By now you must realize that I had put myself in quite the bind. I was investigating a case for a client whom I had feelings for. Deeper feelings than even I wanted to admit. But I couldn't dwell on them. Not if I wanted to solve the case. So I did my best to concentrate on the facts at hand. It was the best thing I could do for Gwen. She deserved the truth, and I had a feeling I was close to revealing it. Still on my agenda was talking to the new addition to the Sanford household, Miss Vera Walters. And the matter of the sole witness to the scene of the accident, Carter Matthews. These were two individuals who could help me solve the case. It was imperative therefore that I speak to both of them right away...
Early that morning, I woke up with a smile on my face for the first time in ages. I guess I was still thinking about the day I'd had yesterday, the day Gwen Sanford. Truthfully I hadn't been able to get my mind off of her. She'd even inhabited my dreams. I couldn't explain the hold she had on me, but just the memory of us dancing in the parlour, of our sudden kiss, was enough to warm me to my toes. Was that the reason for my particular determination to solve this case? Was it the reason I awoke this morning eager to get right to work? Or was the true reasin for my eagerness my desire to spend more time with Gwen? I'd never had to deal with such thoughts before. The life of a private investigator is often a lonely one. I meet with my clients, they tell me their story, what they want me to do, and I do it. I sympathise with them over the course of my work, get to know them. But as soon as the case is over, we move on. I've seen this song and dance play out enough to be wary of any close connections. In the rational part of my mind, I knew that the more likely scenario was that Miss Sanford was a woman dealing with the traumatic death of her father, and I had just happened to be her shoulder to lean on. One day soon she would realize this, and then our relationship would inevitably return to that of investigator and client, with the additional knowledge that I had taken advantage of her in her fragile state. I sighed. My good mood from earlier had disappeared.
Sadly, as is often the case with such things, particularly in my line of work, good moods don't last long. Your mind eventually drifts back into that dark, cynical corner that has to be operating at all times if you're going to survive on these streets. It didn't take my mind long to once again begin contemplating the enormity of the task before me. I had no team of detectives. It was just me and Gwen. I had a long day ahead if I was going to make any progress on the case. Top of the agenda would be to pay a visit to this witness, Carter Matthews. Then, I would return to Long Island to check in on Gwen and to see if Miss Walters was in.
I changed into a suit that I found myself hoping flattered my appearance in anticipation of meeting Gwen later, then I was off. I turned on the radio and left it on the news, hoping there might be some useful imformation gathered by the media. Unfortunately the news report came and went without a whisper of a mention of the Sanford incident. For something so recent, it had completely fallen out of the news cycle. I realized that the police had done a masterful job of totally shutting down any sort of inquiry from even the most ardent of journalists. It seemed I was the only one interested in getting answers, and in my experience, that was a dangerous position to be in. I couldn't help it though. The more I thought about it, the more it just didn't add up. The evidence clearly seemed to indicate problems with the official explanation. The police knew it, so why would they want to cover it up? I just didn't understand it. All I could hope for was that I would receive more answers soon.
My mind was in the clouds during the whole drive. If not for my intimate knowledge of the streets of the city from countless hours of case work, I certainly would have gotten lost. The file on Carter Matthews had listed his address as 25 Calvin Way, a little more than a football field's length from the dead end road where Sanford had met his demise. In an eerie sense or irony, to get there, I found myself driving almost the exact same route that Alistair Burton had claimed they driven on that fateful day. It was the most surreal sensation, to know that I would soon be within feet of the scene of a possible murder, and my already muddled thoughts were now further burdened with this daunting knowledge. After about half an hour, I began to notice the signs of civilization being swallowed by the great outdoors. Buildings became less frequent, houses only periodically dotted the landscape, and these being more akin to farms with massive plots of land. I practically had the road to myself. I was wading into uncharted waters now, beyond the relative safety of the Sanford estate into the vast New York backcountry. With its gorgeous and secluded scenery, it was well known as an ideal area for a hikers, campers, and star gazers...but these same qualities also made it a great place to commit the perfect murder.
Several minutes later, I passed by a long scenic road that led into the woods, and to a dead end several hundred yards further ahead. I instinctively tapped om the brakes. This was it, I thought. This was the place where it all happened. Where Stephen Sanford breathed his last. And off to the left and beyond the treeline stood a modest home overlooking it all. This was the house I had been looking for. Within minutes I would be face-to-face with one of the only people who could perhaps give me a firsthand account of what happened that day.
