I remembered my plan to try to get her to confess, and when I got home, I sent her another Facebook message.
Libby: Need to meet again. I promise not to hit you this time. I just want to talk about Ryan. Meet me tomorrow at seven at Lake Mingo again. Please. It’s importan
t
.
I still had my pocket voice recorder that I’d used at work from time to time to record witness statements or client interviews. I went to my home office—which we had hoped to one day convert to a nursery—and dug through my top drawer until I found the tiny silver recorder. I set it on the kitchen counter and stood there formulating a plan in my mind.
I’d turn on the recorder, store it in my purse, and then I’d approach Lindsey in the park tomorrow. I’d humbly pretend to be sorry for losing my cool with her. I’d tell her I forgave her and then try to find some common ground with her regarding our mutual love for Ryan. Then, I figured, I’d talk about how awful he was to me, even though he really wasn’t, and start to build a rapport with her. Maybe not then, but eventually perhaps she’d say something, anything, I could use to clear my name.
***
I spent most of the next day starting to go through the hundreds of pictures in the boxes and trying to organize them so I could put them in photo albums. I found it very difficult not to break down and cry again as I looked at all the pictures of Ryan and me over the last eight years. I choked back tears as I looked at snapshots of Ryan and me at UK football games, concerts, company picnics, Christmas, and summer vacations in the Outer Banks. I lost track of time, and before I knew it, it was ten ’til seven. I knew it took fifteen or twenty minutes to get to town from Elm Fork Road, so I ran to the car and turned the key in the ignition.
My pulse was racing. I’d never done anything like what I planned to do. I had to play my part perfectly, or she would see right through me and then never tell me what I wanted to know. No,
needed
to know. Not only did I want to clear my name, I had to know exactly what happened to Ryan, and I truly believed Lindsey held the key to both my freedom and to the answers I was seeking.
I was fifteen minutes late and prayed she hadn’t given up on me and left. But no sooner had I pulled into the parking lot than I noticed her vehicle parked in the far back corner. I parked the Sorento a few spaces away. Lindsey was in her car, but it looked like she had fallen asleep. Her head was tilted back and lying against the headrest. As I approached her Maxima carefully, I could see her arms were down at her sides.
How odd, I thought. How could she fall asleep waiting for me to show up? Surely, she would be nervous like I was. Then it hit me. Heroin. I had never done heroin in my life, but I had heard people say sometimes you pass out after your high wears off. She must have gotten high before she came, a little courage in a syringe.
I walked over to her side of the Maxima and opened the door. She didn’t wake up.
“Lindsey,” I said quietly at first. Nothing. “Lindsey!” I said louder.
It wasn’t until I looked closely at her that I noticed the bruising around her neck. Holy shit. She wasn’t sleeping. She was dead. And not from a drug overdose, either. Someone had clearly strangled her with their bare hands, for I could see the purple and blue thumbprints right at the nape of her neck.
I closed her car door and thought about calling 911. But I didn’t. I knew either way they were going to suspect me of her murder. Especially considering there was electronic proof I had invited her to meet me here at the park. Not to mention my threatening texts to her the day before. Thanks to my experience as a criminal defense paralegal, I knew I had to erase all traces of my presence at a murder scene. I tugged on the bottom of my tank top and used it to wipe down the doorknob, removing my fingerprints from the shiny chrome.
I walked briskly back to my car, got in, and drove away, leaving my husband’s mistress’s body for someone else to find.
The next morning when I woke up around ten, I turned on the television.
Rachael Ray
.
The View
. Not really many choices. I checked
Headline News
to see if Ryan’s murder had made it big-time, but after watching for about half an hour, when they started looping the news stories from the beginning, I changed it back to
Rachael Ray
. She always aggravated the snot out of me, that one. Cute as a button, but fully aware of it. Her taglines like “delish” and “EVOO”—extra virgin olive oil…why not just say it?—grated on my nerves. But I had to hand it to the gal, she sure could cook. I never really mastered the art, so Ryan and I ate a lot of takeout and frozen meals. Every once in a blue moon, I’d decide to try one of Rachael’s recipes, but they were almost always utter failures.
I cleaned the kitchen as I listened to her interviewing Channing Tatum about his new movie. I unloaded the dishwasher and reloaded it with the few cups and utensils I had used since returning home. I always used paper plates—force of habit. Just then, I heard the familiar sound of the Channel 18 News jingle playing in the background. I wiped my hands on a purple kitchen towel and looked around the corner at the TV.
“Breaking news out of Nicholasville…the body of twenty-nine-year-old Lindsey Unser was found at Lake Mingo Park late last night…no word yet on cause of death…NPD spokesman Harold Schifner would only tell Channel 18 News that foul play was suspected…” A somewhat flattering picture of Lindsey was displayed across the screen. It wasn’t one I’d seen on her Facebook account. It probably came from her parents. “…sources have confirmed that Miss Unser was romantically linked to Ryan Carter, who was also found dead two weeks ago…stay tuned for more information.”
