Chapter 28
Hank
AFTER THE ALIBI
The phone on my desk buzzes and Lila picks it up since she’s closer. “Hey.” She starts to straighten my desk while listening to Julie, the receptionist. “Okay, thanks.” She hangs the phone up and looks at me. “Camille is here. I’ll go get her.”
We were going over the calendar again, juggling things around since I met with Judge Whittaker about the trial Ben had kept postponing. He’s given me twenty-four hours to give him a date I’m available.
The door shuts quietly and I look up and find Camille in front of my desk, her eyes red and watery. I wonder if they will ever be dry again.
“Hey, Hank,” she says softly. She dabs at her eyes with a wadded-up tissue.
I lead her to the couch, hoping the less formal we are the more she’ll open up. “Let’s sit and talk everything through before the detective gets here. How was your drive in?”
“It was fine. Silas brought me. My family is worried about me being alone since, you know, they haven’t caught who did this.”
I nod. “I get it. We hired a security guard here at the office for that same reason.”
We spend the next hour going over everything Sullivan will ask her. A few minutes before one, we move to the conference room to wait for his arrival.
The conference room is a glass box that sits in the middle of our office, and I think it’s the absolute worst design in history.
The walls have this fancy feature that allows you to change the opacity with choices ranging from completely transparent to one way, where we could see out but no one could see in, to no visibility at all. This will be the first thing I change.
I hit the button on the panel and the glass turns a milky gray.
“Thank you, I was wondering if everyone was going to see us in here.”
The groan escapes me before I can stop it. “I hate this room.”
“Yeah, I’m not crazy about it either, but Ben was insistent. He thought the technology was cool.”
I take a moment to study Camille. She looks rough.
Her hair is pulled back and messy in a way that doesn’t seem intentional.
Her nails have been chewed down completely.
But I’d be more worried if she didn’t look like this.
It’s barely been seventy-two hours since she found her husband’s body in their home.
“Remember, only answer what he’s asking.” I’m not sure why I feel the need to repeat this, but she nods like she understands the part I’m not saying out loud.
She draws in a deep breath and seems to fight tears. I lean over and squeeze her hand. “This is standard procedure. I know it will be hard to talk about it but I’m here for you. It’s going to be okay.”
Lila knocks on the door three times in quick succession then she opens it, allowing Sullivan to enter.
“Thanks for coming here for this. We appreciate it.” We shake hands once he’s inside the room.
He takes a look around before sitting in the chair across from Camille. “This is a nicer setup than that we’ve got at the station.”
Lila is still in the doorway. “Anyone need something to drink? Coffee? Water?”
Camille and I both look at Sullivan. “No, thank you, I’m good.”
“Okay, just let me know if you change your mind.” The door clicks softly shut behind her.
“Mrs. Bayliss, first off, thank you for speaking with me today,” Sullivan says.
“Of course. But please, call me Camille.”
“Okay, Camille. Just answer what you can.” Sullivan pulls out his recorder.
“Detective Sullivan questioning Camille Bayliss, wife of Benjamin Bayliss, regarding the events of October eleventh. Camille Bayliss’s lawyer and Benjamin Bayliss’s law partner, Hank Landry, is also present.
” He sets the recorder in the center of the conference table between us and gives Camille a small smile.
“Okay, now that we’ve taken care of that, let’s get started.
I need to get a clear picture of your day on Sunday.
You mentioned when we spoke at your home that you had been in St. Francisville for the weekend and returned midmorning.
The call to 911 was received at 10:48 a.m. Was that the time you had planned to get home? Was it earlier than expected?”
“I originally planned to drive to Corbeau to attend Mass with my family but I wasn’t feeling well so I decided to come home instead.” She’s twisting the tissue in her hands to the point it’s about to fall to pieces, but at least it’s in her lap where he can’t see it.
I had warned her that the detective would want to get as much of what she said at her house on the official record, so the first twenty minutes of questioning was going back over everything she told him on Sunday.
Sullivan makes some notes even though he’s recording this. “You mentioned you stopped for a drink before going back to the hotel Saturday night? Correct?” Sullivan asks, still looking at his notes.
She hesitates just a second and then says, “Yes. At Chantilly’s.”
He flips a few pages, checking his notes. “You stopped because you weren’t ready to call it a night. Is that correct?”
Camille nods.
“Mrs. Bayliss, I need you to answer aloud, please.”
She clears her throat. “Yes, that’s correct.”
“Thank you. And about what time did you arrive at Chantilly’s?”
“Just after ten.”
Her answers are a bit stilted but considering the subject matter and situation, I can’t find fault with any of them so far.
“And what time did you leave Chantilly’s?”
“Just before midnight.”
“I spoke with the bartender on duty Saturday night, Ray Simmons. He said it looked like you met someone there. Sat with him at the bar the entire time. Can you tell me who that was?”
She coughs to clear her throat. “Yes, I met my brother, Silas, there. We had a drink and caught up since I haven’t seen him in a while.”
I was surprised when she mentioned this earlier when we were going over the case; otherwise Sullivan would see the shocked reaction I had upon hearing it. It was my understanding that she and Silas were not that close, and I can’t help but think there’s something here I’m missing.
“You were at Chantilly’s with your brother, Silas Everett?” Sullivan’s pen is poised over the pad while he studies Camille.
She nods then remembers the recorder. “Yes.”
“Did you plan to meet him there? Was it a coincidence?”
