Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Jason
“What?” I demand.
Blake clears his throat. “I’m going to need a few minutes alone with my client.”
“Of course.” Detective Mann rises. “But we’ve got photos of your client slinking around outside Ralph Normandy’s apartment last night around midnight.”
Fuck.
That car.
I was being followed.
But I wasn’t at Ralph’s.
Once Detective Mann is gone, Blake turns to me. “What exactly were you thinking?”
Confusion whips through me.
And then it all makes sense.
A horrible, dreadful kind of sense.
“I didn’t know it was his place,” I say.
“I can’t help you if you don’t level with me,” Blake says.
“That’s just it. I am leveling with you. I got that address from one of my late wife’s classmates. I hired a PI and I’ve been looking for her old high-school boyfriend. It’s a long story.”
“I suggest you start telling me now.”
I sigh, rubbing my forehead, trying to ease the ache erupting inside my temples like a ticking time bomb. “I just never thought these things could be related.”
“Start at the beginning, Jason.”
I take a deep breath in, gazing at the door to the interrogation room. “Detective Mann will be back in a few minutes.”
Blake shakes his head. “Detective Mann is required by law to give you as much time with your attorney as you require. We will sit here until you’ve told me the entire story, so we can figure this out together.”
“I just never thought…”
“Stop saying that. And start at the beginning.”
I gulp and pour out the story of the accident, my injury, Julia’s death, and Lindsay’s subsequent suicide. How I gave her suicide note to the cops without reading it myself, and only just after meeting Angie and realizing that I could move forward with life, looked at the note.
The color has drained from Blake’s face. “And you’re sure it’s not her handwriting?”
“Yeah. I took it to her parents, got several journals. I mean, I’m no handwriting expert, but she was my wife. I know her writing.”
Blake nods. “And this old boyfriend?”
“Apparently he stalked her pretty badly. Her family had to get a restraining order, and after graduation they moved from New Jersey to Colorado. The whole family up and moved. Lindsay’s two older siblings were already out of the house, so they weren’t uprooting anyone else at that point.”
“And what made you think that this old boyfriend might’ve had something to do with her death?”
“He’s the only logical suspect. He was obsessed with her.”
“Yes, I understand that, but he had left her alone for years.”
“Maybe he didn’t know where she was. Her family left town, after all.”
He strokes his chin. “In this day and age, unless you completely change your identity… Lindsay is her real name, right?”
I nod. “Yeah, they didn’t go that far.”
“Then with the internet at everyone’s disposal—social media and the like—it’s pretty easy to find anyone you want to find.”
Blake’s not wrong.
“Is there anything else that made you suspect the old boyfriend?”
“Yeah. I hadn’t looked at Lindsay’s Facebook memorial in years, but I pulled it up the other day, and I saw a post from a year ago. And it was just signed R. Lyon.”
“R. Lyon?”
“Yeah, and her old boyfriend’s name was Ronny Burgundy.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“No, that’s his name. He was born before that movie.”
“Right. He would’ve had to have been.”
“And now… Damn.” I bury my head in my hands.
“So this Ralph Normandy fellow—”
“Oh my God…” It hits me all at once—sharp, sudden, electric.
Like a switch flipping inside my brain. Everything I didn’t understand a second ago slams into focus, perfectly aligned, like it was never scattered at all.
No build-up, no warning. Just that rush of clarity, like cold air to the lungs.
It’s so obvious now, so painfully simple.
The truth doesn’t creep in—it crashes, full force, and leaves no room for doubt.
When I first learned about the trip to Switzerland, I cracked open an old atlas that had been gathering dust for the better part of a decade. I wanted to get a good lay of the land. I’m not sure why I didn’t do a Google search. The information would have been more up to date.
But Lindsay and I bought that atlas after we got married. We had this idea that one day, after our kids were grown and out of the house and we had some expendable income, we would turn to a random page and buy a plane ticket there, no questions asked.
Of course, it never happened.
But before I opened the Switzerland map, I turned to a random page, just like Lindsay and I were going to do.
And I landed on a map of France.
