Cause Célèbre
Even people who don't enjoy a good murder mystery know the name Noah Wilde, just as most people are familiar with the name Stephen King even if they've never read any of his novels. If you were to go to Wikipedia, you would learn that Noah wrote or coauthored over a hundred books, nearly half of which were published during the past five years.
Obviously, no author could turn out a novel a month, not even the prolific Mr. Wilde. The writer's involvement in his later books often amounted to reading a manuscript by another writer and suggesting changes, for which he would then receive credit as a coauthor. Still, no one—not Noah, the publisher or the writers in question—objected to this arrangement since Wilde's name on the cover guaranteed the book would become a bestseller.
Given his fame, it was only natural that the author would have his share of detractors. Literary critics and a few fellow novelists claimed that, while a great commercial success, Noah was not a talented writer. They also claimed that his novels, which were published with assembly line speed, were not exactly worthy of Agatha Christie or Arthur Conan Doyle.
"Who cares about critics?" was Noah's reply whenever anyone mentioned a bad review. "My last book sold five million copies in print, and that doesn't include the audio books or the electronic editions."
Despite Noah's bravado, the critics' failure to appreciate his work rankled him. While he never expected to win a Pulitzer Prize, he at least wanted to gain the respect of the literary elite. After several years of trying to ignore their acerbic comments, Noah finally had enough of their criticism.
Matters came to a head one evening when he arrived home from a book-signing to find a stack of mail his secretary had left on the kitchen table beside a Tupperware container of homemade spaghetti and meatballs. As the writer waited for his dinner to heat in the microwave, he glanced at the correspondence and saw three large envelopes from his publisher.
More manuscripts for me to read, he thought glumly, realizing he had very little time or inclination to actually write something on his own.
After sprinkling grated parmesan cheese on his pasta, he picked up a fork and began to eat with his right hand. With his left, he opened a literary magazine. He skimmed through pages of advertising until he came upon an interview with Humphrey Sloane. Sloane, outspoken as always, had given the reporter his opinion on the top-selling books of the previous year, one of which had been coauthored by Noah.
A belligerent alcoholic, Sloane claimed, "Wilde is a hack. Hell, I'd rather read a sappy Yvette Delacroix romance than one of his so-called thrillers."
"Why, that smug bastard! Who the hell does he think he is, Ernest Hemingway?"
The fact that Noah outsold Sloane by a wide margin did not ease the sting of Humphrey's harsh criticism. He was so disheartened that he pushed aside his spaghetti, walked to the bar in the living room and poured himself a drink. After his third glass of Jack Daniels, he picked up an envelope with no return address, which had been addressed by hand.
"Fan mail? How the hell did this jackass discover where I lived?"
On a whim, he tore open the envelop rather than tossing it in the trash with the junk mail. A newspaper clipping fell out onto the table. The headline caught Noah's eye: PROFESSOR'S WIFE AND CHILDREN BUTCHERED. Beneath the headline were photographs of the four victims. Intrigued, he unfolded the clipping and read the entire article about the murder of Professor Conrad Downey's family.
* * *
Albert Getty, Wilde's literary agent, rubbed his eyes and looked at the alarm clock beside his bed before answering the phone.
"It's two in the morning," he whispered into the mouthpiece, careful not to wake his wife who was sleeping soundly beside him. "What is so important that it couldn't wait until morning?"
"I'm going to write a book," Noah announced with excitement.
"Are you drunk?"
"I mean I'm going to write it myself: every word from page one to the end."
"There's no need to," Getty argued after taking the phone out to the kitchen where he could talk at a normal volume. "You've got nothing to prove to anyone."
"You don't get it. I want to write this book."
"What's it about?"
"Someone broke into the home of an English professor at a college in a town that's probably too small to be on a map. During this home invasion, the professor's pregnant wife and three small children were stabbed to death. The father, although injured, was the only survivor of the bloodbath."
"You're not talking about that homicide that happened down south a few days ago?"
"Yes, I am. I want to go down there and find out everything I can about the crime and the investigation. I want to write the story as a nonfiction novel, like Capote did with In Cold Blood."
"As your agent, I'm advising you to forget about this crazy notion. Your publisher is never going to go for it. He's got a pile of manuscripts for you to see."
"I'm tired of putting my name on other people's work. I'm a writer; I want to write. If my publisher doesn't like it, I can always find another one—and I can always get another agent while I'm at it."
Albert put up no further argument. Representing Noah Wilde had made him a multimillionaire. He had no desire to put such a lucrative partnership in jeopardy.
* * *
When Noah drove through the Greenwood business district, all eyes turned in his direction. No one from the small southern town, where everyone drove either pickup trucks or rusted Chevys, had ever seen a Lamborghini except in the movies or on the pages of Car and Driver magazine.