Camille is blinking rapidly, which isn’t good. It makes her look nervous and twitchy. Sullivan is seeing it too.
“I saw Silas at a charity event a few weeks ago and we made plans to meet for a drink since Corbeau is so close to St. Francisville.”
This is the same thing she told me too, and I have to wonder if Sullivan is as skeptical about this as I am.
“Would it be possible for me to speak to your brother?”
I hold a hand up, stopping Camille from answering. “Just want to make sure we’re on the same page. We’re not opposed to you contacting Silas Everett, but my understanding is you need information from Camille about this past weekend, since she is a witness, not a suspect. Is that correct?”
I’m forcing his hand a bit here, but if he sees her as a suspect, I’m shutting this down immediately.
Sullivan leans back in his chair and looks at me. “Camille Bayliss is not considered a suspect. At this time.”
That last part was deliberate. I nod to Camille to answer his question.
“He’ll be here to pick me up when we’re finished and he’s prepared to tell you exactly what I just did.”
It takes everything in me not to bang my head on the table. Phrasing it like that is about the worse way to put it when you’re looking for someone to corroborate your story.
This is the tricky part. It’s not just the anatomy of an alibi—having someone vouch that you were somewhere else when the crime was committed—but it’s the psychology of it: that that someone is believable.
A family member automatically brings skepticism, especially one who is “prepared,” as she put it.
“Okay, I’ll speak to him if he’s out there when I leave; otherwise I will need him to come to the station.
” Sullivan looks up from his notepad. “Is there anyone you can think of who would wish your husband harm? Has he had a falling-out with a friend? Gotten sideways with a neighbor? Anyone from his past make a reappearance?”
She’s gnawing on her bottom lip. First time she’s really looked nervous about answering a question.
“No, no one that I can think of.” I don’t know how I know it but she’s lying.
Sullivan nods slowly. He sees everything I do.
The detective puts his pen down again and pulls a picture from his bag, passing it to us.
It’s one the news stations have used several times when reporting on Ben’s case.
A Louisiana lifestyle magazine had done a story on Ben recently, and this photo they took of him in his home office was included in the article.
In the image, Ben is leaned back in his chair, his feet propped up on the corner of the desk.
When I first saw this picture, I thought he looked like a smug asshole. Not my favorite shot of him.
And now I’m really curious why Sullivan is showing it to us.
“We’ve all seen this picture,” he says, leaning forward. “Mrs. Bayliss, could you look at the items on his desk.”
Camille brushes the tears away then focuses on the picture. “What am I looking for?”
“I know this picture was taken back in the spring when this article was published, but would you say the decorative items on the front edge were still there when you left the house on Friday? Or was his desk staged like this for this photo shoot?”
I study the image. There are several things there that I recognize since I’ve been in that room multiple times.
There’s the gavel a judge gave him when he retired from the bench since Ben had won the last case he’d presided over.
A brass set of scales his mom gave him when he graduated law school.
And the wooden display box that holds a hunting knife.
“Those items are on his desk now. He’s not one to put props out just for pictures.” Camille’s lower lip trembles when she asks, “Why?”
“Preliminary search results don’t show any signs of forced entry.
Our initial thought is that the assailant arrived after Mr. Bayliss and that he let them in the house.
The only sign of a struggle was a chair that was flipped on its side.
Usually when there’s a robbery, you see signs of the intruder searching through drawers and cabinets and closets, and they aren’t particularly neat and tidy when they do it.
But the room wasn’t disturbed nor was any other part of the house. ”
Camille grips the edge of the table while she listens, her eyes glued to him.
“There were several different injuries to Mr. Bayliss’s body.
We haven’t gotten the full report from the coroner yet, but preliminary results look like Mr. Bayliss was stabbed multiple times in the chest. The gavel and scales were still on his desk when we arrived on the scene, but that display box was gone.
And there were no signs of the knife anywhere.
We believe it may have been the weapon used to kill him, but we won’t know for sure until we get more details on the blade or recover it to see if the size matches his wounds. ”
Camille completely breaks down. Her face drops and her shoulders shake as she sobs. It takes several minutes for her to speak. “I…I can get you the…information on the…on the knife.”
Sullivan looks at me but I wait for Camille to tell him how she has that information.
Finally, she pulls herself together enough to speak.
“That knife was made by a local bladesmith in Corbeau. The handle was part of an antler from a deer Ben had killed. I had the knife commissioned as a gift for Christmas last year. The measurements and description of the blade are on the certificate I have in a file at home. I’ll make sure you get a copy. ”
The public will lose their minds over this detail, and I can already see how quickly the narrative will spin that Camille killed him with a weapon she had custom-made for him.
“You’re not going public with this, are you?” I ask.
He knows why I’m asking without having to say it.
Sullivan shakes his head. “No. We’re keeping this detail out of the press right now. Especially since we don’t know where the knife is.”
Camille sinks down in her chair, her eyes glazed over.
“Did you and Ben have any marital problems?”
I start to object to this line of questioning, but Camille puts her hand on my forearm, stopping me.
She clears her throat before answering. “No, we didn’t.
I mean, we had the usual arguments all couples do.
I thought he spent too much time at the office and he thought I spent too much money, but nothing more than that. ”
It’s a good answer. And true. I know how much Ben worked and often heard him complaining about the credit card bill.
But she’s wrecked and I don’t want her answering these types of questions in this frame of mind. “Sully, I think we’re done for today.”