The Woods
“That’s correct.”
“Why not?”
“My guess? He probably was in a rush. Steubens was still disposing of the bodies. He ran out of time.”
“Again,” I said, “it sounds a bit like fact twisting.”
He sat back and studied me. “So what is your theory, Mr. Copeland? Because I am dying to hear it.”
I said nothing.
He spread his arms. “That a serial killer who slit campers’ throats in Indiana and Virginia happened to be a counselor at a summer camp where at least two other victims had their throats slit?”
He had a point. I had been thinking about that from the get-go, and I couldn’t get around it.
“You know the facts, twisted or not. You’re a prosecutor. Tell me what you think happened.”
I thought about it. He waited. I thought about it some more.
“I don’t know yet,” I said. “Maybe it’s too early to theorize. Maybe we need to gather more facts.”
“And while you do that,” he said, “a guy like Wayne Steubens kills a few more campers.”
He had another point. I thought about the rape evidence against Jenrette and Marantz. If you looked at it objectively, there was just as much—probably more—against Wayne Steubens.
Or at least there had been.
“He didn’t kill Gil Perez,” I said.
“I hear you. So take that out of the equation, for the sake of this discussion. Say he didn’t kill the Perez kid.” He held up both palms to the ceiling. “What does that leave you with?”
I mulled that over. It leaves me, I thought, wondering what the hell really happened to my sister.
CHAPTER 29
AN HOUR LATER I WAS SITTING ON A PLANE. THE DOOR HAD not yet closed when Muse called me.
“How did it go with Steubens?” she asked.
“I’ll tell you about it later. How was court?”
“Motions and nothingness from what I hear. They used the phrase ‘under advisement’ a lot. Being a lawyer must be so friggin’ boring. How do you not blow your brains out on days like that?”
“It takes work. So nothing happened?”
“Nothing, but you have tomorrow off. The judge wants to see all counsel in chambers first thing Thursday morning.”
“Why?”
“That under-advisement stuff was tossed around, but your assistant whatshisname said it probably wasn’t a big deal. Listen, I have something else for you.”
“What?”
“I had our best computer weenie comb through those journals sent to your friend Lucy.”
“And?”
“And they matched what you already knew. At first anyway.”
“What do you mean, at first?”
“I took the information he gleaned and then I made some calls, did some digging. And I found something interesting.”
“What?”
“I think I know who sent her those journals.”
“Who?”
“Do you have your BlackBerry with you?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a ton here. Might be easier if I e-mail you all the details.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t want to say any more. I’d rather see if you come up with the same answer I do.”
I thought about that and heard the echo of my conversation with Geoff Bedford. “Don’t want me twisting facts to suit theories, eh?”
“Huh?”
“Never mind, Muse. Just send me the e-mail.”
Four hours after I left Geoff Bedford, I sat in the office adjacent to Lucy’s, one normally used by an English professor, who was on sabbatical. Lucy had the key.
She was looking out the window when her TA, a guy named Lonnie Berger, came in without knocking. Funny. Lonnie reminded me a bit of Lucy’s father, Ira. He had that Peter Pan quality, an outcast wannabe. I am not knocking hippies or far-leftists or whatever you want to call them. We need them. I am a firm believer that you need those on both political ends, even (or maybe more so) the ones you disagree with and want to hate. It would be boring without them. Your arguments wouldn’t be as well honed. Think about it at its core: You can’t have a left without a right. And you can’t have a center without both.
“What’s up, Luce? I got a big date with my hot waitress….” Lonnie spotted me and his voice sort of faded away. “Who’s this?”
Lucy was still looking out the window.
“And why are we in Professor Mitnick’s office?”
“I’m Paul Copeland,” I said.
I stuck out my hand. He shook it.
“Whoa,” Lonnie said. “You’re the guy in the story, right? Mr. P or whatever. I mean, I read about the case online and…”
“Yes, Lucy filled me in on your amateur sleuthing. As you probably know, I have some pretty good sleuths—professional investigators, actually—who work for me.”
He let go of my hand.
“Anything you want to share with us?” I said.
“What are you talking about?”
“You were right, by the way. The e-mail did come from the Frost Library bank of computers at six forty-two P.M. But Sylvia Potter wasn’t there between six and seven P.M.”
He started backing away.
“You were, Lonnie.”
He put on the crooked smile and shook his head. Buying time. “That’s a bunch of crap. Hey, wait a second here….” The smile fled as he faked shock and offense. “C’mon, Luce, you can’t believe that I…”
Lucy finally turned toward him. She didn’t say anything.
Lonnie pointed at me. “You don’t believe this guy, do you? He’s…”
“I’m what?”
No reply. Lucy just stared at him. She didn’t say a word. She just stared until he started to wither. Lonnie eventually collapsed into the chair.
“Damn,” he said.
We waited. He hung his head.
“You don’t understand.”
“Tell us,” I said.
He looked up at Lucy. “You really trust this guy?”
“A lot more than I trust you,” she said.
“I wouldn’t. He’s bad news, Luce.”
“Thanks for the glowing recommendation,” I said. “Now why did you send Lucy those journals?”
He started fiddling with an earring. “I don’t have to tell you a thing.”
“Sure you do,” I said. “I’m the county prosecutor.”
“So?”