Immediately, my cell phone rang and vibrated on the kitchen counter. It was Dave.
“Libby, we have a problem.”
“I know. I just saw it on the news.”
“Detective Dorne has asked you to come down to the station to answer some questions. I told him it was up to you.”
“I figured that would happen. What should I do?” I was leaning against the granite countertops that I had talked Ryan into buying to replace his mother’s ugly green Formica when we moved in.
“You don’t have to answer their questions, but I would highly recommend you go. With me, of course. If you don’t, it will look like you have something to hide.”
“Dave, I swear, I had nothing to do with her death.”
“I know. This could be a good thing for your case, though. If the police can clear you of her murder and prove someone else killed Lindsey, it casts a very dark shadow of doubt on their case against you in Ryan’s murder. It’s obviously not a coincidence that both of them were murdered. So if we can find out who murdered Lindsey, we have a new suspect in Ryan’s death too. I can maybe get you out of this thing. But first, we have to cooperate with the police.”
“All right. When should I go in?”
“Today would be best. Libby, I know you didn’t kill Lindsey, but you need to tell me now…is there anything I need to know? I don’t want to be blindsided when we speak with them.”
I let out a deep sigh and fessed up. I told him about my Facebook messages to Lindsey a couple of days before her murder. Told him I warned her she would “pay.” I admitted I had sent the text message asking her to meet me at Lake Mingo—the cops would have that info soon, if they didn’t already. But I left out the bit about finding her body. I prayed no one had seen me there at the park. I hadn’t really seen anyone else. When he asked why I didn’t go after asking her to meet me there, I lied and said I had chickened out. I felt bad about lying to my attorney but things already looked bad enough for me as it was; if anyone learned I had actually found her body, I’d be in big trouble.
As soon as I hung up with Dave, my phone rang again. This time it was Paul. I ignored it. He called again. I ignored it. Then, I got a notification that I had a new voicemail. I clicked on the voicemail icon and held the phone to my ear.
“Hi,
Libby
, it’s Paul. Remember me? Yes, I know who you are now. I just saw you on the news. They said the girl who was found murdered in the park was romantically linked to the guy they found murdered last week in Nicholasville. And guess whose picture they showed when they mentioned that his wife was the prime suspect. That’s right. It was you, Libby. Why didn’t you tell me the truth? I would have understood. I thought we had something special. I thought we connected. Guess I was wrong. Good luck with your case. Have a nice life.”
I almost dropped the phone but caught it with my other hand. I hadn’t thought about Paul in days. I had so much going on. I assumed he had given up and moved on. But his tone was very angry, a little hurt, even. I felt bad for leading him on…that was never my intention. I just wanted to forget my real life, if only for one night. Now, on top of everything else, I had a scorned, pissed-off man on my hands. But what could I do?
***
I arrived at the police-fire station around two o’clock that afternoon. Dave had beat me there by just a few minutes. We walked in through the front entrance this time, telling the weaselly-looking officer at the front desk we were there to meet with Detective Jim Dorne. As we sat and waited for Dorne, I flipped through an old copy of
People
magazine. It was the 2013 “Sexiest Man Alive” edition, and Adam Levine was there in all his white t-shirt, tattooed-arms glory. No argument there. I had always had a thing for Adam Levine, and he was on my celebrity hall pass list, along with Ryan Gosling and Charlie Hunnam. Ryan had one too. His included Scarlett Johansson and that actress in
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo
. I had always thought that particular choice was strange until I saw Lindsey. Apparently, my husband had a thing for trashy women with shaved heads, piercings, and tattoos.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Detective Dorne poked his fat head around the corner and motioned for Dave and me to follow him down the hallway. He guided us to the same interview room I had been in the night of Ryan’s murder. Dave sat next to me on one side of the table while Detective Dorne sat directly opposite us and laid a manila file folder down between us.
He patted the table with his meaty hands. “I’m sure you know why we’ve asked you to come in today.”
“My client is here willingly. She would like to help as best she can, but she knows nothing about Miss Unser’s murder.”
“Is that right, Mrs. Carter?”
“No. I mean, yes. That’s right. I don’t know anything.”
“Would it surprise you, then, to know that we found messages from you on Lindsey’s Facebook Messenger?”
“No,” I answered for myself. “I sent those messages. I admit that.”
“They aren’t very nice. In one, you called her a ‘cunt’ and accused her of Ryan’s murder. In another, you told her, and I quote, ‘You’re going to pay, whore.’”
“I was very upset. She was having an affair with my husband.”
“And the very last message you sent asked her to meet you at Lake Mingo at seven last night. Did you go to Lake Mingo last night?”
I immediately said that no, I had changed my mind, chickened out, just like I’d planned on saying. But my insides were all twisted at the thought someone had seen me or there was video of me being there. But if that was the case, he said nothing about it.
