Topju’s expression didn’t change.“We did.Or rather, I did.But it’s a long story.”
Kate hesitated, torn between anger and curiosity.“You’ve got one minute.”
“Make it over coffee,” he said.“My treat.”
“Already had one,” she snapped.“Tell me what you want or I call the cops.”
He met her gaze, unflinching.“I have something important to tell you, Miss Valentine.I don’t want anything, other than to tell you.”
She studied him for a long moment.Then, finally: “One cup of coffee.And we sit by the cashier.”
Topju nodded once.“Deal.”
***
The waitress had refilled their cups before the conversation even started, hovering just long enough to decide she wanted no part of whatever this was.When she’d gone, Hal Topju leaned forward, elbows on the scratched Formica, the steam from his coffee fogging his glasses.
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said quietly.“That wasn’t the plan.”
Kate didn’t reply.
“I needed to see where your head was at first.What kind of shape you were in.Whether my news would make things worse for you—or better.”
“Spare me the bedside manner,” she said.“You didn’t come here to check on my wellbeing.You came because you’ve got something to say.So say it.”
Topju nodded once, as if she’d just confirmed a suspicion.“Alright.Straight to it, then.The man who killed your father… was Peter S.Gadd.”
Kate’s heart gave a sharp, involuntary kick.“That’s impossible.Palmer proved that he didn’t do it.”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“I remember Palmer breaking the news to us.He explained it all.”
“I know.And at the time, he convinced me, too.”Topju rubbed a hand over his jaw, the rasp of stubble loud in the silence.“At first, Gadd fit the picture perfectly.The manner, the eyes—he had that cut-off, intoxicated way about him, like he was still high on the moment.And he knew things.Details no one outside the investigation should have known.”
“Such as?”
“The report said your father was shot beside a donation bin halfway up the path—collection point for earthquake relief.”
“I remember.It was in Eastern Turkey.The earthquake.”
“Urfa,” the man said.“My people are from there.Near there.”
“So the press got it wrong?That’s no surprise.”
“The press reported what we told them.It’s commonplace to keep a few details back, especially at the outset of an investigation.”
“I know that.”
“I know you know that.Sorry.Anyway, the first bullet actually hit him… hit your father in the vestibule.He staggered toward the bin before collapsing.Two more rounds followed.That wasn’t public knowledge.But Gadd knew it.”
Kate’s fingers tightened around her cup.“So Gadd had been there.”
“Maybe.Or maybe he just overheard the person or persons who had.That’s what made me doubt him later.Most killers, the ones who confess, theyrelishit.They want to go over every second, every smell, back and forth, like they’re replaying a great performance.But Gadd didn’t.He shut down.Started quoting scripture.Refused to answer anything else.The lab work only made it messier—powder residue pattern on his clothing didn’t match a pistol, looked more like rifle fire.”
Kate frowned.“And Gadd was an outdoorsy type—?”
“Not so much outdoorsy as an end-times prepper.His church was full of them.They had a range out in the woods.He’d been shooting there the day before.So the residue could’ve come from that.And we found out later he’d gone to the hospital to ‘check on the victim’s condition.’The ambulance team who’d treated your father were talking about the case in the cafeteria—real details, the vestibule, the number of shots.He could have heard everything, repeated it back to us like he’d lived it.”
