I ran back inside the house, picked up my phone, and dialed 911. This time, a male answered and asked, “Where is your emergency?” I gave the operator my address and told him someone had broken into my home.
“Is the intruder still there?” Same question they had asked the morning I called about Ryan.
“No, I’m pretty sure they came and left before I got home.”
“Did they force their way into the house?”
“No, they found my spare key somehow.”
“Is anything missing?”
“No, in fact, he left something. A dozen red roses and a note. It said, ‘You’re welcome.’ It’s a long story. Just tell Detective Dorne. My name is Libby Carter. He knows me. He knows what’s going on.”
“Okay, I’ll contact him immediately.”
I disconnected the line and laid the phone back on the countertop. I paced between the kitchen and living room while I waited for someone to arrive. The whole time I was racking my brain for who would do something so crazy. Who would actually go to such extremes? For me? And did that same person kill Ryan?
***
Detective Dorne arrived nearly an hour later. I ushered him into the house and guided him to the kitchen where I had left the roses and pointed at them.
“See? Someone broke into my house and left those roses. And this note.”
I started to pick up the note and hand it to him, but he shot his hand out. “Don’t touch it.”
“I’ve already touched it. Plus, I can almost guarantee you won’t find any fingerprints.”
Dorne slapped on blue latex gloves and picked the stationery up with his thumb and forefinger as if he were picking up a dead rat.
“‘You’re welcome’? What does that mean?”
“How the hell should I know? You’re the detective here.”
He gave me an exasperated look. “Any idea who would do this?”
“I have a couple thoughts, but I’m really not sure…”
“And how did this person get into your house? I see no signs of damage to the front or side doors.”
“My spare key. I kept it in the mailbox, but it’s gone now.”
“What do you think this means?”
“Not that you’re going to believe me, but I think this person is telling me they killed Lindsey…for me.”
“Let me get this straight,” he said, shifting his immense weight from his right foot to his left. “You think this person killed Lindsey Unser, as what, a favor to you?”
“Yes! Exactly!”
“Mrs. Carter, you should probably call your attorney.”
“Why? I’m the victim here.”
“Just call him. Tell him to meet us down at the station in thirty minutes. You’re riding with me.”
Detective Dorne and I arrived at the station moments before Dave. When Dave pulled in and got out of his car, he walked toward Dorne with his arms open wide.
“What’s this, Jim? What are you doing talking to my client without me present?”
Although there was no love lost between Dorne and me, I felt it was only fair to tell Dave it was okay.
“It’s not about my case,” I told him when he approached the doorway where Dorne and I had been standing waiting for him.
“Okay then, what’s going on?”
“Let’s go inside,” Dorne said, tugging at his pants by the belt loops.
Dave and I followed behind Detective Dorne, and I couldn’t help but snicker to myself at the way he waddled down the hallway.
The interview room, the same one I’d been in twice before, was well lit and empty, save for the ominous red roses and note in a large plastic evidence bag.
“What is this about?” Dave asked, pointing at the roses.
We all sat down, Dave and I in our usual seats across from Dorne.
“Someone broke into my house and left those roses on the counter. And there was a note too. It said, ‘You’re welcome.’”
Dave looked puzzled, but he apparently figured it out more quickly than I had. “Lindsey Unser,” he said with a nod.
“That’s what I think,” I said.
“So then why are we down here at the station, Jim?” Dave gave the detective a quizzical look.
“I just want to ask your client a few questions. See if I can get to the bottom of this…incident.”
“I think this clearly proves my client did not murder Lindsey Unser.”
“As I told you before, Dave, we’ve already cleared her in Miss Unser’s murder. I just think the timing on this little charade is a little, shall we say, suspect?”
“Are you implying
I
did this? To myself?”
He said nothing as he leaned back in his chair the way he always did. Again, I felt sorry for the poor, innocent chair.
“So you really think I went to the store, bought some roses, wrote myself a note, and left it on my own kitchen counter? For what reason?”
“To distract us from our investigation into Ryan’s murder. To maybe plant doubt in our minds about your guilt. If someone else killed Lindsey, it wouldn’t be too far a jump to say someone else killed Ryan too.”
“Exactly!” I said, louder than I meant to. I sat back in my chair. “It had to be Mike Thompson!”
“I think what my client is trying to say is that, no, she did not plant these roses in her own house. And yes, it does cast some doubt on your theory that she killed her husband. Like you said, if someone else killed Lindsey Unser…”
Detective Dorne sat forward, leaned his fat belly against the table, and laid his hands on the table between us.
