Most Wanted (22 page)

Christine tried to remember. “You mean Gianni Versace?”

“Right. The FBI got involved because he also killed a caretaker of a park in New Jersey. It turns out that in the middle of the park, there was a one-acre cemetery deeded to the federal government. That gave the Feds their nexus. Cunanan eventually killed himself, so he wasn't prosecuted.”

Christine listened, interested. When Griff talked law, his words took on an authoritative ring.

“Whether or not the Feds find a nexus in Jeffcoat's case, their behavioral science people or a profiler will work with all three jurisdictions. The profiler would be assigned to the Philly FBI Office but he could travel anywhere covered by the Philadelphia Division. He'll meet with both state police departments and the prosecutors from the Chester County D.A.'s office. He might also get input from a unit at Quantico.” Griff rolled his hooded eyes behind his glasses. “Big deal. Jeffcoat's
advocate
would have to shield him from the FBI and other jurisdictions. I would sideline the Maryland and Virginia cases. Focus on the Robinbrecht case. Investigate it. Decide whether he pleads out or goes to trial.”

Christine sensed Griff would take the case, though he hadn't said as much yet.

“This case alone will be difficult enough. They've already leaked incriminating information, like the kill bag.”

“He has an answer for that. He's a medical equipment salesperson at Brigham Instruments.”

“In town? He told you that?” Griff lifted his furry eyebrows.

“Yes.”

Griff didn't say anything for a moment.

Christine filled the silence. “I heard that not many lawyers in town would take his case. Why would you take it if they won't?”

“I don't care what anybody thinks. I only care about the law. I only care about the Constitution. I care about the rights of the individual against an oppressive and corrupt government. No lawyer worth his salt gives a
damn
what anybody thinks.” Griff stopped playing with the rubber band, eyeing her and Lauren. “Why are you doing this?”

“I got interested in this case for a freelance article or a book, and I wanted to meet Jeffcoat.” Christine stopped herself from calling him Zachary, then wondered when she had started thinking of him as Zachary, not Jeffcoat. “He said he'd give me the exclusive for my book if I found him a private lawyer.”

“So you've spoken to him about the facts of his case?”

“Yes.”

“What did he tell you?”

Christine answered truthfully, telling him about Zachary's date with Gail Robinbrecht and finding her dead in her home, which was when Griff's mood soured.

“He shouldn't have said anything about his case. If he hires me, I'm going to advise him not to talk to you. Ever again.”

“You're putting me in a difficult position,” Christine said without elaborating.

“So?” Griff snorted. “If I take Jeffcoat on, my interest is what's good for him. Not you.”

“Why shouldn't he talk to me?”

“Anything he says to you is discoverable. If you're taking notes, your notes are discoverable. You can be called as a witness at trial by the Commonwealth. You have no privilege to protect that conversation.” Griff pointed to Lauren. “Did she go with you to see him?”

“Yes.”

“Then she can be called, too. That's true whether I put Jeffcoat on the stand or not. He has nothing to gain by talking to anybody but me, and only my conversations with him are privileged. Or somebody who works for me. By the way, where did you say you were from?”

“Connecticut.”

“How did you hear about the case? You saw it on TV or something?”

“Yes,” Christine answered, because she was tired of lying.

“Don't be surprised if the FBI comes knocking on your door. Or hers.”

“Why?” Christine couldn't imagine what Marcus would do if the FBI showed up at home.

“They may want to talk to you as part of their investigation. It's within their purview.”

“How would they know where I live?” Christine realized the answer as soon as she'd asked the question.

“You signed the visitors' log at Graterford. You showed your driver's license. They're the FBI. Even they can find you if they have the address.” Griff chuckled at his own joke. “So, if you want to write a book after the trial, that's up to you and Jeffcoat. But for right now, it's no-go.” Griff hunched over his desk. “So now, decide. I'll take the case, but if you hire me, you got no book. Do you care about Jeffcoat or do you care about your book? Who are you
advocating
for?”

Christine thought fast. “I have to see him one more time, tomorrow morning. To tell him about you.”

