They followed him up the stone steps. A few people had gathered along the fence at the top, probably to watch her and Trent tumble into the creek. As the three of them reached the car, the onlookers dispersed. Trent unlocked the door and fished his wallet out from under the driver’s seat. From it, he pulled an old photo. It looked even older than the ones Knox had found in Sydney’s room. On closer inspection, Jocelyn realized it was a color copy of an old photo that Trent had laminated. It showed a room with mustard yellow walls and a heavy wooden dining room table with four chairs pushed up against it. In front of the table, an ironing board lay on its side. Next to that was a drinking glass, also on its side, its contents making a darkened blotch on the pea green carpet. A crumpled garment lay next to it. On the table was a pile of folded clothes, a floral centerpiece, a bottle of spray starch, what looked like a pile of unopened mail, and an empty drinking glass.
“That’s an old crime scene photo,” Kevin said, looking at it over Jocelyn’s shoulder.
Trent explained, “That was taken the day of my mother’s murder in 1981. While my brothers and I were at school and my dad was at work, someone entered the house where my mother was ironing my dad’s clothes. The killer beat her in the head with the iron and strangled her to death with the cord. The case was unsolved until 2002. Knox was still on the force then, still sober most days.”
Trent talked about it in a detached way. Clinical. Like it was just another case—one of the hundreds the Homicide Unit saw every year. Jocelyn wondered how long it had taken him to get to that point. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Thanks.” He pointed to the table in the photo. “Knox solved this case on this photo.”
Jocelyn bit her lip and studied the photo again. She felt like she was playing Spot the Difference. Her eyes kept coming back to the empty glass on the table. “The drinking glass,” she said. “She knew the killer. Invited him in—offered him a drink.”
Trent nodded.
“Did they print the glass?”
“Wiped clean, like everything else. There was never any sign of forced entry, so we knew she let the killer in, but no one could figure out who it was. Knox said she would only offer a drink to someone she knew well. Someone she had business with.”
“Business?”
“Yeah. Whoever it was came to talk. Otherwise, they would never have had drinks. Whatever they talked about didn’t go so well.”
Jocelyn gave a slow nod. “So what kind of drama was your mom dealing with in her life at that time?”
Trent raised his index finger in the air as if he’d just had a brilliant idea. “Right!” he exclaimed. “My mom’s best friend lived three doors down. Her husband used to beat the shit out of her. Two weeks before her murder, my mom called 911 after one of their disputes made its way into the street.”
“But the wife wouldn’t press charges,” Kevin put in.
“Exactly. The husband paid my mom a visit. Told her to butt out. My mom—she wasn’t the type to be pushed around.” His eyes shone with equal measures of pride and grief.
“So the husband killed her, but how did he get away with it for so long?” Kevin asked.
“The wife was his alibi. Said he came home for lunch that day and that he was with her the whole time. She killed herself a few months after my mom died. Took her secret to the grave.”
“So how’d you find out who it was?” Jocelyn asked.
“The husband was in prison for something else. Life without parole.”
“LWOP,” Jocelyn said. “How about that?”
Trent couldn’t help but smile. “Yep. Knox took me in, got a full confession from the guy.”
“That’s one hell of a story,” Kevin said.
“Sure is,” Trent agreed. “So, you see, if Knox says Cash Rigo did it, then I believe him.”
Jocelyn folded her arms across her chest. “Okay. Fair enough. But I’ve been over the file, and there’s nothing in it that’s going to put Rigo away.”
“True.”
“And those photos—the flirty ones—they will not get him off the street.”
“Also true.”
“We need a confession.”
He remained still, appraising her, a smile in his eyes, one part appreciation, one part incredulity. Kevin’s face remained impassive.
Jocelyn forged ahead. “I need you to go on television and tell the world that you’ve come across new evidence, that the case is active again and that the Philadelphia Homicide Unit is pursuing this new, promising lead.”
Trent burst into laughter. She could see him trying to hold it in as she spoke, but once she had finished, he lost it. He had a good belly laugh, his body curling slightly. Finally, he composed himself, folding his photo carefully and putting it back into his wallet. “Are you out of your mind?”
She put her hands on her hips. “Do you want to close this case?” He didn’t respond so she said, “Do you want to help Knox?”
The last vestiges of laughter left his face. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll go on TV and lie.”
“It won’t be a lie,” Jocelyn said. “We’re going to put the pressure on this fucker and get a confession. Just like your mom’s killer.”
Trent frowned. “Rush, you’re not getting a confession from this guy. He has shit to lose. He doesn’t have an LWOP.”
Kevin scoffed, pushing his way between Trent and Jocelyn to lean against the car. “He’s married, isn’t he?”
Jocelyn laughed. “We can do it,” she assured Trent.
He gave her a skeptical look. “We?”
She smiled. “I need you there as a figurehead. The threat of actual police and all that.”
“Okay, assuming I can get approval from my captain to re-open this case, where do we start?”
“Do you know any reporters?”
Chapter 11
October 20, 2014
When Jocelyn got to work on Monday, Knox was already there. He sat at the conference room table, which made him look small and frail, like a child sitting at the big people’s table. His skin seemed sallower than when she had seen him the week before. Anita moved around him, unpacking the rest of the materials he had brought them concerning Sydney Adams’ case and tacking up various items along their “case wall,” which was the area that Jocelyn had designated for posting important documents or photos, timelines or theories on their big cases.
It had never been used.
This was their first big case, their first real case that didn’t involve serving someone with a civil complaint or subpoena, or surveilling cheating spouses and workers’ compensation claimants. Even though cheating spouses and workers’ compensation claimants had kept them in business so far, Jocelyn was happy to have something else to do.
Knox didn’t look up when Jocelyn entered the room. As she got closer, she realized that he was asleep. His chin was bent to his chest. The portable oxygen tank beside him hummed steadily. Jocelyn tapped him lightly on the shoulder. He startled awake, looking around wild-eyed, his hands flying up in front of him, curled into fists like a boxer ready for the first round. Jocelyn could smell the booze on him. She leaned down and peered into his eyes, a smile on her face. “If you hit me—even by accident—I will hit you back.”
He blinked several times, his jaundiced eyes coming into focus. He smiled back sheepishly, a flush coloring his cheeks. “I—I’m sorry,” he stammered. “Sometimes I wake up swinging, especially when I’m—” he trailed off, looking down at the table.