Most Wanted (20 page)

Zachary continued, his tone quieter, “We were never the same after that, as a family. We fell apart. My dad tried to understand it, make sense of it in God's plan, all that. My mother was a woman of faith, too, and she prayed and prayed for forgiveness.” Zachary's blue eyes glistened, but he blinked them clear. “She blamed herself for falling asleep, for letting it happen, for being careless. But she wasn't careless, it could have happened to anyone. It was a mistake. She was only human, overworked, underpaid, doing it all. She became very depressed. They died two years ago, they were hit by a drunk driver.”

“I'm so sorry,” Christine said, again. She hadn't expected to hear such a moving story.

Zachary shook his head, his lips puckering. “That was when I lost my religion, that day. I was ten but I was old enough to doubt. I don't believe in God anymore. I don't believe in a God who would let my little sister drown.”

Christine reeled, trying to make the comparisons on the fly, so moved by his story of his sister's death. She remembered that Donor 3319 had said he was an agnostic or atheist. Maybe this was why. Maybe Zachary really was Donor 3319.

“Anyway, that's why I don't blame them. It was a hard thing to go through, as a family, and I was happy when we moved away. That's when we went to Nevada, and I graduated from high school in Reno.”

Nevada.
“Where did you go after that, did you go to college?”

“Yes, I was a good student. Math comes really easily to me, all sciences do. I'm a logical thinker.”

Christine masked her dismay. Donor 3319 was good in math and logic. She didn't seem to have to ask anything for Zachary to keep talking.

“I graduated from the University of Arizona
magna cum laude
, which is pretty good.” Zachary allowed himself a brief smile, and Christine smiled back, eager to latch on to a piece of good news.

“Well done, that couldn't have been easy. What was your major?”

“Chem.”

Christine told herself to remain calm. Donor 3319 had been a chemistry major. “What did you do after graduation?”

“I worked, trying to save up the money to go to med school, but that was a dumb way. You can't do it without loans.”

Christine held her breath at the mention of medical school, but she didn't interrupt him. She knew Lauren would be thinking the same thing.

“I got into medical school at the University of Nebraska, Creighton. I was so excited about being a doctor. I really wanted to work in a research capacity, like try and cure something.”

“Like what?” Christine forced a smile, but her head was exploding. It was all adding up, just like Donor 3319, but she couldn't bring herself to reach that conclusion. She just couldn't.

“Something, anything to help society. Advance society. But the money was an issue for med school. The tuition was $65,000 a year, and I couldn't get enough loans. The textbooks cost way too much, like $300 a pop, even if you buy used or e-books.” Zachary leaned forward, the conversation flowing more easily now that the harder subject had passed. “I worked every job I could get. Grocery bagger, math SAT tutor, research assistant. But I couldn't come up with tuition. I got accepted, but I never went.”

“That's a shame.” Christine realized it explained why the news reports hadn't said he was in medical school. He had never gone. Had Donor 3319 or was he Donor 3319?

“I hope I get back someday, but I have to get out of here.” Zachary's forehead buckled, his desperation plain, all over again. “I'm innocent, they have the wrong guy, I swear to you. I had a life, I had a future. I don't belong in jail. You have no idea what it's like in here. It's scary as hell.” Zachary's gorgeous eyes flared. “Please, I'll tell you anything you need to know. Do you think you could help me get a private lawyer?”

“I don't know,” Christine answered, unprepared for the question. “I'm here to write about you—”

“But you're not, like, a real journalist with a real newspaper.” Zachary hesitated, frowning in an apologetic way. “I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I meant, the other reporters told me that they have ethical guidelines. They can't help me get a lawyer. But you can, you're on your own.”

“But I don't know any lawyers here. I'm not from here. Don't you know somebody, or maybe you could just investigate a private lawyer?”

“Not from inside, all they have are defenders, and they're not good enough.” Zachary looked from Christine to Lauren with a new urgency. “Please can't you guys help me? I can pay, I had a job selling medical instruments. I was making $65,000 a year.”

