broiled. After pumping palms, slapping backs, and a few other male
welcoming rituals, he found me in the kitchen, took one look at the
pink fish, and whispered in my ear, 'If I swear you're not fat, can we
please have some steak?'
The man knew me so well. 'I'm in no condition to run after this
evening, so the least we can do is eat something healthy.'
'What was this evening?' Dad called out from the living room. 'Must
have been big to keep you from running.'
Chuck winked and mouthed the word big at me.
I rolled my eyes. 'No more work talk tonight.' I put dinner on the
table, and for the next two hours we talked about Hawaii, my dad's
computer, movies, and politics. We made it through the conversation
with no shootings, no bodies, no demons from the past just three normal
people sharing a meal.
As ten o'clock approached, Dad clicked on the local news, and I moved
to the kitchen to take on the dishes.
As the familiar staccato theme song faded out, I heard an anchor
report: 'In our top story tonight, new developments in the
investigation into the death of Judge Clarissa Easterbrook. Find out
why her husband is railing against the Portland Police Bureau.' I ran
into the living room just in time to catch: 'But first, Morley
Rutherford's going to tell us what we can expect in the way of weather
tomorrow. Morley?'
I resisted the urge to throw my sudsy sponge at Morley Rutherford's fat
freckled head while he droned on with his entirely predictable
springtime weather report. Why not kick off the news with an
announcement that the earths going to rotate tomorrow?
Once Morley wrapped up with his seven-day graphic of clouds and
showers, the camera finally cut back to the anchor. 'At a surprise
news conference held just moments ago, the husband of slain judge
Clarissa Easterbrook accused the Portland Police Bureau of focusing the
investigation on him rather than looking for the real killer.'
The footage cut to Townsend at a podium in front of his house. 'When I
learned yesterday that some monster had killed my beloved Clarissa' his
voice broke and his hands trembled, but he continued to read from the
statement in front of him 'I thought that nothing in the world could
ever be worse than at that moment. But the course of the Portland
Police Bureaus investigation has convinced me that there is a more
horrific possibility, and that would be if the person or people
responsible for her death were not brought to justice. The police tell
me they have no suspects in my wife's death, but they spent hours in
our home with a search warrant, interrogated our friends looking for
problems that did not exist in our marriage, and asked me to take a
polygraph examination, suggesting that they would not be able to
investigate other suspects fully until I proved my innocence. So that
is why I am standing here tonight.
'I have not even buried my wife' he wiped away a tear and swallowed but
kept his eyes on his notes 'and I am here in front of cameras, forced
to deny something that is inconceivable to me. I did not and could not
ever hurt Clarissa.'
The words themselves were no different from the typical denials always
issued in these cases, some truthful, some not. A bet placed at this
point in the game would reflect nothing but hunch. That Townsend was
seeking to tip those odds became clear when a familiar face replaced
his at the podium.
I shushed Chuck and my father. Their outraged comments were drowning
out the voice I had hoped never to hear again. 'Good evening. My name
is Roger Kirkpatrick.'
My ex-husband hadn't aged. It was probably a deal with the devil. He
had the same short preppy haircut he'd worn in New York, before his
commitment to a 'freer' lifestyle in Oregon had caused him to grow his
brown curls into what I had called the Doogie Howser look.
He proceeded to announce that he and his firm, Dunn Simon, had been
retained by Townsend Easterbrook to oversee a team of private
investigators and to help ensure that the police sought out the real
killers instead of harassing the victim's family and friends. Then he
went for broke.
'To satisfy the police department's baseless suspicions, Dr.
Easterbrook submitted voluntarily this afternoon to a polygraph
examination administered by retired FBI agent Jim Thornton, a
recognized expert in the field. Agent Thornton has certified,' he
said, holding up a paper I assumed was an affidavit from Thornton,
'that Dr. Easterbrook's answers were truthful. He had nothing
whatsoever to do with his wife's death, and the police have wasted
precious time by doubting him. No one should have to prove his own
innocence, but Dr. Easterbrook has. Now it's time for the Portland
Police Bureau to join the search for justice by finding whoever is
responsible for this terrible loss.'
Just as abruptly as he'd appeared, Roger was gone, replaced by the
anchor. 'Dr. Easterbrook's attorney concluded his remarks by saying
that his firm had begun its own investigation and would share its work
with law enforcement.'
