Page 10 of Memory of Murder
“I did.” She twisted off the cap and had a sip to moisten her throat.
“What’s your decision, then?”
“To be honest…” She looked him square in the eyes. He had nice eyes. “I’m still torn. Part of me feels the whole thing is preposterous. But I decided to give your agency the benefit of the doubt. The Colby Agency has a stellar reputation.” She had done some deep digging on the agency last night and been duly impressed. “Since you decided to take the case, I’m confident you see something I cannot.”
He nodded. “We do.”
She held the bottle tighter, considered another swallow. “Please, tell me—what is it that you see?”
His blue eyes searched hers for a moment before he answered. He really did have nice eyes. “Holes. We see holes.”
“In the investigation, or in Mary Morton’s story?”
He shrugged. “Both, to some degree, but primarily in the investigation. We’re of the opinion that your mother was railroaded into the conviction. That said, we can’t assure you that she was innocent and wrongly convicted, but we feel there are serious enough questions to doubt her guilt.”
Anne’s chest tightened. “So you believe this can be proven one way or the other even now…three decades later.”
“Yes.”
He seemed so certain. How could he be based on the journal that a convicted murderer had written in her final days of life? “I don’t see how. I mean, yes, her story does suggest the possibility of other suspects, and certainly she insists on her innocence. But how could the police have gotten it so wrong?”
For a long moment he studied her as if attempting to determine how best to answer her question. After a bit he said, “The police are only human. They make mistakes. Once in a while a member of that upstanding group decides to do something bad. Maybe because he’s just not a good guy or maybe for the money. Either way, no unit or agency is exempt from the occasional bad appleor mistake. Then again, the detective who investigated the case was fairly young. The issue may have been nothing more than inexperience.”
“He was thirty-two,” Anne argued. She wasn’t even thirty yet. Thirty-two didn’t seem so young to her.
“But he’d only been a detective for two years—that’s the issue, in my opinion. He was inexperienced in this sort of investigation.”
The idea took her aback. “Are you saying he had never investigated a murder before?”
“He had—twice, in fact. But both were cut-and-dry cases where the evidence was clear and the suspects more than apparent—one even came with a confession. The Reed case was complicated with no clear-cut evidence. There should have been a seasoned detective assigned to the case.”
Anne couldn’t sit any longer. She stood. Paced the length of the room. “Then why did her attorney have trouble trying for an appeal? I mean, if the lack of a thorough investigation was so evident, it seems to me an appeal should have been almost automatic.”
“The attorney is another bone of contention, in our opinion,” Brenner explained. “He was a public defender. Not to say there aren’t plenty of great attorneys in a public defender’s office, but this one was also really young, with few cases under his belt. Worse, he was overworked—as most are. The circumstances were ripe for failure.”
He turned his hands up. “As for appeals, they’re granted when there is proof of ineffective counsel, prosecutorial or jury misconduct, or maybe some sort of evidence that was left out or newly discovered evidence—something that suggests the defendant deserves a second chance at proving her innocence. All the attorney or the judge had to do in order to deny an appeal was to say there was no legal standing for appeal—which he did because there was nothing brought to his attention that would suggest otherwise. The attorney should have been helping her find what she needed to persuade the judge.”
Anne paused in her pacing and allowed a deeper breath. “What you’re saying is that whatever happened, Mary Morton had lost before the investigation and the trial even began?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
The notion sat like a load of rocks on her shoulders. “What are the chances you can actually find the truth?” She held up a hand before he could answer. “I’m not asking if you can overturn the verdict. What good would that do at this point? I’m asking if you realistically believe you can uncover what really happened.”
He stood, pushed in his chair, then pressed her with his gaze. “If you allow me, I will find the truth. Do not doubt it. The Colby Agency hired me because I have a knack for solving cold cases.” He shrugged. “You don’t know me, and this is a sensitive situation, so I get why you feel hesitant. But know this—if you allow me to look into the case, I will find the answers. If the truth is what you’re looking for, whatever that truth is, I will give it to you when I’m finished.”
If she’d had any doubts when she walked into this room, he had satisfied those uncertainties. Whatever else Jackson Brenner was, the man was convincing. “Then let’s get this done.”
JACK HAD WORRIEDwhen he left Anne Griffin’s home yesterday that she wouldn’t want to move forward with the investigation. Then, when she’d showed up this morning he had still felt on some level that she wasn’t fully convinced it was the right thing to do. Whether he had persuaded her or she’d talked herself into it, he was glad the answer was yes.
This was the kind of case he liked best—one where there was an opportunity to see justice done in an unjust situation.
“Thank you,” he said, relieved. “For trusting me.”
She gave a vague nod. “What do we do next?”
“I would suggest we take your car back to your place and go to Crystal Lake together. We can discuss the case during the drive.”
A frown marred her brow. “I would feel better taking my car.”