Now I'd interrogated plenty of witnesses before. It wasn't a foreign art to me. And over the years, I'd acquired the ability to tell what kind of a witness I was dealing with in a very short time after meeting them. There were the Cooperators, those whose consciences compelled them to tell the truth right away, even if it was ultimately to their detriment. In my experience, these witnesses were the rarest. Then there were the Pleaders, meaning pleading the fifth, refusing to speak at all. Most witnesses in white-collar crimes, those well-to-do members of society, were Pleaders. They knew well enough to know that their lawyers would advise them to keep their mouths shut to avoid incrimination, even if they were completely innocent.
Between these two extremes were two other groups that most witnesses fell into. One was the Bargainers. These were people who had information and more or less held it hostage in exchange for something, usually legal immunity. The other was the Obfuscators. They also had critical information, but unlike the Bargainers, they had no intention of assisting the investigation in any way. Whether out of an honest, misguided sense of loyalty to the accused, or out of self -preservation to avoid being brought to justice for their own involvement, these witnesses would lie, obstruct, and generally do whatever they could to derail the investigation. The question I was facing now was what sort of witness Carter Matthews would be.
A minute or so after passing the abandoned road, I pulled into a long gravel driveway that led straight to the home. I glanced over at the mailbox as I passed, making note of the address: 25 Calvin Way, I was undoubtedly in the right place. As I slowed to stop, I got a better view of Matthews' home. It was certainly a far cry from the Sanford Estate. Just a single floor, a sturdy wooden frame that was likely erected in the late 1800s, no decorations of frills to speak of. It wasn't quite a log cabin, but it wasn't a far cry. The town houses in working-class Manhattan were palaces in comparison. A picture emerged in my mind of Carter Matthews as a loner who spent his days hiking in the peaceful countryside, content with himself and his thoughts, and in that moment, I felt terribly for him. Just another poor soul caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. This did give me some hope that Matthews might be the rare case of a Cooperator, but I also knew that his account of the events on that day was demonstrably false, and there no way to tell just how he would react when I confronted him with this fact.
As I disembarked from my car, I threw on a coat to combat the chilly breeze and made sure to bring my revolver just in case the need should arise, tucking it into a pocket on the inside of the coat. I also made sure to bring my briefcase, into which I had packed evidence to confront Matthews with. As I walked those few but consequential steps from the driveway to the front door however, my thoughts couldn't help but wander back to Gwen. I didn't like the idea of leaving her alone with Graham Godwin now that I suspected he was possibly involved in the death of her father, but she had insisted she was more than capable of protecting herself. Besides, I had rationalized, there was still no concrete evidence pinning the crime on Godwin. He had come across as a perfectly upstanding gentleman. In any event, it wouldn't have done to bring her along for this part of the investigation. She was too easily recognized. Matthews would've clammed up right away. It would be up to me to pry loose whatever I could get. Yet as much as I tried, I simply could not make that worry vanish. My heart was still with her, my mind still replaying our kiss in the parlour. I knew it was a mistake. All of it was wrong, it went against the code by which all private investigators were expected to operate. I'd been foolish, allowing my emotions to rule my rational mind. So why didn't I feel remorse for it? Why was it that all I wanted was to kiss her again, to spend time with her in a setting that did not involve such solemn matters? This was the wrong time to start longing for something I could never have, so with all my mental fortitude, I forced myself to take the final steps to the door and knock.
Several anxious seconds ticked by. I looked around and realized that there was no car. Perhaps he didn't have one. Or maybe he was not home. Or...I didn't even want to consider the darker alternatives, but they weren't completely unreasonable. After all, it wouldn't be the first time a witness had been silenced. But to have it happen now would have dealt a serious blow to my investigation. Fortunately, just as I had begun to entertain these thoughts, I heard the lock jiggle from the other side of the door, and then it opened to reveal a plain looking fellow in his thirties with a lanky frame and a messy tussle of sandy brown hair. He appeared startled at first to see me, even flinching, almost as if he had been expecting someone else. But it appeared whatever he had been fearing had not come to pass, and his facial expression quickly reverted to that of a typical host.
"How can I help you, mister?"
I decided to simply play along with his nonchalant demeanor, it was better for him to think of me as harmless so he would let his guard down.