"Excuse me," the writer said, after pulling to the curb in front of a man who was just leaving a small hardware store. "Is there a hotel nearby? Some place I can get a room for a few nights?"
After the man finally tore his eyes from the interior of the sports car, he replied, "The closest place is the Motel 6 in Buford, about ten miles east of here."
"Ten miles? Nothing closer?"
"No, but Sara Jansen has a room above her beauty parlor she rents out. It might be vacant."
"Great. Where can I find Ms. Jansen's shop?"
"About two blocks up ahead on your right."
Greenwood, as Noah soon found out, had a business district four blocks long, consisting of the usual mom-and-pop shops. The beauty parlor wasn't hard to find. Since there was no shortage of parking spaces, Noah pulled up in front of the entrance.
If he hadn't already been aware that he was far from Manhattan, the interior of Sara's House of Beauty left no doubt.
"Can I help you?" asked a woman whose overly bleached hair was teased to an incredible height.
"That depends. Are you Miss Jansen?"
"No. I'm Pearl. Sara isn't here right now. She went down to the post office to mail a package."
"I'll wait for her."
"If it's a haircut you want," Pearl said, eyeing the writer's somewhat shaggy locks, "the barber shop is on the next block. We only cut women's hair here."
"Is that so?" Noah asked with surprise. "I don't know a single salon in New York that isn't unisex."
"You're from New York, huh? I pegged you for a Yankee the second you walked in here."
When Pearl picked up a can of hairspray and began spraying it on her customer's bouffant, Noah headed toward the door.
"I think I'll wait outside."
"There's Sara now."
Unlike the other women in the beauty shop, the owner would have looked right at home in the most cosmopolitan New York environments. She was so poised and beautiful that she made even the simple pink smock and blue jeans look stylish.
"There's a fellow here from New York to see you," Pearl announced when her employer came through the door.
"Hello, Ms. Jansen," the author began, "my name is ...."
"Noah Wilde. I recognized you at once."
"Noah Wilde?" Pearl repeated. "Are you that guy who writes all them murder mystery books?"
"Yes, I am."
"Hell! What's a big celebrity like you doing in Greenwood?"
"Why don't you give him a chance to tell us, Pearl?" Sara suggested.
"I was told you might have a room for rent."
"As a matter of fact, I do. The previous tenant was a college student who left Greenwood at the end of the semester."
Sara opened the cash register, lifted the removable drawer and took out a key.
"The stairs are at the side of the building. Why don't you go on up and have a look?"
At least it's clean, he thought when he examined the small studio apartment above the beauty parlor.
And since there was no Sheraton or Marriott within a short drive of Greenwood, Noah wrote Sara Jansen a check for one month's rent in advance.
* * *
Noah barely had the opportunity to unpack his suitcases when there was a knock on his door. He opened it, hoping it would be the lovely Sara. Alas, it was a middle-aged, pot-bellied man wearing a cowboy hat.
"Can I help you?" the writer asked.
Grinning like the Cheshire Cat, the man extended his arm and heartily shook Noah's hand.
"It's the other way around. Can I help you?"
Noah didn't know who the man was, but he exuded the same oily, forced charm of a small-town used car salesman turned politician.
"It depends. Who are you?"
"I'm Bart Hollis, chief of police and acting mayor of Greenwood. I assume you're here in our lovely little town to write about the Downey murders. In my capacity as head of the police department, I can be of assistance to you in that regard."
Noah assumed Chief Hollis was prompted by either greed or a sense of self-importance—possibly a combination of the two. He took an instant dislike to the man but realized what an invaluable source he might prove to be.
"I'd be very grateful for any help you might provide," the writer replied, tapping his own supply of oily charm. "Look, I'm famished. Why don't we have dinner and talk about the case?"
"I'd love to grab a burger with you, but it's Friday night. Why don't we meet tomorrow afternoon instead?"
"Fine. I'm looking forward to it."
Never one to procrastinate, Noah unpacked his camera and pocket tape recorder and headed back out onto Main Street as soon as Hollis left. While snapping a few pictures of the town, he saw Sara Jansen close up the beauty parlor.
"Done for the day?" he called.
"It's Friday; there won't be any more customers."
"Well, if you haven't got any plans, how about you and I getting something to eat? There must be a diner around here somewhere."
"There is, but it closes early on Friday."
"What's so special about Friday?"
"Football. Every Friday night, the whole town turns up at the high school to watch the Cougars play."
"The entire town?"
"Almost the whole town," she said sheepishly.
"But not you?"
"I don't like football much. If you're hungry," she said, quickly changing the subject, "I'll make you something to eat. I'm not much of a cook, but I can fry up some chicken."
The growling noise coming from his empty stomach was not the only reason Noah accepted her generous invitation.
