A Woman's Prerogative
Catherine Wardley donned a conservative black pantsuit, white blouse and comfortable, flat-soled shoes. Once dressed, she looked into the full-length mirror on the back of her bedroom door. Satisfied with her appearance, she put her gun in her holster and tucked her badge in her pocket. Then she headed for the kitchen where her thirteen-year-old daughter was sitting at the table, eating a bowl of Frosted Flakes.
"What happened to your uniform?" Gillian asked.
"I'm a detective now," her mother replied, pouring herself a second cup of coffee. "I can wear street clothes while on duty."
"Why not wear jeans and a T-shirt then?"
"I don't want to dress too casually."
"Why did you want to be a cop?"
"It runs in the family. My father and grandfather were both police officers, as was your father and his father before him."
"I hope you aren't counting on me continuing the family tradition. I'm never going to join the police force. I'm going to be an actress."
"You are?" Catherine laughed. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but last month you wanted to be a singer."
"I can be both. Lots of singers go on to become actresses."
"And not long before that you wanted to be a nurse, and I remember a time when you aspired to write fantasy novels like J.K. Rowling."
"It's a woman's prerogative to change her mind," Gillian announced, sounding much older and more sophisticated than her thirteen years.
The quirky smile on her daughter's face brought tears to Catherine's eyes. The girl looked so much like Rod, her late husband, who was shot and killed during a drug bust.
Gillian is definitely her father's daughter, she thought. She doesn't look a thing like me.
The cuckoo clock in the hall announced that it was seven o'clock.
"I've gotta go," Catherine declared. "I don't want to be late on my first day as a detective."
"What time will you be home tonight?"
"Hopefully, I'll be off duty by five, but I can't make any promises."
"What about dinner?"
"I'll bring home a pizza."
"Extra pepperoni?"
"All right. We'll celebrate my new assignment."
As Catherine headed to the police station, she wondered about the reception she would receive from her fellow detectives, all of whom were men. The reaction of the uniformed officers to her promotion had been mixed. Some believed she was only given a shield because the mayor put political pressure on the police commissioner to have a woman detective. Others thought she earned it by sleeping with someone higher up on the police force ladder. There might have been a few people who thought she earned it by graduating at the top of her class at the police academy and performing her duties to her utmost ability—but they were definitely in the minority.
"Detective Wardley reporting for duty, sir," she declared when she entered the police chief's office.
"Glad to have you onboard, Wardley."
His voice sounded convincing, but she could detect he was not being completely honest with her.
"I've decided to team you up with Mike Wegman. You can learn a lot from him. He's got plenty of experience."
"I know," she answered, honored at the chance to work with such an esteemed partner. "He's a legend on the force."
"He's waiting for you in the squad room now. Good luck, Detective."
"Thank you, sir."
Catherine could not believe her good fortune. Having Mike Wegman as a partner was like pairing a rookie player with Babe Ruth. He had personally solved some of the biggest cases in the force's history. When she saw him sitting at his desk, she felt her heart palpitate with excitement.
"Catherine Wardley reporting for duty, sir," she announced formally, bringing a smile to her partner's face.
"At ease, Detective. This isn't the army! Why don't we get a coffee, and I'll bring you up to speed on the case we'll be working on?"
"Fine."
Rather than drink the bitter brew from the vending machine at the station, Mike got into his unmarked Ford Focus and headed for a nearby diner frequented by the city's finest.
"I knew your father," he said while waiting for a red light to turn green.
"What about my husband?" Catherine asked.
"Yes, and your father-in-law, too. All three of them were good cops. Honest, fair and dedicated."
"Thank you. That means a lot coming from you."
"It was a shame about your husband, such a young man. I went to his funeral."
"To be honest, I don't remember you being there."
"I'm not surprised. Nearly the entire force turned out. The only cops that weren't there were the ones that were on duty. I regret I didn't have the chance to attend your father's service as well, but I was working a case at the time that required me to travel to New York to question a witness."