“Nice try, Dave. But your client killed her husband. End of story. She found out he was having an affair with Miss Unser and killed him in a fit of blind rage.”
“My client woke up and found her husband dead in the bed next to her. She is innocent. And we intend to prove it at trial.”
Just then there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” Dorne said, as if he already knew who was behind it.
In walked Brian Gaines, the Commonwealth’s attorney who was prosecuting my case. He looked as if he had just stepped off the golf course in his khaki shorts and light blue Polo shirt. I imagined him swinging a golf club and holding a two-finger whiskey tumbler.
“Brian,” Dorne said by way of greeting.
“Jim,” Gaines answered.
“What is this about?” Dave asked. Clearly he had no idea Mr. Gaines was going to show up.
“Mr. Gaines would like to talk to you both. I’ll give you a minute.”
Dorne grunted as he pushed his fat ass up off the chair. He patted Gaines on the back, bro-style, as he exited the room.
Gaines sat down in the chair formerly occupied by the detective and kicked his legs out underneath the table as he leaned back with his arms behind his head. As if this was some casual conversation between friends.
“Dave,” he began with a shit-eating grin. “I wanted to talk to you and your client about a deal.”
“A deal? I thought you said no deals. In fact, your exact words were ‘the Commonwealth doesn’t negotiate with murderers.’ I thought it was very Obama-esque and you all but equated my client with terrorists, but I caught your meaning.”
“Well, I’m feeling particularly generous today.”
“What you mean is, you’ve heard about the break-in at my client’s house and you now realize there’s enough reasonable doubt for a jury to acquit her.”
“I will admit, Dorne did call me as soon as he heard about this…incident. And yes, it does lend credence to the notion your client is innocent of Miss Unser’s murder. That is, assuming she didn’t set the whole thing up herself.”
“Someone broke into my house! Why are you guys not out there trying to figure out who did it instead of continually suggesting I made the whole thing up?”
Dave laid his hand on my arm, which was his polite way of saying “Shut the fuck up, Libby.” I sat back in my chair with an exaggerated sigh and rolled my eyes.
“We’ll get to the bottom of this incident, one way or another. And I’m only giving you a hard time. I don’t think you really set this up. We’ve known since the autopsy you did not kill Lindsey Unser and this…gesture by some unknown individual seems to back up that notion. However, there’s still the matter of your husband’s murder.”
“I did not kill my husband!”
“Are you sure? I thought you said you can’t remember anything from that night.”
“Do not answer that, Libby,” Dave said quickly.
I still hadn’t told anyone what else I had remembered about the night before Ryan’s murder. The argument. The horrible last words I said to him.
You don’t love anyone but yourself.
But not only did it have nothing to do with his death, I knew it would only bolster their theory that I killed him in a blind rage. But the gunshot. I still couldn’t figure out how I didn’t hear the gunshot.
“Regardless, I am willing to make an offer I think you should seriously consider.”
“We’re listening,” Dave said, crossing his arms across his chest.
“I am prepared to offer a life sentence. This will save the taxpayers a costly trial. Not to mention, it will spare your client’s life. I’ll take the death penalty off the table.”
“If?”
“If your client pleads guilty and allocutes in open court.”
Allocution meant I would have to stand in front of the judge, the attorneys, and everyone else in the courtroom, including my family and Ryan’s, and say that I killed him. No fucking way. I shook my head at Dave and shot him a piercing glance in case he had any doubts as to what I was thinking.
“And for that, you would offer her a life sentence? Are we talking with or without parole?”
“Without,” Gaines said with a terse nod.
“No way,” I said without waiting for Dave to speak for me this time. “I didn’t kill my husband. So I certainly am not going to say I did.”
“May I have a word with my client, Brian?”
“Of course.”
Gaines got up and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.
“Dave, I’m not going to admit to killing Ryan. And I can’t spend the rest of my life in prison for something
I did not do
!”
“I hear you. I do,” he said as he scooted his chair closer to mine, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “But you have to consider the possibility that you could be found guilty by a jury. And if Gaines takes this to verdict, and you’re found guilty, he will push for the death penalty. Libby, you don’t want to go to prison, I get that. But do you want to die for something you didn’t do?”