* * *
The impromptu meal was classic Southern cuisine from the biscuits and gravy to the sweet potato pie, and despite Sara's warning to the contrary, it was all delicious.
"I feel like we ought to sit out on the porch and sip mint juleps," Noah teased as he helped his hostess clear the dirty plates from the table.
"And listen to the plaintive strains of Negro spirituals coming from the slave quarters?" she replied good-naturedly in an exaggerated southern drawl.
"I don't mean to make fun of your culture."
"Don't worry about me. I was born in New Jersey."
"A Yankee?" he asked with mock horror. "What are you doing here in the land of Dixie?"
"I moved here after college."
Again, she seemed to steer the conversation away from herself.
"Don't you want to ask me about the murders?"
"Do you know much about them?"
"I knew Vicki Downey, but not her husband, Conrad. Vicki came to the shop every Wednesday to have her hair done."
"Do you know who might have killed her? Did she get along with her husband? Did she have a lover?"
"I didn't know her that well that she'd confide such personal information."
"No, but I know what it's like in small towns. People gossip."
"I never listen to gossip."
The writer and his landlady talked until midnight, at which time Sara tried to politely hide a yawn behind her hand.
"Tired?" Noah asked.
"Yes. I'm up by five every morning and usually in bed by ten."
"I better get going then. Perhaps tomorrow night you'll allow me to take you out to dinner, to thank you for your hospitality. Or is Saturday when the whole town attends the ice cream social?"
"No. Friday nights are reserved for football and Sunday mornings for church. Saturdays are free."
And you won't see me attending either one of them, Noah thought and headed back along Main Street toward the beauty parlor.
* * *
The next morning, when Noah left his room, he noticed Main Street seemed more crowded than the business districts of most small towns.
"What's with all the people?" he asked Pearl who was having a cigarette break on the side of the shop. "Is there going to be a parade or something?"
"People from Greenwood ain't used to having a celebrity in their town."
"All these people can't be here to see me."
But when he turned his attention back to the street, Noah noticed that many of the passersby would stop and stare. The writer had a sudden urge to tear off his clothes and run naked down the center of Main Street, but he resisted the impulse. Instead, he put a false smile on his face and headed toward his car, stopping to shake hands, sign autographs and pose for pictures along the way.
As he opened the driver's door, a police cruiser pulled up beside his Lamborghini.
"Hope you're finding everything to your liking," Chief Hollis called. "Everybody treating you well?"
"This town gives new meaning to the phrase Southern hospitality," the author replied.
The acting mayor beamed with pride and asked, "How would you like to have a look at the crime scene?"
"I'd love to. Mind if I take a few pictures?"
"Not at all. Just don't touch anything."
Hollis looked at the police car, frowned, and said, "I suppose we can make it there and back in the patrol car. Been having trouble with the transmission the past few days."
"Let's take my car," Noah suggested.
Bart's eyes lit up like a Las Vegas casino.
"I ain't never rode in one of those fancy Japanese cars."
Noah didn't bother telling the chief that the Lamborghini was made in Italy. After all, he didn't want to appear condescending.
As they made their way toward the university, the writer asked the chief if he had any suspects in the slayings.
"Confidentially? When a wife dies, look at the husband. I'm convinced Conrad killed Vicki and the kids."
"Have you found any evidence indicating he was involved?"
"Yeah, a marriage license and a wedding ring," Hollis laughed. "You married?"
"No."
"If you were, you'd know what I'm talking about. I doubt there's a husband in this world who at one time or another wouldn't want to find a quick and easy alternative to divorce."
"It seems rather extreme to kill not only your pregnant wife but your three kids as well."
"Just think of the benefits if he gets away with it: no attachments, responsibilities, alimony or child support. There it is, the house on the right. Go ahead and pull in the driveway."
As a mystery writer, Noah had seen his share of crime scene photographs. He had described fictional scenes of carnage in his books in great detail, but he was unprepared for the emotional impact of seeing such a sight firsthand.
"This is where the wife got it," Hollis announced as he opened the door to the master bedroom.
Noah always avoided the trite cliché "there was blood everywhere" in his writings, but in this case, the sentence fit. There were red stains on the gold satin comforter, puddles on the carpet, smears on the wall and even spatter on the ceiling. The smell of the blood sickened Noah, and he fought the urge to vomit.
"The kids' rooms are back here," the chief said, continuing his guided tour.
As he crossed the threshold into the little boy's room, Noah regretted his decision to write a true crime book. Although there was nearly as much blood as the master bedroom, it seemed to be concentrated in and around the bed. The child had probably been asleep when he was attacked. The writer's eyes focused on the small table beneath the window. A Thomas the Tank coloring book was opened to a half-colored picture of James and Sir Topham Hatt, and a box of Crayola crayons were placed nearby.
When the author turned and walked out of the room, Bart Hollis followed on his heels.
