The Secrets We Keep Page 2

  His eyes finally locked with mine. “I guess you’re a better detective than I thought.”

  “Does Andrew know that you’re his real dad?”

  “I think so. I never told him that but I’m fairly certain that he knows.”

  The way Sammy kept his chin up, ready to face the music, made me less angry with him. Not that I would have stayed mad for long. “Well, at least now it makes sense why you’re willing to dip into your savings to hire me and why you’re so sure he’s innocent.”

  He nodded. “I’m sorry I lied to you. If it’s any consolation, I’ve felt horrible about it.”

  “It’s not a consolation,” I said, but a part of me did appreciate that he acknowledged my feelings of betrayal. Yet, there was no point in harboring resentment against him or my mother. What's done is done. The only thing to do was to move forward and focus on the task at hand.

  “Anyway,” he said, straightening. “I know you and Carter will do whatever it takes to get Andrew out of jail. He won't survive in there with all those rapists and murderers.”

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. The visual was too much. “I understand but I haven't decided to take the case yet.”

  “Sure, you have,” he said as he walked me to the door. “I know you, Sarah. You won’t be able to say no. When you meet Andrew in person, you’ll realize how similar you are. I’m quite certain.”

  * * *

  By the time I got home, Carter had already printed out a dozen newspaper articles online about the trial of Andrew McCarthy. They were spread across the kitchen table in no discernible order.

  “Well,” I said to him. “You're not going to believe how Andrew and I are related.”

  He stood there, hands on hips, awaiting an answer. “Well?”

  “He's my half-brother.”

  Carter blinked loudly.

  Despite my somber mood, I laughed. “…and Sammy is the father.”

  “Come here.” He took my hand and the next thing I knew, his arms were wrapped around me tightly. “Tell me everything Sammy told you.”

  “My mom gave him up for adoption when I was five. She lied to me and my father, said she had to attend a nurse's training in Washington D.C. She gave him up for adoption without ever seeing his face. Fourteen years later, Andrew had written to my mother but she never responded. Sammy found out and felt badly for the kid, so they began a correspondence when Andrew was just fourteen - more than twenty years ago. I can’t believe I never knew.”

  “Your body is shaking,” he said, sitting me down at the kitchen table. “I'm making you toast with peanut butter. You need to eat.”

  The last thing I wanted was food, but I didn't argue. “Sammy wants to hire us. To get proof that Andrew is innocent.”

  “Did you say yes?”

  “Not yet.” I gestured to the papers on the table. “Did you read all this stuff?”

  “I skimmed through it.”

  “Sammy wholeheartedly believes he didn't do it.”

  “Well, twelve jurors believe that he did.” Carter prepared the toast on a plate and set it in front of me with a glass of water. “You'll feel better once you have something in your stomach.”

  I forced the crusty bread down my throat with a painful swallow as I gazed upon a picture of Rachel Manning in one of the articles. She was an attractive, thirty-something brunette with sparkling green eyes. She seemed so full of life. I wondered where her body was laid to rest. In a shallow grave on the side of a highway somewhere?

  “I want to visit him in prison tomorrow. Will you go with me?”

  Carter occupied the chair opposite me and said, “Of course I'll go with you.” He made a face, like something had just occurred to him. “Sarah, are you sure that he's really your brother?”

  I showed him the photo that Sammy had given me. “He looks just like my mom. The brown hair, the blue eyes, the space between his teeth. I had the same space before I got braces.”

  “So?” he said, scrutinizing the photo. “Lots of people have brown hair, blue eyes and a space between their front teeth.”

  “I can't explain how but I just know Andrew is my brother.”

  “Or maybe you just want to believe it.”

  Always the devil's advocate, Carter had a good point. “Is there any way you can work your magic and find out for certain?”

  “I'll see what I can do. Do you know the name of the adoption agency?”

