Love is Murder (35 page)

As Nick slept, she’d risen, silent and invisible as a ghost; had taken the ferry over to the Wharf and boarded the ship at dawn. She was miles away from Nassau by now.

And Nick…

Well, she’d never forget their night.

She breathed in salt air, then moved back to the bed and reached under the blankets for the golden shell, held it up in both palms to watch the jewels catch fire in the sunlight.

Some treasures were meant to be free.

* * * * *

BREAK EVEN

Pamela Callow

When he crows “Eddie Bent is back!” it seemed the tide had finally turned for our downtrodden hero. Not so fast, Mr. Bent. ~SB

Tuesday, 4:58 p.m.

“Elaine, it’s me.” Eddie Bent cradled the phone to his ear, stubbing his cigarette in the plastic lid from his morning coffee. Ash pebbled the newspaper printouts strewn on his desk. It didn’t matter that his wife couldn’t actually
see
him smoking while they conversed over the phone, she would just
know
. That’s what being married for fifteen years did to you.

“Hi, honey,” she said. “I’m on my way home. What’s up?” Two years ago, she wouldn’t have asked that question—she would have known that if he called at supper time, it meant he’d been held up on another case. At that time, he was the go-to guy for high-profile clients on the wrong side of the criminal justice system.

Eddie knew the exact moment the tide had turned: when Gregory MacIsaac, Halifax’s other top criminal defense lawyer, pulled off a coup in securing the acquittal of a politician charged with the murder of his aide—and his coaccused, represented by Eddie, took the fall. Within six months, his big cases had dried up. Eddie found himself ready to leave work by 5:00 p.m.

He didn’t like it.

So he headed to the bars. Just a couple of drinks, he’d tell himself, and then he’d go home. He didn’t think it was affecting his work, but every time another high-profile case hit the news, MacIsaac had gotten the call. Leaving him with the little shitty ones.

Eight months ago, Elaine put her foot down. Counseling had ensued. Eddie promised to drink less, come home earlier.

It seemed to have finally paid off. MacIsaac could eat his dust—Eddie had landed the Brown case. “I’ve got a new client coming in, Elaine. I’m going to be late.”

There was a slight hesitation.

“It’s Molly Brown, Elaine. You know, the girl who has been in the news all week.”

“Ohhh…” He heard the relief in her voice. “I’ll keep some dinner for you. But come home right afterward. You told Brianna you’d help with her social studies project.”

Shit. He’d totally forgotten.

“I’m not sure I’ll be home in time.”

“Eddie, you promised.”

“Elaine, this is a big case. There’s a lot of media around this.” He fought to keep the excitement from his voice. But the truth was he couldn’t wait to sink his teeth into it. The publicity would be huge. Eddie Bent was back. “It’ll be good for the firm.”

“Please don’t tell me you are choosing your firm over your daughter.”

“God, Elaine, don’t twist the knife.” He
needed
this case. “That trip down south we’re taking will cost us an arm and a leg. This case could generate a lot of billables.”

She exhaled. Heavily. “Fine. But just so you know, they’re forecasting another storm tonight. Make sure you get home before the snow starts.”

“Another storm? We just had one last week.”

“It’s February. Remember? That’s why we want to go south.” He could hear the wry smile in her voice. Anyone in Halifax knew that February was a month to be avoided. Ice, snow, rain, wind. Never ended. “But try not to be too late.”

He smiled to himself. “Drive safely. Love you.”

“Love you, too.” That was said with a pleasing sincerity. He was glad he’d made an effort on Valentine’s Day.

He was still smiling when his assistant knocked on his door. “Miss Brown is here.” She ushered in a young woman wearing a thin navy blue pea jacket with a backpack hiked on one shoulder.

He stepped around his desk and held out his hand. “Molly, I’m Eddie Bent.”

She gave him a hesitant smile and clasped his hand. Her fingers were freezing. “Hi.”

“Please, sit down.” He sat behind his desk, studying her as she slipped off her coat and settled into the comfy armchair facing him. She had one of those faces that seemed familiar—a “look,” as his mother used to say. Pretty. Soft. Attractive. With her honey-brown hair smoothed off a pleasingly high brow, she would attract second glances. He decided that if she had to appear before a jury, she should wear her hair just like that. He skimmed her clothes. The outfit worked, too. Cropped cardigan in a delicate plum color, modest crew neck T-shirt underneath, dark pants. His daughter—whom he realized might resemble this girl in six years or so— always made of fun of him for knowing “girls’” fashion when he had such poor style himself. But knowing what made his clients look good—trustworthy, credible,
innocent
—was his job. “Coffee, tea, a cold drink?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” She folded her hands across her knees. Unlike most girls her age, she wore no nail polish. Her nails were neatly trimmed, her only adornment a Celtic ring on her right hand.