I hated,
hated
, to admit he was right. But he was. Life in prison without parole, however, was more than I could handle. I had only spent a few hours in jail before I was arraigned, and I barely made it through that with my sanity. How could I possibly spend the rest of my natural life behind bars? Plus, there was that annoying bit of doubt that still danced in the back of my mind about my innocence. True, I was ninety percent sure Mike Thompson had killed Ryan for Lindsey, but what about the other ten percent? That part of me that knew I was the daughter of a serial killer. The part that couldn’t remember what happened hours after a huge argument with Ryan. But life without parole was its own form of a death sentence. I thought I’d much rather go to sleep peacefully via lethal injection one day ten years from now than to spend the next sixty years pacing around a five by eight cell, being somebody’s girlfriend just to avoid being shanked in the shower.
“I can’t do life without parole,” I finally told him with a heavy sigh. “I’d rather take my chances.”
“Wait a minute,” Dave said, holding up a finger. He got up and walked around the table and opened the door to the interview room. “Brian, can you come back in here?”
Mr. Gaines and Dave both reentered the room and took their seats.
“What about parole?” Dave asked with a submissive gesture.
“I told you, Dave. No parole. Your client blew a hole through her husband’s head with a .44 caliber pistol. All because he wasn’t faithful to her. People cheat all the time, unfortunately. That doesn’t give them the right to blow their spouses to kingdom come.”
“Brian, she’s got no real criminal record. She has no violent past…”
“You mean other than when she assaulted Miss Unser right before she was murdered?”
“Brian, I’ve already told you—”
Mr. Gaines held up his hands. “I know, I know. She didn’t kill her. My point is that she’s not the saint you’re painting her out to be.”
Dave ignored the insult and went on. “She has a family, a mother who loves her.”
“And a serial killer for a father,” Gaines said with a self-satisfied look on his face.
“I am not like my father!” I spat.
“No? Are you certain about that? Tell me, Mrs. Carter, just how is it that you did not hear a large caliber gunshot in the dead of night? Make me understand.”
“Don’t answer that, Libby,” Dave said with a grimace.
I didn’t listen to him. “I don’t know! I swear to God! All I know is I had a couple of Ryan’s beers and took my medications. Maybe the beer combined with the sedatives…”
“That’s enough, Libby. Don’t say another word.”
“No!” I shouted at him as I stood up, knocking my chair over in the process. “I’ve had enough! I’m sick of being accused of murdering the man that I loved. I did not kill him. I did not hear the gunshot. I did not know about Lindsey Unser. I did not kill her, either! Yes, my father is a murderer, but just because he killed those women doesn’t mean I’m a killer too. You’re not even looking at anyone besides me! You’ve got blinders on. It happens all the time. The husband did it. The wife did it. It’s bullshit! Mike Thompson killed Ryan. He killed her for Lindsey. She threatened to kill him! Did you know that? Did you ever bother to talk to Mike? He probably did it for drug money and when she didn’t pay him, he killed her too. Jesus Christ!”
I stood there with my hands on my hips, stunned at my own words. There goes that stupid mouth again. I looked down at Dave, who had his elbows on the table and his head cradled in his hands. He rubbed his face and cleared his throat.
“I think what my client is trying to say is that there is sufficient evidence to support the fact that someone else, namely Mike Thompson, killed her husband. You have no physical evidence. No fingerprints. No gunshot residue. No real motive. You have an uphill battle on your hands, my friend. If you want to take this to trial, then roll the dice. We’re not taking life without parole.”
Gaines twiddled his fingers and scrunched up his face. He was clearly thinking over what Dave had said. Maybe what I had said too.
After a long, drawn out moment of silence, Gaines was the first to speak.
“All right. My final offer is life with the possibility of parole after fifteen years. Take it or leave it.”
“No way!” I shouted, still standing, my fists balled up.
“Hang on, Libby.” Dave looked at me earnestly. Then to Gaines, “Brian, can we have some time to think about it? Give her a minute to cool off. She’s obviously in no state of mind to make such a life-altering decision at the moment.”
Gaines contemplated this for a few seconds and then nodded his head. “Okay, you have forty-eight hours. My offer expires Monday at…” He looked down at his silver and gold Tag Heuer. “…five. That’s five o’clock p.m. on the dot.”
“Thank you, Brian,” Dave said.
Gaines stood up and tapped the table. “I’ll be expecting a call Monday.” With that, he turned and left Dave and me alone in the interview room.
Dave stood up and put his hands on my shoulders, the first physical contact we’d had since he hugged me after depositing me in the Jessamine County Detention Center.