“Convincing?” He shook his head. “Screw that. They’re gold. Trust me. I’m in front of juries every day. If Scott Harden points his finger across that courtroom and says Randall Thompson stripped off his clothes and tied him down to a bed, that trumps hair fibers at a dump site. At that point in time, the cops stop looking, and lack of evidence ceases to matter.”
“So that’s going to be your defense?” I gathered my trash and stuffed it into the bag, then reached across the corner of the table to get his. Our knees brushed. “Scott Harden is lying?”
“You ever open a pair of handcuffs with a fork?”
“No,” I replied. “Have you?”
“No one has. It’s impossible.” He held up his hand. “Okay, not impossible. But you aren’t doing it one-handed, and look at the autopsy photos. Rope burns, not handcuffs. These boys were spread out on the bed, not chained to radiators with their hands in close proximity.”
“It’s a stretch,” I argued. “You’re making a lot of stretches.”
“Gwen.” His use of my name caught my attention and held it. “What if I’m right?”
If he was right, then this killer was still out there. Laughing at us. Free, while Scott Harden ate up the press and Randall Thompson was locked away in solitary confinement. It was a sobering and terrifying thought, because he was correct about one thing—the cops weren’t out looking right now. They were sitting back and congratulating themselves on a case well solved.
“If you’re wrong, and you get Randall Thompson off—then what?”
“I’m not wrong.” He met my eyes, and for a moment, I saw his pain. Raw and unfiltered, the weight of his grief was right there, etched in the hunch of his shoulders and the tight knots in his neck.
Maybe he was wrong, but he was a father and he was hurting, and I couldn’t argue with that.
CHAPTER 23
Three days later, I perched on the counter of the break room and watched Scott Harden speak into a fuzzy mic with a Channel 27 logo on it.
“It’s a second chance at life,” the seventeen-year-old said. “It makes me want to be a better person, to deserve the life I’ve been given.” He flashed a smile to the camera, and there was no disputing that the kid was cute. He had all the attributes that would make a teenage girl swoon, which was evidenced by his blooming celebrity. Last night, I checked his social media followers and was shocked to see the number approaching a million fans.
Jacob let out a boo, then drained his can of Mello Yello. “He’s such a camera hog. I bet he practices these lines each night in front of the mirror.”
I didn’t disagree, but it seemed wrong to talk crap about the one teenager who had avoided the gruesome end the other six had received. “Whether it’s cheesy or not, he’s right,” I pointed out as I dug into a bag of microwave popcorn. “He did escape death. That causes people to approach life in a different way.”
From her spot at the table, Meredith looked up from her phone. “Have you noticed he never really says anything in these interviews?”
I had. In the last day, I’d watched every television and radio piece I could find of him. And Meredith was right. He skimmed over his time in captivity and said little to nothing about the man who had supposedly held him prisoner.
The interviewer continued. “How much interaction did you have with Randall Thompson prior to him kidnapping you?”
“Mr. Harden won’t be speaking on that.” Juan Melendez, Scott Harden’s attorney, stepped forward, and Jacob let out another boo. I grinned, appreciating the lighthearted moment after a day spent in the death files.
I’d made it through the fourth victim, then had to take a break. It was all so incredibly sad. Six smart and talented lives taken. Six families—parents, siblings, grandparents—whose lives were irrevocably destroyed. And all for what? One sick individual’s twisted pleasure. Was that one person Randall Thompson? I was dying to research him, to see if he fit my profile so far, but I’d behaved. I couldn’t have his reality alter my analysis, so I was mentally compartmentalizing what I already knew about the man and locking it away for later.
“I don’t get the media tour,” Meredith mused. “He’s on TV every time I turn it on. Shouldn’t he be at home with his parents?”
“He’s a teenage kid who has a chance to be famous.” I chewed a handful of popcorn. “Plus, he’s probably avoiding the emotion dump. It’ll hit him at some point, and he’ll break down. But right now, he’s distracting himself with all this.”
We watched as the camera cut to a montage of shots of the victims. I watched the faces of the teenagers I now knew by heart. Gabe Kavin’s photo appeared, and my heart sank at how much he resembled Robert. Same dark hair. Same knowing eyes. He would have grown up to be a heartbreaker, just like his dad.
I pushed off the counter before the show turned its coverage to Randall Thompson. “I’m going to get back to work. Jacob, I’ve got Luke Attens coming in at one.”
He made a face and squeezed the empty soda can, crinkling it. “Right, if he shows up. That guy’s a dick.”
I had no comeback for that. Luke was a dick, and the most volatile of my clients. He’d been a no-show on his last two appointments, which was common for him. He’d be regular for a while, then go out of town or miss appointments for a month, then pop back up as if everything were fine.
I didn’t mind. His appointments were exhausting, and he paid the no-show invoices without complaint. I’d made just as much in penalties as I’d made in billable time.
“Well, he called me this morning, so I’m expecting him to come in.” His early-morning call had been textbook Luke. Terse and demanding. Thirty seconds in which he’d barked at me to tell him his appointment time, then abruptly hung up.
“You’re meeting him in the conference room, right?”
“Yeah.” I stuffed the bag of popcorn into the trash and downed the remaining swallow of soda. Meredith grunted out a goodbye, her attention still on the television.
Luke Attens sat in front of me in bright-red pants and a paisley-print silk shirt. He was a walking contradiction, and if I ever had to create a psychological profile on him, it would involve a lot of question marks and blank lines.
Luke suffered from insecurity and abandonment, with a triple helping of uncontrollable rage. When his sister had gotten engaged two years earlier, it had spurred Luke to set fire to her car with both of them inside. Luke did not handle stress or heightened emotions well, which was why he was mid-hyperventilation right now.
“Breathe,” I instructed firmly. “Cup your hands in front of your mouth and breathe into your belly, not your chest.”
He gasped.
“Now, hold your breath for ten seconds.”
He shook his head, his hands still cupped over his mouth, and I raised my eyebrows at him. “Trust me, Luke. Hold your breath for ten seconds. It’ll reset you. Come on. I’ll do it with you.” I made a big show of inhaling and holding my breath. He hesitated, then followed.
I held up one finger, then two, holding my breath along with him as I counted to ten. Then I slowly exhaled and reminded myself that Jacob was right on the other side of the door, and if Luke tackled me across the table, it would take at least a minute for him to strangle me to death.