"Hello sir, I'm Ray Allison. I'd like to discuss something with you."
"Allison...Allison..." Matthews pondered briefly. "Can't say I recognize the name. You don't live around here, do you?"
"No sir, I'm from Manhattan."
"Ah, well that explains it, huh? I don't suppose you're here to sell me insurance or somethin'. I don't really like entertainin' city fellas like you, if you don't mind me saying."
"I assure you, it's quite important. May I know your name?"
"Sure thing. Carter Matthews," he replied easily, confirming what I was already certain of, although the breezy tone was starting to take on a growing undercurrent of anxiety. I needed to make my move quickly before he shut down on me.
"Can I come in, Mr. Matthews?"
"Suit yourself, pal," Matthews replied, turning his back to me and walking towards his living room, allowing me to follow.
The home of Carter Matthews was just as unremarkable on the inside as on the outside. To the right, there was a small, cluttered kitchen with a window looking out on the front of the property. Even at a glance, I noticed immediately that a portion of the glass window was missing, and in its place a sizeable hole with cracks running outward from it. It was the telltale sign of a bullet. The only other significant part of the room was a small dining table that stood directly across from the window. I had no way of knowing, of course, whether this was significant, or completely unrelated to the case. The mystery was only deepening. The list of questions to ask growing.
I decided it would be best bring this up later, and continued to follow Matthews to a living room with a couple of worn armchairs separated by a coffee table, and overlooking them all, a simple fireplace with a mantle. The mantle itself was adorned with a photo of what looked like a younger, happier Matthews standing next to a woman holding a baby. I found myself almost entranced, for the man in that photo looked like a completely different person than the one I was now just feet away from. He seemed vibrant, full of life, ready for great things. I wondered just what could have happened to turn him into a lonely backcountry recluse.
"Well, go ahead and have a seat, mister Allison," Matthews said, pulling me back from the thoughts I'd been having. He was gesturing towards one of the chairs, to which I obliged. I placed my briefcase on the floor beside me so it would appear less conspicuous.
"Care for a cup of Joe, pal?" Matthews asked casually. He seemed eager to get into the kitchen, although for what purpose I couldn't be sure. Maybe he was being genuine. Or, as I suspected, it could be a stall tactic. The only thing I was certain of was that I couldn't let him out of my sight for a moment.
"No thanks, I'm fine. I need to discuss an urgent matter with you, Mr. Matthews."
Matthews reluctantly took a seat. "All right then, what is this urgent matter, pal? I was having a perfectly fine day till you came along."
"I'm going to be honest with you, Mr. Matthews, I'm a private investigator, operating for my own independent office. People come to me when the police aren't up to the task. And speaking of which, I'm here to discuss something that happened recently, something that you saw. July 20th, 1947. You remember that date well, don't you?"
I knew my words had made the desired impact, for Mr. Matthews' facade of confidence was showing some subtle, but noticeable, cracks. His hands fidgeted nervously, and he would often not meet my gaze directly. Even so, I sensed he wasn't panicked, not yet. That was good. I needed him to keep talking.
"A private investigator huh? Who put you up to this? NYPD? Did they send you here?"
"Not quite. I've been hired by someone very close to the victim. And I know based on the information from the police investigation that you were there. You saw the crash, isn't that right, Mr. Matthews?"
I was content to let him think that I still believed the official explanation, that it was a suicide with no further criminal implications. I had to let Matthews think that he was still in control of this conversation. Matthews seemed to mull over his options for several anxious moments. Of course he could've just told me to get out, but we both knew that would only raise suspicion. I was betting on him trying to talk his way out of this, and moments later that bet paid off. Matthews ran a hand through his hair and heaved a defeated sigh.
"Yeah I saw it. I was takin' a walk that morning, just going to check my mail, when out of the blue, here comes this nice big-city car driving down a dead end road. Suddenly, it swerved, and started speeding up. I couldn't look away. And that's when I saw who was driving, just before impact."
"And who was driving, Mr. Matthews?" I inquired pointedly, knowing we were reaching a critical point in the interrogation.
"Well I didn't get much of a look at him, but it was enough. Even a bum like me knows what Steve Sanford looks like."
"You say Sanford was driving the car when it crashed? How certain are you?"
"Without a shadow doubt, mister. Old Man Sanford drove that car into the tree."
"And the time? What time was it?"
"I checked my watch when it happened. It was around one thirty."