  Sammy had given me pertinent information about Andrew before I left his apartment. I found the folded piece of paper in my pocket and read it out loud. “Bright Futures Adoption Agency is located in Hartford, Connecticut. I have no idea if they are still in business. Andrew’s birthdate is September 18, 1974. His adoptive parents were Carl and Susan McCarthy, both deceased.”

  “Well, that’s a good start.” Carter went to the counter and prepared the coffee maker for another round. “While I confirm that Andrew is your half-brother, why don’t you go through the pages I’ve printed out here? I’ll warn you, the media has made Andrew out to be an animal.”

  Chapter 3

  One of the articles Carter had printed out showed a photo of Andrew sitting with his lawyer in the courtroom, apparently right after he’d been sentenced to life in prison. The stunned look on Andrew’s face said it all. He couldn’t believe they delivered a guilty verdict.

  The murder took place on the morning of February 5th, inside Andrew and Rachel’s home on 237 White Chapel Road in Hartford. Andrew claimed he left the house early while Rachel was still in bed sleeping. He got to the gym around 7:15 for a forty minute workout then headed home around 8:10am, stopping at the Starbuck’s drive-thru. He arrived home around 8:20 to find Rachel’s blood all over the bed where she was sleeping when he left her. He called 911 at 8:24am.

  The prosecution claimed that Andrew had killed Rachel earlier that morning, wrapped her body in the shower curtain, and left the house to dispose of her body. Then, in order to appear to have an alibi, he went to the gym and performed his usual work-out.

  The media portrayed Andrew as a cold-hearted, calculated murderer who killed Rachel in a jealous rage. The so-called domestic dispute call to 911 two weeks prior certainly sealed the deal in many minds.

  And yet, Andrew had no history of violence. He had never been arrested. His friends held him in the highest esteem.

  Andrew and Rachel had lived together for about three years. Andrew was an accountant and had worked for the same firm for over a decade. Rachel was a holistic psychiatrist, with a thriving practice in downtown Hartford. In the weeks prior to her death, their relationship had become tense. Andrew even admitted that they’d been arguing about the fact that she was borderline obsessed about her work, spending over sixty hours a week at her office. She had become distant and distracted and Andrew had feared that she was having an affair. The perfect motive, apparently.

  The trial lasted six weeks. Andrew never testified on his own behalf - which I found to be disturbing. Why didn’t he want to tell those jurors himself that he didn’t kill his girlfriend?

  I didn’t have all the facts, of course. I would have to call Andrew’s attorney and see if he’d be gracious enough to let me see the file on his client. Police reports, testimony, depositions, anything and everything pertaining to Rachel Manning’s murder case.

  According to my research, convicting a suspect of murder without an actual body was becoming more frequent thanks to DNA and modern science in general but, in this case, there was no weapon. No hair fibers or blood found in the suspect’s car. No blood spatter found on any of the suspect’s clothing. No witness who saw him dragging a body out of the house. The only damning piece of evidence seemed to be the 911 call from the next door neighbor two weeks prior to the murder.

  By 6:00pm, my eyes were burning from being on the laptop too long. I hadn’t eaten anything since the peanut butter sandwich that Carter had made around lunchtime.

  I emerged from the bedroom to find Carter in the kitchen, staring at th
e take-out menu from of our favorite Thai restaurant. “I’m calling in for our dinner,” he said. “Unless you have a better idea.”

  “That sounds perfect. I’ll go out for a run and grab the food on my way home.”

  I slipped into a pair of sneakers and sweatpants and headed out. The temps had dropped back into the fifties, but the cool air felt invigorating on my skin.

  Running has become an important part of my daily routine. It helps to clear the mind, not to mention trimming the waistline. With my legendary sweet-tooth, it's imperative to burn calories every chance I get.

  An hour later, the sun was setting into a purple cloud, illuminating the sky with the color of grape cotton candy. I took in the beautiful view before walking in the front door with the brown take-out bag smelling of curry.

  Carter was on the phone when I walked through the kitchen, so I continued straight into our bedroom, stripped off my sweaty clothes and jumped into the shower.