“Medical instruments?” Christine was thinking of the medical saw in the kill bag, which she'd read about in the news reports.

“Yes, I work for Brigham Instruments in West Chester, they make medical and surgical equipment. I've been working for them for two years, I have money in savings.” Zachary placed his hands on the counter, leaning closer to the Plexiglas, desperate again. “Please, can't you find me a private lawyer? I need somebody good. You're on the outside. Go into West Chester or go online. Find me a lawyer in Chester County.” Zachary met her eye, his blue eyes plaintive. “You're the only reporter who asked me about myself, who asked about
me
. You're obviously a caring person.”

“Thank you.” Christine felt touched, oddly.

“If you find me a lawyer, I'll give you the exclusive. I'll cooperate with your book, and only yours. I'll tell you anything you want to know.”

Christine's ears pricked up.
I'll tell you anything you want to know.

Lauren interjected, “Zachary, I have to ask, in the newspaper accounts, it said that they found things in your trunk that incriminated you, like the bone-cutting saw.”

“It's my
job
to have saws in my trunk.” Zachary's blue eyes flew open, pleading. “My trunk looks like the inside of an operating room. I drive around with samples. I demonstrate bone saws to doctors and surgeons. I don't use my samples to
kill
anybody.”

Lauren paused. “Did you tell the police that?”

“My lawyer told me not to. She told me not to say a word to the cops. She told me not to answer any questions. I told you more than I told them.”

Christine found herself almost believing him. She could see the sincerity in his eyes and hear it in his voice. His whole manner seemed genuinely upset. The notion confounded her, but she didn't know whether to trust her judgment, and she still wanted to know for sure if he was Donor 3319.

Lauren interjected, “Zachary, what about the other things they found in the trunk? The shovel, the garbage bag, they said it's called a ‘kill bag'—”

“That's no
kill bag
,” Zachary shot back, urgent. “My territory includes central Pennsylvania. You ever go out there in winter? You need a shovel to get out of that snow. I keep the garbage bags because I put them under the tires when I get stuck. I practically
live
in that car, I carry everything I need.” Zachary's head swiveled from Lauren to Christine. “Listen, I swear to you, on the soul of my sister, I didn't kill Gail Robinbrecht or anybody else, no matter what they say. It's a rush to judgment, just because I was there. I never killed anybody. I'm no serial killer!” Zachary shook his head, anguished. “That's just a story to sell more newspapers. I haven't been linked to any of those murders by any authority. None of the police from any of those states or the FBI has gotten in touch with me or my lawyer. None of it's true. None of it!”

Suddenly there was a loud rap at the metal door on the other side of the Plexiglas, and the corrections officer reappeared, taking stainless-steel handcuffs from his thick utility belt. “Jeffcoat, your time's up.”

“Coming.” Zachary rose reluctantly, anguished. “Please, Christine, get me out of here. I'll give you the exclusive. Find me a lawyer, please.”

“I understand,” Christine said, off-balance. She had run out of time to ask him, and she couldn't go home without finding out. “Maybe we could talk again tomorrow? Would that be possible?”

Lauren looked over but said nothing.

“Yes, yes, anytime.” Zachary offered his wrists to the corrections officer behind his back. “We can talk every day if you want. Just help me, please. I'm begging you.”

 

Chapter Nineteen

Christine headed to the exit doors of the prison with Lauren, shaken to her very foundation as they followed the others out. She wiped sweat from her brow, and her mouth had gone dry. Her mind reeled, her emotions churned. They went through the doors, and Christine felt hit by a wall of humidity, with the sun high in the sky and no trees to shade the prison entrance. They went down the steps and passed the Department of Corrections buses, which were still idling, their engines throwing off heat, making wiggly waves in the sweltering air.

