Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
Detective Kaitlin Pierce
Ten Days Since Allison Clarke’s Murder
Ihate coming to the county jail. It’s a depressing, stagnant place where hope and dreams shrivel and die. The entire building seems to vibrate with decades worth of resentment and ruin. Just being inside puts me in a foul mood.
Unfortunately, if I want to talk to Brody Clarke, I have no choice but to come here.
The man in question sits across from me, looking considerably worse than the last time I interviewed him.
Lines crease the corners of his bloodshot eyes and his skin is sallow and graying.
He certainly looks distraught, I’ll give him that.
The first time I sat down to talk to Brody Clarke was months ago when he was suspected of being involved with one woman’s disappearance.
A few months later, his wife is dead and he’s the prime suspect.
Either this man is a real piece of shit who has hurt multiple women in this town, or he’s one very unlucky innocent man. I’m determined to find out which it is.
“Detective,” he greets without looking up from the cold metal table he’s seated at. “We meet again.”
“Mr. Clarke,” I address as I move to sit in the seat across from him. “How have you been?”
A hollow laugh leaves his lips. “How have I been?” he asks incredulously.
“Well, let’s see—you accused me of kidnapping and murdering some random bitch I hooked up with once, arrested me, then had to let me go due to lack of evidence.
When I got out, I learned my wife was having an affair, and now I’m in prison because you all think I murdered her and won’t believe me that she had a stalker.
So, how the fuck do you think I’m doing, Detective? ”
Spit flies from the corner of his mouth and his normally neatly styled hair is disheveled. He looks unhinged. His usual cool and collected demeanor has slipped, revealing the Devil that lies beneath. For the first time, I see a man fully capable of murdering his wife in cold blood.
“Did you?” I ask him in a steady, even tone. “Murder your wife, I mean?”
His eyes widen and he looks like he might jump across the table at me. His knuckles turn white against the cold steel between us as he grips the edge. My muscles instinctively tighten, readying for the perceived threat.
“No,” he grits out between clenched teeth. “No, Detective, I didn’t kill my wife. I didn’t kill that other teacher. I’m being framed.”
This has been his defense the entire time—someone has been setting him up, planting evidence, fabricating a web of lies in which Brody Clarke has become ensnared within.
It’s a shit defense, honestly. His money bought him one of the best lawyers on the West Coast, so you’d think he could come up with something better.
“I believe you,” I tell him as I bend to rummage through my messenger bag.
A lock of long blonde hair has come loose from my ponytail and lands in my eyes.
I don’t need to see Brody Clarke’s face to know he’s surprised.
“I don’t believe you killed your wife, Mr. Clarke.
However…” I retrieve the worn manila folder from my bag and bring it up to the table top.
Opening the page to a faded picture, I slide it across the table. “Tell me about her.”
The man across from me takes a moment to survey me, no doubt distrustful of my motives. He glances down at the picture and pales. His body instantly tenses and he quickly averts his gaze.
“I’ve never seen that girl before,” he tells me without looking down at the photograph.
“Are you sure? Did you get a good look?” I prompt, knowing full well that he doesn’t need to study the photo. He knows exactly who she was.
“I said I’ve never seen that girl before, Detective.” His tone is curt and authoritative. He’s the type of man who’s used to people bending to his will.
But I’ve never been one to back down.
“Interesting,” I say offhandedly as I slide the folder back across the table to myself. “You were accused of raping her…well, of being one of the boys who raped her.”
Brody Clarke’s face turns so red I worry he might have an aneurysm. His eyes bulge and his nostrils flare. He reminds me of an angry bull.
“Those records are sealed,” he grits out through clenched teeth. “The detectives said the accusations were unfounded.”
I smile as sweetly as I can. “Police detective, remember?” I shrug as if it’s a game and not a young girls rape and suicide we’re discussing.
“So, no records are really closed to me. You see, I went digging into your past Mr. Clarke, and I found that you and your friends have a history of complaints against you—”
“Unfounded complaints!” he seethes with spit flying from his mouth.
