The Mystery Texter

The Mystery Texter - Chapter 6 (of 8)

Four weeks later-

It's a beautiful mid-June Friday morning. The day before Todd's Wedding. My phone rings and I'm not at all surprised that it's Brianna's office. Despite multiple attempts on their end, I haven't talked with them in a while. A long while. They've been wanting me to come in and review the casefile for a couple months now, but despite assurances that it's been prescreened and sanitized, I still haven't gone. And now, we're only three days away from Warren Lewis's new trial.

I reluctantly answer the call.

"Brock, It's Brianna."

Since she didn't relegate this call to Dustin, I know the urgency in her voice is for real.

"Hey. What's up?" I ask, attempting nonchalance.

"The trial begins Monday. Time's up, Brock. I need to see you in my office this morning."

"I'll see if I can swing by," I lie.

Brianna is a good lawyer. She hears the deception in my voice. "Listen, Brock. It's my responsibility to protect your interests. It's my responsibility to prepare you. You're paying us to do a job. Let us do it. I had Dustin do some digging into this file. There are a couple of unexpected things he found that you need to know about - that you need to see. Seriously, Brock. Come now."

~~

It's only thirty minutes later that I find myself back in the same intimate conference room that the three of us sat in four months ago. Brianna looks relieved to see me.

She jumps right in, "My young protégé Dustin is thorough. He does excellent work."

He blushes at her praise. Despite the fact that he's a few inches taller and not wearing sneakers, I'm reminded of Kyle. No doubt Dustin has a huge fanbase of family and friends who are proud of him. My guess is that not long from now Dustin will take Brianna's place as a trusted associate and Brianna will be a partner in a large corner office. But I hope I only know if my prediction comes true because we send each other Christmas cards yearly and not because the circumstances of my life call for having lawyers on constant retainer.

She continues, "There are three highly interesting things he uncovered." She turns a palm up, "Dustin?"

Dustin sits up straighter in his chair and leans forward. "Before I went through the file, I reread my notes from our meeting back in February. I wanted your story to be fresh in my mind as I reviewed the materials. The first thing that caught my attention was in the phone records. The call that William placed to his dad, Brian Jones, from your house lasted exactly one minute."

I consider this, "That sounds about right based on Brian's account."

"Yes, it does," agrees Dustin. "According to my notes, Brian told you that he hung up the phone, called 911 and ran over to your house. The interesting thing is that the phone records show an eighteen-minute time gap between the call with William ending and him placing the 911 call."

I lean back in my chair and let out a low whistle. "Wow. He implied that he called right away. What did he do in those eighteen minutes?"

I think back to February when I spoke with William and Brian. Something is pricking at the back of my brain. Something Brian said about William's phone call. What is it?

Brianna interrupts my thoughts, "Well, that's the question. My guess is that he ran the two blocks to your house, did who-knows-what for twelve minutes or so, and ran back to make the 911 call from his home. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that the seemingly incompetent public defender intentionally ignored this potentially damning discovery, but I would be shocked if our friends Marissa and Robert haven't caught the discrepancy. Surely, Brian Jones will be thoroughly examined on the witness stand regarding that block of time."

"I feel like something Brian said to me about William's call was a slip up. I'm trying to remember what it was."

Brianna says, "Let it ruminate. It'll come. Do you want some water?"

"No. Let's keep going."

She continues, "We led with the lightweight item. These next two are going to pack a punch."

She nods at Dustin to continue.

I thought the first one was quite the wallop all on its own. How much worse does it get? I physically hold onto the edge of the table. I'm not trying to be funny; I'm literally bracing myself.

He clears his throat, "Second is this." He pushes a facedown eight by ten photo across the table toward me. "This is the first crime scene photo taken that night."

All the buildup has me nervous. I'm on the verge of freaking out. My hand trembles as I reach for it.

I ask, "This is safe to look at?"

"Completely safe," Brianna assures me. "Surprising, but safe. To be honest, I'm not an expert on memories. I don't know if this will trigger something you may have suppressed or not, but either way, you'll see the significance of this picture as soon as you flip it over."