"Right across the hall is the girls' room."
Noah didn't want to see any more, but he knew he must experience the full horror of the murderous deed if he hoped to write a good book.
The third bedroom was the most disturbing of all. As if the bloodied teddy bear of the older daughter hadn't been poignant enough, he was faced with the sight of a blood-soaked crib and baby blanket.
He closed his eyes and muttered, "Only a monster could have done this."
"Want to see where the professor was attacked?"
Noah nodded his head, anxious to get as far away from the children's rooms as possible.
Hollis led him to a family room just off the kitchen and announced, "He claims he was asleep in that recliner when the killers entered the room."
"How many killers did she say there were?"
"He doesn't know. He swears he fell asleep watching the late-night news and was struck from behind. The next thing he knew, he was in the hospital, with no injuries except a bump on the head. Now I ask you, why break into a house, kill a pregnant woman and three small children and leave the husband alive?"
"I don't know, but there are a lot of sick people in this world. Maybe the professor had a girlfriend, and she wanted his family out of the way. Or maybe he had an enemy who wanted to set him up."
"You have some imagination! I suppose that's from being a writer. Me? I think like a cop. If it waddles like a duck and quacks like a duck, it's a duck. And Professor Downey is a murdering duck if ever I saw one waddle and heard it quack."
* * *
Noah drove the chief back to his patrol car. Oddly enough, when Hollis drove away, the transmission seemed to be working fine. As the writer passed the window of the beauty shop, he gestured to Sara, holding up his watch and pointing to the dial. He was asking her in his best pantomime what time she would be free for dinner. She replied by holding up six fingers.
Wilde went up to his room and took out his laptop, planning on drafting the first chapter of his book, in which he would describe his visit to the crime scene. His fingers, however, seemed to freeze above the keyboard. How could mere words convey the heinous nature of the killer's act? Not even a detailed description of the children's rooms—the Thomas the Tank coloring book, the teddy bear, the bloody crib and blanket—could adequately emphasize the terrible loss of innocent young lives.
After ninety minutes of staring at a blank Word document, Noah turned off his computer. He needed to forget, at least for a while, the images he'd seen in the Downey house. Fiction, he realized, was so much easier to write. It was impersonal, and he could remain objective about his characters, both the victims and the killers. It was like watching a movie where some heartless bastard shot a dog and then seeing the disclaimer in the credits: no animals were harmed during the making of this motion picture.
Since it wasn't yet three o'clock, Noah decided to escape Greenwood, at least temporarily. Again, when he walked out onto Main Street, the townspeople flocked around him like paparazzi.
"I'm not an actor or rock star," he laughingly told the people clamoring for his autograph. "I'm just a writer."
"Not just any writer. You're one of the best."
There was nothing distinctive about the man's face, nothing to distinguish him from the thousands of fans who had lined up with copies of his bestsellers at the countless book signings he'd attended over the years.
"I've always wanted to write myself," the stranger continued, "but I've never been able to find the time."
"Lots of people like to write, but only a select few make any money at it," Noah said.
"You seem to be doing well for yourself," the man said, nodding toward the late model Lamborghini. "I don't suppose you'd let a rube like me buy you a beer."
"No. But I'll buy you one."
The two men walked to a bar that was a block east of Sara's shop. After ordering two Budweisers, Noah looked at his watch.
"Got a date tonight?" the man, who introduced himself as Pete, asked.
"I'm taking Sara Jansen out to dinner tonight. Do you know Sara?"
"This is Greenwood. Everyone knows everyone else. Sara and I are good friends, in fact."
"What's her story, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Story?" Pete repeated, not understanding the writer's question.
"Why is a college grad from Jersey running a beauty shop in the deep south?"
"She didn't tell you? I guess not. If she had, you wouldn't be asking me. Sally came here when she married Cal Jansen. He was from here. Quite the football hero, Cal was. He went to college on a football scholarship and would have gone on to the pros, but he got sick—cancer. That's why they came back here. He wanted to die at home. Sara bought the beauty shop to make ends meet, and she stayed on after her husband passed."
"That's a shame. She seems like such a nice girl. A good looking one, as well."
"And intelligent, too," Pete added. "You'd be surprised how clever she can be."
The conversation then changed to writing, which was fine for Noah since he wanted to forget about the murders for the rest of the afternoon. The two men talked for more than an hour—or, more accurately, Noah talked and Pete listened, like a disciple, eager to soak up his master's teachings.
Finally, the writer announced that he had to be on his way if he wanted to be on time for his dinner date with Sara.
"You go ahead," Pete said. "I'll stay here and finish my beer."
As Noah crossed Main Street, he saw Chief Hollis in the middle of a group of people, describing his ride in Wilde's "Japanese" car.
"Can I have a word with you, Noah?" the chief asked, trailing behind the author as he continued walking toward the beauty shop.
