CHAPTER 8 – FACT OR FICTION

I have the privilege of waiting all afternoon before I get my next turn on the stand. As Joel predicted, Reed Erickson asked the court for a dismissal based on lack of evidence. It was heartening that the Judge didn’t consider the motion.

I rose once to leave, but the bailiff told me I needed to stay, so I returned to my seat. Erickson spends the day painting a picture of a hardworking cinematographer, building a shaky but effective alibi. Jack Gallo was apparently shooting B-roll for a documentary. They call one of his film technicians to show the storyboard and hotel reservations in Nevada. On April 2, they had lunch together near the petroglyphs in Ring of Fire National Park, far from civilization.

It’s obvious to me that this explains why Jack wasn’t watching Janet in captivity. I remember the conversation with Detective Beth Olson, how I mentioned that the killer was around only at night, but Beth isn’t here to share a knowing look with me. Even Nadiya has not rejoined me in the courtroom. I’m left to listen alone, anticipating the next piece of the carefully laid plan.

Erickson introduces the producer of the documentation to offer an explanation for the excessive mileage on Jack’s white Toyota, nearly 2,000 miles since an oil change the week of March 23. The man claims that he’d driven to the Las Vegas area several times with Jack, that the documentary was on too low a budget to allow nightly flights back and forth to Los Angeles. The fact that Jack invited Bailey to get married there and was arrested there seems to corroborate this, and refute Joel’s evidence of a killer who drove up Highway 5 in California with revenge on his mind.

If only we had found the film of the murder. Jack told me himself he’d taken stills of Janet that first week in April. Oddly, no snapshots of Janet in a coffin emerged from police searches of his apartment and car. Maybe he made all that up, the polarized plastic of the coffin just another red herring.

I look over at Jack as he sits at the defense table. He’s leaning forward, interested but not anxious. He hasn’t taunted me or tried to read my mind since April. I can sense none of the Juan Galarraga persona that seemed so intent on driving me crazy months ago.

Erickson’s back is to me as he speaks to the judge. “I’d like to recall Hale Marcum to the stand.”

The bailiff replies, “Mr. Hale Marcum to the stand.”

I’m not eager as I move forward and accept the reminder from the judge that I am under oath. The witness chair feels warm, but my eyes are cold as I look at Erickson.

“Mr. Marcum, were you present in court this morning?”

“Yes.”

“And you heard Nadiya Kingsley’s testimony?”

“Yes.”

“She mentioned that you played a Beethoven sonata for her while she visited your home. Any particular reason why?”

“I was trying to identify a tune in my head.”

“How would Nadiya be able to do that? Can she hear your thoughts?”

It’s clearly a dig at my earlier assertion that Jack and I were somehow psychically connected. “No, she claimed I was humming while I was asleep on the couch.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“I woke up and put on the CD. She told me that the ‘Spring Sonata’ was indeed what I had been humming.”

“So, you are familiar with the tune?”

“Yes.”

“So familiar that you own a copy of the music?”

“I suppose so. I don’t play it often.”

“A simple yes is sufficient.”

I’m waiting for him to ask me if I whistle, but instead he changes the subject. “Let’s jump forward to the rescue of Nadiya Kingsley. Where exactly did that take place?”

“In my orchard.”

“Ms. Kingsley mentioned that you had a gun.”

“Yes.”

“What type.”

“A colt .45 revolver.”

“Whose weapon was that, Mr. Marcum?”

“I took it from Juan Galarraga, or Jack Gallo as he calls himself now.”

“Let me rephrase the question. Who is the gun registered to?”

Now I know why he didn’t ask me this before. It’s so much more dramatic now. “Me.”

“But you claim that you took it from my client. Is it easy to find this weapon?”

“No. I keep it locked in my house.”

“In plain sight?”

“No. I have a safe.”

“Were you robbed recently, Mr. Marcum? There is no such police report.”

“I didn’t know the gun was missing until after we rescued Nadiya.”

“Was anything else missing from your safe? Cash? Jewelry?”

“No.”

“Did you ever see my client in your house?”

“No. But I believe he was there.”

“How do you know that?”

“He left me gifts.”

“Gifts?” Erickson looks at his client and then back to me. “Like what?”

“A dead cat. A moth. Some photos.”

“Did you see him leave these gifts?”

“No.”

“Was there a card – a signature of some kind?”

“No.”

“But you saw him in the orchard on the night of this dramatic rescue?”

“Yes.”

“What was he doing?”

“Holding that gun on me. Telling me to dig.”

“So, he had to encourage you to dig up Ms. Kingsley?”

