The trip down the Garden State Parkway is bumper-to-bumper because of beach traffic, compounded by the fact that it seems like there are tollbooths every twenty feet. I switch off to the New Jersey Turnpike and the drive goes much more smoothly. It gives me time to think.
I've learned that Denise's father still lives down here, but I've decided not to call ahead and prepare him for my arrival. It is likely that he will be disinclined to speak to me, since he no doubt believes that I represent his daughter's killer, and I think I have a better chance if I take him by surprise. I really have no preconceived notions of what I might find out from him, but if my theory is correct that Denise's murder was not random and served a purpose, then the more I can find out about her the better.
I soon find myself on a small, mostly dirt road in a very depressed area. I pass a series of small shacks, all with animals and trucks out front. I finally pull up to a ramshackle trailer, which bears the address I have for Denise's father. I'm glad that it's not part of a trailer park, since that seems to be where tornadoes always pick to strike. I don't have time to ponder the meteorological significance of this, because I see an elderly man rocking gently on a rocking chair in front of the trailer.
Sitting next to the man is a large German shepherd, quiet but eyeing me as if lunch just arrived. I pull my car up fairly close and get out, leaving the door open so that if the dog chases me I might have an escape route.
I approach the man, who shows no signs of even being aware that I am there.
“Hello, I'm looking for Wally McGregor.”
“He's the blind guy in the rocking chair.”
I look around to see if the person he is talking about is there, and then I realize with an embarrassed flash that he's talking about himself, and that he's already made an idiot out of me.
“You're Wally McGregor?”
He laughs. “I can't fool you, can I?”
I return the laugh. “No, I'm much too sharp for that. My name is Andy Carpenter.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I want to talk to you about Denise.”
I can see him tense up when he hears Denise's name; there is no statute of limitations on emotions when a parent loses a child.
“Why?”
I've been debating the idea of evading the truth, of not telling him that I represent Willie until I've gotten information out of him. In the moment, though, I can't do it. He has the right to know, as well as the right to throw me out if he so chooses.
“I represent the man that the police say killed her. I believe they have the wrong man.”
He doesn't respond, just rocks slightly back and forth, thinking it through.
“I understand the feelings you must have,” I say. “But I would very much appreciate your talking to me.”
“I heard about the retrial … Mr. Wallace called me. I can't say I'm happy about it.”
He thinks some more, and I wait. “But I want the real killer to be punished, and I can't see how talking to someone can hurt the chance of that.”
“Thank you.”
He invites me into the trailer for a cup of coffee, and I follow him in. His blindness certainly doesn't interfere with his ability to get around, and he gets the coffee up and brewing in a matter of maybe three minutes.
While he's doing so, I look around the place. There are some pictures on the wall. One of them is of a young woman, perhaps twenty-one years old, sitting on a horse. It is the first photo I have seen of Denise McGregor that wasn't taken by the coroner, and it makes the fact of her brutal death all the more horrifying.
“She was a very beautiful young lady,” I say.
Obviously, Wally can't see where I am, so he asks, “Which picture are you looking at?”
“Denise sitting on a horse.”
Wally nods. “She was beautiful, that's for sure. But that's not Denise … that's her mother, Julie. Everybody says how much they looked alike.”
“Oh. Is Julie-”
“Alive?” he interrupts. “Can't say as I know. She left me and Denise when Denise was only a year or so old. Julie wasn't the family type; she couldn't be tied down. So when she found herself stuck with a husband and a child, well, she took off and never looked back.”
Wally McGregor lost his wife, his daughter, and his sight, yet he has the knack of making a visitor feel completely comfortable. It's a great knack to have.
“And you raised Denise by yourself?”
He laughs. “Once I lost my sight, it was more like she raised me. There was nothing Denise couldn't do.”
“Do you have any idea what she was working on at the time she was killed?”
“Sure don't. But Denise used to call me and read me all her articles once they got in the paper. I got such a kick out of that. She was some writer.”
I had read her articles, and he is right. She was a terrific writer.
“And you have no idea why anyone would want to kill her?”
“No. Everybody loved Denise … it don't make no sense … you'd have to ask Miller why he did what he did.”
“So you think it was him?”
He shrugs. “I just know what the police told me. But if you're looking for a reason for Denise to have died, there ain't none.”
He shakes his head and relives the senselessness of it for the millionth time. “Damn, there just ain't none.”
I can see that Wally is starting to get upset, and I give him time to let the pain subside. I know people that have lost children, and they tell me the pain never goes away, it's there twenty-four hours a day, but that after a while you develop techniques that can help to mask it. Wally manages to do that, and we have a conversation that steers clear of Denise.
Later I ask him about Edward Markham, and he tells me that they never met, not even at the funeral. Edward sent a large floral arrangement and a condolence letter, but did not show up personally. Wally doesn't seem particularly upset about the slight; Edward never really had any importance to him. Denise, in fact, had never mentioned Edward.
It's almost time for me to leave, and Wally knows he hasn't given me what I need. He brings it up himself. “So you think it could have been someone else that killed her?”
I nod. “That's what I think. It's not what I know.”
“If you find out something, I want to know. Promise me that.”
“I promise,” I say. It's one I'm going to keep, no matter how this turns out.
It's too late to go back to the office, so I head home. There's a pile of personal matters to attend to, not the least of which is dealing with my father's money. It's financially crazy to just let it sit in the low-interest bonds, but I'm somehow not inclined to touch it yet. Maybe a shrink can tell me why that is, and I can certainly afford Sigmund Freud if he's available. And if I had the time.
Nicole has warmed up considerably, and she greets me with a glass of Chardonnay and a kiss. It feels nice, and I appreciate it, but I know that I'm not going to have the time to pay attention to her, and it gives me a pang of guilt. I talk to her about it and she understands, so after dinner I retreat to the den with Tara and get back to work.
I have to wade through the latest of Kevin's briefs, which argues that the death penalty should not be considered in this case. The main point he makes is the obviously unfair way it has been administered throughout the country. Not only has racial bias been clear, but the number of death row inmates that have been exonerated is staggering. In Illinois alone, over a fifteen-year period, more death row inmates were exonerated than executed.
Once again, Kevin's work is professional and well reasoned, a clear, concise indictment of the death penalty, and I make very few changes. Unfortunately, Kevin and I both know that it is once again destined for failure, at least as far as Hatchet is concerned. He has long been a pro-death penalty judge, and with an election coming up