"That's understandable. Besides, unlike Rod, my father didn't go down in the line of duty. He was retired for more than a decade before his heart attack."
"And what about your father-in-law? How is he doing?"
"Fine. He and my mother-in-law sold their house and bought a condo in Florida. They couldn't take the harsh winters anymore."
"I don't blame them," Mike laughed. "I'm tired of snow and ice myself."
"Why haven't you retired? If you don't mind my asking."
"And do what? Work a part-time job as a security guard?"
"Look at the high-profile cases you've solved! You could write a book."
"I'm not the kind of man to rest on my laurels. If there is a god up there, then he put me here on earth to be a cop."
"If? I take it then you're an agnostic."
"Honestly? I don't give religion much thought. I prefer the Chinese principle of yin and yang. The bad guys are the dark, negative yin while the good guys—men like your husband, father and father-in-law—represent the bright, positive yang. Me? I'm neither black nor white but somewhere in between. I'm more a shade of gray."
Wegman pulled his Focus into a parking space near the door, and the two detectives entered the diner.
"Two coffees," he called to Rosie, the middle-aged waitress who worked the morning shift.
"You got it," she answered.
When she brought the coffee to the table, Mike introduced Rosie to his new partner.
"Good luck," the waitress teased. "You'll need it working with this one."
"So, what about the case you're working on now?" Catherine asked as she ripped open a packet of artificial sweetener.
"You got any kids?"
His question took her by surprise.
"Yeah, a thirteen-year-old daughter. Why are you changing the subject?"
"I'm not. The case involves the disappearance of Brooklyn Canner, an eleven-year-old girl who went missing the day before yesterday while she was selling Girl Scout cookies door-to-door."
"I heard something about that, but I thought she was found—unharmed."
"You heard wrong. The reason I asked if you had any children was that this case may not have a happy ending. Since you have a little girl of your own, it might be difficult for you."
"I assure you I can remain objective," Catherine said stiffly.
"Don't be offended. Where children are involved, even the most experienced cops, me included, take it hard. Your being new to the job—and a mother, too—well, I just want you to be prepared for the worst."
While they sipped their coffee, the veteran detective outlined the progress that had been made on the case so far—sadly, very little.
"Right now," he continued, putting down his empty coffee mug, "we're looking into the backgrounds of the residents living in the girl's neighborhood."
"Did you find anyone whose name is on the list of known sex offenders?"
"Only one, but I doubt he had anything to do with it."
"Oh? What rules him out?"
"He was eighteen at the time of his arrest; his girlfriend was sixteen. When her father found out his daughter was pregnant, he accused the boy of statutory rape. The young man eventually married the girl and, by all accounts, is a good husband and father. Now, if you're done with your coffee, we can go start knocking on people's doors."
** *
"Here's the pizza," Catherine announced when she came home from work that evening.
"Pepperoni," Gillian said with disappointment when she opened the box. "I had a taste for sausage."
"That's not what you said this morning."
"That was hours ago! It's a woman's prerogative to change her mind."
Catherine smiled at what was quickly becoming her daughter's favorite expression.
"So? How was your first day on the job?"
"You heard about that little girl who disappeared while selling Girl Scout cookies?"
"Did you find her?"
"No. But my partner and I talked with dozens of people in the neighborhood. No one's seen or heard anything."
"I bet she was taken by some creepy perv."
"I wish you wouldn't talk like that."
"Why? Just because I'm thirteen doesn't mean I don't know what's going on the in world. I've seen the news stories about priests molesting children."
"Accusations don't necessarily mean a person is guilty."
Gillian rolled her eyes. Her mother, she was convinced, went through life wearing rose-colored glasses, adhering to ideals and values that dated back to the Fifties.
You would think being a cop would make her a little more cynical, she thought.
After the pizza was finished and Gillian went to her bedroom to write a book report on Wuthering Heights, Catherine sat at the dining room table, reviewing the notes she had taken during the day. Most of the people she and Mike Wegman spoke to were stay-at-home moms, retirees and those who worked other than the normal nine-to-five schedules.
