CHAPTER 35
Sherlock and Rex had pinned an African-American man with his back against the door. The man looked and sounded seriously intimidated. “The sign said to ring the bell.”
“Off,” Dan said, and both dogs obediently stopped barking and sat. “How’d you get in?”
“The door was unlocked.”
Dan had taken Sherlock and Rex out earlier in the evening to conduct their nightly business. “Who are you?”
The man eyed the dogs. “My name is George Bovine, Mr. O’Leary.” Dan recognized the name from Tracy’s files even before Bovine continued, “Edmund House raped my daughter, Annabelle.”
Dan leaned the baseball bat against the side of the reception desk. Thirty years earlier, Edmund House had been convicted on a charge of sex with a minor and served a six-year sentence. George Bovine had testified during the sentencing phase of House’s trial, after his conviction for the murder of Sarah Crosswhite. “What are you doing here at this time of night?”
“I drove from Eureka.”
“California?”
Bovine nodded. Soft-spoken, he looked to be in his late sixties, with a gray, close-cropped beard and studious tortoiseshell glasses. He wore a maroon golf cap and a V-neck sweater beneath a jacket.
“Why?”
“Because this is a matter to be handled in person. I intended to try to see you tomorrow morning. I only stopped by to make sure I had the correct address, and saw the lights in the window. The door to the building was unlocked, and when I came upstairs, I noticed the lights that I’d seen from the street were coming from your suite.”
“Fair enough, but it doesn’t answer my question. Why did you drive all this way, Mr. Bovine?”
“Sheriff Calloway called me. He says you’re attempting to secure a new trial for Edmund House.”
Dan began to understand where this was headed, though he was surprised Bovine had been so forthright. “How do you know the Sheriff?”
“I testified at Edmund House’s sentencing.”
“I know. I’ve read the transcript. Did Sheriff Calloway ask you to convince me not to represent Mr. House?”
“No. He simply told me you were seeking a new trial. I’ve come on my own.”
“You understand why I have trouble believing that.”
“All I ask is for a chance to speak with you. I’ll say my piece. I won’t say it twice. Then I’ll leave you be.”
Dan considered the request. He was skeptical, but Bovine sounded sincere. He’d also just driven eight hours and not tried to hide the purpose for his visit. “You understand I have a confidential relationship with my client.”
“I understand, Mr. O’Leary. I’m not interested in what Edmund House has to say.”
O’Leary nodded. “My office is in the back.” He snapped his fingers and the two dogs turned and sped down the hall. Inside Dan’s office, they retook their spots on the throw rug but remained upright and alert, ears perked.
Bovine removed his jacket, still glistening with drops of rain, and hung it on the rarely used coatrack near the door. “They’re awfully large, aren’t they?”
“You should see my food bill,” Dan said. “Can I offer you a cup of stale coffee?”
“Yes, please. It’s been a long drive.”
“How do you take it?”
“Black,” Bovine said.
Dan poured a cup and handed him a mug and the two men settled into chairs at the table beneath the window overlooking Market Street. When Bovine raised his mug to take a sip of coffee, Dan noticed a tremor in his hand. Outside the window, the rain sheeted across the sky and beat hard on the flat roof, pinging as it funneled through the gutters and downspouts. Bovine lowered his mug and reached into his back pocket to remove his wallet. His hands shook even more as he struggled to pull photographs from their plastic slips, and Dan wondered if perhaps he had Parkinson’s disease. Bovine set one of the photographs on the table. “This is Annabelle.”
His daughter looked to be in her early twenties, with straight dark hair and skin lighter than her father’s. Her blue eyes also indicated a mixed-race heritage. But it was not the color of Annabelle Bovine’s skin or her eyes that caught Dan’s attention. It was her utterly flat expression. She looked like a cardboard cutout.
“You’ll notice the scar descending from her eyebrow.”
A thin line, barely detectable, curved from Annabelle’s eyebrow to her jaw in the shape of a sickle.
“Edmund House told the police he and my daughter had consensual sex.” Bovine placed a second photograph beside the first. The young girl in it was almost unrecognizable, her left eye swollen shut, the cut on her face caked in blood. Dan knew from Tracy’s file that House had raped Bovine when she was sixteen. Bovine started to lift his mug but his shakes had become more pronounced and he lowered it back to the table. Then he closed his eyes and took several measured breaths.
Dan gave the man a moment before he said, “I don’t know what to say, Mr. Bovine.”
“He hit her with a shovel, Mr. O’Leary.” He paused again and took another breath, but this time it was sharp and rattled in his chest. “You see, Edmund House was not content to just rape my daughter. He wanted to hurt her, and he would have continued to hurt her had she not found the will to escape.”
Bovine’s face inched into a resigned grimace. He removed his glasses, wiping the lenses with a red handkerchief. “Six years. Six years for ruining a young woman’s life because someone made a mistake gathering the evidence. Annabelle was a bright, outgoing young woman. We had to move; the memories were too horrific. Annabelle never returned to school. She cannot work. We live on a quiet street not far from the water in a quiet town with little crime. It’s peaceful there. And every night we deadbolt our doors and check every window. It’s our routine. Then we climb in bed and we wait. My wife and I wait for her screams. They call it Rape Trauma Syndrome. Edmund House served six years. We’ve served nearly thirty.”
Dan recalled similar testimony from the sentencing transcript, but hearing a father’s anguish brought the impact home. “I’m sorry. No one should have to live that way.”
Bovine’s mouth pinched. “But someone will, Mr. O’Leary, if you do what they say you’re attempting to do.”
“Sheriff Calloway shouldn’t have called you, Mr. Bovine. It isn’t fair to either of us. I don’t mean to in any way diminish what happened to your daughter or your family—”
Bovine raised a hand but did so in the same understated manner that he spoke. “You’re going to tell me that Edmund House was a young man when he raped my daughter, that it occurred nearly thirty years ago, that people can change.” The thin-lipped, ironic smile returned. “Let me save you the trouble.” Bovine looked to Sherlock and Rex. “Edmund House is not like your dogs. He cannot be trained. And he cannot be called off.”
“But he does deserve a fair trial, just like everyone else.”
“But he’s not like everyone else, Mr. O’Leary. Prison is the only place for violent men like Edmund House. And make no mistake. Edmund House is a very violent man.” Bovine quietly picked up the photographs and slipped them back in his wallet. “I said my piece. I won’t take up any more of your time.” He stood and retrieved his jacket. “Thank you for the coffee.”
“You have a place to stay?” Dan asked.
“I’ve made arrangements.”
Dan walked George Bovine back to the reception area. Bovine pulled open the door but looked back again at Rex and Sherlock. “Tell me, would they have bitten me if you hadn’t called them off?”
Dan petted them about their heads. “Their size is intimidating, but their bark is worse than their bite.”
“But still very much capable of causing damage, I’d imagine,” Bovine said, stepping into the hall, the door swinging shut behind him.