The Homewreckers(86)

“Oh my God.” Ragan choked back tears. “This was Lanier’s. It really is her.”

His put his head down on the desk and his shoulders shook as he sobbed. “God, Lanie.”

Makarowicz had never gotten used to this part of the job. Dealing with the next of kin was never easy, and it was even more difficult when the next of kin was still considered a viable murder suspect.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Ragan.”

Ragan lifted his head and let out a long, ragged sigh. “I should call Emma.”

“She knows,” Makarowicz said.

The coach wiped his face with his forearm. “How did she take the news?”

“She was upset, of course. I promised to call her when the coroner makes it official.”

“Okay.” Ragan squared his shoulders. “Okay. Do you know, I mean, can you tell what happened?”

“Not really. After seventeen years, as you can imagine, all we have is a skeleton.”

“Jesus.”

“I still have some questions, if you don’t mind,” Makarowicz said.

“I didn’t do this,” Ragan said, his jaw tightening. “I might not have been a perfect husband. Our marriage might not have been perfect, but I would have never, ever hurt her.”

“Okay,” Mak said. “The best way for you to prove that is to be perfectly honest with me.”

“I have been,” Ragan said.

The detective picked up the photograph of the wedding ring and waved it at the coach.

“The only reason we were able to recover this ring is because your wife wasn’t wearing it that night. She had it in the zippered pocket of that jacket. Why do you suppose that was?”

“I don’t know,” Ragan said. “I went to bed that night, and when I woke up in the morning, she was gone.”

“Did you have a fight?”

“No!”

“What time did you discover her missing?”

“I don’t know, man. Maybe six or so.”

“I don’t think so. Emma says she woke up in the middle of the night because of the lightning and thunder. She went to your bedroom, but both of you were gone. You and Lanier.”

“Never happened. She made that shit up. To hurt me. She was a little kid. She couldn’t even tell time,” Ragan said.

“She knew it was storming, and she knew that when she found you a few minutes later, you were wet. What happened, Frank? Was there a fight? Was it an accident?”

“Goddamn it, no! I’m telling you, I never touched her. I didn’t do this.”

“You’re lying about something,” Mak said. “I know you left the house that night, in the middle of that storm. Why not just tell the truth? Don’t you want us to find the person who did this?”

Ragan twisted the large gold signet ring on his right hand. He was staring at a small framed photograph on his desktop. Makarowicz craned his neck to get a better look. The colors had faded over the years, but the image was distinct. It wasn’t an old family photo, or even a picture of his only child. It was the Cardinal Mooney football team, posed in front of a banner that proclaimed STATE CHAMPIONS, and it was the only personal item in the cluttered, cramped office.

He picked up the photo and tapped the glass. “I had three seniors signed to Division A colleges that year. Two more walked on at respectable D-2 schools. You know what an accomplishment that is? How hard I worked? Practices, scouting the opposition, sucking up to the alums to get more money for equipment, buses, a decent weight room? From August ’til postseason, I was never home at night.”

“Lanier resented your job,” Makarowicz suggested. “Maybe she knew you were fooling around on the side. Maybe she was lonely.”

“Maybe she was a selfish slut. Maybe she was a shitty mom. Nobody ever talked about that,” Ragan retorted. “All the whispers were about me. About what Coach did to drive his wife away. Maybe Coach did it. My whole career was wiped out. Because she couldn’t keep her legs together.”

“You thought she was cheating.” Makarowicz said it as a fact. “But with who?”

“I could tell something was up. I’d come home that fall and the babysitter was there with Emma, but no Lanier. She told me it was meetings at school, or drinks with a friend, or she was spending time with her mom. Her mom was having a rough time with the chemo, so I cut her some slack.”

“How did you figure it out?”

“Her phone. Lanier was always leaving her phone around, on the front seat of her car, on the kitchen counter. Suddenly, though, she’s super careful. I’d wake up in the middle of the night, and she’d be in the bathroom with the door closed, talking in whispers.”

“Did you ever confront her?”

“I wanted to wait until I had proof. I think she sensed I was suspicious, because for a little while, things were back to normal. But then, right around Christmas, she was super moody, and secretive.”

Makarowicz had one more photo left in the file folder. It was a shot he’d taken after the crime scene techs had brought up the skeletal remains and assembled them on a blue tarp at the edge of the septic tank pit. Now he placed it, faceup, on the desktop. He tapped the skull with his right forefinger.

“Someone bashed in your wife’s skull. Was that you? Tell me about the night your wife disappeared. And no more bullshit, Frank. Because the more you lie, the guiltier you look.”