Unintended Consequences - By Marti Green

Chapter

40





Mickey Conklin had expected the knock on the door all week. As soon as he read in the newspaper that Angelina Calhoun was alive, he knew it was over. When Cannon showed up, it was almost a relief. He followed him willingly to police headquarters, waived his Miranda rights and waited patiently for the questioning to begin. He sat across a small table from the beefy detective. He knew that others were watching on the other side of the mirrored wall. But in the room, it was just him and Cannon. No one to play good cop.

“You must have had a good laugh stringing me along all these years,” Cannon said after he settled himself into the chair across from Mickey.

Mickey just shook his head.

Cannon took a sheet from inside a folder and held it in front of him. “You know what we did after we found out the child in the woods wasn’t Angelina Calhoun? We went and got an order to dig up the grave. Guess what we found?”

Mickey shrugged.

Cannon slammed his fist onto the table and screamed at Mickey. “You know goddamn well what we found! It was Stacy. Your precious daughter that you’ve been mourning two decades. The one you said couldn’t have been Stacy when we brought you in for an ID.”

“What makes you so sure it’s Stacy?” Mickey knew he’d cleansed her room of any remnants that could identify her.

“’Cause, jackass, I decided to go check our evidence kit from back when she went missing. And sure enough, we’d collected some of her things, including her hairbrush.”

Mickey remained silent. Talking wouldn’t help him, only hurt him.

“So, how did she die, you son of a bitch?”

Silence.

It went like that for two hours, with Cannon pushing and Mickey remaining quiet. Finally, Cannon said, “We have you on this, you’re gonna be booked for murder.”

“You have nothing. So what if it’s Stacy? Somebody grabbed her and killed her. I was too much in shock to identify her body. You know, denial. I didn’t want it to be her.”

Cannon leaned back in his chair. “You’re wrong, Mickey. We have plenty. Explain the note you left for the investigator from New York.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do. We checked. It’s your fingerprints all over it.”

He knew the note had been a mistake. He’d been too impulsive. Shit.

“You’re bullshitting me. My fingerprints aren’t in any system to compare.”

Cannon nodded. “That’s true. But they were on the pen you gave me last time I was at your house. A perfect match. So, my only question is, did you kill her on your own or was Janine in on it?”

Mickey practically jumped out of his seat. “You leave her out of this!”

Cannon smiled a slow grin that grew bigger and bigger until all Mickey saw were two rows of yellowed teeth.

“Why? You do it all by yourself? You been lying to Janine, too, all these years?”

It was over. He needed to come clean. It wasn’t murder. Maybe Cannon would understand. With his voice barely above a whisper, Mickey began his story. “I never meant to hurt Stacy. I loved her. But, see, I’d been working double shifts back then, raking in the overtime. I’d come home so damn tired and just fall into bed. Janine would already be asleep. I never woke her. She’d always been a deep sleeper. When Stacy was an infant, before she slept through the night, it was me who woke up first. I always had to nudge Janine awake.”

Cannon didn’t need to take notes. The tape recorder was running, and cameras were capturing the whole thing.

“I came home wired one night. See, there was this woman at work, Darlene. She was new at the plant and worked the night shift, too. When she first flirted with me, I thought it was a joke and played along. But that night, it went beyond joking. She cornered me when I came out of the john and asked when I’d finally get around to kissing her. I acted like a dumb fool, all fumbling and mumbling. She must have thought I was an idiot. But I didn’t kiss her. When I came home, though, I was rattled, and so instead of going to bed, I had a couple of beers first, maybe more than a couple. … I’d been dreaming when I first heard Stacy’s cries. Dreaming about Darlene. I still remember that dream all these years later. I keep thinking my head would’ve been clearer if I hadn’t been dreaming of her. But you can’t control your dreams, right?”

“Keep going. You’re helping yourself now. That’s good.”

“I was annoyed that the dream had been cut short, annoyed at Stacy for waking me up. I went over to her room and turned on the light and sat next to her on her bed. ‘What’s wrong, pumpkin?’ I said. I soothed her for a while, but all the time I was seething.

“‘I want a glass of water,’ she said.

“‘Stay in bed. I’ll get it for you.’ I told her. I walked out of her room and was by the steps when I heard her whimpering behind me.

“‘Don’t leave me alone,’ she said.