During the interviews, one name kept popping up: Baxter Crockett. Several of his neighbors cited relevant facts about him: a middle-aged man, never married, lived alone, no apparent social life.
Hmmm. This guy bears further investigation, she decided.
The case would have to wait until tomorrow, however. There was little she could do at home. Dozens of uniformed police officers and civilian volunteers were searching in shifts night and day for Brooklyn Canner. Additionally, an Amber alert had been issued, and authorities in multiple jurisdictions were on the lookout for any sign of her.
"You still working?" Gillian asked as she rummaged through the kitchen cabinets for a snack.
"Just looking over my notes. How's your book report coming?"
"I'm all done."
"So soon?"
"How much can you write about Wuthering Heights? Besides, I was able to start it in study hall today."
"Feel like watching a movie on Netflix?"
"Which one?"
"How about The Secret Life of Pets?" Catherine suggested.
"That's a kid's movie!"
"But you said you wanted to see it when it was in the movie theaters."
"That was two years ago when I was eleven. Since then, ...."
"Let me guess: you've changed your mind. Don't say it. I already know. It's a woman's prerogative."
Mother and daughter then took a bowl of microwaved popcorn into the family room and watched a PG-13-rated movie about teenage werewolves.
* * *
Detective Wardley reported for her second day of duty, envisioning another round of interviews with residents in the Canners' neighborhood. When she saw her scowling partner pacing the floor, awaiting her arrival, she suspected he had other plans.
"What's up?" she asked.
"Haven't you heard the news? It's been all over the radio."
"I never play the radio in my car. I prefer to listen to music on my iPod when I drive."
"They found her."
Those three words conveyed so much frustration, anger and loss of hope that there was no need to ask if Brooklyn was alive or dead.
"Where?"
"Her body washed up on the bank of the river, not far from the abandoned plastics factory."
"What does the medical examiner have to say?"
"She won't comment until she does an autopsy."
"Where does that leave our investigation? Do we wait to see if the results indicate accidental death or homicide?"
"Until we are informed otherwise," Mike declared, "we consider it a murder. But right now, we have to perform the unpleasant task of informing the girl’s parents of her death."
Catherine assumed that as a woman and a mother, she would be needed as a calming element, but it was her partner who knew just the right things to say to the grieving mother and father. A more cynical person would suppose that given the detective's many years on the force he had ample opportunity to perfect his bedside manner. His empathy, however, was real, and he had no difficulty expressing his sympathy and compassion.
"If my little girl was murdered, promise me you'll find the monster who did it," Tess Canner tearfully begged when she showed the detectives to the door.
"Don't worry. I'll see that he's brought to justice," Mike replied, squeezing her hand gently.
Catherine was relieved when she buckled herself into the passenger seat of the Focus.
"Are you okay?" her partner asked.
"Yeah," she replied, swallowing the lump in her throat. "That was hard."
"I wish I could tell you it gets easier with time, but it doesn't."
Mike looked at the clock on the Ford's dashboard. It was almost noon.
"How about some lunch?" he inquired.
"Are you kidding? We just left the Canners' house. How could you want to eat?"
"Chances are we'll have a long day ahead of us. You best eat now. Trust me. Once you read the preliminary report from the forensics team, you'll lose your appetite."
It proved to be sound advice. Seeing the crime scene photographs of the eleven-year-old girl's bruised and bloated naked body was heartbreaking.
* * *
"It's official," Mike announced after reading the medical examiner's cover memo. "Cause of death is strangulation, manner of death: homicide."
"Any indication of sexual abuse?"
"Bruising but no DNA."
"The killer must have used a condom," Catherine concluded.
"Probably, but being in the river washes away a lot of evidence, too."