I take a deep breath and I can feel my heartbeat in my ears. My hand trembles as it hovers an inch above the ominous upside down glossy.

I turn it over.

It's a picture of my childhood home's family room, taken from the kitchen/dining area and aiming toward the front door. It takes me all of about three milliseconds to see why Dustin found this photo to be important. Standing there, in a wide shot, visible from head to toe, are Brian and William Jones. Brian, the mid-forties police chief version of himself, is talking to one of his officers. Next to him, William stands there, apparently waiting for his dad. He is the eighteen-year-old William I remember in my mind's eye except he looks glassy eyed and dazed. The thing that practically knocks me off my chair and takes my breath away is the fact that William is wearing my clothes. He's wearing my red Coca-Cola sweatshirt, my Girbaud jeans and my Air Jordan high-tops.

"Oh my god!"

I grip the edge of the table even tighter, but it's too late. I feel like I've been kicked in the stomach.

"Clothes and shoes don't vanish on their own. I imagined three possible scenarios to explain their disappearance but none of them were right. They walked right out of my house, in full view of everyone, wrapped around William's body."

Brianna puts her hand on mine.

I exhale sharply, "What the fuck did he do?"

Brianna says, "We can only guess. Dustin and I theorize that

his

clothes got...dirty."

"Just because I don't want to see a photo of my mother with her throat slashed doesn't mean I don't want the truth. Don't soften it. You mean dirty with blood. My mother's blood."

"Well, that is seeming probable. Dustin?"

"Those articles he's wearing in that photo - your clothes and shoes - were turned into the police for lab testing. They were all cleared and deemed to be free of blood spatter of any kind. Logically, since he was wearing them, they were assumed to be William's clothes. The police had no cause to suspect that he had either time or reason to change. They had even less reason to suspect that what he was wearing wasn't his. Eventually, the items were returned to Brian Jones."

I'm still processing. Is there another explanation? I want so badly for the answer to be yes, but I can't even begin to imagine what it could be.

William killed my mother.

My eyes pool with tears as I ask, "Where are William's clothes?"

Brianna responds in almost a whisper, "My guess is that Brian Jones is the only one who could answer that question. He had eighteen minutes to make those clothes and probably a pair of Reeboks, size ten-and-a-half, disappear."

"Along with a knife and a cast-iron pan," I add in almost a whisper.

I feel another ping in the recesses of my brain. What had Brian said about that phone call from William?

Dustin states the obvious, "It's not looking good for William Jones."

Almost in a trance, I say, "And it is looking very good for Warren Lewis."

"Warren Lewis is not our client. You are."

Brianna's strength and confidence is exactly the comfort I need right now.

"We have no reason to believe that The McLaughlin Group knows about your missing clothes or that they were able to connect those dots," she continues. "This photo, alone with no explanation from you, tells them nothing. Without your context, it actually supports William's innocence. What we tell them, what we give them, if anything, is completely up to you. You are my client. I protect you and do as you say. I would advise you to not lie on the stand if asked directly, but volunteering information at this stage is your choice."

"And I suppose I have to make a decision now."

Brianna crinkles her nose. "Kind of, yeah. I'm sorry. The trial starts Monday. The next two days are the weekend, so..." She lets her words hang in the air.

"Don't apologize. It's my own fault. I should have listened to you and come in months ago."

I lift my head, study the ceiling and make a guttural sound. "Shit. I won't lie. They totally don't deserve it, but let's tell those McLaughlin assholes what we know. I'll make the statement."

Brianna has Dustin pull up a form on his laptop.

"This won't take long," she says to me.

"Oh, wait. That was only two things. You said there were three. What's the third?"

She looks a little sheepish. "The last thing won't affect the statement. It doesn't even relate to the case, really. It's of interest from more of a personal standpoint."

I cock an eyebrow at her. I can't imagine a bigger shock than the ones they already gave me. "Okay, tell me."

"Dustin noticed something on one of the legal documents."

She indicates the bright, but suddenly not so eager young man sitting next to her. He pulls out another paper from the file and slowly slides it across the table. I look at it and it's like Greek to me.

"I don't know what I'm looking at here. Help me out."