Christine tried to recover as they walked through the official parking lot, neither woman speaking because they weren't alone. A man and a woman whom she had seen in the visiting room walked in front of them, tugging a toddler along, who had her little arm curved over a plush pink rabbit like a piece of macaroni. Christine noticed the woman walking too fast for the child, who had to scurry on the tiptoes of her sandals to keep up, and she would never understand the casual cruelty of some mothers, who had no idea how precious a gift they'd been given, in a child.

“Are you okay?” Lauren fell into step beside her after the women and the child went to the left toward a battered minivan. They headed out of the official lot, walking downhill along the road.

“I don't know, I think so. It was so strange.”

“Why didn't you ask him? Did you chicken out?” Lauren looked over at her, her brown eyes bewildered. Her long, dark hair stuck to the nape of her neck, curling in damp tendrils.

“No, I'm sorry, I didn't chicken out, I even had a plan of how to bring it up.” Christine wiped her forehead with her hand, trying to process what had just happened. “I was warming up, finding out the background information, trying to see if it matched the online profile, but then, when he told that story about his sister dying, it threw me off track.”

“I knew it. I could see, I knew something was happening. All of a sudden you went quiet.”

“I felt
terrible
for him. For his sister, for his mom. Poor child, poor woman.”

“Well? Do you think it's him?”

Christine couldn't answer, her emotions catching up with her all at once. Tears sprang to her eyes. She stopped in her tracks, stricken. She wanted to scream. It was too much. It couldn't be. She covered her face with her hands, even holding the car keys.

“Oh honey.” Lauren hugged her gently.

“I think it's him,” Christine heard herself saying, her heart speaking even as it was breaking. “I think he's our donor. I think he's my baby's father.”

“You don't know that for sure.” Lauren soothed her, then let her go. “You don't.”

“Oh my God.” Christine was trying not to cry. She had to keep it together. She lowered her hand with the car keys. “How did this happen? This can't be happening.”

“It might not be. We don't know for sure until you ask him.” Lauren held Christine by the shoulders, bracing her and looking directly into her eyes. “Remember that. We don't know for sure.”

“Right. We don't know for sure.” Christine repeated the words, almost involuntarily, trying to convince herself. Maybe if they could say it enough, over and over, they could make it true.

“Lots of people look like other people. Just last week, I got an email from Britney Keen, you know her, and she thought she saw me in the movies, and I wasn't at the movies.”

“Right, people look alike sometimes.” Christine sighed heavily, and Lauren let her shoulders go.

“Let's get out of here.”

“Okay, yes, right.” Christine wiped her face and started walking, with Lauren falling into step beside her.

“Why do you think he's your donor? Because he was accepted into med school?”

“Yes, and that he's a chem major, he's logical, he looks like him, he has religious parents…” Christine let her list trail off, trying to collect her thoughts.

“Don't get carried away, though. None of that is definitive.”

“I know, but there's more. He said that he did a lot of things to earn money during med school, and in the profile it said he donated it for the money, so he could pay for med school.”

“Most students need money during school.”

“I know, but it's the sense I had, being in the same room with him—”

“You weren't in the same room with him.” Lauren's eyes looked worried, as they walked along.

“I kind of was, I mean, we were. Anyway he
felt
like the father.”

“Oh boy. Now you're talking crazy.” Lauren snorted, walking beside her, as they traveled downhill.

“I know. It's just a sense. I can't deny it. It's a hunch. A sensation, intuition.” Christine knew it was crazy, but she felt it inside. She hadn't realized it until this very moment, but she had to admit it to herself. They were almost at the visitors' lot, and she spotted her car, baking in the sun.

“It was voodoo? Pregnancy voodoo?”

“Whatever, I felt
connected
to him. I felt like he was the father.” Christine aimed the key fob at her car, miserably.

“
Biological
father.”

“Right.” Christine meant biological, it was a shorthand. “What do you think? Do you think he's Donor 3319?”

“Honestly?” Lauren sighed, her heavy chest rising and falling slowly. “I hate to add fuel to the fire, but I thought he might be. The facts fit the online profile.”