“I yelled at her. ‘Go back to your room.’ She just stood there crying. I said, ‘Be quiet. You’ll wake up Mommy.’ She didn’t move. I don’t know what happened. I just felt this fury flood over me, fury that Stacy had gotten out of bed, fury that it wasn’t Janine taking care of her, fury that I didn’t kiss Darlene back even though I wanted to so badly. I smacked her behind, just a little, just to let her know I meant business. It was just a tap. She must have lost her balance, ‘cause she fell down the stairs. I just stood there. And then it was so quiet. I ran down the steps. Her body was limp. Her eyes were wide open, but she didn’t move. I kept tapping her face—I knew I shouldn’t move her. But she didn’t wake up. She must have broken her neck in the fall.”

“You’re telling me it was an accident?” Cannon said.

“I swear to God.”

“Then why didn’t you call the police?”

“How could I explain to Janine that I’d killed our daughter? How could I explain to the police? They’d see the empty beer bottles, they’d test my blood-alcohol level. They’d never believe it was an accident. I couldn’t breathe life into Stacy. The only thing I could do was save myself. I wrapped a blanket around her and put it in the trunk of my car and drove to a forest an hour north of town, where I used to go deer hunting. I walked into the forest and buried her. What was the crime in that? A father’s allowed to bury his daughter.”

“Well, for one, you were guilty of impeding a police investigation. Filing a false police statement. I could keep going. I’m sure I could come up with a long list of crimes.”

“I wasn’t thinking straight. I’d just lost my little girl.”

“Go on. What did you tell Janine?”

“When I got back to the house, the sky had just begun to brighten. It was still dark but a grayer shade of dark. I slipped into bed and waited for Janine to wake up. My mind kept racing with thoughts of what I had done. I knew my life would never be the same, that I’d never forgive myself. Only God could forgive me. … I must have fallen asleep. Janine woke me by shoving me, screaming, ‘Wake up. Stacy’s missing. Wake up. We’ve got to find her.’ The rest of that day and the next few days were a blur. Hysterics and sirens—those are the sounds I remember. I was too afraid to say anything when Janine told the police we’d left her window open for some air. I let everyone think she’d been snatched from her room by a stranger. After a week went by, I started worrying that I’d picked a forest too close to home. I drove back and got her body. I unwrapped the blanket and poured gasoline over her and then dropped a match and watched as she burned. I kept saying to myself, ‘It’s just a shell, it’s not my daughter,’ over and over. I didn’t want her to be found, I didn’t want her to be recognized. I’d seen enough police shows on TV to know a lot could be figured out with forensic evidence. I couldn’t take a chance. If the police knew it was Stacy, they’d see she had a broken neck. They’d figure I killed her on purpose. I wrapped her body in a new blanket, a store-bought blanket Janine wouldn’t recognize, and drove to the next state. When I passed a forest, I pulled off the road and buried her again.”

“You knew that another man was sentenced to death for murdering her,” Cannon said. “How could you let that be?”

“I thought it was a sign. A sign that God had forgiven me.”

“You’re a sick son of a bitch.”

Mickey looked Cannon straight in the eye. “I know I did something despicable. But I didn’t murder my daughter. You can’t charge me with that.”

Cannon leaned forward in his chair, his face inches from Mickey’s. “Maybe not. But it’s a different story with Nancy Ferguson, isn’t it?”

How could they know about that? He had to think fast and keep his mouth shut.

“Want to tell me about that?”

Mickey didn’t respond.

Cannon’s grin turned into a sneer. “Don’t worry. You don’t need to talk. See, we’ve been busy while we waited for the DNA on your daughter’s body to come back. I showed your picture to some of Ms. Ferguson’s neighbors. Seems like one remembered speaking to you. Said she gave you a brochure for Nancy’s trip. So I decided to call the last hotel Nancy stayed in before she died, and guess what.”

Mickey remained silent.

“Oh, come on. Give it a guess. … No? Well, I faxed over a picture of you and it turns out they had cameras in the elevators. They had a real clear shot of you riding up in one with Nancy Ferguson. And here’s the kicker: The police there did a thorough dusting of Nancy’s room and found a set of your fingerprints on the wall in the bathroom. I guess the maids don’t clean everything, do they?”

Mickey’s heart raced and his head spun. He couldn’t think up a story fast enough to satisfy Cannon. Say nothing, say nothing, say nothing.

“Cat got your tongue? Well, here’s the best news—for me, that is. For you it’s the worst. I’ve got an order of extradition to Arizona for you. Seems they’ve charged you with Nancy Ferguson’s murder. I’m going to escort you there myself. And by the way, Illinois has suspended the death sentence, but not Arizona. It took a long time, but you’re finally going to get what you deserve.”

A groan escaped Mickey’s lips. God hadn’t forgiven him. He’d just waited until he could exact greater retribution.