"It'll have to be a quick one, Bart. I've got plans for this evening."
"I don't know quite how to say this, but I want you to be aware of the fact that information between us should be a two-way street. I'll provide you with whatever details you need to write your book, but you've got to be forthcoming with me as well."
"Naturally. If I were to learn anything about the crime, I'd share it with you."
"Then you want to tell me what he said to you in the bar?"
"What who said to me? Pete?"
"Yeah, Pete. Professor Peter Conrad Downey, our killer. He goes by his middle name, Conrad, but his close friends call him Pete."
The idea that the personable young man he'd just had beers with might have viciously murdered a pregnant woman and three small children disheartened him so much that not even dinner with Sara Jansen could cheer him up.
* * *
Noah barely slept that night, despite the three melatonin tablets he took at bedtime. In those brief moments when he was able to fall asleep, his slumber was plagued by a dead little boy with a handful of Crayola crayons and a little girl with a bloody teddy bear. The following morning, groggy from lack of sleep, he made himself three cups of strong coffee in his tiny kitchenette. Only after he was properly fortified with caffeine did he venture out into the streets of Greenwood.
When he saw the empty streets, he at first thought people had grown used to his presence and had decided to leave him alone. Then he realized it was Sunday.
"Everyone must be in church."
Main Street was empty. There was no sign of life, human or animal. Apparently even the dogs and birds were taught to keep the Sabbath Day holy and were forbidden to bark or chirp.
Instinctively, he strolled down the street to Sara's house, and was delighted to see the front door was open. He walked up to the porch and knocked on the screen door.
"You again?" she said with a laugh. "We've got to stop meeting like this. People will begin to talk."
"I thought you never listened to gossip."
"I don't, but I also don't want to be the subject of wagging tongues."
"Well, if you let me inside, there's less chance anyone will know I'm here."
Noah followed Sara into the kitchen, where the beautician put a pot of coffee on the stove.
"I had a few beers with a good friend of yours yesterday," the writer announced.
"A good friend of mine? I wasn't aware I had any good friends in Greenwood."
"Pete Downey says the two of you are good friends. In fact, he spoke quite highly of you."
"I don't know why," Sara said, unperturbed by the mention of the professor's name. "I've barely said a dozen words to him since I moved here."
"Funny. He seemed to know you quite well. Maybe his wife told him about you. You did say she was a regular customer of yours."
"She never missed a Monday."
Noah watched Sara closely as she poured the coffee into mismatched mugs. He wondered if her mistake was a simple slip of the tongue. Why had she said Vicki Downey came into the shop on Mondays when just two days earlier she'd said the murdered woman had her hair done every Wednesday?
* * *
Not long after the clock atop the town hall struck eleven, Greenwood slowly began to come to life. People were returning from church. Some drove directly home, but most congregated along Main Street.
"There he is!" the young woman from the dry cleaners cried.
As the townspeople headed in Noah's direction, one man pushed ahead of the crowd.
"Larry Roper's the name. I'm with the Greenwood News. I'd like to get an in-depth interview with you for our paper."
"Perhaps on Tuesday," the writer said as he tried to make his way through a wall of autograph seekers. "As far as I know, I'm free then."
The silence he had found so tranquil earlier that morning was shattered by human voices.
"I love your latest book."
"Will you sign my copy of Death by Moonlight?"
"Are you going to write about the murders that were committed here?"
"PLEASE!" Noah shouted above the din. "I'm just trying to get ...."
Someone thrust a copy of the Sunday edition of the Greenwood News in his face, and asked, "Have you seen your picture in the paper?"
A type size usually reserved for declarations of war proclaimed CELEBRATED AUTHOR COMES TO GREENWOOD as the headline.
"This really wasn't necessary," he called to Larry Roper, the reporter. "I don't see why my being here should cause such a fuss."
"Hell, you're the biggest thing that's happened to this town since the undertaker's daughter tried out for American Idol."
"Don't be a fool! His being here is much more exciting that Patsy's stupid audition. She never even had the chance to go to Hollywood. That nasty Englishman sent her back to Greenwood."
As the two neighbors continued arguing, Noah inched his way past them. He was relieved to see Sara's shop up ahead.
"Did you hear they arrested the man who killed that woman and her three kids?"
Whether the question had been addressed to him or someone else, Noah didn't know, but he spun around, his eyes scanning the crowd for the face of the speaker.
"It didn't take Bart Hollis long to find him," the voice added.
Noah recognized the man as the bartender who had served him drinks the day before.
"Who did he arrest?"
"The woman's husband."
Noah wasn't surprised. The police chief had believed all along that the professor was his man.
On Monday morning, Noah walked to the town hall where he met with Ernest Greeley, the district attorney who would prosecute Professor Downey.
