Mackenzie
“HE DIDN’T KILL HIMSELF,” I insisted as I sat in a cold room of the South Padre police department the following day. I was going on hour number two of their inane questions, and we hadn’t gotten anywhere. All they wanted to talk about was Charlie’s attack on me during my freshman year of college, which resulted in his eventual institutionalization. But he didn’t kill himself and I knew it. I just wondered why this so-called FBI agent refused to look at the actual evidence, dwelling instead on Charlie’s institutionalization as the most poignant piece of information to prove it was suicide.
The longer I sat, Tyler beside me, the more irritated I became. This was not how I expected to be spending our first Thanksgiving together. I had hoped to be sitting with a stomach full of turkey, watching football as I snuggled next to Tyler. Instead, we were stuck at the police department, an incompetent FBI agent hell-bent on trying to convince me Charlie killed himself.
“If he didn’t kill himself, who did?” the overweight agent asked in a thick Spanish accent.
“No lo se. Why don’t you get off your ass and figure it out instead of sitting here asking me who did it? If I knew who killed him, don’t you think I’d tell you?”
“Not if you’re trying to cover for him.”
“For whom?” I asked, my voice growing louder.
“For this man,” the detective said, opening up the manila folder that sat in front of him. He pushed a photo of my father in front of me. On one hand, I was relieved he had finally admitted that Charlie was murdered. On the other, the insinuation my father was the one responsible for his murder was ludicrous. “You are Serafina Galloway, aren’t you?”
I maintained eye contact with Agent Suarez, wondering how he knew who I really was.
“I know all about how you and your mother disappeared after your father attacked the U.S. Embassy in Liberia all those years ago.”
Tyler bolted up from his chair, the fury on his face visible. “Mackenzie, you don’t have to answer any more of these questions. I’ll call my lawyer immediately.”
“No,” I insisted, grabbing Tyler’s hand. When I had gotten the phone call earlier this morning asking if I’d come down to answer a few questions, he begged me to tell them no, that we’d reschedule when he could arrange for his lawyer to be there with me. But I had nothing to hide and I wanted to do everything I could to finally move on from this chapter of my life.
Looking up at him, I said, “I’ve done nothing wrong.” I faced Agent Suarez. “Yes, after my father’s alleged attack on the embassy, my mother and I disappeared. I didn’t know why. All I knew was that I left the only life I had ever known and was forced to hide for years.”
He nodded smugly, pulling another photo out of the file. “And how about these three individuals? Do you know who they are?”
He slid a photo of a happy family across the table. I stared at the old photo of my former neighbors. Emily was enclosed in Harrison’s embrace, when I still knew him as Harrison Mills and before he became Benjamin Collins. In front of them was my best friend, Damian. I traced the contours of his youthful face, wishing I could rewind the clock and go back to that time, that I could warn my father not to go to Liberia.
“Yes. They were my old neighbors. The Mills,” I said finally, shoving the photo back at him.
“And do you know what happened to Emily Mills?”
“It’s Sheperd now, I guess,” I responded. “And she was murdered a few months ago, along with her current husband. I saw it on the news.”
“So you didn’t discuss this with Mr. Montgomery? If you saw it on the news, you must have known the prime suspect in that case was one Charles Patrick Montgomery.”
Tyler slammed his fist on the table, his face red with anger. “Don’t answer that, Mackenzie. This prick has no idea what he’s talking about.”
“Tyler,” I said calmly. “I have nothing to hide. I haven’t done anything wrong, so this prick, as you so aptly called him, can ask me all the questions he wants. He’s not going to find anything, but if he wants to waste his time, so be it.” I returned my attention to Suarez. “Now, you want to know if I discussed the Sheperd’s murder with Charlie… Yes, I did. He called me the night I learned about it and I accused him of the murder.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said he was innocent, just as he did with all the other murders of which he was accused. He said he was being set up.”
“And did you believe him?”
“Truthfully, I didn’t know what to believe. I remember analyzing everything in my head, thinking if the only connection between Charlie and Whitman, the supposed hitman he had hired to kill all those people, was just a web blog and visitor records from Walter Reed, the FBI should work harder at finding some concrete evidence. But when I learned a hair fiber was found, I didn’t know what to believe. I didn’t want to think he was a killer, and I’m still not quite convinced he is…or was.”
“Why?”
“Because I know Charlie,” I insisted through clenched teeth.
“Sometimes the most hardened criminals are those we never suspect, but you do have a point, Miss Galloway.”
“It’s Mrs. Burnham,” I corrected.
“I apologize,” Suarez said. “Mrs. Burnham. As you mentioned, we found a hair fiber of Charlie’s around the bodies of Emily and Lucian Sheperd back in Lafayette. We also found several prints on the door frame and windows, but we disregarded them because it was your old house.”
“Whose prints?” Tyler demanded, his patience waning even more.
“Francis Mackenzie Galloway,” the agent said, a satisfied smile on his face. “Considering that house has sat empty since he was assumed to have died in the attack on the embassy, we didn’t think much of it…until the initial forensics on Charlie’s death came back this morning.”
“And what did you find?” I asked softly.
“Well, it seems your father didn’t really die in that fire, did he? According to our source in Counterintelligence…” He shoved a one-page document across the table. It was the results of the classified investigation into the embassy attack, which named Colonel Francis Mackenzie Galloway as the perpetrator behind that and dozens of other acts of treason. “He’s the one responsible for it. Charlie was the lone survivor, wasn’t he?”
I nodded.
“So doesn’t it make more sense that all those people Charlie’s accused of killing were actually your father’s victims?”
“What?!” I exclaimed, my voice rising. “That’s ridiculous! My father was set up, just like Charlie was!”
“You keep saying that, but you’ve yet to offer any solid proof of who set him up, Mrs. Burnham! I’m just looking at the facts. Proof… Your father traded U.S. military weapons for money, secrets, diamonds.” He became angrier with each word he spoke. “Proof… He’s had an off-shore account for years, and the dates of dozens of large deposits coincide all too conveniently with dates of known deals he made.”
I continued shaking my head, trying to tune out what he was saying. I didn’t want to believe it. I couldn’t.
“Proof… He killed everyone who could have revealed he was still alive, including your mother, his own wife!”
“No, no, no, no, no,” I said, burying my head in my hands.
“Proof… He killed Charlie!”
I shot my head up. “What?”
“Proof, Mrs. Burnham!” he shouted, pushing a report across the table. My eyes scanned the words printed on it, but my brain couldn’t comprehend what I was reading. “Proof… Your father’s gun was used to kill Charlie. Proof… A fingerprint was lifted from the trigger and it matched your father’s. Proof… The same weapon was used to kill Harrison Mills, or Benjamin Collins, whose body was found yesterday by fishermen out in the Gulf of Mexico. Proof… Your father’s prints, along with signs of an intense struggle, were found all over the apartment of Damian Mills, who’s been missing since April! Proof… Your father is a criminal, a traitor! He’s put on an act so long, he may have even begun to believe he’s not the man he truly is, but you don’t have to. You can put a stop to all of this. You keep saying he’s been set up, that you’re trying to find out who did this. Stop fooling yourself, Mrs. Burnham! Your father did it! He did all of it!”