persona of Heather Laurent. From her books and the clips of her I had watched on YouTube, she didn’t strike me as the type who looked real favorably on homicide. But I’ve been wrong about people before, and I will be again. You just never know.
In any case, when Emmet spoke with Drew that second time, the minister realized that we had begun to suspect his involvement.
“I’m beginning to think you have some serious questions about me,” he told the detective sergeant, his voice in Emmet’s opinion suggesting only bemusement.
“Well, sir, we would like to sit down with you and talk to you a bit more about your relationship with Alice Hayward.”
“I already told you everything there is to know. I was her pastor.”
“I understand.”
“There’s really nothing more worth sharing.”
“We would like to know what she told you about her relationship with her husband.”
“Isn’t whatever she told me private? Isn’t it protected by some sort of ministerial confidentiality?”
“We’re not worried that Alice confessed some horrible crime to you in the confessional,” Emmet replied.
“Then what could I possibly tell you that might be of value?”
Emmet said he was deciding precisely how much to reveal about our suspicions, or whether he should mislead the reverend a little bit to get him talking, when Drew made our lives awfully easy. He suggested, “Look, why don’t I stop by your barracks? There you can ask me whatever your hearts desire.”
Emmet was shocked but agreed. Happily. Drew said he was returning to Vermont the next week and would clear up whatever was bothering us.
When we were discussing his second phone call with the pastor, Emmet asked me if I still thought that Drew had fled.
“Absolutely.”
“Then why do you think he’s so comfortable coming in now?”
“He panicked,” I said. “But now he’s regained his equilibrium. His arrogance.”
“Think he’ll really show up?”
“Versus?”
“Versus you getting a phone call from a lawyer in the next couple of days telling us that he isn’t going to talk after all.”
“I don’t know. We’ll see.”
Eventually Drew would get a lawyer. But it wouldn’t be until after he had met with two state troopers at the Shaftsbury barracks and-much to the frustration of his attorney in the weeks that followed-given us a rather lengthy statement.
CHAPTER NINE
Paul and I view the last days of August very differently. For me-for most of the parents in this world-there is incredible relief. You’re no longer cobbling together a schedule of day care and day camps and baby-sitters to make sure that one of your kids isn’t pretending he’s Batman and jumping from a second-story balcony or taking his pedal-powered fire truck and driving it down the stairs and through the plate-glass living-room window. (No, my kids never did either of those things. But my brother did both. It’s amazing to me that he’s alive today.) But for Paul it’s the end of vacation. Summer’s over, and he has to go back to work. And while he seriously enjoys teaching-I love him dearly, but he just laps up all that attention he gets when he stands and talks at the front of a classroom- he is also the first one to take the back-to-school circulars that start coming in the mail in July and getting them the hell out of the house and into the recycling bin in the garage. It’s like they have the Ebola virus on them or they’re radioactive. If it comes from Staples in July, it’s gone within seconds.
I remember Paul was savoring one of his very last days of freedom when David Dennison called me with the news that George and Alice Hayward’s urine and blood workups had finally arrived. As he’d suspected, there were no traces of drugs. Also as he’d expected, Alice had been sober and George had been very, very drunk at the end. His blood-alcohol count was.37, high enough to cause a coma in most individuals. Dennison said that people metabolize alcohol differently, and this guy clearly had a pretty high tolerance. But it was almost inconceivable that he’d been capable of shooting himself in the end. In Dennison’s opinion it was likely that Hayward had been passed out when someone else had come into the house and shot him in the head. I did ask the obvious: Might Hayward have tried to shoot himself but been so many sheets to the wind that he’d nearly botched the job? Aimed so high on his temple that it looked more like a homicide than a suicide? Dennison said it was possible but not probable. In the ME’s mind, it was now clearer than ever that George Hayward had been murdered.
THE PAPERWORK FOR Alice Hayward’s temporary relief-from-abuse order was no more chilling than most. Horrifying, but not extraordinary. To wit: He wasn’t holding the palm of her hand down on the burners on the electric stove when they were on, he wasn’t torturing (or killing) a beloved cat or dog, and he wasn’t sodomizing her with a beer bottle. I had seen all of that in restraining orders in the past. The last straw for Alice? The night before she had gone to the courthouse, George had pushed her down the stairs and she feared that he had broken her arm. She cited a history of violence, and given the litany of abuse she was sharing, the biggest surprise was that this was the first time she’d gone to the hospital for an X-ray. Once, she thought, George had broken a finger when he’d held her hand in a drawer and slammed it shut, but she reported that she had managed to free her other fingers and it was only a pinkie. But he had been getting worse, especially now that Katie was older and more frequently out of the house. Twice in the past ten months, he had hit her in the face; prior to that, he had tended not to risk hurting her in places that were easily noticeable.
She had come to the courthouse on a Monday, the judge had approved the temporary order that afternoon, and the papers had been served while George had been at work. The hearing to make the order final had been scheduled for the following Tuesday, a week and a day later, but neither George nor Alice had shown up. Usually that suggests the couple is back together, which only means we will probably see the woman again and the circumstances will be even more dire. In this case, however, I would learn that the Haywards had not reconciled. At least not yet. George Hayward accepted the papers the afternoon they were filed and retreated to the family cottage with his tail between his legs.
Nevertheless the court clerk had called the women’s shelter the Monday that Alice had arrived at his office to link her with an advocate there, and so I asked Emmet to see whether an advocate and Alice had ever connected. I also asked him to check in with George’s parents in Buffalo and Alice’s in Nashua. I wasn’t expecting to learn much from either exploration, but you just never know.
WHEN THE RIGHT Reverend Drew met with our investigators at the state police barracks, Emmet found him merely mystified at first and then-when he realized what kind of mountain of shit he had willingly walked into- defensive and guarded. Then angry and more than a little scared. He went from suggesting we had to have better things to do than ask him lots of questions about the tragedy in Haverill to the outrage we see pretty often from the educated and the entitled. They think they can bluster their way through this, or that a little righteous indignation will make a fingerprint or DNA evidence irrelevant. Yeah, like that’s going to happen.
DETECTIVE SERGEANT EMMET WALKER: So you left the church just after nine P.M. that Sunday night.
STEPHEN DREW: Yes.
WALKER: Where did you go?
DREW: I told you, I went home.
WALKER: Alone?
DREW: Absolutely. With whom would I have gone?
WALKER: Did you leave your house again that night?
DREW: No.
WALKER: You were in the house until Monday morning.
DREW: That’s right.
WALKER: Did you speak to anyone on the phone Sunday night? Did anyone come by?
DREW: Are you looking for proof that I was at the parsonage? Do I need an alibi?