“True,” I concede. “Most are labeled as unfounded. But, you see, this one stood out to me. Sophia Patterson, age thirteen. The report filed over a decade ago is sparse but it does say that you and a group of friends were accused of getting her drunk and assaulting her at a party. There was video of the assault; of course, there’s no copy stored in evidence.
No charges were filed, ever. A few months after the initial report, she committed suicide.
” I look down at the report as if I’m reading it, but I know it all by heart. “But you don’t remember any of that?”
Brody Clarke’s eyes narrow as he assesses me. It’s clear he’s gotten away with a lot of heinous shit. Maybe it’s time the Devil pays for his sins.
“Where are you going with this, Detective?”
I slide a second picture across the table at him. This one is not from the police file. The hair, the eyes, and the toothy smile are all the same as Sophia’s. If it weren’t for the age gap, Sophia and her brother could be twins.
“Her brother found her body, you know?” I don’t wait for a reply.
“They’d had a rough go, in and out of foster homes until their mom got sober and got custody back.
Things were starting to look up for their family.
They were living in a small house, their mom had a job, they were a family again.
That is, until you came along, Mr. Clarke. ”
We sit in heavy silence for a moment, the air thick and hot. I don’t dare move a muscle as I wait for his response.
“I think I’m done talking, Detective,” he finally sneers with a cold glare in my direction.
Nice fucking try.
“Well, Mr. Clarke, I’m not done.” I bring my elbows up onto the table, leaning in and leveling him with a cold stare.
“You and your friends raped that girl, and when she took her life because of that, her family tried to file charges, but your family’s wealth and status made those accusations go away.
” My tone is laced with cold venom, and while I know I should stay impartial, in this case, I can’t.
“Did you know that you went to high school with her brother? That he was in your class?”
He doesn’t answer me. It’s clear he’s trying to process everything I’m throwing at him. But I don’t give the slimeball a chance to slither his way out of my accusations with carefully crafted lies.
“Yes, her brother Garett went to school with you.” My voice is raised now and Brody tries to interrupt but I don’t let him.
“The same high school that your now dead wife also went to. You see, Mr. Clarke, your mom brought me a copy of your high school yearbook to show me what an upstanding young man you were. I just saw a pretentious jock, frankly, but what I began to notice was that in a lot of the pictures there was a young man lurking in the background.” I tap the photo sitting on the table between us. “That young man—Garett Patterson.”
Something flits across Brody Clarke’s face—fear, realization, worry. I can’t tell exactly what he’s feeling, but as I lay all the pieces out for him one by one, he starts to put it together. But I’m still not done yet.
“One of the foster homes Garett Patterson was in when he was younger, back before he was reunited with his mom, was a few hours away. It was a home for troubled kids. He was there with a few others at the time. It took a lot of digging, Mr. Clarke, but I was able to find those records. And imagine my surprise when one of the names caught my eye.”
He looks truly confused now.
“There’s a record of an Allison Martin having lived in the same home during that time period.” Brody Clarke’s face pales as he listens to me. “That’s your wife’s maiden name, isn’t it?”
“So, wait—” he stutters and stammers, trying desperately to piece it all together. I can see his mind reeling with this new information I just dropped in his lap. “My wife? She…wait, what?”
“Garett Patterson seems to look very similar to a recent coworker of your wife’s, Mr. Clarke.
” I slide a second picture across the table, a staff photo of a man named Gabriel Parsons, a man who didn’t exist, according to all government records I can find, until a few years ago. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
I watch as Brody Clarke studies the two pictures—one of Garett Patterson and the other of Gabriel Parsons. Two separate men, at least on paper. I watch as his eyes dart back and forth, widening with realization.
“What are you saying, Detective?” he finally asks me.
“Gabriel Parsons has stopped showing up to his job at the high school. He seems to have disappeared, Mr. Clarke, right around the same time your wife’s body wound up dumped along the side of the road.” I leave the crumbs out for him, waiting to see if he’ll take the bait.
Will this fish bite?
He thinks for a long second, weighing his options. While Brody Clarke might be many things, he is not a stupid man.
“Again, Detective, what exactly are you saying?”
I lean in across the table, studying him closely as I ask, “How well did you know your wife, Mr. Clarke?”