Chapter 12
Sullivan Residence, 5652 North Glenwood Ave.
“Pete was taking a lot of medication. M-Maybe that’s why he did it. Maybe some of it messed with his h-head or something.”
Debra Sullivan sat on the edge of the sofa. She wore a well-loved terry-cloth robe that had bleach spots on the sleeves. Her brown hair was secured in big, foam rollers. Her eyes were puffy from crying. And when she spoke, she did so haltingly, as if she had trouble talking around the lump lodged firmly in the center of her throat.
Julia and her partner had tried for ten minutes to convince the woman her husband had murdered his boss and the majority of the guests at the cocktail party. But Debra had refused to believe them. She’d kept shaking her head and insisting, “Pete is a pacifist. He voted for Bernie Sanders. He believes in commonsense gun laws. He would never.”
They’d finally resorted to turning on the television and tuning it to a local news source that was reporting on the situation. Then they’d showed her the Facebook post that had gone live on her husband’s profile an hour earlier. It wasn’t some long, self-aggrandizing manifesto à la Patrick Wood Crusius. It’d simply been a heartfelt apology to his wife.
Dear Deb, it had read. I know you’ll never understand what’s happened. And I know you’ll never forgive me. But please believe me when I say this was the only way for me to make sure you’re all taken care of. And we both know all I did was hasten the inevitable. I’m sorry I couldn’t stay with you longer. I’m sorry I won’t see the wonderful men you’ll raise our boys to be. I’m so, so sorry and I’ll love you for eternity. ~Pete
At that point, Debra had broken down into chest-heaving, face-mottling sobs that had made further questioning impossible. Julia had left Dillan in the living room with the devastated woman while she’d made her way to the kitchen to get the poor thing a glass of cold water.
She’d taken her time on the journey.
One, she prided herself on being cool, calm, and collected on the job. But her tender heart—the one that made her a two-time foster dog failure and a sucker for every cookie-selling Girl Scout in the neighborhood—couldn’t stand seeing anyone cry. She invariably ended up crying herself. And two, she wanted to study the family photos hanging on the wall in the hallway leading to the kitchen.
She’d only seen Peter Sullivan post-mortem. And death was the great eraser on the chalkboard of life. Whatever mien or demeanor Peter had maintained while breathing had been obliterated the moment the Grim Reaper touched him with his scythe.
The photographs, however, gave her a better idea of who the perp was. A man who had doted on his wife and two small boys. A man who wasn’t afraid to be silly and wear matching pajamas for Halloween and Christmas. A man with a genuine smile and a lightness in his eyes that made it truly difficult to imagine him committing the night’s dark deeds.
And yet, he did…
“Why was he taking so much medication, Mrs. Sullivan?” Julia asked Debra now, briefly glancing at her phone to make sure it was still recording the conversation.
“He had cancer.” Debra Sullivan’s hand shook as she reached for the glass Julia had placed atop the coaster on the steel and glass coffee table.
The Sullivans had juxtaposed the ornate architecture of their home with minimalistic furnishings and decorations. It looked very classy and chic. But Julia had always thought old Victorian homes should be whimsical, stuffed with tchotchkes and clutches of drying herbs and overstuffed, well-worn furniture.
“What sort of cancer?” she asked.
“P-pancreatic,” Debra answered haltingly as if saying the word aloud left a foul taste in her mouth.
“That’s a death sentence, right?” This from Dillan. “Which explains the line in his post where he said he hastened the end.”
Every time he opened his mouth, Julia wanted to scream. He was about as subtle as a sledgehammer. And Debra Sullivan was on the verge of breaking down again.
The last thing they needed was another fifteen minutes of time wasted while they waited for the poor woman to regain enough composure to finish answering their questions. With each ticking of the second hand on the clock, the pressure to come up with a lead or a motivation or some iota of an explanation weighed heavier on Julia’s shoulders.
She needed to do well on this first case. She had to do well. And not just to prove her metal to her supervisors and anyone who’d ever doubted that a pipsqueak of a Southsider could rise through the ranks of the FBI. But to drag into the light exactly what had happened at the senator’s house—and why it’d happened—before some bored, basement dweller who spent way too much time on the internet started circulating conspiracy theories.
The World Wide Web was a wonder in that it allowed everyone equal access to any information they might seek. But it’d also proved just how gullible and idiotic humans truly were because most people chose to seek the most titillating, scandalous, and far-fetched information out there.
It was Julia’s responsibility to focus the narrative before the flat-earthers and Holocaust-deniers got their Cheeto-dusted fingers on it. But to do that, she had to have actionable facts. Hard evidence. Believable motivation.
There was nothing worse than going to the press with bad intel and then having to recant that message later. It would make her look incompetent. Make her bosses look ineffectual. Make the bureau look bush league. And that was the quickest way to get knocked down to the mailroom.
Huge tears slipped down Debra’s cheeks and landed on the lapel of her robe. But she managed to keep from dissolving completely.
Julia and Dillan were seated in the two armchairs facing the sofa. The tissue box was on the little occasional table between them, and Julia hastily pulled out two tissues and passed them across to the woman all while shooting Dillan a look that said, Could you be any more of a dick?
His expression of What did I do? was emphasized by the shrug he gave her.