With no physical clues to point to the killer, the detectives knew their job would not be an easy one. Mike took a hand-drawn map of the Canners' neighborhood out of his jacket pocket. Red X's indicated houses where Brooklyn stopped on the day she went missing.
"It looks as though she remained on the eastern side of Jefferson Street and headed north. The last house she visited was here, number 73. The owners of houses 75, 77 and 79 all claim they weren't home that day. The owner of house 81, Mrs. Laramie, said the little girl never came to her house."
"Are you suggesting the killer lived at one of those three houses in between?"
"No. We can't assume that. It's entirely possible none of the neighbors killed her. Perhaps someone driving by in a car saw Brooklyn walking down the street and abducted her."
"If that's the case, how will we ever find him?"
"We've got uniformed men looking for her clothes and personal belongings. If we find them, we might be able to determine where she was actually killed and hopefully uncover forensic evidence. Meanwhile, let's continue talking to the people in the neighborhood. Someone could know something useful."
"That reminds me, there's somebody I would consider a person of interest."
"Who's that?"
"A man named Baxter Crockett. Several of the people I talked to the other day mentioned him. One woman described him as odd, another as creepy."
"I have a few neighbors like that," Mike laughed. "Is that all you've got on him?"
"No. For one thing, he lives alone."
"So? I live alone. That doesn't make me a killer."
"He lives on the northern end of Jefferson Street, in the direction Brooklyn was heading the day she vanished."
"What's his house number?"
Referring to her notes, Catherine replied, "Here it is: 82."
"That's the western side of the road."
"She could have crossed the street."
"That's possible, but I don't see why she would have. The road ends in a cul-de-sac. She had only a few more houses to visit on the eastern side. Then she could have circled around and stopped at the houses on the western side, including Crockett's, as she made her way back home."
"Maybe she got tired and decided not to visit all the houses on the street, or perhaps she wanted to be home at a certain time."
"Let's go talk to him and see what he has to say."
When Baxter came home from work at half past five, the two detectives emerged from their vehicle, which was parked on the opposite side of the street.
"Mr. Crockett," Detective Wegman called as the man put his key in the front door lock. "We'd like to have a word with you."
When the homeowner turned, he saw that the two law enforcement officers were holding their badges out for his inspection.
"I assume it's about the murdered child."
"Yes, it is," Catherine answered.
"I don't know if I can be of any help to your investigation, but come in."
"Did you know Brooklyn Canner?" Mike asked, taking the lead.
"I saw her around the neighborhood now and again, but I never spoke to her."
"She's never been to your house then?"
"She might have come by on Halloween; but if she did, she wore a mask. I always get a lot of trick-or-treaters."
"She didn't come to your house and try to sell you Girl Scout cookies?"
"No."
While Mike interviewed Baxter, his partner's eyes darted around the kitchen. When they glimpsed the items on top of the counter, Catherine caught her breath. Next to the toaster was a box of tagalongs: chocolate-covered peanut butter cookies made for and sold exclusively by the Girl Scouts.
"If Brooklyn Canner was never here, where did the cookies come from?" she asked suspiciously.
"I bought them at the mall," Baxter answered. "Some kids were selling them in front of Sears."
As the detectives drove away after concluding their interview, Catherine expressed her belief in Crockett's guilt.
"As far as I'm concerned," she announced, "he's moved up from being a person of interest to a full-blown suspect."
"Why? He remained calm, and his answers seemed pretty straightforward to me."
"He had the box of cookies right there on the counter."
"That proves nothing. It just so happens that I bought a couple of boxes of thin mints at the mall myself. Besides, according to Mrs. Canner, Brooklyn was taking orders for the cookies, which would not be delivered for a few weeks. Crockett couldn't have gotten the cookies from her; she didn't have any."
"I'm still going to keep an eye on him."
"Don't fall into the trap so many detectives do," Mike advised.
"What's that?"
"Don't hang on to a suspicion like a dog with a bone. Keep an open mind."
* * *
"That was interesting," Catherine said after hanging up the phone receiver.
