Seconds, then minutes passed. Jocelyn could tell because she could hear the ticking of the wall clock above the table. She thought about how in the last month, the ambient noise she usually heard was Knox’s oxygen tank. Now he was gone.
Trent pushed his legal pad over to her. “First, your statement,” he said. “Then I’ll get Cash up here and tell him you killed his wife.”
Chapter 42
November 18, 2014
Trent had Cash brought back up from the holding area. He’d been processed but not transferred. He would be arraigned in the morning and transferred to one of the city prisons. He still had on the khakis, sneakers, and blue polo shirt he’d worn the day before. A hint of stubble covered his cheeks. His hair was in disarray, his cheeks puffy. He looked as though he’d been sleeping. This time, Trent was waiting for him in the interrogation room.
Confusion lined Cash’s face. “It’s the middle of the night. What’s going on?”
Trent motioned to a chair. “Please. Sit.”
Cash rubbed his wrists as he took a seat. Trent didn’t wait any longer. He launched right into the news. “Mr. Rigo, I’m afraid I have some very bad news.”
Cash laughed drily. “Worse than me going to prison for the rest of my life?”
Trent didn’t respond right away. He squeezed the bridge of his nose before facing Cash again. “Your wife is dead.”
The smile froze on Cash’s face, almost as if he was operated by remote control and someone had hit pause.
“Mr. Rigo?” Trent said. “Did you hear me? Your wife, Francine, is dead. I’m very sorry.”
It was the approach Jocelyn favored, ripping off the bandage quickly. Dragging out bad news never changed the nature of it.
Finally, Cash said, “What? What are you talking about?”
“Late last night, a man—a former homicide detective—went to your home. His name was Augustus Knox. He worked Sydney’s original case.”
“I remember him,” Cash said. “Why are you telling me this? Did he kill my wife?”
Jocelyn’s stomach clenched. Up to that point, she had felt nothing, no guilt whatsoever about having ended Francine’s life. Francine was a monster. She had orchestrated the deaths of two young, smart, vibrant women. Who knows what they might have contributed to the world if given a chance. Two families had been destroyed. And that was the tip of the iceberg. She had faked her own rape, intentionally brought on the miscarriages of her own children, and poisoned people. She had killed Knox. The things Francine had done were unforgiveable, and Jocelyn wasn’t the forgiving type to begin with. She accepted that bad things—terrible, horrific things—happened in the world but in her mind, certain things could simply not be forgiven. Ever. Certain people, like Francine, were so devoid of humanity that they didn’t deserve forgiveness, or sympathy, or whatever you wanted to call it. Jocelyn had no feelings of warmth for a person like Francine.
But here was her husband. Jocelyn didn’t have a high opinion of Cash either, but in some ways, he’d been duped just as grandly as everyone else Francine had come across in her lifetime. Jocelyn felt a kernel of sympathy for the man until she remembered him confessing to his inappropriate sexual encounter with Sydney. She waited for the guilt to hit her or creep up on her, but there was nothing.
“No,” Trent said. “Knox did not kill her. Your wife invited him in for coffee. She poisoned him. We’re not sure what she used, but we know it was in the coffee—or on the mug that she gave him. Toxicology will take several weeks. He called Ms. Rush, who came to his aid. Your wife attempted to shoot Ms. Rush, at which point Ms. Rush shot her. She was shot in the chest. She died on the scene.”
For a long, pregnant moment, Cash stared at Trent, his expression morphing from puzzled shock to disbelief. Then he burst into laughter. Great, loud belly laughter. He doubled over, holding his stomach, laughing until tears ran down his cheeks. Trent put a hand on Rigo’s shoulder. “Mr. Rigo, this is serious. Your wife was shot and killed in your home last night.”
Cash sat up and wiped the tears from his face. He shook his head. “I don’t believe you. My wife hated guns. You said she shot at someone? She would never have a gun in our house.”
“But she did, Mr. Rigo. She’d been keeping it with her wedding dress.”
Cash shook his head, incredulous. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do here—if you want me to confess to something else I didn’t—I mean to something else, but you’ve gotten everything out of me that you’re going to get. In fact, I think I probably should get a lawyer now that you’re making such outlandish claims.”
“You do need a lawyer, Mr. Rigo. You’ve been charged with first degree murder. Your wife suggested to Mr. Knox that your confession was false. If that’s true, you will need a good lawyer to get the charges dropped.”
“Get them dropped? You just said that my wife told you my confession was bullshit. If I say it is too, you can just drop them, right?”
“It’s not that simple. You confessed. Your wife, before she died, didn’t say you were innocent. She implied it. She gave us nothing to go on before she was killed. This doesn’t exonerate you.”
Cash ran a hand through his hair and laughed again. “Why are we even having this conversation? What are you trying to pull? My wife is not dead.”
Trent squeezed the bridge of his nose again. He sighed heavily and picked his phone up from the table. His movements were slow, as though his body was weighed down with exhaustion and grief. She knew he hadn’t yet had time to process Knox’s death. He scrolled and then handed Cash the phone. In the transfer, Jocelyn saw that it was a photo of Francine’s body from the neck up taken at the scene. “Is this your wife?”
Cash stared at the photo for a long time. His hands trembled. The shaking made its way from his hands to his shoulders until his chair creaked beneath him. Gently, Trent reached over and took the phone from Cash’s hands. The man kept staring at his hands, at the empty space where the phone had been. “Oh my God, Francine. Francine!”
He howled her name over and over, holding his empty palms upward as though he was waiting for something. Trent left him there. A moment later, he met Jocelyn in the room she’d been watching from, the same room she and Knox had been in just hours earlier.
“Well, that didn’t go well,” Trent said.
“He’s in shock.” She pointed at the television screen where they could see Cash rocking back and forth in his chair, weeping into his open hands, his howls piercing in the confines of the tiny room.
Trent nodded. “I’m going to have to get him some medical attention if he doesn’t calm down.”
“She’s controlled nearly all of his adult life. He confessed to murder for her. Her being killed is not something he’s prepared to deal with.” Jocelyn said. “You could make the charges go away, you know. We both know he didn’t kill Sydney.”
“He confessed, Rush. Besides, when he comes out of this we might need his help identifying Francine’s associates. We may need leverage in the future. This guy fucked around with underage girls, students. He admitted to it, but I can’t do dick about it because the statute has run on any rape charges we could have slapped him with. Fuck him. I’m not doing him any favors.”
Jocelyn wasn’t the only person who had trouble with forgiveness.