“So, Molly, tell me why you need my help. I’ve read about your case in the paper, but as far as I’m aware, you haven’t been charged with anything, right?”

She nodded. “But the police keep calling me. They told me yesterday they wanted me to come for questioning. Again. I’ve told them everything I know, but they won’t leave me alone.” Tears pricked her eyes. “Why do they keep bugging me? I’m the
victim
. Not him.”

Why indeed? She had been raped, and killed her attacker.

The police must have found evidence to suggest that Dr. Nicholson’s death could not be justified as self-defense. Interesting.

“I know what the newspapers say,” Eddie tapped the open file folder piled with media printouts. “But I want you to tell me, in your own words, what happened, Molly.”

She looked away, a flush radiating across her face. It provided a garish contrast to her blackened right eye. He glanced at the date of birth scrawled on the inside of his file folder. She was eighteen years old. A woman. And yet, the soft wisp of hair curling around her earlobe struck him as poignantly childlike.

Molly cleared her throat. “It happened last Monday. I went to my forensic biology class, like usual. It’s an elective. I’m premed,” she added. “Dr. Nicholson is—was—” she flushed a bit darker but held on to her composure “—one of the lecturers. He was teaching that night.” She glanced at Eddie. He bet she was expecting him to write this down. He knew that if he did, she would become conscious of her words, of how she told the story. So instead, he played with a pen, giving the appearance of relaxed curiosity.

“After the class ended, I left. But I realized I’d forgotten my textbook. So I went back. The classroom is upstairs in the library, in the very far end.”

And it was there that you stabbed the good doctor to death.

Were you really carrying a knife like the press says, Molly Brown?

She took a deep breath. “When I walked into the classroom, it was dark. He must have put two and two together and heard me come back, because when I got there, he was standing behind the door. I reached over to flip on the switch… .” Her voice was low, husky now. Tears. “I felt an arm hook me around the neck… . He yanked me back and stuffed a sock in my mouth. He kicked the door shut. He called me names. Said I was a slut, said that I was asking for it—” She looked away, shame imprinted on those even features. “Then he punched me in the face. He told me to roll onto my stomach—” Her voice choked off. She tried a weak smile. Apologetic. It made Eddie wince. Rape victims always got under his skin. The shame, the guilt, the burden they carried that they somehow provoked the violence that was perpetrated on them. “It’s not like I’m a virgin,” she whispered. “But he wanted—” She swallowed.

He wanted to sodomize her.

“He yanked my arm. He flipped me over and twisted my arm behind my back. He kept saying, ‘I know exactly how far a joint can handle this pressure before it breaks.’”

Eddie’s eyes skimmed her arms, but they were covered with her cardigan.

She had begun shivering now. “I fought him, but I couldn’t stop him.” She hugged her arms. “I couldn’t stop him.” She didn’t seem to be aware that she repeated herself. Her eyes were bleak. Unreadable.
Like a fog bank concealing the depths of the ocean,
Eddie thought. “The next thing I knew, I was covered in blood. And he was dead.”

The police acknowledged that sexual intercourse had occurred. Molly had admitted to the press that she had been sodomized. “Molly,” Eddie said, his voice gentle. “Are you sure you can’t remember what happened after he raped you? It could help your case.”

The look she gave him was the despair of someone who knows there is no going back. No going back to the carefree university student who demurely flirted with the guy seated next to her in class, Eddie thought.

“So my choice is to be imprisoned for not remembering—or remembering and having those memories imprisoned in my mind? I don’t want to remember killing him.” She buried her face in her hands, then blurted, “The police told me I stabbed him four times.”

Eddie blinked. The police hadn’t disclosed this to the media. Nor had Dr. Nicholson’s widow—on police orders, he was sure. Four times. That was, oh, about three times too many for them to claim self-defense.

“He ruined my life,” she whispered.

Eddie pushed back his chair, grabbed the tissue box that perched on the edge of his desk, and placed it on the table next to the girl. She ignored it. Her sobs were quiet, despairing.

The rape was traumatic, but Eddie knew the Crown Prosecutor would focus on the numerous stab wounds on Dr. Nicholson’s body.

He sat down next to her. “Molly.”

She continued to weep.

“Molly.” He held out a tissue to her.

She ignored it.