“One and done?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Griff eyed her behind his bifocals. “You're putting his interest above your own?”

“I guess so.” Christine could feel Lauren's eyes on her but didn't look over.

“Hmph! Can I trust you not to talk to him about the case?” Griff wagged an index finger at her, his knuckle as gnarled as the knot of a tree.

“Yes.”

“You give me your word?”

“Absolutely.”

“That was easy,” Griff said, with a derisive snort. “You sure you're a real reporter?”

 

Chapter Twenty-one

The two women walked down the street from Griff's office, with Christine mulling over the meeting, preoccupied. The sun still burned in the sky, and the air still felt humid. The only shade came from tall trees that lined the sidewalks, which were of red brick. They passed an antique store with a window display of painted cast-iron doorstops and a barber shop with an old-school barber pole mounted on its brick façade. The town seemed busier, with more traffic clogging the narrow streets, couples strolling hand-in-hand to restaurants, and young people bopping around, toting backpacks, icy Dunkin' Donuts drinks, and smartphones. Christine spotted people wearing white ribbons pinned to their clothes, and more than one shop window had a sign that read
GAIL, YOU WILL BE MISSED
!

“Mission accomplished,” Christine said, after a moment. “We got Zachary a lawyer.”

“Yes, and I like Griff.”

“You mean Gruff?”

Lauren laughed. They passed a hair salon with a sign that read
STUDENT CUTS ONLY TWELVE DOLLARS
, since West Chester was home to West Chester University. “He knows what he's talking about, even if he reminds me of those Muppets in the balcony.”

“Staler and Waldorf?” Lauren laughed. “Exactly. He's Waldorf.”

“Right.” Christine smiled, but it faded. “So we only have one meeting left with Zachary. I have to ask him tomorrow morning.”

“You can do it. And you need to since you're too nice to convince anybody you're a reporter. I bet Waldorf is Googling you right now.”

“He doesn't have the Internet, remember.” They turned the corner, passing a local bank, and spotted her car down the street.

“You must want to get off your feet. Let's go to the hotel and check in.”

“Right.” Christine got her car keys from her purse and chirped her car unlocked as they approached since it was on their side of the street. “Did you hear what Griff said, that Zachary hasn't been linked to the other murders? It was the same thing Zachary said.”

“What's your point? That he's not a serial killer?”

“I guess,” Christine answered, but she didn't know what her point was, truly. Her emotions were bound into a knot that she was too tired to unravel.

“If you kill even one person, that's too many.”

“I agree.” Christine went around the back fender of her car and waited for traffic to pass until she went to her door. “But what if he's innocent? What if it's not him? He seems too emotional to be a sociopath, doesn't he?”

“Then we just got him a good lawyer,” Lauren answered before she got inside the car.

“I'm worried.” Christine turned on the ignition and went through her air-conditioning routine.

“You'll feel better after you shower and rest, we both will.” Lauren buckled on her seat belt. “Oooh, I want to use towels I don't have to wash, then put on a bathrobe that's nicer than mine.”

Christine only half-listened, pulling into traffic and stopping at the red light, on the road that led to the highway back to Collegeville.

“I wonder if our hotel has room service. I want to lie in bed and have people bring me food. It's like a hospital for moms.”

Christine's thoughts churned, and she felt like she needed a sounding board. “The problem is that there are so many possibilities, and I can't figure out which ones are true.”

“Like what?” Lauren looked over.

“Let's start with whether Zachary is Donor 3319. We both think he might be, but that's based on our intuition and some facts.”

“Not a lot of facts.”

“Right.” Christine watched the traffic light burn red. “Tomorrow we find out the answer, but there's a part of me that doesn't want to know.”

“Because you're afraid it's him?”

“Yes.” Christine had a second thought. “But the only reason I'm afraid it's him is because he's in jail, charged with murder, a serial killer. If he's innocent, I'd
like
it if he was our donor. He's a nice guy. He's smart, personable, and he's so good-looking.”

“I get that. I understand.”