So there it was, I'd pinned Carter Matthews down on his story. It turned out he'd essentially stuck to his original account. He had no idea of what I had uncovered. With the evidence I had, it wouldn't be difficult now to prove he was lying. The only thing that troubled me was that if he was in on this somehow, then my own life might be in danger. My hand subconsciously moved back a bit closer to the pocket where I had hidden my revolver. The cold steel seemed to ignore all layers below it, chilling me straight to the bone. I hoped it would not come to that, but I was determined to do whatever it took...
"One last thing, Mr. Matthews, then I'll leave you be."
I noticed his features relax considerably as he ever so slightly leaned back in his chair. He must've thought he was in the clear by now. I reached down for my briefcase, keeping my eyes locked on Matthews the entire time to ensure he wouldn't try anything. I placed the briefcase on the coffee table and popped it open. Matthews seemed unconcerned at first, but this changed when I emerged with a thin manilla folder and flipped it open, revealing several photos of the scene, as well as reports from individual police officers who had actually been present at the scene from the police file, and the documents from Graham Godwin's drawer. Carter Matthews' face turned as cold and deathly pale as that of a shell-shock victim just returning from the front lines of war. He had to know now that his story had beem sunk.
"Mr. Matthews, you've told a very believable story. It was believable enough to convince the NYPD. Or maybe it wasn't that it convinced them, maybe it was that you had some help-"
His eyes were the the first sign that something was amiss. He was no longer looking at me, but off into the distance, as if pondering a life-altering decision, wondering if it was worth it. Then those eyes narrowed sharply into focus again, he'd made his choice. Suddenly Matthews bent over and reached for something under his chair. I hadn't even thought to check that the room was clear of any possible weapons beforehand. It was an oversight that might cost me my life. For all of this was occurring in milliseconds, and I had my own split second choice. I didn't hesitate. I drew my revolver from my coat and pointed the barrel squarely at the treacherous witness.
"That's quite enough, Mr. Matthews!" I barked, and I pulled the hammer back to make sure he heard me loud and clear. His hand stopped just inches away from what he had been about to grab. He dropped his hand limply in defeat and slowly lifted his face, looking up at me with abject terror in his eyes. I almost felt bad for him again, but that was tempered with the knowledge that he would have killed me in a heartbeat if I'd given him the chance.
"Go on, pass it over," I ordered, standing up while keeping my gun trained on him.
He seemed reluctant, so I repeated myself, more forcefully. "I don't have all day, Mr. Matthews!"
Finally, he reached just a tad bit further than he had done the first time, and from the shadows of beneath the chair emerged a Colt .45. It was the same type and caliber of gun that Sanford had given Gwen, I noted. Although this seemed a strange time to make note of such a connection. In any event, Matthews slid the gun over to me, and I picked it up. It looked like an ordinary handgun. But of course I had by now learned that nothing in this case was ordinary.
"Where did you get this?" I asked, holding the gun up.
Matthews shook his head. "It's mine, I bought it for myself."
I brushed aside his explanation. He had long lost any degree of credibility with me. "And it just happened to be under that chair, on the day I came to visit unannounced, did it? You're lucky I didn't shoot you myself, but I need you alive. Now you and I are going to look at this evidence, and at the end, you're going to tell me the truth about what happened that day. And if you do, we'll both be better off for it."
I watched Matthews intently, making sure he didn't have any other tricks up his sleeve. He seemed utterly defeated this time. I could see him struggling not to break down in front of me. Although I was being harsh on him now, the truth was I highly doubted Matthews was a serious player in the grand scheme of things. He didn't have the air of a hardened criminal about him. I did believe he had somehow been manipulated or blackmailed into going along with whoever was responsible. They were the ones I was after, not Carter Matthews. He would be an invaluable ally if I could convert him to my side, but first I had to convince him that he was helping the wrong people.
"Listen Mr. Matthews, I didn't come here to give you a hard time. I came because a daughter has lost her father, and she needs to know the truth. You know part of the truth, and I need your help to get the rest. This isn't your fight. The people who did this don't give a damn about you. They'll kill you just as easily as they killed Sanford. All I ask is for you to do the right thing."
Matthews crossed his arms, but I could tell that the defiance was only superficial. The fight had gone out of him very quickly, as would be expected of a minor accomplice.
"All right, mister, I'm listening. Make your case."