“Molly, please listen to me.”

She sniffled but—thank God—had stopped that pitiful weeping.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Bent.” She straightened, took the proffered tissue, wiped her eyes. “I won’t do that again.”

“It’s okay to cry, Molly. And please, call me Eddie.” He needed her to trust him, feel she could confide in him. “Mr. Bent” created too much distance.

“I don’t usually cry…Eddie.” Something in the tilt of her chin made Eddie believe her. “But I don’t know…you just make me feel safe…and I have no one else right now.”

“Why were you carrying a knife, Molly?”

He deliberately phrased it that way. He didn’t know for sure—but the information that the police had “leaked” to the press clearly implied that Dr. Nicholson’s death had been premeditated.

Her eyes met his. Again, the deep blue pulled him in, tried to make him understand. “I always carry a knife with me. A lot of my classes are on campus at night.” Her lips twisted. “I thought it was dangerous to walk around the university at night. You know, the rapes and assaults and stuff. I never thought I’d get attacked by my professor. In a classroom.”

“How long have you been in the habit of carrying a knife for protection?”

She shrugged. “I’m not sure…since classes started, I guess. And when that girl got raped on campus a couple of months ago, I got nervous.”

“Did your family and friends know you carried a knife?”

She shrugged again. “My family doesn’t live in Halifax.” There was the slightest hint of testiness in her voice. “And I’m not sure if I showed it to my friends or not. It’s not like I was proud of it, or anything. It was there, just in case I needed it. You know, like a tampon.”

Eddie fought a grin. The jury would love that. He could just imagine Miss Molly Brown saying to the judge: “Yes, I carry a knife with my tampons. Every girl should, Your Lordship.”

“So it was your habit to carry a knife with you?”

She shot him an irritated look. “I just told you that.”

Eddie exhaled. “Molly, don’t get your back up. Trust me, the police and the Crown Prosecutor will spend a very long time questioning you about this point.”

“Why? Aren’t I allowed to carry something to defend myself?”

“Yes. But in this case, the issue is that you defended yourself beyond what is considered reasonable in the circumstances.”

Her cheeks flamed bright pink. “Reasonable! The guy raped me, Eddie. He
raped
me. He was going to break my arm.”

“But did he ever say he was going to kill you?” Eddie’s voice was quiet, but it sliced through the air.

“Yes. He did. Over and over. While he was raping me.” Was there a flicker of Molly’s eyelid? Eddie wasn’t sure.

“So after he finished, what happened?”

“I don’t know!” She clenched the tissue in her fist. “Why am I being blamed for this? He’s the one who attacked me!”

“Dr. Nicholson’s widow told the press that her husband had been stabbed from behind. That he was found fully clothed by the door. They think you attacked him after the danger to you had passed. An act of rage, rather than self-defense.”

She shrank before his eyes. “Really?” She twisted the tissue. “They think I just…murdered him? Oh, my God…I would never kill anyone on purpose. Ever. I was the girl who rescued spiders from inside the house.”

And carried a knife with your tampon.

“Eddie, please, believe me. I must have been out of my head.” She paused. Took a deep hiccuping breath. “Are they sure? Isn’t there some other explanation?”

The irony of the situation was not lost on Eddie. He wondered if Molly knew about Dr. Nicholson’s professional history. In fact, Eddie had been surprised that the university had kept Dr. Nicholson on as a lecturer after being found guilty by a provincial inquiry of botching numerous forensic pediatric autopsies. Those incompetent autopsies had been the sole reason eight different parents were accused and convicted of infanticide. The cases had spanned decades.

Eddie had, in fact, represented one of those parents on a charge of infanticide. He had been convinced Laura Norris was innocent, but the autopsy findings by Dr. Nicholson had been adamant that the child had died by the mother’s hand. Eddie had always thought Dr. Nicholson was too arrogant, too keen to accuse the parents of wrongdoing in the face of unsubstantiated facts. Considered one of the foremost experts in pediatric forensic pathology, no defense lawyer at the time could find anyone to contradict his findings.

Ten years later, there had been too many questionable cases that had turned on his evidence. His findings were challenged, cases were reopened, an inquiry was formed. Dr. Nicholson’s medical license was revoked. The pathologist had never faced any criminal charges. Perhaps that was why the university hadn’t fired him. Small comfort for the eight parents who had been convicted based on his findings. Several had already served their sentences; the remainder had been released from prison. Most were trying to pick up the pieces of their lives, but a few had run into trouble with the law. He had been sad to learn that his former client had overdosed on drugs.