Back to the archived articles. Was there anyone else she could contact? Jane read about Thorley’s armed robbery arrest, and his subsequent parole years later. The testimony, the controversy. Some stuff that appeared to be the sports pages. Maybe they’d been copied wrong? A big article on Sheriff Edward Walsh, made head of the parole board. Maybe he’d have some insight into the guy? But parole records were all confidential, except for the hearings themselves, and they were recorded on mini-cassette tapes that took weeks to obtain. Probably no one even had a machine to play them anymore. Talk about dead ends.
Still, if Thorley was arrested for Treesa Caramona, that’d be a good news peg. Jane could find Edward Walsh, and ask him about-wait.
If Thorley was guilty, that meant four years ago or so, Parole Board Chairman Edward Walsh had released the Lilac Sunday killer.
A killer Jake’s grandfather had been unable to track down. A killer the source of Jake’s preoccupation.
A killer now in custody for murdering someone else.
Hell of a story. How could she confirm it?
Jane finally attacked the innards of the Wheat Thins’ unopenable packaging with her teeth, ripping the plastic and spilling the crackers down her front, leaving a trail of salt on her black T-shirt. Annoyed, she moved her chair and heard a crunch under the wheels. The cleaning people would love her.
Her phone rang again. Jake? But of course it wouldn’t be. He was probably convinced she was seeing Peter Hardesty. Ridiculous. But she had to stop thinking about Jake. “Have a nice life”? She stood up, brushed off the crumbs. A couple of the crackers had fallen on her desk, leaving greasy patches on her calendar and note pad.
“Hello? I mean.” She shook her head, swallowed. She was so focused on Jake she’d forgotten how to answer the phone. “Jane Ryland.”
“Jane? It’s Elliot Sandoval.”
“Oh, hey, hello, how’re you doing?” Certainly doing better than while he was in custody. She leaned forward in her chair, hearing more crackers get pulverized under the wheels.
“Fine,” he said. “Calling to ask-have you talked to Peter Hardesty? Did he mention interviewing me?”
Peter. Last night flooded back. Peter’s arrival. Jake. The roses. They hadn’t talked at all. Peter hadn’t called this morning, no surprise. She hadn’t called him, either, not exactly knowing how to handle the flowers.
“No, Mr. Sandoval,” she said. “I think Mr. Hardesty tried to get in touch with me, but-well, what’s up? You okay?”
“Sure,” Sandoval said. “Here’s the thing. Peter and I, we-well, we’re so glad for what you’ve done for me, and MaryLou, and it looks like we’ve found a house, you know? He suggests you’d like to see it with us, this afternoon, maybe? Make it a part of our story. Life goes on, all that. You’ve played such a big role in this.”
Aww. That was simply-nice. Reporters hardly ever got credit for anything, except making trouble, and here was this guy sincerely grateful for what she’d done. Not that she’d really done anything, but maybe it felt that way to him. He was out of jail, after all. What a terrific element for her story. Talk about exclusive.
“Sounds great. With you, and MaryLou? And Mr. Hardesty?” Awkward. She’d have to figure out what to say to him. “I’ve got an appointment at six, but it’s only-” She checked her computer monitor. “Two forty-five.”
“We’re on the way there now, if that’s convenient,” Elliot said. “It’s forty-fifteen Rawson Avenue.”
Where was her notebook? Jane jotted down the address on her desk blotter, calculating. “Can I bring my photographer?”
Sandoval seemed to be thinking. “Well, I didn’t ask Peter about that. Can we-like, talk about it when you get here?”
“Sure,” Jane said. She could roll some video on her cell phone if need be. It wasn’t like she was on TV anymore. “See you in thirty or so. And Mr. Sandoval? Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me,” he said. “This is all you.”
60
“You did not,” Jake said. “You did not kill Carley Marie Schaefer, Mr. Thorley. You could not have done it.”
Jake unzipped his briefcase, pulled out an accordion file envelope, untied the dark red string, flapped open the cover. He drew out his grandfather’s file, opened it. Had he found the truth in those pages from the past? Time had no guideposts in the BPD interrogation room, no clock, no computer, no window; no reckoning except the timelines of the stories that unfolded here.
“Could not have-how do you know that?” Hardesty said. “Brady rule, Detective. If you’ve got exculpatory evidence, you’re required by law to provide it.”
Thorley picked up his ginger ale can, sloshed it back and forth, maybe checking how much was left. Put it down.
“You’ll have it, Hardesty,” Jake said. “Mr. Thorley, let me ask you. Did you know my grandfather was the police commissioner? Back when Carley Marie Schaefer was killed?”
“So?”
Jake saw Hardesty roll his eyes. Guy must be a pain to represent. Sullen, unresponsive. Insisting he was guilty.
“So this. Commissioner Brogan kept an extensive file of the investigation of the Carley Marie Schaefer murder. The commissioner vowed to find her killer, but-”
“And now he has,” Thorley said.
“Gordon, I’m not kidding,” Hardesty said.
“You could be right,” Jake said. “He has.”
“What?” Hardesty stood again.
Jake flipped through the paperwork, pulled out a page of tiny square photos, the junior class of Attleboro high school, class of 1995. He pointed. “Second from the right, second row down. Junior class. You see? Read the names at the bottom.”
He held out the photo, Hardesty took it from him.
“Carley Marie,” the lawyer said.
“Exactly. So, Mr. Thorley, early on you told us you ‘had a thing’ with her. She was in high school. But you were ‘older.’”
Jake pulled out another folder, drew out another page of pictures. “And look, here you are. G Thorley, in your baseball jersey, on a page of the senior class. ‘Older.’ Yes, you were. And a baseball star. Before you took to armed robbery, I guess.”
“See? Everything I said was true. This proves it.”
“Well, here’s the thing. On the night of the murder, Lilac Sunday, the Attleboro Eagles had a big game. Which you-varsity pitcher, in the rotation that night-would not have missed. And didn’t.”
Jake pulled out a photo, black-and-white, a blurry image of an extended leg, an arm with leather glove on one hand, and umpire making the unmistakable “out” sign.
“You probably don’t have to read the caption,” Jake said. “You made the big out. Go Bombardiers.”
Hardesty was shaking his head, dismissive. “All very dramatic, Brogan,” he said. “But Carley Marie was probably killed overnight, we all know that. Some baseball game, historic as it apparently was, would have long been over.”
“True,” Jake said. “Except for-well, Mr. Thorley? You want to tell us? Or shall I show your attorney your get-out-of-jail card?”
“My-?”
“Or shall I say, your ‘I was in jail’ card. All you crazy kids got plastered after that game, trashed the locker room and the coach’s car, and spent the night in the Attleboro lockup. Here’s the police report. Here the story from the paper the next day. No names in it, you were juveniles, but this morning I called a retired Attleboro cop. He remembered the whole deal.”
“Let me see that,” Hardesty said.
“It’s easier to tell a lie if part of it’s true. There’s not so much to remember, right?” Jake said. “You and Carley Marie were in high school together. That was true. But maybe that was all. Question was, who else would have known that? Who told you what to do and what to say? If you don’t answer me-it doesn’t matter. Because I already know.”