Dustin says, "The document itself is irrelevant. Look at the heading."

I look up at the top of the page. First, I see The McLaughlin Group's letterhead, then I see a date going back to August of last year. Finally, I see the clients' names. There are two names. Warren Lewis is one of the names and the other name is Leya Clarke.

I question Brianna with a raised eyebrow.

She responds with a palms-up shrug. "I have no idea. I don't really know her well. When Dustin noticed her name as a client, he showed me and I knew we had to point that out to you. Before she referred you to me, she gave you some advice, right? I would assume she didn't do anything unethical. I have no idea what this all means, but I thought you deserved to know."

What does Leya have to do with Warren Lewis?

I ask, "Can you find out who's paying? Are they doing this pro bono? Does Warren Lewis have financial resources? Is Leya paying his legal bills? Ask Marissa Harris."

"Okay, but they're under no obligation to divulge that information."

"And I'm under no obligation to help them out with a new statement. We could just let it go to trial and they can take their chances with--"

My brain stops my mouth. Ping! I remember. What Brian had said about William's phone call. William was freaked out and almost unintelligible. Brian only caught a few words, but the first word he understood was "knife".

Shit!

"The knife." I tell them about Brian's verbal slip and my realization. "The first word he understood from William was 'knife', but according to Brian's own account, the knife was already gone. The police never recovered it. If William only glimpsed Warren Lewis fleeing the scene, then he wouldn't have seen the knife or the cast iron pan. Why would William's first word be about an object that wasn't there?"

I sigh, "William said 'knife' to his dad on the phone because he was looking at a knife. A knife that he had used. We already figured as much, but Brian's screwup is confirmation that he removed evidence and staged the scene."

Brianna says, "If we had any lingering doubts before, I'd say they're officially squashed now. I think you've ensured yourself an answer to your question. Quid pro quo. I'll let you know what Marissa says."

As curious as I am about the Leya connection, right now I can't think much beyond what I saw in that photo.

Dustin takes my statement.

Despite what I learned today; my memory of that night hasn't changed. I won't say that it has because even though I've seen indisputable proof to the contrary, I still see Warren Lewis's face when I close my eyes. Saying otherwise would be telling a lie. But at the same time, I can't deny the evidence. Apparently, I remember something that didn't actually happen.

~~

An hour later, I'm headed back to my car with my phone in my hand. I do something that I've never done before. I open my contacts, find William's name and press the call button. Over the past ten years, our scattered communications have only been texts.

The call goes straight to voicemail.

Saturday, November 11

th

, 1989

It's 2:15am and it's just like we said, we are head-to-toe and back-to-back. The lights are off and the room is dark. It's funny, twenty minutes ago I could hardly keep my eyes open, but now, I'm wide awake.

I think William is too. I try to listen to his breathing for a clue. I can't tell. But then he rolls over 180 degrees from his left side to his right. We're still head to toe, but he's facing me now. I slow my own breathing and pretend to be asleep.

Present Day

A lot of people don't answer their phones or even listen to their voicemails anymore. I don't get it. It's so irresponsible, but it happens. I think that William is old enough that he's not one of those people, but just in case, I text him too. Almost every text I ever sent him in the past was both immediately read and responded to.

Not today.

I call again, and again, I get voicemail. This time my message is more specific:

William, I just saw the crime scene photos from the police file. In one of them, clear as day, you're standing there fully dressed in my clothes. My red Coca-Cola sweatshirt, my Air Jordan high-tops... What the fuck, William! You said you knew nothing about my missing things. Where are you? I need to see you now!

I end the call.

Standing next to my car, I dial a number I haven't dialed in over three decades. William's old home phone number. It's not something I have saved in my contacts. I remember the number from having dialed it a million times as a kid. All through the 1980s, from the age of seven to eighteen, I would use the push-button phone hanging on the kitchen wall to call my friends. William was one of those friends. Brian Jones seems like the kind of guy who would still have his old land line. I open the keypad screen on my phone and muscle memory guides my fingers to the right combination of digits.

On the fourth ring, Brian picks up.