  As I stepped into a comfortable pair of silk pajamas, Carter walked into the bedroom. There was a spark in his eye that told me he had interesting news.

  “I just spoke with a woman at the adoption agency in Hartford. Sammy was right. Your mother had a signed contract with them, giving up her rights to her child she gave birth to on September 18th, 1974; Andrew's birthday.”

  I sucked in a breath. “Wow. I figured those records would be sealed. What else could they tell you?”

  “That's as far as I got. They wouldn't give me the names of the adoptive parents but, because of the birthdate and location, there's a good chance that Andrew is your half-brother.”

  Chapter 4

  As soon as Carter and I walked into the formidable structure known as the Connecticut Correction Facility, I could almost smell the fear and loathing, so potent it stung my eyes. The guards march around the place like the Gestapo; even the visitors are regarded with suspicion.

  They almost wouldn't let me through security because I was wearing a metal barrette, which they confiscated and never returned. Not that I was particularly attached to the barrette - I just didn't appreciate being treated like a criminal.

  Airport security is a dream compared to this outfit!

  By the time we had reached the visitor's waiting room, I felt like I needed a shower but, hey, at least there was free coffee. I was about to go fetch myself a cup when Carter stopped me.

  “I wouldn't recommend it,” he muttered under his breath. “Trust me.”

  I suppose Carter would know better. As a cop in Boston for over a decade, he would occasionally visit inmates in prison to go over testimony or convince them to rat on one of their cohorts.

  After signing our names on a register and showing our ID's, we were whisked into another waiting room and asked to have a seat.

  I was a nervous wreck the whole twenty minutes we sat there until a guard called my name.

  Carter stood up, but for some reason, I couldn't move.

  “C'mon Sarah.” He grasped my arm, gently. “Time for you to go see Andrew.”

  My heart was like a jackhammer in my chest. I tugged at the collar of my shirt and tried to breathe.

  I finally managed to get to my feet, and said, “Are you not coming with me?”

  “This is the first time you're meeting your brother. Maybe it's best that you do this on your own.”

  Carter’s tone was firm yet sincere, and I realized he was right.

  He caressed my cheek and said, “I'll be sitting right here when you get back, okay?”

  I nodded, took a deep breath, and followed the guard into the adjoining room.

  There were a row of windows, fully enclosed, with five seats.

  Behind window number 3, I saw a man in his early forties with sallow skin and brown hair in need of a trim. The dark circles under his eyes, along with the perma lines on his forehead, aged him considerably. However, the blue eyes were wide with hope.

  As I sat down and held the phone to my ear, Andrew looked up and stared at me, like he’d just witnessed a double rainbow. He grabbed his own phone, licked his lips, and made an effort to smile.

  “Oh my God,” he whispered. “It's really you?”

  His voice cracked like a pre-pubescent boy, and my heart melted.

  “Andrew, it's nice to meet you, finally.” My words came out more formally than I had intended.

  He choked out a laugh, eyes beginning to water. “I take it you read my letter and talked to Sammy.”

  I wanted to break through the glass and hug him; to tell him everything would be okay. He looked so frail in the orange jumpsuit. “Yes. Sammy told me about … our mom.”

  Never taking his eyes off my face, he said, “You're even prettier in person.”

  I only wish I could repay him the same compliment. “How are you doing in here? You feeling okay?”

  A pained smile creased his face as he waved a casual hand around. “Hey, it's not the country club, but I'm still alive. It's not easy making friends in a place like this. At least, not the friends I want to have.”

  “I can't imagine what you must be going through.”

  “I'm just happy you came. Honestly, I didn't think you would.”

  I couldn’t take my eyes off him so I just stared like an idiot. I didn’t know what to say. Finally I muttered, “This is weird, isn't it? There is so much we need to talk about concerning your case, but part of me just wants to hear about your life. Sammy hasn’t gotten the chance to tell me much.”