"What's that?" her partner asked, as he rifled through a pile of papers on his desk.
"I just spoke to Baxter Crockett's employer. It seems he didn't report for work the day Brooklyn Canner went missing."
"Neither did Jack Laramie, yet his wife told us he wasn't home either. I think we ought to talk to her again."
When Helen Laramie opened the door and saw the detectives had returned, her face registered both uneasiness and fear.
"I already told you Jack wasn't home that day," she answered when Mike put the question to her.
"He wasn't at work either. So where was he?"
The veteran detective could almost see the woman's brain racing as she sought a credible answer.
"I was in and out most of the day," she replied. "I went grocery shopping, to the bank, the cleaners ...."
"I was inquiring about your husband's whereabouts, not yours."
"If I remember correctly," Helen said, "that was the day he took his car for an oil change."
"Where? Your mechanic? Jiffy Lube? Valvoline?"
"I'm not sure. I'll have to ask him."
"No need to. We'll ask him," Mike said.
"I don't see why you have to talk to him. He wasn't here."
"But you just said you were in and out of the house that day. How do you know he didn't come home? It doesn't take that long to get an oil change."
Helen's hands began to tremble, and she quickly put them in the pockets of her jeans.
"Then why don't you come back this evening and speak to Jack?" she suggested. "He usually gets home from work around six."
"Actually, we're going to head over to his office now. Thanks for your time, Mrs. Laramie. We'll keep in touch."
"I thought we were due to meet with the chief for a progress report?" Catherine asked as they drove past the Canner house.
"We are. My guess is right now the wife is phoning her husband so that the two of them can get their stories straight. A check of the phone records will no doubt prove me right."
In the weeks that followed, the two detectives held divergent opinions on the investigation. Catherine still believed Baxter Crockett, who claimed to have been home sick with a mild case of food poisoning the day Brooklyn went missing, was the most likely suspect. Wegman, however, was growing increasingly convinced that Jack Laramie had abducted, molested and murdered the little girl and that his wife was covering for him.
"Helen Laramie is the key to solving this case," he insisted. "She knows something. If we can only get her to tell us."
"You told me to keep an open mind," Catherine reminded him. "And yet you insist on trying to pin the blame on Laramie. I just don't see it. He doesn't fit the profile of a sexual predator. He's personable, has a good job, is happily married ...."
"You're still convinced the killer has to be a pathetic loner?"
"Look, you're a brilliant cop with an excellent track record of solving cases, but I don't think you're right on this one. So, why don't we just agree to disagree?"
"Fair enough."
The weeks turned into months, and no progress was made on the case. Although the detectives believed that valuable clues might be found at either 81 or 82 Jefferson Street, Judge Homer Stengel ruled there was insufficient cause for a search warrant.
Meanwhile, Mr. and Mrs. Canner frequently called Mike Wegman to inquire about developments in their daughter's case.
"Don't become discouraged," he told them. "I promised you I would get justice for Brooklyn, and I will."
"Do you think it's wise to give them false hope?" Catherine asked after her partner hung up the phone.
"I'm not. I haven't given up on finding their daughter's killer. Besides, the holidays aren't far off. It will be their first Christmas without their little girl. My heart goes out to them."
"I admire your compassion. I feel sorry for the Canners, too. But we have to face facts: the case has gone cold. We still don't know where and when Brooklyn was killed, much less who killed her."
"As I said, I haven't given up."
* * *
Catherine's in-laws traveled north in December to spend the holidays with their granddaughter. Although Gillian would have preferred going to Florida, she was nonetheless excited about seeing her grandparents.
"And what do you want for Christmas this year?" Doris Wardley asked.
"An iPhone."
"I thought you wanted an iPad," Catherine said with disappointment since she had already purchased the tablet.
"I did but I changed my mind."
"You've been doing that way too much lately," her mother complained, annoyed that she would have to endure the crowds at the mall to exchange the gift.
"But it's a woman's prerogative to ...."
