Gus nodded. “I brought my suspicions to my superior when the case was getting shuffled off as an accident. The problem was that I could never figure out what, exactly, she was hiding. The autopsy report came back indicating the manner of death was accidental, and that put an end to my official investigation.”
“But not your suspicion.”
“No, that never went away. I had other cases throughout my career that did the same thing to me—where the facts didn’t add up, but I couldn’t get to the bottom of it. Each one bothered me and nagged me, caused me to lose sleep andmaybe lean on the whiskey a bit too much. But then another case came along and stole my time and attention and I had no choice but to move on. There were a few cases over the years I couldn’t let go of. To make myself feel better, I took the ones that bothered me most and copied everything—every evidence report, every autopsy report, every interview. Boxed them up and shoved them in a storage unit in the Bronx.”
“Why?”
“Because it helped me let go. I convinced myself that if I stashed everything about those cases away, then someday I’d come back to them and figure out what I missed. I’ve got a few from Wilmington, a bunch more from NYPD.”
“How are you doing so far?”
“The Henry Anderson case is the first one I’ve come back to,” Gus said. “I’ve seen that kid so many times in my dreams and in my thoughts. I never forgot about him. About the case and about the details? Yeah. But never abouthim.Then I found myself laid up in this godforsaken place and I came across your documentary about Grace Sebold. Two boyfriends fall off a cliff? I wasn’t buying it during her trial in 2007, and I’m not buying it now. And when I saw the episode where the forensic expert showed how his skull fracture could not have come from a boat oar? That episode reminded me a lot of Henry Anderson. Henry’s skull fracture was unique. I remember sitting in on the autopsy. The pathologist noted it and showed it to me during the exam. It was ruled, ultimately, to be the result of his fall down the mountain. But when I watched your documentary”—Gus stared at Sidney—“that’s your link.”
“What link?” Sidney asked.
“The one between Henry Anderson and Julian Crist.”
Gus leaned forward and patted the bed where his leg should be.
“I’m a sixty-eight year old man who just lost his leg to cancer.”
Sidney saw the blankets flat and empty on his right side. The hollowness of the space sent a flutter through her.
“I know people will think I’m making these claims to stay relevant, or to find some piece of myself that I’m not sure exists anymore. And trust me when I tell you that folks will call me crazy for what I’m about to say, but I’ve been called worse. It’s only logical to conclude that both of these young men’s deaths are connected. And I’ve got a hunch that the same tool used to strike Julian Crist was also used to strike Henry Anderson. And I’d wager a shot of Johnnie Walker that Grace Sebold was holding it.”
CHAPTER 46
Wednesday, July 19, 2017
GRACE SEBOLD SAT AT THE KITCHEN TABLE ACROSS FROM HER BROTHER. It was Wednesday morning. She’d been a free woman for eight days. From his wheelchair, Marshall scrutinized the chessboard in front of him. Grace had just taken his bishop in a devastating move, and she watched now for how he would react. She was beginning to remember her younger brother’s strategy and game play from years ago. His ability to tackle everyday activities varied widely since the accident. Some days he seemed like his old self; on others, he was a stranger, lost and confused in a world he did not understand.
It was during the bad days, Grace was remembering, that Marshall was the most difficult to handle. A tumultuous circle of aggravation could develop suddenly from something as benign as forgetting that he was not allowed to drive. The loss of this privilege was nothing new. Since the accident, and the traumatic brain injury, seizures had plagued him, and the risk of suffering one while driving a car was too great to climb behind the wheel. So on good days, when Marshall was feeling like his old self and wanting independence, tellinghim that he could not drive was a trigger that sent him into a rage. Depression was a major factor in his life and something, Grace was learning since her return, her parents were badly mismanaging.
But somehow, back then and still today, playing chess put Marshall’s mind in a state of ease, where he was calm and happy. In front of a chessboard, a level of focus and concentration came over him that transformed Marshall Sebold, if not entirely back to the person he once was, as near as Grace had ever seen him come. It was his only oasis from a world he had lost control of years ago.
She and Marshall had played chess every day since her return from Bordelais. Grace had yet to beat him. She fought hard, and occasionally the game could last for hours. Sometimes Grace felt like she was strolling to victory, only to see that Marshall had cleverly lured her into a trap, her queen falling first as an early indication that she had taken the bait, her king following shortly behind. Their connection, once fierce, was one of the greatest things she missed about her brother, who had such a difficult time communicating in this world. But in the world of chess—where speaking was unnecessary, where people of different cultures and languages could play one another as simply as brother and sister—in this world, her brother was free. She missed him greatly.
Grace moved her gaze to the tall windows that lined Ellie’s high-rise apartment, while Marshall considered his next move. She stared out over Manhattan: at the streets and the traffic and the lights changing from red to green, at the commuters shifting on the sidewalks below like colonies of ants. She considered that what was happening today was the same thing that had happened every day of her incarceration.
She studied the skyline, framed by the blue sky and horizontal clouds brightened by the early sun. Today’s view was in stark contrast to a few days ago when palm trees bent bythe constant push of ocean breeze were her only escape from the monotony of Bordelais Correctional Facility. Palm trees are a universal image of relaxation and vacation, but years of staring at them from the prison yard had jaded Grace to them. Grace Sebold was a free woman, and she planned to never lay eyes on them again.
“Check,” Marshall said, sliding his rook into position and capturing Grace’s bishop.
“What?” Grace pulled her gaze from the window back to the board. “How? You totally set me up.”
Marshall smiled.
“You wanted me to take your bishop.”
“And you did,” Marshall said. “It left you vulnerable.”
“You didn’t play at all while I was gone?”
Marshall shook his head. “Just sometimes. But only online. Not with them.”
Them.Her parents. In all his letters over the years, Marshall had never written the wordsMom and Dadwhen referring to their parents. Grace wanted to ask how he could stay so competitive without playing regularly for ten years, but she already knew the answer. His mind worked differently than most. There was something about her brother’s brain that clicked on and off. Grace had been aware of it since the accident. She had always enjoyed the times her brother wason,when his conscious thoughts settled in the undamaged portion of his brain, where the old Marshall could still be found.These moments only happened during chess games, which explained why they had played so much over the last week.
“Why don’t we play on my old chessboard?” Marshall asked.