Joel jumps up. “Objection Your Honor. Council is offering a conclusion.”

“Your Honor,” Erickson says, “I have only the word of this man that my client was in Northern California at the time of the abduction and killing. I have a right to impeach his testimony.”

The judge appears annoyed. It’s hard to tell who he dislikes more, Erickson or me. “Answer the question.”

“I was determined to rescue Nadiya; he didn’t have to encourage me.”

“But rather than rescue, you fought with my client?”

“So he wouldn’t shoot us both when I freed her, yes.”

“And you retrieved the gun in this scuffle?”

“Yes.”

“And then what happened?”

“I told him to dig.”

“And did he?”

“No. He ran off.”

“Did you fire the weapon to stop him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I pause and look at his client and then back again “Because I’m not a killer.”

“Could it be that there was no one to shoot at?”

“Objection, Your Honor.”

“I’ll rephrase,” Erickson says before the judge can answer. “Wasn’t it you who was obsessed with Juan Galarraga, and not the other way around?”

“Objection!”

“I’ll withdraw the question. Thank you, Mr. Marcum. That will be all.”

The judge taps his gavel. A few spectators who were talking amongst themselves quiet at the sound. “Any questions on redirect, Mr. Knight?”

“Yes.” Joel stands and come close to me. “You mentioned gifts, Mr. Marcum. Did you provide any of them to the police?”

We didn’t cover this on direct examination, so I elaborate. “An envelope of photographs arrived by currier. I saved and turned those in.”

“What were the photos of?”

“My sister, Bailey Marcum. A dead cat.”

“Who took those photos?”

“The defendant.”

“How do you know this?”

“He told me.”

“No further questions.”

Erickson rises, “A few questions on rebuttal. Did you see my client take these photos?”

“No.”

“Do you know when they were taken?”

“No.”

“You say they came by currier – was my clients name the signatory?”

“No.”

“That will be all.”

The judge looks at the two attorneys. “Any further questions?”

Joel appears stoic. “No, Your Honor.”

Erickson appears to be through with everything. He confirms this by saying, “The defense rests, Your Honor.”

“Is the prosecution ready with closing arguments?”

Joel stands. “We would prefer to have the evening to prepare.”

“Very well then, court is in recess until tomorrow morning.”

With a bang of the gavel, the trial is over. I watch the spectators file out, sitting in my chair, wondering if I should try to have a private word with Joel. He’s busy talking to his assistant, and then he answers his cell phone, clearly attending to business and not planning to be social.

Bailey’s not here, Nadiya’s not here; I’m busy feeling sorry for myself when Joel looks in my direction. He waves at me to come over and I rise slowly, confused by the sudden interest.

Joel says, “It looks like there might be a Jane Doe, washed up on the beach a couple years ago that we could pursue.”

Everything seems to be coming together around my theory. “Any details?”

“Not really. Will you come down to the police station with me?”

“Don’t you need to be here . . . preparing, or something?”

“Yeah,” he looks down, staring at the manila folder on the table. He picks it up robotically and puts it in his briefcase. “But I don’t want my sister to be alone.”

I had already envisioned returning to my hotel, packing, and catching a late flight home. Instead, I suddenly find myself wanting closure. I say, “I could go, make sure she gets what she needs from the police.”

Joel hesitates for a minute. He drums his fingers on the table. “Alright, but call me if this looks significant.”

Nodding, I walk out of the courtroom, head held high and resistant to the curious glances. There are a couple of reporters in the hall, but they’re busy talking to Erickson, and I manage to slip past without being stopped.

Not that I’d comment anyway.

Outside the sun is still shining, and the interior of the rental car is warm as I get in. The air conditioning barely has time to do its job before I’m parking at the police station. My polo shirt is damp with sweat as I tuck it into my jeans and walk into the annex where the morgue is located.

Dana Skyler is with the coroner. I have a sense of déjà vu as I tap on the door and lean into the office. “Mrs. Skyler, Joel sent me.”

Dana turns in her chair and gives me a shocked glance. I can tell she’s been crying. “Mr. Marcum, I didn’t expect you.”

I walk in and notice that Chance is here as well. The young boy is sitting in the leather visitor chair. His knees are bent and feet tucked beneath him.

The coroner, Dr. Willson, is dressed in a blood-free white lab coat, and is seated behind his desk. Apparently, he remembers me too. “But we spoke yesterday.”

“Yes, we did.” I take a step or two beyond the threshold, but don’t grab a chair. “You had already pulled Stacy’s dental records.”

He doesn’t even look embarrassed at the coincidence. “We’d received a call on an old case.”