"Don't say it!"
"How would you like to help me bake gingerbread cookies?" her grandmother asked.
"I'd love to."
Doris and Gillian headed toward the kitchen, leaving Catherine and Edmond Wardley, her father-in-law, together in the living room.
"Speaking of cookies," Edmond said, "have you had any further developments in the case of the murdered Girl Scout?"
"No. The case has gone cold, I'm afraid—not that my partner will admit it."
Catherine was surprised by the frown that appeared on her father-in-law's face.
"Mike Wegman is a good cop," he began.
"One of the best this city has ever had."
"Just keep your head about you when you're working with him," Edmond advised.
"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, surprised at his warning.
"He's been known to stretch the boundaries of the law while conducting an investigation."
"You don't mean he's a dirty cop?"
"No, not in the sense that he would take a bribe or manufacture evidence. But, well, he doesn't always play strictly by the rules. Naturally, given his history of successfully solving cases, the brass has always turned a blind eye to his tactics. Just be careful. I don't want him to get you in any trouble."
* * *
With the start of a new year, there were new crimes to solve. There had been several break-ins during the holidays, a hit-and-run accident and a robbery at the jewelry store in the mall. The file on Brooklyn Canner's murder remained on top of Mike Wegman's desk, however, a reminder that a child killer was still on the loose.
I wonder what Baxter Crockett has been up to lately, Catherine thought, still convinced he was the chief suspect.
After an arrest was made in the jewelry store robbery, Detective Wardley was eager to call it a day.
"What's the rush?" Mike asked when his partner grabbed her coat and keys moments after they returned to the station house.
"I've got to get home. Gillian is cooking tonight."
"I thought she hated all those domestic chores."
"You know my daughter. She says it's a woman's prerogative to change her mind. What about you? If you have no plans, why don't you stop by for some homemade lasagna?"
"I have an important appointment tonight. Can I get a rain check?"
"Sure. That is if Gillian doesn't change her mind about wanting to cook."
When Catherine walked through her front door, she saw her daughter, wearing a pink apron decorated with an appliqué of the Eiffel tower, putting the lasagna into the oven.
"Did you get the Italian bread?" the thirteen-year-old asked.
"Oh, damn! I bought it when we stopped for lunch, but I forgot it at the station."
"I wanted to make garlic bread," her daughter moaned with disappointment.
"I'll go get it. It won't take me long."
"Good. I'll make us a salad while you're gone," Gillian offered.
"You working tonight?" the desk sergeant asked when the detective returned to the station.
"No. I forgot something and came back to get it."
"Oh, I thought you might be here for the meeting."
"What meeting?"
"The one your partner is attending. It's quite a big pow-wow apparently. The chief and commissioner are up there, and so are Judge Stengel and the district attorney. It probably has something to do with the arrest of the guy that robbed the jewelry store. Although if it is, I don't know what the medical examiner is doing there."
As Catherine opened her desk drawer and took out the loaf of Italian bread, she noticed the Brooklyn Canner file had been taken off her partner's desk.
What the hell is going on in there? she wondered, looking at the closed door to the police chief's office.
* * *
Two days later, Catherine was awakened in the night by the strident sound of fire alarms and fire trucks racing toward the direction of Jefferson Street. Realizing it was not yet three in the morning, she put a pillow over her ears and went back to sleep. The next day she learned that the Laramie house had burned to the ground.
"Was anyone hurt?" she asked her partner, who had given her the news.
"Helen Laramie was out of town, visiting her parents, but Jack died in the blaze. It looks like he was smoking in bed."
"How do you know?"
"I worked out at the gym with the fire chief this morning."
"There goes your number one suspect in the Canner case," she pointed out.
"Yeah, well, it happens," he said, surprisingly not in the least bit upset by the turn of events.
"Perhaps we should take a look at the file and see if we've missed anything," Catherine suggested.
He handed her the manila folder and answered, "Be my guest. I've got an errand to run. I'll be back in an hour or so."