Lindsay always wanted to go. Not just to Paris, but to the outlying regions as well. The places where there would be fewer tourists, where we could truly soak in the culture.
I sadly traced my fingers over those areas on the map—mourning the memories that were never created—before finally turning to the map of Switzerland.
“Jason?” Blake asks.
I snap out of my thoughts. “Sorry.”
“What is it?”
I run my hands through my hair. “Why didn’t I see this? Normandy. Burgundy. They’re both provinces in France. Ralph is Ronny Burgundy. I was at his place, only I didn’t know it.”
Blake tilts his head. “So he changed his name but left a hint.”
“Fuck,” I say. “The Facebook profile. R. Lyon. Lyon’s not a province, but it’s a French city. My God. All the hints. And all on purpose, no doubt, unless he just likes France. Or maybe he’s of French descent.” I shake my head. “He was leading me right to him.”
Blake raises an eyebrow. “How do you know this guy? You said he’s a student in your anatomy lab?”
“Yeah. And he’s older. About my age. Fuck.” I rub at my forehead. “Why didn’t I see this?”
“No one would’ve seen it.”
“I didn’t even know much about Lindsay’s high school boyfriend.
All she told me was that it was a serious relationship, but it ended badly.
And that they had to move because of it.
She may have told me his name a while back, but I’m not the jealous type.
I didn’t remember it. I only remembered the name when Lindsay’s parents mentioned it, and then I contacted one of Lindsay’s old friends from high school, Rebecca Tate.
She led me to the president of their senior class, a guy named Ralph Parker. ”
“His name was Ralph too?”
“Yeah. And now I’m seeing what happened. He wanted another R name, probably thought of the big man on campus during high school, so he used that name… What the fuck is wrong with my brain? I should’ve seen all of this coming a mile away.”
Blake shakes his head. “There’s no way you could’ve seen it, so quit blaming yourself. Ralph isn’t exactly an uncommon name.”
But Blake’s words fall on deaf ears. I’ve been blaming myself for so long, it’s second nature to me.
“So if Ralph is the same person as your wife’s ex, who was obsessed with her—”
I get to my feet. “Oh my God!”
Blake narrows his eyes. “What? What is it now?”
“It’s all so clear.” I pace around the interrogation table. “Ralph told me that I didn’t deserve Angie. At least, that’s what I thought he meant, but that’s not what he said.”
“What are you saying?”
I slam my hands onto the table. “When I went to see him in the hospital, he said, ‘you never deserved her.’”
“And you thought he was talking about Angie.”
“Yeah, of course I did. Because Angie told me he came on to her, was blackmailing her. I figured it had something to do with the Steel money, but…”
Blake sighs. “Jason, I think this case just got a lot more complicated.”
“If Ralph Normandy and Ronny Burgundy are one and the same person, and he’s telling me I never deserved my wife…”
“You’re going to need proof,” Blake says. “You can’t accuse the man of murder without proof.”
“I have proof.”
“What proof?”
“An old friend of Ronny’s who died recently. Some of his old journals and a letter that Ronny wrote to him. His younger brother sent it all to me. The handwriting on it and on Lindsay’s suicide note are very similar.”
“You need an expert to prove that, and even an expert can never be a hundred percent sure.”
“Then I’ll get an expert.”
“All right. Let’s simmer down just a bit.” He gestures to my chair, which I take. “Right now, we have to tell Detective Mann what you were doing outside Ralph’s house last night. And I need to know too, Jason, why the hell did you go during the middle of the night? That doesn’t look good.”
“Because that’s when I got the call from Tom Chapman. That’s the brother of Ronny’s friend who’s dead. And I guess I just…” I rub my forehead. “I thought I was going to the home of the man who murdered my wife. And damn…”
“Jason…”
“This asshole is accusing me of something I didn’t do. He had me arrested, for God’s sake.” My lip trembles, but I keep a straight face. “I didn’t beat him up.”
“But if he turns out to be the person who’s responsible for your wife’s death…” Blake thins his lips. “I don’t have to spell it out for you, Jason.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“I believe you. But if Ralph is the man who killed your wife? You sure have a hell of a motive now.”