"The chief says it's all right for me to answer all your questions," the lawyer said. "But I have to have your assurance that you won't breathe a word of what I tell you until after the trial is over."
"I promise."
"So, what do you want to know?"
"What evidence do you have that Downey murdered his family?"
"He had means, motive and opportunity."
"Can you be more specific?" Noah pressed. "Do you have any forensic evidence? Any witnesses?"
"His fingerprints were on the murder weapon, for one."
"Which—correct me if I'm wrong—was a carving knife from the Downey kitchen. Were there any other prints or partials on the knife?"
"Yes, the wife's, but I don't think she killed herself. Do you?"
"That was all, just those two?"
"No," Greeley reluctantly admitted. "There were others. The babysitter and mother-in-law had access to the kitchen. But neither of them had motive, and neither one was in the house that night."
"Do you know with any certainty that there wasn't another person there? It was a dark night. There are no streetlights on that road. The Downeys don't have a dog to bark and alert the neighbors. The killer—or killers—could have entered the house, committed the murders and left without anyone being the wiser."
"Who?" the lawyer asked the obvious question. "Even if someone wanted Vicki Downey dead, who will kill those three kids?"
"You read the papers. Not all murders have obvious motives. Who knows why someone goes into a school and starts shooting the students or why psychopaths murder women they've never even met?"
"Obviously, their minds don't work the same way yours and mine do," the lawyer concluded. "All I know is that I will do all I can to get the guilty ones off the streets so they can't kill again."
"That brings us back to the point at hand: how do you know that Conrad Downey is guilty?"
"There were five people in the house that night: four of them were savagely murdered. It was a case of overkill. The wife's throat was cut to the point of near decapitation. And then there's Conrad Downey who gets a bump on the head that's so slight, it doesn't even cause a concussion."
"I admit that's perplexing, but you can't convict a man simply because he survived while his family was murdered."
"I've gotten convictions on less evidence in the past," Greeley said, clearly proud of his legal record. "In New York prosecutors may need DNA and a signed confession, but here in Greenwood the jury members use their heads: if it waddles like a duck and quacks like a duck, it's a duck."
"Chief Hollis said the same thing to me," Noah noted with a humorless chuckle. "Is that the town motto?"
* * *
As the armed guard unlocked the outer door to the cell block, Noah was glad to be in a town where star-struck citizens bent over backwards to accommodate his celebrity status. He doubted he would have such easy access to an accused murderer in New York.
"Hi, Pete," he said to the prisoner who was reading a paperback book in his cell.
"Mr. Wilde! I never expected you to come visit me."
"I'd like to talk to you, if you don't mind."
The professor's smile became a frown.
"Are you here to ask me why I did it?"
"It depends. Are you admitting that you did do it?"
"No. I assumed you, like all the rest of them, are convinced of my guilt."
"It takes a lot more than circumstantial evidence to convince me of anything. Have you found yourself a lawyer yet?"
"No. I filled out an application to be represented by the public defender. I shouldn't have any trouble meeting the low-income requirement. Raising three kids on a professor's salary left me strapped for cash. To be honest, we were on the verge of bankruptcy."
"I thought college professors were paid a decent wage."
"This isn't exactly Harvard or Yale. You went to one of those Ivy League schools, didn't you?"
"Princeton. What about you?"
"State college. It was all I could afford, and I'm still paying off student loans. But I'm sure you didn't come here to talk about finances. What did you want to ask me?"
"Do you have any idea who might have killed your family?"
"No, Vicki and I drifted apart after she discovered she was pregnant again. She didn't want another baby, said she had her hands full with the three we already had. I talked her out of an abortion, and I don't think she forgave me for it."
"Could there have been another man?"
"It's possible. Vicki was an attractive woman, smart, with a good sense of humor. She was the most popular girl back in high school: head cheerleader, homecoming queen, class valedictorian."
"Did she go on to college?"
"No, she got engaged after graduation, so she took a job at her father's real estate office to earn money for the wedding. She figured she could always go back to school after she was married."
"You said she got engaged, not we."
"She was engaged to someone else before we hooked up."
The writer raised his eyebrows. Here was another possible suspect.
"And what about this other guy? Do you think he might have killed her?"
"No. He went out of state to college, met someone there and got married. If anyone had a motive for murder in that situation, it was Vicki. The prom king dropped the prom queen for another woman."
"Was there anyone else between him and you? Any boyfriends, casual dates or one-night stands that you know of?"
"After the engagement was broken, my wife swore off men for a while. Then I finally worked up the courage to ask her out."
"Was it that difficult?" Noah asked with mild amusement.
"Like I said, she was the most popular girl in school. I was the timid kid who spent most of his time with his nose in a book. Get the picture?"
"Yeah. She obviously accepted your invitation."
