The Boy from the Woods(87)

What stopped him from saying that was that Wilde realized there had to be a reason, a good reason, why Strauss had driven him up. Strauss had some idea what was going on with Crash Maynard and Naomi Pine, and yet he had still insisted on making this journey. So rather than lose time protesting his presence, Wilde saw little harm in showing some respect and giving them another few minutes. It wouldn’t change anything back at Maynard Manor, which was more than ever feeling like worlds away from Sing Sing.

Raymond Stark nodded at Strauss to go ahead.

“Two years ago,” Strauss said, “we at the Truth Program discovered that Detective Kindler planted evidence in at least three cases to reach his arrest quota and up his profile as a crime fighter. The DC attorney general’s office is now being forced to reexamine a number of Kindler’s arrests. They’ve vacated one conviction already. But they’re moving slowly, and no one wants to touch the Christopher Anson murder.”

“Why not?” Wilde asked.

“Because the case was so high profile. Everyone thought Raymond was guilty—fellow officers, prosecutors, the media, Anson’s family and friends. It would be more than an embarrassment now if it came out that the knife was planted. And even if we could prove that, plenty of people would still say Raymond was the killer. It’s like OJ. Tons of people think Mark Fuhrman planted the bloody glove—but they also think OJ did it.”

Strauss handed him a grainy photograph of a young white man with a big smile and wavy hair. He wore a blue blazer and red tie. “This is Christopher Anson, the murder victim. The photograph was taken two weeks before his murder. He was twenty when he was killed, a junior at Swarthmore College. Christopher was the quintessential all-American boy—basketball captain, debate team, three-point-eight GPA. The Ansons are a big blue-blood family in Massachusetts. They summered in a huge estate in Newport. You get the idea.”

Wilde said nothing.

“I tried to approach the Anson family with what we learned about Detective Kindler. They didn’t want to hear it. In their minds, the killer is caught and got what he deserved. It’s not an unusual reaction. You’ve been believing one thing for over thirty years. You become vested and blind.”

“Saul?”

It was Raymond.

“Wilde has been very patient with us,” Raymond said. “Show him the other photo now.”

Strauss hesitated. “I’d rather put it in more context first.”

“He’ll get the context,” Raymond said. “Show him.”

Strauss reached into the manila folder and pulled out another photograph.

“At first, this didn’t mean much to us. But then Arnie Poplin made that comment.”

He handed Wilde a group shot of about thirty or forty young people, all well dressed, healthy looking, and vibrant. The photograph had been taken outdoors on white concrete steps. Some of the young people sat, some stood. The first face Wilde recognized was Christopher Anson standing second from the left on the top. Wilde quickly realized that the other portrait of Christopher Anson that Strauss had showed him had been this same photo, just cropped and enlarged.

In the background, above the smiling faces, Wilde could see the familiar white dome of the Capitol building in Washington, DC.

A chill began to creep down his neck.

“Christopher Anson spent that summer interning for a Massachusetts senator.”

Wilde’s eyes traveled along the picture. He got it now—saw it all—but he waited for Strauss to point it out. Strauss pointed to a face two away from Christopher Anson.

“That’s Dash Maynard.”

His finger moved down to the young woman who hadn’t changed much over the years. “That’s Delia Maynard, née Reese”—and then the finger slid to the face next to her—“and that, my friend, is the current senator for the great state of New Jersey, Rusty Eggers.”





CHAPTER

THIRTY-FOUR



Back in the Sing Sing parking lot, Wilde called the Maynards to see whether there had been any news. There hadn’t been. Two hours remained until the kidnappers promised to release Crash.

When they got back in Saul Strauss’s car, Wilde said, “So let me see if I have your theory right.”

“Go ahead.”

“Arnie Poplin claims to have overheard Rusty admit to killing someone and Dash having some kind of confession to it on tape. You figure they’re talking about Christopher Anson.”

“In short, yes. But there’s more to it.”

“Such as?”

“They were out that night.”

“Who?”

“Christopher Anson and Rusty Eggers. That took a while to track down. These interns—they were all kids from pretty wealthy families, so their names weren’t in the released report.”

“In a case this high profile?”

“Even more reason. ‘We will only cooperate if we’re assured our precious child’s name will not be sullied.’ They struck confidentiality deals before they’d testify. It turns out that the prosecutor didn’t need them for court. The knife discovery was enough. But anyway, a bartender at a local hangout called the Lockwood saw a whole group of the male interns that night. Look, it took a while. We had our best people on this. Most of the interns wouldn’t talk—heck, it’s been over thirty years—but from what we understand, Rusty Eggers and Christopher Anson didn’t get along. Both of them saw themselves as alphas in this group of interns. They were constantly competing. According to the bartender, they had words that night. One of their buddies had to separate them.”