  I could see the tears starting to form in his eyes and I figured it was time to get down to business since we had limited time. “Look,” I said. “You asked for my help and I'm here. We really should focus on your present situation. Sammy gave me a little background on your case but I'd like to hear the bullet points from you.”

  He blinked, as if he'd forgotten all about the fact that he was in prison for murder. “You're right. We should focus on that. What do you want to know?”

  “I want to hear your version of the events that happened that day. Don't leave anything out.” I held up my phone to indicate that I'd be recording the conversation.

  He nodded and cleared his throat. “Sunday morning I got up early to go to the gym. Rachel was in bed when I left. She liked to sleep in on the weekends. Anyway, I’m sure I locked the door on my way out. I’m pretty good about doing that. When I got back, the door was unlocked. I thought it was weird. When I got inside, I had a bad feeling. There was this strange smell in the air and it was eerily quiet. Usually, Rachel is up by the time I get back from the gym so I called up to her several times. No reply. As I headed up the stairs, I noticed this red stuff on the runner, looked like blood. I ran up to the bedroom, walked in, and couldn’t believe what I saw. Blood everywhere. All over the bed, on the floor, spattered on the wall. And … Rachel was gone.”

  Andrew closed his eyes and swallowed hard. When he opened them again, he coughed into his fist and continued. “I didn’t know what to do. I ran all over the house searching for her, shouting her name. Finally I just called 911 in tears. The cops took me in to the station and questioned me for hours while they searched my property for a weapon. They took my car into evidence. They went all around the neighborhood looking for witnesses.”

  “Did they suspect you right away?”

  “I think so, but they asked the usual questions. Did Rachel have any enemies? I said no but, there was one person who could have done this, Pablo Catalino, one of her patients. He’d been obsessed with her for months and she’d seen him drive by our house several times in the weeks prior to her death. As it turned out, Pablo had an alibi for that morning. He was already in police custody for robbing a convenient store on the other side of town.”

  “Does he have a criminal record?”

  “Yes. A long one. Rape, assault... you name it.”

  I hesitated to ask my next question. “They didn’t find any semen near the bed?”

  Andrew squirmed. “No. The police didn’t find any of his DNA at the house. Not a s
ingle strand of hair. My lawyer looked into the possibility that Pablo had a friend kill her, but that theory turned into a dead end.”

  “What kind of strategy did your defense attorney come up with? From what I can tell, he didn’t introduce any other suspects.”

  “Because there were no other suspects. Although he tried implicating the neighbor, Neal Gammond, the same one who had called 911 a few weeks before all this shit happened. Neal told the dispatcher that I was always raising my voice. That I was a controlling bastard. I mean, the guy barely knows me.”

  “How well did Neal know Rachel? Were they friendly?”

  “Yeah, I guess. Rachel was friendly to everyone.”

  “You think he killed her,” I said. “And tried to frame you?”

  “We’d considered that, but he had no motive to kill her. At least none that my lawyer could find.”

  “Maybe he was obsessed with her, just like Pablo.”

  “I don’t think so. Neal is openly gay.”

  “Oh.”

  “Anyway, there are no witnesses who saw anyone go in or out of the house that morning, except me.”

  “Is there anyone else in Rachel’s life that might’ve wanted her dead? An old boyfriend? One of her other patients?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Tell me about Rachel’s family. Are her parent’s alive? Does she have siblings?”

  “Her parents are gone but she has a brother. Michael was sixteen when he was diagnosed with schizophrenia. He’s the reason that Rachel decided to become a psychiatrist. She wanted to help him and people who suffered from similar conditions.”

  “Where does Michael live?”

  Andrew bowed his head. “I’m not really sure, to be honest. Last I heard, he was homeless, living on the streets in downtown Hartford.”

  “Jeesh, that’s awful. How long has he been homeless?”

  “Off and on for ten years. He lived with me and Rachel a few times last year, but it never worked out.”