My father and uncle hadn’t been allowed to work the case—it was bad enough they’d been first on the scene. But while other police had assisted the prosecution in gathering evidence, it was clear Dad and Uncle Eddie had kept abreast of the investigation, making their own notes and keeping track of the evidence.
There were the pages and pages of meticulous notes written in my father’s hand. I read those, and I was back at my kitchen table, sipping hot chocolate, watching him work as my mother and brother slept. Those were some of my most cherished memories and now, seeing his notes here, detailing some of my worst memories . . . It was almost more than I could take.
I think having Quinn there made it harder. I’d rather have read them alone. No, I can be honest now—I’d rather have read them with Jack. Quinn tried to distract me by keeping it professional, hashing it out, trying to help me distance myself from these pages, but I couldn’t distance myself. I didn’t want to.
That’s how it had always been with Quinn. We could talk for hours, and they could be deep conversations and heated debates that got to the core of our beliefs, but . . . Evelyn once said that for Quinn, it was all about the head. Cerebral. She’d been referring to his vigilantism, but the same could be said for the connection I had with him. I told Quinn what I thought, not what I felt.
Jack came to the door a few times, standing in the opening, where Quinn couldn’t see from his angle. I’d feel him watching me and look up to see him there.
The file contained both the police work and trial papers. There wasn’t much in the police part that I didn’t already know, especially the early events my father and uncle had been involved in. I’d heard the story so many times I sometimes felt that I’d been there.
When my father and uncle left the station, they took two cars. There was no need for that, but neither could bear to be the one in the passenger seat, helplessly urging the other to go faster, Jesus Christ, can’t you drive faster? They even took separate routes, each certain they knew a quicker way. They raced through town and barreled down the rutted back road so fast that my uncle nearly ripped off his muffler. The road didn’t go the entire way to the cabin. But my dad continued past the end of it, driving the car in so far it needed a paint job afterward. Only when it would be faster to run did he and my cousin Pete leap out with my uncle and Myron Young right behind them.
As they ran, they saw a figure through the trees, fleeing the cabin. Dad told Myron to stay with Uncle Eddie, while he and Pete went after the fleeing figure. It wasn’t much of a chase. Aldrich was already at his truck, parked down a side trail. My father saw it speeding away. That’s when, according to the file, he heard Uncle Eddie “call out” from the cabin. He didn’t “call out.” I remembered overhearing Pete say Uncle Eddie’s screaming was the worst thing he’d ever heard.
Dad called the station to get an APB out on Aldrich’s truck, then ran to the cabin. He went inside and found his brother with Amy. She was dead. Strangled. Raped and strangled.
Dad wanted to stay, but Uncle Eddie begged him to go after Aldrich. There was nothing more to be done for Amy except get her justice. Dad caught Aldrich packing to flee town. There was a standoff at the house where he’d rented a room. Shots were fired when Aldrich came out with a hunting rifle. Aldrich was hit in the shoulder and taken into custody.
I’d known about Aldrich being shot. I’d known who shot him, too. My father. Now, though, reading the file, I thought instead of Wayne Franco. Of how I’d shot him when he’d reached into his pocket, giving me an excuse. Had the same thing happened here? I’d never know. Did it matter? Maybe not.
We were getting ready to start the trial pages when Jack came out of the bedroom.
“Dee?”
I looked up.
“Need a coffee. Want a stretch?”
“I would love both,” I said, getting up. “Thank you.”
“I’ll join you,” Quinn said.
Quinn closed the laptop and was pushing his chair back when his cell phone rang. He answered. It was Evelyn. Jack murmured that we’d bring him something and prodded me to the door. Behind us, I could hear Quinn saying, “Can I get back to you with that? Ten minutes?” Then, “All right. I’m looking it up.”
Jack ushered me out.
“Lucky timing,” I said as we headed to the elevator.
“Not really luck.”
“You asked Evelyn to call him?”
“Sounded like you needed a break. From the file. From Quinn.” He paused. “Reading the file with Quinn, I mean. He’s behaving.”
“He is on his best behavior.”
“And you kinda wish he was being an ass.”
“Yes, I kinda do.”
There was a coffee shop two doors down. Jack took me the other way instead and we walked until we found one a couple of kilometers away. We discussed the file as we walked and he knew exactly what to ask to make me open up. I told him how I felt about what I had read, the memories it was bringing back, the issues and the conflicts. Jack didn’t say much, but he said all the right things, and by the time we returned I was ready to tackle the next part.
CHAPTER 41
On to the trial transcript, annotated in my father’s hand. And this was where I began to see the case break down. The job of the police is to accumulate enough evidence to make a case against the accused. It’s only when the case goes to trial that the holes begin to show. And here, they were bigger than I’d ever imagined.
According to the version I grew up with, my father and uncle had seen Drew Aldrich fleeing the scene. In truth they had seen the figure only from the back and noted build, clothing, hair color. At trial, three witnesses testified to seeing Aldrich earlier that evening. He’d been wearing a light T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers—as he was when he was arrested. The man running from the scene had been wearing a dark shirt.
“Why was it an issue at all?” I asked Quinn. “Aldrich confessed to killing Amy—he said it was an accident. Why not admit he was the one running?”
“The discrepancy bolstered the case against your family’s reliability.”
The next problem followed immediately after, with the standoff at his apartment. Witnesses said Aldrich did indeed threaten that he had a rifle. He even came to the door holding it . . . but he was holding it out, showing that he was surrendering. That’s when my father shot him.
Again, the prosecution could argue that it was night. The door was not well lit. All my father saw was a gun. But it still added to the defense’s story. My father overreacted, which was very uncharacteristic of him and therefore supported the idea that he was responding as a grieving uncle.
I knew from the journal that Amy had prearranged our meeting with Aldrich that night, but I’d never realized that had come out in the trial. There was even evidence of a phone call from Amy’s house to Aldrich’s apartment the day before, when apparently she’d given him the train number and arrival time; he’d jotted down the info on a piece of paper that had been found in his wallet. From there, it became much easier to say Amy willingly had sex with Aldrich.
Memory is a strange thing. I guess I should know that better than anyone. But now, reading the trial transcripts, I realized just how many holes my mind had filled in. Maybe that makes sense. My brain had intentionally made those gaps as it ripped apart my recollection of that night. To deal with that, I filled in the blanks and came to believe them as fact.
One of those false memories was right here, in my own statement. I said that I’d caught a glimpse of Aldrich strangling Amy and that’s why I ran. Except I hadn’t. I knew that now, from the nightmares and the fresh memories. Aldrich had raped me. When he left me, I’d gotten free of my bindings. I’d heard Amy. I’d known she was being hurt. I’d believed she was also being raped. So I’d run for help. But I’d never looked in that room because I knew if I had, Aldrich would realize I’d escaped and I’d never be able to get help for Amy.