“All right, let me get this straight. You set up a meeting with your husband’s mistress and then you, in your words, ‘chickened out.’ You didn’t go to the park. Is that what you’re telling me?”
Dave spoke up this time. “My client has already answered that question. She wasn’t there. Let’s move this along.”
Dorne held up his hands. “Okay, fair enough. Now, let’s talk about what happened last Saturday night. You know that Miss Unser alleged that you punched her in the face. She told this to the county prosecutor the following Monday.”
Dave answered for me again. “My client is not here to be questioned about unsubstantiated allegations made by a now deceased woman who obviously had problems of her own. As you are aware, the prosecutor decided not to pursue charges against my client as there were no witnesses to the alleged assault. That, and I’m sure they were aware of Miss Unser’s reputation as a heroin addict. A very unreliable witness.”
The detective looked at me, ignoring Dave’s answer. “So are you saying you did not assault the victim less than one week before she was murdered?”
“Move along, Detective, or we’re leaving.”
Dorne sat back in his chair and crossed his arms across his massive chest. His face was red, as always, and he looked frustrated.
“Miss Unser was strangled. Did you know that?”
“How could I possibly know that? All the news said was that she was found dead in her car in the park.”
“Strangulation is an up close and personal way to murder someone, don’t you think?”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Seems to me whoever killed her not only knew her but wanted to watch the life drain from her eyes. Someone who hated her. Someone who very much wanted to see her suffer.”
“Is there a question in there, Detective?” Dave leaned forward in his chair.
Dorne leaned forward too, and opened up the file folder, which had so far been unacknowledged. He pulled out a large glossy photograph and slid it across the table in front of me, tapping it with his sausage-like finger. There in front of me was what appeared to be an autopsy photo of Lindsey. It showed her only from the chest up. A white sheet was pulled up and tucked under her armpits. The bruising I had seen the day before was more pronounced now against her pale throat. Her eyes were closed, and her stupid ugly haircut was slicked back. I would have, should have, recoiled at the sight of her dead body. But after all I’d seen over the past two weeks, I was no longer shocked by death.
“You don’t seem very upset. Most people get sick when they see a picture of a dead body.”
“Detective,” Dave answered before I could think of a witty retort. “As you are keenly aware, my client discovered her husband with half his head blown off not too long ago. She is also a certified paralegal, specializing in criminal defense. You’ll certainly understand if she doesn’t react the way ‘most people’ do. She’s not ‘most people.’”
“Mrs. Carter. I’ll ask you plainly. Did you kill Lindsey Unser?”
“No,” I said instantly, not wanting there to be any hesitation before my answer. “I most certainly did not.”
“I think you did,” he said with a grin. “I think you were angry with Miss Unser because she was having an affair with your husband. I
know
you threatened her. And I think you asked her to meet you at Lake Mingo last night and that once you arrived, you two had another
argument. I think you wrapped your hands around her throat, and I think you strangled her.”
Dave shot up from his chair. “Are you charging my client?”
Detective Dorne drew in a deep breath and let it go. “Not at this time.”
“In that case,” he faced me, “Libby, let’s go.” He stopped and returned his attention to Dorne. “This conversation is over.”
***
When we arrived back at Dave’s office, we were greeted by his receptionist, a white-haired lady with wrinkles that reminded me of a pug. She had bags under her blue eyes and jowls that hung down below her chin.
“You have three messages,” she told Dave as he passed by her desk. She held out three pink slips of paper, and he snatched them from her and motioned for me to follow him. “Thanks, Helen. Hold my calls for a minute, will you?”
I followed Dave into his office. It was still decorated the same as it had been when I worked there over ten years ago. Framed pictures of golf courses, a bookshelf covered in legal textbooks that he probably never opened, thanks to the internet, and a green-shaded lamp that sat on the corner of his big mahogany desk.
I sat down in the padded maroon chair on one side of his desk. He sat in a large black leather swivel chair on the other side.
“Look, Libby,” he began with his hands held open in front of him. “I’m not going to lie to you. None of this is good for your case. I’ve already got an uphill battle on my hands, and now this? I just want you to be aware that this is not an easy case for me. I’m doing the best I can, but I can’t make any guarantees.”
“I know. But I swear, I didn’t kill Ryan, and I didn’t kill Lindsey, either.”
“I believe you. We just have to cast enough reasonable doubt for a jury to exonerate you. I’ve been thinking, and I believe we need to hire a couple of expert witnesses. The prosecution will have a few of their own. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t hire experts to counter theirs.”
“Okay. There’s a
but
in there somewhere.”
“You’re right. The
but
is that it won’t be cheap. I think we need a forensic expert for one, and for two, we’ll need a psychologist to examine you. Someone who can testify that you are not a violent person. The prosecutor has already figured out that you’ve been on antidepressants. They’ll use that against you. They’ll say you were already depressed and then you found out about the affair and went off the deep end.”