Fuck.
“We need to bring Detective Mann back in here,” he says. “We need to convince her that you thought you were at someone else’s place.”
“And how the hell do we do that?”
“We tell her everything,” Blake says firmly. “The whole story, Jason. We can’t leave any stone unturned.”
“But…” A thought dawns on me, and panic bubbles up in my chest. “What if she doesn’t believe us?”
Blake shrugs. “Then we keep pushing until she does. Or until the DA does. We can call this Tom Chapman. He can corroborate your story about giving you the address. We can show her the handwriting samples, see if those sway her. Or”—he tents his fingers, takes a deep breath in—“we have our day in court.”
I let out a shuddering breath. In my mind I see a cliff. And I’m standing on the edge.
Blake rises and opens the door to the interrogation room.
Detective Mann returns. “Is your client ready to answer my questions?” she asks.
“With my guidance,” Blake says.
“Of course.” She turns to me. “Now, Dr. Lansing, what were you doing outside Ralph Normandy’s apartment last night?”
“I didn’t—”
Blake holds up a hand to quiet me. “My client was not aware that the house in question belonged to Mr. Normandy.”
Detective Mann raises an eyebrow. “So you’re telling me he just happened to be in the area in the middle of the night?”
“Not at all,” Blake says. “He was under the impression that the address belonged to someone else. A Mr. Ronny Burgundy.”
“Who the hell is that?”
“A former boyfriend of his deceased wife. My client has recently come to suspect that his wife did not take her own life, that her suicide might have been staged.”
Detective Mann widens her eyes slightly, but for the most part remains unfazed. She turns to me. “This is a serious accusation, Mr. Lansing.”
“My client is aware,” Blake responds. “And he has a handwriting sample from Mr. Burgundy that he believes matches his wife’s suicide note.”
“But none of that explains why you were actually at Mr. Normandy’s home, Dr. Lansing.”
“Are you stupid?” I ask. “They’re the same fucking person. Normandy. Burgundy. Both French provinces. Ralph Normandy is the man who killed my wife.”
Detective Mann crinkles her eyes. “What?”
“Jason, please.” Blake glares at me. “Let me do the talking, okay? If you need to clarify something, please ask for a moment with me alone.”
I sit back in my chair. “Fine. My life is in your hands.”
“So you went to Mr. Normandy’s apartment under the impression that it was the apartment of Mr. Burgundy,” Detective Mann says. “How did you come to this conclusion?”
“He received the tip from a Mr. Tom Chapman,” Blake says. “He’s the brother of a friend of Mr. Burgundy’s from high school.”
“Why not get the information directly from the friend?”
“The friend in question is deceased, unfortunately.”
Detective Mann frowns. “Seems convenient.”
“You can call Tom,” I say. “He can corroborate my story.”
Blake gives me another shut up, Jason look.
“Do you have a phone number?” Detective Mann asks.
I pull out my phone, look at my most recent calls, and find the number. I show the phone to Detective Mann. “It’s this one. Note that the time of the call is right before I was at Ralph’s apartment.”
Detective Mann writes down the number. “I’ll just be a moment, gentlemen.”
She stands and leaves the room.
Blake turns to me. “You really have to stop shooting from the hip in these questionings, Jason. Do you realize how easy it is for you to accidentally implicate yourself?”
I roll my eyes. “All I did was tell the truth.”
“Yes, and you’re not doing yourself any favors regarding the charge you’re actually being questioned for.
The more you talk about Ralph allegedly killing your wife, the more you solidify your motive for beating the shit out of him.
” He takes a deep breath. “If you had let me handle the questions, I could have smoothed it out a bit more, made it clear that this in no way connects you to the battery charge.”
“I don’t give a flying fuck about—”
The door opens. Detective Mann walks back in, her face pale.
“That was quick,” I say.
“Jason, please,” Blake hisses.
Detective Mann sits back down at the table. “I called the number you gave me, Mr. Lansing.”
“Did Tom answer?”
Blake glares at me again.
“No. It was his mother.” She narrows her eyes at me. “Mr. Chapman was found deceased early this morning.”