Even though he knew he'd been caught in a lie, he still wanted to see the evidence. Perhaps to know that I was serious and not just a phony investigator. This suited me just fine. I wanted him to see it. Maybe it would finally give him the push he needed to drop the act. So I picked up the first photo, in the distance was the smoking, burned out metal frame of what had once been the car, still in the exact spot where it had purportedly crashed. But more importantly, this photo showed the condition of the road leading up the accident. I showed it to Matthews.
"Look closely at this photograph, Mr. Matthews. The scene of a supposedly violent crash, and yet, no signs of disturbance in the road. No skid marks whatsoever. That's because there was no crash, was there? You didn't see it because it didn't happen."
"Suppose it wasn't a crash," Matthews retorted. "Then what was it? How do you explain the condition of the car?"
"That's quite simple." I drew another document, this was a police report of the cause of the car fire. It had obviously been buried by Chief Pirelli or the death of Stephen Sanford would have been seen in a very different light. I again showed it to Matthews, allowing him to read the damning conclusion himself. It was a far cry from the official line from Pirelli and his top lieutenants.
"This report was made after a thorough investigation of the vehicle. Do you know what they found, Mr. Matthews? It's rather more what they smelled: an accelerant. Namely, gasoline. The car was deliberately set on fire to make it look like a crash. It was all a set up, a staged scene. Somebody wanted to make it look like Sanford took his own life. It was the perfect plan at the opportune moment. Sanford was down on his luck, the company was going through a difficult stretch. Suicide seemed believable, and many people did believe it. But Gwen didn't. And I don't."
"Okay, pal, so let's say I agree with you that it was all staged, a set up to throw everyone off the trail. Who did this? Why would they want to kill him?"
I nodded, now we were getting somehere. I still had the strongest potential piece of evidence in reserve, and now I would use it to drive the final nail in the coffin of Matthews' story. At this point, I produced the letter and check that had been found in Graham Godwin's drawer. The letter, which insinuated a payment made in exchange for tying up a "loose end", signed by a single initial, a mystery person who was only identified as "T". Then the check, written to Graham Godwin and signed by the very same "T".
"Take a look, Mr. Matthews. These items should make the connection easy enough to see. A loose end tied up, a payment to one of the three men supposedly in the car made by the second, mere days after the death of the third. Someone wanted Stephen Sanford dead, and they were willing to pay to do it."
Matthews now looked as pale as ghost, and he was visibly shaking, clutching the armrests of his chair as if his life depended on it. This was not the normal apprehension of being caught in the act, this was something deeper. His fear was not of me, not of justice, it was of something else. Something far more powerful, expansive, and sinister. In other words, it was the missing piece of this puzzle. He was sweating profusely as he began to speak again with renewed alarm.
"Listen up, mister, I've sat here and listened long enough. this isn't something you should be gettin' mixed up in!"
I arched my eyebrows as I raised my gun slightly to remind him of its presence. "With all respect, Mr. Matthews, you're not in any position to negotiate right now. I need the whole truth now. There's something more to this, isn't there? This "T" is the key to what really happened that day. He worked with Alistair Burton, or maybe they're one and the same. He set this up. But he didn't act alone. He had help. There was a conspiracy to kill Stephen Sanford. Tell me I'm wrong, Mr. Matthews."
"You have no idea what you're up against, pal," Matthews shot back with a quivering voice. "If you were any kinda smart, you'd go home and forget you ever saw me. You'll get us both killed!"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Matthews, I simply cannot do that. I made a promise, and I intend to keep it."
Matthews sighed, and he now seemed on the verge of tears. I could tell I'd struck a sensitive nerve. "I made a promise too, you know. I promised my family I'd keep them safe. That they wouldn't suffer for my sins..."
"The woman in the photograph?" I asked, gesturing to the picture on the mantle.
"My wife. Her name was Joanna. And the little girl she's holding? That was my daughter, Elaine."
Was, he had said. I had a feeling before he'd said anything that I knew what had happened to them, and it made me sick to my stomach, but I wanted to hear what Matthews had to say.
"We were happy, you know? We were young, in love, on top of the world. I had a desk job in Manhattan that made a decent living. As soon as we got married, we were able to get our own town house, and soon after that, we had a child. It was a family...we were a family. If I wouldn't have been a damm fool and thrown it all away..."
"Hold on," I said, and I took something else from the briefcase, a tape recorder. I set it on the table and began recording our conversation.