The folder—more than two inches thick—was brimming with medical reports, forensic data, photographs and interview notes.
Where are the Laramies' phone records? she wondered, remembering their meeting with Helen Laramie and wondering if the woman did, in fact, phone her husband after the detectives left.
They were nowhere in the folder.
I know Mike received them. Maybe he put them in his drawer.
Three of her partner's desk drawers contained blank forms, telephone call logs, expense reports, receipts and inter-department memoranda. In the fourth and final drawer, beneath an old phone book left over from 2012, she found a folder with no identifying label.
If they're not in here, I don't know where they could be, she thought.
She opened the folder, and among a dozen or so sheets of paper—all pointing to Jack Laramie's guilt—was the list of calls made from the Laramies' home phone on the day of the interview. Highlighted in yellow was the call placed to Jack's office just moments after she and Mike left the house.
It was no smoking gun, but what she found beneath it was. Torn in several pieces and later taped together, was Brooklyn's cookie order sheet. The last name on the form was that of Mrs. Carmen Rosario, the woman who lived at 73 Jefferson Street, who ordered two boxes of trefoils and a box of Samoas.
Several questions bombarded the detective's brain. Where did the form come from? How did Mike Wegman get it? Most importantly, why had he not shown it to his partner?
Her father-in-law's warning suddenly came back to her: "He doesn't always play strictly by the rules."
Mike had admitted as much to her on her first day as his partner: "The bad guys are the dark, negative yin while the good guys—men like your husband, father and father-in-law—represent the bright, positive yang. Me? I'm neither black nor white but somewhere in between. I'm more a shade of gray."
Baxter Crockett isn't the killer, after all, Catherine realized. Mike must have found this order form in Jack Laramie's house or in his car. And knowing the evidence could not be used in a court of law because it had been obtained without a search warrant ....
There was only one conclusion to be drawn, and it made her feel ill. Her partner had then taken the law into his own hands!
* * *
"How about stopping for burgers before we start canvassing pawn shops," Mike asked later that afernoon. "It's almost three, and I'm starving."
"Okay," she answered unenthusiastically.
"You've been unusually quiet today," he observed as they neared the diner.
Catherine could no longer keep silent about her suspicions.
"How are the Canners doing?"
"What do you mean?" her partner asked, his blue eyes registering surprise.
"You went to see them this morning, didn't you?"
"Did you put a tail on me?" Mike laughed uneasily.
"No. I just assumed you would want to tell them in person that you finally got justice for Brooklyn."
After several minutes of silence, he said, "Now, I see why you made detective. You're good."
"I was looking for the Laramies' phone records and found the cookie order form."
"I discovered it ripped up and stuffed in the pocket of Jack Laramie's jeans," Mike explained, not bothering to deny his guilt.
"You broke into their house, didn't you?"
"I had to. I couldn't get a search warrant."
"That's no excuse!"
"Maybe not, but my conscience is clear."
"Great!" Catherine cried. "However, that puts me in a difficult position.
"Did you ever hear of the Court of Star Chamber?"
"No."
"The name is derived from the medieval king's council in England, it was a supplement to the regular justice of the common-law courts. It gained great popularity under Henry VIII for its ability to enforce the law when other courts were unable to do so."
"Thanks for the history lesson, but this isn't the sixteenth century. We don't need a medieval justice system. And I can't just turn my back on what you've done!"
"You have to do what you think is best."
* * *
"Sometimes the law has to take a back seat to politics," the chief of police declared after hearing the charges Catherine reluctantly made against her partner.
"Politics?" she echoed with disbelief. "A decorated police officer on this force killed someone, and you're going to cover it up?"
"Most people will see only that he got rid of a scumbag who raped and murdered an eleven-year-old girl. Their sympathies will be with Mike, not Jack Laramie. Those that agree with you will demand a thorough investigation into the matter. Internal Affairs will be crawling all over our asses. For the good of the department, I suggest Detective Wegman be allowed to retire quietly from the force. Do you agree?"
