into a modest conference room and library. Libby and Nick pulled up chairs.

“I would offer you something, but I don’t know how to use our coffee maker. Would you like some milk or orange juice?”

They both shook their heads. “Thank you, Attorney Henzel,” said Libby. “We’re fine.”

“Well, then, what brings you here? You know I haven’t practiced criminal defense in almost thirty years, and I haven’t looked over the Henderson files in nearly as long.”

Nick said, “We’ve been reviewing some old files, and we’ve noticed some...discrepancies.”

“You’ve been reviewing the case files?” Henzel looked interested. “For what purpose, if I may ask?”

Libby and Nick exchanged a glance. “We’re writing a book,” Nick replied.

Henzel replied with a short “Hmm” before sitting back in his chair. “Please continue. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“As Nick said, we’ve noticed some discrepancies in the files. A handwriting expert at the FBI compared the letters the Arbor Falls Strangler sent to his victims’ families with the confession Henderson wrote. She concluded that Henderson didn’t write those letters.”

“You’ve involved a handwriting expert at the FBI? This must be some book.” Henzel’s face remained still, and he pressed the tips of his fingers together. “What kinds of discrepancies did she notice?”

“The person who wrote the letters to the victims’ families was highly educated and showed signs of having a schizoid personality. The person who wrote the confession had a grade school education at best,” Nick said.

“We know that Henderson wrote the confession,” Libby continued. “What we don’t know is why he would confess to crimes he didn’t commit. We’re here because we’re wondering whether Henderson may have said something to you.” She noticed Henzel flinch in hesitation. “Henderson is dead, so there’s no longer an attorney-client privilege to preserve.”

“Of course,” Henzel replied, folding his hands in front of him. He paused to scratch his eyebrow, and he seemed lost in thought. “I must have looked at those letters and that confession dozens of times, but the truth is I never noticed a difference in the handwriting.” He raised his gaze to meet Libby’s. “If I had, I would’ve raised that question at trial.”

She leaned forward and lowered her voice, speaking to Henzel kindly. “That must have been quite a trial for you. You were charged with defending someone who’d practically confessed to being a serial killer. That couldn’t have been easy.”

“I received death threats for defending him,” Henzel said, his voice calm. “I became a criminal defense attorney out of a sense of...obligation, I suppose. I had ideals. I believed in ‘innocent until proven guilty,’ and I thought that by putting forth a strong defense I would protect all of society from overzealous prosecution.” He looked at the table and assumed a faraway expression. “I was a fool.”

The statement thrust Libby back against her seat. “Why were you—”

“Henderson was arrested at work,” Henzel continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “He was a dishwasher at the country club. Someone spotted what appeared to be bloody clothing in his duffel bag and reported him. The police later identified that clothing as belonging to the sixth victim. Of course Henderson told me he was innocent. He swore the clothing had been planted in his bag, said he’d never killed anyone. You know how it goes.” He directed that statement toward Libby.

“They’re all innocent.” She smiled. “At least I’m not the only one who hears that.”

“In that way, at least, he was just like all of my other defense clients.”

“But something made him different,” Nick prompted.

“Quite a few things, really. I realized early on that Henderson had a benefactor of some kind. I don’t know who he was. I just know that Henderson was receiving lots of money from someone. His wife was, at least.”

“Did this benefactor pay your legal bills?” Nick asked.

“No, I was the public defender assigned to the trial, so I was paid by the taxpayers. But Henderson didn’t have a penny to his name. He’d never been able to hold down a steady job in his life. Suddenly his wife was buying fur coats and going out for fancy dinners.” Henzel shook his head. “I remember Will telling me about the job at the country club, and he would talk about it like it was the funniest thing in the world. He was washing dishes to feed people who could, as he put it, ‘buy and sell him twice before sunset.’ I always got the sense that he hated those people, the upper echelon of Arbor Falls, so to speak. But he also wanted to be accepted by them. He desperately wanted their approval.”