"All right Mr. Matthews. I'm not an unreasonable man. So tell me. What happened? How does a well-to-do family man such as yourself get involved in this?"
"It's the same damn story every time, ain't it?" Matthews quipped bitterly. "We had a comfortable life, Joanna, Elaine and I. We had everything we needed or wanted. Then, one day, the news splashes all over the papers: a group of high-level suits in my company have been arrested for money laundering. Then it comes out that they had help from their employees, who were offered bribes in exchange for their compliance, so everyone in those departments who had even the slightest possible connection gets the axe, including me. Of course I was innocent, as were many of those poor souls whose livelihoods were choked off in an instant, but that didn't do us a lick of good. Within a few months, the company was history, drowned in its own corruption. I had a family, a young daughter. Without that job, our income plummeted, and so did our status. I had to take on odd jobs until I could find something permanent. But it turns out no reputable company wants to hire an accused money launderer."
I was mesmerized by his story. It was the tragedy of a man who had been forced into a life of crime. And yet, I had a feeling that the worst was yet to come...
"What did you do?"
"It was a complete accident. I had no idea what I was walking into. I had taken a job working a ferry from Manhattan to Long Island. One day, just as I'm about to get on, this guy approaches me and asks me if I would like to get paid ten times what they're payin' me now. Of course, havin' a young family and in dire financial straits, I jumped at the chance. All I had to do was deliver a sealed envelope to 1662 Seagrove Lane, Long Island. I wasn't to open it under any circumstances, and I didn't, thinking it was just some off-brand mail courier service. Hell, for all I knew, I was delivering this guy love letters from his mistress. I didn't care as long as I got paid. And so I did it again, and again, until it became a regular occurrence, just another job. But over time, I got curious, and you know what they say about curiousity. I should've listened to my better judgement, but I figured a small peek wouldn't hurt..."
I nodded for Matthews to go on. This was an all too familiar tale for me having worked the streets of this crime-ridden city. Plenty of these so-called hardened criminals were actually just like Matthews, men of respectable backgrounds who'd taken one small step out of desperation, only to be swallowed whole...
"So one day, while I on the ferry, I carefully open the envelope and slip the piece of paper in my hand. At first it didn't look like anything but a list of names. Some were even guys I knew, who like me had been laid off and branded outcasts of society. Then I noticed the X's by some of the names, and the signature at the bottom, a "T". And I faintly recalled reading something in the paper the other day about several of these guys being killed in everything from a mysterious boating accident to a leap from the back of a train, and slowly my mind started to make the connection. This wasn't just any list of names, it was a goddamn hit list. All this time, I'd been helping whoever the hell these people were execute their enemies, or loose ends, or whatever they were. From this moment on, I was complicit in murder."
"Did you call the police?"
"Of course I wanted to. I knew it was the right thing to do. I should've just turned myself in. But the thought of being torn apart from my family, of losing everything, that fear made me stay. So I sealed the envelope back up and continued with my usual business. Yeah, I was assisting in murder. But in my mind I had justified it, I wasn't actually killing nobody. And I was just doing it so my wife and daughter could have the life they deserved. I thought I had covered my tracks well. Nobody said anything, and for the next few days, I continued my runs as normal. Then one night I came home..."
Matthews stopped, he seemed physically unable to continue speaking for a moment. I couldn't blame him. How many people could sit in his place and describe horror he must have witnessed?
"They killed them...they took them from me," he said quietly, tears glistening in his eyes. "My whole world had just come crashing down. The two people I loved most in the world lay there, gunshots to the head, executed in cold blood. All because of my foolish decision. If I woulda just told that bastard no..."
"You couldn't have known," I tried to console him, but I knew there was nothing I could say that would possibly ease the pain. So far, I had met two people in this case who had suffered a terrible loss. I now also had a suspicion that the same group of people may have been involved in both cases. But there was still one thing I didn't understand. That was how Matthews' prior actions were connected to his actions in this case. In other words, why was his story relevant to the death of Stephen Sanford? I had a feeling I was about to find out.
"But I shoulda known. And then, when I saw the letter on my nightstand, my worst fears were confirmed. The words on that piece of paper have been burned into my memory forever: "Think of this as a down payment for your indiscretion. If you value your own life more than you did your family's, you'll tell the cops it was a botched robbery. And don't think your debt is settled just yet, we'll let you know when we need you again, T."