"Not the first one or the second. I had to ask her out a third time before she said yes. After I got my master's degree, we got married. I don't kid myself. I knew all along she married me on the rebound, but I didn't care. I loved her."
Tears rolled down Conrad Downey's cheeks, and Noah instantly felt pity for the professor.
"In a way I hope they do find me guilty—even though I'm innocent. After they stick that needle in my arm, I'll no longer have to live with the loss of my family."
Noah suddenly realized he was in a state where the death penalty was not only legal but was still very much in use. He'd naturally assumed Conrad Downey faced life in prison if he were convicted, not execution.
What if he is innocent? the writer thought with horror.
There have been prisoners who were later found innocent and released from confinement, even those who had been sentenced to life without parole. If Downey receives a lethal injection, the question of his guilt becomes a moot point. What good is proof of innocence to a dead man?
* * *
"Are you up for another home-cooked meal?" Sara asked when Noah passed by her shop.
"Sure. What time?"
"Six?"
"I'll be there. Gotta go now; I've got several important phone calls to make. I'll tell you about them later."
When the author arrived at Sara's house promptly at six, he was in high spirits.
"What's gotten into you? Did you drink a six-pack of energy drink?"
"No. It's my adrenaline. I haven't felt this excited about anything in years."
"What is it?"
"My book. For some time now, my name has been going on novels I haven't written. I came here to write a book, to prove to myself that I could still do it. But after what happened today, I believe I was meant to come here."
"What do you mean by that?" Sara asked warily.
"I'm not a religious man, but I do believe some things happen for a reason. Look at how everyone reacted when I showed up. They all wanted to meet me, to talk to me. People listen when I speak; they read what I write. This book isn't going to be some dry statement of the facts of the case or even a lurid story of an unspeakable murder. It's going to be an indictment against small town injustice and state-sponsored murder."
"Don't you think you're taking on a bit too much here? You write popular fiction."
Sara's words were like a slap across the face, and Noah, deflated, immediately climbed down from his soapbox.
After several minutes of uncomfortable silence, he continued in a more subdued voice, "I hired a lawyer for Conrad Downey. One of the best defense attorneys in the country."
"So you think he's innocent?"
"Honestly? I'm not sure. But I know damned well the evidence doesn't prove his guilt. Still, the district attorney is convinced he's got a winnable case. Downey's been charged with capital murder. I'd hate to see his life in the hands of some public defender right out of law school."
"And your book? Are you going to wait until after the trial is over to write it?"
"At least to write the ending. My readers will want to know the outcome. After all, not all of them watch Nancy Grace."
* * *
When the verdict was read, only a handful of people were pleased with the trial's outcome. The high-profile defense attorney added another win to his already impressive record. Conrad Downey walked out of the courtroom a free man. And although his book sales would no doubt have been higher if the jury had rendered a guilty verdict, Noah Wilde felt he had done the right thing by saving the life of a man who might just be innocent of the charges against him.
The defendant, his attorney and the author encountered hostile glares and irate words as they exited the courtroom.
"I hope you're happy," the prosecutor said. "You just set a cold-blooded child killer free. Who knows? Maybe he'll get married again, have a few more kids and kill them next. Have a good night's sleep, if you can."
Noah chalked up Greeley's anger to a simple matter of the attorney's being a sore loser.
In the wake of the acquittal, the police chief no longer fawned over the celebrity writer.
"Why don't you get in your fancy Japanese car and head back up north where you'll be right at home with the rest of them bleeding-heart liberals, those Godless atheists?"
"Sorry, Chief Hollis, but in this case it waddled like a duck and quacked like a duck, but it was a mongoose."
Outside things were much worse. People carried signs demanding Conrad Downey be executed for his crimes.
"You two take the back way out," the defense attorney instructed Noah and Conrad. "I'll distract this crowd while you slip away."
"I don't know how to thank you," the professor said as the two men sat sipping beers in the writer's studio apartment above the beauty shop later that day. "I owe you my life. If I'm ever in a position to help you ...."
"Maybe you can write the foreword in my book."
* * *
Noah had been back in New York for nine months when he heard it through the literary grapevine that Doubleday had given Conrad Downey a substantial advance on a book about his ordeal. At first, he assumed the rumor was false. Then he saw the former English professor on Piers Morgan Live. In the course of the televised interview, the British journalist asked Downey about the book he was writing.
"It's not going to be just a description of the murders, the so-called police investigation and the trial. Instead, it will be an indictment against small-town injustice and state-sponsored murder."
Hearing his own words coming from Downey's lips had a profound impact on Noah.
"But Conrad wasn't there when I made that comment," he said to himself. "Only Sara was in the room."
