The Book of Cold Cases(8)

“All right, I’ll be honest,” Beth said. “I’ve been asked for a lot of interviews. I’ve been offered money. I’ve never been interested. But you’re not like anyone who has ever asked me.”

I was silent. Was that good or bad? Did it matter?

“So, yes, I’ll consider it,” Beth continued. “Despite how gauche your pitch was—or perhaps because of it—I’ll think it over. Does that satisfy you?”

“Yes,” I said. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Go back before they fire you.”

I turned and walked back to the office, my mind racing. I didn’t see a single thing in front of me. I forgot that I hadn’t actually had lunch. I’d have to eat the crackers and cheese I’d stuffed in my purse this morning.

At my desk, my gaze moved to the stack of patient files on the trolley that had been wheeled between me and Karen. One of those files was Beth Greer’s.

Was she ill? Was that why she was considering my offer? A sort of deathbed confession?

I could find out. It would be easy.

My gaze traveled up to the sign on the wall above the locked filing cabinets. a reminder to every employee: patient files are confidential!

If I were caught reading Beth’s file, I’d be fired.

For a second, I was still tempted. But I’d never broken a rule like that. I stood up, picked up the stack of files, and began to put them away.





CHAPTER SIX


September 2017





SHEA


“Well, you didn’t get served with a restraining order,” Michael said over the phone. “That’s something, at least.”

I was at home, putting my single-serve piece of lasagna in the oven, the phone crooked between my ear and my shoulder. “I talked to an older lady in a public park,” I protested. “It was perfectly innocent.”

“?‘Innocent’ is a curious choice of words when you’re talking about Beth Greer.”

I closed the oven door and straightened, catching the tone in his voice. “You think she did it? Are you familiar with the case?”

“Everyone in Claire Lake is familiar with the Lady Killer case. And I spent five years in the Claire Lake PD. Cops are especially opinionated when it comes to that case. Her acquittal left egg on their faces and two unsolved murders that have never been closed.”

The fact that Michael was a former cop was one of the reasons I’d hired him. I’d wondered why he wasn’t a cop anymore, but it seemed like a personal thing to ask. “So you think she did it,” I said.

“I think that Beth Greer was indicted for murder,” he said. “And, yes, sometimes indictments are wrong. But most of the time, they happen for a reason.”

“There wasn’t any forensic evidence.” This was my favorite topic; I could talk about it for hours. “As in literally none. No hairs, no fibers, no blood, no DNA.”

“You’re forgetting that the bullets matched the gun that killed Beth’s father.”

“But they never found that gun. And Beth was nineteen when her father was killed. You think a nineteen-year-old girl shot her father and made it look like a robbery?”

“Shea, there was a witness to Veerhoever’s murder.”

“One who only briefly saw her in the dark, and admitted on the stand that he’d been drinking that night. The handwriting on the notes didn’t match Beth’s. And no matter how many times they interviewed Beth, they never got a confession or a single slipup in her story.”

“Which just means she was very, very good.”

“Oh, come on. Cops do the best they can—I know that. But they aren’t infallible.”

“I’ll admit that the evidence at trial wasn’t as strong as it could have been. And Beth Greer had the best lawyer money could buy. But, Shea, I’ve met sociopaths in my line of work. The smart ones are experts at deception. They can make people believe anything; it’s what they do. Manipulation is how they get through life, because they don’t know any other way. They can lie as easy as breathing, and they’re convincing because they almost believe it themselves. People like that can trap you, and they’re dangerous. You read and write about these cases, but I’ve seen them firsthand.”

I thought about my would-be killer, who was sitting in a cell somewhere, likely counting down the days to his parole hearing. I had received a letter from the Department of Corrections, inviting me to come to the hearing and give a victim impact statement. I had buried the letter under a pile of mail, unable to even look at it. “I’ve met terrible people firsthand, too,” I said. “I may not have been a cop like you, but I’ve met them.”

“Okay,” Michael said. “I’m just asking you to be careful. In every interaction, Beth Greer is going to try and keep the upper hand. She’s already got you breathless in anticipation, waiting for her to decide. She’s been asked for interviews dozens of times, maybe even hundreds, in the past forty years. Why do you think she chose you?”

That stung, but he was right. I wasn’t an author or a reporter or an investigator. I was no one. Why would Beth Greer choose no one? “I guess if she agrees, I’ll ask her,” I said.

“She knows you want information, so she’s going to give some things and withhold others. She’s going to meet with you on her terms. She’s going to lead you where she wants you to go.”