Saturday, November 11

th

, 1989

We're still lying in the same positions. I remain motionless, but awake. I sense some movement behind me under the blanket. What is William doing? Then I feel his finger touch the bottom of my foot. It's just a touch, like a test. A gentle poke. Like he's looking for a reaction, curious if I'm awake or asleep. I keep my breathing steady, giving away nothing.

He begins to draw circles into my rough, calloused heel with his fingernail. I reluctantly enjoy the attention. I continue to not react.

Present Day

"Brian? It's Brock. I need to speak with William." I make no attempt to keep the urgency out of my voice.

Brian doesn't seem surprised to hear from me. "He's not here."

"Where can I find him?"

"I honestly don't know, Brock. He didn't come home last night."

"Is that normal?"

"No. Not recently anyway."

Shit. William has been "clean" for over a decade. His streak may have come to an unceremonious end.

"What's this about?"

I consider my options. I can talk to Brian without William. Brian's the one holding the key anyway. Who knows what William even remembers?

I let out a breath. "I have new information about my mother's murder. This new information comes with a set of new questions. You, Brian, might have some answers. I think you didn't tell me the truth back in February, at least not all of it."

"William was supposed to meet with those McLaughlin people yesterday and I haven't heard from him since. Is that where you were too?" The timbre of Brian's voice is rising.

"No, I wasn't. I was with my own attorney today. I actually haven't had contact with William in months. He went to see those McLaughlin people yesterday?"

"Yeah. They'd been bugging him for a long time to come in and go over some things. He finally caved. They've been after me too, but I wouldn't budge."

Imagine that.

"Why bother? Like you, we've both been summoned for the trial next week. That's more than enough." He sighs into the phone, "What do you think they told him?"

"It's possible that William learned the same things I did."

"I'm listening."

I'm suddenly very aware of the other people around me in the parking lot. I take a seat in my car and close the door.

"First, that there was an eighteen-minute gap between the call William made to you and the call you made to 911. Second, when William and I confronted you back in February, you said that William had been hysterical during that phone call. You said you only caught a few words. 'Knife' was the first word you said you understood. The thing is Brian, if Warren Lewis took the knife with him, then why would William have said, 'knife'?"

I pause, but he remains quiet.

"And third, I saw a crime scene photo that was taken while you and William were still at the house. William is in the photo from head to toe. His clothes that were tested from that night weren't actually his. He was wearing my clothes. My sweatshirt, my jeans and my sneakers. Why?"

Brian's lie comes out practiced and quick. "Who knows? He was in an altered state that night, right? Maybe he accidentally put your clothes on in the dark. You guys were pretty much the same size. He probably didn't even realize the mistake."

"You say he was 'altered'. He was altered by the drugs that were in the pocket of his own jeans, not mine. His jeans that he would have put on before heading down to the kitchen and getting high. But okay. Let's try it your way. Maybe he gets the coke out of his pocket and goes down to the kitchen in just his underwear, then eventually comes back up in his 'altered state' and gets dressed in the dark, confusing my clothes for his own. That's all very unlikely, but it's your story so let's go with it. Here's the problem: His own clothes should have still been on the floor of my room, but they weren't."

I pause again and he's quiet again.

"Look, Brian, we're not off to a great start here. The time for your bullshit has long passed. I need the truth. Where are the clothes William wore that day? They're with his shoes and the knife and the cast iron pan, aren't they? And those shoes were size ten-and-a-half Reeboks. Reeboks that were covered in blood. Reeboks that left bloody prints at the scene."

There's a long silence that he just waits out.

"And those prints never came up at the trial. Why not?"

Brian finally cracks, "Because they didn't fit the story."

Wow. I wanted the truth, but it still surprises, me like icy fingers on the back of my neck. I sit there, unable to speak.

"I'd been after Warren Lewis for a year at that point, but I always came up just short on proof. It had taken all night to get the whole story out of William. As the horrific reality settled in, I came to realize that, while William committed these unthinkable acts, he wasn't the one who was actually responsible. I saw an opportunity to set up Warren Lewis and I took it. Is it really a set-up if it actually was his fault? I didn't think so. So, I created the narrative. I thought I could make all the pieces fit."