I know I asked Joel to call, but that was after our meeting. “Yesterday?”

“Two days ago. It took some time to retrieve the records. I gathered a couple of other possibilities, but it would appear that this Jane Doe is Stacy Skyler.” He consults his notes and then hesitates. “Are you family?”

“No.”

“Then perhaps you could wait in the hall.”

Dana is restless and upset, but she asks the question on my mind. “Who called?”

“It came in on our tip hotline. We tend to keep those records anonymous unless there’s a reward of some kind. No caller ID.”

“But you record those calls.” I’m not sure how I knew that, but he answers with a nod, so I follow my gut by saying. “Perhaps Mrs. Skyler could listen to the voice, on the off chance it’s someone she knows. It seems odd that you’d suddenly get a break in the case. Could it be that the killer called the line to stir up the case for whatever reason?”

The Coroner blinks, perhaps considering my suggestion before dismissing it. “I don’t—”

Dana interrupts. “Could I listen? Is there any harm?”

“We’re not supposed to pursue any follow-up of that sort on the tip line. It’s designed to allow people an anonymous outlet to share facts on cases where they’re reluctant to come forward. We don’t let the victim’s family try to guess who gave us information.”

“Dr. Willson,” Dana’s hands twist the strap of her purse as she tries to put the right words together. “You said my daughter drowned. As far as we know, there is no crime here; it could have been an accident. Can I listen to the exact words? See a transcription? Something that would help fill in the blanks on what happened!” Her tone turns steely. “Or do I need to get a court order?”

Ah, yes, once Joel hears about this . . .

I can tell the coroner has come to the same conclusion. He writes down a five digit number from the file on a post-it and then leads us down the hall. An evidence technician is sitting in a workroom wearing a headset. Between the two of them, they find the right tape and cue the entry to the log number.

While we wait, they explain that this is an unmanned line that takes messages. You can leave your personal information or not. The police screen and then follow up on what looks most promising.

A man’s voice comes over the line. His description is short, the facts of the case few. He leaves the scenario of a victim with the age and description that matches Stacy, even calls her out by name.

But I’m not listening to the details. I suspect I’ve gone pale.

“Do you recognize the voice?” Dr. Willson asks.

Dana Skyler shakes her head. “No.”

“Do you, Mr. Marcum?”

It sounds like me.

I shake my head, unable to admit my shocking conclusion aloud. I must be mistaken of course; there is no other explanation. “What was the date and time?”

“Between 3 and 4 a.m. on November 1.”

I think back. That was the morning I locked myself out of my room sleepwalking. Even if I’d had some sort of revelation on the beach, I didn’t have access to a phone. I was wearing pajamas without pockets and had forgotten my key. I close my eyes and push, trying to draw the tip line phone number into my mind, but no memory of it emerges to convince me that I’ve buried knowledge of this phone call. It was only after the visit to her house the next day that I’d even concluded she was dead.

The coincidence, though, and the evidence of my own ears . . . Looking down, I notice that my hands are shaking, and I push them into my pockets.

Alone with my anxiety, I almost miss the coroner’s direction to follow us back to his office. There’s not much more to do. Further DNA testing might be possible, but the dental records match. Dana and the coroner discuss their options to further the investigation.

“If I might ask,” I say as Dana gathers her things and prepares to leave, “is there anything new on the Jane Doe from the creek trail yesterday?”

The coroner looks at me, perhaps taking a moment to recall my interest in the other case. “We managed to recover most of the body of a young boy.”

“A boy?”

“About five feet. Probably pre-teen. Given the circumstances of the find, I suppose you might have assumed some sort of serial rapist, but it would appear this victim might not be related to the assault you interrupted.”

That is what I’d thought. Now I’m confused and curious. “I don’t suppose . . .”

“You want to see the body? We don’t generally allow the public to participate in our investigations.”

“Mr. Marcum is a psychic,” Dana explains. “He’s been helping Joel with a couple of other cases.”

“Marcum . . . Yes, I think I recall your name. One of the officers told me about the Janet Gleeson trial yesterday over lunch. He said that you tracked her killer using a cigarette butt.”

“I hold things and get impressions.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to pick up a femur.” He chuckles at the thought, ignorant to the fact that I already have. “The body you found yesterday was buried in a plastic garbage bag. The police took their time recovering it because the dog ripped it open."

With a frown I admit, "I didn't smell anything."

"Burned, ashes and bone mostly. But it was tied, and caught in a ribbon."

"Ribbon?"

"Wrapped up like a package. On the outside was a brown teddy bear.”