Sigh.
Julia’s father liked to say everyone had their cross to bear. Julia’s cross was 6’3” and went by the name of Dillan Douglas.
“We told his oncologist we didn’t want to hear about the odds. Pete didn’t believe in them anyway. But…” Debra bit her lip and looked out the bay window. The glass was split into panes by mullions. And the raindrops drifted and collided into one another, leaving wide, watery trails in their wake. “But he’d been losing weight lately. And when he wasn’t at work, he was sleeping a lot,” she finished hoarsely.
So Peter had been nearing his end, Julia silently mused before continuing to ask the pertinent questions.
Had Mr. Sullivan ever had any problems with his boss, Senator McClean? Had Mr. Sullivan mentioned anything about buying the weapon he’d used in the massacre? Had Mr. Sullivan seemed out of sorts before leaving for the McClean residence that morning?
Debra’s answers to all were no.
Which left Julie wondering, Is she right? Is there nothing more to this case than a dying man on heaps of medication losing his shit?
It was a possibility. But it felt too pat.
Four members of Congress were dead. If Senator Chastain hadn’t survived, it would’ve been five. And anytime government officials were involved, she had to suspect political motivation.
“I know Pete was worried about what we’d do for money if he ever—” Debra swallowed. “If he ever succumbed to the cancer. He didn’t have life insurance. And after he was diagnosed, no one would insure him.”
“Is it possible Senator McClean had written your husband into his will? I mean, Peter’s post to you mentioned it was the only way for him to make sure you and your boys were taken care of. Is there money coming your way?”
Debra blinked myopically. Her head shake was resolute. “No way. Pete and the senator weren’t that close. I mean…Pete respected the senator. He always said John McClean was a statesman and not a politician, an old-school guy who took the job because he actually wanted to make this country better as opposed to taking the job for its power and prestige. But Pete didn’t exactly like the senator. He said the man was hard-assed and uncompromising. So it’s not like they were sharing brandies after dinner or smoking cigars together.”
“Then what do you suppose your husband meant by it was the only way to make sure you and your boys were taken care of?”
“I have no idea.” Debra covered her face with her hands as her shoulders shook with fresh sobs. “Oh, Pete.”
Julia knew a dead end when she saw one. Debra Sullivan had no clue why her husband had done what he’d done. She’d had no indication that he was planning anything. She had nothing further to offer the investigation.
At least not right now.
“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Sullivan.” Julia slid her business card across the coffee table. “If you can think of anything else, please don’t hesitate to reach out. And I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Debra blinked at her uncomprehendingly and Julia understood. The woman still hadn’t accepted the reality of her husband’s death. And if she could accept that reality, it meant he’d perpetrated an act of such evil that she couldn’t believe anyone would offer her condolences.
Julia had seen it a dozen times on the faces of the family and friends of offenders. Her soft, squishy heart made her add, “You’re going to be put through hell in the coming weeks and months. I hate that for you and your boys. But remember, there’s no such thing as guilt by association. At least not in circumstances like this. You haven’t done anything wrong.”
Debra’s chin trembled. But before Julia could pull out two more preemptive tissues, her phone blared to life.
Because the noise at a crime scene was usually at stadium concert levels, she’d turned the volume on the device up as high as it would go. She’d since forgotten to turn it down and the double brrrring-brrrring was loud enough to wake the dead.
It was certainly loud enough to wake the two Sullivan boys who’d managed to remain asleep and tucked up safe in their beds while their mother had been given the awful news of what their father had done.
“Sorry. God, I’m so sorry.” Julia immediately thumbed on the device, and then winced when she heard little feet hitting the floor above her. Not three seconds later, one of the Sullivan boys called from the top of the stairs. “Momma? Who’s here?”
SorryJulia mouthed again.
Debra didn’t respond. She simply rubbed the wetness from her eyes with the cuff of her sleeve, stood from the sofa, and headed for the staircase.
“Nice work,” Dillan whispered from the side of his mouth.
“Me?” she hissed and shot him a poisonous glance. “You have the bedside manner of an executioner.”
He gave her another indifferent shrug—it seemed to be his standard reaction to most things she said. And she rolled her eyes before saying into the phone, “This is Agent O’Toole. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“Agent O’Toole, this is Nurse Benson at Northwestern Memorial. You told me to call you if there was a change in Mr. Chastain’s status.”
“Yes?” Julia motioned for Dillan to get up and head toward the door. “How is he? Is he awake?”
“I’m afraid he’s dead, Agent O’Toole.”
Julia, who was in lockstep behind Dillan, stopped in her tracks. “Excuse me?”
“He coded ten minutes ago and we weren’t able to get him back.”
“Sonofabitch,” she hissed.
Now it was Nurse Benson’s turn to say, “Excuse me?”
“Sorry.” She was quick to apologize. “That wasn’t meant for you. Thank you for your call.”
She thumbed off the phone and found Dillan eyeing her expectantly. “Professor Chastain is dead,” she informed him. A dull headache was beginning to throb behind her right eye.
Dillan’s ridiculously handsome—and annoyingly dimpled—chin jerked back. “How?”
“Don’t know.” She shoved her phone into the breast pocket of her suitcoat. “Let’s go find out.”