There it was again, the T. The link between the group that killed both Carter Matthews' family and possibly Stephen Sanford. And if Matthews' case was any indication, they didn't require much motive to carry out a vicious slaying.
"I wasn't the same after that, who would be? I couldn't stay in the city no more, the memories were too painful. I had to get away from it all. So I fled to the backcountry, thinkin' maybe it would all go away. Maybe they would forget about me. Years had passed, it seemed my plan had succeeded. But I was wrong again. They came back to call in their favor, and this time, they wanted me to "witness" the death of a troublesome member of their little club. Apparently they wanted to off Mr. Sanford for an "indiscretion", not unlike my own, and I was to provide cover by tellin' the cops it was a suicide, that I saw it with my own two eyes."
Finally we had gotten to the point where we needed to be. The day of the murder. I was hanging on Matthews' every word now, hoping he could provide me with a clue, anything to go on. Matthews was worn, it was easy to tell that the guilt and shame had been burdening him for years, tormenting him, and now he was finally given a chance to release it. To let the truth be heard. I'd interviewed enough witnesses to recognize that newfound freedom, and I could see that the tension had practically vanished from Matthews.
"The truth is, Mr. Allison, I didn't witness any crash. You were right. There was no crash. There was no suicide. It was murder plain and simple. I can't tell you who did it, or why, or how, seeing as how I was just a lowly bottomfeeder on the totem pole, but I can tell you that every sentence in that police report about the accident is a lie. They killed Old Man Sanford."
"Is there anything else you can tell me about the day of the murder, Mr. Matthews?"
"I'm afraid not...but I can tell you what happened the next day."
I sat up straighter in my chair. This was new information to me. I was intrigued. And I wondered if it might have anything to do with the bullet hole in the kitchen. "Go on," I said gently.
"It started as a normal morning. I'd already done everything the bastards asked of me, I'd told the police my "story", assured them over and over that it was suicide, that I saw it happen. I thought maybe now they would leave me alone. That morning I was going outside for some fresh air when I saw a small package on my doorstep. Curiosity got the best of me again, so I took it in and opened it on the kitchen table. And what did I find? A Colt .45 and another letter. This one said: "Use at your own discretion. Do not tell of your role in this to anybody, or next time, we won't miss."
"We won't miss?" I pondered to myself. It seemed too surreal to be true.
"And almost as I was reading those exact words, I heard the sound of shattering glass, the whizzing of a bullet coming within inches of my face. I looked up in a panic, and I saw the shooter just moments before they took off."
"What did the shooter look like, Mr. Matthews?"
"He...or she, I can't say for sure, was of slight build. Their face was masked, I couldn't identify it. They were agile, and deadly accurate. I knew that shot has missed me on purpose. And I knew..."
I drew a sharp intake of breath I contemplated what Carter Matthews was telling me. He had essentially just confessed to his role in the scheme, and in so doing, had disregarded the warning of this mystery group of criminals who had held him hostage.
"You knew that if you told me this, you would be killed too."
Matthews nodded. "I'm a dead man walking, Mr. Allison. There's nothing that can save me now. But that Sanford girl...she's still got a chance. She deserves justice just as much as Joanna and Elaine. You have to be the one to get them justice, pal. But it won't be easy. You'll need somebody on the inside."
"Do you have any suggestions?"
He paused for a moment. It was as if the realization that his days were numbered had finally liberated him from the self-imposed prison he had locked himself away in. In the space of only several minutes, Carter Matthews had become a changed man.
"Talk to Vera Walters. She'll tell you everythin' you need to know."
Vera Walters
The new maid, the one who had shown up out of the blue a matter of weeks before the death of Stephen Sanford. The one who was now at the Sanford Estate, near another possible co-conspirator, Graham Godwin...and Gwen. A great terror suddenly seized my heart, and all my excuses for not bringing Gwen with me today collapsed like a house of cards. How could I have allowed this to happen? My client in the vicinity of two suspects, vulnerable and alone. Yes she had her gun to protect herself, but that would mean nothing if they ambushed her. My thoughts were a blur. Would she still be alive when I got back? She had to be, she simply had to be. My investigation couldn't have been in vain. I quickly thanked Mr. Matthews for his help and practically flew to the car, stomping on the accelerator as soon as I hit the open road. The clock was ticking. I could only pray that Gwen would hold on just a little while longer.