Suddenly, seemingly innocent comments he'd overheard in Greenwood began to take on new meaning. Sara contradicted herself when she first said Vicki went to the beauty parlor on Wednesdays, and then later changed it to Mondays. Conrad Downey said the family was having financial problems. Could Vicki afford to go to the beauty parlor every week? Why had Sara denied knowing "Pete" after the professor claimed they were good friends? And why had Conrad, who had described himself as a timid boy who had to work up the nerve to ask the prom queen out on a date, approached her a second and then a third time after she'd already rejected him?
Noah went to his laptop computer and searched the archives of the Greenwood News, looking for answers. As the true story behind the murders of a young mother, her unborn baby and three children began to unfold, the writer cursed himself for his own blind stupidity.
Later that afternoon he was able to locate Conrad Downey's address. The former English professor was now living just minutes away in Manhattan. Since there was no doorman on duty, Noah was able to walk up to the front door and ring the bell. He wasn't surprised when Sara Jansen answered.
"You look different," he said, noting the expensive, chic outfit, designer shoes and fashionable salon hairstyle. "Your hair looks good. Did you do it yourself?"
Sara didn't answer his questions. In fact, she didn't bother saying anything to him. She simply called to Pete who was in another room.
"Noah! What a surprise!" Downey exclaimed. "How did you find us?"
"I saw you on Piers Morgan."
"Ah, yes. I suppose I should have told you about my plans to write a book before you left Greenwood."
"There were a lot of things you should have told me then. That goes for you, too," Noah said directly to Sara.
His former landlady glared at him but held her tongue. The writer turned his attention back to the professor.
"For instance, you told me about your wife being engaged to and then jilted by her high school sweetheart, but you neglected to tell me his name was Cal Jansen or that he was Sara's late husband. You also told me he died of cancer, but the Greenwood News said his death was the result of a freak accident. That same article claimed the dead man's young wife had recently suffered a miscarriage."
Noah looked at Sara and demand to know, "Is that how you stole him away from Vicki? Did you get pregnant to trap him into marriage? And why did the two of you go back to Greenwood? Surely, it wasn't your decision. It had to have been your late husband's. Could it be because he still wanted to be near the woman he loved? Tell me, did you fall for Pete before or after you killed your husband?"
A smug smile was the only reply the former beautician gave him.
"Which one of you sent that newspaper clipping to me? The one that gave me the idea to write about the murders in the first place."
"We don't owe you any answers or explanations," Sara said, finally breaking her silence. "You got what you went to Greenwood for. You'll publish your book and prove to the world and yourself that you still have what it takes to write a bestseller."
"You used me."
Although Noah spoke directly to Sara, the accusation was directed at them both.
"Go to hell!" she replied lazily, as if he weren't worth her time.
"Bart Hollis was right all along. You killed your wife and children."
"I was acquitted in a court of law. I can't be tried again," Downey insisted.
"True. But your girlfriend here was never accused or tried, so she can't claim double jeopardy."
Sara walked over to a mahogany bookshelf beside the fireplace and took down a well-worn paperback novel.
"Before you go making any rash decisions, you might think about your own involvement in the crime."
"Me?" he asked with a laugh. "I had nothing to do with it."
"Where do you think I got my idea?" she asked, handing him a copy of one of the thrillers he'd coauthored a few years back. "I used this novel as a blueprint."
"I ... I didn't even write this book," he protested.
"It's got your name on it in big, bold letters on the front cover."
"No one will believe you."
"No? Not even after you went down to Greenwood and hired an expensive lawyer to defend Conrad Downey? You may never be arrested or stand trial, but in the public's eye .... What's that stupid saying Bart Hollis was always so fond of? If it waddles like a duck and quacks like a duck ...."
Noah realized in his entire life he'd never truly hated anyone—not until that moment, anyway. He looked into Sara's cold, merciless blue eyes and felt utter loathing. He detested her. Ever since he walked into the Downey home and saw the blood-drenched crime scene, one question had disturbed him: who could have been capable of killing those three innocent children? He knew now, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that Sara was more than capable of the task. Pete may have slaughtered his wife, but Sara's was the hand that killed the children. Chief Hollis and District Attorney Greeley had been so anxious to see the husband pay for his crime that they overlooked one very important detail: he couldn't have done it alone. Someone else had to have been in the house with Pete to hit him over the head.
* * *
Noah Wilde never finished his book on the Downey killings. In fact, he never wrote again. After the Greenwood fiasco, he eschewed all literary endeavors, even refusing to read the manuscripts of other writers. For the first time in more than twenty years, his name did not appear anywhere on the list of bestsellers.
Disillusioned with his fellow man, he left New York and retired to a small town in Maine, a quaint hamlet with a population under a five hundred, where, like Greenwood, the prevailing feeling was that if it waddled like a duck and quacked like a duck, it was a duck. Thankfully, however, none of the ducks in his new environment killed their young.
Although Salem is a Yankee through and through, he does enjoy southern hospitality.