“So I'm not crazy?” Christine hit the gas when the traffic light changed, going forward.

“Not at all. This is a hard situation, and I'm proud of you. You're doing a great job, considering all you've had for sustenance is saturated fats.”

“Ha.” Christine glanced over at a street sign, which read
WARWICK STREET
. “Warwick Street? How do I know that name?”

“I don't know.”

“I read it somewhere.” Christine braked slowly, causing the car behind her to start honking. “I remember, in the newspaper article online. Warwick is the street that Gail Robinbrecht lived on. Where she was murdered.”

“That's weird.” Lauren grimaced.

“Not really. It's a small town. We've seen it ourselves, you can
walk
places here.” Christine stopped the car, her eyes on the
WARWICK STREET
sign, letting traffic flow around her. “Can you get her address for me, on the phone?”

“Does this mean we're not going to the hotel?”

“Not yet.” Christine got a second wind as she turned onto Warwick. “Aren't you curious?”

“As between a murder scene or room service? No.” Lauren chuckled, but she was already scrolling though her smartphone. “Here we go. Robinbrecht's house number is 305.”

“Thanks.” Christine drove down Warwick Street, slightly downhill, and they entered a residential section of West Chester. Well-maintained colonial-vintage row houses with Victorian porches lined block after block, each home with brick façades and paneled shutters painted in tasteful Williamsburg hues of light blue, grayish browns, or daffodil yellow. Most of the front doors sported decorative wreaths, and colorful glazed pots of impatiens and petunias sat atop the front steps. The houses had no front yards because they were built directly on the sidewalk, as they would have been in the 1700s and 1800s, reminding Christine of the older sections of Mystic and Marblehead.

“This is pretty.”

Christine looked ahead to the next block, where there seemed an unusual amount of traffic slowing in front of one of the houses. “I think that's 305, her house.”

“Oh man. People are stopping by to pay their respects.”

“Right.” Christine was getting the idea that the murder of Gail Robinbrecht might have disappeared from national headlines, but the story was heartbreakingly alive in West Chester.

“Look, a memorial.” Lauren pointed to the right, and as Christine drove closer, she spotted in the middle of the block a lovely three-story house with moss-green shutters. People stood in front, gathering around a sad grouping of flowers, candles, stuffed animals, and homemade signs. Cars lined the block, and some double-parked in front of number 305, with their blinkers on.

“That's sad.” Lauren shook her head. “I hate to think that people can be that evil.”

“I know.” Christine was wondering if Zachary could be that evil and if evil was inherited. She drove slowly as she approached the house, then navigated around the double-parked cars, glancing over at the signs.
WE WILL MISS YOU, GAIL
, read one handwritten placard with a bunch of signatures, and another sign had a picture of a lovely young woman, presumably Gail, but Christine couldn't see much detail from her side of the car.

“You sure you want to do this?” Lauren asked, looking over. “This reminds me of Sabrina, remember?”

“Yes,” Christine said, her throat tight. Sabrina Bryfogle had been one of the most beloved teachers in the fourth grade, passing last year from breast cancer. The faculty had been stricken to lose her, and they'd called in grief counselors for the students. Sabrina's memorial tree grew by the soccer field, and Christine would never forget the outpouring of emotion at the memorial service.

“I hate cancer.”

“I hate cancer, too.”

“But I hate murder more.”

“I do, too. I hate that anybody has to die, ever.” Christine was thinking of her father. She turned the corner, looking for a parking space that she wasn't sure she wanted to find. “Maybe we should leave. I don't want to bum you out.”

“No, that's okay,” Lauren said, rallying. “We're here, and I see a space at the end of the block. Go park, it's okay.”

“Okay, thanks. I don't know what I'm expecting to find, I'm just curious.” Christine drove forward to the space, which was at the corner, where she parked and cut the ignition. They got out of the car, and Christine crossed behind it to the sidewalk, where she fell into step with Lauren. They passed a woman with over-processed bright red hair sweeping the sidewalk, a cigarette clamped between her teeth.