"How can I?" Catherine cried. "If I remain silent, then I'm no better than he is."
"You haven't kept silent. You reported what you know to me, the chief of police. It's up to me to take whatever action I deem fit."
"And you think it best to sweep it under the rug?"
"It will be in your best interest, too, Catherine. If word gets out that you squealed on a fellow officer, that you turned in your own partner ...."
"What do you want from me?" she cried.
"You've done your duty. You're a good cop; you'll no doubt rise in the department. Just give me your word that you won’t say anything about the Court of Star Chamber."
Catherine suddenly recalled the mysterious meeting held in the chief's office the night Gillian made lasagna. The commissioner, the district attorney, Judge Stengel and the medical examiner were all in attendance—all clearly were members of the Court of Star Chamber. In killing Jack Laramie, Mike had not acted alone but in conjunction with the most powerful men and women in the city's law enforcement circle.
I'm not about to take them all on, she decided.
"Yes, sir. You have my word."
Detective Wardley kept her promise. She was rewarded for her silence with a promotion and a pay increase. While she had not sought them out, neither did she refuse them when they were offered. After all, she had a daughter to support.
* * *
As her sixteenth birthday neared, Gillian was eagerly anticipating a trip to Florida to visit her grandparents.
"Did you decide between visiting Disney World or Universal Studios?" her mother asked.
"Can't we go to both?"
"That would take an awful lot of money. Why don't we go to Disney this year, and maybe in another couple of years we'll go to Universal?"
"But I wanna see the Wizarding World of Harry Potter at Universal."
"Then we'll put off Disney for now."
"In another few years, I'll be an adult. I'll be too old for Disney. I really ought to go now."
"You don't have to make up your mind yet. We won't be leaving for Florida for another month."
When Gillian went to bed that night, she weighed the pros and cons of Orlando’s theme parks. She never anticipated when she woke up the following morning that she would never see the Sunshine State or that the day would be her last.
* * *
Mike Wegman had always lived frugally. Once he retired from the force, he took his life savings and bought a rustic log cabin in the mountains where he enjoyed a simple existence funded by his pension and social security benefits.
An avid fan of history, he spent a good part of his day reading about the past. He was engrossed in a library book on the assassination of the Romanovs when he heard a knock on his front door. Since he rarely had visitors, he assumed it was a package being delivered.
It must be that book on JFK I ordered from Amazon.
Seeing Catherine Wardley on his doorstep took him by complete surprise.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"Someone murdered my little girl," his former partner answered tearfully.
"Come on in. I'll make some coffee."
Over a cup of instant Maxwell House, Catherine shared with Mike all the particulars of the investigation.
"The DNA is pretty conclusive evidence," the former detective said. "It seems like the detectives have got an open-and-shut case."
"You would think so, but since the lab misplaced the sample after it was tested, thus preventing a defense team from having their own tests done on it, Judge Stengel ruled the DNA was inadmissible. Without it, the district attorney doesn't have enough evidence to take the case to court."
"What has any of this got to do with me?"
Catherine looked her former partner directly in the eye and answered, "I want justice for my little girl."
Mike looked down at his coffee mug, silently brooding.
"I want Gillian to get the same justice as Brooklyn Canner got."
What more could she say? She had cost him his job, and now she was here to ask for his help in ridding the world of another child killer. If necessary, she would get down on her knees and beg him.
"All right," he answered, sparing her the humiliation. "I'll take care of it. But as I recall, you once told me that you couldn't turn your back on what I had done to Jack Laramie."
"I know, but it's my daughter now."
Tears came to Catherine's eyes as an image of Gillian flashed in her mind.
"Besides," she continued, wiping away her tears as she quoted her child, "it's a woman's prerogative to change her mind."
Like Salem, I just love those chocolate-covered peanut butter cookies the Girl Scouts sell! I usually have to hide them around the house so he won't find them.
